I glanced at Pix. Did he know about the Society? And what should—or shouldn’t—I tell him?
He watched me with a strange expression, as if he wanted to say something more. Instead, he rubbed his stubbly chin and I heard the soft scrape of finger over bristling hair. He seemed suddenly introspective in comparison to the glib charm he usually adopted.
“What are you not telling me?” I demanded.
“Nawt. Nawt but to have a care, luv.”
I opened my mouth to tell him yet again I knew how to protect myself, then stopped. There was something in his eyes . . . something different. “Of course I will,” I said tartly, covering up my sudden uncertainty. I watched him. There was something more.
I sat upright, my heart thudding. “La société. They love the UnDead, they know all about them . . . and you’re a member, aren’t you?”
It all made sense: how he had so much power and control here in Whitechapel among stronger, meaner, older men than him . . . how he knew about me, including that I was a vampire hunter. . . .
His eyes widened a fraction, then narrowed, lit with wry humor. “But nay. Ye already know I don’ bear the mark of La société, don’t ye now, luv?”
“Wha—” I stopped myself as I realized exactly what he meant. The last time I’d seen Pix, he’d been wearing an open vest . . . over a shockingly bare torso. His biceps were smooth and muscular and unmarked . . . with not a sign of the spindly-legged spider image that labeled one a member of La société.
My face went steaming hot, and I felt parched. Yet I resisted picking up one of the tankards to drink. I still didn’t trust him not to have “mollied with” the ale.
I gathered my wits. “You didn’t have the mark on your arms, but it could be on the back of the shoulder. It wouldn’t surprise me if you were a member—that’s how you knew I was a Venator.”
A slow grin eased over his face. “Ver’ well, then, luv . . . if yer to trust m’word, I s’pose I’m forced t’prove it to ye.” He reached up to his collar, and before I could blink, began to unbutton his shirt.
“Don’t.” I held out a hand to stop him as I put the other over my face. Not a good idea. Not at all. It would break so many Societal rules. Florence would faint dead away if she ever found out. My reputation would be in shambles. It would mortify me to no end. Blast . . . and it would fascinate me, too.
“And ’ere I thought ye was fearless, me bold vampire-rozzer.” There was laughter and something low and deep in Pix’s voice that brushed my spine like a gentle finger.
Then I peeked through my hand. He’d stopped with only the top two buttons of his shirt unfastened. That was more than enough for me to see his strong throat and the shadowy V that opened onto his chest. Which, unfortunately, I remembered all too well from that open vest he’d worn at the opium den. I swallowed hard. “I believe you. For now. I don’t know why I do, but I do.”
His face still bright with levity, Pix reached for one of the tankards. “La société . . . nay, luv, their way ’as no appeal for me.” He lifted the mug, drank several gulps, then returned it to the table.
“Nor to me.” The very thought of wanting to be with a vampire, to have one feed on me, piercing me with its fangs and drawing out my lifeblood . . . I shuddered. “It’s the chance for immortality that attracts them. And some say there is a sort of pleasure involved.”
Siri had educated me about La société. At the time, it seemed she spent more effort on the secret cult than on the vampires themselves. I wanted to learn to fight, and she wanted to teach me history. Both had been burned into my brain.
“There are some people who like to be fed on by the UnDead. They pine for it and become addicted to it. Like opium-eaters. And the vampires can feed without killing a person . . . without draining all of their blood,” I said.
“An’ if they drain all o’ the blood,” Pix said, his voice steady and quiet, “the mortal can drink from the vampire’s veins . . . and become UnDead ’imself.” He looked up, his eyes hard and glittering. “I’ll no’ lie t’ye on this, Evaline. It’s been offered t’me. In th’ past. But as ye must know . . . I’m still as mortal as ye are.”
“That’s good.” I really wanted to drink from the tankard. My mouth was dry as a wad of cotton. “For if you weren’t, I’d have to kill you. And then how would I find my way out of this place?”
Pix laughed, and the dark spell was broken. “Drink up, luv. Then I’ll take ye ’ome, like a proper cove. An’ this time, I’ll let ye stay awake.”
