The Spiritglass Charade

by Colleen Gleason

  I’d attracted enough attention and if Pix was around, he’d know I was here. I placed my hands on the table to push my chair back. Bad choice. I should have known it would be sticky, and now I’d gotten it on my gloves and fingers. I thought about wiping them on my seatmates’ shoulders, but decided that’d probably make things worse.

  “It’s been quite a pleasure, gentlemen.” I stood. “But I fear your conversation is boring and your table manners leave much to be desired. Have a—”

  “Where d’ye think ye’re goin’?” The nameless one clamped a hand on my shoulder and slammed me roughly into my seat.

  “Remove your hand from my person,” I said in a voice Mina Holmes would have used. “Now.”

  “Now wh’ would I wanna do ’at?” he asked, tightening his fingers around the top of my arm. “Ye ain’ goin’ nowheres, little jenny, wi’out me and Garf ’ere. We gots a goo’ time planned fer ye. Jus’ t’tree o’ us. And dem laces o’ yers. We’re gonna r’lieve ye of them tight laces, ain’t we, Garf?” His laugh was unpleasant.

  “If you don’t remove your hand from my arm by the time I count to four, I’ll break your finger. Can you count that high?”

  Oh, he didn’t like that. At all. His eyes, already squirrelly and beady, narrowed. A glint of malevolence showed there for the first time, and I was quite glad of it. I didn’t want to break his finger if he was just a drunken sot acting silly.

  But this man was mean. How many times did a woman have to tell him to take his hands off her?

  “One,” I said.

  He tightened his fingers and grinned. I could feel them digging into the soft flesh at the front of my shoulder. His filthy nails cut through the flimsy linen of my shirtwaist. “Ye don’ tell Big Marv what ’e kin and kinnat touch. Ain’t no one ’oo does ’at.”

  “Two.”

  The obnoxious beast’s nasty grin turned nastier, and he reached over and yanked at the edge of my corset, causing me to jolt. “Oh yeah?” His words were tainted with whiskey and rotting teeth. Then he moved his hand down and rested it flat on my leg, curling those fingers tightly over my thigh.

  My breath caught. I’d never been touched so intimately in my life. I wasn’t ashamed. I was furious. Definitely a finger was going to get broken. No, two.

  “Ye kin stop countin’ now, jenny. Ye’re gonna ’ave some oth—”

  “Three.” My voice was steady and I allowed the fury to show in my gaze. Other than that, I didn’t flicker an eyelash. One would think the numbfist would be wondering why I wasn’t writhing on the floor in agony, for his indecent grip was tight as a vise.

  Instead, Big Marv chuckled and nodded for another drink from Bilbo as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Four,” I said, then reached up with my free hand, grabbed one of the sausage-sized fingers digging into my shoulder, and twisted.

  He squealed like a train coming into the station. Before he could react, I snatched up his other hand from my thigh and smashed it into the edge of the table. Marv gave another roar of pain and rage and swung out at me, teeth bared, eyes burning with fury. I ducked half under the table and, with one slick, smooth move, used my hand and foot to yank the leg of his chair out from under him. The dinkus landed on his arse on the floor with a loud, satisfying thud.

  “I told you not to touch me.” I don’t think he heard me over his howls.

  Then I stood, shoving the chair away from the table. When Garf made a halfhearted move to stop me, I looked at him. “You can’t be that stupid. At least you know how to shave.”

  Sinking back down onto his seat, he picked up Marv’s new whiskey and glugged it down.

  Every eye in the place was on me, of course. “I’m finished here.” I dusted off my hands then smoothed my hair. Not one curl out of place, my hat still intact.

  “’Oo are ye?” whispered Bilbo.

  “A tempest in a bloody teapot is wot she is.”

  I turned. Pix was leaning against the wall beyond the countertop where Bilbo reigned. I had no idea how long he’d been standing there or where he’d come from, but it didn’t matter. I’d accomplished what I set out to do.

  Tonight he wore a long dark overcoat that covered everything but his hands (ungloved) and his lower legs and feet (booted). He was hatless, revealing a dark head of thick and mussed hair and long sideburns, which likely were fake. He also needed to shave the rest of his face. Other than that, he wasn’t in disguise—at least, as far as I could tell. But then again, I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen him when he wasn’t somehow altering his appearance or hiding in the shadows.

