The Miss Education of Dr. Exeter (Paranormal Investigator)

by Jillian Stone

  As the carriage slowed Exeter leapt onto stone pavers and headed for the dark side of the cathedral. Valentine followed after, but stopped at the front entrance. Using a push of potent energy, she jumped to the balcony. Mia squinted to separate living figures from stone gargoyles on the upper tier. In a triumphant gesture, America held up a shiny metal tube and followed Valentine onto the roof behind the towers.

  Ping joined Mia as she made her way around Notre Dame and onto a darkened pathway. Valentine slid down the arch of a flying buttress and waited for Edvar and America to follow. It seemed to Mia that the gargoyle and America were sliding at a worrisome speed—perhaps too fast. Mia picked up her skirts and ran alongside the nave. “Valentine, don’t let her fall!”

  And suddenly, Exeter was there. He caught Edvar first, then America as they slid off the buttress and into the deep shadows of the great cathedral. “Nice bit of potent leaping, ladies.” Mia joined them at the bottom of the buttress. Exeter set America down. “As well as a rather excellent bit of rescuing,” she smiled at him.

  “America, do not try to keep pace with Valentine,” Exeter grumbled.

  “Has anyone seen Jersey?” Mia asked.

  “The object disappeared over there.” Exeter rasped, slightly out of breath. He nodded to a stand of trees.

  Mia nodded. “I’m almost certain I saw him run after the Moonstone when it . . . whooshed off the balcony.”

  “Oh, that’s not the Moonstone, the Moonstone is in here.” America held up a cylindrical device—presumably the portable incarcerator.

  “The orb with the dazzling tail was a decoy.” They all pivoted toward the familiar craggy voice. Jersey stood in between a row of poplar trees. “In case Prospero’s wraiths were lurking about.”

  Tim caught up to the gathering. “Now that the trap is set, all that remains is to lure Prospero in close.”

  “And, I have someone special in mind.” Exeter turned to Ping, who sauntered up to join them. There was something about Ping in a top hat and evening coat that was both delicious and strange. Or perhaps it was the blue-tinted spectacles that turned his eyes violet—the color of relic dust and champagne—the ethereal jinni’s term for potent energy.

  Ping smiled pleasantly, and nodded a bow. “How may I be of service?”

  “I need you to seduce Prospero.” Exeter was deadly serious.

  Ping’s long lashes fluttered slightly as he cocked his head. “As Ping or Jinn?”

  Exeter cracked a grin. “Perhaps, both.”

  “Entrez et soyez condamné!” The café’s doorman, dressed in a Satan suit, welcomed them to le Café de l’Enfer.

  “Enter and be damned—warm greeting.” Exeter escorted Mia inside the gaping devil’s mouth that made up the front door of the café, which had to be the most eccentric, and quite frankly bizarre nightspot in all of Paris.

  If any of you tire of sin, you can always dash next door for a bit of Heaven.

  Mia distinctly heard Phaeton’s voice in her head. She looked at Exeter—nothing—he was occupied with the maître d’. She looked back at America, who appeared a bit fidgety standing beside Ping. “Was that him?”

  America shrugged a bit warily. She had heard the voice as well, but looked to Ping. Peering over the rims of his spectacles, his eyes flashed silver. “Watch yourself, we’ve crossed into the Outremer.”

  Mia blinked as she took in the crowd at the bar. Yes, the attire was different—so very plain, and informal. She hadn’t felt a thing, and now suddenly she found herself in an alternate Paris.

  Ping tapped the doctor on the shoulder. “Should anyone comment—we’ve just come from a costume ball.” After a quick, furtive glance around the room, Exeter nodded.

  “This way—monsieurs et mademoiselles.” The maître d’ wore a tuxedo and was normal in appearance, but for the brilliant crimson horns that poked out of salt-and-pepper hair. Mia pressed close to Exeter. “I cannot help but think our costumes will hardly be noticed in such a venue.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

  They were led through a standing-room-only crowd at the bar to a larger, dining area in the rear of the café. A soft rhythmic music pervaded the cavern-like atmosphere. In keeping with the motif, lost souls undulated on the dance floor in a macabre burlesque, a queer tribute to the tortured plaster figurines that writhed on the walls and ceiling. Exeter dipped close. “Hellish, indeed,” he murmured. Skirting the dance floor, Mia noted musicians of dark skin color, Africans, she thought, but Parisian, as well. A female cabaret singer crooned in sultry tones. Mia listened carefully to the French words . . . a love song.

