The Moonstone and Miss Jones (6 page)
Instinctively, Phaeton pushed her behind him. “I don’t wish to alarm, but she’s headed our way.”
The she-devil’s pale lips opened and she gasped for breath, as if she was being born into the world.
“Don’t let her get too close. These vicious females have sharp fangs and the tentacles may be venomous.” Exeter kept his voice low. “Gorgons predate the written myths of Greece; they are the protectors of the most arcane rituals and secrets.”
“Exactly what’s needed at a moment like this—a refresher course in ancient mythology.” Phaeton picked up a chair and pointed its legs out at the creature. “Stay where you are,” he ordered, distancing himself from her and the doctor. He skirted the room, taking refuge behind a tipped-over table. The luminous sphere tracked with him. Phaeton winked in their direction. “She wants me.”
The Gorgon spoke. “Those who have stolen that which you call Moonstone will now seek its protector.” More glowing orbs joined their sister. Maidenly heads marred by unseeing eyes encircled Phaeton.
He lowered the chair. “Surely, you can’t mean me?”
There was something smug about the way Exeter lifted a brow. “As previously discussed, you’re the stone’s appointed guardian.”
“More than a protector—Phaeton is the spark,” the Medusa hissed softly. “The power of the pithos must be returned, or this world will end. Gods and myths exist because—” The beautiful grotesque visage sighed.
“Because humans exist.” Phaeton swept back his frock coat, resting his hands on his hips. “Tragic indeed. If we go who will be left for the gods to rule over?”
Tentacles slashed about the globe. “We do not rule—we serve.”
A wistful smile tugged at Phaeton’s mouth. “Exactly how Victoria puts it.”
The beautiful, tortured faces paled as the spheres grew more luminous and withdrew. Phaeton launched himself out of the gaming annex and into the public room. “Hold on—might there be a clue? A suspect, perhaps? A suspicious troll in the Underground ?” The orbs whirled up into the air before he finished his query.
Cautiously, America and the doctor joined Phaeton, scanning the untidy room for signs of life. The shadow figures in the corners appeared to be on the move. Pivoting in place, she could plainly see the sharp edge of four swords. The blades glowed just before they discharged a swathe of potent energy. Nothing overly destructive—more like a warning. The hooded sentries emerged from their respective corners, each directing a pale blue ribbon of light at the retreating Gorgons.
The faceless, hooded monks appeared to use just enough energy to put the press on the snake-headed goddesses. The globes withdrew from the room, and presumably, back to wherever Gorgons come from.
The cloaked figures sheathed their weapons. The largest sentry crushed a piece of furniture underfoot and kicked it out of the way as it approached Phaeton. The hood hung low over the face, hiding its eyes. She could just make out a strong mouth and chin—chiseled with a bit of stubble. A whisper of smoke curled away from the glowing ash of a cigar. Male, certainly, but she suspected this entity wasn’t entirely human. There was a faint metallic scent—she sniffed again just to make sure. Rusted iron, the smell of blood mixed with something from the bestial realms.
The hooded stranger clenched the butt end of the cigar between his teeth. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Mr. Black. Captain Jersey Blood, at your service.”
Chapter Seven
“C
APTAIN
B
LOOD
.” Phaeton sized up the man under the cloak. Slightly taller and a bit more brawn, but he could take him in a fight, he was sure of it. “Out of your regimentals this evening, or is your rank self-styled?”
APTAIN
B
LOOD
.” Phaeton sized up the man under the cloak. Slightly taller and a bit more brawn, but he could take him in a fight, he was sure of it. “Out of your regimentals this evening, or is your rank self-styled?”
A sardonic grin released another wisp of smoke. “A visitation from Gorgons will draw Reapers or Grubbers—you must leave this place.”
Phaeton cocked an ear. “Reapers and what—?”
“Scavengers. Outremer dregs.” The captain quite deliberately gave America an up and down look. When his gaze moved over her again, Phaeton blocked the man’s view.
