Strange Practice

by Vivian Shaw

  if you enjoyed

  STRANGE PRACTICE,

  look out for the sequel,

  BAD COMPANY

  A Dr. Greta Helsing Novel

  by

  Vivian Shaw

  CHAPTER ONE

  There was a monster in Greta Helsing’s hotel bathroom sink.

  She stared at it, hands on her hips, and it stared back at her. After a few moments it apparently decided she wasn’t an immediate threat, gave a froggy glup sound, and settled down in the marble basin for what looked like an extended lurk.

  “What on earth are you doing out of a well?” she inquired of it. “You ought to be guarding treasure, not preventing me from brushing my teeth.”

  It blinked at her—its eyes were large, also froglike, with a coppery iridescence to the irises—and then shifted a little to reveal that it was in fact guarding something: Greta’s amethyst earrings, which had been sitting beside the sink and were now clutched tightly in a clammy grey-green hand.

  She sighed. “I need those. If I get you something else pretty to hang on to, can I have them back?”

  Another slow, coppery blink. She went back out to the bedroom and returned in a few minutes with the watch she had been meaning to have repaired for several months now and that had not benefited from rattling around in the bottom of her handbag for the duration. It was at least still fairly shiny, even if it didn’t work, and when she held it out to the wellmonster it reached for the watch right away, grabbing at it with both little hands, her earrings forgotten. Before it could change its mind she reached into the sink and rescued them.

  “Which still doesn’t explain what you’re doing in my bathroom,” she told it, putting the earrings on. They were only a little damp, not slimy at all. “I don’t think that was on the Le Meurice hotel prospectus. How did you even get in here?”

  It wasn’t very big, either: the size of a half-grown kitten, small enough to fit easily into the basin. The European wellmonster, Puteus incolens incolens, seldom got larger than a human toddler—and unlike the New World species, P. incolens brasiliensis, which was equipped with large pointy teeth, had few dangerous characteristics. This one looked to be in reasonably good shape, if entirely inexplicable: How had it found its way into a fourth-floor hotel bathroom without anyone noticing?

  Glup, it said, and wrapped itself tighter around her broken Bulova. Greta sighed again, and reached out to stroke it gently. “All right,” she said, “you can keep that safe for me. Depositum custodi.”

  The monster licked her hand.

  “I don’t know,” she said that evening, looking into the same bathroom mirror as Edmund Ruthven pinned up her hair. “It was gone when I got back from the first session of the conference, taking my watch with it, I might add, and leaving no trace as to how the hell it got here in the first place. Ow.”

  “If you would hold still,” said Ruthven, “this wouldn’t hurt and would also take up far less time and energy. And I will buy you a new watch, as I have been threatening to do for months; I know perfectly well you were simply never going to get around to having that one repaired.”

  Greta made a face at him. She was wearing a black velvet dress she personally would not have picked out, but which, she had to admit, did quite remarkably nice things for both the bits of her it concealed and those it exposed. There was a certain Madame X air to the whole thing, especially when Ruthven finished with the pins and hair spray: Her neck and shoulders were very white against the rich blackness, and he had somehow managed to get almost all of her hair into an elegant loose knot with several wisps artfully escaping here and there.

  The makeup was also much nicer than she would have been able to manage on her own. He had attacked her with an eyelash curler, ignoring her protestations, and she grudgingly had to agree that it made something of a difference.

  “I look like a high-priced courtesan,” she said, meeting his eyes in the mirror. Ruthven was just about as tall as she was, and Greta knew perfectly well nobody was going to look at her when he was present: He was much prettier than she was, delicate features, black hair and big shiny white-silver eyes with dramatic dark rings around the irises. He rolled them now and glowered back at her, almost offensively perfect in a bespoke tuxedo with tiny ruby studs winking from the starched shirtfront.

  “You look,” he said, “like a very expensively soigné young woman. Which, all right, I’ll admit there is some thematic overlap. Stop making faces and put your jewelry on, we haven’t got much time, and remind me where the damn wellmonsters come from in the first place.”

