The Moonstone and Miss Jones

by Jillian Stone

  “That there are forces on this side, who seek the stone just as desperately.”

  Victor did not break his gaze. “Powerful enough to punch holes into your world and recover the one thing that could save ours.”

  “And what role do you play in this game?” Phaeton tilted his head. “Are you puppet, master, or candlestick maker?”

  Victor scanned the wall of screens behind Phaeton. “Your lovely young lady is out on the dance floor.” He dipped his head to view another screen. “She’s with several Nightshades, and where is Gaspar . . . ?”

  Phaeton stole a quick glance at America. Smiling, laughing—swinging that booty around. It struck him dumb, sometimes, how much he loved her.

  Victor’s gaze landed on another screen. “Ah, there he is—snooping around outside in the yard with Tim Noggy.”

  Phaeton turned back to Victor. “How is it you seem to know everything about us, and yet we know next to nothing about you? We have this cryptic name—the maker—which came from a cockney rhyme. A menacing henchmen gave it up—one of those creatures without the Medusa helmet.”

  “Those are Skeezicks.”

  He nodded. “That thing tried to abduct America.” Phaeton shrugged. “Cutter got close enough to be tortured and left for dead. Whoever captured him took half his face away. Nice characters you’ve got over here.”

  The dwarf nodded. “But no names?”

  “All we’ve got—correction. All I’ve got are the names like Reapers and their comrades in arms—the scavengers.”

  Victor wore that amused look on his face again. “I believe your side calls them Grubbers.”

  “Whatever.” Phaeton glowered. “I need to know at least as much as Gaspar and Lovecraft know about what is happening to your world. I already know their personal reasons for wanting the stone.”

  Victor raised a brow.

  “If I give you this, I want the whole bloody story.” Phaeton eyeballed the little man, who gestured for him to proceed. “Gaspar is unraveling and believes the stone can cure him. Lovecraft’s son lives in a machine that keeps him alive. Reportedly, the professor has invented something better—sophisticated mechanics that will give his son mobility—but he needs a potent, efficient aether.”

  Victor knocked back the last half dram and set his glass down. Phaeton closed his eyes and waited for answers. “Once upon a time, there were three brothers. One set of identical twins, and the other, a badly deformed child. All three children were raised together, played together . . . educated together. But when it came time to run the business, the eldest child, eleven minutes older than his twin, was chosen.”

  “I take it you are one of the brothers.”

  “Guess which one.” A wry grin curved Victor’s mouth. “From the moment the torch was passed there began a struggle for power that continues on to this day. We live in a world that is run by a corporate oligarchy. A few wealthy entrepreneurs are in control”—Victor waved his hands in the air—“of everything.”

  Phaeton blinked. “Then what goes on in Westminster Palace–or Buckingham Palace for that matter?”

  “Government as usual—just as you are accustomed to it.”

  “You’re saying there’s a shadow government here, in the Outremer.”

  Victor smiled. “The land beyond the sea. Much too romantic for us, Phaeton.” The dwarf straightened. “The eldest twin pushed the younger out, then came to me and asked for my help—it’s a long, tiresome story of struggle, which also includes a wizard of science and industry who saw our vulnerability and made his own grab for power.

  “Eventually, I led what some call my own bid for control.” Victor leaned back into the plush sofa. “I became the de facto commander of a league of insurrectionist rebels; we disbanded months ago. Most of us were forced into hiding—decimated by the first few editions of Reapers, which were very powerful. They are less so now. The second rebellion started forty-eight hours ago, the wreckage around town still smolders from it. We won a major skirmish, but the war is far from over. Hundreds of Reapers roam about largely unsupervised.”

  Phaeton blinked. “I’ve seen the overturned vehicles and the burnt out buildings.”

  “That would be our refuse. The powers that be would have cleaned up any evidence of insurrection by now except we have bigger problems to solve at the moment.”

  “You’re unraveling.”

  “You noticed.”

  “And the maker?” Phaeton queried.

  “A leviathan-sized aether company run by a twenty-two-year-old cyber geek. He’s into creating and manufacturing cybernetic organisms.”

