The Moonstone and Miss Jones (12 page)
Exeter stuffed his fists in his coat pockets and turned to Jersey. “This can’t be shared with Gaspar—not yet.”
Jersey nodded. “Agreed.”
Phaeton spoke up, perhaps a little too loudly. “You were missed yesterday.”
The doctor returned to him. “I was dealing with something of a crisis. Sorry I couldn’t be there. I trust your first expedition to the Outremer went well?”
Phaeton’s nod was a bit iffy. “I believe I have seen our future and it is fast, noisy, and alarmingly expensive.”
Chapter Fourteen
A
MERICA LEANED BACK
and let the warm, clean water rinse her hair. Valentine squeezed out the excess water and wrapped her head with a towel. “Jersey and I were having a rather private discussion last night, which Phaeton happened to overhear.” Valentine sat back on the kitchen chair. “Did he happen to mention it last night or this morning?”
MERICA LEANED BACK
and let the warm, clean water rinse her hair. Valentine squeezed out the excess water and wrapped her head with a towel. “Jersey and I were having a rather private discussion last night, which Phaeton happened to overhear.” Valentine sat back on the kitchen chair. “Did he happen to mention it last night or this morning?”
“He didn’t wake me last night—I must have looked tired.” America rose out of the tub and wrapped herself in a bath sheet. “If you don’t mind my asking, what did Phaeton hear?”
The faintest blush colored Valentine’s cheeks. “Jersey and I rarely cross swords, but when we do, it is always the same argument. We would both like to be closer physically, but he is worried about hurting me.”
America settled into a chair and studied Valentine. “He is very brave. And devilish handsome, even with that cigar he’s always puffing on. I imagine he is also an accomplished warrior?”
“Deadly.” Valentine leaned close to the stove and ran her fingers through lengths of her own damp, raven black tresses.
“Jersey is not completely . . . of this world?” America unwound the towel on her head and fluffed out her curls.
“When we first met, I tried to kill him.” Valentine’s gaze flicked upward. “Love at first sight.”
America continued to dry her hair. This kind of intimate conversation was obviously difficult for Valentine, being a former novitiate and all, but there was no way to get round the question. “When you do attempt to get close, what happens?”
“He turns into a beast.”
“When I got up this morning, you were just stepping out of your bath.” America bit her bottom lip. “There was a crescent-shaped scar above your left nipple.”
“Jersey’s mark.” Valentine met her gaze and looked away. “He didn’t mean it—he got carried away, but in those few moments, before he pushed me away, he held my arms above my head and . . . I tried to explain last night.” Valentine shook her head. “Until he lost all control . . . I rather liked it.”
America draped her towel across the back of a chair to dry. “As long as there is trust between partners, being dominated can be very stimulating.”
“Exactly.” Valentine’s nod grew enthusiastic. “Phaeton mentioned something about ‘who’s got the power’? He said it was one of your favorites.”
America laughed. “Did he really?”
Valentine dipped her head to make eye contact. “Would you mind . . . explaining?”
“Perhaps I could be talked into it—over another cup of tea.” America stood up and let the bath sheet fall away. She buttoned on her camisole and stepped into pantalettes.
“You have a lovely body,” Valentine said, then hesitated. “You do realize that you are starting to show?”
America’s hands immediately went to her belly.
Valentine’s gaze traveled up from her middle. “Does Phaeton know you are pregnant?”
“He does not.” Nervously, America moistened her lower lip. “At least, I don’t think he does.”
“I sensed a great worry on his mind this morning.” Valentine added new leaves to the teapot and poured in the steaming water. “America—you need to tell him.”
She met Valentine’s gaze. “Gaspar knows.”
“I’m not surprised. He’s an intuitive—a very talented one at that.”
America removed a jar from her portmanteau. The travel bag still sat on the pantry counter unpacked. “Liquid gold from Morocco. It gives your hair shine.”
America poured a few drops into Valentine’s hand. “Rub your hands together and then run your fingers through the strands.” Studying the lovely female Nightshade, she had to ask. “Do you believe Gaspar and Phaeton are related?”
“There’s no brotherly love on Phaeton’s end, but I do sense a protectiveness from Gaspar, as if he can’t help his feelings.” Valentine frowned. “I should tell you that nothing about our leader is in good trim. He cannot be wholly trusted, as he is dealing with his own mortality.”
