Living with someone like himself, forever, would be hell.
“Miss Moriarty, the one thing I can tell you is that we will be attending a place called the Kitty Club, tonight. It’s exclusive and only for the rich, the politically devious, and the sexually adventurous. If you do what we need you to do there, my brother will give you the name of the man who stole your inheritance, the return of your money, and also that invitation to exhibit at the World’s Fair.”
Her eyebrows climbed. “Heavens.”
“Yes.”
This would perhaps be his last hurrah, his final opportunity to make merry with the possibilities the curse provided—in the name of heroism and British intelligence. A good cause.
For this cause, he would put Miss Moriarty in a black costume, a tail, and other things.
“Could you please not use Miss Moriarty from now on?”
The hope branded on her face was too delicate to deny. He couldn’t hurt her, not today, and could see it meant something more than he understood.
“Of course. You shall be Willa or my pet, tonight…” Mentally, he shuffled through other words. “Perhaps even kitten? Hmmm.” That one would be so very convenient, considering what he’d purchased.
When he looked back at her, he’d swear she was awestruck. Well, if she thought this an advancement on Miss Moriarty, who was he to deny her?
Happiness was only ever fleeting in any case. He’d seen too much death and destruction to refute this. Stick to the plan: get rid of the curse, fulfill his obligation to Willa, then be rid of her.
17
Public Property
Sherlock had memorized the contents of the letter from Mycroft.
My dear marvelous brother,
There are consequences from your enquiries that have blossomed into a grander problem. There are indeed dark doings in our land. To sum up what the intelligence community believes is occurring—a cult has formed that intends to overthrow the king and return us to an age where the snap of jaw and the casting of spells will lord it over science.
Here is what I have found regarding your questions.
Wilhelmina Moriarty’s father was David Moriarty, the brother of a certain professor. He was probably killed by criminal associates because of a dispute over the theft of large amounts of military equipment.
A man called Ramsey Foxx stole the money from Miss Wilhelmina Moriarty’s account. He is an old family friend of hers and her father’s, and he is linked to the shipping of some of the stolen Russian military equipment to other countries.
The same man, Foxx, is a part owner of the Gallo-Anglic Airship Company that transports the abducted women who are arriving here and then vanishing. His ownership is hidden and via several smaller companies. I’ve not been able to track the other owners, yet. His ownership should never have been covered by the Official Secrets Act.
This raises the possibility of a traitor in our midst.
The return of the money to the Bank of England account and the World’s Fair entry hinge upon you performing a deed for us.
Here is what you must do:
Attend the Kitty Club, located at 337 Ripper Avenue at nine PM sharp. There you will find a sexually deviant clientele that comes from the upper echelons of society. We believe the club is the hub of a Lovecraftian cult. Obtain information that exposes this cult and allows us to arrest those involved, or quietly dispose of them, and what you asked for is yours.
An invitation will be at the door of the club, tonight, under the name of Arthur Tatum. You are a British citizen who has been abroad and has made substantial sums in the warehouse and shipping business overseas.
Your partner can be anyone female, but the club want female partners who are willing to be sexually forthcoming in public. I suggest hiring a whore. Dress her scandalously or she won’t be admitted.
Don’t be late. Be prepared to see some curious acts, and try not to catch anything nasty.
Your benevolent sibling.
He hadn’t signed it but that was Mycroft being fastidiously cautious.
And so, here they were.
The driver of this cab was well accustomed to Sherlock’s doings. As instructed, he slowly drove this length of Ripper Street. It allowed Willa to angle the probe of the Illuminator at the entrance of the club.
He wore the goggles, for the tight fitting of the rubber left marks on the face. Though the cab window was shut, the Illuminator worked well, and the few patrons he could scan were unaware. All lacked the purple miasma until an unaccompanied portly man crossed the road and vanished into the recessed doorway.
The air about him had swum with purple.
He must look for the man once they were inside. He’d seemed familiar. Was this a great man the ME had latched onto?
“I saw one possible,” he told Willa. “Remind me to point him out, if I don’t recognize him perhaps you will?”
“The last man in? I did see him, though not well.” She switched off the machine and tucked it into a valise. The driver would return to Baker Street and leave it with Mrs. Hudson at his rooms.
The steam-electric cab pulled up slowly, brakes squealing. The Kitty Club was in a quiet part of the street, and any carriages, cabs, or limousines were parked elsewhere, for the footpath was clear for a hundred yards in either direction. They were being careful and keeping the streets clear of unknowns. A guard at the door was dressed in a dark blue uniform with gold epaulettes, and beneath his jacket was a lump—a gun in a holster.
With a quick scan out the cab’s window of the street and club entrance, Sherlock had observed all of this. He shut the window, carefully. This might not be safe.
Mycroft must have tried to insert intelligence operatives here, but he had failed, else he’d not be asking Sherlock.
“Are you ready, my pet?” He smiled briefly. The new naming of Miss Moriarty was somehow interesting. It gave her a lesser status in some ways, but also implied a higher level of ownership. He leaned forward, hands clasped between his thighs and resting against the wool of his trousers. “Or would you rather be my kitten?”
