Beneath that opening in the roof was a small dais with four wide steps leading to it on each side. A white table stood at the front, and arranged on it was a long, golden scepter, whose knob was the head of a lion, and an object that looked like a long golden loop with three bars running through it. The sistrum of Sekhmet? Next to the altar was the large statue of Sekhmet we’d seen at the previous gathering. Had Mr. Eckhert really traveled back in time using that thing?
The Ankh stood on the stage. In front of him was a large, ancient book on a small podium, its pages held open by a set of metal fingers. To one side was another table containing several items: a gleaming golden bracelet and a crown; candles suspended in intricate brass and bronze holders contained flames that danced in the night breeze; and golden bowls, cups, flasks, and other utensils. Standing behind the table was a device that resembled a crude skeleton made from metal: it had spindly legs and even spindlier arms. Wires protruded from its body.
Two male guards stood to one side. Although they weren’t identical in appearance, as the female assistants were, the two men wore similar clothing and resembled each other in stance, height, and the darkness of their hair.
Miss Holmes stood nearby, her eyes darting about the room, obviously taking in every detail. She couldn’t see me; I stood far back and to her right. The other young woman who’d been recruited from the opium chamber stood next to her . . . Della Exington, niece of Lord Ramsay. The remaining female attendant stood between the two young women holding a pistol.
The Ankh was reading an incantation, his voice ringing out in a foreign language I assumed was Egyptian. He had his arms spread and looked from the book up to the open night sky and back down again as he chanted.
I eased farther into the room as the Ankh took a pinch of something from one of the smaller bowls and crumbled it into the largest one. He poured a sparkling red liquid from one of the flasks and added another ingredient that looked like small seeds. By then I could smell the pungent scent of something exotic and indefinable. All the while, he chanted, imploring some entity in the sky above.
At last, he stopped singing and lit a tiny twig with one of the candles, then dropped it into the bowl in which he’d been mixing. A soft pop! and then thick, curling red smoke snaked up from the bowl, bringing with it a stronger rush of the exotic scent.
The Ankh took the bowl and walked around the statue of Sekhmet, pausing every two steps. There were small vessels on the ground circling the statue, and he poured some of the smoking contents into each of them. This created many spirals of smoke rising around the goddess like a fragrant red curtain.
Moving to the altar, the Ankh retrieved the scepter and the sistrum and brought them to the Sekhmet statue. He fitted the scepter into the hand of Sekhmet that was positioned to hold it, and then slipped the noose of the sistrum over the other hand, which was raised with its palm facing outward. The sistrum thus hung from the goddess’s elbow.
“It is time,” said the Ankh, looking at the two young women he had chosen. “The Inner Circle has been prepared, and you must be initiated in order to access the deeper power of Sekhmet.”
Della Exington came alive and stepped eagerly onto the dais. “I am grateful and pleased to prove my loyalty to the goddess.”
“Felicitations, brave one,” the Ankh said, turning to Miss Exington. The beard and mustache obscured much of the Ankh’s face, yet I could see the delight in his eyes. His expression was unsettling in its fervor as he told Miss Exington, “You shall bring to Sekhmet her divine cuff, and you will be forever bound with her and her power.”
He gestured, and one of the guards stepped onto the stage. Under the Ankh’s direction, he helped the young woman into the circle of red smoke and turned her to face Sekhmet. As she looked up at the figure’s leonine face, the guard lifted her left hand, fitting her palm, wrist, and arm against Sekhmet’s in a mirror-like position. With her other hand, Miss Exington grasped the scepter.
The Ankh brought the cuff and fitted it around Miss Exington’s upraised wrist, using it to fasten her to Sekhmet’s arm. Fascinated and yet disturbed, I watched as the Ankh used a slender golden thong to bind her other hand to the scepter. All the while, the pungent crimson smoke continued to filter through the open roof.
“You shall join with Sekhmet. You have brought her Sacred Instrument, the golden cuff, to her, and your life force will meld with the goddess.”
Miss Exington looked up at the statue as if it were the goddess herself. “I’m ready.”
