Clockwork Stalker: The Dirty Heroes Collection

by Silverwood, Cari

  “They had a stilt tank here, judging by the scoring on the road and the firing angle on the wall holes,” Sherlock said. “Something else tore that house wall down, not cannon shells, or anything from our military. There are edges that suggest a creature did this. Remarkable. Quite remarkable.”

  She looked closer to where he pointed, and a chill trickled to her bones. “I know those marks. Tentacles did that damage, just there. That looks like a beak mark.” She tapped the glass. “I swear it. The kraken left the same on the ship’s hull.”

  “Measure the ME will you, dear.”

  As unmoved as a man watching birds, she thought. His voice was steady, precise.

  Once the driver drove back along the street, she turned on the machine and measured, with the probe actually sticking out the window.

  “Nothing unusual. Damn. I was hoping.”

  “Hmmm. The kraken showed no ME also. As I said, the malignant energy seems to seek out men, great men. This scene is the result of some supernatural monster. I would wager a pound that Mycroft knows of it. This is not our jurisdiction, as far as I can tell. From now on, Miss Moriarty, we will prioritize developing a way to filter out the effects of ME. Is this possible?”

  “I… I think so. It’s something I’ve already put some thought into.”

  “Excellent. I will help you as much as I can. You will teach me.”

  Then he fell silent.

  Teach Holmes? Now this would be interesting, frightening, and more, perhaps. She was hoping for the more.

  They journeyed onward, with her wondering why there was nothing in the newspapers about this battle on land with a monster. There’d been a stilt tank firing on it? The government must know. Perhaps there would be news published tomorrow?

  This put a dampener on the day.

  However, she thought she’d finally figured out the reasons for her reaction to Sherlock Holmes’s forcefulness.

  Before Holmes she’d had freedom to do as she wanted to, within the boundaries of her wealth and what society allowed, but she was lacking a partner of any sort. Then she lost her wealth.

  With Holmes she potentially had financial security and more…

  Safety, in a way she’d not had for some time. The arm of a strong, dependable man was an advantage going forward.

  And then there was this need inside her, this desire she detested admitting to, but there it was—she loved his dominance and the sexual deviances he put her through. This thrilled her and had put her into a kind of frenzy of desire for the man. Even his precision punishments spoke to her in a strange way and said, I protect you, I possess you, because I want to.

  This frenzy was probably clouding her judgment, but he had her fantasizing about staying with him, forever. As in… married. Which was pretty awful considering how little she knew of him apart from his reputation and what he’d done and said to her these past few days.

  That potential was there though, wasn’t it?

  Remember, he’d blackmailed her into this.

  She loved her independence too.

  What were the chances he would decide she was worth keeping around? Calling her Miss Moriarty was not a promising tone. She eyed him and sighed.

  Damn him. Damn Sherlock Holmes.

  16

  The Picnic

  A few weeks ago, Sherlock would never have imagined he would be sitting on a sheet of canvas, on the floor of the room at the Iron Oak, helping Willa Moriarty assemble the parts of her new machine. Their morning snack of fruit, nuts, and cheese had been decimated, and only crumbs were left on the plate. The rain of the past few days had pattered to a stop. Sunlight danced on her face, her long legs, her dress.

  He was beginning to think he was besotted with her, because his chest did this weird… thing when he spoke to her, saw her, smelled her, and he never, ever reacted like this.

  Lovers was a misnomer for him. He had bed partners. It was the curse changing him, and how many times had he used that excuse?

  He pulled his gaze away from Willa.

  Eight days it had been since they visited Law’s Emporium and astonishing progress had been made. Cartloads of progress.

  The rolled-up blueprints for the original machine lay on the timber floor, the translucent paper quivering from a zephyr of a breeze slipping through the window. They had cannibalized parts of the ME machine, gutted it really. A hand-drawn diagram for this Illuminator was pinned flat beside her bare foot, by a revolver and a glass paperweight. This new machine was only a steppingstone. It would brighten the malignant energy so that it could be observed by the human eye.