  “They get summoned,” she said, turning to get a look at the back of her head in the hand mirror. “By people who happen to need guardians for various shiny objects. They do breed, but very rarely, and for the most part it’s all done with chanting and runes and cobwebs and frogs’ blood. Not difficult once you’ve got the ingredients.”

  “Cobwebs are easily come by,” Ruthven agreed, “but frog phlebotomy strikes me as a lot of effort. So somebody summoned that creature?”

  “Presumably. No way of knowing who or why.” The silly dress came with an even sillier purse, a tiny slip of a thing, and Greta eyed it dubiously before stuffing her wallet and phone and compact inside. She felt ridiculously naked despite the snug velvet and the matching wrap Ruthven offered her; she was used to hauling around a handbag the dimensions of a good-sized mop bucket and just about as elegant, stuffed full of everything from journal articles to mummy-bone-replacement castings, and not having that comforting weight on her shoulder was unsettling.

  At least they’ll mostly be looking at him, she told herself again, fastening the ruby drops Francis Varney had given her into each earlobe. That’s pressure off me. And it’s Don Giovanni, I’ve always wanted to see that, and at the Palais Garnier. Greta scowled at herself in the mirror. So bloody well lighten up and have a nice time, Helsing. You deserve it for presenting this paper on no damn notice.

  Ruthven straightened his tie in the mirror and offered her his arm. “Madam, will you walk?” he said, and she had to smile.

  “Yes,” she said, “yes, sir, I will walk, I will talk, I will walk and talk with you.”

  Together they left the suite, and it was a good twenty minutes before something very hairy clambered in through the half-open window and went to hide under her bed.

  The Grand Staircase of the Palais Garnier should have been an overwhelming, chaotic jumble of color and texture and shape. Every surface in the vast five-story atrium was either painted, gilded, inlaid, carved, or some combination thereof. Huge spiked candelabra jutted out from the four walls of the atrium and were thrust aloft by seminude bronze women posing on the newel posts of the staircase itself; the balustrades were dark red and green marble, the columns and pilasters of the atrium walls carved from two separate kinds of complicated, veiny, butter-colored stone, with layers of wrought-iron lacework forming balconies between them. High above, the ceiling was painted with dramatic scenes of allegories in saturated color. It should have been a cacophonous mess of design elements, and instead, somehow, it all worked. The over-the-top opulence offered the same kind of uninhibited, glittering cheer as a polished drag queen’s performance.

  It was at its best when thronged with people. In the golden light each surface glowed with rich warmth, the polished stone and dark bronze providing a thoroughly complementary setting for the herd of humanity passing through. Glittering jewels, bare shoulders, snowy shirtfronts brilliant against black: a moving kaleidoscope of color, accompanied by the clamor of a great many people talking all at once, being seen in the act of seeing.

  From the vantage point of a fifth-floor balcony, the people on the staircase were doll-size, inconsequential. Easily blocked out by the tip of a thumb held at arm’s length.

  Corvin leaned on the stone parapet, following the progress of two heads through the throng: one dark, one fair. The dark head was glossy, sleekly combed, with a part in it that might have been drawn with a ruler. He closed one eye
a little, squinting, and gave his outstretched thumb a vicious little twist, the gesture of a man squashing some small and importunate insect.

  The object of this pantomime paused for a moment on the landing, glancing around, as if Corvin’s attention had somehow registered on his senses. He was short, very pale, impeccably dressed, and even from here Corvin could see red fire wink from his ruby shirt studs, see the pale eyes flash as he looked around. They were very pale, those eyes, so light a grey they looked silver, with a dark ring around the iris. Corvin knew them very well.

  The man’s companion, a blonde in a black velvet number, had continued a few steps; now she turned to look back at him: What’s the matter?

  Corvin watched as the man shook his head, dismissing whatever had caught his attention, and offered the woman his arm once more. They passed on up the staircase out of sight, and Corvin was about to detach himself from the balcony parapet and go to find his own seat when the man and woman reappeared on a second-floor balcony across the atrium, this time holding drinks.

