The Moonstone and Miss Jones

by Jillian Stone

  “Do what?”

  “You’re glaring at the baby.”

  Phaeton’s eye roll accompanied a tilt to his chin and a lopsided frown. He inhaled a deep breath then exhaled. “America, I’m not ready.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “Oh yes you are. I expect you’re already planning to convert that large closet across the aisle. Paper the walls with elves and fairies, purchase a cradle and—” He lifted beseeching eyes to the ceiling and ran both hands through his hair.

  America had to turn away. A smile from her would only serve to irritate. She peeked at him and realized he hadn’t taken his eyes off her for more than a second or two since they had entered the bedroom.

  “Months ago—before you decided to take an ocean voyage with me, you expressed the worry that any child of ours would be special, as you were growing up. While other children suffered nightmares that could be soothed away, the trolls lurking under your bed were real. I can’t imagine how terrifying that must have been for you.”

  Phaeton cut in. “Thank you for reminding me what a cruel and wretched life we’ll be imposing on our child.”

  America shook her head. “Not such a terrible life with a mother and a father who can guide, nurture, and protect. If you think about it, you’ve had quite a good life—full of thrills and adventure.” She dared to venture closer.

  Phaeton exhaled loudly, but he patted the bed beside him. “And what about these creatures from the Outremer, the ones who threaten us?”

  “We have the Nightshades—and I suspect even more powerful forces protect us.” America sat on the edge of the bed. “We’ll do the very best we can to shield our son or daughter. Phaeton, you’re the bravest man I’ve ever known.”

  “Reckless perhaps, hardly brave.” Phaeton yawned. “I barely slept a wink last night after discovering the little bundle. And I’m not done being—”

  “Crabby, peevish, curmudgeonly?” America allowed a small grin to surface.

  Phaeton narrowed his gaze and started over. “I’m not done being ill-tempered about this.”

  “I would expect not. That is why I’m giving you a week to adjust.”

  “And if I’m not ready?”

  “The pea in the pod and I are shipping out.”

  “Out of the question. Those creatures will follow you wherever you go—if only to get to me. You can’t leave now, not until we recapture the stone and end this intrusion . . . invasion. . . whatever it is.” Phaeton adjusted a pillow. “Besides, I have the power.” He added a half smile to a dark, brooding gaze. Those heavy-lidded, somnolent eyes nearly always caused a tingle to run through her body. Like now.

  America met his gaze with something sultry of her own. “And the duke’s pleasure this evening?”

  He leaned back against a pile of cushions. “I believe the duke would enjoy the lady to disrobe for him—slowly—and he’d appreciate that little island song you used to sing aboard ship. The one you rock your hips to.”

  America turned her back to him. “Undo me?”

  “That would be my pleasure.” His fingers swiftly undid buttons, and the dress fell around her waist. He ran his lips down the slope of her shoulder.

  America stood and stepped out of her dress and petticoats. She pivoted sideways and slipped a camisole strap off one shoulder, then the other. Slanting her gaze, she rocked her hips gently back and forth, and moved her torso in such a way that her camisole fell to the very tips of her breasts.

  Phaeton’s gaze fell to her pantalettes. “Bottoms off.”

  Just the way he looked at her caused her body to tremble and her cheeks to blush. America pulled the ribbon on her pantalettes, and sang her native song. “I want to learn to speak Tahitian, then I can say the sweetest things to you . . .”

  Phaeton smiled. “Turn around—the duke wants to see that lovely bum.”

  She turned a slow circle as her hips swayed. “I want to learn to sing Tahitian, so I can thrill you through and through.” America swung her hips back and forth, inching the pantalettes over one curve then the other, until they fell in a puddle at her feet.

  She heard the bedsprings move. “Don’t look back. Just keep that lovely rear moving.” His hand slipped between her legs. “Open.” She widened her stance. His fingers explored her moist folds, stroking the sensitive place that made her knees tremble.

  He pushed her camisole up. “Off.” His kisses started at the small of her back and moved lower, as he explored deeper—readying her with one, then two fingers that were slippery with the evidence of her arousal.