Sharp discomfort prickled over my skin, lifting the hair from the back of my neck and along my arms. What should I do? I curled my fingers around the pistol I’d slipped in my tunic pocket and glanced at Miss Holmes.
She was staring at the scene with the same horror I felt. She also had a pistol barrel pressed into her side by my twin counterpart. The Ankh wasn’t taking any chances that his other Inner Circle candidate would have second thoughts.
The guard brought the spindly mechanical figure over and positioned it behind Miss Exington. As I watched in morbid fascination, he lined up the device’s “arms” and “legs” to mirror the position of Miss Exington’s, and then fastened three wires to the cuff. Three more wires were attached to the scepter, and three to the sistrum. The eerie red smoke curled around them, cloaking girl, statue, and machine in its thick fog.
“What—what are you doing?” the captive asked, her voice quavering as she pulled at her bonds.
“Be still, my dear. Your life force is the greatest gift you can bestow upon Sekhmet.”
For the first time since entering the chamber, I moved. I started toward the altar, and the Ankh noticed me immediately.
“Ah, Amunet, you’ve returned in time,” he said, giving me a brief glance.
I had to act . . . but for once, I was hesitant to leap into action. The guards still loomed. And then there was the gun pressing into Miss Holmes’s torso.
Miss Exington pulled more violently against the wires that bound her. “I—I don’t think I—”
“Be still, my darling,” said the Ankh from outside of the circle of red smoke. “You are receiving a great honor from Sekhmet. You will be well rewarded. Hathor,” he said, gesturing to the man who’d been assisting him. The man stepped away from the stage.
Miss Exington seemed to acquiesce, and her captor turned to the device.
“So shall it be! Sekhmet, I call to you to return.”
Before I could react, the Ankh pulled down on a lever. A brilliant yellow spark snapped audibly, and I could see a hot red sizzle zip along the wires, through the device, and then over to the cuff and scepter. It was almost like electricity . . .
“Stop!” I shouted as Miss Exington jolted and screamed, then went rigid.
The Ankh spun around. “You!” He released the lever and lunged toward the table, snatching up the curved knife. I saw the lever swing back into its starting position. The sizzling sparks ceased, and Miss Exington sagged, struggling weakly against her bonds. She was crying.
I launched myself toward the front of the room, vaulting over a table that stood in the way. The Ankh’s arm moved, and something silvery spun through the air toward me.
Someone cried out, and I heard a low shout . . . and then something red-hot tore into my side. Despite the sudden agony, I landed on two feet on the other side of the table just as Hathor sprang to action. Energy flooded my body as I spun into motion. I yanked up the table over which I’d just leapt, holding it with the legs facing the man.
As he rushed toward me, I whipped the heavy piece of furniture through the air. It crashed into him, and he stumbled back and into his companion. They landed in a heap on the floor.
I whirled to see that the Ankh had returned to the lever. His hand closed around it, and his eyes danced. “You’re too late.”
I pulled out my pistol and looked down at it as I lifted it to aim. And saw blood.
My blood.
I felt as if I’d been plunged into an ice-cold pool of
water. Everything stilled and slowed and became murky and mottled.
I couldn’t make my lungs work. They were thick and heavy, my vision narrow and hypnotized by the slick red blood . . . everywhere. On my hands, my torso, the gun, the floor.
I tried to fight the images assaulting my mind . . . I was back there again, with Mr. O’Gallegh . . . his throat and chest torn open, the scent of blood everywhere, the burning red eyes of the vampire mocking me as I froze. . . .
I tried to breathe, I thought I heard Mina, but she sounded far away. Too far away.
I had to . . . move . . . I had to . . . stop . . .
I heard someone laugh. Triumphant.
I pulled my face upright, looking at the Ankh.
He was smiling as he pulled the lever.
Miss Holmes
Horror
Miss Exington screamed again, the horrible sound cutting through the chamber.
Frantic, I looked over at Miss Stoker. Her eyes were empty, her expression dull. The hilt of a dagger protruded from her side. A dark stain ate into the fabric of her tunic, spreading rapidly, and blood covered her hand. Her chest heaved, as if she’d been running. The blood-slicked pistol slipped from her grip and tumbled to the floor.
