The Moonstone and Miss Jones

by Jillian Stone

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “SUDDEN MOOD CHANGES, emotional outbursts, unexpected tears . . .” Phaeton buttered a piece of toast. “The most fearful trials a man can face in this life.” America was avoiding his gaze. He waited for the stunning tawny beauty sitting beside Exeter to look up. Would she glower or grin?

  She smiled and once more everything went right in his world. She wore a simple gown with a pretty swath of pale yellow fabric that ended in a bow above her bustle. Underneath the virginal frock, however, he knew for a fact she wore the violet lace v-string pantie.

  Good God, she had no idea how much she excited him. What a joy she was to have as a companion. How much he loved her. He had been held against his will on that ship for two months. Despite the occasional evening of cards and grog, he’d had plenty of time to think. About his life. About her. Mostly how much he missed her.

  And that little outburst of hers over the lap dance—adorable. She was hot blooded, passionate, and he wouldn’t have her any other way. And if things were reversed, if she’d been out half the night, clubbing with Valentine and Ruby—men rubbing up and down her . . . Phaeton swallowed. The prurient, devilish side of him supposed he wouldn’t mind it so much as long as he could watch. The side that was about to become a father, however, wanted throw a punch at any man who touched her.

  Something hit him out of the blue. In those two months at sea, they’d missed celebrating her birthday. America had turned . . . twenty-one, or twenty-two?

  Phaeton smiled. They really needed a night out together to celebrate.

  “So—what do we do now? Do we continue to search over there?” Ruby’s question broke into his thoughts.

  “We wait for one of the succubi to contact us,” Phaeton answered.

  Jersey agreed. “The Moonstone is not with the RALS. The rat hordes have been exterminated.”

  “Or they’ve run out of steam—aether—whatever they run on.” Cutter’s eyepiece levered up. “Like the dead one we found in the air shaft.”

  Phaeton eased back from the table. “Meanwhile, I thought we might call on Tim Noggy. See if he’s had a chance to dissect the helmet.” Phaeton connected with Exeter. “Would you mind putting us up a bit longer? Your place is a good deal more accommodating than the flat below Mrs. Parker’s.”

  Mia brightened. “Oh yes, please invite them to stay,” Exeter’s young charge pleaded. “I do so enjoy the female company. America, Ruby, and of course, Valentine.” The girl lowered her voice. “Please, Om Asa.”

  “You are all welcome for the duration, however long it takes.” The doctor discarded his napkin and rose from the table. “Might I accompany you to Mr. Noggy’s laboratory, Phaeton?”

  “I was just going to ask if you could come along—shall we?” Phaeton turned to America. “Are you well, and am I forgiven or tolerated?”

  America had already moved her seat to cozy up to her new bosom friends. “Which would you like, dear?” She looked up at him with the most beguiling smile.

  “I take that to mean, run along darling, so . . .” Phaeton grinned, “I will.”

  There was something even more wretched about this latest laboratory of Tim Noggy’s. It was situated directly above the noxious fumes of a book binder’s guild, in a narrow row south of the Strand. Phaeton jogged to catch up with Exeter’s long strides. “One of our old stakeout spots is just around this bend.”

  He and the doctor turned the corner and ran directly into Tim Noggy running toward them. “Grubbers, two of them coming up right behind me.” Large as he was, Tim hid behind Jersey and Cutter, whose daggers were already unfolding into claymore sized weapons. Swords that could cut through a Grubber as if it were steamed pudding.

  Phaeton hadn’t seen one up close until now, but he agreed, Grubbers did look a bit like a blob of steamed pudding. Jersey and Cutter caught them in a diagonal crossfire. No ball of light this time. No small pellets of energy. This time they used streams of energy to hold the Grubbers in place, until they melted into a pool of sludge.

  Remnant energy crackled over the dark stains on the pavers until both imprints vanished completely. “Those swords are fierce.” Tim peeked over Jersey’s shoulder. “Thanks; if you hadn’t come along they would have swarmed me.”

  “Thank Phaeton.” Jersey’s sword folded down to dagger size. “He’s the one who wanted to check on you.”

  Tim turned to Phaeton. “Really?”