During introductions, the captain’s cohorts had closed in, surrounding them. Another large male stood between two smaller framed sentries—females, he was sure of it. A series of rhythmic, low-pitched whirs and clicks emanated from the shadows of the sentry’s hood. Phaeton tilted his head to see better. The man wore some kind of mechanical apparatus that wound around his throat and over one side of his face.
Phaeton motioned Exeter to close ranks, and a lithe and lovely arm slipped out from the cloaking garment to escort the doctor. Exeter nodded toward the brute of a claymore the self-styled leader held in his hand. “Impressive swords, as well as your cadre.”
The captain spoke again in a husky whisper. “Follow us.”
Phaeton swept a loose bottle off the floor. He used his shirt sleeve to wipe off the lip, and knocked back a shot. “Why?”
The man named Blood stopped and turned. Eyes Phaeton could feel but couldn’t see studied him. Then Exeter. Then America. He felt a tentative probe into his thoughts. “We will see you safely to Pennyfields.”
This strange band of monks obviously fancied themselves protectors. The captain nodded to a side exit.
Phaeton narrowed his gaze. “You first.”
Outside the Silver Lion they found themselves in a blind court full of hysterical pub crawlers. The piercing shriek of police whistles could be heard as far away as Commercial Road. One could only assume, after a disturbance of this magnitude, the Metropolitan police were about to converge on High Street.
Capes flew up into the air and formed a cloaking veil that hovered above and around them. The atmosphere under the canopy stifled, but he could see clearly in all directions. America’s exotic golden-green eyes sparkled with adventure. Phaeton curled his hand around hers and she returned his wink with a smile.
Captain Blood removed his cigar and placed a finger over his lips. “We move out fast and quiet.” As they made their way through Wapping Basin, the only sound to be heard was a faint wheeze in the air and a whir of clockworks. Phaeton checked on Exeter and finally got a good look at their two female escorts. One was ivory skinned, raven-haired, and stunning. The other was tall and Nordic—a Viking beauty with ice blue eyes. He also caught a better look at their rear guard. Wheels turned within wheels—just above the man’s ear—the mask appeared to be a mechanical engine of some sort.
They turned onto a forgotten row known to opium eaters as Dragon Alley. No names, no numbers—just a riot of differently colored doors, with one exception. The lane ended at a black door with brass numbers mounted at eye level.
They were about to arrive at No. 55 Pennyfields.
Exactly the spot he, Exeter, and America had set out for earlier this evening, had they not been waylaid by a pint or two and a few testy Gorgons. Better late than never, he supposed. And if they were going to find the Moonstone, they could not avoid the nefarious Gentleman Shade himself. “Gaspar Sinclair, self-anointed dark underlord of Limehouse,” Phaeton muttered under his breath. Besides being the titular head of an arcane flock of psychic talents, the man was connected to every lowlife operator in London. And there were so many reasons to find Gaspar irritating. The man’s jocular familiarity and excessive curiosity about Phaeton’s business, for one thing. The de facto leader always had a better scheme, a cheaper rate, a less risky approach, a faster route, and exactly the right talent for the job. He also happened to have thousands of contacts who all owed him favors. Whenever Phaeton was around Gaspar he purposely obfuscated and muddled about with the facts of his cases. It was perverse, but pleasurable.
The sweet musky smell of opium was in the air. Phaeton sniffed again. Something else was about in the alley—the miasma was subtle but rather putrid. He noticed the doctor scanning the rooftops as well.
Just ahead, Edvar made a sudden appearance, as he scurried up the crooked lane—more pedestrian walk than alley. The gray imp often materialized when least expected, or as a warning. Edvar shinnied up a gas lamp, and turned back, adding an impatient hiss. The gargoyle was right, of course, that they must seek shelter, and as quickly as possible.
The sooner they were inside 55 Pennyfields, the safer they would be. Phaeton could not shake the feeling that the hordes were coming. He tossed out an adviso—just to see who received his message.
Watch the gargoyle.
