The Clockwork Scarab (Stoker & Holmes #1)

The Clockwork Scarab (Stoker & Holmes #1) Page 8

Miss Holmes

In Which Miss Holmes Gives a History Lesson

I looked up at the tall, spare man around whom the others had crowded. As always, he was clean-shaven and his dark hair neatly combed. He held a hat in long, slender fingers. His coat was brushed, and his trousers were without a speck of mud.

I tried not to think about the fact that he'd just announced my abomination of a name to the entire Metropolitan Police force.

"Greetings, Dr. Watson," I added. My uncle's cohort was shorter than he and of a stocky frame, but by no means chubby. He wore a close-trimmed mustache of chestnut brown and professional, yet out-of-fashion, clothing. Small round spectacles perched on his nose.

I avoided looking at Grayling, for I could only imagine the expression on his face.

My uncle had turned his regard upon Mr. Eckhert, who was staring unabashedly at him. My newly liberated friend exclaimed, "Sherlock Holmes! I can't believe it's really you!"

"You're living at my brother's house, I perceive," said my uncle. "Since arriving in London, you've been a vagrant and homeless. But my niece has taken you in and now has had to bail you out on a charge of breaking and entering. The British Museum, if I'm not mistaken."

Mr. Eckhert's expression turned to one of shock and bald admiration-both of which were common to people upon experiencing Sherlock Holmes for the first time. I wondered if I would ever have that sort of effect on people.

"How did you know that?" my friend asked.

"It's information there for anyone to see," began my relative in his aggrieved way. "One must observe-"

"Never mind," I interrupted. I was one of the only people in London besides my father who would dare do so. Even the shorter, less elegant but more approachable Watson was intimidated by his friend at times. "Uncle Sherlock, I'll be by Baker-street soon to return the item you-erm-loaned me. You must be on an important case, or you wouldn't be here at Scotland Yard. I shan't keep you any longer."

And then, as if it had been I who'd accosted him instead of the reverse, I excused myself to the rest of the group. In doing so, I caught Grayling's gaze before turning away. His eyes were narrow with wariness and aggravation, flickering from me to Mr. Eckhert and back again.

"I can't believe that was Sherlock Holmes. The Sherlock Holmes," Mr. Eckhert said in an undertone as he walked in step with me. "He really is as brilliant as in the stories."

I rolled my eyes. "I don't suppose it was that difficult for him to make those deductions. You're wearing my father's clothing-that, along with the ill fit, would indicate your vagrant state and the fact that I took you in. And as for the details about your bail, well"-I gestured with the paper I held-"I suspect my uncle read the details on your release document. He's notorious for reading upside down and backward, and he would recognize the type of document used for bail."

"Wow," Mr. Eckhert said, pausing to glance over his shoulder as if to catch one more glimpse of my famed relative. "And Dr. Watson too. They both look just as I imagined them."

"Mr. Eckhert, do you think you could cease fawning over them and hurry along? There's someone back there I would prefer to avoid. And we're going to the museum now."

I picked up my pace, and my companion fell into step with me. Although he was in need of freshening up, I decided it would be best to get to Miss Adler as soon as possible. There would be a place for him to wash up at the museum.

"London," said Mr. Eckhert as we walked outside of the building, "is so different than I remem-imagined. It's so . . . close. And tight, and dark. There's no grass or trees, and it smells. The buildings are on top of each other and so tall. Walking down the street isn't like being outside, it's like being inside a really massive building-like a huge shopping ma-uh. I mean, all of the bridges and walkways and everything. And those open elevators-what do you call them? Lifts? It's always so dark and foggy and gray. And what are those things up there? They look like huge balloons at the tops of the buildings." He pointed to the sky-anchors. A half dozen of them swayed high above our heads.

Before I could respond, I heard a familiar purring rumble. We both turned to see a steamcycle roar around the building and down the street. Gliding at knee height above the ground, smooth and sleek and fast, it blasted past us in a blur of copper and a tail of white steam. The long, flapping black coat of its driver fluttered in its wake, and he was bent over the handlebars, eyes protected by large goggles, hands by brown gloves. On his head was an aviator hat that I suspected covered ginger-colored hair.

"Sweet!" Mr. Eckhert exclaimed, stopping to gawk after the cycle. "What was that? A motorcycle?"

"It's called a steamcycle. Usually, they aren't quite so fast. Or loud. Or . . ." Sleek. Cognogged. "It's probably an illegal vehicle, at any rate." I made no effort to hide my exasperation. "I wouldn't be surprised if there was some electrical mechanism beneath that steam engine."

Mr. Eckhert had a strange expression on his face as I started in the direction of the museum, but then he paused and sniffed. Something delicious was in the air, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten.

"Something smells good," he said. "The food they gave me in jail was disgusting."

"The best street vendors are on the middle and upper levels," I said. Since one had to pay to ascend in the lift, the better vendors knew where the most profitable customers were.

The enticing scents wafting down from the carts selling items like roasted apple puffs, vanilla-stick coffees, and flaming carrots were all the urging I needed to dig out five pence for our entrance to the street-lift. I had a particular fondness for the soft, sweet carrots on a stick.

Moments later, we stepped off the street-lift and heard the ornate brass door clang shut behind us. Mr. Eckhert led the way to a small cart of the flaming carrots, and I selected the largest of the offerings. I purchased two, as well as an egg biscuit for my companion, who claimed he was starving.

He said something about egg mick-muffins and ate the biscuit in three large bites as I held the two carrots on their sticks, waiting for the flames to burn out. I showed him where to throw the wrapping from his food into the sewer-chute and handed him his carrot with a warning: inside, beneath a thin sugary crust, the carrot would be soft, sweet, and steaming hot.

"What did you mean earlier about electrical mechanisms being illegal?" Mr. Eckhert asked, then was distracted by the sight of a Refuse-Agitator. The self-propelled vehicle was doing its duty far below at ground level by rolling through one of the small sewer canals, likely pulverizing the trash he'd just discarded. Little clouds of black smoke puffed from a duo of pipes as it chugged along.

" 'The generation, utilization, and storage of electrical or electro-magnetic power is prohibited,' " I said, quoting directly from the Moseley-Haft Act.

Mr. Eckhert stopped there on the sidewalk and nearly got himself run over by a knife-sharpener and his motorized cart. "Are you saying that electricity is illegal?"

"Yes, of course. It's a widespread safety threat."

"That's crazy! Haven't you people ever heard of Thomas Edison?"

"Yes, of course I've heard of Thomas Edison. Everyone's heard of him. It's because of him and his unsavory activities that the law was passed."

Mr. Eckhert gaped at me. "What year did you say this was?"

"It's 1889," I said, finishing the last bite of my sweet, warm carrot. "Victoria is Queen. Lord Salisbury is the prime minister. Lord Cosgrove-Pitt is the leader of Parliament. Now, shall we walk? I don't wish to dawdle any longer, and, Mr. Eckhert, the sooner you get to a washroom, the-er-less attention you'll be drawing to yourself. Which I deduce was the reason you borrowed my father's clothing-so that you could blend in with other Londoners. Incidentally, a gentleman never goes about without gloves."

"Okay, I'm walking," he said, looking at his hands as if to see whether gloves had magically appeared. "Tell me about this law. I don't remember learning anything in school about a law making electricity illegal."

At his cryptic words, a funny shiver went through my insides. Despite the fact that I'd been immersed in the problem of Miss Hodgeworth's death and the Sekhmet mystery, questions about Mr. Eckhert and his origins had never been far from my mind. I'd analyzed the facts over and over and had only come to one conclusion.

An unbelievable conclusion.

But my uncle's favorite maxim had been pounded into my head from a young age. When you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

I turned to answering his question. "Seven years ago, there was a time when it seemed as if the civilized world would adopt the use of electricity to power everything mechanical. But it became clear how dangerous it is when fifteen people were electrocuted by a wire in New Jersey during a rainstorm. Mr. Edison tried to cover up the incident, but Mr. Emmet Oligary, one of the foremost businessmen in London, made certain it was written about in the papers. The scandal was exposed, and it became obvious that widespread use of electricity was a real danger to society. Mr. Oligary led the charge to make certain all of England was aware of the insidious dangers of electrical power. His brother-in-law, Lord Moseley, consulted with Parliament to craft and pass the law in 1884."

