The Chess Queen Enigma

by Colleen Gleason

  But as his mouth settled over my sensitive neck, I had to fight the sensations . . . the soft, sweet lull of my blood surging free . . . the smooth kuh-kuh-kuh of him gulping away my life in a breath-like rhythm.

  It would be so easy to succumb . . . to just relax . . .

  Remember who you are.

  I marshaled my strength and gave Dancy a great shove.

  As I pushed his face up and away, I slammed a heel down on his foot then twisted from his grip in one swift sequence of movements. He stumbled backward and nearly fell, his red eyes blazing with shock and excitement.

  “Evaline Stoker,” he panted as we circled each other warily. “You continue to fascinate me. You’re the most attractive, surprising, delightful woman I’ve ever met.” At least he didn’t call my lips crushed rose petals.

  He lunged before I was quite ready, almost catching me off guard. I dodged in the nick of time and came up beneath his arm. I caught him there, and with a quick twist, sent him stumbling off toward one of the potted trees.

  I needed a weapon! My walking stick was somewhere on the floor, hard to see in the drassy light . . . Was that it?

  I dove to the ground in a smooth somersault. My hand landed on something smooth and round—the stick!—but I rolled right over it and my face thudded into the stone tile. I grappled blindly for the stick. Miraculously, my fingers closed around it, and I slammed my foot down as I yanked up one end—crack! It splintered . . . just as a strong hand dragged me to my feet. He was there: all red eyes and sharp fangs, panting blood-scented breath in my face.

  Then all at once, he was Mr. Dancy again. Handsome, smiling, coaxing. The red eyes and fangs were gone. “I so enjoyed waltzing with you, Miss Stoker. I do believe I could do so forever.” He closed his hands tightly around me in the dance position—now, stronger than before, forcing me close to his body in an ugly rendition of the waltz. My free hand, which should have rested at the back of his waist, clutched what I hoped was enough of a jagged bit of wooden walking stick to do the job.

  We stepped and swirled to a melody only he could hear. Mr. Dancy looked the same, sounded the same, even acted the same as the attractive young bachelor I’d flirted with many times. But there was no warmth emanating from his body, and at this close proximity, I could smell the faint aroma of death.

  He smiled down at me, and I felt the soft tug of attraction. He was handsome. And charming. And funny. My limbs became heavier and I felt lighter on my feet. My fingers loosened and the piece of stick threatened to fall . . .

  No.

  I pulled my gaze away with effort and tightened my fingers around the weapon. I had to pick the right time . . .

  He laughed quietly. “Tell me, now, Miss Stoker . . . why did you spill lemonade on yourself in order to keep from dancing with me all those months ago? Of course, back then, I was only a simple mortal boy. Now . . .”

  “And now you’re a simple, immortal boy. Too fresh as an UnDead—what, a day? Two at the most?—to know much about being one.” With one sleek movement, I had the jagged walking stick pressed against his back. Right at heart-level.

  One good thrust, and he was ash.

  “What’s this?” A flicker of concern marred his features, then smoothed away. “Sweet Evaline . . . you do know I am now impervious to firearm bullets or knife blades or any other weapon you might attempt to use.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I shove this wooden stake in a little farther?” I asked.

  His eyes widened, then blazed red. His fangs shot out, long and white and lethal. The sudden change startled me, and I inhaled a breath of UnDead. With a sharp movement, he twisted away, sending me spinning. I nearly stumbled to the floor, catching myself at the last minute.

  Blast! Why hadn’t I staked him?

  I whirled back, makeshift weapon in hand, to find him bearing down on me. He was wild-eyed and furious, and his claw-like hands tore at me. I dodged and ducked, but he sliced at my face and arm with nails like blades.

  “How dare you!” he cried. “I would have made you like me!”

  “What? Foolish? I don’t want to be immortal! Don’t you know you smell like a grave?” I flung droplets of blood from my face and tried to ignore the pain lancing through my arm.

  We circled around, facing each other like two boxers waiting to take the first jab.

  “I liked you better when you were weak and mortal,” I taunted. “At least then you didn’t stink.”

