The Moonstone and Miss Jones

by Jillian Stone

  Ruby gently dabbed a cloth around the eye. “I’m going to borrow a bit of arnica cream from the pantry—it will help the chafing.” She stood up and he caught her hand. America could have sworn he wanted to say something—perhaps ask her something, but he didn’t. With his chin tilted up, America noted the marks around his throat—as if he had been hung from the neck and had lived to tell about it. He just held Ruby’s hand another moment and gradually let go.

  America blinked back tears. What sort of a cruel monster could have done such a thing? The very thought of a powerful unseen enemy in the Outremer made her tremble. One who might stop at nothing to obtain the Moonstone and Phaeton. She tiptoed up the stairs and took Valentine by the hand. She continued climbing upward, toward the doxies’ rooms, but stopped midpoint.

  “Ruby is bathing Cutter.”

  “In that little tub of yours?”

  “I caught a glimpse of long muscular legs, before . . .” America’s smile faded.

  Valentine stared. “He let her take his helmet off.”

  She swallowed. “What kind of savage fiend would do such a thing?”

  “Men either hungry for more power or terrified of losing it.” Valentine’s gaze seemed far away. “Gaspar hired us several months ago—not long after you and Phaeton sailed for the Orient.” Valentine leaned against the banister. “I suspect that the hunt was on, the moment the Moonstone surfaced—word travels fast among the powerful of any time and place.”

  “Gaspar named the maker Prospero, and thought he could strike a deal with the fiend. But once he unleashed his stealth army—the Reapers and Grubbers—he used his minions to suck the life out of this world. It seems his plan was to use the aether accumulated from this world to shield himself from the unraveling.”

  America snorted. “And how is that working for him?”

  Valentine joined her with a smirk. “The more aether he removes from here—the more unraveling happens on the other side. The Grubber foraging has lessened, and as you’ve noted, he confines his attacks to Phaeton or . . .

  “Go ahead, you can say it—or me.” America exhaled. “Phaeton has always felt a strong connection with the Outremer. Why can’t we find a way—” A sweep of pale, silvery particles circled the chandelier above the staircase landing. She met Valentine’s gaze and flicked her eyes upward.

  Valentine studied her a moment. “It’s the flighty little succubus again, isn’t it?”

  A musical laugh resolved itself into a smile, which balanced on the staircase newel. America smiled. “Very clever Fleury, just like the Cheshire Cat.”

  The succubus draped herself along the railing beside them. “I have another message for Mr. Black.”

  America nodded. “Would you like to send a wire to Phaeton—like we did last time?’

  The young succubus fluttered an eye roll. “That stuffy old office full of clerks? Would you please deliver the message for me?”

  “I’m rather busy today, Fleury,” America played hard to get, “but I suppose . . .”

  “Oh please Miss Jones, I would be entirely indebted to you.”

  “All right then, I shall gladly see that Mr. Black gets your message—if you in kind deliver a message to Georgiana and your parents from me.”

  The juvenile succubus sat up and blinked. “Victor requires a brief meeting with Phaeton. Come alone to Highgate Cemetery anytime after dusk.”

  America nodded. “Is that it?”

  “No, there’s more.” As lackadaisical as you please, Fleury swept a fey wisp of hair behind her ear. “My sister Velvet says to prepare for an attack.”

  “What kind of attack?” Valentine rose from the steps. “On this side?”

  “Mmm . . . I believe so.” The girl giggled and began to fade.

  America raised her voice. “Fleury come back—I have a message for you.”

  The curious girl remerged.

  “Tell your parents that they must control Georgiana—for the time being—until we can find a less lethal form of recreation for her. No more sucking the life out of men in their sleep. Scotland Yard is terribly upset and might use their . . . succubus. . . extinguisher on her.” America did her best to look anguished and distressed. Not difficult considering the girl’s message. “You wouldn’t want Georgiana to be extinguished—would you?”

  “I might have to think about that,” the flighty little vixen mused. Valentine quietly backed down the steps one foot behind the other. “I’m feeling rather cross with Georgiana today; all my green ribbons went missing this morning,” Fleury sniffed.

  “I’m sure if you ask politely your trinkets will be returned.” America also retreated. “Until tomorrow, Fleury.”

