The Clockwork Scarab: A Stoker & Holmes Novel

by Colleen Gleason

  I was going to have to induce Grayling to search the house if Lady Isabella “refused” to see us—that is, when the butler found that she wasn’t in residence after all.

  “Miss Holmes,” said my companion, looking down at me from his excessive height, “will you please provide me some explanation for this?” His hair was ruffled from the ride, and I couldn’t help but remember how my legs had pressed into the underside of his. And how well he’d managed that monstrous machine.

  I heard the sound of footsteps.

  “Ambrose! Whatever is wrong? What are you doing here at this time of the night?”

  My heart dropped to my feet at the sound of Lady Isabella’s voice. I whirled, the inability to hide my shock surely evident in my expression. My whole body had gone cold and numb. “Lady Cosgrove-Pitt. You’re here.” My lips hardly moved.

  Impossible.

  “But of course I’m here.” Her eyes went from me to Grayling and back again, a bemused, confused look in them. My face heated to a fiery temperature as the rest of my person remained icy. “It’s nearly one o’clock in the morning.”

  I examined her desperately, searching for any sign she’d just been in the midst of a fire. She was wearing a long night rail and a loose housecoat, and her hair was braided in one single plait that hung over her shoulder. I saw no trace of makeup nor any debris on her slippered feet.

  How could I be wrong?

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Lady Isabella,” Grayling said. I could hear the stiffness in his voice and feel his confusion as he looked at me. “Miss Holmes—er—we believed it was an urgent matter.”

  I found my voice at last. “I just learned about Lilly Corteville. I wanted to express my condolences. I understand you were close to the family.” I could think of nothing else to say, and Grayling’s heavy regard continued to weigh me down.

  Lady Isabella looked at me. I looked back at her, searching in vain for something in her eyes, some sort of recognition that we’d been face-to-face less than an hour ago.

  “Yes, indeed. What a tragedy that was,” she said in a soothing voice that conveyed confusion. “That was your purpose for rousting me from my bed?”

  “I—I apologize, my lady. I . . . er . . . didn’t realize how late it was.”

  “My apologies as well, Lady Isabella,” said Grayling. “We’ll be off now. Please give Uncle Belmont my regards.”

  “Of course,” said the gracious lady.

  No sooner had the door closed behind us than Grayling gave me a long, inscrutable look. To my surprise, it was neither condemning nor angry. It was . . . exasperated and a little bemused. And concerned.

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you simply wanted an excuse to ride on the steamcycle.”

  I couldn’t look at him.

  I’d been wrong.

  Very wrong.

  How could I have made such a mistake?

  Miss Holmes

  The Game Is Afoot

  Dazed by humiliation, I recalled little of my subsequent ride home. Grayling insisted he take me there and nowhere else. I was too stunned to argue otherwise.

  I had no idea what time I let myself into a quiet house, but the night was still dark.

  How could I have been wrong?

  How could I have made such a mistake?

  I found myself stumbling into my mother’s empty room. A single beam of silvery moonlight traced the knotted coverlet on her bed, and I sank onto that cold but welcoming furnishing. A soft puff of air escaped from the coverings, and I caught the faintest whiff of my mother’s scent.

  My insides churned unpleasantly, and my throat hurt. I couldn’t ever remember a time I felt so ill and lost and empty.

  Except the day she left.

  From my seat on the bed, I looked at her dressing table. The gray, drassy illumination highlighted the few articles that remained: a small silver jewelry box, a broken hairbrush, two mahogany combs, and a wrist-length piece of lace. I knew that her wardrobe was just as empty.

  Why, Mother?

  What is wrong with me?

  I’d always thought she left me was because I was too much a Holmes.

  But after tonight, I realized I wasn’t enough of a Holmes.

  I woke, achy and parched, curled up on Mother’s rumpled quilt. Mrs. Raskill said nothing as I stumbled into my own chamber to freshen up and dress, but I caught a flash of sympathy in her gaze. I ignored it.

