I looked at Mina. “Take Lurelia and leave now.”
“They’re here? Vampires?” Her expression was grave and her gaze darted about as if she had the ability to identify an UnDead.
“Yes. I don’t know how many. I’m not sure where they are. Take Lurelia and go. I need to find something to use for a stake.”
Mina shook her head in exasperation. “Your walking stick. It’s wooden, Evaline. I thought that was why you selected that one.”
Right. Maybe it was. Feeling more in control, I rose from my chair, walking stick firmly in hand. “Are you leaving now?”
“Are you certain you wish me to?”
I gave her a look that made even Mina decide not to argue. “The less people I have to worry about saving, the better. You’ll just be in my way.”
“The fewer people,” she muttered under her breath, but she scooted—rather quickly, due to the freedom of her trousers—off to retrieve Lurelia.
I would leave it to Mina to make the proper excuses. I had a vampire to track.
Miss Holmes
Quick-Wit
Lurelia was understandably startled when I informed her we must leave.
“But so quickly? And my roasted chicken hasn’t arrived. I want to know what are whipped potatoes. And where is Evaline?” she asked.
I hesitated to put my hands on a member of the Betrovian Royal Family—or any royal, for that matter—but if she didn’t come with me, I was going to have to put that concern aside and drag her out. The vampires could show themselves at any moment, and I knew from personal experience how quickly they moved and how frighteningly strong they were.
“Miss Stoker felt ill and left to go home.” It wasn’t one of my better fabrications, but I couldn’t worry about that.
“But I don’t wish to leave until I’ve eaten. The chicken sounds delicious. We don’t eat much chicken in Betrovia.”
I held up my hands in a genteel effort to remind her to keep her voice low. No one needed to hear the word “Betrovia.”
“I’m feeling rather nauseated myself . . . perhaps it’s being so high up in the air. I really must leave before I . . . well, it may not be pleasant if I don’t find a carriage soon.” I put my hand over my midriff and attempted to appear as if I were ready to retch at any moment.
Though Lurelia continued to gawk at me as if she couldn’t quite comprehend the situation—perhaps she was afraid I actually would vomit—she allowed me to escort her from the Founders’ Room.
Naturally, I had paid strict attention to the layout of the club, so I knew precisely where we were and which route we must travel to find the main entrance. Because the porter had taken us on a very thorough tour, we had several turns to make, and one set of stairs to descend. As we made our way down the corridor, I did my best to keep the princess moving quickly without appearing to rush.
We passed a number of gentlemen in groups or walking along independently. Fortunately, none of them took any notice of us and I made certain not to meet the eyes of anyone we encountered. And, also fortunately—and to my disappointment—no one seemed to recognize me as the Ankh. I wasn’t certain what that meant, but I didn’t have time to mull over that now.
Instead, as we hurried along, I listened carefully for the sounds of altercation or distress, but heard nothing besides the same chatter and occasional bursts of laughter or exclamation from behind the closed doors.
Down the stairs, then two more short hallways, pass by the Brandy Room, and Lurelia and I would be one turn from the main entrance.
One might wonder about the ease with which I allowed Miss Stoker to convince me to take Lurelia, while leaving my partner to fend for herself, but it was the best and only option. Not only was Miss Stoker equipped and prepared (at least, once I reminded her of the wooden walking stick) to combat any UnDead, it was imperative the princess be removed from the vicinity of any sort of threat.
In fact, the nausea I had so easily manufactured was now becoming a reality the more I thought about what would happen should the princess not only be discovered here in Bridge & Stokes, but also, more seriously, if she became a victim of the UnDead.
Thus, I quickened our pace down the short flight of stairs. I paid little attention when we brushed past one of the butlers, who seemed to be in a state of agitated hurry as he flung open a door marked “Porters.” As we approached the second-to-last turn before we would reach the main entrance, I learned why he was in such a tizzy.
“Sir Mycroft Holmes . . . and the Lord Regent Mikalo Terrence of Betrovia have arrived!” announced the butler into the room of his colleagues. “Everyone must attend immediately.”
I stopped so quickly Lurelia nearly bowled me over. When I grabbed for her arm to steady both of us, she looked at me with the same appalled expression I presumably wore.
“No!” she mouthed, her eyes wide.
“This way,” I hissed, yanking her through the closest doorway.
She stumbled after me and we found ourselves inside a chamber decorated in a similar fashion to the others we’d seen. However, in this particular room, the only acceptable activity seemed to be some sort of game. Seven chairs surrounded an oval table, and in the center was a contraption made of metal and glass tubes.
The occupants of the chamber turned to look as we effectively burst into the place, and I fixed a bemused smile upon my countenance. Though I was certain at any moment my stomach was about to heave, I managed to say, “Oh, here we are, old chap. Just the place we were in search of.”
I didn’t trust myself to look at Lurelia; I had no idea what to expect from her. She certainly didn’t seem to be as intelligent and quick-witted as even Evaline was, and so I had no illusions the princess would be helpful in extricating us from this very sticky situation. I didn’t mind doing all the talking and thinking for both of us; I just hoped she wouldn’t say anything that would give us away.