  She flew down the stairs after Valentine. They both landed in the flat in time to see Cutter pull on his undershirt. America gawked slightly at the sight of him. She had never seen a man’s chest as muscled and smooth as his. Though she preferred Phaeton’s body, it was quite astonishing to see a man who looked like one of the Greek statues in the British Museum.

  “We’ve just had a rather disquieting chat with Fleury upstairs,” she stuttered. “There is to be some sort of attack we are to prepare for.”

  Cutter frowned. The familiar sound of his helmet parts whirled and clicked quietly. “Pennyfields is the safest place to hunker down in—and there are several Underground passages we can use to escape, should we get overrun.”

  Valentine fastened on her cloak. “I’ll see about a carriage.”

  “We can take mine.” The imposing Doctor Exeter stood on the landing. “I was worried. No one came down to breakfast this morning, so I thought I’d pop in.”

  America sighed with relief. “You are a godsend, Jason.”

  On the ride to Pennyfields, America did her best to fill the doctor in on the events of last evening, including Lovecraft’s threat to shoot them. “The man needs a good long break in a sanitarium,” Exeter shook his head. “He hides his son away—but I wonder if the young man might not be helpful in this matter.”

  America grimaced. “I’m afraid we may be too late for the asylum. You have yet to hear the worst of it. Just before you arrived we received communiqués from Fleury Ryder.”

  “One of the Ryder sisters,” Exeter remarked. “The succubi Detective Moore is after.”

  America nodded. “She’s rather a flighty, gossipy little thing, but has thus far been both accurate and timely with her messages. There is to be an attack—I surmise it is because Lovecraft believes Phaeton and Gaspar have the Moonstone.”

  “The fact that an attack is even rumored about in the Outremer means Prospero is involved.” Cutter shook his head. He appeared anxious, keyed up, like a soldier ready for battle. America thought about the torture Cutter had been put through—how could he not be ready for a fight?

  Exeter frowned. “If the professor is waging war, he will need Prospero’s army of minions.” The carriage slowed in the lane and came to a halt outside 55 Pennyfields. They all piled out of the vehicle and were quickly escorted down into Gaspar’s study.

  The Nightshades’ leader studied their faces. “So, they are coming.”

  Cutter tossed off his cape. “A combined attack, by Lovecraft and Prospero. They want the stone—they know you have it. This also happens to be the most defensible place to be. The only other viable strategy would be to cut and run.”

  Phaeton sat up. “Personally? I’m for cutting and running. What happens if they overtake this place?”

  “There are many escape passages below us—tunnels no one knows anything about except for myself and Ping.” Gaspar seemed less unnerved than anyone, but then he faced every pitfall, every crack in the walk of the life, the same way. As if all things were possible.”

  America stepped forward. “There was also a message from Victor. He asks that Phaeton meet him at dusk in Highgate Cemetery.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  PHAETON STEPPED THROUGH THE EAST ENTRANCE of Highgate Cemetery and experienced a fuzzy moment. Behind him i
n the strange mist that moved between worlds he heard Tim Noggy’s voice saying, “You’re in, mate.”

  Agitated and in a hurry, Phaeton looked around and recognized the entrance to Egyptian Avenue—an old haunt in the cemetery. “Victor,” he called out.

  Highgate looked more or less like the last time he had been there. A little less wreckage, perhaps. Six months ago he had wrapped up a case at Highgate with Exeter. An irritable Egyptian goddess had wreaked havoc up and down the avenue of crypts until her husband had been restored to her.

  Phaeton continued on past tombs and burial chambers, but turned up nothing—just a sly fox that crossed his path. The prick-eared creature stopped and stared before leaping through a bit of tall grass and into the woodlands that encroached on all parts of the cemetery.

  After a search of Egyptian Avenue, he decided to jog through the Circle of Lebanon. The crescent row of crypts reminded Phaeton of a curve of pristine terrace houses in Regent’s Park—only dead people resided in these little units.

  “Victor!” he shouted.

  Dusk was turning to twilight—the few minutes of the day when the sky wasn’t completely dark, but evening had yet to begin. Whatever Victor had to say, it had better be fast. He needed to return to Pennyfields to protect America and his friends.