  Phaeton tilted an ear. “Which are?”

  Taking pity on his blank look, Victor explained. “Beings with biological and mechanical parts. The machines this young man builds are programmed to call him their maker. As a matter of fact, there have been rumors of industrial spying recently. . . from your world.”

  “Professor Lovecraft.”

  “Very likely.” Victor shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint, Phaeton, but I fit in nowhere here.”

  “I have to ask.” Phaeton looked up from his empty glass. “Do you know where the Moonstone is?”

  Victor studied him. “And what if I do?”

  “Then,”—Phaeton leaned closer—“I might be willing to cut a deal.”

  Victor stared at the wall behind Phaeton. “Reaper squad—a big one.”

  Phaeton stood up and whirled around. A screen in the top row showed a number of motorized two-wheeled vehicles pull up and park outside the club.

  Victor touched a device that appeared to be hooked over his ear. “Reapers—get them out the back way.”

  Several dancers—operatives of Victors—approached Gaspar and within seconds America, Tim, and all the Nightshades were whisked downstairs, past the lap dancers and out the secret exit. Phaeton watched their escape until he ran out of screens.

  Victor looked as frustrated as he felt. “Unfortunately there is no coverage of the rear stairs; if this lair is ever found, I don’t want them to know about the stairs.”

  Phaeton nodded. “Did they get out?”

  “Presumably.” Victor shrugged on a jacket. “Where do you reenter?”

  “South side of Vauxhall Bridge.”

  “We’ll not only catch up—we’ll beat your friends over there.” Victor dimmed the lights and opened the door a crack. “Come.”

  All hell had broken loose in the yard near the club. Reapers herded a number of detainees into paneled vehicles using some sort of stick; Phaeton flinched at the sharp crack. “Electrical switches,” Victor whispered, waving him up beside him. “Straight across the yard there’s a covered passage that leads to a mews. Stay to the shadows and circle about, I’ll meet you over there.”

  The sly dwarf turned back downstairs.

  “Wait, where are you going?” Phaeton hissed.

  “Secret passage—if I showed you . . .”

  “Never mind,” Phaeton growled. He slipped into the darkest shadows of the courtyard and quietly made his way over to a narrow walk between buildings.

  “Who goes there? Stop where you are!” The voice sounded artificial, somewhat like Cutter’s voice box. Phaeton thought about running, but slowed and turned. All he could make out was the silhouette of a snake entangled head.

  On second thought.

  Phaeton did an about face and ran. At the far end of the passage, he paused. This was supposed to be a mews but there were no carriages or stables. He turned toward the street, only to find himself in a blind court with a whip-cracking Reaper bearing down on him. The creature sprang out of the tunnel, leaping from wall to wall. Phaeton forced himself to stop, before he backed himself into a corner.

  Something dark and fast rumbled into the alley. Phaeton squinted. An engine on two wheels moving very fast—and it was very loud. The strange vehicle struck the Reaper full bore and sent the creature flying into the air. The tentacled head smacked into the wall and the body slid to the ground.


  The powerful engine pivoted in the middle of the yard. Phaeton sniffed the burn and smoke off thick, black wheels. The driver, who wore a helmet and dressed in leather, straddled the vehicle like it was a bicycle. “Climb on back, Phaeton.”

  The creature stirred. Phaeton jumped on and held on for dear life. The motor bike took off with such power he thought he might be thrown off the back.

  “Hold on tight.”

  At Tottenham Court road, the bike accelerated to such a speed that it took his breath away. Now and then, they slowed at a cross street, but otherwise blew through traffic lights and stop signs—something he had come to understand was de rigueur in the Outremer.

  The power between his legs was like nothing he had ever encountered. Then he thought about standing up on the bowsprit of the Topaz—the sea rushing under you, the sun rising over an ocean of blue. Okay, this was the third most exhilarating experience of his life.

  The driver slowed as they wove in and out of the wreckage of an old urban conflict. The rebels must have taken refuge behind that overturned double-decker. He wondered absently how long they had lasted.