  They seemed to be enjoying themselves.

  Corvin’s fingers tightened on the stone edge, and there was a faint sound as a crack arrowed through the marble underneath his grip. Not tonight. Not tonight, but he was going to get his chance to talk to Edmund Ruthven very close-up indeed—

  “Ooh,” said someone directly to his left. “Varda the omi palone.”

  Corvin jerked involuntarily in surprise, and swung around to glare at his lieutenant, who had silently appeared beside him, leaning on the parapet. He hated it when Grisaille did the silent-sneaking-up bit. He’d said so, multiple times.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” he demanded. “You’re supposed to be back at headquarters.”

  “Isn’t he pretty, though,” Grisaille said, nodding to the distant figure of Ruthven. “I can see why you want to pull his head off. It’s a nice head.”

  “Grisaille,” said Corvin.

  “Devout and humblest apologies, dear leader.” Grisaille sketched him a little salute. “Bad news, I’m afraid: It’s Lilith. She is throwing yet another massive tantrum for reason or reasons unknown, and I’ve been sent to fetch you home to sort it out.” He shrugged, returning his attention to Ruthven and the unknown woman on his arm. “Who’s the dolly-bird with Mistress Bona?”

  Corvin pinched the bridge of his nose. “God damn it,” he said. “I told Lilith to lay off the fucking junkies. And I don’t know. Some human whore.”

  “Oh, not just some human whore. Look, he’s all into her, all solicitous and caring. It’s touching. In a barbaric sort of way.” He paused, as if waiting for some particular response, and then sighed. “I don’t suppose you saw what I did there.”

  Corvin ignored this. “You suppose she’s important?”

  “Could be, could be.” Grisaille seesawed a hand in the air. “Shall I make inquiry?”

  “Yeah. Do that, and keep an eye on them, damn it. I suppose I have to go and see what’s wrong with Lilith this time. I’m getting pretty tired of this shit.”

  “As you wish,” said Grisaille, with another little salute. “Don’t worry. You’re not missing much with this opera—spoiler warning, he ends up going to Hell at the end.”

  Corvin straightened up, absently setting aside the little piece of marble he’d broken off the parapet’s edge. “So do we all, Grisaille,” he said. “So do we all.”

  if you enjoyed

  STRANGE PRACTICE,

  look out for

  PRUDENCE

  The Custard Protocol: Book One

  by

  Gail Carriger

  When Prudence Alessandra Maccon Akeldama (“Rue” to her friends) is bequeathed an unexpected dirigible, she does what any sensible female under similar circumstances would do—she christens it The Spotted Custard and floats off to India.

  Soon, she stumbles upon a plot involving local dissidents, a kidnapped brigadier’s wife, and some awfully familiar Scottish werewolves. Faced with a dire crisis (and an embarrassing lack of bloomers), Rue must rely on her good breeding—and her metanatural abilities—to get to the bottom of it all …

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Sacred Snuff Box

  Lady Prudence Alessandra Maccon Akeldama was enjoying her evening exceedingly. The evening, unfortunately, did not feel the same about Lady Prudence. She inspired, at even the best balls, a sensation of immanent dread. It was one of the reasons she was always at the top of all invitation lists. Dread had such an agreeable effect on society’s upper crust.

  “Private balls are so much more diverting than public ones,” Rue, unaware of the dread, chirruped in delight to her dearest friend, the Honourable Miss Primrose Tunstell.

  Rue was busy drifting around the room with Primrose trailing obligingly after her, the smell of expensive rose perfume following them both.

  “You are too easily amused, Rue. Do try for a tone of disinterested refinement.” Prim had spent her whole life trailing behind Rue and was unfussed by this role. She had started when they were both in nappies and had never bothered to alter a pattern of some twenty-odd years. Admittedly, these days they both smelled a good deal better.

  Prim made elegant eyes at a young officer near the punch. She was wearing an exquisite dress of iridescent ivory taffeta with rust-coloured velvet flowers about the bodice to which the officer gave due appreciation.