  A short time later, I found my way into the laboratory. The broken glass from my magnifyer still littered the floor. Had it been only yesterday that Grayling had startled me with the news of Lilly Corteville?

  Yesterday, when I believed I could observe and deduce and that things would fit together.

  Yesterday, when I’d been trusted by the princess to protect and serve my country.

  Yesterday. When I’d watched helplessly as a young woman died.

  I remembered again the horrific sound of her body thud-thud-thud-thudding against the statue.

  I closed my eyes and willed myself not to give in to base emotions. I wouldn’t cry. I wouldn’t think of it. I must keep my mind clear.

  I’d have to get a new magnifyer. But the thought didn’t motivate me as it might normally have done. I looked around at my work: my notes, the charred Danish face powder, the other vials and dishes. Was it all for naught? Had all my studying been a waste?

  Was Uncle Sherlock correct after all? That women couldn’t remain separate from their emotions in order to make accurate and important observations and deductions?

  I needed to report to Miss Adler. I’d have to confess my shameful miscalculation. I’d have to admit that the Ankh had escaped.

  And she still had one more instrument to find. One more young woman to kill.

  Someone knocked on the laboratory door.

  “Come in,” I replied dully.

  “You’ve got a visitor.” Mrs. Raskill poked her little nose around the corner as if sniffing for any sign of danger. “I don’t know what’s so importan’ that you’re gettin’ packages from the Met, and letters from all over, and visitors. Every day, it’s sumpin’. It’s up to comin’ like bein’ on Bond Street, all these comin’s and goin’s.”

  I followed her out of the laboratory. The last person I wanted to see was Grayling, who I was certain had come to interview me about the events of last night. But to my surprise, it wasn’t Inspector Grayling who stood just inside the front door of our house. I didn’t recognize the male individual, who appeared to be no more than fourteen years of age.

  Hat held carelessly in bare hands—not intimidated by upper-class settings or people, but not of the upper class himself.

  Met my eyes with confidence but not improperly—respectful of upper-class women.

  Underground ticket stub stuck in his cuff—public transportation; limited funds.

  “May I help you?”

  “Gots a message for ye.” He proffered a folded packet. “Was tole t’wait fer your answer.”

  I took the offered packet and examined it briefly, my skin prickling.

  Expensive, heavy paper—from Inkwell’s, where the blue ink had come from on the invitation to the Star Terrace.

  Faint, pungent scent—the same smell from last night’s events.

  My heart racing, I opened the missive.

  The diadem in exchange

  for your companion.

  I read it a second time, noticing the penmanship (a right-handed female), aware of a sudden roaring in my ears and the prickling washing over my body.

  The Ankh had Evaline.

  How was it possible?

  I shook my head. I as well as the young man who carried me to safety had seen her come out of the building last night. She was right there.

  But I hadn’t seen her afterward. I hadn’t even spoken to her. I’d been too distracted by the need to prove the identity of the Ankh, and I’d left the scene.

  What would have happened if I’d remained there, with the other young women,
instead of rushing off with Grayling on a wild goose chase?

  Was Miss Stoker’s abduction yet another effect of my gross miscalculation?

  I gripped the message, determination flooding through me. The game was afoot.

  “Wot’s yer answer, then, miss?”

  “Who gave this to you? Where and when?”

  He gave an awkward bow. “I canna tell you that, miss, as I don’t rightly know. I was on th’ underground, and someone come b’hind me and give it to me. ’E ’ad a gun at m’neck and tole me not to turn around. An’ ’e give me the directions.”

  “But then how are you to bring my response?” I asked suspiciously. “You said you must wait for my answer.”

  He shrugged and said, “I’m to walk down Bond-street and to be wearin’ my cap iffen ye said aye, and iffen ye said nay, I’m not to be wearin’ it.”

  “Were you given any further instructions?”

  “On’y that I’m t’walk down th’ street as ’e said when Big Ben calls noon.”

  I glanced at the clock. It was almost ten. “Very well. My answer is yes, so you may wear your cap on your walk down Bond-street at noon today.”