I returned my attention to the Ankh, and then to Miss Exington, who had gone silent in her agony, still straining at her bonds. Then I turned back to my partner, who still hadn’t removed the knife. All the while, I was cognizant of the heavy, hard metal of a pistol barrel pressing into my side.
Unfortunately, that heavy, hard metal of a pistol barrel was just above the pocket which held my own heavy, hard metal pistol . . . currently unavailable to assist me.
I could do nothing but watch the grisly scene unfold.
And I realized with a sudden cold rush that this was what awaited me.
After what seemed like forever—and yet not long enough—Miss Exington’s body went taut, vibrating rigidly. She convulsed against the statue as the vicious current continued to pulse through her.
The dull thud-thud-thud-thud was horrifying.
At last, the Ankh, her false facial hair gleaming golden, returned the lever to its original position, and the chamber fell silent. The only sound was my own heartbeat, filling my ears.
I focused and dared a glance at Miss Stoker. She seemed to become aware again and yanked the dagger out of her midsection. Holding it in her hand, she took one awkward step toward the Ankh, but stopped when her adversary swooped down, picked up the pistol, and pointed it at her.
Blood pooled on the floor at my companion’s feet. Splat. Splat. Splat.
“I don’t think you’ll be needing this any longer, Miss Stoker,” said the Ankh. She wiped off the pistol with gloved hands.
My attention riveted on those gloved hands. Something familiar . . . As the Ankh replaced her handkerchief in a breast pocket, giving it a particular tuck with an odd flutter of her fingertips, my breath caught. Lady Cosgrove-Pitt had done precisely the same movement this morning while speaking to Lady Corteville.
I’d observed our captor closely during the entire course of events, watching for familiar traits and movements. Instinct told me I was correct in my suspicions, even though the Ankh looked nothing like Lady Isabella—she was taller, for one thing. She also had a different shape to her nose and jaw—from what I could discern behind the false beard and mustache. Even her teeth were different, but I well knew the effects of theatrical costume. Her eyes were heavily made up and shadowed by the curling blonde hair falling over her eyebrows, making it impossible to observe their natural shape. Her voice wasn’t right either; it was much too low and deep.
I was an excellent example of how makeup and theatrics can obliterate one’s identity. But there were certain mannerisms one couldn’t or didn’t hide, even when deep in disguise.
“From a family of legend, but not quite legendary yourself, are you, Miss Stoker?” Our captor tipped her head just as she lifted her chin—in the very same way Lady Isabella had done this morning when she’d greeted me.
The Ankh was Lady Cosgrove-Pitt.
I was convinced, but now I needed to prove it.
My attention turned back to the room at large as our captor continued to taunt my companion. “I must admit, Miss Stoker, I was concerned when I recognized you during our last meeting. As you come from a family of vampire hunters, I expected you to be more of a challenge. I thought you might be a hunter as well . . . but I was clearly mistaken.”
Miss Stoker’s face twisted, her eyes burned, filled with loathing and guilt. “You killed her.”
The Ankh’s eyebrows lifted into a swath of thick blonde hair. I could almost see Lady Isabella’s sneer behind the mustache. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Miss Stoker. Miss Exington offered up her life force to the goddess Sekhmet. Did you not see how eager she was?”
“She begged you to release her.”
“By then it was already too late. If she died as a result of her decision, it’s no fault of mine. She wanted to raise the goddess as much as I do.”
I could no longer remain silent, despite the gun pressing into my side. “What you did was murder. Just as it was with Mayellen Hodgeworth and Allison Martindale and Lilly Corteville.”
The Ankh turned, her eyes scoring over me. She made a sharp gesture to my gun-toting guard.
Before she could grab me—and notice the firearm in my pocket—I snatched off my bonnet and its false hair. I no longer had reason to obscure my identity; I wanted her to know who I was. I peeled off the heavy dark brows, the rubber tip on my nose, and spit out the small clay pieces I’d held in my mouth to change the shape of my cheeks.
“Miss Holmes,” said the Ankh, “are you attempting to live up to the reputation of your family as well? That plan doesn’t seem to have worked in your favor.”