America stopped smoothing the golden liquid over her own curls. “Is his health failing?”
“He is fighting for his life.”
Valentine must have seen her mouth drop open, because she explained. “Too many expeditions into the Outremer. He is unraveling.”
Phaeton followed Exeter down into the bowels of the old Tower Underground Station. “It is my understanding that Professor Lovecraft has leased this property from the Duke of Astor for the sum of one pound a year.”
In disuse for many years, the station below ground was dark and vaporous. At the bottom of the stairs they turned down a corridor lit by a single sputtering gaslight. Phaeton could just make out a heavy iron door guarded by fanged sentries. Drawing closer, both mechanized cats sat up and snarled. Jersey Blood reached inside his coat and drew out a dagger which immediately unfolded into an impressive claymore.
Not to be outdone, in a series of clatters and clicks, the guardian cats transformed themselves into larger beasts, their snarls deepened into growls and their claws lengthened.
Phaeton raised his gaze above the door. A circle of brass letters spelled out “
Deus Ex Machina
” with a large cursive
L
—for Lovecraft—in the center. Haloed by light, the plaque was otherwise rather industrial in appearance. “God out of the machine.” Phaeton’s growl matched the cat beasts. “Self-aggrandizing blowhard.”
Deus Ex Machina
” with a large cursive
L
—for Lovecraft—in the center. Haloed by light, the plaque was otherwise rather industrial in appearance. “God out of the machine.” Phaeton’s growl matched the cat beasts. “Self-aggrandizing blowhard.”
“Lovecraft is developing a number of different engines, some of which he manufactures below.” The doctor tapped on the door using his umbrella. A small door within a door opened. A man wearing a battered opera hat squinted out of wire framed spectacles. “Who goes there?”
The doctor cleared his throat. “We wish to speak with Lovecraft.”
One of the large feline creatures took a swipe at Phaeton. “Could you call off the pussycats?” From the other side of the door he heard the sound of a toggle switch being thrown, and with it the fangs and claws retracted.
“Who should I say is calling?” The queer man squinted out of spectacles dripping with condensation. Phaeton removed a pocket square from his waistcoat and wiped a clear spot on each lens.
“Much better.” He stepped away from the door. “Tell the professor Doctor Jason Exeter, Captain Jersey Blood, and Phaeton Black have come calling.”
They waited. “We could use Jinn right now. Where’s Ping when we need him?” Minutes ticked by like hours, while Phaeton paced and tried not to think about America’s delicate condition. Exeter appeared to have his own set of worries and Jersey leaned on his broadsword like it was an umbrella. Phaeton double-backed. “Is there something you can do with that magical tool of yours?”
Jersey pointed the weapon at the door and a blast of pale blue energy traveled into every crack and crevice. The cigar-chomping Nightshade stepped forward and pushed the door open with his index finger.
A man stood in the doorway. Rather nondescript, actually, except for the pale eyes protruding out of his head. One set of eyes never blinked; the other set was more of a mechanical pair of irises attached to heavy spectacles. The mechanical eyes tracked up and down, and side to side with the real eyes below. He wore the goggles perched on top of his head and the effect was rather disturbing, as though he had two sets of eyes, and all of them were . . . spying.
“Gentlemen, welcome to my world.” The man’s tight-lipped smile felt a great deal less than welcoming. Of course this had to be Lovecraft, though he did not introduce himself and quickly disappeared through a hatchway and down a length of corridor.
“I am Hudson and I will be your escort.” The butler with the fogged eyeglasses ushered them inside. “Professor Lovecraft will see you in his laboratory.”
Their tour of the factory was rushed, but dazzling. Sitting in the middle of the barrel-shaped tunnel was an immense armored engine, at least three stories tall. The machine rested majestically on train tracks, as wisps of gray smoke curled out of two massive smokestacks. Phaeton was sure the long spear-like objects that protruded from the front of the vehicle were some kind of weapon, as well as the large blade that angled into a v-shape at the base of the engine.
A combination of live workers and automatons on scaffolding worked at riveting the craft’s armor plating. Whatever this was, it was formidable. It also seemed obvious by the number of workers standing about that tests had been postponed while the Lovecraft’s Machine Works entertained visitors. Phaeton glanced back at Exeter who answered with a raised brow.