“Very good,” said one of the gentlemen. He had thinning carrot-red hair. “We’ve been short a player since Pample-Bridge left. Who’s going to play?”
“Er . . . I’ll play first, all right, then, old boy?” I said to Lurelia. Since I had no idea what sort of game they were playing, it was only reasonable that the more quick-witted and observant one of us should participate.
“Of—of course, if you like.” She remembered to keep her voice deep.
“Right, then. Will you sit your arse down, won’t you, so we can get started?” said a different gentleman with a thick black mustache.
My cheeks flamed at his rudeness, but I heard voices in the hallway behind us and recognized the calm, even tone of my father. This prompted me to dive into the one vacant chair at the game table—thankfully with its back half facing the door. I was more relieved than I cared to admit when Lurelia did the same, choosing a seat near mine but not at the table.
To my dismay, the voices stopped right outside the doorway. I could hear the conversation as it reverberated through the walls. Though I couldn’t discern what they were saying, surely they would move on shortly. Then Lurelia and I could make our exit.
I turned my attention to the table and the setup in front of me. There seemed to be a glass tube-like track that circled the table. It had dips, hills, and sharp turns. In the center was a tall, slender chute that spiraled down and ended above the tiny canal. In front of each player’s seat was a small box attached to the track. On one side of the box was a button; on the other, a light, and on top of each box was a small drinking glass. The glasses were empty.
No sooner had Lurelia and I taken our seats than a footman appeared from an obscure corner and poured some amber-hued liquid into each of the seven glasses.
When I smelled the scent of whiskey, I realized what a tenuous predicament I was in. And when I realized the familiar voice still rumbled outside the door, I could only grit my teeth.
Drat it! How long must you stand there talking?
And what if someone remembers admitting two gentlemen to the club with your “co
usin” tonight?
I felt the blood drain from my face.
No. I couldn’t think about that. I would deal with that problem if it happened.
“Very well, then. Shall we begin? Gentlemen, place your bets for Quick-Wit, round the first,” announced the carrot-haired man.
The game was called Quick-Wit? Well, that sounded promising. Surely I could hold my own in a competition of that name. Feeling more confident, I waited to see what the others did before digging in my pocket and producing a pound note, which, after observing my companions, I fed into a small opening on the side of the box in front of me. It didn’t go all the way in; a short piece protruded.
“Ready, gentlemen? Remember, you have only one chance per round to open your gate. You have to be the most quick-witted! Whoever stops the ball drinks!” crowed the vociferous leader.
“Aye! Around and around, the ball she goes, and wherever she stops, he pukes on his toes!” shouted the mustached man. From the sound of it, that particular gentleman had stopped the ball a number of times already.
The footman pushed the button on a mechanical device at the far end of the table. There was a click-snap, and a small gate popped out of my box, blocking the canal.
The spiral chute above the table began to spin, and I heard a metallic rattling. It became louder and faster, and I put my hand on the button of my box just as the other players had done. Suddenly a small brass ball shot out of the chute into a small funnel that fed it sharply into the tube. The ball began to ricochet through the tube, up and down the hills and dips, rattling along at top speed.
It took me only a moment to realize I had to push the button at precisely the right time to allow the ball to pass by my “gate.”
I hit it too early.
The gate clicked back out of the way, then shot forward again almost immediately. The brass ball thunked into it and the light on my box blinked on.
My competitors shouted and cheered, and the pound note I’d fed partway into the machine disappeared completely. I had no idea what would happen to it now, but one thing was obvious: it was no longer mine.
“Ahh, beginner’s luck!” cried someone. “And down the hatch it goes!”
“Drink up, sirrah!” shouted the red-haired man in a much-too-ebullient voice.
I eyed the glass of whiskey with trepidation. Clearly I had to drink it—all of it. While they watched.
“Drink! Come on, now! Time’s a-wasting.”
I took a deep breath, picked up the glass, and sipped. Fire. Gad, it was like fire burned my lips.
I couldn’t drink this!
“What’s wrong with you? You came to play—now drink up, won’t you, old chap!” This was from the man with the black mustache—obviously happy to have someone else taking on the role of loser.
I didn’t think I could sip it . . . it would take forever, and it tasted awful. But I sensed if I gulped it too quickly, the whiskey would burn and score the inside of my mouth. The last thing I needed was to be coughing and choking—then they’d know something was wrong. I’d be exposed, my disguise for naught, and Lurelia would be discovered. I tightened my fingers around the glass, steeling my resolve.
“Drink it all in one gulp,” came a soft voice near my ear. “And don’t breathe in while you’re doing it!”
The princess knew how to drink whiskey? Maybe she should be playing the dratted game instead of me! Despite my frustration, I did as she suggested, fairly tossing the contents of the glass down my throat. It worked rather well. Yes, the liquor burned my mouth and down into my chest . . . but I managed to swallow it with little more than a tiny cough, though a few tears welled in my eyes.
“Ante up, there, good fellow!” cried the red-haired man (whose name was Mr. Stanley), which I took to mean I should put another pound note into the machine.
Another one? At this rate, I was going to be many pounds poorer by the end of the night.