  “I wouldn’t read too much into it . . .” Phaeton stared at the husky young man. “I just wanted to stop by and see what you’ve found out about the helmet.”

  “Plenty.” Tim raised both brows. “I have this fear of Grubbers—ever since my lab assistant got swarmed by one.” Tim led the way upstairs. “The worst thing about them is that they have this ability to dissolve into the most miniature of particles—like sub-atomic level, if you know what this is.” He looked around at blank faces.

  “Anyway, once they’re in these trillions of tiny pieces, so small you can’t see them with our best microscope, then they permeate a person’s body and dissolve their victims from the inside out.” Tim fit a rather complex-looking key into the lock. “And here’s the creepiest thing about it—for a while, the person with the Grubber inside just walks around—talks, eats, sleeps—until they’re drained of all their aether.”

  Noggy opened the door and gestured them inside. One by one they filed in. A single long worktable filled most of the space except for the customary cot and cold closet at the back of the room. Lined up like heads on pikes outside Bishop’s Gate were eight helmets. All in various stages of construction.

  “Check this out—after you left yesterday, I removed the helmet lining and examined the fabric carefully. What do you think I found?” He offered a seat to Exeter in front of a large black tubular apparatus. Phaeton recognized the instrument as a microscope; he’d seen one in the doctor’s laboratory.

  Exeter bent over an eyepiece and made an adjustment. “I see a mass of hexagonal cells, like a honeycomb of bees, only much smaller.”

  “Miniature energy cells—wrapped around your head.” Tim lifted up the helmet. “The leathery tentacles on the original helmet are receptors—like radio antennae, they pick up signals as well as energy.” Tim turned to Cutter and Jersey. “When you fought these things, did you ever feel drained? Like you just wanted to take a nap?”

  “Knackered.” Cutter looked over to the captain. “You, Jersey?”

  The Nightshade leader weighed the question. “Not during a fight—but a good amount of fatigue after.”

  Tim studied Jersey. “You’re also part demon, mate. You’ve got some built-in protection.”

  Exeter swiveled the stool he was sitting on. “Radio transmission is in its infancy here, in our time—how much more advanced are they in the Outremer?”

  Tim’s eyes flicked up toward the ceiling.“Your guess is as good as mine, Doc.”

  Exeter didn’t let up. “Take a guess.”

  “A hundred years . . . maybe more.” The oversized young inventor shook his head. “But that doesn’t mean that we’re going to evolve at their speed. We could go faster, or slower.”

  Phaeton stared. “So, we could be stuck with steam engines forever.”

  Tim shook back a mop of hair that had fallen in his face. “I don’t think so.”

  Exeter stretched his legs out. “And why don’t you think so, Mr. Noggy?”

  “Doc—call me Tim.” The young inventor crossed his arms over a broad chest. “Because you’ve crossed a few thresholds—steam conversion, the internal combustion engine, electricity, the electromagnetic field.” A smallish grin surfaced on their affable friend. “You’re on your way.”

  Jersey raised a skeptical brow. “On our way to where?”

  Phaeton peered into a basket full of fruit on the worktable. “May I have a tangerine?”

  “Help yourself, mate.” Tim nodded. “They’re from Spain—flown here on an airship. Two crazy Frenchmen Gaspar knows.”

&nb
sp; “It seems to me we have a big problem with a whole lot of unanswered questions, so let’s start with what we know.” As he peeled the fruit, Phaeton organized his thoughts out loud. “Are we sure we know the Reapers’ main purpose, besides reconnaissance?”

  Cutter spoke up. “They also run squads of assassins and patrol the Outremer.”

  “Who’d they assassinate?”

  “About ten of our best scientists, so far.”

  “Why haven’t we heard about it?” Phaeton asked.

  “Because they make it look like an accident or a heart attack.” Tim suddenly looked a little wild-eyed.

  “Reapers strike me as too predatory for that sort of ruse,” Exeter straightened. “Detective Inspector Zander Farrell popped by last night. Had a brandy and dessert with us. He mentioned a number of untimely deaths. Gentlemen mostly; he never mentioned their professions.”