Now and then, Edvar would stop to sniff about and whine. At a turn in the lane, a commotion could be heard at the dark end of a connecting yard. Picking up the pace, the captain glanced back at them. “We’re almost there—stay close.”
Watch the gargoyle.
Now and then, Edvar would stop to sniff about and whine. At a turn in the lane, a commotion could be heard at the dark end of a connecting yard. Picking up the pace, the captain glanced back at them. “We’re almost there—stay close.”
Edvar climbed a downspout and brilliant, orange-yellow eyes blinked into a veil of darkness. From the hollow echoes and terrible thuds, it sounded like a number of dustbins were being rummaged in—perhaps even turned upside down and rolled about.
America turned to him. “What is that?”
Something like the whistle of a whip moved through the air, easily piercing the cloak and wrapping itself around America’s ankles. Phaeton grabbed for the slippery bindings that flipped her upside down and into the air. America reached back for him. “Phaeton!”
She was being carried away by a hulking shadow. An unseen puppet-master who walked along on the rooftops above. Her dress fell around her waist, exposing a great deal of leg and pantalettes.
“A bit of relic dust and champagne, if you will?” Phaeton yelled as he sprang ahead of the monkish minions. He had not gotten a very good look at this new enemy, but suffice to say it was large and dark, and it was dragging America back toward those nasty dustbins . . .
“Would somebody please get me down from here!” America dangled precariously above head and was picking up speed.
Phaeton jogged beneath her. Glancing back he could see the cloaking device was gone and all four swords were upright and glowing. A blast of energy shaped like a comet flew past him and up into the air. The bolt of energy slashed the ties that bound her.
America cried out as she fell through the air. Phaeton used a bit of potent energy to break her fall and land her softly in his arms. Phaeton smiled. “Hello, love.”
She opened her eyes and exhaled a sigh of relief, before her brows crashed together. “Why are they picking on me, Phaeton?”
He knew the answer, but didn’t share it.
“This way—quickly.” With weapons trained on rooflines, their protectors swept them down the alley into a small brick-paved yard. Phaeton set America down and spun around, searching for the unseen devil that had tried to abduct her.
They stood in the small court outside 55 Pennyfields and waited for someone to open the black door with the brass numbers. The hooded male with half a machine for a face pounded on the door. They were surrounded by buildings with few windows—just a myriad of colored doors. He steadied America while she straightened petticoats and skirts.
The enclosed court felt rather desolate this evening. Not a single dragon chaser staggered out of one of the nearby dens. Nothing but the distant crash and clatter of dustbins echoed up the lane. Phaeton raised a brow. “Earlier you mentioned Reapers and Grubbers?”
“Those are Grubbers,” the cigar-chomping captain grunted. “They’re like dogs. They sniff out energy residue—scraps of fuel in the aether.” Silently, Blood used forked fingers to direct his minions, who spread out and formed a protective circle around them.
The shaking and banging about of dustbins grew louder. Phaeton dipped his head for a better look at the large wheezing bloke with the clockwork face. “Might try banging on the bloody door again.”
“Please, come in.” They whirled around en masse. The black painted door was open and a young man stood in the entry. Exotic silver eyes peered over the rim of spectacles tinted with dark glass.
Phaeton grinned. “Good to see you, Ping.”
“A joy to see you, as well.” The enigmatic Julian Ping dipped a bow. “And Miss Jones.” Ping’s faintly Oriental appearance contrasted greatly with his dark frock coat and high-pointed collar. The exotic creature nodded to Exeter. “Doctor.”
Jersey Blood pushed past the strange, unearthly young man and ushered them inside. “Quickly.” The door slammed shut behind them. Without the aid of moonlight, 55 Pennyfields was darker inside than the alley. Phaeton waited for his eyes to adjust, sensing Ping skirted the edges of the small ante room. If memory served, there was a stair that spiraled downward in the middle of the foyer.
