The Moonstone and Miss Jones

by Jillian Stone

  Phaeton was in no mood to let Lovecraft dally about. “I have a better question. Where’s the Moonstone?”

  He distinctly saw a flash of anger in Lovecraft’s real eyes, then a tepid smile. “Is that what you call it? Rather romantic of you, Phaeton.”

  “The one you stole from Doctor Exeter’s laboratory using a swarm of eight-legged rats to do your bidding.”

  Lovecraft gave the helmet one last turn. “All right. I admit the RALS were mine, but they were there to stop a band of Reapers from stealing the stone.” Lovecraft’s four eyes moved to Exeter. “Unfortunately your trusted sidekick Phaeton Black shows up and you jam my signals with your police whistle. The Reapers opened a hole in the membrane and herded my army of rats along with the Moonstone—as you call it—back to the other side with them.”

  Exeter stepped forward. “Just so we’re clear—we don’t exactly believe that.”

  The professor shrugged. “Have it your way.”

  “How did you know I had the stone?”

  All four of Lovecraft’s eyes narrowed. “A little birdie told me.”

  Phaeton stepped forward to throttle the smarmy little bastard, but Exeter caught him by the sleeve. “Not yet.” The doctor narrowed his eyes at Lovecraft. “Why did you have Phaeton shanghaied?”

  “Touch me, and I’ll have security up here in an instant.” Lovecraft’s eyes worked in unison to make sure they all got the message. “It doesn’t matter who is in possession of the Moonstone—you know as well as I—we need him to unlock it.”

  Exeter nodded. “So all these disturbances are because the powers that be on both sides are looking for Phaeton Black?”

  “They’re also interested in my aether collector.” Lovecraft beamed. “I have built a machine not too dissimilar from the machines they use in the Outremer to produce limited quantities of aether. This energy is not unlike the stone’s but with a fraction of its force or half-life.”

  “If they had the Moonstone they wouldn’t be interested in your little invention.” Exeter leaned on the man. “So what happened?”

  Lovecraft’s four eyes shifted slightly. “The Reapers must have thought they had the stone, but in the crossing, the RALS somehow got the upper hand and secreted the stone away.”

  Jersey had wandered off, pretending to be enthralled with Lovecraft’s gizmos. Phaeton suspected the ever vigilant Nightshade would come away with a few valuable observatons—at least he hoped so. Lovecraft was a brilliant inventor, but he was also sly, tragically motivated—and very insane. Phaeton pressed the mad inventor hoping for an angry response and a slip of the tongue. “Since your little rat bastards are single-minded and not very bright at that,” Phaeton mused aloud, “Are we to assume they’re wandering the streets of the Outremer carrying the Moonstone around on their backs?”

  Exeter kept the press on. “That’s quite an effort. How long before their half-life runs out?’

  Lovecraft appeared uncomfortable, boxed in. “Three more days, at most. Until then, they’ll just keep moving.”

  Phaeton recalled the mindless, relentless hordes of spider rats. One wave after another, never stopping, persistently pushing forward. In its own way it was a spot of luck; the Reapers likely couldn’t get a bead on the RALS unless they just happened to run across them.

  “Will that be all, gentlemen?” Lovecraft signaled his butler, who toggled switches. Presumably the man was calling in reinforcements, in case they didn’t leave.

  “One more question.” Phaeton thought of the engine down in the lower tube. “Wait—two more questions.”

  All four eyes narrowed. The effect might have been comical, except that the net result was so sinister. “One question.”

  Jersey had worked his way around the room. He was not sure how he got the message because the man’s expression never changed, but Phaeton was quite sure Jersey was telling him they were being watched. He weighed his question options. The professor was not a man to be easily discomposed—in fact, the man hadn’t made a move thus far that wasn’t calm and calculated. At least, that was the effect. Phaeton was beginning to think he couldn’t rattle him. “Are you and Gaspar working together?”

  Lovecraft’s real eyes—the pale blue watery ones—met his gaze. “Not at the moment. But I believe we have common goals with regards to the Moonstone.”

