The Miss Education of Dr. Exeter (Paranormal Investigator)

by Jillian Stone

  He decided to pour something stiff. A brief inspection of the young women had him imagining two sweet derrieres. “To a most favored position.” He lifted his glass with a wink. “Bottoms up.”

  At the moment, his informal sitting room featured a single overstuffed club chair and a comfortable old chaise longue. Phaeton flopped onto the divan and reclined against a curvy pillowed end. He opened his arms wide. “I invite you to loose the dragon.”

  Reluctant Lucy made him grin, for she now eagerly climbed onto his lap. “Ah ah ah.” He wagged a finger. “This teasing prelude has a caveat. For every button of mine undone, you must remove one article of clothing apiece.”

  He studied his evening’s leisure through half-closed eyes. A man could be infinitely happy, at least for an hour or two, with a beauty settled on each knee. And the diversion was sorely needed. Purge the jabberwocky from his head and calm the racing thoughts that threatened to drive him round the bend. After a few hours of vigorous love play, he fancied himself dead to the world, thoroughly spent, snoring between two naked lovelies.

  An ephemeral breeze bristled the hair on the back of his neck. The subtle shift in air pressure signaled yet another presence. A shadow drifted overhead and the stairs creaked. Just above, in the darkness, something moved. His gaze shifted away from nubile flesh spilling out of unhooked corsets and untied petticoats. “Why, I believe we have a visitor, ladies. Care to join? One for each, I don’t mind sharing.”

  The tall, dark-haired man on the landing frowned and continued his descent.

  “Such unfortunate timing.” Phaeton nuzzled a supple neck and groaned. “And I so dislike postponing pleasure.”

  He shifted both doxies off his lap. “I promise you will each have a turn on top of me.” An exposed fanny invited a gentle smack. “Off you go.”

  The pretty trollops gathered a few undergarments and paused for a brazen inspection of the intruder before vanishing upstairs in a clamor of footsteps and twittering.

  “Well, well. Scotland Yard’s most celebrated agent, Zander Farrell, come calling.” Phaeton buttoned his pants and settled back with a grin. “Something desperate has happened to bring you here, below stairs.”

  “I admit it took a bit of ferreting about.” Zander ducked under a sagging floor joist. “You’ve made quite a comfortable nest for yourself down here.” He lifted an aquiline nose and sniffed the air. “A bit moldy in winter, perhaps.”

  “Due to my recent loss of employment, I have found it necessary, indeed prudent, to conserve resources.”

  Never one for small talk, which Phaeton greatly appreciated, Zander got straight to it. “We appear to have another monstrous character about on a killing spree. Chilcott wants the case solved before the bloody press clobbers us. He’ll not have another debacle like the Ripper.”

  “I can assure you Jack is gone. I took a stroll through Whitechapel just yesterday. Not a trace of the fiend’s miasma.”

  Zander glared. “Exactly the kind of green fairy talk that got your contract canceled.”

  “Chilcott doesn’t like me. Never has.” Phaeton noted the barely perceptible clench in the man’s jaw. Zander seemed strangely unnerved, a rare state of being for him. “Something’s got you rattled. What is it?”

  “There is some kind of beast or—vampire stalking the Strand.”

  Phaeton never laughed, a self-imposed rule that had remained unbroken for years. Otherwise, he would have been rolling all over the cold stone floor of his new flat at that very moment.

  So he simply grinned. “Perhaps an actor costumed as Varney the Vampire? Or an Empusa. Might I look forward to a seduction by a bewitching female bloodsucker?”

  Zander’s glower gave way to a wide-eyed stare. “I thought you’d be pleased. You claim to believe in fairies and all that undead rubbish.”

  “My interest in the occult is not a matter of faith, actually.” He rose off the couch and signaled Zander to follow. Rummaging through a set of pantry cabinets, he withdrew a bottle of liquor. “Nevertheless, I am honored and amused that Scotland Yard appears ready to consult the fey world.”

  He sensed darker undercurrents and listened momentarily to a fog of whispers. “The notion of an unearthly murderous evildoer is intriguing.” He pulled out a chair. “Why don’t you brief me while I louche us a glass?”

  “Whiskey for me.”