  “Bend over.” His tongue delved into her opening, while his fingers circled and teased her pleasure spot. “Please Phaeton—may I touch myself?”

  “You may circle your nipples, but you are not allowed to touch them.”

  She felt the hard thick length of him slip between her legs. He rubbed her with his velvet cock until she moaned from the building pleasure. He pressed into her and planted himself deep. He bent over her and kissed each shoulder blade. She felt his hot breath on her back. “Rock against me, love.” She swayed against him and he moved with her.

  Holding her against him, he lifted her off the ground and lay her across the bed, keeping her buttocks at the edge. He reached around her, and played with the tips of her breasts—rolling them into hard points. An unexpected pinch sent her to new heights of arousal. “Not yet, love—you will come with me, and not before.”

  Her heightened arousal threatened to engulf her at any moment, and he knew it. He thrust into her and pumped hard—his balls slapping against her flesh. In a fury of ecstatic cries and gasps of pleasure they came together.

  Sated and fully pleasured, America sighed. It was as if Phaeton knew her body better than his own. He remained bent over her, and did not withdraw, but held on tight. Her insides continued to quiver and his cock pulsed in answer to her. He rubbed the stubble of his beard against her back, affectionately.

  He kissed each buttock cheek as he slipped out of her.

  He lay down beside her, and scooped her up in his arms. “As much as I adore taking you from behind, Miss Jones, I miss these.” He kissed her mouth several times.

  America opened her eyes. “And was the duke pleased?”

  Phaeton smoothed the curls off her face. “Very.”

  “And how is Phaeton Black?”

  “I believe he’s been given a week to adjust.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE NOISE REVERBERATED THROUGH THE FLAT and woke America first, then Phaeton. She raised her head off the pillow. Thud-swish, thud-swish. It almost sounded as if someone was dragging a large sack of turnips downstairs. A chattering of low voices could be heard outside the bedchamber, as well as more thuds and swishes.

  Phaeton groaned. “Three more winks, love, and I’ll get up.”

  America gently removed the arm curled around her body and slipped out of bed. She glanced out the window. First light—one of those misty gray London mornings. Pulling on a dressing gown, she tiptoed down the hallway into the pantry. Valentine was on watch, along with Jersey and Cutter. They stood in a circle with their heads down. Was this some sort of group prayer? She ventured closer. “What’s going on?” She looped the ties of her robe.

  “Cutter caught one on the roof.” Valentine stepped away so she could see.

  A dark, leather-skinned body lay splayed out on the floor. Gangly limbs were wrinkled and emaciated. The familiar multi-tentacled head was positioned at a disturbing angle.

  “I snapped its neck—at least I think that’s what killed it,” Cutter rasped under his breath.

  America clapped her mouth shut. “But—why is it . . .”

  Jersey shook his head. “We’re not sure why it remains here.”

  She nodded. “I’ve seen them shrivel up into a mass of gray particles and swarm off. I just assumed they return to the other side.”

  The eyes were huge oval-shaped black orbs. Dark lenses appeared to cover over some sort of vision mechanism. Or might
they obscure another feature? America lowered herself down onto her knees. “Is it safe to—”

  “Don’t touch it.” Phaeton stood behind her bare-chested. Lowering her eyes, she breathed a sigh of relief. At least he wore trousers.

  Jersey Blood withdrew a pair of leather gloves from a coat pocket and pulled them on. Descending onto his haunches he turned the creature’s head face forward. “It’s almost impossible to get a good look at them—besides being wicked fast these tentacles are always whipping about.” Jersey placed his hands on each side of the head and pulled. There was a sound, but not of bones or sinew. Something clicked.

  Jersey looked up at Cutter.

  A mechanized arm attached to a clear lens lifted above Cutter’s right eye. A rather expressive substitute for a brow, even if it was made from brass. “Likely a helmet of some kind.”

  Phaeton strode over to his coat hanging on a hook by the stairs. In two strides he was back with his gloves on. “You get a grip on one side—and I’ll take the other.”

  Using a combination of jiggling and tugging, the helmet popped off.

  America gasped.

  Phaeton looked up at her. “It’s the cockney rhymer who attacked you your first night in London.”