  Phaeton nodded. “Good. Because I’d hate to have you both fighting over my services—your Jinn in a bottle, so to speak.” It was a calculated risk to play one off the other, but worth it if it exposed any part of their plans. Phaeton backed away and turned toward the door.

  “Say hello to Miss Jones for me.”

  Phaeton pivoted back, his expression as blank as he could make it.

  Lovecraft smiled the sweetest smile. “I understand she is expecting a happy event. My congratulations.”

  “Bloody bastard!” Phaeton yelled the moment they were aboveground. “Over here.” He motioned Exeter and Jersey to an outcropping of wall that surrounded the Tower of London. They stuffed themselves into a battlement niche, most likely an old Beefeater post.

  “Why are we hiding in a wall?” Exeter asked.

  “Let’s see who might emerge from the inventor’s den,” Phaeton snarled. “He dragged America into this, the bloody bastard.”

  Exeter managed to pivot in the tight spot. “Is it true—the news about America?”

  Phaeton stared, then nodded.

  “Congratulations, Phaeton, you must be pleased.”

  “As a matter of fact, I am not at all pleased.”

  “Give yourself time to adjust—” Exeter’s annoying grin faded. “Look what emerges from the depths.” The doctor nodded to the door on the boarded up station marked DO NOT ENTER.

  Gaspar Sinclair exited the Underground and jogged off toward a waiting carriage.

  Phaeton sighed. “I take this to mean Gaspar and Lovecraft are in this together—how did Lovecraft word it?”

  “They have common interests,” Jersey offered.

  Exeter walked them to the steps of the Underground at Mark Lane. “Just remember you hold the trump card, Phaeton.”

  “Oh Mr. Black! Doctor Exeter—Captain Blood!” Lovecraft’s man, Hudson, ran after them waving a piece of paper in the air. “The professor wanted to make sure you received this straight away.”

  Phaeton opened the handwritten note and read aloud. “ ‘I have a machine that is able to track the RALS. I can also get us very close to the correct portal in the Outremer. Our time frame is limited. If you wish to put a stop to these creature intrusions and return the Moonstone to responsible guardianship, meet me at dusk tomorrow evening.’ ” Phaeton exchanged a look with Exeter. “There is a postscript that advises the location will be wired by noon tomorrow.”

  Phaeton refolded the note. “What does he mean by ‘our time frame is limited’?”

  “Closer to what both sides fear the most.” Jersey’s frown seemed deeper than usual. “The end game.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  AMERICA STIRRED A ROUX OF FLOUR and water into the pan drippings. “The moment you feel uncomfortable or that things have gone too far, you remind Jersey that you’ve got the power.”

  Valentine circled the table setting down plates. “If only he would trust me enough to allow such a thing.”

  America whisked the gravy with the wooden spoon. “You must agree on the ground rules ahead of time—when he feels as if he is losing control, that is his signal to give you the power. Likewise, when you feel that things have gone too far, you remind him that you’ve got the power.”

  America moved the pan away from the heat, but left it on the stove to keep warm. Valentine smiled. “The roast looks and smells delicious. I do hope they return soon.”

  “Oh I dunno—just leaves more of that tasty leg for us ladies.” Ruby pulled a short military-style jacket over a ruffled blouse and a smart, narrow skirt. She looked wonderfully radiant and relaxed from her bath. Her flaxen hair hung in long loose waves down her back.
As she reached the pantry, Ruby leaned to one side to fluff damp tresses.

  “Where’s Cutter?”

  America wasn’t exactly sure how to answer the question and looked to Valentine, who appeared doubly absorbed in place settings. They had moved the copper tub into America’s old room so that Cutter and Ruby could bathe. Cutter washed up with Ruby’s help, then had gallantly carried fresh water in for her bath. While Ruby was in the tub, he had excused himself and disappeared.

  Ruby studied both their faces. “No doubt getting his gears greased by one of the doxies upstairs.”

  Valentine looked up from her table duties. “You don’t know that for a fact, Ruby.”

  America wiped her hands with her apron. She almost felt a bit dizzy from these Nightshade women and their prickly male counterparts. Then she thought about Phaeton, and decided that all relationships were needlessly complicated.