I hadn’t heard any more conversation rumbling on the other side of the door. Hoping Sir Mycroft and the Lord Regent had left, I strained to listen. After this round, surely Lurelia and I could leave.
The whiskey had spread from my throat to chest, and now my appendages, down to my fingers and toes, felt pleasantly warm. The scratchiness was gone from my throat.
“Ready gentlemen? Go!”
The footman dropped the ball into the top of the spiral chute, and it clattered and clanged down as the chute whirled around at top speed. This time I knew what to expect. It was a combination of the speed of the ball, plus the uncertainty of where it would shoot into the canal that required the skill of perfect timing to open one’s gate.
And clearly, the more one lost, the more one drank—and the more impaired the player became. And then the less likely one would have perfect timing. I could already feel the effects—small as they were—from the single gulp I’d taken.
The ball shot around and around, everyone pushing the button on their gate at the appropriate moment. The gates clicked away, then snapped back in a sort of rhythm that grew faster and more furious as the round went on. The men shouted and called out insults to each other as the ball picked up speed, ricocheting in its glass-covered tube.
Click . . . snap. Click . . . snap!
The door to the chamber opened.
“Sir Mycroft Holmes and the Lord Regent of Betrovia!” announced a footman. My hand jerked.
Click . . . snap!
Clunk.
The ball slammed into my gate. My light went on.
A great cheer went up from my competitors.
“Drink up, old boy!” cried Mr. Stanley. Who made him the game manager, anyway?
Everyone was looking at me, chanting, “Drink! Drink!”
My father and the Lord Regent walked over to the table . . . and came to stand right behind my chair. The whiskey churned in my stomach and I held my breath.
“Regent Terrence would like to sit in on a few rounds of Quick-Wit,” rumbled Sir Mycroft. “Is there anyone who cares to give up a seat?”
I swore I felt his words sift down over the top of my head and settle there like a vise. Perspiration began to pool in a variety of areas on my person. The whiskey swished more violently inside my belly.
“Drink up, now, there, old chap! The Lord Regent wants to play and the time’s wasting!”
If my father hadn’t been standing behind me, I would have bolted from my seat and given it up for the mustachioed regent in a trice. As it was, I had no choice but to sit as utterly still as possible . . . and to slowly bring the glass of whiskey to my lips.
“Drink! Drink!”
I was just about to take a sip when the chamber door burst open so hard it thudded against the wall and bounced back.
“Murder!” cried the man who stood in the doorway. “Sir Wexfeld has been murdered!”
Miss Stoker
In Which Miss Stoker Is Subjected to Some Courting
Confident that Mina would get Lurelia out of Bridge & Stokes with her normal single-mindedness, I knew I could completely focus on the matter at hand.
As I hurried through the club, the cold, eerie sensation at the back of my neck remained strong. This made me sure there was more than one UnDead nearby.
Still, my inexperience left me with little else to go on. Were there two of them, or twenty? Or some number in between?
Clutching my walking stick, I hurried through the club, following the chilly sensation as well as I could. It ebbed and flowed, and I realized I needed to go up the stairs to the next floor.
I met few people on the upper floor, but just as I was rounding a corner, I heard a shout in the distance. It sounded shocked and fearful, and I heard “Murder!”
No! Oh, no! The UnDead had already created a victim. Horror, regret, and a little fear shot through me. It suddenly became very real: someone here tonight had died.
It could be someone I knew. Someone I had danced with, spoken to . . . brought here. No, surely Mina and Lurelia were long gone by now.
And if I didn’t find the red-eyed demons, there would be more victims before the night was over.
It was up to me—only me—to stop it.
I spun around, the chill growing colder and more potent at the back of my neck as my insides bubbled nervously. Yet I was filled with purpose and determination. I heard noises above me, thuds and thumps, like a struggle, and realized I needed to find another set of stairs.
I sprinted around a corner and slammed full-force into someone. We ended up tangled on the floor, and when I opened my eyes I was looking up into the familiar face of Mr. Richard Dancy.
“What are you doing here?” I cried without thinking. “You have to leave immediately!”
It was only after I saw the confusion in his eyes, and then the sudden dawning of shock and recognition that I realized my mistake.
“Miss Stoker?” His eyes were wide, but, ever the gentleman, he assisted me to my feet. “What on earth—”
“There’s no time for that now! You must leave!”
“I heard them crying murder. I don’t know what’s happened, but if anyone must leave, it would be you! Think of your reputation were you to be found here, not to mention the danger of having a murderer roaming about!”
He’d taken my arm as if we were at a ball and ready to enter the dance floor. I realized how surprising it might appear if someone came upon us and saw the way one man was looking down at another with something very much like affection. Nevertheless, a little wriggle of warmth shivered through me. Pix never looked at me that way . . .
And why on earth was I thinking about Pix at a time like this?
“Yes, yes, of course,” I said. “I got lost. Will you please show me the way out?”
What else could I do but that? Now that he’d recognized me, Mr. Dancy’s chivalrous character would never allow me to go off on my own. He was just as determined to see me out of the club as I was to make certain he got to safety.
Oh, gad, if I hadn’t run into him—literally—he could have been the next victim!
The Chess Queen Enigma Page 15