  “An’ I’m told t’tell you there’s t’be further ’structions if yer answer’s aye.”

  “I suspected that might be the case,” I said dryly.

  I released the messenger and contemplated following him. But that would likely have been an exercise in foolishness. How would I know who was watching Bond, the busiest shopping street in the city? There would be hundreds of people in the vicinity at noon.

  I decided to make other plans. I’d wait here, of course, for the further instructions. In the meantime, I tried to quell my worries over Miss Stoker’s condition. If she was being held for the ransom of the diadem, then she’d be safe . . . at least until I appeared with it.

  Taking a deep breath, I contacted the museum and notified Dylan to come to my house and to bring “the item which he notified me about yesterday” posthaste.

  Then I washed up and dressed, choosing my clothing carefully. Although I’d worn split skirts last evening, I’d found them heavy and ungainly during the activities of the night. Thus, today I disdained my normal corset and instead wore a much shorter and less rigid one, which would allow me to be more active without becoming short of breath in the event I had to run again. I dressed in slim-fitting trousers with a simple shirt and vest. I stuffed a variety of implements into a large satchel and twisted my long hair into a single braid that I wrapped into a knot at the back of my neck.

  Despite my devastating setback last evening, I was still convinced the individual was a woman. And I still wasn’t convinced that she wasn’t Lady Cosgrove-Pitt.

  I’d give her the diadem. And I’d rescue Evaline.

  And I’d unmask the Ankh in the process.

  Now all I had to do was to wait for the Ankh to make her next move.

  Miss Stoker

  In the Shadow of Sekhmet

  I smelled fish and smoke and inhaled dust, and I couldn’t move my arms. Slowly, I opened my eyes to find myself in an unfamiliar environment. For a moment I was confused . . . then the pounding in my temple, a dull ache in my side, and the sight of blood crusted on my tunic reminded me how I came to be here.

  I had gone back in the building to help Amunet and came face-to-face with Hathor. He pointed a gun at me, and I launched myself at him. We collided and fell to the floor. His gun fired and missed, but by the time I scrambled to my feet, Bastet was there, helping me upright by yanking my loose braid. They dragged me out of the hallway and into the altar room. The chamber was engulfed in smoke and patches of flames.

  The dais had walls, and a loud engine roared above. Heavy cables reached down through the open rooftop, pulling the steps up to become accordion-like walls. The gun pointing at my head forced me inside this alcove. I joined the statue of Sekhmet next to the altar. An unbound Amunet sat in a small motor-chamber above, piloting what had become an airship up and out of the roofless building.

  The Ankh and the other male guard were nowhere to be seen.

  There was a seam at the corner of two walls. I dove for it, but Hathor dragged me back onto the base of the “ship.” He raised his hand, the metal of the firearm gleaming, and when it came back down, I didn’t duck fast enough . . .

  I had no idea how much time had passed since I’d been knocked out. I was no longer in the odd airship nor the building that had been on fire. No one would know where I was or how to find me.

  To add to the situation, my wrists were bound in front of me and my ankles chained to . . .

  The statue of Sekhmet.

  The Ankh’s intention was unpleasantly clear.

  The statue loomed over me, gleaming faint gold in the dim light. As I looked up at the lion-headed goddess, I couldn’t forget the image of a battered, devastated body, thudding and trembling helplessly against those golden arms.

  Della Exington was dead.

  And I’d been unable to save her. Not because I couldn’t get there in time, but because I couldn’t make myself do it. I’d been frozen and paralyzed. Weak.

  I’d dragged myself out of it. But it had been too late by then. Remorse and guilt flooded me. Then deep, burning fury. Tears filled my eyes, bitter and stinging.

  I had no right to call myself a Venator, a vampire hunter.

  My great-great-aunt Victoria had sacrificed everything for her calling, even staking the husband she loved after he was turned UnDead.

  I couldn’t even ignore a bit of blood in order to save a young woman’s life.