  A goggle-wearing human eye, that was.

  Goggles had been made also, using a pair of pilot goggles with the original lenses replaced by specially tinted glass. Those lay on the floor beyond where Willa sat in her small white dress with the skirt rucked up out of the way. She had no drawers on which created quite the view.

  He’d had entirely too much fun buying clothes for her. Yet, it was worth it. Even if fun was not a word he was well-acquainted with.

  The curse was similar to the goggles—it tinted the world, had made sex and this woman far more alluring. Too alluring. The number of times he’d interrupted their mechanical and scientific pursuits to drag her to the window seat and bend her over to be fucked… or to the bench or the bed. Twice it had been on the floor. And spanking her, who’d have thought that was a valid piece of foreplay?

  He rubbed his stubble. Stupid question—half the population of England thought spanking was foreplay, even if he had never tried it.

  A red bottom on her. Mentally he cursed his dick. Not again. Down, boy.

  “A penny for your thoughts?” Willa looked up from where she was splicing wires together.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Really? I’m thinking of fucking you, of course.”

  Her lips quirked into a brief smile. “Ahhh. Well we have too much work to do for that to happen.” She held up a finger as he swiveled and rose onto all fours. “Wait! I mean it. Today we can test the Illuminator.”

  “And then?”

  “What? Oh, the actual filter? Soon after?”

  Sherlock crawled to her, avoiding the pieces of machine scattered on the canvas. He cradled her jaw, angling it so he could kiss her properly and take her mouth. Such soft, warm full lips. Groaning would be unmanly.

  Instead he drew away and studied her—those eyes were full of intelligence and good humor.

  How would it feel to be without her after the curse was gone?

  “You are a temptress, with no drawers on. I can see everything.”

  “Your fault, and you know it,” she whispered, inches from his mouth, before meeting his lips—the press and scintillating tide of pleasure, the move of her under his hand, her sighs that went into his mouth and deeper as he inhaled.

  Her kisses, her presence, made the difference between a dark day and a bright one.

  “Mmm.” She nibbled then nipped his bottom lip, pulling it a small distance with her teeth before releasing it.

  He considered her for a moment or two then scrunched his hand into her hair, hard… harder, until he saw that shudder and acceptance of his actions that seemed a part of their lovemaking. Submission. It made his balls tighten.

  “Hmmm. To take you here on your back or finally screw that dildo cone into your nether hole all the way then take you there?”

  “Oh. Umm. I’m sure I won’t like that.”

  “Are you now? You know that just makes me want to make you like it?”

  Even today, after all he’d done to her, so many times, she blushed like a schoolgirl on her first date.

  “Luckily for you, I have plans for a picnic lunch. We should test the Illuminator on the river at Hampstead.”

  She swallowed. “Very well. Let me change then get—”

  He stopped her by grasping one wrist and hauling her up with him, then pulling her to the bed. There he sat down and made her lie over his lap. “A spanking first.”

 
“You’re delaying a great experiment, sir.”

  He ignored her, pressed his palm on the small of her back.

  She wriggled in place as he flipped up the skirt and bared her, raised his hand and paused in thought. Not too much force.

  At least his urges had settled with time. He still had to control himself with great effort some days, in some situations. The curse had wired into him a liking for the notion of publicly embarrassing the woman. Sexual intercourse in public would shame him also, and so that was a no, always. A pity.

  He flexed his hand then straightened it, raised it again.

  The first slap made his erection harden fully as she jarred against him. The second, at her petite gasp and squirming on top of his dick, he’d swear made him come just a little. He kept going until he judged her bottom properly red then stood up, spilling her face down onto the bed. Before she could rise, he nudged her thighs apart, pushed the skirt above her waist, then undid his fly and plunged in.

