The Moonstone and Miss Jones

by Jillian Stone

  “Phaeton.” He shook his hand and leaned closer. “It seems I missed the most bruising part of the action. Mind filling me in?”

  “The Reapers turned the lab upside down.” Lovecraft offered. “When they didn’t find what they came for, they decided to believe what I had been telling them—”

  “That Gaspar was in possession of the Moonstone.” Lovecraft’s mechanical eyes shifted ever so slightly.

  Phaeton’s jaw muscle twitched. “You realize America is with them?”

  Lovecraft pulled out a pistol and pointed it at Phaeton. “She’s not a priority now that I’ve got you, Phaeton.”

  “Quid pro quo, Lovecraft.” Phaeton backed away.

  “About an hour ago they swarmed down the tunnel heading toward Pennyfields.”

  “And when do we expect the Reapers’ return—or do we?” He felt a charge run through his body as his heart beat harder and faster.

  “As soon as the Moonstone is operational, so to speak, these limbs of Lindsay’s will make him more powerful than any ordinary man—twice as fast and ten times as strong. Then I will build an army of automatons just as powerful.” Lovecraft actually smirked. “And no one from this world or another will ever be able to challenge me again.”

  If the professor’s face didn’t already resemble a piece of raw meat, Phaeton would have gladly added a few lashes. He looked down at Lovecraft’s son. “Ready to be tanked up with potent aether?”

  Lindsay looked weary, ready to die. “This is the last time I will put myself through such a trial. After this, I’m through.”

  Lovecraft leaned far over the chair back. “You’re through when I say you’re through.”

  “You are torturing me!” The son erupted, his anguished voice more of a plea than an accusation.

  Phaeton turned to Tim. “Do we know who exactly is with Gaspar?”

  Tim shook his head. “It doesn’t much matter who all is with him—it’s whether or not they managed to dodge the hordes, mate.”

  “And how is it you’re alive?” Phaeton studied Tim’s unmarked face. “At the very least, avoid a drubbing?”

  Tim shrugged round shoulders “Same way I always do.”

  “He’s our brother.” Life-sized images of both Victor and Oakley materialized on top of a number of crushed factory carts. “Don’t mind us—we’re only projections.” They were full sized and made up of many tiny particles. One of those odd grainy images that were so popular in the Outremer, only this was three-dimensional in effect, as if they were both actually standing upon the overturned wagons. “And the fact is he’s brilliant, which makes him somewhat indispensible.”

  “Of course.” Phaeton tilted his head. “Victor and Oakley are your brothers.”

  “We’re kind of estranged.” Tim’s eyes rolled toward his brothers. “You’ve met them—they’re pushy and arrogant and they each have their own weird agenda.” He shot Phaeton a pudgy-faced grin. “You kind of remind me of Victor—only taller.”

  Tim and his brothers might be alienated, but Phaeton sensed no real animosity, either. “Victor and I do get on, and Oakley reminds me of you—only thinner.”

  Tim continued to grin. “I’d be handsome, wouldn’t I? If I lost a few stone.”

  Lovecraft waved Phaeton away using his revolver. “I want you over there—next to the transport machine.” The professor motioned to his son, who used a separate ramp built for the wheelchair.

  “What is this machine exactly?” Phaeton craned his neck as they neared the behemoth.

  “Opens portals when and where I want them.” Lovecraft flipped a few switches near a large opening. “The portals will eventually have two-way access, powered by enough potent aether.”

  Oakley snorted, “It’s my understanding after you shut down Vauxhall, you couldn’t get the machine calibrated again for our world—excuse me, the Outremer.”

  “Spying, Oakely?” Lovecraft’s alternate eyes narrowed. “He steals all of his best ideas here—sends over his little electronic flies on the wall.”

  “And where are you are sending your guinea pigs, Lovecraft? Have any idea where they might be in the universe? They might never be found again. Lost in the cosmos.”

  Victor caught Phaeton’s eye. “I wouldn’t get too close to that door. There’s an energy field—a vortex that sucks unsuspecting volunteers in.” Victor shifted his gaze briefly to Lovecraft. “I believe that is how you do your recruiting?”