  “Ah. Just the man I was looking for.”

  “I should’a known ye’d be makin’ an appearance.” He moved with easy strides across the room. His dark eyes gleamed beneath heavy brows and I saw a hint of exasperation in them as he came closer. “Per’aps next time, ye migh’ gi’ the bloke to a count o’five, ye ken? Marv ’ere . . . ’e don’t remember ’is numbers too well.”

  A low ripple of laughter trundled through the pub. Marv growled, but remained where I’d left him, nursing his hand.

  “I gave him fair warning. If he’d listened, I wouldn’t have had to count in the first place.”

  Pix shook his head and I saw his jaw move. Then he turned to Bilbo and said, “A gatter for me and the lady. In the back.”

  “But she prefers lemonade,” the bartender ventured. “Wit’ ice.”

  “I don’ care wot she prefers.” Pix gave the bartender a steely grin, then swept the same look over the rest of the pub. Then he took my arm with a firm grip. “This way.”

  With that, the patrons seemed to lose interest and they returned to their cards, arm wrestling, dice, and conversation.

  I lifted a brow at Pix. “I’ve already broken two bones tonight because a bloody facemark thought he could manhandle me. Do you really want to attempt the same?”

  “Now, luv, y’ know it wouldn’ be only an attempt,” he said, his voice pitched only for my ears. His hold on me didn’t ease, but I allowed him to lead me away. He was aware I could shake his grip if I wanted. “Ye came ’ere t’see me, and ye know it.”

  “I have no other way of contacting you, and you know that.”

  “Aye. I jus’ didn’ expect ye to ’ear ’bout it so quick,” he muttered.

  I hid my surprise. Hear what? What did he mean?

  By now we’d reached the pub’s back wall, which was covered with heavy walnut paneling—an expensive addition to such a lowly place.

  Pix must have pushed a button or stepped on some release, for the paneling slid open as we approached. We walked through and it closed silently behind us, leaving us in near-darkness.

  My heart thumped as I wondered if he meant to try and kiss me, which he’d done once before. Instead, he directed me farther into the dim space. I drew back in surprise when I felt a cobweb brush against my face, then drift over my shoulders . . . only to realize it was a heavy curtain. Pix lifted the drapes away, revealing a brick passageway lit with a cool, crisp, white illumination.

  Electric lights.

  The glass bulbs with their glowing interior wires were contraband in London since electricity had been banned by the Moseley-Haft Act.

  “Will this lead us to your lair, Mr. Spider?”

  “I didn’ think ye’d be that eager t’visit me crib again, luv,” he said, releasing my arm and gesturing for me to precede him down a well-lit stairway. “But if ye insist . . .”

  The steps were clean and well constructed. Brightly illuminated by glass bulbs, their naked wires dangling along the brick walls, the stairwell curved into a gentle spiral. I saw no sign of rats, sewage, or any other refuse as we descended.

  At the bottom, Pix gestured to the left. We went only another short distance before the arched corridor ended in a brick wall . . . or so it seemed.

  He pulled back the sleeve of his overcoat, revealing a curious device strapped to his wrist. A small glow emitted from it, and he moved something on the mechanism. I h
eard gears whirring and a soft sizzle. Even a little flash of light zapped through the air.

  Then . . . a click, a low, long groan, and the brick wall parted.

  Miss Stoker

  Of Daisy Roots and Gatter

  Pix bowed with a grand flourish. “After ye.”

  I stepped into his private living quarters. I had been here once before, though via a much less direct route. We’d been running through a warren of streets and alleyways while trying to elude dangerous pursuers.

  The chamber I entered was as comfortable as any parlor in St. James’s. Settees and low tables were arranged in a neat group. Silk drapery covered two of the walls, fine rugs from India covered the floor, and a small dining area was nestled off to one side. A fireplace tall enough for me to stand in covered half of one wall and was currently empty of a blaze. Four large logs sat inside and two tall-backed brocade chairs were arranged in front of it. “So this is how you travel so easily to the pub. But it seems rather inconvenient for Bilbo to deliver your . . . what was it you ordered? A gatter? It sounds unpleasant.”