  Being inside her… the feel of her, squeezing his cock. He paused for a breath, and to look at her under him. He ran a finger down her spine and watched her skin shiver.

  Plowing her on this bed could only be topped by one of his more deviant scenarios. No time for that.

  He thrust at her rapidly, powerful, jarring strokes, drove himself to the heights of an orgasm with little attention to her gaining any pleasure, using her, thumping into her, until she tried to climb higher on the bed. He didn’t allow it. He pulled her back into place, held her at the angle of shoulder and at hip, and thrust in one, final time.

  The explosion of come left him taut-muscled and shuddering.

  It was only when he withdrew and saw the evidence—his semen dripping from her that he remembered he’d not worn protection.

  This was negligent. Pregnancy would not be convenient for either of them.

  From the look on her face when she rolled over, Willa knew what had happened. The little frown, the bite of her lip, it said pensive and yet strangely hopeful. For once, he wished he could not read her body.

  “Did you just—”

  “Yes. If anything results from this, tell me immediately.” He climbed off the bed, turned away.

  “I… will.” She said nothing more, even when she was cleaning herself, which was telling.

  Did she want a child from him? It seemed unlikely. Why would she?

  To keep the baby. To make him be a father and a husband. It was possibly the one thing that scared him. Mouth set, he decided never to make the same mistake again. He, Sherlock Holmes, was not the marrying kind. It would be disastrous.

  She’d called him an arrogant, conceited man. Which he was—it went with the territory of being smarter than any man he’d bother to mention. Though Willa Moriarty herself would vie with him in some aspects of intelligence—not all, but some.

  By the time they’d washed and dressed, and collected the picnic hamper he’d asked David to prepare, then taken a cab to the riverbank at Hampstead, it was an hour past midday.

  As they strolled down the slope of grass, three fat ducks scattered before them, and she sneaked her hand into his. He sent her a scathing glare then let her hold his hand. He tucked his fingers over hers. It was pleasant, he decided. This would be why couples did it. There was always a reason behind humanity’s foibles.

  Once they were established on the soft grass, where the river burbled a few yards away past a small drop in the bank, he lay back on his elbow and observed her.

  Watching this woman had become a habit, and it reaped benefits. The elegant curves of her neck and below, the glint of sunlight through her red curls where they draped over a white collar. He tugged idly at a grass stalk and wished he was enough of an artist so he could capture this.

  “A beautiful day.” She gestured at the river and the other people occupying the riverbank.

  “Yes.” He levered himself up to sit straighter then took a watercress-and-ham sandwich from the paper-wrapped box. “Parasols, puppies on leads peeing on things, accountants on late lunch breaks, and smooching romantic couples. This is about normal for here.”

  Her dismissive, amused shake of the head made him add more. “You are the one unique and unusual person here. And the prettiest.”

  He had said what he should not have, and he’d realized this as he spoke. It was too intimate.

  “Ahh. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “That,” she exclaimed, “was lovely, for you. I think.” Her smile widened, alarmingly. “Thank you, sir. You are not allowed to take it back, and I know you’re thinking it.”

  “Hmph.” He settled for that grumpy and vague ending and took a bite from his sandwich.

  They ate most of the lunch with little more inane conversation. Instead they delved into the design of the headgear she hoped would filter out some of the ME. As they discussed the details, Willa tossed breadcrumbs to a pair of white swans that had sailed up to the bank near them. A woven metal mesh with energy fed into it at precisely the right frequency would be the basis of this. It would be made in a cap-shaped dome and could be stitched beneath a hat.

  “Do you have a hat in mind?” she asked.

  “There is a bowler hat I could use, but it makes me look like a banker. As an arrogant, conceited sleuth, I feel I need something more unique. My deerstalker?”

  Chuckling, she threw a piece of bread at him, which he caught.

  “You did stalk me, Mr. Arrogant. A deerstalker would suit you. Shall we clear this away and do the trial?” She sounded excited.