  Phaeton shifted away. “And how goes the rebellion?”

  Victor grinned. “Remember the big bang I mentioned? We took out a huge aether refinery—powers most of Prospero’s machinery. It should have helped some, over here, what with the attack on.” The small man looked about. “Ah, here come the mighty warriors.”

  Everyone swung about—even Tim managed a peek.

  Jersey Blood led the way, followed by Valentine, Gaspar, and America. Cutter and Ruby, in their usual positions, guarded the rear.

  Astounded to see the Nightshades alive, Lovecraft poked the gun muzzle into Phaeton and urged him forward. He hardly noticed the revolver at his back, because he hadn’t taken his eyes off America.

  “Phaeton!” She tried to break away, run to him, but Jersey held onto her. Good man. She appeared tired and dusty, and she never looked more beautiful to him.

  “So what happened to the Reapers?” Phaeton asked them. “I know you’re good but—”

  “They were weaker than normal, right from the start. But they just kept coming—by the time we broke into the tube, they were standing around in a kind of stupor. Not dead exactly but—not really responding to anything, either. We walked right through them to get here.” Jersey shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “They just ran out of juice.”

  Phaeton turned to the dwarf. “I believe I owe you a debt of gratitude, Victor.”

  Lovecraft nodded to Gaspar. “Toss the bag over.”

  Jersey Blood moved to fire up his sword—but nothing happened. The other Shades tried their weapons. Cutter shook his head. “I’m on empty.”

  Lovecraft eyed them all. “This machine is an aether receptor—your force has been usurped. Those weapons are useless here.”

  Gaspar moved toward Lovecraft.

  “Stay where you are—just toss it over.” The professor moved out from behind Phaeton to catch the bag.

  “As you wish.” Gaspar flung the suitcase so hard it hit Lovecraft in the solar plexus, and knocked the breath out of him.

  Gasping for air, Lovecraft pointed the gun at Phaeton and cocked it. “Now Miss Jones.”

  “Don’t. Stay where you are, America.” Phaeton ordered. “He’s not going to shoot me—I’m the one who grants the wishes. He plans to use you to manipulate me.”

  Lovecraft fired the weapon so close to Phaeton’s head, a horrible ringing began in his ear. Slightly incapacitated, Phaeton grimaced in pain.

  America broke away from the Nightshades and ran to him. The moment Lovecraft had America in his clutches he shoved Phaeton off and backed away.

  “Finally—” The sniveling grin was back on Lovecraft’s face. Holding onto America with one arm, he opened up the satchel with the other, which proved a greater task than he could possibly imagine. “I have the Moonstone, Phaeton Black, and Phaeton’s motivator.”

  “The miracles inside the stone cannot be forced—let her go.” Ping walked through a burst of steam and joined Phaeton who was gradually creeping up on Lovecraft.

  Phaeton continued his advance. “And that part about finally having the Moonstone.” He sucked a bit of air through his teeth. “Not exactly true, professor. The Moonstone in that satchel is a fake—a very good copy I must say, but alas, not the real stone.”

  “You’d like me to believe that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Drop the gun, professor.” They all turned toward the new voice in the crowd. Phaeton was relieved to see Inspectors Zander Farrell and Dextor Moore on the platform above them aiming good old-fashioned hardware at the professor.

 
“Well, the gang’s all here—there’s a wine cellar below the lab—be sure to remember us with a toast.” Lovecraft grabbed the satchel and the stone and dragged America into the pre-chamber of the machine. “Come along Phaeton, you’ll cooperate with love in your heart or she goes . . .” Lovecraft’s lunatic smile was back. “Who knows where.”

  Phaeton moved forward slowly. Someone had to wipe that feeble grin off his face. No use prevaricating. Phaeton lunged straight for the professor as bullets flew.

  He shoved America out of harm’s way, just as Lovecraft took several bullets.

  Try as he might, Phaeton could not stop his forward momentum and slid directly into the chamber of the machine—something like hurricane forces whipped up around him as a whirlpool of aether yanked him farther inside.

  America flung herself forward and caught hold of his jacket. “You must let me go, America.”