  The tall blonde slumped into a chair. “Ever since his capture, he has let me get only so close—but no closer.” Ruby held up a black velvet ribbon. “Would you?”

  Valentine scooped up her hair and tied the ribbon. “Cutter’s injuries are healed, but his heart is still wounded.”

  America sank into another chair. “Do you find it oddly coincidental that we are involved with men, who for very different reasons, are all reluctant in one way or the other to fully—for lack of a better word—engage?”

  Valentine was the last to sit. “But it is not as if they aren’t devoted to each one of us. Jersey plays the stoic role—the aloof leader. Cutter the wounded warrior.”

  “And Phaeton?” America raised both brows.

  Valentine smiled. “My God, are you aware of how he looks at you, America?”

  Ruby grinned. “As if it were a hot summer day and you’re a lemonade on shaved ice.” The lovely blue-eyed girl sighed. “What I’d give for a look like that, and one night with Cutter.”

  America’s heart did a bit of hopping about in her chest. Even though Phaeton had never said the words, exactly, she knew he loved her. He had said as much—at least in the throes of passion. Now she prayed he would love their child.

  A deep cleansing breath improved her smile. “I say we work together.” America swiveled toward Valentine. “The next time a bit of closeness presents itself, you say to Jersey, ‘I have the power. And when I say stop—I mean stop.’ ”

  Valentine nodded.

  “Then you kiss him. Start slow and open your mouth. Lick the underside of his upper lip and when he comes out to play—tell him to stop.”

  Valentine’s dark eyes took on a lovely golden glow.

  “Do this several times—until he trusts the idea that he can stop—that he is in control. But take it slow. Kisses only for a few days.”

  Mesmerized, Valentine nodded. “How do you know all this?”

  “Phaeton says men are beasts when it comes to intercourse. They need to be trained.”

  Ruby sighed. “Cutter and I were friends—we met during training in Japan. They isolated me at camp and did not allow me to train with men, but he would come and work with me at night, in secret.

  “Gaspar was our first assignment after school. I didn’t realize how strong the bond was until Cutter was captured.”

  America nodded. “Do you desire him?”

  Ruby’s lovely blue eyes watered. “More than ever.”

  America looked to Valentine. “I think she should jump him.”

  Valentine snorted a laugh, and Ruby joined in.

  “I’m serious!” America looked from one to the other. “Pretend it’s practice—get him in some kind of wrestling hold—be sure it’s a hold he can’t easily get out of—then rub against him, until he is very hard—but don’t touch him anywhere else—just make sure he’s got a big veiny boner on him.”

  Ruby’s large blue eyes grew even wider, if that was possible.

  “Then you tell him you’ve got the power. And if he lets you unbutton him, you will suck his cock dry.” America smiled sweetly at both women. “Phaeton loves it when I talk dirty.”

  A smattering of gray matter swirled down the corridor and settled on the chaise longue. America lowered her voice. “I believe we have visitors.”

  Ruby and Valentine pivoted in time to see a stylishly dressed young lady materialize on the couch.

  America blinked. “Can we help you?”

  The young woman turned her head and stared. “I have a message for Phaeton Black.” Several other apparitions—mostly particles of gray matter—swirled about the room, but never quite materialized.

  “Let me handle her.” Valentine whispered and rose from her chair.

  “I’ve got this, Valentine.” Phaeton stood on the landing with Jersey. The beautiful creature smiled as he took a seat beside her on the lumpy couch. He certainly appeared familiar enough with the dangerous apparition. “How can I help you, Miss Georgiana Ryder?” At least his eyes didn’t roam when he returned her smile, America bit her lip.

  There was a flutter of eyelashes and a pretty pout as the succubus trained her wiles on Phaeton. “If you are willing to cooperate, there is a person in the Outremer, a man of influence, who is ready to offer you something you cherish highly in your world.”

  “As you already know, I am a man of simple pleasures. Who is this person of influence and what could he possibly offer me?”

  America caught a flash of storm in Miss Ryder’s blue-green eyes.“The Orchid Lounge, off Tottenham Court Road,” the young lady stated, quirking her head as though listening to an unseen, unheard directive. Quite suddenly, she disintegrated in a gray haze, and whirled up through the ceiling.