"Let me guess," said Mr. Eckhert as we approached the wide flight of steps to the British Museum. "Mr. Oligary had a bunch of factories running on steam engines." His expression was grim. "Probably manufacturing the parts to them, even."

"Of course he did. The steam engine was just becoming popular at that time. And now we use that technology for everything. Good afternoon, sir," I said to the guard at the door of the museum.

He looked with suspicion at the disheveled Mr. Eckhert, but when I glared at him with a level gaze of my own, the guard gestured us through. The heavy glass doors, framed in brass, clicked and whirred as they folded open. I led the way through the Banksian Room to Miss Adler's office. It was nearly quarter past two.

"Good afternoon, Mina," said Miss Adler when we were given entrance to her office. She was sitting at her desk, with a small mechanical device poised over an open book. It appeared to be a magnifyer of some sort and was clicking in a pleasant rhythm. "And . . ." She looked at my companion, then back at me and rose to her feet.

"Miss Adler, I have an abundance of information to share with you in regard to the events of last night, but first I'd like you to meet Mr. Dylan Eckhert. You might recognize him from our previous encounter, over Miss Hodgeworth's body. I've learned he came to London in an unlikely fashion. I am going to help him find a way to return home."

"Mr. Eckhert, I'm pleased to officially meet you." It was to the gentlelady's credit that she showed no reaction to his disheveled and aromatic appearance-which was such a contrast to her own neat, fashionable self.

"Hello, Miss Adler. Irene Adler. Wow," he said, his voice hushed. "This is so weird."

My heart was pounding, for I was about to take a great chance. I would either be correct, or I'd humiliate myself. But of course that was impossible. My conclusions were never wrong. They simply couldn't be. "Mr. Eckhert, perhaps you would be so kind as to tell Miss Adler where you're from. Specifically, from what year you've traveled."

The others looked at me-Miss Adler with unrestrained shock and Mr. Eckhert with something like relief.

"So you've figured it out . . . and you believe me," he said, looking at me with those blue eyes again. This time, they were filled with gratitude and enough warmth to make my insides go awhirl. He straightened up, closed his eyes, and then opened them. Exhaling a deep breath, he said, "I'm from the future. The year 2016."

For a moment I was stunned. Not because my conclusion had been confirmed, but because he'd come from so far-more than a hundred years ahead. Countless questions popped into my head. Where did one begin?

"What's it like?" I asked. "There, in 2016?"

"It's very different . . . and not so different. For one thing, it's not so . . . dim and dark all the time. And electricity isn't illegal," he added. "It's never been illegal. It's not a threat to society any more than-than steam. Or horse-drawn carriages."

More and more questions poured into my mind like sand funneling down through an old-fashioned timekeeper, but I ruthlessly shoved them away. I could interrogate him later-and I fully intended to do so. But now was not the time.

Miss Adler had been staring at my companion. And now she said, "Truly-2016?"

"Yes, for real. And, like, could you just call me Dylan? Or Eckhert, as my friends do? I can't deal with this Mr. Eckhert stuff."

"Of course, Dylan," Miss Adler said, seeming to recover herself. "If it will make you feel more comfortable."

"Mr. Eckhert traveled here with the help of an illuminated scarab on a statue of Sekhmet. At just about the same time Miss Hodgeworth was being murdered. It cannot be coincidence that those two events happened concurrently."

"Of course not," she agreed.

"He was arrested trying to break into the museum last night, presumably to try and find the Sekhmet statue so he could determine how to return home. I was able to get him released on bail, and we've come directly from the jail."

"I did hear about the attempted break-in. And what a traumatic experience you've had." Miss Adler still wore an expression of shock, and I couldn't blame her. After all, I'd had more than a day to come to the conclusion . . . and yet, I still couldn't fathom the concept. Time travel? "Perhaps you'd like to-er-wash up a bit, Dylan?" she suggested. "I'm certain we could obtain some clean clothing for you as well."

When our guest accepted the offer with alacrity, Miss Adler added, "Mina, perhaps you'd take a moment to read this passage while I show Dylan to a washroom." She gestured to the open book on her desk. "I suspect you'll find it enlightening."

As they left, I settled myself in her position at the desk and took note of the large book. The pages were old and yellow, held together not by the stitched leather binding we find on current publications but by large, looping leather thongs. The text was cramped and faint, and simple sketches broke up the blocks of prose. The words were handwritten rather than typeset and in a variety of colors and styles. The mechanical device on which Miss Adler had mounted the tome not only provided light, it also magnified the text and held the book open to the proper page.

The line drawing of a lion-headed woman drew my attention. Beneath it, in flowing, fading text, was a poem or song. It took me a moment to decipher the cramped, ornate entry, and even then, I passed over some words and phrases when they were blotched or unreadable.

Sekhmet, the Goddess of Death, shall be called back to life.

Shall endow Her strength and power upon those deserving.

Gather Her Instruments, meld them whole --

With the purest of sacrifices shall find the - power.

For the Power of Sekhmet shall rise in vengeance

For the weak and restrained.

A little shiver went down my spine. Last night, the Ankh had referred to "the Power of Sekhmet."

The day is nigh, the Ankh had said.

What were the instruments?

Gather Her Instruments, meld them whole . . .

I examined the pages, trying to find further reference to the instruments or to the Power of Sekhmet. From what I was able to glean from the book, it seemed to be a collection of Egyptian and Sumerian legends and writings.

After carefully turning one more crisp, browned page, I found an entire leaf devoted to them: The Instruments of Sekhmet: Her Scepter. Her Diadem. Her Cuff. Her Sistrum.

There were drawings of them all. First, the tall scepter with a lion's head. A detail in the drawing indicated a green gem for the feral feline's eye, and its long, smooth, mane running the entire length of the staff.

Sekhmet's diadem appeared to be a delicate, filigreed object-not at all Egyptian in appearance. It looked as if it were made from slender golden curves and twists, but upon closer examination, I realized it too depicted a lion. A feminine snout at the front of the diadem was combined with the leonine mane that curled and curved in an ethereal shape that would hug the crown of the head.

The cuff was a smooth, flat, metal band that enclosed the wrist. The drawing was faded and mottled, making it difficult to see much detail. With the help of the magnifyer and a bit of patience, I was able to discern that the fastener which held the bracelet closed was made of two almond-shaped feline eyes.

The sistrum, a small musical instrument, resembled an ankh in the drawings: it was cross-shaped and had a loop in place of the top, upright bar.

The door to the office opened, and in walked Miss Adler, accompanied by Dylan. He was clean, shaved, and dressed in proper English clothing, with the exception of gloves. I didn't bother to ask how she had arranged it; there was no sense wasting time on such trivial details.

He looked very British, yet he still seemed . . . different. With his long hair flipping up gently in random places and the slender, blue rubber bracelet he wore, along with the manner in which he stood and moved, he exuded foreignness. He reminded me of a cat reluctantly dressed up in child's clothing-subdued for the moment, but not in his natural habitat. Not terribly different from how I'd felt at Lady Cosgrove-Pitt's ball, dolled up and thrust into an unfamiliar environment.

Shifting under my regard, Dylan gave me a sort of lopsided smile and tucked a finger inside the collar of his shirtwaist, tugging sheepishly at the neckcloth.

"I trust you found the reading relevant?" Miss Adler said, redirecting my attention.

"Indeed. I have much to tell you, for this makes what I learned last night clearer." I launched into an explanation of the events surrounding the Roses Ball and our unexpected adventure. It was with great effort that I managed to keep an accusatory tone from my voice as I described Miss Stoker's foolhardy actions-from leaving me behind at the top of that long, dark, subterranean flight of stairs, to her bold accusation of the Ankh.

"Fortunately we were able to escape, thanks in part to Miss Stoker's physical capabilities," I said, keeping the begrudging tone from my voice with effort.

"The leader's name was the Ankh?" Miss Adler said.

"Yes. Clearly nothing more than a symbolic name. Ankh, of course, means 'life' and is a common icon in Egyptian culture." I could have lectured further, but Miss Stoker wasn't present, and surely Miss Adler was already familiar with the symbol.

"And you weren't certain of the individual's gender?" she asked.