  “I will not!” As hard as she tried, she could not pull him out. It took all the strength Jersey and Cutter possessed to hold onto America, holding onto him. Her beauty and her bravery stunned even now. “Earlier tonight, I met our child—our daughter.”

  America’s brows lifted. “What did you say?”

  “Her name is Luna. You have to let me go, America.”

  Phaeton did something he didn’t think was possible—he used a bit of potent lift to rip the coat off his back, and then he slipped away. The last thing he saw as he was sucked deeper into the machine was her sweet face. She reached out and screamed, “Phaeton!”

  America fought and kicked and tried so very hard to go after him, but Jersey hauled her into his arms and held her until she promised not to do anything reckless.

  Even after she promised he held onto her wrist with a wary eye.

  Bleeding from several bullet wounds, Lovecraft dragged himself up and pointed his gun. “Watch out, he’s going to fire!” Lindsay’s warning caused Lovecraft to turn the gun on his own son. “You betray me after all I have done for you?”

  “You betrayed me years ago. You did all this for yourself.” Lovecraft’s son nearly choked on his own words. Cutter stepped in front of Lindsay to protect him.

  A second volley of police bullets hit Lovecraft and tossed him against the control panel of the machine. Dead-eyed, the professor slid down the side of the door and threw a switch. The engine made ominous noises that sounded as if it had locked up.

  “Open the door! We must get Phaeton out!” America tried her best to twist out of Jersey’s grip.

  Jersey called on both female Nightshades to try to calm her as he and Cutter went to work. Feverishly they tried to open the doors to the machine. The panel on the door had a number that ticked down. Four. Three. Two. One.

  The countdown was up.

  A low humming noise swelled into a drone that reached ear deafening levels. There was a sudden shift—or sucking noise, then a clunk—then silence.

  “What just happened?” she asked.

  Lovecraft’s son looked up. “He’s gone.”

  America searched faces—from Oakley to Tim. Tim looked to Oakley.

  She ran across the factory floor and up the ramp to the platform. Furious fingers unknotted and unwrapped Tim. “But we can find him, right? We can go after him. Tell me we can find him.” Panicked, and out of breath, America panted, “Please Tim.”

  He looked at her for a long time, so long it made her whimper. She waited for him to nod or say yes—something that might deliver a ray of hope, and could stop her heart from aching inside her chest.

  Tim cleared his throat. “It’s kind of a complicated answer. You sure you want to hear it?”

  She sniffed as she nodded.

  “I’d like to hear this big guy,” Oakley goaded his twin.

  Tim sucked in a deep breath. “There are approximately one hundred billion to one trillion galaxies in the universe, maybe more. And each one has, on average, one hundred billion to one trillion stars. So if you multiply those numbers together, you get between ten sextillion and one septillion stars in the universe . . . times . . . nineteen different dimensions—give or take.” Tim’s eyes rolled upward. “Divided by the number of possible planets with civilizations . . .”

  Oakley snorted. “I doubt whether that hulking contraption reaches half the galaxy.”

  Tim glared at the grainy image.

  “Call me when you wheedle the odds down to a needle in a haystack, bro.”

  She had felt this kind of desolation before in her life. When her mother left her with her father, a stranger at the time. When her father died last year. And this moment—this moment that embodied the possibility of a lifetime without Phaeton.

  Ping approached them with his hands behind his back. “Please remember we have more than science, we have the power to influence the course of events by the use of mysterious, supernatural forces.” He took America’s hands in his and blew a ball of ethereal silver blue light into her palm. “It’s called magic.”

  Epilogue

  DOCTOR EXETER AWOKE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT in a cold sweat. Nothing unusual about it. A good night’s sleep had evaded him for weeks now. He was getting used to feeling a bit ragged during the day. This time, his worried mind had fallen on Pennyfields. His comrades and friends had more than likely been attacked tonight, and it perturbed him to no end. He might have stayed to help Gaspar and the others—not that he would dream of leaving Mia alone.

  Phaeton had insisted he return to Half Moon Street. This was more than a rough patch his ward was going through. Mia was sailing in uncharted waters. And he would be there for her, come what may. Whatever she must endure, he would suffer this passage with her. No matter how frightening these changes became, he would guide her through them.