  Phaeton lay back against the arm of the chaise and looked around the room. “Has anyone the foggiest clue what that succubus gibberish was about?” He rose and headed for the pantry cabinet. “Whiskey?” He glanced at Jersey.

  “Be right back.” The Nightshade leader was already headed back up the stairs. Presumably, on the trail of the disappearing apparition.

  Phaeton lifted the cover on the roasting pan and sniffed. “Succulent roast lamb and gravy as only Miss Jones can make it.” He poured himself a dram and sidled close to America. He slipped an arm around her waist to pull her close. “You and I, darling—in my bedchamber, immediately after dinner.” It must be windy outside, his hair was tossled and his eyes glistened with something that caused her to shiver.

  Footsteps on the stairs indicated Jersey was on his way back down and Cutter was with him. America nodded to the small table set for six. “Are we ready to feast ladies, gentlemen?”

  They cleaned the leg of lamb down to the bone before anyone made much conversation. Phaeton and Jersey took turns relating the high points of their meeting with Lovecraft, the Gaspar Sinclair sighting, and the professor’s invitation to hunt RALS in the Outremer.

  Jersey tipped his chair back. “Gaspar is either in this with Lovecraft or it’s some kind of ruse.”

  “I wager they both think they’re using the other.” Phaeton swirled a last sip of whiskey in his glass.

  Jersey puffed smoke through a grin. “Gaspar will let this new scheme of Lovecraft’s play out—see what develops. And if we come back with the stone . . .”

  America moistened her lips. “We watch the two of them kill each other over it?” She stared at Jersey. “And what of Phaeton?” She sighed, feeling agitated and frightened for him—and for her. “No matter who’s got the stone—”

  “That’s where we come in.” Cutter scrapped the last bit of gravy off his plate with a piece of bread crust. “Our job is to protect the both of you—as well as Doctor Exeter. Anyone who might be vulnerable in the event the maker or Lovecraft get churlish. Gaspar was clear about that.” Cutter looked about at everyone. “What?”

  “You’re not using the voice box.” Ruby grinned. “When Cutter eats he removes the rubber choker that keeps the amplifier pressed to his throat.”

  “Husky, with just the right amount of breath in it.” America winked at Ruby.

 
; Her wink caused the Aussie Nightshade to laugh, and flash her bright blue eyes. America made eye contact with Phaeton whose gaze kept returning to her.

  How beautiful and desirable you are. And how pregnant.

  America sat bolt upright. Phaeton was speaking in her head—but that was impossible. Or was her mind playing tricks? A wave of trepidation swept through her.

  Phaeton rose from his chair. “Bodyguards get kitchen duty. If you’ll excuse us, America and I have a bit of business to discuss, don’t we darling?” She looked up at him and was sure he recognized the dread in her eyes.

  She hesitated. “I should probably stay and help.”

  He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “I’ve got the power.” He took her hand and led her into his room. The modest bedchamber was all they had left of any privacy in their lives.

  America stood facing the door even after she closed it. If she ruminated for long she’d never say it. “I’m pregnant.”

  She heard the bedsprings creak and pictured Phaeton stuffing a few pillows behind him as he stretched out on top of the counterpane. An eternity of cool silence passed before she turned around. He was staring at her.

  She cleared her throat and began again. “Did you hear what I—?”

  “Have you seen a doctor?”

  She swallowed. “You don’t believe me?”

  “Of course I believe you. I just thought, isn’t that what women do? See a doctor, just to—” Phaeton exhaled and stared at the ceiling.

  They fell into another long, deadly silence. America walked in small circles, with her arms crossed over her chest.

  “When were you going to tell me, America?”

  “Is that what you’re angry about?”

  “I am not angry,” he raised his voice. “And if I was angry, which I am not,” he yelled, “It would not be at you.” He caught himself mid-shout and spent a moment collecting himself. “I am angry at myself—for not using protection.”

  America relaxed a little; at least he was being his brutally honest self. “We were rather lax with the rubber goods.” She was quite sure he glared at her stomach. “Please don’t do that.”