  He nodded. The woman was as silly about science as he was. Anyone else here would think them batty.

  If the Illuminator worked, the filter should also, as it would let them pinpoint the type of energy wave needed for nullification.

  Orange butterflies fluttered about, while they packed away the remains of the picnic. The bottle of Chardonnay was only half-drunk, but neither of them believed in overindulging, or not today. The small amount of laudanum he allowed her might also have interacted.

  “Right. Now, Sherlock, you are the only person I know who will be a positive. If this works…” With one finger, she swung the goggles by their strap, while patting the gray steel of the cube-shaped Illuminator. “If it does, I should see a color in the air around you. Right,” she repeated—another sign of her nerves. “Let’s do this.”

  Willa donned the goggles. When they slipped too low and went lopsided, he clicked his fingers.

  “Let me fix that. Turn.”

  At the back of her head, he tightened the buckle. A frisson of compulsion jarred him. His dirty imagination flared an image of her in the gear recently arrived from Law’s… all that leather and buckles. The curse effect, again. He hated feeling compelled and dismissed it, gritting his teeth.

  It didn’t quite go away.

  With that fantasy of her still running about in his head, the turning on of the Illuminator, and Willa pointing the discharger tube at him, became an anticlimax. The goggles were then transferred to his own head and he glimpsed some of the miasmic cloud this new machine was painting into view. Purple tentacle-like arms writhed in the air in his vicinity—as exuberant as a hungry octopus in an aquarium.

  So this was malignant energy made visible. It was a revelation he’d known was coming. The theory had been raised, the mathematics performed. Now it was as real as it could be.

  He was indeed cursed.

  “Good? Yes?”

  “Very good.” Sherlock nodded and noted her eagerness. “You’ll be able to make the filter soon?”

  “Yes.” Her smile faltered. “Yes.” She began winding the connecting cord about the tube. “I should think so. Tomorrow even. The dome is woven from the wire, it just remains to tweak the frequency, and then there is the small battery, and stitching it into the hat… I can use an old one of yours.”

  She peered up at him.

  “You handle the effects so well, of this so-called curse. Perhaps you don’t need to do anything? It will be cu
mbersome to always wear a hat, surely?”

  So there it was, plain to his view. She was reluctant, dreading this change. He’d seen her accept his sexual deviancy, embrace it, really.

  “You don’t know the things this malignant energy makes me dream up. I constantly struggle. I hold myself back.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. Oh.”

  In a way, he didn’t want to hurt her, and that was so at odds with what he’d done.

  A man in a trim, dark gray suit and a black bowler hat was walking down the slope. As he approached them, he drew a letter from his suit and offered it toward Sherlock.

  “Mr. Holmes. This is from Mycroft. He instructed me to destroy it after you read it.”

  “I see.” He reached for and took the letter, with Willa eyeing them both. Clearly, she was intrigued. “Wait then.”

  It took barely a minute to read and he handed it back to the man, who walked a small distance and set fire to the paper, finally stamping the burning remains out on the grass and grinding the smoking mess deep into the dirt with his shoe. Then he picked up the pieces, carried then to the river, and flung them in.

  An eager duck flapped and swam after the ashes, only to quack in disappointment.

  “Poor duck,” Willa said. “I suppose I’m not to know the contents?”

  “No. Mycroft would have me shot, regretfully, but shot.”

  “Hmmm.”

  He took a moment to think about what he’d read, his gaze roaming across the green lawns and the people occupying the bank. One of them, a lone man, stood out. He was beyond the others, closer to the upper road and a stone fence.

  Watson.

  He sighed. Now that he recognized the man, he recalled seeing him outside Baker Street, begging, or pretending to, dressed as a homeless hobo. The curse was the reason he’d missed the clues. It had distracted him. Sex should not be forever hammering away at his brain. No matter what Willa appeared to want, he must be rid of the effects, as soon as possible. She would easily find herself a man better at socializing.