  Phaeton separated a section of fruit. “Let me guess, after a few exhumations and an autopsy or two, they discovered the deaths were from suffocation.”

  Exeter nodded. “Seems the Ryder sisters are on the job, and Scotland Yard is interested in following up on your lead, Phaeton. Detective Farrell has assigned a Dexter Moore to the case.

  Phaeton didn’t much care for the idea of Dexter Moore sniffing around, especially since he was so taken with America. “Why did Zander pick Dexter Moore for the job?” he groused. “He knows we don’t get on.”

  Exeter explained to the others. “Phaeton is a bit testy around Inspector Moore. The detective helped recover two of America’s stolen ships, then he indirectly got involved with a case Phaeton and I worked on.”

  “Gaspar told us—the Ripper goddess, concubine to Anubis, the one who gifted the Moonstone to Phaeton.” As Tim spoke he sidled over to Phaeton. “Any left?”

  He handed over a few sections. “Let me deal with Moore. I’ll find something to keep him busy.” Phaeton scratched his beard. “Where was I? Ah yes, the Grubbers. I take it these creatures are ordered to abduct us as well as suck the life out of us. So why are they still around? Why did they attack Tim just now? And who gave us the impression that the maker—or whoever—had called off the Reapers and Grubbers?” Phaeton looked around.

  Tim hesitated, and looked to Jersey. “Gaspar might be doing some wishful thinking.”

  Exeter quirked a brow. “What makes you say that?”

  “You’re the doc. What happens to a person when they start to unravel?”

  Phaeton’s gaze narrowed. “Have you ever examined him, Jason?”

  Exeter shook his head. “He doesn’t let me get very close.” “Has anyone seen Gaspar lately, besides Ping?” Phaeton looked around. “Where is Ping?” He was sure Ping had been with them in the alley—but had he followed them upstairs?

  Jersey checked the corridor outside the flat. Nothing.

  No one was alarmed, exactly. Ping was a thousand times more capable than any creature he might run across. And he often disappeared, returning minutes or hours later. In that way, Ping was a bit like Edvar, who had made himself rather scarce these days.

  Phaeton walked around the end of the workbench. “Time for a big question. Is it possible that we could become infected by whatever is causing the alternate world’s demise—this unraveling?”

  Curious as well, Exeter looked around the room. “Can anyone here get me closer to Gaspar? I need to do an examination. Study what is going on with him.”

  Tim exhaled. “Gaspar trusts me . . . I think. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Phaeton looked each one of them in the eye before asking question two. “What makes us so sure that the Outremer isn’t us? Our future—a hundred plus years from now?”

  “That would mean that the space-time continuum is real, not something H. G. Wells thought up. That it is possible to fold space back on itself.” Tim raised both eyebrows and looked to Exeter, whose gaze moved to Cutter, Jersey, then settled on Phaeton.

  Tim shook his head. “Nah, I don’t think so, mate.”

  “How is that any less plausible than a parallel London that is forced to cannibalize another London to keep itself alive?” Phaeton exhaled. Loudly. “Perhaps we should label them London A and London B.”

  Jersey moved to the window and stood behind the drape of a tattered curtain. “Best finish up any business you have here.”

  Phaeton examined the row of helmets. “Why make so many?”

  “For us—for protection.” The young inventor picked one up. “These helmets don’t do just one thing—they do a lot of things, which will take years, even decades, to figure out.”

  “But . . .” Tim waggled his brows. “There’s about a hundred microscopic layers of the honeycomb stuff inside the helmet. It takes only one or two layers of the stuff to block the dark matter in the aether.”

  Phaeton pulled Tim aside. “How do you know?”

  “Because I tested it last night—on myself.” Tim looked about furtively. “Don’t tell the Nightshades, but I get seasick when I’m over there. Also there’s this buzzing in my ears. Gives me a headache that lasts for days. So, I wrapped a couple of layers inside my bowler and took a quick trip over last night and guess what? Nothing. No nausea. No ear pain.” Tim waggled his brows. “No unraveling.”

  Phaeton stared at him. “A shield of some kind.” He sidled close and spoke quietly. “Might you be able to stitch a length of that fabric together—enough to make a shawl to wrap around someone?”