  “Skeezick,” she whispered, and reexamined the creature. The body frame seemed right—rail thin. And that horrid mouth and spiked teeth! Small milky-gray eyes stared straight up at the ceiling. “Do you think it followed me here and has been lurking about the whole time?”

  “One thing is certain, they know we’re here.” Phaeton straightened, rubbing the back of his head. He tilted his head left, then right to pop his neck. “I’d kill for a cup of coffee right now.”

  America beamed. “I bought coffee yesterday.” She pulled a bag of roasted beans from the pantry shelf and took down a grinder which she attached to the counter with a vice. “Anyone for some very rich Belgian coffee?”

  Her old bedroom door opened and a groggy-eyed Ruby shuffled into the pantry area. She stared at the creature. “I’m going to need a good strong cup of coffee if I have to look at that thing all day.”

  Phaeton placed the helmet on the kitchen table so they could all examine the strange tentacled headgear. In no time, she was very pleased to note, they were all wide awake, thanks to pressed coffee steamed with milk and sugar.

  “A stroke of luck, wot?” Cutter studied the helmet. “I’d like Tim to have a look at this.”

  Jersey stirred another lump of sugar into his cup. “It might be luck, or . . . it could just be a trap.”

  “Or a tracking device.” Phaeton sat back and sipped his perfectly made café au lait. “If Lovecraft has a gadget that tracks RALS, why wouldn’t his otherworld counterpart have a machine that tracks—me?”

  America set down a platter of rashers and thick slabs of buttered toast. “Well I for one don’t believe any of them have the foggiest clue where the Moonstone is.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Perhaps they’re hoping that Phaeton will lead them to it, and they’re giving him—and us—just enough of a leash to do so.”

  A deadly quiet silence was broken by a remark from above. “Miss Jones makes an excellent point.” Phaeton recognized the gentle voice of the speaker. Julian Ping stood on the stair landing. Actually, it wasn’t Julian, it was Jinn Ping—in all her glory. Ping’s long hair, normally tied neatly at the nape of his neck was flowing around her face—as though a magical creature controlled a special breeze that wafted gently around the decidedly feminine Miss Ping.

  Phaeton had to ask, “Did Gaspar send you?”

  Ping descended the last set of steps. “Gaspar doesn’t know I’m here. The Moonstone must be restored to whom it was entrusted. It is neither Gaspar’s nor Professor Lovecraft’s legacy. It is yours, Phaeton.”

  He grimaced. “So I’ve been told—ad nauseam.” Phaeton studied Ping whom he knew to be a talented empath. One who could stretch his consciousness into other beings—criminals in particular. Still, he wasn’t sure how much to trust this wily creature. “America makes a lovely cup of Belgian coffee—the secret is the piece of chocolate at the bottom of the cup. Care to join?”

  Jinn Ping halted at the body of the Skeezick. “This poor devil unraveled.” She removed kid gloves and placed two fingers at the creature’s temple. The corpse appeared to be rapidly decomposing.

  “Can you sense anything about the maker?” Phaeton asked.

  “There are many more like this one—row after row of them.” Jinn’s eyes closed briefly. “And there is a face in the shadows . . .” The clairvoyant jerked away. She removed a small square tin from a coat pocket, and a pen knife. Angling the blade, Jinn shaved a layer of gray matter off the corpse.

  Sure Jinn had seen something in that brief vision, Phaeton’s eyes narrowed. “Out with it.”

  Femme Ping straightened and approached the table. “The creature was wearing this?”

  Phaeton sighed. Jinn was being evasive. “Assuming the Reapers have known where we live all this time—why did they not storm the flat and abduct us?” When Jersey glared at his remark, he tilted his head in apology. “No offense.”

  “None taken.” The Nightshade answered.

  “Miss Jones’s theory is essentially correct.” Jinn’s eyes focused on something far away. “I understand it has already been revealed to you that there is not much time before the RALS begin to weaken. As they lose power they will begin to malfunction. The more hunters we have out looking for the Moonstone, the quicker it will be found.”

  Phaeton frowned. “A very big risk, wouldn’t you say? Every bloody player in this game must believe they can snatch it away from whoever ends up with the stone.”