  “Nay, ’tis simply ale. An’ Bilbo pours a mean’n.” He gestured to one of the settees. “As I recall, ye took a bit o’ likin’ to the sip of a gatter ye ’ad before.”

  “I’m not drinking anything from you,” I told him flatly, settling on the larger sofa. “Did you think I’ve forgotten what happened last time?” The tea he gave me as a soother had ended up being a literal one: He’d put a sleeping powder in it so I’d be unconscious as he delivered me home.

  “Ah, aye. I thought ye might be still brushed up o’er ’at.” The grin flashed, then disappeared. “Bu’ after what ye did t’Marv, I should be feedin’ ye a lecture. Did ye ’ave t’break two fingers—an’ one on each ’and? Now the bloke’ll be useless t’me fer an ’ole month!”

  Right. “Perhaps you need to reconsider the type of man you have working for you. I can’t imagine he’s useful for much other than terrorizing women.”

  “Marv is a dangerous cove. Ye were foolish t’bait ’im as ye did.” His expression turned sober.

  “Me bait him? He was the one who put his hand on my—who forced me to sit with him. And wouldn’t let me leave. I warned him what would happen if he didn’t release me.” My voice rose. Did Pix really think I couldn’t handle myself? Did he really think I should have allowed that man to put his hands on me and do nothing? Blooming facemark!

  “An’ now ye’ve made an enemy o’ Marv, ’ere in the rook’ry. As if ye weren’t in danger enough as ’tis.”

  “He has two broken fingers. What sort of threat do you imagine he might be? Especially to me?” I countered, still furious at his assumption that I had caused the altercation. Tempest in a teapot, my arse.

  A soft chime interrupted whatever Pix might have replied, and I looked over as my host slid open a small door in the wall. Inside the neat cubbyhole sat two large tankards.

  Right, then. That was how Bilbo managed the bar and delivered down here.

  Pix set the tankards on the table in front of me and settled on the settee next to mine. The bitter scent of ale wafted to my nose. As I examined the mug filled with creamy foam, he nudges one toward me.

  Not a bloody chance I’d get even close enough to wet my lips. Especially since I had other reasons for being here. Though I had no idea what he meant earlier when he said he hadn’t expected me to “hear about it,” I intended to find out exactly what he meant—and what he believed had brought me here.

  “Now that you’ve gone through all the trouble to get me here,” I said, my voice cool, “giving me the chance to see yet again where you hide all your loot, you can tell me what you know.”

  “Wot about, luv?”

  “You know why I’m here,” I countered. “No sense in playing games, Pix. Talk.”

  “Wot d’ye want t’know? I ain’t seen any m’self, but th’ signs’re there. They’re back, is all I know.”

  A cold shock rushed over me. They’re back. “The UnDead?” I said without thinking. Vampires are back in London?

  “Ye didn’ know? Devil it!”

  “I would have known . . . eventually. And I should have known. I’m a vampire hunter . . . which, hmm, you knew the first time we met.” I narrowed my eyes, fixing on him darkly. “Now would be a good time to tell me how you came upon that bit of information.”

  Pix lounged back in his seat. He’d removed his overcoat and left it lying over the back of the sofa. His shirt was made of fine, cream-colored linen. Much too fine for a resident of Spitalfields.

  He gave a nonchalant shrug, which shifted his sleeve, giving me another glimpse of the device strapped to his wrist. “I know ever’thin’ that ’appens ’ere in the Underground Worl’ . . . not to be confused wi’ the Underground trains, ye savvy. Information gets t’me faster’n the pox gets spread in ’aymarket. I buy it, sell it, trade fer it—”

  “Kill for it?”

  That dark gaze flashed to mine. “Per’aps that’s one question ye don’ wan’ t’be askin’ o’me, Evaline.”

  Despite the warning, warmth fluttered through my insides when he said my name, lingering over the syllables like a caress. He seemed to be trying to read my response. My heart thudded hard, for I found it difficult to pull my eyes from his.

  Then sense rang in my head, and I turned away. I’d forgotten how improper and foolish it was for me to be alone with him. Or any man.

  I had nothing to fear from Pix. The only thing I risked by being here was my reputation. When I looked up again, he was still smiling—cool, and yet charming enough to make my bloody fickle heart skip a beat.