"Even employing my powers of observation, I could draw no clear conclusion. There were moments when she seemed feminine, and others when I was certain he had to be a male. But aside from that, the most important thing we've learned is that there is indeed a society related to Sekhmet. I neither saw nor felt anything that indicated danger to me or anyone else, with the exception of when Miss Stoker drew attention to herself and they attempted to detain us."

What had also occurred to me, but I chose not to mention, was that the Ankh had seemed to easily make the connection of me to Miss Stoker-simply because we were standing next to each other.

"Thus, if I'm to revisit the Society of Sekhmet, which I intend to do, I must do so clandestinely." I went on to repeat-verbatim-what the genderless speaker had said during the meeting. "The Ankh promoted female independence, but not once did she speak of the right to vote."

"So it isn't merely a suffragette group," said Miss Adler. "But something more . . . and something that is endangering young women. I will report to Her Royal Highness this evening."

"The Ankh spoke of Sekhmet helping the young women. She said 'I, along with the Power of Sekhmet, will help you gain control of your lives in a manner such that women have never done.' The Power of Sekhmet. That same phrase is notated here in the book. And the Ankh spoke of women being repressed and controlled . . . and in the book, there is reference to the goddess's power rising up in vengeance for the weak and restrained."

"I believe," Miss Adler said, picking up her spectacles, "we have quite a lot of research to do. We must find out more about the Instruments of Sekhmet as well as this implication that she can be called back to life."

A week ago, I might have found such a conversation ludicrous. Calling a goddess back to life? Absurd. But the young man standing across the chamber from me had opened my eyes to the impossible becoming probable.

I turned to Dylan. "It would be helpful if you showed us where you woke and where the statue of Sekhmet was when you originally discovered it. Your journey and its disappearance-and perhaps this entire case-must be connected."

My new friend agreed, and we left the chamber. Miss Adler elected to remain behind, explaining, "I have a variety of resources that could assist us-papers, books, scrolls, and other antiquities. I'll begin to gather them."

Despite the fact that he'd traveled more than a century back in time, Dylan seemed to know his way through the museum. It was just after closing, so the exhibit halls were empty and silent except for the low rumble of distant cogworks and a sibilant hiss of steam. The lamps had been turned off and a smattering of external light filtered in through high windows.

As we approached the trio of Graeco-Roman salons, I observed the way a sliver of sun made a triangular highlight over the breast of the Ostian Venus. We walked through the first salon, past elegant statues of the Muses, Mercury, and the goat-eared Satyr.

Our footsteps made soft padding sounds as we passed through a little transept approaching the long, narrow Egyptian Gallery. This was where the famous Rosetta Stone, among other antiquities, was displayed. The stone itself was on a circular dais, and a revolving glass enclosure had been erected around it for safekeeping.

"They've placed an entire glass case around it now-er, in my time," Dylan commented as we walked past.

He led me through a darker salon and then to a small stairwell. This area of the museum was cluttered and dusty, with crates and boxes stacked in haphazard fashion. Presumably, it was one of Miss Adler's duties to unpack, arrange, and catalog the contents.

I have an excellent sense of direction, and even after several turns and descents, I still knew our whereabouts in the museum. So when Dylan paused outside a small, dingy room, I recognized that we were on the west side, two levels below the Assyrian Basement.

"In here," he said.

I pulled the slender illuminator from my reticule and flipped its switch. The beam of light created a large yellow circle that danced on dark gray walls and a low ceiling. A collection of small objects-a knee-high statue of Bastet, a vase missing a large chunk, a piece of rock, and other pieces of rubble and dirt-littered the floor. Some long-tailed rodent moved in the shadows, darting into the corner.

I spun the dial to set the illuminator on its brightest level and walked into the chamber.

"The statue was there." Dylan pointed to the far corner.

Bringing the light down with me, I hunkered on my hands and knees as I'd seen my uncle do at various crime scenes. This is much more difficult when you are a female, dressed in layers of crinolines and skirts, along with a restrictive corset. Nevertheless, I managed to do so with a modicum of modesty and commenced to examining the floor.

Faint scrapes on the stones-something heavy had been moved.

Clean, no dust or dirt-it had been moved recently.

Suddenly, a strange noise blared into the silence. It sounded like nothing I'd ever heard before. A sharp, high, screeching sound that might have been attempting to be music.

Dylan, who'd been standing off to the side watching in fascination, jolted to attention. His eyes wide, he began to fumble through his waistcoat and then his outer coat and in his agitation and excitement, the sleek "telephone" erupted from the depths of a pocket and tumbled onto the ground.

He ducked to the floor and snatched it up, but by then, the noise had stopped. "Oh my God," he said, staring at the object as if he'd never seen it before.

The device had come to life-it was illuminated and I was close enough to where he was kneeling that I could see tiny words on the front of it.

BenBo text (3)

Jillian text (5)

Flapper missed call

"I've got two bars," he exclaimed, looking around the small, dark space, then down at the shiny telephone. "How can I have bars? One bar. Now I only have one. How the hell can I have b-they're gone!" He stared at the device, shaking it, jabbing at it with his finger, bolting to his feet to point it in different directions. "They were there a minute ago. Did you see that? There's no way. No way."

"What is it? What happened?" Leaving the illuminator on the floor, I gathered up my skirts and pulled to my feet.

I understood little of what he was talking about, but his emotions-excitement, disbelief, and hopefulness-were obvious. And then they gave way to despair. I'd never seen anyone with such an expression of bewilderment, hope, and sorrow.

"For a minute," he said, "for just a minute I was . . . somehow . . . connected with the future. My future."

Silence reigned as we both stared at the device.

I heard him swallow hard, and he looked away. His knuckles were white and his jaw moved, shifting from side to side. "I have to figure out how to get home," he whispered. "My mom and dad must be going crazy."

"Dylan," I said, groping for words I didn't have. Trying to manage emotions I didn't know. I didn't know how to act, to even be a friend. But at that moment, I wanted that connection. It wasn't just curiosity about who he was and from where he'd come. It was empathy: a feeling that was just as foreign to me as he was.

I'd spent much of my life feeling lost and out of place. An overly educated, brilliant young woman in a world owned and managed by men. Dylan seemed nearly as misplaced, and I wanted to help him.

"I'll do anything I can, Dylan. Whatever I can."

He nodded, his handsome face grim and his eyes bleak.

Then I did something I'd never done before, never even imagined doing. I opened my arms and pulled him into an embrace.

There was no awkwardness, no fumbling of words, no mortifying flush burning my cheeks. He was warm and alive, and I could feel grief and despair emanating from his body.

"Thanks, Mina," he said, his chin moving against my shoulder.

And inside me, something shuddered and cracked, like a door opening.

Miss Stoker

Miss Stoker Goes Hunting

Miss Holmes didn't contact me the day after the Roses Ball. Nor the next day, nor even the next. Her silence didn't concern me . . . in fact, I almost welcomed the rest from her bossiness.

But when it got to the fifth day after our adventure with the Society of Sekhmet and I'd had no word from her or Irene Adler, I began to wonder. What a nuisance.

Miss Holmes must be sulking.

I took out my aggravation on Mr. Jackson's Mechanized-Mentor, beheading his metal self in an explosion of gears. As I was picking up a dented cog before Florence came to investigate the noise, I was struck by an unpleasant thought.

What if my outburst had put Miss Holmes in danger with the Ankh and the Society of Sekhmet? What if she hadn't been in communication because something happened to her?

I wouldn't be worried for myself. But for Miss Holmes? The awkward, brain-beaked young woman spent too much time thinking and not enough time in action. She'd probably deduced herself into a trap.

Or maybe she was still sulking.

I supposed I'd better look into the situation.

However, that afternoon, Florence reminded me it was her day to stay in and receive social callers. She insisted I stay in and help her serve tea and converse with whomever came to visit. I was only able to beg off by claiming I had plans to meet an acquaintance at the British Museum and by forcing Pepper to accompany me so I wasn't going unchaperoned. I wasn't lying about my destination, and Florence was thrilled that I actually had a social engagement.

"Who are you meeting, Evvie?" she asked, arranging a vase of flowers in the parlor.

"Miss Banes absolutely loves the Greek Wing," I said.

"Miss Venicia Banes?" Florence perked up, her bright blue eyes widening. "The very eligible Viscount Grimley's sister?"