  The bedchamber was no darker than usual, yet it felt blacker. He was also vaguely aware of a presence in the room. Sensing movement, he sat upright. His gaze swept the carpet, the drapes—the play of tree branches at the window. Nothing. He exhaled, lowering himself down onto his elbows.

  A shadow leapt through the air. Whatever the force was, it hit him and threw him down onto his pillows. Something velvet soft and heavy weighed on his chest, torso, and loins.

  His first thought was he was being attacked by a she-demon. One of the Ryder sisters, perhaps? If it was a succubus—she panted. And each breath was sultry, like the warm body sprawled on top of him.

  Feeling a bit foolish, Exeter opened his eyes.

  A black leopard with green eyes stared at him. A low rumble came from deep inside the large cat—a resonance he felt through his entire body. The animal stretched, and a whiskered nose landed inches from his face. Exeter’s heart pounded blood through his body. The cat opened its mouth and bared long vis-cious-looking teeth.

  A long pink tongue emerged and licked.

  If you enjoyed The Moonstone and Miss Jones, learn how Phaeton Black and America Jones’s adventures began in

  The Seduction of Phaeton Black

  A Brava trade paperback on sale now.

  Turn the page for a special excerpt!

  Chapter One

  4 FEBRUARY 1889

  SCOTLAND YARD, SECRET BRANCH

  MEMORANDUM TO: E. CHILCOTT

  FROM: Z. FARRELL

  RE: AGENT REASSIGNMENT

  Believe I have located Phaeton Black. Appears to have let a flat below Madam Parker’s brothel. Though the suggestion will undoubtedly cause you pain, I must continue to recommend Phaeton as the best man for this unusual case.

  “OH, PLEASE NO, MADAM, HE IS A BEAST,” THE HARLOT WAILED. “I beg of you, Mrs. Parker, do not send me down to Mr. Black.”

  Phaeton Black turned his back on the hubbub, and paced the length of corridor between the foyer and staircase. A sultry sway of hip caught his eye. A luscious copper-colored wench descended the stairs. Her dark eyes lusty, curious, she ventured closer. “Fancy adding another dollymop, sir?”

  Slouched against the stair rail, he swept a lazy gaze over her every curve. “Yes, why not? The more the me
rrier.” He ducked his head around the corner and caught a glimpse of the bickering females in the salon. “We are waiting, my timid little sparrow.”

  The pretty whore beside him tilted an ear toward the clamor and quirked a brow. “Lucy?”

  The din from the parlor hardly dampened his grin. “I believe so.”

  Right on cue, the reluctant whore let loose a shriek that pricked up the ears of every hound in the neighborhood. “I promise I’ll work double the number of gents, just don’t send me—”

  “Hush, Lucy, before you have all the customers in an uproar.” Esmeralda Parker stood just inside the parlor, arms crossed under an ample chest.

  His stare trailed the baroque details of velvet flock-work wallpaper. “Does my reputation precede me?”

  “Oh yes, something the size of an elephant’s trunk, sir.” The cocotte flashed a flirty smile.

  He foraged back in his mind through a blur of absinthe and opium. “How long has it been since I rented the flat below stairs?”

  “Near a week, Mr. Black.”

  He sighed. “I toss up a few petticoats, just to try out the wares, and already I am obliged to face down frightfully depraved and exaggerated rumors.”

  “Not a bad thing if you ask me, sir. Pay no mind to Lucy. She’s a nervous little goose—believes everything she hears. Hasn’t yet figured out a girl can pretty much work any size in, as long as she has a bit o’ sloppy down there.”

  He dropped his head back against the wall, angling his gaze at the bronze beauty. He patted his leg. “Come closer.”

  She pressed against him and rubbed.

  “Lovely.”

  The whining and whimpering from the parlor continued unabated.

  “And your name is?”

  “Mason, sir.”

  “What kind of a name is—?”

  “Mason.” She sucked in a breath and pushed her breasts up and out at him.

  Mentally, he undressed her voluptuous curves. Cheeky tof-fer, this one.