Miss Holmes
Miss Holmes Is Skeptical
“Vampires are back in London?” I lifted a brow at Miss Stoker, who sat across from me in Miss Adler’s office.
It was the day following our visit with Princess Alexandra, and I was beyond anxious to begin the Ashton investigation. I would have arrived at Miss Ashton’s front door at eight o’clock in the morning, but my companion refused to allow me to call so early. Despite my argument that Uncle Sherlock never allowed societal rules to dictate his investigations, Miss Stoker was adamant that we delay until a more proper time for making a call. Such as eleven o’clock.
“Did you actually see an UnDead?” I was still irritated with my companion’s vehemence over the delay.
Miss Stoker was sitting—or, more accurately, lounging—in an armchair. Miss Adler wasn’t present at the moment, or I’m certain she would have supported my disapproval for such an unladylike position. “Not exactly. But there have been signs of them. A mutilated body was found in Whitechapel, and it looked as if a creature with fangs had torn into it. According to my—my source, two drunk men tried to lift a bloke’s wallet outside the Pickled Nurse and were frightened off when the mark’s eyes turned red. And they both swore he showed fangs.”
Bloke? Apparently Miss Stoker had been spending some time in the stews—likely with that disreputable young man called Pix. As if I wouldn’t know who’d been feeding her information. “The Pickled Nurse?”
“A pub in Holborn. And there have also been rumors of activity from La société de la perdition.” Evaline gave me what could only be described as a challenging look.
Perhaps she thought I would be uninformed about La société. If so, she would be greatly mistaken. I had, of course, read my father’s copy of the rare book by Mr. Starcasset, The Venators, which was about Miss Stoker’s family legacy. I venture to say I was just as informed about vampires and vampire hunting as was my companion. Particularly since I didn’t believe she’d ever actually staked an UnDead.
I wasn’t even completely convinced of the existence of vampires. Reanimated corpses who were sensitive to sunlight and wandered around drinking blood from people? I could hardly fathom such a thing. The very idea defied logic and science. As far as I was concerned, The Venators was just as likely a work of fiction—albeit a convincing one—as it was a treatise on the Gardella-Stoker family legacy. The legend that vampires had been chased out of London sixty years ago could be merely that, and nothing more.
I couldn’t deny Evaline seemed unusually strong for a young woman, but that factor could be attributed to any variety of things—genetics, for example.
“La société de la perdition can be loosely translated as the Society Where One Loses One’s Soul,” I informed Evaline. “And it is aptly named. For, as I understand it, the group’s purpose was solely for the pleasure of drinking blood or having one’s blood drunk, vampires notwithstanding. Rather like an opium den, the purlieu is often hidden, dark and, quite literally, underground.
“The group was an illicit, secretive fraternity that identifies itself with the image of a spindly-legged spider with seven legs instead of eight. La société reached its peak of popularity in the early 1830s in Paris among those who enjoy that type of diversion. This was shortly after the UnDead were driven out of London by the famous Victoria Gardella. The vampires recongregated in Paris. My understanding is La société is a splinter cult which broke off from the more formal group known as the Tutela, a Leag
ue for the Protection of Vampires. Although the popularity of La société waned in the 1860s, there was a resurgence of interest in the group in Paris in the late 1870s, but it was short-lived.”
“That’s correct,” Evaline said. She appeared to have tasted something sour, if the puckered expression on her face was any indication.
“Is there anything else? I presume you came by this information during your visit to Spitalfields last night.”
“I don’t have any other details.” Her tone was stiff, indicating some sort of displeasure.
“Has anyone actually seen a vampire, other than two drunkards trying to steal a wallet?”
“No.”
I sniffed. “Very well. Then I shall wait to sharpen my wooden stakes and encircle my neck with a silver cross until someone does.”
I turned my attention to the stack of newspapers on the desk next to me. One of them was mounted vertically on a Proffitt’s Dandy Paper-Peruser. I had the intervals set to two minutes (I am a speedy reader) and as I watched, the delicate magnetic clamp slid along to turn the page, then snapped neatly back in place with a gentle click.
