The Spiritglass Charade

by Colleen Gleason

  I made my way up to the far side of the bar. As usual, Bilbo was behind it and he recognized me right away.

  “Where’s Pix?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Is he in his lair?”

  Bilbo shrugged. “Oy’m not the bloke’s keeper, missy.”

  A distinct chill filtered over the back of my neck. I whirled toward the entrance to see the man who’d just walked in. Tall, fair-skinned, pierce-eyed, and reeking of malevolence.

  An UnDead.

  This time, I had no doubt.

  I was about to slide off my stool when I noticed Pix making his way across the pub. Where the blazes had he come from?

  He went directly to the vampire and greeted him at the door. They seemed to know each other, or at least have some business, for the two launched into intent conversation.

  “’Ere ’e be,” said Bilbo helpfully.

  “Don’t tell him I’m here.” I dove off my stool, then slipped around to the edge of the bar. “If you say a word, I’ll break your fingers.”

  “Bleedin’ darly-’eaded female.” Bilbo stomped to the other end of the counter as I peered out from my hiding place.

  Suddenly, Pix and the vampire turned and went out of the pub. Pix led the way, but the vampire seemed to be right on his heels. I didn’t like that development. It felt wrong. Pix wasn’t the sort to turn his back to anyone, let alone a man as evil as that vampire.

  Pix was in danger. Perhaps he’d even been enthralled.

  I scooted from behind the bar and threaded my way across the pub. I was just about to the door when a meaty hand landed on my shoulder. It was accompanied by a familiar, gad-awful stench.

  “You.” Big Marv hadn’t brushed his teeth or shaved, and he certainly hadn’t bathed since I’d seen him last.

  All at once, I was flying backward. I crashed into one of the building’s support beams near the edge of the room. The stake fell from my grip and rolled across the floor. Pain radiated through my hip and along my arm where I’d landed, and the wind was knocked out of me.

  I sprang to my feet, fumbling the knife out of my boot. Once I had a grip, I showed it to Marv. “You don’t want to be touching me because I don’t want to have to hurt you again. Pix won’t like it.”

  He merely laughed, and the stench of his breath was nearly enough to have me on my knees.

  I glanced toward the pub door, aching and a little out of breath, but mostly worried about Pix. I couldn’t afford to be delayed.

  Marv grabbed me by the front of my bodice, lifting me off the ground, and slammed me against the beam I’d just hit. All the air gushed from my lungs. My head whipped back and I saw stars. Now I was getting angry.

  “Ye fleezy wench. I been waitin’ t’see ye again. Ye owe me a good fancy there, as I bought ye a drink. An’ t’night’s goin’ t’be it.”

  I brought the knife down, but he whipped up his paw-like hand and caught my wrist. Even with one bent and swollen finger, his sharp squeeze had me gasping. I dropped the knife.

  “There’s a goo’ fancy. Now, I’m goin’ t’take ye do—” His words ended in a feminine squeal as my pointed boot lashed out and up. Bull’s-eye.

  Big Marv dropped me, spinning away with an agonized scream, and I landed on my feet.

  None of the patrons seemed to notice our altercation. I guessed it was a familiar occurrence in the likes of Fenmen’s End. I snatched up my knife and stake as I dashed for the door.

  Once in the night air, I paced up and down the street, willing the chill to return to the back of my neck. The rookery was nearly deserted. No one was fool enough to walk the streets of the stews alone in the very dead of night.

  But blast it. Where the blazes was Pix?

  They were gone, and that meant the UnDead had probably enthralled him, leading him off somewhere to tear into him with his fangs. The thought made my belly cramp.

  Where are they?

  At last the light fingers of a chill feathered over my neck, eerie and cold in the August night. I scented something deathly and old in the air. This way.

  I listened to my innate sense, watching for the evil glow of red eyes. The prickling intensified as I made my way down the street, and I nearly walked past the dark, narrow alley . . . but I caught a glimpse of glowing red just in time.

  My heart pounded as I shifted my grip on the stake. I could make out two shadowy figures, one with the unmistakable glow of red eyes, the other melding into the edge of darkness.

  No time to waste. I hurried down the alley, taking no care to hide my presence. Distraction was the plan.