"Yes, she is," I said, adjusting my bonnet. I avoided looking at Pepper, who stood by, attempting not to giggle. She was just pleased she'd be able to walk to the livery and visit her beau while I was at the museum.

"Perhaps the viscount will be chaperoning his sister today," Florence said.

"It's possible," I called, rushing out of the parlor. "So I don't dare be late! Good-bye, Florence."

By the time I got to the museum, it was near closing. The guard warned me I had less than half an hour with the artifacts and antiquities as I breezed past and into the echoing halls.

I made two wrong turns, but I finally found myself at the Special Office of the Keeper of the Antiquities. Below the sign was the Royal Seal of Her Majesty the Queen.

"Evaline," said Irene Adler when she opened the door. She removed her spectacles, blinking as if she'd been reading for a long time. "Come in."

I stepped into the office. The last time I'd been there was the night Miss Holmes and I met, a week ago. Then, the office had been neat and organized, but today was a different story. Books and papers littered the large round table, as well as the floor, desk, and every other available surface.

"Have you spoken to Miss Holmes?" I couldn't imagine anything more mind-raking than sitting in this chamber, reading books and organizing them for hours. The bottoms of my feet felt prickly and uncomfortable at the very thought. But Miss Holmes would probably be happy as a pig in slop.

Miss Adler looked at me in surprise. "Of course. She's been-"

A door on the opposite side of the chamber opened and Miss Mina Holmes strode in. She had her nose in an ancient-looking book. Behind her chugged a small self-propelled cart laden with more volumes. It came to a halt with a little burp of smoke.

"Right, then. Are you moving the entire library into your office?" I asked Miss Adler.

The older woman smiled, and Miss Holmes looked up from her book. "Miss Stoker," she said. Her voice was cool but not quite rude. "How kind of you to join us." Now it had gone a little more frosty.

"I would have been here sooner, had you requested my help," I replied. Glancing at the never-ending piles of books, I thanked Fortune she hadn't.

"I wasn't suggesting you offer your assistance," Miss Holmes replied, her nose back in the book. "I was under the impression this was precisely the sort of endeavor with which you preferred not to be involved." She glanced up at me with a flash of chilly green-brown eyes. "My experience is that you're more inclined toward drawing attention to yourself so you can demonstrate your superior fighting skills, regardless of the dangers involved or the prudence of such activity."

Right. Definitely sulking.

"And, clearly, without any semblance of plan or organization," she added, thumping the book closed in emphasis.

I bit my lip. So I'd made a mistake. I hadn't meant to draw attention to myself. I was just . . . doing what I was made to do.

I cast a covert glance at Miss Adler to see her reaction, but the lady seemed engrossed in the book she was reading.

"I would have been here to provide my help with whatever you're doing. But I received no communication from you."

Miss Holmes sniffed. "I didn't realize you required a summons to your duty."

My spine stiffened. "I-"

"Perhaps," Miss Adler said without looking up from her page, "you might bring Evaline up to date on our discoveries and theories, Mina."

Miss Holmes set her book aside and looked up at me. "You might as well take a seat."

Her cheeks had tinged pink at Miss Adler's gentle direction. I noticed for the first time that her rich golden-brown hair was in nothing more than a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Dark patches under her eyes made her appear tired, and her dress was rumpled. Had something bad happened? If so, I hadn't been here to help. I'd been doing my own sulking.

"We've been researching Sekhmet's instruments for the last five days," Miss Holmes told me as I moved a pile of books to sit on a nearby chair. "I've not even left the museum and hardly slept-there are so many references to review. We believe that someone, presumably the Ankh and her Society of Sekhmet, is attempting to follow a legendary formula involving four items that either belonged to the goddess-which is unlikely-or somehow have some supernatural tendencies attributed to her."

"What sort of instruments?" I asked, thinking of pianos and violins.

"A scepter, a diadem or crown, a cuff or bracelet, and a sistrum, which is a musical instrument."

Right. Well, I hadn't been that far off.

I listened with growing interest as she described each of the instruments. They'd found several passages about them in a collection of books and scrolls, and they were even mentioned on a stone with hieroglyphics on it. This sort of puzzle, tinged with supernatural and otherworldly elements, reminded me of the stories from my vampire- and demon-fighting family tree. One of my family members had battled an UnDead who attempted to infuse a large obelisk with evil traits.

"What did the hieroglyphics say?"

My companion gave me a pained look. "Hieroglyphs, not hieroglyphics. The former is the text or the characters, the latter is an adjective. To wit, a hieroglyphic text."

I glared, and she continued, "The hieroglyphs clearly represented Sekhmet and her instruments, which gives credence to the writings we found in scrolls and papers that simply couldn't have existed-or at least survived-for the thousands of years since Sekhmet was worshipped as the favored goddess. Thus, we believe the instruments do, or did, exist. But other than that, we haven't found any further information about where the instruments were, where they might be now, and what they could be used for if collected together-which is the crux of the text that originally sent us off in this direction." Exhaustion showed in her face. "We could be completely wrong about this, and meanwhile, more girls could die."

"Wait," I said, my eyes widening. "A scepter?"

"A scepter, a diadem, a-"

"Some men were taking a large, heavy crate from the museum on the night Miss Hodgeworth was killed, and one of them also had a long, slender object."

"A large crate? Large enough for the statue of Sekhmet to fit in? Who was it?"

"How the blooming fish should I know? Someone who didn't want to be seen. Or someone involved with the Society of Sekhmet."

Did that mean Pix was involved? If so, why would he tell me about it? Was it possible he was aware of the Society of Sekhmet too?

"I don't know anything more, but I can try to find out while you continue to research more information." I didn't try to hide my delight. At least I could be doing something instead of poring over page after page of cramped, faded, archaic writing.

"Did you see the thieves? Do you remember anything-"

"No, I didn't see them. He said they went off southwise, though," I added to myself.

"He? Whom do you mean?"

"Some con artist who goes by the name of Pix. I found him lurking around the outside of the museum after you left that night, and he told me." I stood with enthusiasm. "I'll track down Pix and get as much information as I can."

I was nearly to the door when Miss Holmes spoke again. "There is one other situation of which you might like to be apprised, Miss Stoker. If you can bear to be detained long enough for me to do so."

"Carry on." The sooner I was out of the room and on the streets, the better.

"Mr. Dylan Eckhert is the young foreigner we found with Miss Hodgeworth's body," she said. "He's been staying here at the museum because he has an unusual problem."

"Why? Is he partial to hieroglyphs?" I couldn't help but ask. Miss Adler's lips twitched, but she remained silent.

"No," Miss Holmes said in a cool, affronted voice. "He's traveled more than a hundred years through time, back from the future."

Right. I blinked. And let the concept settle.

The rest of London would never believe it of their staid, gear-ridden, mechanized world. Vampires. Demons. Supernatural instruments supposedly belonging to an Egyptian goddess . . . and now time travel?

Fascinating and intriguing.

Because of this, Miss Holmes probably expected more from me than a nod of comprehension. But being a vampire hunter, I wasn't easily surprised by supernatural things. I simply asked, "Does he know how it happened?"

"He isn't precisely certain, but he believes it had something to do with a man-size statue of Sekhmet. He was near it, and there was an illuminated scarab in its base. When he touched it, something happened and he was transported back in time. When Mr. Eckhert became aware of his surroundings, he realized the statue was gone and he was in a different place and time. I have no theories as yet what caused such an event, but I continue to consider a variety of possibilities. In the meantime, Mr. Eckhert has been assisting us with our research. However, he prefers to spend an inordinate amount of time in the empty chamber belowstairs where he arrived so suddenly. I believe he's hoping something will happen to reconnect him with his world."

"Thank you for telling me." I was sincere. The poor sod. He'd been shuttled back in time to a strange place with no way of returning home? "I'll look forward to meeting Mr. Eckhert again at the first opportunity. But now I'm going to locate Pix and see if he can give me any more information."

"He's likely our only hope, for any footprints or clues outside of the museum would have been obliterated in the last week. If you had seen fit to tell me about this sooner, I would have been able to examine the scene."

I nodded, gritting my teeth. "You're staying here at the museum?"

"For now. It's more efficient than traveling back and forth, and I've had clothing sent over."

"Then I'll contact you here once I have news."