  “Très bon.” The maître d’ flourished a gesture, as a waiter pushed two smaller tables together. The rather dashing looking devil helped Mia into her chair. “Soyez un belle coquine, s’il vous plaît.”

  Mia turned to Exeter as he slid in beside her. “Did our waiter just call me a naughty girl?”

  In a most irregular display of public affection, Exeter placed his arm across the back of her chair. “I believe his advice was—soyez—‘be a beautiful rascal.’ And he was rather polite about it—the young man did say . . . please.” His sensuous, heavy-lidded gaze held hers as he leaned close. “I must say I’m looking forward to it.” It seemed Hell’s Café was already having an effect. As if their lives weren’t odd enough.

  Several intoxicating drinks helped put a full-tilt spin on the evening. Everything—the sights, the sounds—all seemed enhanced, if a bit fuzzier. And still no sign of Phaeton.

  Exeter leaned across the table. “We should break up.”

  Ping nodded. “I sense wariness. We may appear too formidable.” The wariness Ping noticed only made sense if Prospero lacked any kind of battle squadron. Mia found it hard to believe the man could be so lacking in resources.

  “Somebody get out there and dance,” Tim suggested.

  Jersey looked stricken. “I don’t dance.”

  Valentine set down her drink and winked. “I’m working on him.”

  Strains of piano and the soft rhythm of bass fiddle and drum drew Mia’s attention to the dance floor. As the cabaret’s entertainers struck up a new tune, Exeter leaned close. “Dance with me.”

  Mia gaped at him as well as the others around the table. “What kind of dance is this?”

  “Give me a minute. I have to think back to cotillion—a painful experience.” Chin in hand, Tim’s eyes rolled upward. “Fox-trot, I think, but feel free to dance a jig. Just get out there and fake it.”

  Exeter coaxed her up out of her chair and onto the dance floor. “I believe this dance is close to a waltz, only instead of three-four, we move in four-four time.” She had no idea what step came next, but he made it easy to follow his lead. As a small child, he had taught her to dance. “Place your feet on top of mine, Mia.” She recalled happy hours spent waltzing around the parlor on a rainy afternoon.

  Mia imagined her ballroom slippers on top of his dress boots and concentrated for a turn or two. He was a strong dancer, and she soon relaxed in his arms. “Two slow glides followed by two quick steps.”

  Exeter smiled. “Exactly.” He lengthened his stride, smoothing out the dance. The strains of a smoky, silken voice blended perfectly with the cabaret musicians. Almost effortlessly, he led her around the dance floor, brushing against her in the turns. She felt the power of his legs, the heat of his body as he pulled her closer. “Do you remember how we used to practice for your French exams?”

  Mia nodded, adding a shy smile. “You would sing to me in French, and I would sing the line in English.” Exeter turned her about the floor listening to the cabaret singer. “You put your hand in mine . . . and then you smiled hello . . .” He sang softly in a husky voice.

  “And I have no words . . . my heart is pounding so.” She translated as strong thighs, pulsing with rhythm, whirled her through a labyrinth of other dancers.

  “Tweedledum and Tweedledee.” Exeter nodded over her shoulder and turned so that she could get a better look. Two identical
ly dressed creatures huddled together in the shadows, vulture-like, bony shoulders hunched over frail bodies. The duo wore coachman’s hats over mourning veils to obscure their faces. They turned in unison as Exeter swept her across the dance floor, sending a shiver down her spine.

  For some reason, she could hardly sing the French lyrics over the ache in her throat. “Keep going, Mia—”

  She swallowed. “. . . I long . . . long to hold you close.” Her vision blurred. The song spoke of a burning hunger and unrequited love—entirely too close for comfort.

  Exeter shortened his steps. “Mia . . .”

  Blinking back tears, she finished the words of the song. “To you I’m just . . . a child . . .” Inexplicably, the tears kept coming.

  Exeter appeared stricken. He pulled her into the middle of the floor and turned in slow circles. “Mia, I care so very much . . .”

  “No—don’t.” Choking on her words, she swept an errant teardrop away. She quickly searched the room for a distraction and found one. “Exeter—one of those strange characters is moving toward our table.”