  He made a sound of fury and lunged—just as I’d hoped. I grabbed him by the shirt to hold him off me as he dug his fingers into my arms and tried to pull me close. We twisted and struggled, locked together in an ugly dance. I tried to angle my arm up to stab him and he tried to tear into me with his fangs as we staggered around the terrace.

  I saw the bench behind us and launched myself into him. The force of my movement sent him reeling back into the seat. He lost his balance, but brought me tumbling to the ground with him. As we fell, I raised my arm and plunged the stake.

  “Noooo!” he cried . . . and the UnDeadness faded from his face. His eyes returned to normal, his fangs disappeared, and for one final moment, he was Richard Dancy . . . charmer, waltzer, suitor. Man.

  Frozen in that moment, he looked up at me with such familiar eyes that I wondered if I’d somehow made a mistake . . .

  And then poof!

  He was gone.

  And it was just me, and the wooden stake, and a cloud of foul dust wafting to the ground as I panted in the silence.

  I staggered to my feet, trembling and chilled.

  Bloody, perspiring, unsettled.

  I’d just killed Richard Dancy.

  I would never see him again. His family—his sister, whom I also knew, his mother—would never see him again. I swallowed hard, still gasping for breath, and felt the first pang of grief.

  At the same time, I realized the back of my neck was still cold and prickly.

  I closed my eyes tightly for a moment, then opened them. I couldn’t think about all this right now. I had work to do.

  I had just reached the door to the terrace when it burst open. Even in the murky light I recognized Inspector Grayling. He’d been running.

  “Good gad,” he panted when he saw me—and I realized how I must look, with my hair falling in thick hanks, bloody scratches on my arm and face, scrapes on my cheek. “Miss Stoker?” His attention went quickly from my face to the jagged stake in my hand, then back up to meet my eyes. “Are you—?”

  I brandished my weapon. “There are more of them.”

  I would have charged past him, but he caught me by the arm. “Miss Stoker, I cannot let you—”

  I pulled away. “Where’s Mina? And—er—”

  “They’re gone. I sent them away myself.” That was when he showed me his own wooden stake. “She gave me this.”

  Ah, Mina. Always thinking ahead. “How many victims?”

  He followed me as I started back inside, seeming uncertain how to handle the situation. “One. That I know of.”

  I nodded, suddenly weary and yet determined. “There will be more soon—”

  I heard voices, and with them, a definite increase of cold over the back of my neck. I threw up a hand to warn Grayling to be silent.

  The conversation was coming closer. “Dancy? Where the bloody hell did he get off to? We were supposed to meet—”

  They came around the corner, two of them, and along with them came the faint scent of blood.

  I leapt forward, stake in hand, as Grayling shouted at me to stand back. But it was too late—I smashed into one of the UnDead and we tumbled to the floor. His eyes blazed red, and that was all I needed to be certain: I slammed my wooden weapon home.

  Poof!

  Behind me, I heard another shout, and the sounds of struggle. Someone had been thrown into a wall.

  Ooh . . . now a second person thudded harshly.

  Coughing from an inhalation of ash, I pulled to my feet just in time to see the remaining vampire rake his
claws down Grayling’s arm. He cried out in shock and pain, but in a sleek move grabbed the UnDead’s arm and used the momentum to barrel him to the floor. They both tumbled down, grappling with each other as Grayling fought to free himself from the stronger creature.

  I stumbled over to them. When the vampire came up on top, I thrust the stake into his back.

  The UnDead exploded, covering Grayling with the disgusting dust. Coughing and brushing away the ash, he pulled to his feet. He was gaping in shock and curiosity.

  I didn’t speak; I was too busy paying attention to the back of my neck. It felt normal.

  “That’s all of them,” I said when I was certain. Then, noticing the blood coursing down his arm, I added, “You need a doctor.”

  He was still staring at me. “I think you might need one more than I.”

  “I’ll be fine.” I reached up to touch the bite at my neck, which was still pumping blood due to my activity. “I just need to leave without being seen.”