  I shifted and felt the dull throb in my side. It had stopped bleeding even before Miss Holmes and I escaped from the opium chamber. But when I ran back through the building to help Amunet, it started oozing again. On a normal person, this wound would have been fatal. At the very least, debilitating. But for me, it wasn’t the injury or even the pain that had caused my paralysis.

  Footsteps approached and the sound brought me out of my stupor. A tall, slender figure cloaked in an enveloping black wrap appeared. This time, the Ankh was garbed in female clothing: skirts and a poke bonnet so deep it shielded his or her face.

  “Miss Stoker. I’m delighted to see that you haven’t bled to death.”

  I could reach him. Her. Grab her by the leg and yank. She had to be unsteady on those tiny hourglass heels. Though it was around my ankle, my chain was long enough to wrap around her throat, to subdue her . . .

  She stepped back as if she’d read my mind. Blast it.

  “Your knife-throwing skills are quite good,” I said. “Traveling circus, perhaps? Was your mother the fat lady?”

  The Ankh stilled, looking at me from behind the bonnet. “You’ll be pleased to know your partner has agreed to bring me Sekhmet’s diadem in exchange for your person.”

  “Mina Holmes is no fool. Once you have the diadem, then what? Who will be your next victim?”

  I saw the flash of a smile and the impression of two gleaming eyes. “That is a concern, I must admit. Nonetheless, I’m certain some solution will occur to me.” A low, grating laugh told me she already had one. And I wasn’t going to like it.

  Despite her clothing, I still couldn’t settle on whether the person before me was a woman who dressed in male clothing, or a man currently garbed as a female. “And when do you plan to execute this wily plan?”

  “Tonight. The timing is most auspicious, for today is the anniversary of when I first learned of the power of Sekhmet. Five years ago, I stumbled upon the artifact which sent me on this path.”

  If Miss Holmes were here, she’d probably try to lecture and deduce the Ankh into submission. My moment of wry humor vanished as quickly as it had come. How the blazes was I going to escape my chain before my partner arrived, and how was I going to bring the Ankh down with me?

  “Very well, then,” said my host. She carried something long and silver and slender and moved closer. “Now that I’ve ascertained your relative health, it’s time to send
for your friend. I intend to have a gracious welcome prepared for her.”

  Brilliant. Mina Holmes would walk right into that trap.

  She gestured, and Hathor came toward me. I kicked and bucked. Sekhmet wavered after I yanked especially hard on the ankle chains looped around her, but the Ankh and Hathor steadied the statue before it tumbled over. Hathor swung out with a powerful hand. The blow caught me against the side of the face and, unable to brace myself, I slammed to the floor. My temple hit the ground hard, and before I could recover, Hathor grabbed me from behind. He forced me onto my knees so I couldn’t kick, and held my arms immobile. One large hand covered my nose and mouth, smothering me into stillness. I gasped for breath against his sweaty, dirty hand but couldn’t twist my face away.

  Only then did the Ankh feel safe enough to get close to me. I let her see the triumph in my eyes.

  When the Ankh bent close, something silver in her hand, my pulse jumped. Could she know my weakness? Was she going to cut me? Spill more blood?

  She reached for me, my neck, and grabbed a handful of my hair. Twisting it viciously, she brought a silver object toward my face. I closed my eyes, steeling myself, waiting for the pain. My mind was clear.

  You’re a Venator. You’re strong. Fight.

  Then I heard the soft snip and a bit of my hair fell away.

  Miss Holmes

  An Impossible Choice

  Dylan arrived at my house just before eleven o’clock, carrying a heavy satchel.

  Ignoring Mrs. Raskill’s muttering about more comings and goings, I brought him into the parlor so he could show me the diadem. He greeted me with a smile and seemed to be moving toward me as if to offer an embrace, but caught himself at the last minute. A light stain flushed his cheeks, and he stepped back.

  “You’re wearing pants.” The way his eyes traveled over my trouser-covered limbs made me self-conscious about the way the fabric clung to my shape. I felt indecent and exposed, and the way his blue eyes filtered over me made my cheeks heat up.