  Distract, surprise, and attack.

  The red eyes turned to me, and I was careful not to allow their power to catch my gaze. The UnDead’s attention dropped to the massive silver cross on my chest. He reared back, his face a mask of shock and pain. Without sparing a glance for Pix, I lunged for the vampire.

  Someone shouted—it might have been me—as I smashed into the UnDead. He stumbled backward and something flew from his fingers. I heard the dull thunk when it landed on cobblestones, and I rammed the stake up into his torso.

  The vampire froze, his eyes burning coals and his fangs extended in an open mouth . . . then he exploded into ash.

  Panting, I turned to Pix. He had just picked up something from the ground and slipped it into his pocket before I could see what it was. It was smaller than a pound note folded in half, and I noticed a slender cord before it disappeared into his coat.

  “Are you hurt?” I asked. “Did he bite you?”

  Then I saw his face. His expression was not the one of gratitude, or even surprise, that I had expected. Instead, his mouth twisted grimly and his eyes glittered dark.

  “I don’ know whether t’strangle ye or laugh at ye, Evaline.” In his normal mellow tone, those words might have been laced with humor. But tonight, I could tell he was deadly serious.

  I didn’t know how to respond, so I launched into a diatribe of fury and fear. “Is that all the thanks I get? Saving your miserable life? You couldn’t have hoped to fight him off. He might not have looked like much, but the UnDead—did you even realize he was a vampire?—they’re strong, much stronger than men. He had you in his thrall, and he’d have drained you dry then left you for dead.”

  I drew in my breath to continue railing at him and realized he’d chosen to laugh at me. But it was a sharp, biting laugh. “Ah, then. Ye were worried on me, were ye, luv? I s’pose it’s some cons’lation for interfering wi’ me business.” “Your business? What do you mean your business?”

  “Your business? What do you mean your business?”

  But Pix just shook his head, his mouth a thin, dark line in the drassy light as he began to walk out of the alley. “Wot’re ye doin’ ’ere in the rook’ry? Oy reckon the same as ye was doin’ in and about the fightin’-club yesterday.”

  “How did you know I was at Nickel’s?” We walked abreast down the passage.

  Irritation still rolled off him and he shrugged. “An’ ye didn’ see me neither then, luv? Ye looked right a’ me.”

  I mentally reviewed the scene at Nickel’s. Then I stopped, my mouth falling open. “In the corner—that was you, hitting the punching bag.” Oh, I definitely remembered him now. My stomach gave a quick little flip when I recalled how I’d admired his powerful, bare torso. How fast and hard he pummeled the man-sized bag.

  “Aye.”

  “How did you know I was going to be there? Were you following me?”

  Pix lifted his brows. “Per’aps I should ask ye the same question—for ye arrived after me, didn’t ye, luv? An’ why shouldn’t a bloke be practicin’ ’is side-jabs if ’e wants to?” He glanced over at me sidewise, his expression turning flinty. “Does yer beau know ye was checkin’ up on ’im? Gabblin’ into ’is affairs? Bloody ’ell, Evaline, a’ least if yer gonna find a nobby bloke, can ye pick one who’s nay up to ’is ears in debt?”

  It took me a moment to realize what he meant. “Mr. Ashton is not my beau. He’s a
suspect in a murder investigation.” Blast. I sounded like Mina. She must be rubbing off on me.

  “’E’s not yer beau, is ’e? Sure looked it to a one-eyed violin player.”

  “I was interrogating him for the investigation.”

  “While ye was ’anging onto ’is arm like ye couldna walk?” Pix scoffed. “Gawkin’ up like ’e’s a god? I didn’t expect ye’d taken up wi’ the likes o’ that cove if ye knew ’e was a bad ’un. But I’ve been known t’be smack wrong.”

  There was a brittle note in his normally smooth voice. “Take up with? I wasn’t—” I stopped and stared at him. I couldn’t make out any of his features except the impression of eyes and mouth. A silvery gleam wove through the edges of his thick, dark hair. It made him look almost angelic.

  I held back a snort. Pix. Angelic. Those two words didn’t go together. “Is that why you’re vexed with me?”