  “Of course, Miss Stoker. I can arrange that.”

  I adjusted my coat and felt a slender item inside one of the pockets. A forgotten stake? No, it was the cigar. Suddenly, I no longer had the urge to try it out. I just wanted to go home.

  “Congratulations, Inspector. You’ve met your first vampire.” I handed him the cigar.

  He took it, still giving me a look somewhere between admiration and wariness. “Let’s hope it’s my last, shall we?”

  I shook my head, but didn’t speak. That was not the least bit likely.

  Miss Holmes

  A Service of Tea and Prevarication

  “I trust you’ve recovered from last night’s adventures,” I said to Princess Lurelia.

  It was the morning after the events at Bridge & Stokes. We sat in a private parlor at the Domanik Hotel, where the three of us had just been served elevenses. Evaline had arrived a trifle late, wearing an unusually high-necked gown and long gloves. Her left cheek sported an ugly scrape, but I knew the wounds and bites on a vampire hunter healed more quickly than they would on an unexceptional person like me, so I had little concern for her physical health, at any rate.

  But since my partner had come into the parlor without her usual energetic sweep, I sensed she wasn’t feeling quite herself in other ways. I intended to make certain we had the opportunity to speak privately, for I suspected there were a number of things we needed to discuss.

  “Indeed I have,” replied the princess. “And I never saw Regent Terrence, so there was no chance of him discovering how I’d really spent the evening. I left word with the hotel doorman that I’d gone to a party with you and Miss Stoker.” Lurelia looked at Evaline. “Some strawberry jam for your tea?” she said, passing her a small bowl filled with the jam. On the tray next to it was an array of dainty silver spoons—not even as long as my shortest finger, with the bowl of the spoon the size of my pinkie fingernail.

  “In Betrovia, we take our tea like this.” Lurelia spooned up some of the jam into her mouth, then lifted her teacup to drink. After she swallowed, she smiled at us. “Or, if you prefer, you may stir the jam into the tea itself, instead of using honey or sugar cubes as you English do.”

  “How delicious,” I said. However, I wasn’t interested in eating or drinking. “Now, to attend to the more pressing problem of your blackmailer, Your Highness.” She opened her mouth to protest, but I shook my head. “I understand you wish to find the chess queen, but it is the blackmailer who is the greater concern. For if we do find the chess queen, and provide it to him—which we cannot allow to happen at any rate—what next will he demand from you in order to keep his silence?”

  Lurelia wasn’t able to muster a counter-argument to my position, but neither did she appear to want to be forthcoming. That wasn’t unusual—Uncle Sherlock had pontificated many times about the crime of blackmail, and the individuals who tended to be subjected to such unpleasantness. If one has something worth being blackmailed about, it’s generally a matter one would prefer not to divulge.

  Therefore, it was incumbent upon me to question the princess in regards to not only the perpetrator himself, but also the subject of the blackmail—for that was also a valuable clue.

  “The first question is the most important, Your Highness. Do you believe the individual who accosted you at the Midnight Palace is your blackmailer?”

  Her eyes widened as if the thought hadn’t occurred to her. It probably hadn’t. Lurelia’s playacting last night at Bridge & Stokes notwithstanding, she didn’t seem to be the brightest of young women. “I’m—I’m not certain. I’ve never met the blackmailer before. Or spoken to him . . . or her.”

  This was a good beginning. I glanced over as Evaline filled her plate with tiny jelly pastries and thumb-sized salmon salad toasts. Right, then. If she was eating so robustly, whatever was bothering her couldn’t be too serious.

  “How has the blackmailer been in contact with you?”

  “A—a letter. And then after the first letter, when I didn’t respond, there were other signs. Signals. Things were left around for me to notice that were meant to remind me.”

  “Do you still have the letter? When was this?”

  “It was before I came to London. Back home. And—and I burned the letter. I didn’t want anyone to see it. The maids are so nosy.”

  I felt a sense of frustration. If the blackmailer was back in Betrovia, I would have a much more difficult time identifying and capturing the individual. “What did it say? Do you remember that? What did it look like?”