Like my uncle, I read a variety of publications daily. But even the newspapers had nothing of interest in them as of late. A carriage accident in Haymarket, a missing boy from Bloomsbury, a fire on Bond-street, a new sundries shop in St. James’s, announcements of betrothals and descriptions of balls and masquerades—including the imminent reopening of an entertainment garden called New Vauxhall.
Parliamentary laws were passed, repealed, argued, or voted upon. There was even an editorial about how to protect one’s belongings from a new and particularly adept gang of pickpockets running wild through London. The only thing remotely interesting was the brief notation about Mr. Babbage’s Analytical Engine. I made a note of the visiting hours for the display of its prototype in the Oligary Building.
“Shall we leave now?” Evaline picked up her hat to pin it in place. “It’ll take thirty minutes to get to Mayfair from here, and I thought we might make a stop on Bond-street.”
“On Bond-street? Whatever for?” I removed the Times from the Paper-Peruser then flipped off the lever. The mechanism sighed and collapsed in on itself with a little hiss, becoming the size of a folded fan. I turned the dial on the desk drawer and it slid open with a gentle whoosh.
Evaline shrugged, but her smile was crafty. “I do love that bakery on the corner of . . . where is it? Ah yes, Tyrell-street. Their apple-cheddar tarts are divine.”
Tyrell near Bond-street . . . that wasn’t far from the fatal fire Scotland Yard was investigating. The thought of a chance encounter with Inspector Ambrose Grayling made my cheeks heat and my insides jittery. Considering the fact that I had nearly accused the esteemed Lady Cosgrove-Pitt (a distant relative of Grayling’s) of being the mysterious Ankh, and that the last time I’d seen him, he’d had to haul me back from falling out of a second-story window . . . I decided it was best if I avoided him for the foreseeable future.
Possibly forever.
“I’ve already had breakfast, and from the dried jam on your chin and the faint scent of spilled coffee emitting from your handkerchief, I can see you have done as well. We should be arriving at Miss Ashton’s in time for elevenses. Perhaps you can visit the bakery at another time?”
“Oh, very well then, Mina. But I was certain you’d want to find some excuse to visit Bond-street today. Perhaps you could direct Inspector Grayling about in his latest investigation. Isn’t he working on the fatal fire case?”
I gave an aggravated sniff and shoved the Proffitt’s into the waiting drawer.
We left the Museum, riding in Evaline’s horsedrawn carriage. It was driven by a taciturn individual named Middy, who was fond of dogs, if the amount of hair clinging to his trousers was any indication. Being members of the peerage, my companion and her brother Bram had the resources to employ a full staff, unlike Father and I.
However, I didn’t begrudge Miss Stoker the large Grantworth residence filled with upper maids and lower maids, cooks, housekeepers, groomsmen, and butlers. That number of people milling about my home, snooping through—or worse, organizing—my laboratory and generally being underfoot would make me itchy and twitchy.
I suspected there were times Evaline felt the same way, which was probably why she preferred to climb out her bedroom window when embarking on her so-called vampire-hunting excursions, instead of using the more conventional front door.
As noted, it was a thirty-minute drive to the pleasant, wealthy neighborhood of Mayfair. I had checked in Kimball’s British Peerage, volume 25, fourth edition, and learned Miss Ashton resided in a modest but expensive home with her spinster aunt, Geraldine Kluger.
Evaline and I gained admittance to Miss Ashton’s home when my companion offered the butler her calling card—a charmingly handmakerish one made of sturdy stock, with nary a gear or spring or even a bolt for adornment. It didn’t even have a clasp to fasten it closed. After being shown to the parlor, we removed our gloves and settled on the settee. Moments later, the door opened and a young woman bustled in.
“Miss Stoker? Miss Holmes?” Miss Ashton greeted us with a combination of warmth and hesitation. “How kind of you to come so quickly. Her Royal Highness sent word I should expect you, but I didn’t dream you’d be able to visit so soon.”
