The Clockwork Scarab: A Stoker & Holmes Novel

by Colleen Gleason

  I’d have to keep my voice low and masculine, my cap on, and act like everyone else. With all the cursing and whooping going on, it didn’t seem as if it would be too difficult.

  I made my way to the counter, where a slender, bewhiskered man darted about filling drink orders. “I’m looking for Old Cap Mago,” I said in a gruff voice.

  The man flipped a thumb toward the arm-wrestling corner. “Over there.”

  The men were shouting and crowing, jostling each other to get a better view. Money changed hands, and bets were called out. Being short and slender, I could squeeze through the crowd to see the contest.

  The participant facing me was tall and dark-skinned. His bald head gleamed in the light, and he wore a gold hoop in one ear. He was the size of a house, but all muscle and height. Moisture glistened over his forehead and a bare, tattooed arm. There was an anchor inked on his skin. I’m certain if Miss Holmes had been there, she could have given me the man’s entire history at one glance.

  His fingers curled around a tanned, more elegant hand than his ham-like one, and the muscle in his upper arm bulged like a small, dark melon. The bigger man looked as if he’d easily win the contest, but as I knew, appearances could be deceiving.

  The opponent, whose back was to me, also had sleek, well-defined arm muscles, exposed by the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. I could see his shoulders move and shift beneath the white fabric. A short, dark club of hair showed from beneath his cap. Even though he was in the midst of a tense battle, he laughed and talked to the spectators. When he turned to jeer at the other man, I caught a glimpse of chin and mouth.

  Pix.

  Well, now. I started pushing closer to place my own bet, but then I had a brilliant idea. Turning to the man standing closest to me, I said, “I want to challenge the winner.”

  He looked me up and down. “Ye wouldn’t last a minute wi’ either one of ’em, lad. And ain’t no one gonna bet on a snakesman like ye.”

  “I’ll take on all the bets,” I said, thinking of the pouch in my pocket. “If I lose, I’ll pay them all.”

  Pix had taken me by surprise twice already, showing up in unexpected places and catching me off guard. Then he’d slunk back into the shadows, leaving me gawking after him. Now it was my turn to set him off balance.

  A loud roar erupted. “Winnah!” The small crowd surged closer and then retreated.

  “Now, damme, ye made me miss it!” grumbled the man next to me. “Who won?” he shouted over the uproar, then turned away in disgust. “Damn. Pix lost me two pound notes this time!”

  “Pix lost?” I couldn’t help but grin with satisfaction.

  “No, dammit, ye fool. ’E won. ’E always wins. I thought f’sure that bloke would have pinned ’is ’and down.”

  My grin grew broader. Now I was even more determined to play. Making sure my cap was low over my forehead, I pushed my way to the table. Between my disguise and the guttering, uncertain lights, I was sure not to be recognized. I was careful not to look directly at Pix or to give him a clear view of my face.

  “I challenge the winner.” I wasn’t surprised when the men exploded with guffaws and jeers. Fine with me. To convince them I was serious, I had to pull the pouch from my pocket. When I loosened its ties and tossed it on the table, the crowd quieted as a swath of coin spilled out in the dim light. “My bet.”

  “Well, there, boyo. If yer wantin’ t’give up yer gilt so easy, who’s t’argue?” said Pix. Settled back in his seat, in a satisfied pose, he looked around the crowd, laughing. When he glanced at me, his smile was expansive, as if he were a king granting an audience.

  I took care not to meet his eyes, pretending to flex my fingers in preparation for the contest. I knew my hands were too small and slender to be a man’s, but I hoped I’d be mistaken for a boy. A foolish boy.

  “Why ye want t’give us yer brass, there, lad?” asked a stout man behind me. He was standing so close, he bumped up against my chair. The others had also crowded in so much I found it hard to breathe. “Ain’t no one ’ere ever beat Pix. Wha’ makes ye think ye can?”