  Wheels turned behind eyes made smaller by pudgy cheeks. “I guess so. When do you need it?”

  Phaeton grinned. “Tonight, at dusk.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  AMERICA BLEW A LAYER OF DUST OFF what appeared to be a serviceable desk in the office space for let. “Here it is ladies, 21-A Shaftesbury Court. I’m afraid it’s a bit musty at the moment.” Esmeralda opened a window to let in some air. “I gave up on rent for this space”—she clapped her hands—“it hasn’t been occupied in years.”

  America thought the lack of interest had a great deal to do with the shop’s proximity to Esmeralda Parker’s—the most infamous brothel in all of London. She peeked into a closet. “Does our flat adjoin this space?”

  Esmeralda pointed to a storage closet under the stairs. “We could easily add a pass through below the landing. At one time, there was a dentist in here—grisly old Drake himself used to have gentlemen dragged in here. The dentist would remove gold teeth—inlays, anything to repay their gambling debts.” The brothel madam nudged the brass kick plate and the door creaked open. America led the way outside and up a few steps to the sidewalk.

  Ruby squinted at the gaming hall down the street. “Quite a brutal way to call in your markers.”

  Esmeralda blinked in the bright sun. “And effective.”

  America paid little attention to the ladies’ conversation; rather she pictured a sign . . . hanging just about—there. And a crisp navy blue awning over the door. She whirled around. “I’ll take it.”

  “You’re sure?” Esmeralda asked.

  America inhaled a deep breath. “Positive.”

  “What do you have in mind, America? A shop of some kind?”

  “Moonstone Investigations. A private agency specializing in . . . ”

  Esmeralda grinned. “The very unusual?”

  “I’ll keep the sign small,” America added. “I don’t wish to scare off your customers.”

  “Good afternoon, ladies.”

  All three women turned toward the familiar voice. Shading her eyes to see better, America recognized the face. “Inspector Moore. You’ve arrived just in time to celebrate.”

  “Whatever you’re up to, Miss Jones, it is bound to be exciting. ”

  “Inspector Moore,” Esmeralda greeted the detective without a sign of trepidation. Why should she? According to Phaeton, Mrs. Parker enjoyed special protection in exchange for the girls’ services as occasional night crawlers or honey pots for Scotland Yard.

  “Come, I shall make us up a nice tea in the flat.
” America started back. “I believe there is also a bottle of whiskey, if you’d rather.”

  “Tea would be lovely at this hour.” Dexter doffed his bowler.

  Esmeralda parted ways at the stairs. “Strange noises coming from down there last night—laughter, and a great deal of moaning and carrying on.” The madam lifted both brows. “See what you can do about it?”

  Dexter kindled a fire in the stove and put a kettle on. “I take it you and Phaeton are staying with Jason Exeter?” The detective was snooping around for a reason.

  America sensed something, a flutter of shadow against the ceiling. Perhaps she’d give him something sensational to report back to the Yard. “No room in this small flat since we’ve been assigned bodyguards.” America added ground leaves to the teapot and set out a plate of biscuits. “Phaeton is working on an important case.”

  “I see.” The inspector frowned. “Dangerous enough that you are also in jeopardy?”

  “I don’t believe you’ve met Ruby.” America smiled across the table. “I have her to protect me today.”

  Dexter appeared unimpressed. “And who has assigned these bodyguards? Surely not the Yard—”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss much about the case,” she cautioned.

  Dexter joined Ruby at the table who was nibbling a biscuit. America added a fourth cup and laid a finger to her lips. “We have a visitor.”

  Dexter Moore reached in his pocket and set his revolver on the table. America stared. “You can’t shoot her.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Because—she’s a succubus and they don’t die.” Ruby poured hot water into the teapot to steep. “They’re closely related to demons . . . I think.” She rolled her eyes upward. “Anyway, you have to banish them—send them back to their world. Or trick them, which is hard to do.” The challenge in Ruby’s eyes seemed to be directed at the detective. “They’re clever.”

  Dexter’s gaze lingered on Ruby, before returning to America. “And your idea is to invite her to tea?”

  America shushed him. “She must believe it is her idea.”