Willa blushed, and her throat jiggled as she swallowed. Nervousness, but arousal also. Hmmm.
“Either is fine.” She sat opposite, demurely covered by a long, black, fur-collared coat. Her eyes were almost as round and large as the electric lamps to either side of the sign outside, above the Kitty Club entrance.
From his research, this establishment was barely ten years old, but the sign was carved sandstone. Definitely the mark of the rich.
“And are you willing to do what might be needed?” Narrow-eyed, he judged her. “This could be dangerous.”
Her posture stiffened, straightened. Would she agree?
“This helps you?”
She asked that, first? “And you, and my country.”
Correction: this would be dangerous, full stop. Bringing her was foolhardy. Yet he would not be allowed in without her or another woman.
He didn’t want someone else.
“I can shoot, sir, if need be. Accurately and fast. I know you packed a revolver in that bag.”
The bag on the seat was the bordello bag. She’d watched him pack it. What she could not have seen was some of the earlier equipment he’d placed in it.
“I’m no shrinking violet. I’ve faced off a kraken. Besides, I trust you.”
“You trust me… And you have indeed seen a kraken and come away with only a scar and minor injury to your leg. Let’s go in then. Remember my new name—Arthur Tatum. You, of course, don’t have anything more than a pet name tonight.”
Trusting him was an odd position to take, considering he’d blackmailed her the first day they truly met, after he’d had her drugged and tied to a table. Trust was a hefty responsibility and one he never neglected. Every case he accepted was a person gifting him with their problem, and him accepting the responsibility.
Such as the woman in the mortuary. He’d failed her, though she’d died before he was likely to find her. I
t still bothered him.
It was his responsibility to protect Willa from whoever or whatever was inside. Whatever. He contemplated the word he’d chosen. This cult was largely an unknown quantity and he must keep that front of mind.
He offered her his arm as they approached the doorman. After she looped her hand through his arm then slid her hand to his wrist, he advanced. “I’m Arthur Tatum, my good man.” He nodded curtly. “My name will be on your list.”
“Of course, sir. It is.”
The doorman must have everyone memorized. Which meant a great memory, or few new patrons. If the latter, he and Willa would be obvious strangers to those inside. The odds were good that it was the latter.
After swinging open the black door with the golden three-three-seven, the burly guard stepped aside, waving them through with his white-gloved hand. “Welcome to the Kitty Club, sir. Harvey will need to look at your bag before you’re allowed through to the club.”
Sherlock hefted the bag and ushered Willa in, before he stepped into the entry foyer.
The lighting was bright enough to see the green wallpapered walls, the paintings of fox hunting on the right wall, and the single table behind which stood another, uniformed and muscular guard. His blue sleeves bulged at the biceps. There was no point in arguing so he gave the bag to the man and waited for him to search it and find the gun.
“This is not allowed, sir. May I ask why you carry it?”
“I take it everywhere I go. I have enemies.” He shrugged. “Business can be vicious.”
“I see. Noted, sir. I’ll keep it here at the desk for your return.”
“Thank you. Let’s hope none of my enemies are guests.” He removed his coat and handed it over to be hung up in a cloakroom behind the guard.
However, Willa looked hesitant. He knew why. Her clothing was indecent. Getting her to take off her coat would be the first pleasurable moment of the night.
Sherlock walked behind her. “Unbutton your coat, pet.”
“Ummm.” Though she raised her hand to the top buttons, she did nothing then said, in an aside the guard surely heard, “I can’t. Not with him there.”
The guard gave a barely recognizable smile that was probably a grimace. “Your partner is supposed to be in suitable attire, sir, before we allow entry. I have to see this. The coats are to be left here, in any case.”
The man was quite insistent—overly so for a servant.
“Do you speak this way to your normal patrons?”
“I don’t, sir. But you are new.” Then he stood like a rock and waited. “Miss. The coat has to be removed.”
For the first time, Sherlock detected a hint of an emotion from the club guard. The man was keen to embarrass Willa. He knew that beneath the coat she would not be dressed as a lady should be. Whereas his Willa had expected not to show anything until deeper inside the club.
The thrill of making her do what she did not want to soared into the foreground.
He could make it worse for her? Oh, yes.
One last chance for her.
“Take it off, now.”
Still she hesitated. “I could keep it… I mean, please?” She turned to him, eyebrows lopsided with concern. “If you ask him?”
“That won’t work, Miss. I’d lose my job.”
Willa didn’t see the flash of a grin that landed on the man’s face.
“You’d renege on our agreement for utter obedience, now, at this last hurdle?” He tsked and paced to her front. “You will kneel on the floor, here and now. You will unbutton the coat, now.”
A moment of stark fright overtook her before she composed herself.
He didn’t bother to list the ramifications of disobedience. This would have the required effect. He could have been lenient and removed the coat himself, but, as he’d learned over the past week, making her do things for him was far more exhilarating.
It heated the blood.
Hardened the dick.
Slowly, begrudgingly, she kneeled.
“That slowness will be punished, once we are inside.”
The guard actually snickered.
Head bowed, she began to undo the buttons, beginning at the top. The guard was probably salivating with joy, for he’d stepped up to be almost at Sherlock’s shoulder. He was not going to look at the man.