  But the most important thing was . . . the UnDead were back in London. A thrill of excitement rushed through me. Then a flicker of apprehension. I’d have the chance to prove myself worthy of the Venator title by slaying my first vampire.

  If I could do it.

  Of course I could do it. I had to do it.

  “Aren’t ye thirsty? ’Ave a drink, ’ere, darlin’.” Pix gestured to the tankards of ale. “Ye can be sure I ain’t mollied with ’em, fer ye can choose which one t’drink. I’ll take either.”

  “No thank you.”

  “Please yerself, then, luv. And might I say, them daisy roots ye ’ave are some nobby nacks.”

  “Daisy roots?”

  He grinned, gesturing toward me with one of the tankards. “Daisy roots—daisies. Boots. Yer boots’re some nobby nacks, if I say. I find’em quite . . . mem’rable.”

  I stood, aware of his attention trailing along my leather-clad calves. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to wear something so . . . daring. “I’ll be going, then. Apparently, despite your claim to know everything that happens in the Underground, you have no information about the vampires.”

  He didn’t move, but his expression changed from easy to sober. “Ver’ well. So much fer th’ sweet talkin’. It’s business on yer mind, and nuthin’ more, then.”

  He remained seated, even though I’d risen. That would have been a terrible breach of etiquette had we been in polite company. But social niceties were of no interest to Pix. I learned that the first time we met—when he pulled me up against him in a dark shadow. So that we not be seen—or so he’d claimed.

  And then there was the time he’d kissed me. My cheeks warmed. I drew in a deep breath and held it. Florence had taught me that little trick would quickly dissipate a blush.

  “It’s always business on my mind, Pix. I’ve an important job to do—something the likes of you can’t understand.”

  A flash of something dark crossed his face, then was gone. “Right then . . . but a’fore I talk, ye tell me this, luv—if ye didn’t know about the vampires, wot’s brought ye ’ere t’Spitalfields, then?”

  Oh. Right. I dug in my skirt pocket and pulled out the sleek silver telephone-device and a white cord Dylan had also given me. “Do you know how to put electricity into this?”

  “Wot the bloody ’ell is it?” He appeared unabashedly fascinated by
the object.

  I wasn’t quite ready to hand it over. And I wasn’t ready to tell him it had come from the future, either. “You have your secrets, and I have mine. Can you put electricity into it or not?”

  Pix fixed me with an expression I’d never seen before. “That’s illegal, Evaline.”

  I held his gaze as my pulse raced faster. I understood all of what he was saying with that simple statement. “It’s important,” I said, sitting back down.

  He held out a hand and I let the device slip into his palm. I was placing a great bit of trust in this disreputable young man. Gad. Don’t let me be making a mistake.

  “Brilliant,” he muttered, turning it over and over in his hands.

  “I’m told the electricity goes in through this.” I indicated the cord and its two-pronged end.

  Pix nodded, fingering the cord. “Ye’ll need to leave it wi’ me.”

  I hesitated. “What are you going to do? How long?”

  “If I narked ye that, I’d jeopardize more’n meself, luv. Don’t ye trust me, Evaline?” His voice was wry.

  “Do I have reason to trust you?”

  “Ye came t’me, luv. I didn’t seek ye out.”

  “This time.”

  He gave a short laugh, then turned back to the device. “I’ll no’ let it out from me possession.”

  I drew in a deep breath. I had no other option if I was to help Dylan. “Very well. But please take good care of it. And now that I’ve shown you a bit of trust, perhaps you could return the favor. What makes you believe vampires are back in London if you haven’t seen one? Or have you?”

  “I ain’t seen one m’self—at least, ’ere in London—but there be plenty o’ rumblings.” He lifted his tankard again, watching me over the rim. “An’ a coupla blokes was nattering about La société . . . pernishun. . . .”

  My breath caught. “La société de la perdition?”

  He nodded. “Aye. ’T could be. Ye’ve ’eard o’ it, then.”

  Certainly I’d heard of it. Any self-respecting vampire hunter must know about the Society of Iniquity, for the mortal members of that group were nearly as dangerous as the UnDead themselves. Those who called themselves participants of La société enjoyed the company of vampires, seeking them out for various illicit reasons.