As I rode in a ground-level horse-drawn hackney back to Grantworth House, I mulled over the best way to locate a shadowy thief in the dangerous London stews. Pix told me if I needed to find him, to ask for . . . Old Cap Anglo? Mango? No, Mago. Old Cap Mago. Who or what was that?

I went home to dress and arm myself for a visit to Whitechapel. Once home, I learned that Florence didn't have any evening plans. Blast it! She'd be in all night, making it difficult for me to sneak out . . . and she would also want to ask about my visit to the museum with Miss Bane. She would also be filled with gossip about Miss Hodgeworth's death. Even though it had been a week since the girl was killed, the tragedy was still a topic of conversation and worry.

I resigned myself to eating dinner with my family.

Naturally, Bram was at the Lyceum Theatre. But Noel, who was ten, ate with Florence and me. In fact, he managed to steal the last piece of apple bread right out from under my hand. He gave me a big, satisfied grin as my fingers closed over an empty plate. I glowered at him, but at the same time, I wanted to tousle his thick, dark hair.

"How was your visit to the museum, Evvie?" Florence asked, adding sugar to her after-supper tea. The Sweet-Loader whirred softly as its wheel turned and three lumps plopped into the cup. "Mrs. Yarmouth made a point of saying how much she missed you today. And last week as well." She raised an elegant brow meaningfully. "And your appetite seems to have returned."

"The museum was crowded. And Miss Banes didn't make it after all." I realized I'd eaten two beef short ribs, a large pile of roasted parsnips and potatoes, a generous serving of greens . . . and a piece of apple bread. I was going to have to loosen my corset before going out tonight. I eyed a plate of slivered pears.

"Mrs. Dancy asked after you as well," Florence said, hand-stirring her tea with small, neat circles. "She mentioned her son Richard. Apparently, there was a mishap with lemonade? At the Cosgrove-Pitts'." Her spoon clinked sharply against the side of the cup.

Drat! I forgot about the pears. "Uhm . . ."

"That's not a particularly polite or ladylike sound," my surrogate mother said. She speared me with her gaze. "I was under the impression you hadn't received an invitation to the Roses Ball, Evaline. You knew how much I was hoping to attend with you." Along with the displeasure in her eyes was a note of regret.

I bit my lip. "I'm sorry, Florence," I said, trying to think of an excuse . . . and a way to remove that disappointment. She loved parties and gowns and frothy things. "I . . ." The problem was, I never spoke a direct falsehood to her. That was why I'd hidden the invitation in the first place so I could tell her I didn't see it-because I hadn't actually opened and read it.

Being a vampire hunter who didn't lie was impossible.

"I know you don't care for those formal occasions," she said in a milder voice. "But it's a necessity, dear Evvie. Bram and I promised your parents we'd make sure you were taken care of, that you'd be married off well to a nice young man from a good family. One that could take care of you."

I could take care of myself. But Florence-and the rest of the world-would never understand that. "I'm sorry," I said again.

"I'm utterly confused as to why you attended the ball anyway, but without a chaperone. What if you had met someone completely inappropriate? What if something had happened to put you in a compromising position with him? Then what would I tell your parents-and Bram?"

An image of Pix rose in my mind. Could there have been anyone more inappropriate at the ball? Or a more compromising position than hiding behind a heavy curtain with a thief?

Thank St. Pete that Florence hadn't chaperoned me.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Evvie. To that end, I've asked Mrs. Gernum to save all of the mail for me in the future. And you and I will review all of the invitations and determine which ones we will attend. Together. I take my commitment to your parents very seriously. And your well-being too."

Right, then. How many vampire hunters got reprimanded about attending balls and being chaperoned? Surely I was the only one.

"Yes, ma'am." By now, my head was pounding and my stomach roiling, so it wasn't a lie when I said, "I'm not feeling well. I'm going to go lie down."

Florence gave me a shrewd look, then nodded. Her lips were flattened, once again reminding me how much I'd hurt and offended her. "Very well, Evaline. But I expect you to be awake and breakfasting by nine tomorrow morning. You'll be going with me to the milliner's and Madame Varney's."

Drat. Madame Varney was a seamstress, but going there was more of a social excursion than a shopping trip.

"Of course," I said. And fled.

Once in my chamber, I rang for Pepper, hoping she'd returned from her afternoon walk with her beau, Chumly. I needed assistance to prepare for tonight's excursion. I'd be leaving as soon as I could climb out the window, even though the sun wouldn't be setting for another two hours. She was the only other household member who knew about my secret life. She was clever and enthusiastic when it came to arming and equipping me for my dangerous tasks.

Pepper placed a two-finger-wide stake in its mechanized sharpener and flipped the switch. It whirred as the small wooden stick spun in place, a long peel like that of an apple falling away from the new point.

"M'great-gramma Verbena allays said to hide an extra stake in yer coy-fure," she said, sliding a slender wooden pike down into the mass of braids she'd already done up in a tight knot. "An' keep an' extry one in yer sleeve." She handed me the newly sharpened stake.

"I'm going to need more than stakes tonight, Pepper. I'm hunting a mortal, not an UnDead. Where did you put my pistol?"

My maid's strawberry-blonde hair bounced as she selected other implements to slide into my tool belt. She kept her hair cut short, because its wild, frizzy curls were impossible to confine in any sort of hairstyle. I wanted to cut my hair short, for long tails were a liability when in a fight, but my maid always argued otherwise. "An' where would I put the stakes if ye did that?"

She produced the pistol, and I slipped it in a holster beneath my man's coat, followed by a supply of ammunition. A knife went down inside one tall boot, and other useful items dangled from the insides of my coat.

Instead of wearing a tight corset beneath a split-skirted ensemble, I'd chosen to dress as a lower-class man in trousers and boots. I donned a loose neckerchief around my neck, arranging it beneath the open collar of a dingy shirtwaist. Tonight I wore a special corset that flattened my curves instead of enhancing them. A piece of string tied the coat together where the buttons would have been, and one of the cuffs was missing. The stake and another knife had been slipped inside the lining of each sleeve. A soft, slouching hat hid my tightly braided hair, which Pepper had pinned painfully in place.

Then she used a piece of burned cork to give my face dirt smudges and a hint of stubble. Powder lightened the color of my lips and the cast of my skin as well. A pouch of money completed my ensemble. I was equipped for anything.

Even Pix.

Warning Pepper to dissuade Florence, who might come to check on me, I climbed out the window. Moments later, I was down the maple tree, reveling in the freedom of trousers and low-heeled boots.

It was a long ground-level walk to Whitechapel and Spitalfields. They were the most violent and dangerous neighborhoods of London and where I would begin my search. In the interest of time, I found a hackney. But I got out at St. Paul's and walked the rest of the way so as to keep my disguise as an impoverished young man.

Big Ben announced it was eight o'clock. The sun was low, its glow hardly able to slip between the crowded London rooftops and chimneys. The ever-present black smoke clouds billowed into the darkening sky, interrupting the pale pink sunset. A gaslighter sang some happy ditty as he extended a long, mechanized arm to illuminate a streetlamp. It came to life with a small, pleasant pop.

The farther east I went, the dingier, closer, and more putrid the streets became. Here in Whitechapel, the sewer-chutes were almost nonexistent, and those that were there were often clogged and left to unclog themselves or fill up and overspill. And in this area, the upper-level walkways were the more dangerous and dirty ones. One well-placed push could send an unsuspecting person tumbling off the streetwalk and down to the cobblestones. Because the streetwalks were narrow, mechanized vehicles were uncommon even at ground level. Horse-drawn ones passed through without pausing unless required to. People loitered on street corners, in shadowy alleys, and in small clusters near the steps of dark-windowed buildings.

It took only a few well-placed questions for me to learn that Old Cap Mago could be found at a public house called Fenmen's End.

The pub was small and dark, like everything else in Whitechapel. Its entrance was three floors above the ground level. I rode up in an old, creaky lift that had been jammed open and didn't require any toll. As I walked across the narrow fly-bridge spanning the air-canal, I looked down and saw one man throw another into the overflowing sewer canal.

Inside, the pub was loud and smoky. In the corner was a self-playing piano attached to a small steam engine. The off-key notes could hardly be heard over the grinding, squeaking mechanism. Three large fans whirred from the ceiling. They seemed to just press the smoke down instead of causing it to dissipate.