  His gaze narrowed. It was clear he didn’t wish to change the subject. Reluctantly, he stole a glance in the direction of the Nightshades and exhaled. Cursing under his breath, he grabbed her hand and wound a path through the dancing couples. Mia dipped and dodged to try to see what was going on across the dance floor.

  America stood up from the table. “Phaeton?”

  Both she and Exeter tracked her line of sight. Mia gasped. “Exeter—is it him?” Phaeton stood in the alcove. Before anyone could stop her, America ran toward a fading image.

  “Go back, America!” Phaeton’s voice echoed from a faraway place.

  Chapter Eighteen

  EXETER GRABBED HOLD OF AMERICA only to have her break apart in his hands. Whoosh. Vanished into the Outremer. The darkness had just reached out and swallowed her up. He whirled around to find Mia and the Nightshades right behind him. “And the Moonstone?”

  “Right here, mate.” Tim held the incarcerator under his arm.

  Exeter exhaled a sigh of frustration or relief—maybe a bit of both. “I’m quite certain those two odd blokes dragged her across. We must follow them, in haste.” Exeter retrieved from his pocket the portable iDIP, which Tim had given him the day before in the train station. “How do I work this?”

  “I wouldn’t, mate.” Tim grimaced.

  “Why not?”

  “Because we can’t be sure where she is. We need to get back to the hotel room, see if the bugs have located the hideout—pronto.”

  Mia grasped Exeter’s arm. “Earlier this evening, I heard a voice. Ping heard it, as did America. I believe it was a warning from Phaeton, but there may have been a message, as well.”

  Exeter turned to Ping. “What did he say?”

  “If any of you tire of sin, you can always dash next door for a bit of Heaven.” Ping repeated the words verbatim.

  Exeter stared. “What do you think it means?” A waiter dressed as Satan took obvious delight in shouting his order to the bartender. “Three seething bumpers of molten sin, with a dash of brimstone intensifier!”

  Exeter tapped the waiter’s shoulder. “What sort of establishment adjoins l’Enfer?”

  The devil snorted a laugh. “How can there be a hell without a heaven, monsieur?

  As the Nightshades encircled the man, Exeter pressed the question. “Another café?”

  The waiter retreated slightly. “Oui, Cabaret du Ciel. Everyone knows this, monsieur—”

  Exeter placed Mia’s hand through the crook in his arm. “We break up into two groups,” he tossed the directive over his shoulder as he headed for the door. “Mia and I will go after America. They can’t be far ahead of us, not with a pregnant captive in hand.”

  Exiting Hell’s Café, they were mysteriously plunged back into 1889 Paris. It appeared the veil between worlds was less stable in Montmartre. Mia wobbled a bit—disoriented by the sudden shift in time and space. “A bit of hysteria is all—breathe deeply—you’ll soon shake it off.” Exeter steadied her.

  As they waited for their carriage, he unfolded a square of paper that contained a small amount of white powder. “Derived from an alkaloid obtained from the leaves of the coca plant, valuable as a local anaesthesiant, also used as a stimulant.” He took a pinch of the powder and held it under her nose. “Inhale, Mia—as if it were snuff.” He passed several packets around. “We are likely to cross over several times tonight—this will help keep our heads clear.”

  Almost instantly, Mia appeared brighter—more alert. “You will likely experience a kind of visual and mental clarity.” She rubbed out a tickle in her nose. “Better?” he asked.

  “Rather splendid, actually.”

  “I’d like Jersey to come with Mia and me.” Exeter turned to Tim. “Mr. Noggy, the communication devices?” While Tim dug in his pocket for gadgets, they finalized plans. Tim, Ping, and Valentine would return to the hotel, mark the likeliest spots for Prospero’s underground chambers, and promptly relay the locations via the communicators. “Here we are.” Tim produced a handful of small devices. “Just like Star Trek, only better.” One never completely understood what the cherubic young inventor was talking about. Exeter was quite sure he spouted the esoteric vernacular for his own amusement.

  Ping removed his spectacles. “You will likely descend into a sketchy bit of old quarry tunnel, which means you’ll run into a number of passages that lead nowhere. Some were dug as tests for the Métro. Paris will not have an underground train system for another ten years—so, if you happen to run across tracks or hear trains, you’ll know you’ve passed into the Outremer. Also, anarchists store weapons down there. They often plant explosives to protect their caches. Keep a lookout for trip wires.”