  He swung back and raised a brow. “Certain about that? A bit of absinthe might help the investigation right about now.”

  Zander exhaled a bit too loudly. “As you wish, Mr. Black.”

  Phaeton set up two glasses and poured the dark green distillate. He angled slotted silver spoons etched with the likeness of a naked flying nymph across the rim of each vessel, and placed a lump of sugar on top.

  The number-two Yard man leaned back in his chair. “Quite an elaborate ritual.”

  “Hmm, yes. I suppose it falls somewhere between a witches’ Sabbath and the Eucharist.” He retrieved a pitcher of iced water from a makeshift cold closet. “Just as the water looses the spirit of absinthe, so does the absinthe free the mind.”

  As the chilled liquid dripped slowly over the sugar cube, Zander’s glass changed from deep emerald to a delicate, cloudy swirl of pale green elixir. “Ah, the transformation, when essential oils bloom and the fairy is released. To quote Rimbaud—”

  “A meandering, scatological French poet.” Zander huffed.

  Undaunted, Phaeton poured a last splash over nearly dissolved sugar. “As I was saying: ‘the poet’s pain is soothed by a liquid jewel held in the sacred chalice, sanity surrendered, the soul spirals toward the murky depths, wherein lies the beautiful madness—absinthe.’ ”

  He settled down and lifted his glass. “I know what they say about me at the Yard. Eccentric, when they’re feeling charitable, a menace or madman otherwise.”

  “That’s not true. Gabe Sterling thinks the world of you.”

  “Then you and he are the only ones.”

  “Not me, just Gabe.” Zander sipped a taste before taking a swallow. “Frankly, I can’t say enough about a man who can step into a crisis situation and disarm a Fenian bomb without a care. I don’t know where that kind of courage comes from, Phaeton, and neither do a lot of other agents who would rather call you mad than try to understand a man who invites death and fears nothing.”

  Phaeton shrugged. More pale green potion slipped down his throat. “I miss those small hours of the morning. You know as well as I do, from all our evenings on surveillance, the coldest chill of night happens at the edge of dawn.” His hazy gaze landed on Zander. “The time when shadows are not deep enough for spirits and abominations to hide in.”

  Zander leaned forward. “I need you back on the job. Murdering hobgoblin, vampire—whatever or whoever the killer turns out to be. Take the assignment, Phaeton. But don’t do it to prove the other agents wrong.”

  Taken aback, Phaeton blinked. “Why not?”

  “Because they’re right.”

  “Bloody, thieving pirate.”

  America Jones’s gaze fixed on Yanky Willem’s every movement as he moved across the polished wood floor of the shipping office. The vile ship snatcher paused between secretary desks and curled back an upper lip.

  Up until this night, she had merely been an annoyance to him. A pestering fly he could easily wave aside. But his nonchalance had served only to embolden her purpose. She had picked the door lock, and he had caught her, dead to rights, searching for proof of treachery. Now, quite suddenly, her circumstances had grown perilous. Eyes darting, she calculated the position of Willem’s other lackeys stationed around the workplace. His men had not bound her as of yet. No doubt they thought her a helpless, frightened twat. Thickheaded cock-ups.

  “Miss Jones.” The Dutchman exhaled smoke as thick as his accent. His breath reeked of the black cigar clenched between his teeth. “Words cannot express how pleased I am to have you in my company this evening.”

  The captain’s gaze traveled over every inch of h
er. “And my great-great-grandfather was a pirate, Miss Jones, but not I.”

  One day she’d wipe that smug grin off his face. Forever.

  “I was obliged to take over your father’s shipping business because he failed to make good on our loan arrangement.”

  She bit out a single word. “Liar.” Quick as a strike from a snake, his hand lashed across her face. The blow jerked her head back, flooding her cheeks with heat. She licked dry lips and tasted blood at the corner of her mouth. Heart pounding, she blinked aside tears and retreated.

  By the look in his eyes and the bulge in his pants, he would have her flat on her back soon enough. Then he would hand her off to his crew.

  “I wager you’d all like a taste.” She lifted her skirt and lace petticoats above the knee and made eyes at every surly mate. Her sashay about the room revealed more and more leg. When she reached the tops of her stockings, their mouths dropped open.