I'd never been in a place like this before: filled with men drinking, smoking, and swearing. In the corner, a group of spectators cheered on two men who were arm wrestling.

For the first time, I felt a shiver of uncertainty. I didn't have a plan. I was used to walking along dark streets and waiting to be accosted by thugs, or seeking out vampires by sensing their presence. That was much different than having to pretend to be a man in a man's world. I could take care of myself as long as I wasn't outnumbered. But in here, in this crowded, confined place . . .

I'd have to keep my voice low and masculine, my cap on, and act like everyone else. With all the cursing and whooping going on, it didn't seem as if it would be too difficult.

I made my way to the counter, where a slender, bewhiskered man darted about filling drink orders. "I'm looking for Old Cap Mago," I said in a gruff voice.

The man flipped a thumb toward the arm-wrestling corner. "Over there."

The men were shouting and crowing, jostling each other to get a better view. Money changed hands, and bets were called out. Being short and slender, I could squeeze through the crowd to see the contest.

The participant facing me was tall and dark-skinned. His bald head gleamed in the light, and he wore a gold hoop in one ear. He was the size of a house, but all muscle and height. Moisture glistened over his forehead and a bare, tattooed arm. There was an anchor inked on his skin. I'm certain if Miss Holmes had been there, she could have given me the man's entire history at one glance.

His fingers curled around a tanned, more elegant hand than his ham-like one, and the muscle in his upper arm bulged like a small, dark melon. The bigger man looked as if he'd easily win the contest, but as I knew, appearances could be deceiving.

The opponent, whose back was to me, also had sleek, well-defined arm muscles, exposed by the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. I could see his shoulders move and shift beneath the white fabric. A short, dark club of hair showed from beneath his cap. Even though he was in the midst of a tense battle, he laughed and talked to the spectators. When he turned to jeer at the other man, I caught a glimpse of chin and mouth.

Pix.

Well, now. I started pushing closer to place my own bet, but then I had a brilliant idea. Turning to the man standing closest to me, I said, "I want to challenge the winner."

He looked me up and down. "Ye wouldn't last a minute wi' either one of 'em, lad. And ain't no one gonna bet on a snakesman like ye."

"I'll take on all the bets," I said, thinking of the pouch in my pocket. "If I lose, I'll pay them all."

Pix had taken me by surprise twice already, showing up in unexpected places and catching me off guard. Then he'd slunk back into the shadows, leaving me gawking after him. Now it was my turn to set him off balance.

A loud roar erupted. "Winnah!" The small crowd surged closer and then retreated.

"Now, damme, ye made me miss it!" grumbled the man next to me. "Who won?" he shouted over the uproar, then turned away in disgust. "Damn. Pix lost me two pound notes this time!"

"Pix lost?" I couldn't help but grin with satisfaction.

"No, dammit, ye fool. 'E won. 'E always wins. I thought f'sure that bloke would have pinned 'is 'and down."

My grin grew broader. Now I was even more determined to play. Making sure my cap was low over my forehead, I pushed my way to the table. Between my disguise and the guttering, uncertain lights, I was sure not to be recognized. I was careful not to look directly at Pix or to give him a clear view of my face.

"I challenge the winner." I wasn't surprised when the men exploded with guffaws and jeers. Fine with me. To convince them I was serious, I had to pull the pouch from my pocket. When I loosened its ties and tossed it on the table, the crowd quieted as a swath of coin spilled out in the dim light. "My bet."

"Well, there, boyo. If yer wantin' t'give up yer gilt so easy, who's t'argue?" said Pix. Settled back in his seat, in a satisfied pose, he looked around the crowd, laughing. When he glanced at me, his smile was expansive, as if he were a king granting an audience.

I took care not to meet his eyes, pretending to flex my fingers in preparation for the contest. I knew my hands were too small and slender to be a man's, but I hoped I'd be mistaken for a boy. A foolish boy.

"Why ye want t'give us yer brass, there, lad?" asked a stout man behind me. He was standing so close, he bumped up against my chair. The others had also crowded in so much I found it hard to breathe. "Ain't no one 'ere ever beat Pix. Wha' makes ye think ye can?"

Uhm . . . right. I hadn't really thought that part through, had I? And drat . . . the last thing I wanted was to be recognized by my opponent before I slammed his wrist onto the table. Blast. "I-er-"

"The lad's got t'be sodding drunk," someone shouted before I could answer. "But he's got flim, so I'm after havin' a piece of it! The pansy wants t'give up 'is money and ye're gettin' soft about it?" A coin clanged onto the table, and all at once, others began to rain onto the scarred, dark wood. Someone began to collect the bets and separate them into two piles: mine, with only two small coins-and everyone else's.

Pix lounged in his chair, jesting with the crowd. My opponent seemed to know everyone. He had a small glass of some amber-colored liquid, which he brought to his lips more than once.

"Well, then, shall we, boyo?" he said when the bets stopped coming. He placed his elbow on the table and opened his hand.

Looking at that long-fingered, masculine hand and sleek, muscular arm, I felt a flock of butterflies release in my belly. "Aye, let's get to it." I hoped it sounded like something a man would say.

I rested my elbow on the table and reached for Pix's hand, hoping he wouldn't notice that my palm was slightly damp. Strong, warm fingers closed over mine, grasping firmly as his thumb settled on the back of my hand. A shock of awareness flashed through me as our palms touched intimately.

Gentlemen wore gloves at all times, and I couldn't remember a time I'd touched a man's bare hand, except that of my brother. There was heat and texture. His skin was rough at the tips of his fingers, smooth on the inside of his palm. I felt the coarseness of a smattering of hair where my fingers curved near his wrist. And strength.

"Ready . . . set . . . go!" someone bellowed, and I immediately felt the pressure against me.

It was nothing. Pix was testing me. He expected to be able to slam my hand to the table whenever he was ready, and I decided to allow him to think so.

I kept my attention on the sight of our two hands entwined, one square and brown, and one slender and pale, and I made my expression appear tense. I allowed him to ease my hand backward a bit. He was hardly putting any effort into it.

Neither was I.

Pix turned away from the table, still pressuring my hand. "I'll 'ave another one, Bilbo," he called, lifting his glass. There was only a small portion left, and he slammed it back with an enthusiastic gulp.

"Come on there, Pix! We ain't got all night. Finish it up so's we get our glim!"

"Nay," called another. "Two pence on the lad iffen he 'olds off Pix another two minutes. Put sumpin' into it, laddie!"

I hid the excitement in my eyes, staring down at the table as a whole new round of bets rained onto the surface. How long could "the laddie" keep him off? they asked.

And that was when I started to put more pressure back.

Slowly, slowly . . . just a bit, until our hands were upright again.

And then I pushed a little more, waiting for Pix to pressure me back. I knew he was playing with me, but he had no idea how the tables were soon going to turn.

Easy, easy . . . I tried to appear as if I were struggling.

I pushed, easing him ever so slightly backward as he talked and joked with the others. Then all at once, while he was in the middle of a sentence, it was as if a mechanism switched on: his muscles tensed, his fingers flexed against mine. And he stopped me cold. Just stopped, didn't push me back.

I fought back a smile. And I put a little more pressure against him.

His muscles tensed more as our palms ground against each other. He continued shouting out jests and even took a drink from his replenished glass as he held steady against my pressure . . . and shifted me back just a little.

And then I stopped him.

Smooth and steady, I increased the pressure. My muscles tensed as I eased his hand back toward the table . . . down . . . down . . . down . . .

The spectators noticed, and they were shouting now. Encouragement to me and jests to Pix. Pennies and other offerings tumbled into my betting pile, charging me to hold him off a little longer. No one expected me to win. They believed Pix was playing with me.

As if to confirm this, he increased his pressure again. His fingers tightened, and I could feel the tendons in his wrist moving against mine. He inched my hand up a little until our clasped ones were vertical again. I even let him tip mine over, backward.

He pressured me all the way down, down . . . until my knuckles hovered above the table. The spectators were hardly paying attention, talking among themselves, slopping their ale and whiskey about. They knew the outcome, and some were already beginning to gather up their winnings.

Wrong.

Deliberately, I began to ease Pix's hand back up. He increased his pressure, but I kept mine steady, and I was stronger. I advanced: solid, smoothly, effortless.

I could feel shock running through him when he realized I was pushing him back up-and there wasn't anything he could do about it.