  Uhm . . . right. I hadn’t really thought that part through, had I? And drat . . . the last thing I wanted was to be recognized by my opponent before I slammed his wrist onto the table. Blast. “I—er—”

  “The lad’s got t’be sodding drunk,” someone shouted before I could answer. “But he’s got flim, so I’m after havin’ a piece of it! The pansy wants t’give up ’is money and ye’re gettin’ soft about it?” A coin clanged onto the table, and all at once, others began to rain onto the scarred, dark wood. Someone began to collect the bets and separate them into two piles: mine, with only two small coins—and everyone else’s.

  Pix lounged in his chair, jesting with the crowd. My opponent seemed to know everyone. He had a small glass of some amber-colored liquid, which he brought to his lips more than once.

  “Well, then, shall we, boyo?” he said when the bets stopped coming. He placed his elbow on the table and opened his hand.

  Looking at that long-fingered, masculine hand and sleek, muscular arm, I felt a flock of butterflies release in my belly. “Aye, let’s get to it.” I hoped it sounded like something a man would say.

  I rested my elbow on the table and reached for Pix’s hand, hoping he wouldn’t notice that my palm was slightly damp. Strong, warm fingers closed over mine, grasping firmly as his thumb settled on the back of my hand. A shock of awareness flashed through me as our palms touched intimately.

  Gentlemen wore gloves at all times, and I couldn’t remember a time I’d touched a man’s bare hand, except that of my brother. There was heat and texture. His skin was rough at the tips of his fingers, smooth on the inside of his palm. I felt the coarseness of a smattering of hair where my fingers curved near his wrist. And strength.

  “Ready . . . set . . . go!” someone bellowed, and I immediately felt the pressure against me.

  It was nothing. Pix was testing me. He expected to be able to slam my hand to the table whenever he was ready, and I decided to allow him to think so.

  I kept my attention on the sight of our two hands entwined, one square and brown, and one slender and pale, and I made my expression appear tense. I allowed him to ease my hand backward a bit. He was hardly putting any effort into it.

  Neither was I.

  Pix turned away from the table, still pressuring my hand. “I’ll ’ave another one, Bilbo,” he called, lifting his glass. There was only a small portion left, and he slammed it back with an enthusiastic gulp.

  “Come on there, Pix! We ain’t got all night. Finish it up so’s we get our glim!”

  “Nay,” called another. “Two pence on the lad iffen he ’olds off Pix another two minutes. Put sumpin’ into it, laddie!”

  I hid the excitement in my eyes, staring down at the table as a whole new round of bets rained onto the surface. How long could “the laddie” keep him off? they asked.

  And that was when I started to put more pressure back.

  Slowly, slowly . . . just a bit, until our hands were upright again.

  And then I pushed a little more, waiting for Pix to pressure me back. I knew he was playing with me, but he had no idea how the tables were soon going to turn.

  Easy, easy . . . I tried to appear as if I were struggling.

  I pushed, easing him ever so slightly backward as he talked and joked with the others. Then all at once, while he was in the middle of a sentence, it was as if a mechanism switched on: his muscles tensed, his fingers flexed against mine. And he stopped me cold. Just stopped, didn’t push me back.

  I fought back a smile. And I put a little more pressure against him.

  His muscles tensed more as our palms ground against each other. He continued shouting out jests and even took a drink from his replenished glass as he held steady against my pressure . . . and shifted me back just a little.

  And then I stopped him.

  Smooth and steady, I increased the pressure. My muscles tensed as I eased his ha
nd back toward the table . . . down . . . down . . . down . . .

  The spectators noticed, and they were shouting now. Encouragement to me and jests to Pix. Pennies and other offerings tumbled into my betting pile, charging me to hold him off a little longer. No one expected me to win. They believed Pix was playing with me.

  As if to confirm this, he increased his pressure again. His fingers tightened, and I could feel the tendons in his wrist moving against mine. He inched my hand up a little until our clasped ones were vertical again. I even let him tip mine over, backward.

  He pressured me all the way down, down . . . until my knuckles hovered above the table. The spectators were hardly paying attention, talking among themselves, slopping their ale and whiskey about. They knew the outcome, and some were already beginning to gather up their winnings.

  Wrong.