Considering that I had a gun pressed into my side, my companion was wounded (possibly mortally), and no one knew where we were, even I couldn’t make a convincing counterargument. Neither Miss Stoker nor I had done a particularly admirable job of carrying out our duties thus far.
Instead, I tried to think of a way out of our predicament, and for the first time, I felt a tremor of apprehension. The weight of the gun in my pocket mocked me with its uselessness. I eased away from my guard.
“It’s fortuitous that you’ve both chosen to join me here tonight,” said the Ankh, stroking her mustache with gloved fingers. “The two of you could be useful. Imagine what the life forces of a Stoker and a Holmes would bring to the resurrected Sekhmet. And what power I’ll have when she’s brought back to life.”
“Don’t be absurd,” I said with great bravado. If the Ankh meant to give my life force to Sekhmet, I was no longer in danger from the gun poking my side. “You don’t truly believe you can resurrect a goddess by . . . what? Collecting artifacts that might have belonged to her? I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous.”
The Ankh didn’t take my bait. “Believe what you will.” She aimed the pistol at me and gestured to the woman at my side. “Bastet, attend to Miss Exington. She’s in the way.”
As Bastet moved away to do her mistress’s bidding, I glanced at Hathor and his companion. They were watching, giving me no opportunity to pull out my firearm. I looked at Miss Stoker. To my horror, she’d slumped to the floor and sat with her head sagging to the side. Blood soaked the wall and floor around her.
Was she dead? Hadn’t she told me multiple times that vampire hunters had great strength, speed, and healing capabilities. How could she be dead?
I started toward my companion. “She’s hurt,” I said when the Ankh’s cold eyes fastened on me.
“That was my intent,” said our malevolent hostess. “But feel free to see to her if you like. The less blood she loses, the more useful she’ll be.”
“Miss Stoker,” I said as I knelt next to her, “Evaline.” The pungent scent of blood filled my nose. “Let me help you.” I began to feel around in an attempt to stanch her wound, but she closed her fingers
around my wrist. Her grip was astonishingly strong.
I looked at her, able to see her face unobstructed for the first time. The fogginess had disappeared. Her eyes, downcast until now, when they fastened on mine, were as sharp as they’d ever been.
“Keep talking. I’m going to make a distraction,” she murmured. “When I do, the door . . . it’s in the back . . .”
“All right,” I said, glancing over at the Ankh. She was rearranging the wires from the device as Bastet and Hathor moved Miss Exington’s limp body away. The other guard watched me with a cold gaze. I manipulated myself so that the side with my firearm was out of his sight. “Miss Stoker, I—”
“I should have stopped it. I could have stopped it, and I didn’t.” Her voice broke. She looked down at the blood on her hand, dried and cracked. I wasn’t certain if she was truly seeing it, or looking at something that wasn’t actually there.
“Evaline,” I began again. Trying to be inconspicuous, I pushed my gun out without putting my hand in the pocket. She turned away. Her beautiful face had become stone.
“Get away from her.”
I jolted, looking up to see Hathor’s companion standing over me, pointing a gun. It had enough gadgets and gears on it that I wasn’t inclined to ignore his warning.
Reluctantly, I stood, using my foot and the cover of my skirts to slide the weapon firmly up against Miss Stoker. “She’s badly hurt,” I said as the guard gestured me to stand against the wall at what he must consider a safe distance from my companion.
“More’s the pity,” said the Ankh from her position behind the table. She looked purposefully at Hathor, who moved off the dais to stand over my companion. “I dislike being rushed. But we can’t have her dying before I’m finished, so let us hurry with the preparations.”
“Lilly Corteville escaped from you,” I said. I could use my attempts to distract the Ankh by getting confirmation for my deductions. “She was meant to be attached to the cuff, wasn’t she? But she got away before you could do it.”
The Ankh looked at me, her shadowed, black-ringed eyes shining with dark pleasure. Even now that I knew she was Lady Cosgrove-Pitt, I still couldn’t see it in her eyes.
The Clockwork Scarab: A Stoker & Holmes Novel Page 21