  Several Reapers jumped out at them and made a swipe at the handlebars of the motor bike. Phaeton tightened his grip as they accelerated to a speed that left even the Reapers in the dust—and Reapers, if he remembered correctly, were wicked fast creatures.

  As they approached the Vauxhall Bridge, the driver slowed down. They continued along the bridge cautiously—waiting, he assumed, for a sign. There. Near the south end of the bridge, a flash of light. And a second flash.

  The driver accelerated. At the southeast corner of the bridge, the driver made a cautious turnabout. “I believe this is my stop.” Phaeton swung a leg over and approached the driver.

  “Thanks for the—”

  Under the streetlamp he caught a better look at the driver. He should say the curves of the driver—definitely female. Taken aback, Phaeton stammered, “Thanks for the—”

  The driver took off in a blur of thrust and noise. He stared after the motor bike until it disappeared on the other side of the river.

  “Hypothetically speaking, if I were in possession of the Moonstone, I would need Phaeton Black—that would be you—to help do what must be done.” Phaeton turned to the familiar voice. Victor sat behind the driver of yet another motor bike. The silence felt odd—the engine had been turned off.

  Phaeton dipped to look in the black cab that passed by. No America. No Gaspar. No Nightshades. “If you have a plan, let’s hear it, Victor.”

  The dwarf handed over a satchel—the same one he had purchased earlier that evening, only heavier than he remembered.

  “Nested among your clothes you’ll find a perfect copy of the Moonstone, complete with a swirl of relic dust and champagne and the occasional quiver.” The driver of the motor bike stepped down hard on a metal plate and the engine chugged to life. “Should you need anything, contact me through Fleury or Georgiana. Prepare yourself and your young lady, Phaeton. There are men who will stop at nothing to force you to loose the power in the stone. We’re going to flush them out—find out who’s against us and who’s with us.”

  “Then what?” Phaeton yelled above the engine.

  Victor waved as they moved off. “Then we save the world.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  AMERICA STEPPED OUT OF THE CAB LOOKING FOR HIM. “He’s not here.” A huge red omnibus roared past. “Wait a moment.” She smiled. The passing double-decker revealed Phaeton standing across the street. She waved to him, but as her focus took in the backdrop behind him, her mouth dropped open.

  “Wait there,” she called and ran to join him across the road. He led her to the bridge path. “Good God, Phaeton, what is happening here?” He held her in his arms while she peeked now and again at the ghastly sights. The grand waterway that was once the Thames was a muddy wash, with nothing but a trickle of water running down its center. All along the North bank, buildings were disintegrating—unraveling, including the whole of Westminster Palace. Her gaze trailed the riverbank all the way down to—half of St. Paul’s dome appeared eaten away, as though some giant had taken a bite out of the cupola.

  Phaeton spoke softly. “I was worried, my love—I wasn’t sure if you avoided the Reaper patrols.”

  She arched back in his arms. “You were worried? Phaeton, you do realize we had no idea where you were? All we could do is hope you made it here, as well.”

  “I can assure you I was perfectly safe and had my eye on you all the whole time—well, Victor did anyway.”

  “Who’s Victor?”

  “Yes, Phaeton, who is Victor?” Gaspar stood a few feet away, eavesdropping.

  Phaeton spun away from her to confront the Shades’ leader. “I say we trundle on home to bed, and debrief in the morning. ”

  Gaspar studied him, as well as the satchel in his hand. “As you wish, Phaeton.”

  Tim Noggy approached them, followed by the Nightshades, all of whom were dressed for clubbing in the Outremer. Phaeton found the sight highly amusing. “This must have cost Gaspar a bloody fortune.”

  “Let me tell you what’s not so comical.” Tim got out the small device he sometimes used to locate the ins and outs between worlds. “The stream is gone, mate.”

  “But there are others, right?” America asked. “We could go back to the hotel, again—might that work?”

  Tim looked around at the concerned faces. “It’s worth a try—otherwise we have to find a new one and they’re harder to locate over here.”

  Phaeton’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll tell you what I think—I think Lovecraft tampered with this return point.”