  His low laugh was devoid of humor. “Vexed is too pretty a word t’describe ’ow I’m feelin’ wi’ ye, luv. Ye broke one a m’best cove’s fingers, ye paraded ye’self into th’ rookery like ye’ ’ad no care fer yerself, causin’ fights and disruptin’ the place—”

  “You,” I said from between gritted teeth, “practically begged me to come find you when you interrupted us, playing that blooming violin.”

  “If’n I’d’a wanted ye to find me in Vauxhall, luv, ye would’ve,” he said tightly. “But I didn’t.”

  “What were you doing there anyway?”

  “Now, luv . . . ’ow many times do I ’ave t’tell ye . . . there’re some things ye jus’ don’ want t’know.”

  I wanted to stomp my foot. “You could use a music tutor. Your playing sounded like a cat squalling.”

  “Listen, luv. I don’ need n’more crippled blokes. Ye leave a blind trail be’ind ye, Evaline, and ye take risks ye don’ need to. Some day ye’ll fin’ yerself in a fine chancery. Stay away from m’rookery, luv.”

  “That’s a likely chance.”

  He sighed. “Don’ I know’at, ye darly female.”

  I shook my head. The man was impossible. “One thing I did find out in Smithfield is that La société has returned to London. But I haven’t been able to determine where they meet, or where the vampires are living.”

  “Aye.” Pix’s voice was ironic. “An’ if ye wouldn’na come flyin’ in on me ’n’ Fagley tonight wi’ yer pointy stick, I’d’a squeezed the split from ’im and ye’d know all ’bout it.”

  “What?” I couldn’t understand his slang half the time, but I was pretty sure he’d just called the vampire Fagley.

  He stopped and looked at me, frustration oozing from him. “I’ve tol’ ye, luv, I deal in information. It’s m’business. An’ ye came blastin’ in on a very delicate predicament and spleefed it all t’hell.”

  “You knew he was a vampire.” I couldn’t help but feel a bit foolish . . . and aggravated.

  “O’ course I did. D’ye take me for a complete nobber, Evaline?” He shifted, moving the lapel of his overcoat to reveal a silver cross pinned to the inside.

  Right. “What else do you know? Where they stay? Where La société is?”

  “Not as much as I ’oped.” He lifted a brow at me. “But I did d’scover the name o’ the UnDead wot’s leadin’ the rest of ’em. Frenchman named Gadreau. ’E’s got ’imself a mortal woman wot serves ’im. She ’as a pet spider wot she keeps in a cage. An’ they frequents th’ Pickled Nurse.”

  That I already knew. “And she’s fond of Honey-Sweet pickles. But what’s her name? Where do they stay? How can I find them? What else did you find out?”

  Pix shook his head, his mouth still flat. “Yer gonna ’ave t’learn, Evaline Stoker, ye jus’ can’t rush in an’ molly things up wi’out thinkin’. Th’ fact is, I din’t need savin’, and ye darlied up me work tonight.”

  I bristled. “I’m a vampire hunter, and my job is to hunt vampires. I’m not going to stop and think about it—especially when I see a situation that looks threatening.”

  “Ye need t’ take care, luv. Ye mi’ be a mighty vampire-rozzer, but ye’re still mortal. And ye still can be drained dry.” His words were taut and his eyes glittered. “Or worst, turned UnDead yersel’. An’ I’d ’ate that t’appen t’ such a bang-up loidy as ye are. Once word gets out ’bout the female Venator, they’ll be after puttin’ a stop t’ye. And ye won’ be safe nowhere.” His voice had softened at the end of his speech.

  I stilled as he reached up to brush my cheek, pushing a loose lock of hair from my face. His bare, elegant fingers tucked the curl behind my ear then skimmed lightly down the side of my neck.

  “What . . . what was that thing he dropped back there?” He was standing so close . . . was he going to kiss me? Would I let him? “You picked it up and put it in your—”

  “Ye don’ wanna be worryin’ ’bout that-there, luv,” he said, easing closer to me. His lips had softened and twitched into a half-smile. The timbre of his voice had dropped. “An’ I’m supposin’ Oy should a’ least be thankin’ ye for savin’ me . . . though ye really mollied m’ work up instead.”

  “I didn’t—”

  But he leaned in and covered my mouth with his.