He checked on his lovely companion, whose eyes were large and wide. “I’d give you another smile and a wink,” he murmured, “but I’ve been hellishly cheery all evening.”
A small indentation formed on her cheek. She pulled him close and whispered in his ear. “Helps to trim the sails now and then.”
He kissed her behind the ear and waited for the tingle to move through her body into him. Phaeton shivered. Yes, there it was. Mechanical spiders, Gorgon visitations, and attempted abductions aside, America had been wonderfully resilient throughout it all. Just having her near tonight was stimulating. He nuzzled her cheek. “Did you know that a lovely translucent blush colors your nipples just before I kiss them?” His whisper brushed the wispy hairs at her temple. “They peak, ever so slightly in antici—”
“Gaspar will see you now.” Their pale young greeter stood at the curved brass railing of the stairs. “Make your way downstairs. Seventh door on the left. Please be sure to count. It is dangerous to open any of the others by mistake.”
Phaeton had met with the man on several occasions and once attended a soiree of sorts in the upper reception chambers, but he had never been invited into Gaspar’s inner sanctum. They descended the stairs and made their way down a long corridor. Between doors, a number of gallery portraits greeted them—Grand Wazirs of the Gentlemen Shades—with eyes that followed a person down the corridor. All of these characters had no doubt fancied themselves powerful sorcerers, going back how many centuries? The end of the corridor featured a near life-size painting of their current leader. “Gaspar Sinclair, fakir of the highest order,” Phaeton grumbled.
A chuckle from Exeter drifted up from the rear of the column.
“And what exactly do you find so amusing, doctor?”
“You dislike Gaspar because you’re so much like him, Phaeton.”
The doctor rarely grinned, so it had an impact. Even the ends of America’s mouth twitched upward. “My word this should be interesting.”
Their escorts assembled around the seventh door, presumably. Phaeton reached for the knob. “Was that seven doors total—or seven on the left side of the passage?”
The door swung open revealing a spacious room—part library, part gentleman’s study. He stepped onto an intricately patterned carpet. Nothing too outlandish about the place. No doubt the most exotic thing in the room was the swarthy, rather handsome man who reclined against the arm of an oversized chair.
A silk robe hung open over a formal tuxedo shirt and his tie was undone. Black trousers and a hint of white braces peeked out from under the deep blue dressing gown. His shirt was open down to the navel and exposed just enough chest hair to be provocative. As annoying as it was, Phaeton admired the man’s style. “Sorry to disturb, Gaspar. Did we wrest you away from a liaison? I certainly hope not.”
“It’s about time you returned home, Phaeton. London hasn’t been the same without you.” The man’s somnolent, heavy-lidded gaze landed on America. “My informants have extolled your looks Miss Jones, but . . .” Gaspar shook his head.
“Vous êtes une grande beauté, mademoiselle.”
“Vous êtes une grande beauté, mademoiselle.”
A peachy blush colored America’s cheeks.
“Merci, monsieur.”
“Merci, monsieur.”
His gaze lingered a little too long before returning to Phaeton. “My congratulations, little brother, she is exquisite.”
Phaeton’s eyes narrowed. “Just hand over the Moonstone, and you can go back to seducing the Marquess of Bath’s wife, or whomever your latest conquest is.”
America mouthed, “Little brother?” and she raised a brow to underscore the question.
Phaeton pulled her aside and spoke quietly. “I thought he’d given up the notion. By some deluded faulty thought process he believes we are related.” He rolled his eyes in the leader’s direction. “Pay him no mind.”
A spark of amusement brightened Gaspar’s gaze. “Tell me about this Moonstone you believe is in my possession.”
“It is the source hidden deep inside the pithos,” Exeter offered.
Gaspar’s eyes remained steady, unfaltering, almost bored. Exactly the kind of deadpan expression Phaeton expected from the leader of the Gentlemen Shades, whose heart had accelerated at the mere mention of Pandora’s jar. This close connection he experienced with Gaspar had always been disquieting—but it certainly wasn’t brotherly.
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