His conviviality faded, and he turned from his conversations with the spectators. For the first time, he placed his other arm as an anchor on the table in front of him, where mine had been all along. Despite the fact that he continued to throw out an occasional jest or insult, he was now concentrating on the match.

By now, the audience had noticed the change. Whether they thought it was another ploy by Pix to draw it out wasn't clear. But he'd almost won just a moment earlier, and now I had his hand back up and over . . . and easing downward.

I could tell he was now employing all his considerable strength; it wasn't effortless for me to keep his hand from rising. I was having to work at it. But, inch by inevitable inch, I forced him backward. Down . . . down . . .

He'd gone silent and dark with concentration. His muscles trembled with effort, but he couldn't fight it. The crowd was quiet now too, and then all at once, there was a flurry of new bets flung onto the table. I hoped someone was keeping track of them, especially since my pile was swelling.

It was time to end it, and I eased his hand down . . . down . . . and then stopped. Just a breath above the table. Just enough that he knew he'd lost, but before the match was over.

For the first time, I raised my face. When our eyes met beneath the brims of our caps, I saw the shocked recognition in his . . . and then chagrin, followed by a flash of reluctant humor.

Having made my point, I relaxed the pressure, and he whipped my hand backward, up and over and down. My knuckles slammed flat onto the table.

"Winnah!"

Miss Stoker

Miss Stoker Is Paid with a False Coin

Congratulations, both genuine and jeering, abounded. Many hands reached out to grab their winnings, and a small pile was thrust in my direction.

I looked up and saw Pix shoving another healthy gathering of the loot: coins, small metal pieces, a slender gold chain, and a watch toward me. His gaze glinted with self-deprecating humor-an acknowledgment that I was the true winner.

That was the most fun I'd had in a long time. I grinned back and picked up the pouch to scoop in my winnings. I wasn't paying attention until I felt one of the coins. It was an odd shape, with a raised texture, and I looked down.

It was an Egyptian scarab.

Blooming fish! I snatched it up before anyone else noticed and turned it over. On the bottom was an etching; it was too dim for me to see the details, but I was certain it was a drawing of Sekhmet. Shoving it in my pocket, I stood, and Pix rose as well.

"An' 'ow about a word, there, boyo," he said. He reached out and closed his fingers around my arm as if expecting me to bolt. "Two ales over 'ere, Bilbo!" He made a gesture to a table in the shadows. "The lad 'ere's payin'!"

"Let go," I said as we made our way between the last few people of the crowd.

To my surprise, he released me, and we settled at a table in the quietest corner of the place. My medievaler heart appreciated the simple bare-flamed candle sitting on a saucer, but the warrior in me recognized the danger of an open flame in a place such as this. Its flickering circle of light illuminated the very center of the table, and from below, up onto Pix's chin, jaw, and mouth. I still didn't know what color his eyes were. Although this was the third time I'd met him, I'd be hard-pressed to pick his face from a crowd. That was probably the way he wanted it.

We settled in our seats as the man behind the counter brought over two tankards and slapped them onto the table. I caught the strong, bitter scent of ale as its foam sloshed over the top of my mug and wondered if Pix expected me to drink it.

Bilbo glared down at me. "Thought you was lookin' fer Cap Mago."

"I was," I replied in my gruff male voice. "But not anymore."

"Awright, sonny, then pay up. Five shillings."

I fumbled through my pouch and produced the money. When Bilbo left us alone, I looked over to find my companion watching me from behind his mug of ale. The expression in his eyes sent a sharp bolt of heat through me. I tore my gaze away as warmth colored my cheeks.

"So ye couldna stay away from me, aye, luv? 'Ad to come searchin' me out down in th' stews." He'd settled his elbows on the table, which brought his face closer to mine. "Were ye lookin' t'do a bit o' dabbin' up wi' me, then, luv?"

Although I wasn't certain what the phrase meant, I had a sneaky suspicion it suggested something improper. I wanted to dump my ale on top of his head, but decided he'd probably enjoy that too much. And I did need information from him.

"That must be your fondest wish, considering how many excuses you've made to accost me in the last week." My fingers curled around the mug, and I toyed with the idea of taking a drink.

Pix laughed, low and rumbly, sending pleasant shivers over my skin. "Go a'ead, luv, taste it. Ye paid fer it, din't ye?"

"I'm not here to socialize." Blast. I sounded an awful lot like the prim Miss Holmes. "And I certainly don't intend to get drunk. I need some information."

"Well, then, luv, ye've come to the right place. But I'm feelin' mighty regretful ye' ain't 'ere jus' 'cuz ye wanted t'swap a bit o' spit. I promise ye, it'd be a right more excitin' than turnin' around a dance floor wi' a dandy like Richard Dancy."

So that bothered him did it? I placed my elbows on the sticky table, putting myself close enough to him that I could see the actual whiskers beginning to show along his jawline. In this proximity, even nearer than we'd been while arm wrestling, I became aware of that pleasant, minty scent I'd noticed before. "Right, then, Pix. I'm wondering something."

"Wot's that, luv?" A wicked smile twitched the corner of his mouth, making him appear dangerous and delicious at the same time.

"I'm wondering," I said, forcing my voice to stay light as his eyes focused on mine, "if you have any idea how jealous you sound." I settled back in my chair as his smile faltered.

Then he chuckled and eased back as well. "All right, then, luv. Ye've lammed me twice t'night. Per'aps I'd best take m'lumps and stop now. Wha' can I do fer ye?"

"You told me you saw some men removing things from the museum the night we met. And that one of them was carrying something long and slender. Can you give me any other information?"

He retrieved his tankard of ale and took a healthy swallow. It looked so good that I reconsidered tasting mine. One sip wouldn't hurt. I lifted the mug and drank.

Bitter.

Oh, ugh, sharp and bitter!

But then I tasted the nuttiness and the full, rich flavor, and warmth rushed to my belly along with the ale.

His gaze was dark and warm beneath his hat brim. "Right, then, luv. The drink-it takes some gettin' used to. And so . . . ye want t'know about the thieves. There's no' much more t'tell ye, but they were movin' a 'eavy box. Bigger'n a man. It was goin' into a large wagon, wi' no markin's on it. "

"That's it?"

He shrugged. "I 'ad other things to be attendin' to, an' it ain't my concern wot them flimps was doin'."

"What were you doing there?"

"Now that, m'luv, is no concern o' yours. But I will tell ye I was lookin' for m'bloke Jemmy. 'E's gone missin', and the trail led t'that particklar crib. 'Twas just yer good fortune I 'appened to be there that night." His teeth flashed again.

I placed the scarab on the table. "Have you seen this before? Or anything like it? Someone tossed it in on a bet tonight, and there have been others found like it, related to . . . to the death of the girl who was found in the museum."

"I did 'ear 'bout 'at. Sad business." He picked up the scarab, holding it near the candle, turning it over. He had the perfect hands for a pickpocket: long, dextrous fingers and solid, strong wrists. The thought soured any soft feelings I might have begun to have for Pix. I was here to get information from him, and nothing more. I should not be enjoying his company, his jests and, most definitely, I should not be noticing the shape of his mouth. And the way the corner of it ticked up gently when he was amused. I straightened up in my seat.

"Well?"

"No," he replied, and handed the scarab back. "But ye say it was in the pot t'night? I can find out."

He lifted his fingers and gave a sharp, piercing whistle. Immediately, two men detached themselves from a group and approached.

Interesting. Pix, for all his easygoing ways, had respect and stature in this place. It couldn't be simply that he was the champion of arm wrestling.

By now I'd seen enough of his face to confirm my earlier guess at his age. Twenty, twenty-two at the most. But here was a man who carried authority in a pub of thieves and pickpockets, who could whistle and summon them in an instant. And he could make his way into a Society ball, groomed and dressed like a neat servant who knew his way around the house and his tasks.

He was aptly named after an ever-changing, always on the move, sprite.

I took another sip of ale and didn't wince at the bitterness this time. I listened as Pix spoke to the newcomers. Their slang-filled cant was English and mostly incomprehensible to me, but I understood he was sending them off to find out who had put the scarab in the pot. After taking a close look at the object, the two men nodded and left the table. I saw them make their way around the pub and assumed they were asking about the talisman.