His pet, his kitten, had all of his attention.
This was riveting. Power—the sexual power of this—thrummed through him in a tide as she revealed cleavage, and he went up on his toes, just a little, before controlling his response.
More buttons came undone until the last fell to the side and she slipped the coat to the floor then held it up for the guard to take.
Her white underwear masqueraded as a tiny dress. The lacy neckline skimmed her nipples, and a row of cloth-covered buttons ran down the bodice to the seam beneath her breasts with tiny red bows at the side seams. The flared skirt attached ended an inch above the split of her legs, which were bare skin all the way down, until her feet. Her elegant red, high-heeled shoes were at odds with the rest of her.
Hire a whore, Mycroft had said. This one was his own private whore.
When she moved to rise, he clicked his fingers. “Stay.” Now was the time for his embellishment. One of them.
From the bordello bag he removed a black leather collar with a diamond-embellished tag dangling from it by a clip. He showed her the writing on the tag, KITTEN, then circled her neck with the leather and buckled it closed.
“You’re not to take this off until I say,” he whispered, brushing her ear with his lips, his teeth, and slipping a hand beneath the bodice to caress her breast. With one finger, he stroked around her nipple, entranced by her sharp inhalation. “Whose little whore are you, kitten?”
A shudder of arousal ran through her, but she said nothing, sitting stiffly.
Sherlock smiled and asked her in a firm voice, loud enough this time, that she could not deny the question. “Are you wet for me?”
Her eyes met his and locked there, liquid eyes, polished bright with a fever he wanted to see in there over and over. “Yes, sir.”
“My whore then?”
“Yes.”
Hell, yes. “Good.”
The guard now stood like a soldier on parade. He stared at the opposite wall when Sherlock studied him. He’d embarrassed a guard at a sex club? Ha. And given him a hard-on. His trousers made a very obvious tentpole.
“I’ll see you when we leave, Harvey.” He retrieved his bag then helped Willa rise, strolling with her in hand toward the door ahead, where it awaited them at the end of a short hallway.
The reply was slow but then again, the man was shocked. “Yes, sir. Of course. Sir… Thank you.”
The thank you made him glance at his kitten. She seemed oblivious to the effect she’d had on the guard.
The inner sanctum of the club was a huge room divided up at the edges into cubicles with waist-high walls. The middle was strewn with couches, stools, and the walls on two sides held women, chained into place—kneeling and standing. One short-haired blonde was entirely naked and being whipped. The red lines on her buttocks were testimony to the force. Her throaty yelps implied she liked it. A bald, slightly overweight man wielded the whip.
A hallway opposite seemed to lead to private rooms, for the black doors leading off it were shut. Chandeliers overhead, powered by electricity, shone fractured light over the occupants below.
Waitresses in skimpy clothing served the clientele, and there were… Sherlock rapidly counted, thirty people in here, excluding the servants—twelve couples, and two groups of three. Most of the men were still in suits, a few partially naked. The women with them were in various stages of undress, and several were bent over knees and footstools being spanked, paddled and variously serving their masters.
What the rich and powerful got up to when no one was looking…
It was heady stuff. He paused then headed for a spare couch. Swirls of carved timber formed the back of it, and th
e seating was stout leather upholstery that would make cleaning easy.
Easy cleaning would be an advantage here. Two women lying on couches were already squealing as their owners/ masters/ lovers or whatever they were, reamed them heartily.
Sherlock dropped a cushion to the floor. “Kneel there.” He needed to take the edge off before looking about properly.
Be damned, if the entry foyer shenanigans didn’t have him wanting to take his kitten already, in public. This was his perfect fantasy. She could wait for that. He would too. A little.
He sat and perched close to the edge of the couch, then undid his fly and pulled her head down over him.
“Suck me off, Kitten.”
Hypnotized, she looked hypnotized, he decided, and merely parted her lips and buried her mouth on him, lips slipping, slurping, hotly devouring, her tongue licking back and forth, up down.
God.
He grunted and didn’t bother trying to hold back, only occasionally leaning over to tuck his hand between her thighs—burrowing his fingers deep into her cunt and getting her even slipperier than before.
“Truthful, hey?” Referring to her answer in the foyer. He smiled with teeth, as she paused at the top of her cock mouthful. “You are scandalously wet.”
“Mmmm.” Then she slipped down him, all the way to his skin, his balls.
Enough. He whipped his hand from between her legs and forced her up and down a few times, jammed her deep, and came. The blast of come felt as if it strained his eyeballs.
One more exhalation, inhalation, and he let her up to gasp and bubble.
His handkerchief under her chin helped to clean her, quieten her.
Tears had spilled, no doubt due to being half-drowned and suffocated.
“Good, Kitten.” Then he kissed her, hard, grinding his mouth on her, feeling her open there, and letting his tongue in.
Then he let her go, and rebuttoned his fly, and wiped her face off some more.
Her hair was still perfect. He’d never grow tired of that, he thought, kissing her neck at the side. “Want me to take you here, later, hmmm? On the couch?”
Clockwork Stalker: The Dirty Heroes Collection Page 13