  “It was very simple. The letter just said ‘I have something you don’t want to be seen. Payment will be required for the return of these items.’”

  “But the type of payment wasn’t identified? Was this before or after you found the letter about the chess queen?”

  Lurelia screwed up her face in an unattractive manner. “Now that you bring it up, it was just after I found the letter. I was looking through an old Bible that belonged to one of my ancestors, the Duchess of Fedeway—she was a friend of your Queen Elizabeth. There were several letters tucked inside; they were very old. But one of them was wrapped in a thin cloth, and that was the letter from your queen. It was difficult to read, but I had heard the stories about the chess set and realized she was writing about it. I don’t know if you were aware, but the board itself was in the possession of a Betrovian king for centuries after it was created—”

  “Yes, of course. It was your King Thursted the Fourth who—er—forcibly intercepted the base of the chess set during an altercation in a Byzantine palace, if I recall correctly.” My exasperation mounted. We were getting off topic, and there were several things I wanted to know about the blackmailer.

  However, Evaline was actually showing some interest in something other than food or vampires. “So the board and the chess set were separated? They kept the game pieces in Byzantine, but—”

  “Byzantium. Byzantine is the adjective, Miss Stoker. To whit, ‘the Byzantine people retained the chess queen in Byzantium.’ Byzantium is the ancient name of the Greek city that became known as Constantinople. Interestingly, when it was intact, the Byzantine culture embraced the monotheism of Christianity—like their Roman neighbors—rather than the Greek polytheistic religion. But there were influences from both cultures—”

  “As I was saying,” Evaline spoke loudly, “the chess set and the chessboard were separated. The board ended up in Betrovia, stolen by King Thursted the Fourth, and the game pieces . . . how did they get here to England?”

  “Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, who was married to King Louis of France and then to King Henry of England—and additionally, she was the mother of two English kings, King Richard the Lionheart and King John,” I informed her. “Incidentally, if anyone should have had a chess queen modeled after her, it should have been Eleanor of Aquitaine. She was just as powerful and ruled as many lands as either of her two husbands. She was the regent for both her husband Henry and her son Richard. She was—” The other two seemed taken aba
ck by my vociferousness. “At any rate, Queen Eleanor traveled on two different Crusades to the Holy Land—one with her first husband, Louis, and the second with her son Richard, after he was crowned king. Presumably, she obtained the chess pieces during one of those crusades, likely the latter—which is known as the Third Crusade. She would, I’m certain, being the powerful sort of woman she was, have been intrigued by and appreciative of possessing one of the first—if not the very first—known chess queen.”

  “And so this blackmailer wants the chess queen . . . why, exactly?” Evaline asked, reaching for another sandwich.

  “If you’d been listening the first time I tried to apprise you of the details, you’d already know the answer to this, and we wouldn’t be wasting time. The chess queen is the most important part of a key that unlocks the base of the chessboard. In order to use it, one has to have all of the original pieces of the set—for they are created specifically to act as weights and gears, as in a safe—and one must know the sequence of movements that will open the base. It’s like a combination, if you will. Apparently the moves are scribed on the queen herself.”

  “So there’s a treasure inside the base? What is it? And how did the base get here to London if the Betrovians owned it?”

  I looked at Lurelia, who’d been following our conversation silently. “Perhaps you could explain to Evaline,” I suggested. It wasn’t as if I’d never tried before.

  “Of course. But first, perhaps you’d like some tea, Mina? You’ve been doing a lot of talking . . . you must be parched.”

  I swore I heard Evaline choke back a laugh.

  After pouring my tea, Lurelia took up the narrative. “Everything you’ve said is correct, to my knowledge. The chess table was gifted to Queen Elizabeth on the deathbed of her friend the Duchess of Fedeway, but the King of Betrovia at the time, Allfred—who was the duchess’s father—did not approve of the gift, and he refused to send it to England. That is how the rift between Betrovia and England began, and it was only fifty years ago that there was an attempt to mend it. The chessboard was delivered by the Betrovians at that time, but you know what happened then . . .”