Pix watched them for a moment, then took a drink. As he lowered the mug, I asked, "Why were you at the Roses Ball, sneaking around in Lady Cosgrove-Pitt's-"

He covered my hand with his and squeezed, silencing me. "Not s' loud, luv."

My interest perked up, for my voice hadn't gone any louder than before. "What were you after?"

"Now, why would I tell ye that? Ye already know wot I was after. Gewgaws an' jewels an' the silver, o' course. Wha'ever I could stuff in me pockets."

He was confirming exactly what I suspected, but I didn't believe him. "You're lying."

He tilted his head and looked at me with an odd expression. "Right, there, luv. An' a bloke's gonna 'ave some secrets."

"I suspect you have a multitude of them," I said. "Like where you hide all the loot you've stolen. And who knows what else."

"On'y me an' the good Lord know, that's f'sure." One of the men approached, and Pix, reading something in his expression, rose to meet him. They spoke for a moment in undertones, then Pix turned back to me and bent over the table. "Yer in luck, darlin'. Ferddie o'er there was the one wot put the coin in the pot. 'E got it from Bad Louie, and-"

"Who's that?"

"A bloke ye don' wanna know. 'E's been stealin' girls offa the streets fer years. Even ye don' wan' 'im catchin' a glimpse o' the likes o' ye, luv. Ye kin trust me on 'at." His expression was fierce. "Ferddie says Louie's got 'imself a right purty speck o' a girl in fine, rich togs stayin' with 'im. Stayin' bein' a kind way o' puttin' it, iffen ye get m'meanin'." He looked at me closely, his voice still low. "Ye wouldna know anythin' about a missin' Society gel, would ye?"

"If he got the beetle coin from the girl, then I would definitely know all about her." I rose. Even if it wasn't Lilly Corteville, a Society girl-or any girl-had no business being held prisoner by the likes of Bad Louie. "Take me to her, Pix."

He sobered, eyeing me. "What's the chances you'd stay 'ere instead?"

"None."

Whatever he muttered under his breath probably wasn't a compliment. Resignation in his face, he gestured for me to stand. "Come on, then."

Pix's two friends accompanied us as we left the pub and descended to ground level. We went only a couple of blocks before turning down a dark, close alley. A bridge that had once connected across the third street levels sagged, untraversable, above my head. Pix glanced at my ready pistol and curled his lip. I could almost read his sneer: he didn't need a blooming pistol. "Stay 'ere. Wait. Watch. I'll be jus' a minute."

I complied, but only because one of the other men stayed as well. The night was filled with distant shouts and clanging noises, the rare rattling of carriages, barking dogs and yowling cats, the hiss of steam. Neither my companion nor I spoke.

I watched the area where Pix and his companion had disappeared. There was a dark building in front of us, and they'd gone in there at ground level. Then I heard a shout in the distance. And gunshots.

I sprang to attention, my gun in hand, and started to move. I couldn't wait to get my hands on Bad Louie. More gunshots and shouts echoed through the night. Light flashed in a small explosion as I started down the dark alley, hurrying in the direction Pix had gone.

But before I got more than a dozen steps, two shadowy figures appeared. They were running, and one of them had something large and heavy over its shoulder. I didn't need to see to know the runners were Pix and his friend.

"Run!" More shouts and gunshots filled the air.

I stayed with my companions as we dashed through a dizzying maze of streets and alleys, up flights of rickety stairs and over narrow bridges, down and up again until I was completely lost. We turned down a narrow street with dark sky-touching buildings and then ducked into the entrance of a large, black structure. There was a loud clang behind me, and the sound of a metal bolt being thrown.

Someone shoved me along in the dark, and I was propelled down some stairs. A man cursed, another person pushed and guided me, and finally I saw the faint glow of light. At the bottom of the stairs, I stepped into a completely different world than the dark, dingy, dirty Whitechapel streets above.

This was someone's living quarters, and very well furnished. Settees and rugs had been arranged in a large open space that looked just as comfortable as a parlor in any Society home. Gas lamps . . . no, electric lights cast cool, white illumination. Much sharper than the mellow golden glow that lit the rest of London. Something mechanical whirred softly in the corner.

Well, here was the answer to one question: where Pix hid all his stolen loot.

I turned to him. He was sliding the large, heavy item from his shoulder onto the settee. I realized his burden was a person he'd retrieved and carried all this way.

The clear light played over her face, and beneath the dirt and bruises, I recognized Miss Lilly Corteville. She was conscious. Her eyes fluttered and focused, then fear and shock filled her expression.

"Lilly," I said, kneeling next to her, yanking off my cap so she could see my face. The pins ripped from my hair and scattered. "It's me, Evaline Stoker. You're safe now."

I could have sworn I heard someone whisper Evaline behind me, as if testing out the name, but the chamber was filled with so many other sounds that I couldn't be certain.

"Lilly," I said again, looking at her cut, bruised face. The poor thing. What had she lived through? "You're away from that horrible man. Whatever happened, you're safe." I found one of her hands and closed my fingers around it. Her digits were cold and stiff.

Her lips moved, and I couldn't tell what words they formed, but I understood. "Water, and something to eat," I ordered over my shoulder. "Hurry. And . . . something warm. She's like to freeze to death."

I'd hardly spoken the words when a soft blanket was thrust into my hands. I tucked it around the poor girl, but not before I noticed her torn, filthy clothing. It had once been fine and expensive, but now it told the tale of her experience: blood and dirt stained, lacking ruffles, lace, and other embellishments that could be stolen and sold.

She'd been missing for weeks. She'd obviously been wearing the same clothing all that time. Had she removed the lace and ruffles to raise money, or had they been stolen right off her by Bad Louie or someone else? I burned to ask questions, of her and of Pix, but I knew the time wasn't right. The girl was in shock, and she needed to rest.

And as for Pix . . . He'd saved her from a terrible situation. And in spite of everything I knew or suspected about his criminal habits, I had to thank him for that.

After dabbing her face clean with warm water and a bit of soft soap I hadn't thought to ask for, I helped Lilly Corteville drink some thin broth. Her gaze skittered about, and she didn't release my hand until her eyes closed. At last she slipped into a restless slumber.

Extricating myself, I stood and found Pix watching me. The other two of our companions were sitting across the room, playing dice at a table. My host sat in a chair, lounging in his deceptively relaxed manner. But I sensed tension and an air of something I couldn't define emanating from him.

"You'll take good care o' 'er, now, won't ye, luv?"

"Right after I find Bad Louie," I replied. Now that I had seen Lilly and her condition, I understood just how bad that man had been.

"No need f'that," he replied. "Bad Louie won' be stealin' no more pretty girls."

"You killed him?" I had a moment of shock competing with disappointment. I'd wanted to have a hand in the man's punishment.

"Oh, 'e ain't dead. 'E jus' wishes 'e were." There was no humor in his words.

"Thank you for helping her . . . and me. But now I must get her home."

"Aye, I've made the arrangements. Now, will ye sit and take a sip o' tea wi' me?"

I took the cup he offered and settled in a chair between Lilly and Pix. The tea was fragrant and sweetened, without milk. Just the way I liked it. How did he know?

And how, I wondered not for the first time, had he known my name? My vocation?

"Better'n th'ale?" he asked, watching as I sipped.

"I think I could get used to the ale."

His lips curved. "Aye, I'd expect nawt less from ye. An' now I've a question for ye, luv," he said as, all of a sudden, I realized how exhausted I was. My eyelids grew heavy, and weariness rushed through my limbs. It had been busy night.

"What's that?" I replied, taking another drink of the soothing brew.

"Why did ye let me win?"

I smiled at the hint of aggravation in his voice.

"Because I could."

I set the teacup down, and despite the fogginess that had begun to swim over me, I added, "And so now you owe me one."

He chuckled in that low, rumbly way of his. "And so it is. Now, close yer eyes. I'll see ye and yer friend 'ome safely."

Blast him! "You drugged my tea!" I struggled to sit upright. But my muscles were loose and my brain was foggy.

"Now, luv, a bit o' laudanum ne'er 'urt anyone-so long's it's jus' a bit. An' I can't 'ave ye leavin' 'ere, and rememberin' where my crib is, can I? I'm not one for unexpected guests."

His dark gaze, focused on me from beneath the ever-present cap, was the last thing I saw before darkness enveloped me.