“We expect a certain amount of stopping and gawking—but you must try not to fall behind.” Hudson led them upstairs and across a metal catwalk to a narrow room of long tables. Each table displayed an assortment of tools, gauges, and a plethora of odd gadgetry in various stages of development.
Lovecraft rotated a helmet-like object on a turnstile in front of him. It looked something like the mechanized headgear that Cutter wore, except this was more streamlined and aesthetic in appearance. When they were all duly assembled around the object, Lovecraft looked up. “How is Cutter Coppersmith?”
Phaeton was in no mood to let Lovecraft dally about. “I have a better question. Where’s the Moonstone?”
He distinctly saw a flash of anger in Lovecraft’s real eyes, then a tepid smile. “Is that what you call it? Rather romantic of you, Phaeton.”
“The one you stole from Doctor Exeter’s laboratory using a swarm of eight-legged rats to do your bidding.”
Lovecraft gave the helmet one last turn. “All right. I admit the RALS were mine, but they were there to stop a band of Reapers from stealing the stone.” Lovecraft’s four eyes moved to Exeter. “Unfortunately your trusted sidekick Phaeton Black shows up and you jam my signals with your police whistle. The Reapers opened a hole in the membrane and herded my army of rats along with the Moonstone—as you call it—back to the other side with them.”
Exeter stepped forward. “Just so we’re clear—we don’t exactly believe that.”
The professor shrugged. “Have it your way.”
“How did you know I had the stone?”
All four of Lovecraft’s eyes narrowed. “A little birdie told me.”
Phaeton stepped forward to throttle the smarmy little bastard, but Exeter caught him by the sleeve. “Not yet.” The doctor narrowed his eyes at Lovecraft. “Why did you have Phaeton shanghaied?”
“Touch me, and I’ll have security up here in an instant.” Lovecraft’s eyes worked in unison to make sure they all got the message. “It doesn’t matter who is in possession of the Moonstone—you know as well as I—we need him to unlock it.”
Exeter nodded. “So all these disturbances are because the powers that be on both sides are looking for Phaeton Black?”
“They’re also interested in my aether collector.” Lovecraft beamed. “I have built a machine not too dissimilar from the machines they use in the Outremer to produce limited quantities of aether. This energy is not unlike the stone’s but with a fraction of its force or half-life.”
“If they had the Moonstone they wouldn’t be interested in your little invention.” Exeter leaned on the man. “So what happened?”
Lovecraft’s four eyes shifted slightly. “The Reapers must have thought they had the stone, but in the crossing, the RALS somehow got the upper hand and secreted the stone away.”
Jersey had wandered off, pretending to be enthralled with Lovecraft’s gizmos. Phaeton suspected the ever vigilant Nightshade would come away with a few valuable observatons—at least he hoped so. Lovecraft was a brilliant inventor, but he was also sly, tragically motivated—and very insane. Phaeton pressed the mad inventor hoping for an angry response and a slip of the tongue. “Since your little rat bastards are single-minded and not very bright at that,” Phaeton mused aloud, “Are we to assume they’re wandering the streets of the Outremer carrying the Moonstone around on their backs?”
Exeter kept the press on. “That’s quite an effort. How long before their half-life runs out?’
Lovecraft appeared uncomfortable, boxed in. “Three more days, at most. Until then, they’ll just keep moving.”
Phaeton recalled the mindless, relentless hordes of spider rats. One wave after another, never stopping, persistently pushing forward. In its own way it was a spot of luck; the Reapers likely couldn’t get a bead on the RALS unless they just happened to run across them.
“Will that be all, gentlemen?” Lovecraft signaled his butler, who toggled switches. Presumably the man was calling in reinforcements, in case they didn’t leave.
“One more question.” Phaeton thought of the engine down in the lower tube. “Wait—two more questions.”
All four eyes narrowed. The effect might have been comical, except that the net result was so sinister. “One question.”
Jersey had worked his way around the room. He was not sure how he got the message because the man’s expression never changed, but Phaeton was quite sure Jersey was telling him they were being watched. He weighed his question options. The professor was not a man to be easily discomposed—in fact, the man hadn’t made a move thus far that wasn’t calm and calculated. At least, that was the effect. Phaeton was beginning to think he couldn’t rattle him. “Are you and Gaspar working together?”
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