  Tim handed Exeter a small, curved device. “Two buttons. One is the on/off switch, the other—press to speak, release to listen. Hook it over your ear—that’s it.”

  Exeter pressed the on/off switch and practiced.

  “The headset is also a homing device, so leave it turned on. Press when you want to talk and release to listen. These things can communicate across time and space, so they should be fairly reliable underground.” Tim swept back a riot of curly, unkempt hair to adjust his own communicator. “Stay in touch—every half hour or so, give us a call.”

  Exeter helped Valentine into the waiting carriage and gestured for everyone to gather close. “Once we locate the hideout, we’ll designate a staging area. Ping will approach Prospero alone, lure him out of his den, so we can move in and collect America and Phaeton.” He turned and studied the enigmatic young man. “Hopefully, you have prepared a seduction. Will it be Ping or Jinn?”

  The jinni offered quite a mesmerizing smile. “As you advised, I have a bit of both in mind.” Regardless of one’s sexual proclivities, one would have to be dead or blind not to see the allure of the androgynous creature. “Make your move with Prospero as soon as possible.” Exeter returned Ping’s grin. “Beguile him until we are well away from the hideout.” He removed a pistol from his pocket and spun the cartridge. A bullet in each chamber. Six emergency shots—just in case there was no aether to draw upon. Exeter crooked an elbow toward Mia. “Shall we look for a few devils in Heaven?”

  Inside Cabaret du Ciel, they were greeted by a self-styled Saint Peter, who anointed the inebriated crowd from a basin of not so holy water. “Prepare to meet thy great Creator and don’t forget the garçons!”

  Gauzy wings fluttered and brass halos bobbed as waiters flitted about the room in white robes. Exeter wove a path through a throng of intoxicated customers. “Heaven appears to be as popular as Hell with the boozy crowd—who would have thought?” Mia murmured.

  He spotted a wraith at the end of the bar and nodded to Jersey. “In the alcove behind the bar.”

  The Nightshade moved ahead. “I see him.”

  Exeter tucked Mia behind him, protectively. A cloaked specter stood in the shadows in a coat of gossamer rags—tatt
ered and war torn. The elusive apparition reminded him of the hooded Nightshades, who also wore cloaking devices.

  “Prospero?” Mia’s whisper tickled his ear.

  “Possibly.” Without taking his eyes off the creature, Exeter reached back for her hand. The wraithlike figure turned, then hesitated. Pinpoints of silver light, where eyes might be, looked back at them. The entity was actually beckoning them to follow. Cheeky phantom.

  Skirting the bar, they found no sign of the sorcerer. Exeter examined the alcove for a possible trapdoor, nothing but a shallow niche with a painting of cherubs frolicking in the clouds. “Hold on.” Jersey felt around the edge of the gilded frame. “This side is hinged.” Exeter pressed the opposite side and the painting separated from the wall, revealing a hidden passageway.

  Jersey climbed in first, then Mia. Exeter took up the rear guard. They crawled along in relative darkness, until Jersey fired up a bit of dagger light. “The passage grows larger up ahead.” Jersey lengthened the dagger into a sword and increased illumination. “Looks to be part of the old limestone quarry.” Jersey crawled out and helped Mia and Exeter down.

  Pivoting in a circle, he counted two passages, traveling in opposite directions. Straight ahead, a set of stairs led one way—downward. Strange harmonics echoed softly up the stairs from the lower substrata. Jersey pointed his sword toward the echo and something fluttered in a dark turn of the stair. “Looks like we go below.”

  They descended into more quarried caverns and narrow passages. Occasionally, they caught sight of a tattered wisp of fabric or heard a faint shuffle of footsteps. Reaching a blind turn, Jersey turned to them. “You two wait for a bit, then follow after me slowly—” Jersey halted his speech as a swirling column of dust came toward them. He motioned them all against the wall as the hissing rush of air passed them by. Jersey held up a finger and they waited in silence.

  Exeter broke the stillness. “What was that?”

  The Nightshade nodded into the blackness. “It’s still out there.” He’d learned to trust Jersey’s instincts—the half-breed demon had invisible feelers. How else had he known about the wraith attack on the train to Paris?