  Phaeton stopped a moment to consider the word. Friends.

  He had come to think of this odd bunch of cohorts as friends, people he cared a good deal about. He had never allowed himself the luxury of many friends, and certainly not close ones—bosom buddies and the like. But now he had Exeter and Mia. And Mr. Ping. As well as the Nightshades—Jersey, Valentine, Cutter, Ruby. Tim Noggy—even Gaspar. Christ, he had even begun to think about Victor with a certain amount of . . . attachment. Frankly, this new aspect of his life disturbed. How had he let this happen? He was a loner. A misfit. A tortured soul. Wasn’t he?

  He cupped his mouth to call out again.

  “I heard you from Egyptian Avenue.” The voice had a bit of an echo but he was sure it was the homunculus. Phaeton whirled around. No sign of the small man.

  “You called the meeting, Victor, and here I am. What shall it be tonight?” Phaeton wandered back in the direction of the voice. “I’m hoping you might be in the mood for a bit more storytelling. Perhaps an anecdote or two about the maker, who currently goes by the name of Prospero in our world.”

  “You continue to pick the most romantic names for our side—now it’s Shakespeare’s tortured magician.” Victor stepped out from between two pillars wearing a tuxedo.

  “Gaspar’s the starry-eyed romantic, not me.” Intrigued by Victor’s appearance, he moved closer. “You’re looking dapper this evening.”

  Victor grinned. “They say wearing all black elongates.”

  Phaeton remained at the bottom of the steps, which put them eye to eye. “Perhaps your message got garbled—dear Fleury, she does her best—but there was nothing said about a white tie affair . . .”

  “The mice are away tonight, but the cat remains at home—hosting a charity soirée, bless the maker’s little heart. I’m planning a disruption—something explosive, as a matter of fact.”

  Phaeton studied him. “Sounds . . . lethal . . .”

  “If we are successful, I will very likely have to go underground—for a considerable length of time.” Victor dipped into the shadows and reappeared with a satchel nearly identical to the one that held the Moonstone copy.

  “You’ve given me hope, Phaeton. With this stone, I believe you are going to restore my world. And if that is, indeed, to be the case, we shall begin anew with fewer bad characters in charge.”

  “By the way,” Phaeton lifted his gaze from the satchel. “Thanks for the warning; we assume the attack will come sometime tonight.” Phaeton squinted at the dwarf. “What can you tell me about this unholy confederacy between Prospero and Lovecraft?”

  “They both lie quite effectively.” Victor reached inside his jacket and removed a leather cigar case. “Care for a smoke?”

  “No, thank you—not much of a smoker.” Phaeton frowned. “So . . . what’s the scheme? What do you believe they’re hiding?”

  Victor struck a safety match on the pillar. “They both claim to want the Moonstone for altruistic reasons . . .” He puffed on the cigar. “But what stops either one from a darker, more profitable purpose? Remember these two are moguls of industry. I know how these men think, I was raised by one—my brother runs a high technology company. The other is an inventor.”

  Phaeton blinked. “A mogul, a scientist, and a rebel—interesting family.”

  “ ‘Long Live the Queen’ or ‘Shoes for Industry’—whichever slogan you prefer.” Victor exhaled pale gray smoke. “Suppose for a moment these industry tyrants get a hold of the stone, I suspect they’ll keep it in the private sector—so much more efficient than creating another government office. Perhaps they’ll sell subscriptions. Those who can afford it—pay to keep their house from unraveling.”

  “Or their brain.” Phaeton thought about the vast potential for profit. “Lovecraft could make a bloody fortune selling prosthetic limbs.” Victor relaxed against a fluted pillar. “Since I am a very rich, self-funded rebel, I might decide to add a bit of height to my stature.” He grinned. “Never too old to grow a few inches.”

  Phaeton picked up the satchel. “Sure you want to give me this? I’m headed into conflict, once I get back.” Distressed at the thought of what lay ahead for both of them, he turned to leave.

  “Why such a long face?” Victor called from the steps of the crypt.

  He turned back briefly to glower at the dwarf.

  “Chin up, your darkest hours have yet to come, Phaeton. Just remember—I have faith in you.”