  Seductively, she slipped her hands between her thighs. Eyes wide with feigned surprise, she looked down, then up again with a wink. “Silly me.”

  In one swift motion, she loosed a derringer from one garter and a bowie knife from the other. Falling back toward the door, she brandished both weapons.

  “If you value y’er jewels, I wouldn’t make a move.”

  Chapter Two

  “HOLD ON, MR. BLACK.” The pretty harlot quickened her steps to match his longer strides. Phaeton grabbed her by the hand and wove a path between the fancy carriages and cabs queued along the Strand. Traffic would shortly become a mangle, as theatres began to let out. A frosty wind blew across the broad avenue, forcing them both to squint and hold onto their hats.

  “Come along, Lizzie.”

  He quite enjoyed Miss Randall, whether she was on the job for Mrs. Parker or retained as a night crawler. He often used her for reconnaissance, a spotter who ably worked the streets or public houses.

  At the corner of Savoy Row, he parked the tempting doxy by a lamppost. “Right here, love.” A fine dusting of snow covered the cobblestone. Not enough to turn the ground white, but just enough to reveal a curious impression of footprints leading off down the row.

  He directed his gaze after a diaphanous, almost imperceptible, flurry of snow. “I mean to follow a trace of vapor down the alley. I shan’t be far off.”

  “A trace of vapor?”

  He paused to think about his answer. “Do you believe in ghosts, Lizzie?

  The girl scoffed. “No, sir.”

  “Phantasms with fangs who can pierce a vein and drain your body of vital fluids in mere moments?”

  Eyes wider. “No, sir.”

  Phaeton leaned close and brushed her neck with his lips. “You will.”

  She shivered. “No need to frighten a girl, Mr. Black.”

  “I need you to keep a lookout. Act like a street whore—not terribly difficult. If any gents or goblins get too frisky, you scream bloody murder.”

  He swept a stray curl off her robust, pink cheek. “Lizzie dear, have I ever ventured into your lovely slit?”

  She snorted. “A girl doesn’t forget a poke like that, sir.”

  “Did I pleasure you?”

  She batted dark lashes. “Yes, sir.”

  “I am so pleased to hear it.” He tipped his hat and walked into the deeper shadows of the narrow lane.

  The trail of impressions appeared cleanly made. Small feet, with steps placed far apart, as if whomever or whatever barely needed to touch ground. He followed the tracks down a curve in the row until the imprints grew so faint, they became all but invisible. He inhaled deeply. Snow and soot and something else, faintly . . . metallic. Again, Phaeton sniffed the air as he scanned the rooftops and lane ahead.

  Aware of the faintest shift in atmosphere, he focused his search once more on the bricks below his feet. A tear-shaped drop fell onto the pavers.

  Red. Warm. Ice crystals surrounding the drop melted.

  There, another drop.

  He looked up, but could make nothing out. A sudden spray of crimson drops scattered across the snow as a gust of wind blew off the Thames. A hiss of fine ice swirled into the air and traveled up past shop windows. A ghastly misshapen figure settled onto a window ledge close to the roof.

  Phaeton froze. A large, birdlike entity formed out of ice crystals and gray speckled flakes, or were those feathers? Long, spindly legs, tucked against each side of a thin torso. As the creature struggled to gain its balance, a bloody appendage slipped off the window ledge. Pearlescent feathers ruffled as the rare bird retracted the crooked, gangly limb. A protective wing folded over the injury.

  So, the owlish harpy appeared to suffer.

  He stared hard at the apparition. Would the wraithlike specter ever fully materialize? The pale visage continued to reshape itself until it resolved into something more human than avifauna.

  “Ah, there you are.” He inched forward, mesmerized. “My high-strung, feathered”—the facial features were feminine, fragile; an enchanting, chimerical bird—“beauty.”

  The humanlike face swiveled and blinked. Why do you not fear me? The voice whispered in his head.

  “You might try being more bloodcurdling. Bone-chilling. Hair-raising, perhaps?”

  Another ruffle of ashen feathers. Male, what is your name?

  “Phaeton Black.” A wicked smile encouraged him to press forward for a closer look.

  I do not like. The white bird hissed and drew away. Phaeton tilted his head to align his sights with her yellow-eyed stare. There, on the rooftop, the dark silhouette of a man gazed down on them.