  Deliberately, I began to ease Pix’s hand back up. He increased his pressure, but I kept mine steady, and I was stronger. I advanced: solid, smoothly, effortless.

  I could feel shock running through him when he realized I was pushing him back up—and there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

  His conviviality faded, and he turned from his conversations with the spectators. For the first time, he placed his other arm as an anchor on the table in front of him, where mine had been all along. Despite the fact that he continued to throw out an occasional jest or insult, he was now concentrating on the match.

  By now, the audience had noticed the change. Whether they thought it was another ploy by Pix to draw it out wasn’t clear. But he’d almost won just a moment earlier, and now I had his hand back up and over . . . and easing downward.

  I could tell he was now employing all his considerable strength; it wasn’t effortless for me to keep his hand from rising. I was having to work at it. But, inch by inevitable inch, I forced him backward. Down . . . down . . .

  He’d gone silent and dark with concentration. His muscles trembled with effort, but he couldn’t fight it. The crowd was quiet now too, and then all at once, there was a flurry of new bets flung onto the table. I hoped someone was keeping track of them, especially since my pile was swelling.

  It was time to end it, and I eased his hand down . . . down . . . and then stopped. Just a breath above the table. Just enough that he knew he’d lost, but before the match was over.

  For the first time, I raised my face. When our eyes met beneath the brims of our caps, I saw the shocked recognition in his . . . and then chagrin, followed by a flash of reluctant humor.

  Having made my point, I relaxed the pressure, and he whipped my hand backward, up and over and down. My knuckles slammed flat onto the table.

  “Winnah!”

  Miss Stoker

  Miss Stoker Is Paid with a False Coin

  Congratulations, both genuine and jeering, abounded. Many hands reached out to grab their winnings, and a small pile was thrust in my direction.

  I looked up and saw Pix shoving another healthy gathering of the loot: coins, small metal pieces, a slender gold chain, and a watch toward me. His gaze glinted with self-deprecating humor—an acknowledgment that I was the true winner.

  That was the most fun I’d had in a long time. I grinned back and picked up the pouch to scoop in my winnings. I wasn’t paying attention until I felt one of the coins. It was an odd shape, with a raised texture, and I looked down.

  It was an Egyptian scarab.

  Blooming fish! I snatched it up before anyone else noticed and turned it over. On the bottom was an etching; it was too dim for me to see the details, but I was certain it was a drawing of Sekhmet. Shoving it in my pocket, I stood, and Pix rose as well.

  “An’ ’ow about a word, there, boyo,” he said. He reached out and closed his fingers around my arm as if expecting me to bolt. “Two ales over ’ere, Bilbo!” He made a gesture to a table in the shadows. “The lad ’ere’s payin’!”

  “Let go,” I said as we made our way between the last few people of the crowd.

  To my surprise, he released me, and we settled at a table in the quietest corner of the place. My medievaler heart appreciated the simple bare-flamed candle sitting on a saucer, but the warrior in me recognized the danger of an open flame in a place such as this. Its flickering circle of light illuminated the very center of the table, and from below, up onto Pix’s chin, jaw, and mouth. I still didn’t know what color his eyes were. Although this was the third time I’d met him, I’d be hard-pressed to pick his face from a crowd. That was probably the way he wanted it.

  We settled in our seats as the man behind the counter brought over two tankards and slapped them onto the table. I caught the strong, bitter scent of ale as its foam sloshed over the top of my mug and wondered if Pix expected me to drink it.

  Bilbo glared down at me. “Thought you was lookin’ fer Cap Mago.”

  “I was,” I replied in my gruff male voice. “But not anymore.”

  “Awright, sonny, then pay up. Five shillings.”

  I fumbled through my pouch and produced the money. When Bilbo left us alone, I looked over to find my companion watching me from behind his mug of ale. The expression in his eyes sent a sharp bolt of heat through me. I tore my gaze away as warmth colored my cheeks.

  “So ye couldna stay away from me, aye, luv? ’Ad to come searchin’ me out down in th’ stews.” He’d settled his elbows on the table, which brought his face closer to mine. “Were ye lookin’ t’do a bit o’ dabbin’ up wi’ me, then, luv?”