  Rue only grinned at Primrose’s rebuke—a very unrefined grin.

  They made a damnably appealing pair, as one smitten admirer put it, in his cups or he would have known better than to put it to Rue herself. “Both of you smallish, roundish, and sweetly wholesome, like perfectly exquisite dinner rolls.”

  “Thank you for my part,” was Rue’s acerbic reply to the poor sot, “but if I must be a baked good, at least make me a hot cross bun.”

  Rue possessed precisely the kind of personality to make her own amusement out of intimacy, especially when a gathering proved limited in scope. This was another reason she was so often invited to private balls. The widely held theory was that Lady Akeldama would become the party were the party to be lifeless, invaded by undead, or otherwise sub-par.

  This particular ball did not need her help. Their hosts had installed a marvellous floating chandelier that looked like hundreds of tiny well-lit dirigibles wafting about the room. The attendees were charmed, mostly by the expense. In addition, the punch flowed freely out of a multi-dispensing ambulatory fountain, a string quartet tinkled robustly in one corner, and the conversation frothed with wit. Rue floated through it all on a puffy cloud of ulterior motives.

  Rue might have attended, even without motives. The Fenchurches were always worth a look-in—being very wealthy, very inbred, and very conscientious of both, thus the most appalling sorts of people. Rue was never one to prefer one entertainment when she could have several. If she might amuse herself and infiltrate in pursuit of snuff boxes at the same time, all the better.

  “Where did he say it was kept?” Prim leaned in, her focus on their task now that the young officer had gone off to dance with some other lady.

  “Oh, Prim, must you always forget the details halfway through the first waltz?” Rue rebuked her friend without rancour, more out of habit than aggravation.

  “So says the lady who hasn’t waltzed with Mr Rabiffano.” Prim turned to face the floor and twinkled at her former dance partner. The impeccably dressed gentleman in question raised his glass of champagne at her from across the room. “Aside from which, Mr Rabiffano is so very proud and melancholy. It is an appealing combination with that pretty face and vast millinery expertise. He always smiles as though it pains him to do so. It’s quite … intoxicating.”

  “Oh, really, Prim, I know he looks no more than twenty but he’s a werewolf and twice your age.”

  “Like fine brandy, most of the best men are,” was Prim’s cheeky answer.

  “He’s also one of my uncles.”

  “All the most eligible men in London seem to be related to you in so
me way or other.”

  “We must get you out of London then, mustn’t we? Now, can we get on? I suspect the snuff box is in the card room.”

  Prim’s expression indicated that she failed to see how anything could be more important than the general availability of men in London, but she replied gamely, “And how are we, young ladies of respectable standing, to make our way into the gentlemen’s card room?”

  Rue grinned. “You watch and be prepared to cover my retreat.”

  However, before Rue could get off on to the snuff box, a mild voice said, “What are you about, little niece?” The recently discussed Mr Rabiffano had made his way through the crowd and come up behind them at a speed only achieved by supernatural creatures.

  Rue would hate to choose among her Paw’s pack but if pressed, Paw’s Beta, Uncle Rabiffano, was her favourite. He was more older brother than uncle, his connection to his humanity still strong, and his sense of humour often tickled by Rue’s stubbornness.

  “Wait and see,” replied Rue pertly.

  Prim said, as if she couldn’t help herself, “You aren’t in attendance solely to watch Rue, are you, Mr Rabiffano? Could it be that you are here because of me as well?”

  Sandalio de Rabiffano, second in command of the London Pack and proprietor of the most fashionable hat shop in all of England, smiled softly at Prim’s blatant flirting. “It would be a privilege, of course, Miss Tunstell, but I believe that gentleman there …?” He nodded in the direction of an Egyptian fellow who lurked uncomfortably in a corner.

  “Poor Gahiji. Two decades fraternising with the British, and he still can’t manage.” Prim tutted at the vampire’s evident misery. “I don’t know why Queen Mums sends him. Poor dear—he does so hate society.”

  Rue began tapping her foot. Prim wouldn’t notice but Uncle Rabiffano would most certainly hear.