  He had to ask. “Friend of yours?”

  A blast of air and cyclone of snow enveloped the harpy. A billow of white particles whirled off the ledge and vanished down the alleyway.

  A chill shivered through his body. And a deep sorrow. Squinting through a tempest of frost, he swept the skyline for the stranger. Nothing.

  Intrigued, he started after the small twister passing by several basement railings. He paused to stare at an odd finial post. The cast-iron head of a dog. Edging closer, he imagined the canine’s upper lip curled back. How long had it been since his last glass of absinthe? Several hours ago with Zander. Any unearthly effects should have passed by now. He reached out his hand and the canine creature snapped.

  “Ouch!” He put his finger to his mouth and sucked a very real scratch.

  A faint tinkle of laughter. Crimson drops fell at his feet. Were they his? He guessed not. Wavering on the edge of hallucination, he traced bleeding drops of red over street pavers. Light snowfall dampened each footstep to a soft crunch. An icy stillness crept over the lane. Nothing but the sound of his inhale and exhale.

  “Over here, lovey.”

  “Hav’a taste, handsome?”

  A pair of street prostitutes stepped out of the shadows and beckoned to him.

  “Evening, ladies.” He noted a large dustbin just past the huddled women. Inexplicably drawn to the container, he reached for the lid and hesitated. A steady pulse of rapid heartbeats throbbed in his ears.

  Lifting the cover, he examined ordinary contents. “Rags.”

  With a glance around the alley and a wink at one of the working girls, he edged closer. A rat leapt out of the pile of refuse. He dropped the lid, and it clattered to the ground. “Bloody hell.”

  Wait. Phaeton pivoted.

  A presence lurked in the velvet black darkness of a niche between buildings. He leaned into the unknown. The cold steel of a large blade pressed against his neck.

  “Do as I say, mon ami, and I won’t cut your throat.”

  A feminine voice, with an accent. He swallowed. “I make it a point never to argue with a female wielding a knife.” In the blackness, he could just make out luscious plump lips and almond-shaped eyes. Human. What a relief. And a good deal prettier than his recent encounters.

  “Back me up—against the wall.” She pressed the blade edge deeper into his flesh. A trickle of blood ran under his collar.

  “Careful.”
Adhering faithfully to her instructions, he pressed her to the bricks.

  “Any moment now, a number of pirates are going to round this corner. They wish to do me harm. I want you to convince them you are near to completing your satisfaction with a street doxy.”

  He grinned. He couldn’t help it. “Allow me to do my best.”

  A clamor of hurried footsteps echoed off the row buildings. Racking up her skirt, he inserted a hand between her legs. “Hook a leg around me.”

  When she complied, he placed both hands under her buttocks and angled her against the wall.

  “Oh my!” She cried. “What is that?”

  Phaeton paused. “My cock, miss. What were you expecting?”

  “But—” She gasped.

  A few harried shouts came from several yards away. Quickly, he brought himself under her and worked her down onto his prick. He began his thrusts slowly. Not too deep, as yet, until he knew her body would receive him. “Make much ado, as if you are a pretty whore well paid for a quick tumble.”

  Buttons loosed, he nuzzled a firm, round breast and tasted salty sweat. He suckled a taut morsel of nipple through thin fabric and bit down. “Ahhh.” She gasped. A flood of moisture drew him deeper.

  “That’s a girl. Louder. Tell me you want more.” He drove in. “Do it.”

  Her words seethed between her teeth. “I will kill you for this.”

  “Must I remind you”—he gasped—“your blade remains at my throat.” Gently, he began to withdraw from her. “In or out, love? Make up your mind.”

  A low mewl from this luscious alley cat accompanied a bold thrust of hips. Her cries were layered with mockery. “Oh yes, more of that—big man.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” This woman’s sheath girdled him like some kind of heaven. “I have yet to play deep, miss. How much of me do you want?” His arousal was huge and satisfaction precipitous. He pumped into her, closing in on his own finish. “This is going to be fast.”

  “Deeper, lovey.” She cried, urging him onward. Phaeton could just make out the shapes of several men. Her pursuers paused to listen to their heated sighs and muffled groans.