  Although I wasn’t certain what the phrase meant, I had a sneaky suspicion it suggested something improper. I wanted to dump my ale on top of his head, but decided he’d probably enjoy that too much. And I did need information from him.

  “That must be your fondest wish, considering how many excuses you’ve made to accost me in the last week.” My fingers curled around the mug, and I toyed with the idea of taking a drink.

  Pix laughed, low and rumbly, sending pleasant shivers over my skin. “Go a’ead, luv, taste it. Ye paid fer it, din’t ye?”

  “I’m not here to socialize.” Blast. I sounded an awful lot like the prim Miss Holmes. “And I certainly don’t intend to get drunk. I need some information.”

  “Well, then, luv, ye’ve come to the right place. But I’m feelin’ mighty regretful ye’ ain’t ’ere jus’ ’cuz ye wanted t’swap a bit o’ spit. I promise ye, it’d be a right more excitin’ than turnin’ around a dance floor wi’ a dandy like Richard Dancy.”

  So that bothered him did it? I placed my elbows on the sticky table, putting myself close enough to him that I could see the actual whiskers beginning to show along his jawline. In this proximity, even nearer than we’d been while arm wrestling, I became aware of that pleasant, minty scent I’d noticed before. “Right, then, Pix. I’m wondering something.”

  “Wot’s that, luv?” A wicked smile twitched the corner of his mouth, making him appear dangerous and delicious at the same time.

  “I’m wondering,” I said, forcing my voice to stay light as his eyes focused on mine, “if you have any idea how jealous you sound.” I settled back in my chair as his smile faltered.

  Then he chuckled and eased back as well. “All right, then, luv. Ye’ve lammed me twice t’night. Per’aps I’d best take m’lumps and stop now. Wha’ can I do fer ye?”

  “You told me you saw some men removing things from the museum the night we met. And that one of them was carrying something long and slender. Can you give me any other information?”

  He retrieved his tankard of ale and took a healthy swallow. It looked so good that I reconsidered tasting mine. One sip wouldn’t hurt. I lifted the mug and drank.

  Bitter.

  Oh, ugh, sharp and bitter!

  But then I tasted the nuttiness and the full, rich flavor, and warmth rushed to my belly along with the ale.

  His gaze was dark and warm beneath his hat brim. “Right, then, luv. The drink—it takes some gettin’ used to. And so . . . ye want t’know about the thieves. There’s no’ much mor
e t’tell ye, but they were movin’ a ’eavy box. Bigger’n a man. It was goin’ into a large wagon, wi’ no markin’s on it. “

  “That’s it?”

  He shrugged. “I ’ad other things to be attendin’ to, an’ it ain’t my concern wot them flimps was doin’.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Now that, m’luv, is no concern o’ yours. But I will tell ye I was lookin’ for m’bloke Jemmy. ’E’s gone missin’, and the trail led t’that particklar crib. ’Twas just yer good fortune I ’appened to be there that night.” His teeth flashed again.

  I placed the scarab on the table. “Have you seen this before? Or anything like it? Someone tossed it in on a bet tonight, and there have been others found like it, related to . . . to the death of the girl who was found in the museum.”

  “I did ’ear ’bout ’at. Sad business.” He picked up the scarab, holding it near the candle, turning it over. He had the perfect hands for a pickpocket: long, dextrous fingers and solid, strong wrists. The thought soured any soft feelings I might have begun to have for Pix. I was here to get information from him, and nothing more. I should not be enjoying his company, his jests and, most definitely, I should not be noticing the shape of his mouth. And the way the corner of it ticked up gently when he was amused. I straightened up in my seat.

  “Well?”

  “No,” he replied, and handed the scarab back. “But ye say it was in the pot t’night? I can find out.”

  He lifted his fingers and gave a sharp, piercing whistle. Immediately, two men detached themselves from a group and approached.

  Interesting. Pix, for all his easygoing ways, had respect and stature in this place. It couldn’t be simply that he was the champion of arm wrestling.