Our hostess was seventeen—the same age as Evaline and I. Miss Ashton had honey-blond hair and a pretty, oval face. Her eyes were pale blue and one of her top teeth was charmingly crooked. A tiny dimple appeared in her chin when she spoke and I wondered if more would appear when she smiled. She seemed a pleasant young woman with good manners, despite her absurd attraction to spirit-sitting. Since she came from a titled family and, according to Kimball’s, had some significant wealth, she’d be a reasonably good catch for a young bachelor.
At least she didn’t have to contend with a too-prominent nose or long, gangly limbs.
During our introductions, I noted a variety of details that would be lost on the average person.
Nails bitten to the quick, hangnails and small sores at the cuticles—nervous and unhappy.
Dark circles under the eyes, sallow skin, bloodshot corneas—sleepless nights.
Delicate needle-pricks and stretched threads on the lower half of her overskirt—possesses a cat which craves attention or is agitated.
Slippers worn and edged with dirt, each toe outlined—recent lack of care for her appearance, walks out of doors in her indoor footwear that is growing worn and too small.
“It’s our pleasure to be here.” Evaline shook her hand warmly. Then, still holding Miss Ashton’s fingers, she said, “I was very sorry to hear about your brother.”
Our hostess blinked rapidly and the tip of her nose turned pink. “It’s been terrible. Everyone says he’s dead. That he must have fallen into a canal—or even jumped. Which is ludicrous. I don’t believe them. There’s been no body found. My cousin Herrell has searched and searched, talking to everyone he can, looking for any clues. Every day he visits Scotland Yard, asking if a body has been found.”
“I’m sure it’s very difficult,” Evaline murmured, patting the young woman’s hand.
“Robby’s not dead. I’m certain of it.”
I was ready to delve into the puzzle, for the raw pain in Miss Ashton’s voice caused an uncomfortably empathetic twinge inside me. I well understood the grief and confusion caused by the unexplained, unexpected departure of a loved one—although I would never allow such emotion to surface as blatantly as our hostess. My mother had left Father and me of her own free will, and she’d even sent a letter afterward so I would know it. “The princess didn’t give us many details about your experiences as of late.”
“Her Highness has been very concerned about my well-being. I think she’s being a bit overprotective, but she is royalty. One cannot say no to the princess when she insists on interfering.” Miss Ashton gave a wan smile. “She’s skeptical about the messages I’ve been receiving from my
mother.”
“Messages from your dead mother?” I would have said more, but a sharp kick in the ankle turned my intended question into a smothered gasp.
Miss Stoker gave me a glare. “Miss Ashton, you say your mother is sending you messages?”
“She has been. I’ve no doubt of it. And you’ve come at an excellent time.” Our hostess gestured toward the parlor door. “Mrs. Yingling is here, about to conduct a séance. Then you can see for yourself how my mother has been contacting me.”
My abused ankle still smarted but I resisted the urge to rub it. I wouldn’t give Evaline the satisfaction. “I presume Mrs. Yingling is the medium.”
“Yes indeed. She has been very helpful in communicating with Mother. I learned of her quite by accident, after my acquaintance Miss Norton—who should be arriving any moment—attended one of Mrs. Yingling’s séances.”
I had numerous questions stacking up in my mind, but before I had the opportunity to launch into a full interrogation, the parlor door opened.
“Willa, darling, what on earth is that woman doing in—oh, my. I’m so sorry for interrupting.” A woman, whom I presumed was the aunt, appeared in the doorway. “I didn’t realize your friends had arrived already.”
“Aunt Geraldine, may I introduce Miss Evaline Stoker and Miss Mina Holmes. They’ve come to . . . er . . .”
“We’ve come to attend one of Miss Ashton’s séances,” I said smoothly.
The aunt was relatively attractive and quite fashionably attired. If I were going to be a spinster—which of course I was—I intended to be as elegant and youthful as she appeared, even into that advanced age. She had soft brown hair without a hint of gray, a long, narrow face, and eyes so pale blue they seemed almost transparent. She’d recently been walking in the garden and was obviously in need of a new pot of face powder. And the absence of cat hair along her hem indicated a disdain for felines. “Miss Holmes? Are you any relation to—”
The Spiritglass Charade Page 5