  Jinn scanned the flat and leaned close. “For tonight, the women will stay with Doctor Exeter. I will return well before dusk and accompany you on your search for the RALS. Lovecraft will be annoyed and believe Gaspar sent me along because he doesn’t trust him—which is true.” Jinn flashed a sultry look at the men around the table. “You must all insist I come along.”

  Phaeton tilted his chair back. “If Gaspar is so interested in the Moonstone—why isn’t he in on the hunt?” His question yanked Jinn back into the real world.

  “He already suffers the ill effects of too many trips to the other side. In fact, his condition grows more serious by the day.”

  Jinn’s gaze moved to America. “The Outremer is known to have deleterious effects on natural beings. Once the particle degradation begins, the unraveling is very difficult to stop. Because of your expectant condition, as a precaution, you will no longer participate in expeditions to the other side.” Jinn’s sultry gaze made contact with every one of Nightshades. “This is by Gaspar’s order.”

  Phaeton might as well have been punched in the gut. The news that America, and the life she carried within her, might in some way be impacted by her trip to the Outremer affected him beyond reason. Even the idea that Gaspar was unraveling and might soon disintegrate was disturbing.

  The Shades traveled light, even the women, and in no time the ladies were packed and on their way to Exeter’s townhouse in Mayfair.

  Cutter and Jersey wrapped what was left of the Reaper in a sheet and dropped the remains in a dustbin behind Mrs. Parker’s. Phaeton set a number of cups and saucers in a large basin filled with warm water and soap flakes. “Now what?”

  Jinn’s hair was collecting itself behind her ears. Soon the exotic silver eyes would be hidden behind dark spectacles. She wrapped the menacing helmet in a towel and knotted the corners to make a bundle. “We pay a visit to Tim Noggy’s workshop.”

  He rather liked this new take-charge Ping. Was he off the opium? Or was it the change in gender that made the difference? Phaeton grinned. Jinn to the rescue.

  As though she could read his thoughts, Jinn looked up. “No one saves us but ourselves.”

  Phaeton craned his neck to see the third floor of a rookery tenement on Cecil Court. “I thought the Board of Works was supposed to tear down this rickety slum mo
nths ago.”

  Somewhere between Drury Lane and Charing Cross Road, Mr. Ping had returned to them. At the moment, his pale silver eyes were hidden by dark spectacles. “Likely Salisbury’s doing—our slumlord Prime Minister.”

  They found the stairwell to the flats between two booksellers. Watkins Bookstore, Specialists in Mysticism and the Occult and Ellis Peters, Tarot and Psychic Readings. Ping hurried them up the narrow flight of stairs to 18-F Cecil Court.

  An eyeball in a peephole looked them over.

  The door opened and Tim Noggy ushered them into a flat that was decidedly more workshop than residence. Besides the cast iron bed frame and mattress shoved into a corner, there was scant evidence a human being lived there. The large chap moved the kettle off a Bunsen burner, filling a chipped teapot. “As you can see, I don’t get many visitors.” Tim’s gaze moved from Ping to Jersey to Phaeton and Cutter. “Where are the ladies?”

  “They’ll not be with us tonight.”

  Tim grunted. “Sounds serious.”

  Ping found a spot on the worktable and unwrapped the bundle. “Cutter finished off one of these boys before it had a chance to slip away.”

  Tim blinked several times. “Dog’s bollocks,” he whispered. Wiping his hands on a dingy lab coat, he pulled an oversized pair of tweezers out of an apron pocket and a magnifying glass from a drawer on the worktable. “Reapers punch in and out which takes a good bit of energy. If this guy was, say, close to petering out . . .” Tim looked up from admiring the helmet. “This is extreme, Cutter. I’m in awe, mate.”

  After a lengthy inspection, he probed around the inside of the helmet. “Look here.” Tim touched the end of his tweezers to the lining and it crackled to life—even the tentacles twitched.

  Jersey tilted his head to look inside the helmet. “Electrical?”

  Tim tilted his head and continued to poke about. “Some kind of force field. This might explain how they are able to punch in and out at will, whereas we have to kind of trick our way in and out.”