  Tim looked at him. “I was thinking it, I just wasn’t saying it.”

  “I asked the driver to wait.” Gaspar did not look pleased. “Let’s get to the hotel.”

  Phaeton pivoted toward the boxy black cab. “I do hope you got the driver with the red turban.”

  The ride over to Whitehall was taken up by an argument over the hotel room number. America tried a fresh start. “We agree on one thing—we were on the tenth floor.”

  “I swear we were in room twenty-eight, in the east wing.” Ruby huffed.

  “She’s got a truly remarkable memory for topography as well as a sense of direction.” Valentine eyeballed every man crammed into the cab. “We follow her lead first.”

  “Fine. Agreed. We go to twenty-eight first.” Tim rolled his eyes. “Why do you like this guy with the turban?” he asked Phaeton.

  “Because he has experience.”

  It appeared to be a quiet night at the hotel—the lobby was nearly empty as they traversed plush carpets and marble floors. As they had done the last time, they split up and met on the tenth floor.

  “Here it is, room twenty-eight. Tim got out his sensor. “What do you know? We’ve got an opening.”

  America walked up and down the corridor. “No maids about.”

  Cutter removed a key from his pocket and fiddled with the teeth end. “I have an uncle who works as a second-story man now and then. He taught me a thing or two about jimmying a lock.”

  “The one doing time at Wormwood Scrubs.” Ruby rolled her eyes.

  America tried to suppress a smile. Cutter had received an inordinate number of booty rubs on the dance floor this evening. He not only had some amazing dance moves, but his clockwork half mask had the young ladies swooning over him in the Outremer. Tim had called it a chit magnet. It was also hard not to notice Ruby’s cool, aloof reaction to all the attention he received. She supposed they would quibble and bicker until one day one of them would get up the nerve to jump the other’s bones.

  Cutter wasn’t on his knees for a quick minute when the door swung open. “I thought I might find you all here.”

  America noted Phaeton’s glower. “Not particularly hard when you shut down the main highway out of here, Lovecraft.”

  “If any of you had thought to check with me . . .” The man’s pale, watery eyes swiveled eerily. “I wou
ld have told you Vauxhall was down—a few maintenance issues.” So this was Professor Lovecraft. The man was not imposing in the least, but he wore a perpetual half smile that was disturbing because of its obvious insincerity.

  “If you wish to return to our side of the universe, please join me inside.” Lovecraft stepped back to allow Gaspar and the Shades in first.

  “Back away quickly,” Phaeton whispered and grabbed her hand and made for the lift.

  “Phaeton, what are we—?” She had no time to finish the sentence, the elevator doors opened. Phaeton blindly pressed a number of buttons on the panel.

  “Step out of there now, or I’ll shoot.” The professor stood in the corridor brandishing a pistol pointed at America.

  Phaeton swept her behind him. “You’ll have to shoot me to get to her, and then where will you be?” Jersey Blood rounded the corner and tackled Lovecraft from behind. The gun went off just as the doors closed.

  America squeezed Phaeton’s hand and moved forward.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Well and bravely protected.” She examined his jacket. “If you’ll excuse me.” She leaned close. “I have to check for bullet holes.” She opened his jacket and a few buttons of his shirt. She loved the feel of his fuzzy mat of chest hair—sweeping her fingers lightly over his chest she moved lower until his stomach muscles quivered.

  “I remember now, danger excites your desire for me.” Phaeton grinned, looking up and around. “I’ve never done it in a lift—might be fun.”

  The elevator suddenly lurched to a halt. America moved beside Phaeton and waited for the doors to open. But nothing happened. Phaeton checked all the buttons on the side panel. “Ah here we are.” He pressed the button marked DOOR OPEN.

  “Hello?”

  The voice came from a small mesh square above the control panel. America looked up at Phaeton. “Might it be a telephone of some sort?” America stood on tiptoe and answered. “Hello?” She had observed that Outremer denizens either carried or wore strange little communication devices. In the club, Gaspar had explained these gadgets were more important than flesh and blood people.