  I didn’t push him away. And I’m not ashamed to admit it.

  When our lips touched, his were soft and gentle, pressing to mine and molding to them like a caressing hand. Heat and prickling shivers rushed through my body. Pix’s arms had gone around me, and he pulled me close. I could feel the power in his embrace and the warmth of his torso. I knew I could break his hold at any moment. So I relaxed, kissing him back. I tasted a hint of ale and tobacco mixed with mint.

  When he pulled away, the world was a little fuzzy. Kind of tilty. But I also had my hand in his pocket. I smoothly withdrew the item he’d placed in there as I stepped back, hiding it in the folds of my skirt.

  “Well, then, there, luv.” He straightened his coat sleeve. “Oy’m not sure ’oo was thankin’ ’oo just then, but ye’ll ’ear no complaints from the likes o’ me.”

  “I’m fairly certain there shouldn’t be any thanking at all,” I said, once again adopting Mina’s crisp, affronted tones. “In fact, I do believe an apology is in order.”

  He made a low, gritty sound that streaked down my spine. “O’ course, luv. I’ll accept yer apol’gy an’ time ye want t’give it. So long’s it’s just like that.”

  And then, without another word, he slipped into the shadows and disappeared. The last thing I heard was his silky chuckle coming from the darkness.

  But it was I, for once, who had the last laugh. I shoved the paper-wrapped item I’d pilfered into my pocket and headed for home.

  Miss Holmes

  Miss Holmes Makes an Error

  It was with some trepidation that I left Miss Ashton’s home after spending the night there, but there was no help for it. I had preparations to make and clues to investigate. However, I fully intended to return by early afternoon and to remain with Willa until I’d put a halt to the evil plot surrounding her.

  My first stop was home, to freshen up and repack my reticule. I slipped in and out without being trapped in conversation by Mrs. Raskill, taking enough time to send a message to Miss Stoker to meet me at Miss Adler’s office.

  We needed to reconnoiter and make plans for our next steps.

  On my way to the Museum, I made a detour to Miss Louisa Fenley’s séance parlor. Using the threat of exposure of her fraudulent activities, I induced her to show me some tricks of her trade. Although I left feeling pleased about that progress, my intention to find out who’d hired her to fool Miss Ashton met with a dead end. Miss Fenley hadn’t been contacted by anyone to conduct séances for Willa Ashton. So the supposed referral from Mrs. Yingling had, in fact, been forged and manufactured by our villain.

  Miss Fenley, however, did confess to taking advantage of the young woman’s desperation and researching Willa’s past in order to hold a realistic meeting.

  “And how did you come by the papers you used
?”

  “The papers the spirits wrote on?” Miss Louisa was the very picture of ingenuousness.

  “The ones on which you wrote. Let’s be honest, shall we? You faked the messages—and I care not that you did so as much as I want to know from where those papers came.”

  She shrugged and I believed her when she said, “They’re the same papers I use for all my spirit-writing.” She showed me the drawer in which they were kept and I accepted that information as truth. Which meant that the papers with the glowing-in-the-dark message had been altered after they arrived at Miss Ashton’s house.

  This only confirmed my deductions that one of three people had the means with which to make such alterations.

  One question I chose not to ask Miss Fenley was in regards to the strange and eerie message Espasia had delivered to Evaline in the voice of Mr. O’Gallegh.

  I didn’t want to know the answer to that query.

  When I arrived at Miss Adler’s office, I was pleased to find Dylan present. My mentor was not, and Miss Stoker had not yet arrived—which gave me the pleasure of a few moments of privacy with him. After all, I hadn’t spoken to him since the night in the carriage when he kissed me.

  But when I noticed Dylan’s pasty complexion and its underlying gray tinge, the dark circles under his eyes, and the dullness in his gaze, I was horrified. He appeared worse than Miss Adler had.

  I frowned. Maybe there was some sort of illness they both had contracted.

  “Are you sick? What’s happened? You look . . . terrible.”

  He waved off my concern. “I’m fine, Mina. All is well. I’m totally fine.” His smile was bright and sincere, but I felt the rest of his appearance was cause for alarm.

  “Truly, you look as if you should be in bed. Are you certain you feel all right?”