  “Bugger off, Victor.”

  Phaeton took the woodland path out of the cemetery—the fastest way to meet up with Chester Road—where he’d look for a pub called the Duke’s Head. Though the path was lit by moonlight, he hit a dark patch and ran straight into the North gate, which was closed and . . .

  “Bloody locked.”

  Nothing left but to use a bit of relic dust and champagne. Phaeton gripped the satchel and readied himself for a leap. An easy jump—not more than seven or eight feet at the gate’s highest point. Whenever he used this special manipulation of aether, he always felt more of an upward pulling sensation than a thrust from below.

  “Careful—the gate’s higher than it looks.”

  The voice was young, female. Phaeton pivoted slowly. Squinting into the darkness, he spied a silhouette—standing beside two grave markers. She spoke again: “You wouldn’t want to rip your knickers.”

  The cloaked figure came forward. A sliver of pale luminescence bathed her face with a hint of dappled shadow from the leaves overhead. The entire effect was supernatural, only this was unearthly in a new and different way.

  The ethereal beauty smiled at him. What was it about her—something vaguely familiar. Phaeton studied the flawless skin, the high cheekbones, and the slanted, golden-green eyes. He swallowed.

  “Hello, father.”

  Phaeton suddenly went a bit lightheaded and woozy in the knees. He had never experienced a sensation quite like it before. Perhaps once, when Exeter had taken some of his blood during a transfusion, but this was . . . different.

  He ventured closer and quirked an ear. “Come again?”

  “You look just like your photographs—only more handsome, if that’s possible.”

  Unsure, puzzled, and slightly pleased, Phaeton tilted his head. “Might I ask . . . your name?”

  “Luna Black.”

  He must have swayed slightly—looked as though he might tip over, for the dear girl reached out and caught hold of his arm. “How did you—know to find me here?” He glanced to either side of her.

  “I come here often. The wood is peaceful, and I have no fear of the dead. In fact, I commune frequently with the spirits of the past, as well as the future.”

  Her mouth was not quite as full as h
er mother’s but she had that lovely cupid’s bow, and he assumed there was a dimple as well. His mind whirled at all the possible scenarios that might explain this chance encounter with his grown—or nearly grown—daughter. “How old are you, exactly?”

  “Seventeen—I’ll be eighteen this fall. I take courses at London University. Ancient Civilization, mostly. One day I will go on an expedition, explore tombs—dig up dead bodies.” She grinned a bit sheepishly.

  Yes, there it was—she had her mother’s dimple. “Speaking of the dead.” His heart raced a little. “Am I . . . dead?”

  “Mother said you’d be blunt, as well as direct.” She hadn’t used his name in past tense, but then she wasn’t meeting his gaze either. “We lost you a very long time ago to another world. Then we got you back, only to lose you again—you’ve been gone for some time, now.”

  “And your mother, is she . . . well cared for?”

  “You left us well provided for. And she is a wonderful mother—so very beautiful and cheerful and resilient.”

  Phaeton nodded. “Yes, she is all of those things.”

  “But I know she misses you. Will you come home soon father?”

  He had never experienced heartache to the depth of anguish that he was feeling in this moment, as though his heart had been ripped out of his chest. When he spoke, finally, he hardly recognized the husky voice that answered her question.

  “We are having this discussion through the mists of time, so I don’t know how to answer you—exactly.” Phaeton tipped up his bowler and scratched his head. “It’s rather difficult explaining behavior one can only guess about, yet I want to say that if I am not with you and your mother, then there must be a very good reason. Perhaps, to keep you out of harm’s way.”

  Luna’s eyes watered. “Mother has always said she thought you did this to protect us.”

  “She knows, then—well that is some relief.” Phaeton managed a strained smile. “She was always wickedly intuitive as well as brilliant—ahead of me in most ways.”

  Phaeton sensed she felt a bit awkward, as he did—yet they both marveled in each other’s presence. “I was just on my way back to Pennyfields to help defend your mother and friends. There is an attack under way—some dreadful creatures from a parallel London . . .” He stopped himself. “It’s a long story.” Phaeton studied her closely—she was perhaps an inch or two taller than America. “Might I hold you?”