The Moonstone and Miss Jones (15 page)
And they were moving—but only slightly. Not the whip crack, stabbing snakes they were used to dealing with. Whatever energy Tim had in his body was obviously fueling the feelers.
“Do you feel different?” Phaeton asked.
“Nothing.” Tim pressed the helmet lower. “Wait.” He held an index finger up to his lips. He appeared to be listening to something, because he nodded his head.
“Tim Noggy.” He spoke aloud.
Phaeton looked to Ping. “You hearing—seeing this?” Tim’s eyes had glazed over and he was answering questions. “In my workshop.” Tim looked around the room. “With my colleagues—friends.” Tim nodded. “Who are they?”
Phaeton shook his head. “No names.”
Phaeton and Ping took one side, Jersey and Cutter the other. Tim opened his mouth to answer and they each grabbed a tentacle and pulled the helmet off.
Dazed and confused, Tim shook his head. “It was him—I’m sure of it.”
Ping leaned close and checked Tim’s eyes. “You spoke with the maker?”
“He seemed . . .” Tim gazed at the men around him. “Nice.”
Cutter released a curtain and backed away from the window. “Just to be safe—we’d best be leaving here. Have you got another lab in town?”
Tim nodded. “Several.”
In seconds they had the helmet packed and were down the backstairs, which let them out at Charing Cross Road. While they waiting for the Underground train, in the midst of the noontime rush and bustle, Phaeton turned to Tim. “Study that thing to your heart’s content—but don’t put it on again.”
“Don’t worry, mate. There’s some kind of homing beacon inside.”
Ping opened the telegram they had received from Lovecraft, and handed it to Tim. “We need your help, to make sure Phaeton gets across tonight.”
Their cherubic consultant raised both brows. “Sure you don’t want me to go with you?”
Ping shook his head. “We’ve got the professor with us.”
“Why does Lovecraft hate me so much—just because I won’t work for him?”
Ping’s silver eyes peered over the rim of his dark lenses. “Because you won’t work for him.”
Tim read the wire. “Hanway Yard, the usual time.”
Chapter Seventeen
A
MERICA SLIPPED INTO
D
OCTOR
E
XETER’S STUDY
and quietly closed the door. Valentine sat at the library table reading. She tilted her head to read the spine. “
The Strange Case of Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
. That might keep an ordinary person awake nights—but not you, Miss Valentine Smyth.”
MERICA SLIPPED INTO
D
OCTOR
E
XETER’S STUDY
and quietly closed the door. Valentine sat at the library table reading. She tilted her head to read the spine. “
The Strange Case of Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
. That might keep an ordinary person awake nights—but not you, Miss Valentine Smyth.”
“No, we have Phaeton Black and America Jones in the adjoining room for that.” The female Nightshade’s grin quickly went lopsided and curious. “Is that a hint of a blush, I see, Miss Jones?”
America felt her cheek with the back of her hand. “Were we the least bit inspiring—I hope?” She sat down beside Valentine and poured herself a cup of tea from the tray on the table.
Soft snores from the parlor indicated a Nightshade male napped on the divan by the window. “Jersey’s back?”
Valentine nodded. “Phaeton and Cutter are tucking Tim Noggy into a new secret location.”
America nodded. “Where’s Ruby?”
“She’s up in her room having a bath.” Valentine quietly stirred her tea. “Doctor Exeter tells me you once worked for Phaeton.”
America found a ribbon in the pocket of her dress to tie her hair back. “Rather a long story, but first . . .” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I want to hear about you and Jersey last night. Any news?”
A rap at the door brought Mr. Tandi, Doctor Exeter’s manservant, inside the study. Dressed in a white caftan and trousers, the elegant dark-skinned servant wore many strands of glass beads around his neck and wrists.
Valentine laid a finger over her lips and nodded toward Jersey.
A soft-spoken man, Tandi hardly needed to lower his voice. “It is my pleasure to serve you and make certain your stay with us is as comfortable as possible. Might there be anything more you desire this afternoon?”
“Plenty of cakes and biscuits left and the tea is still warm.” Valentine smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Tandi.” They waited for the exotic man to leave the room.
“Any progress?” America prodded.
Valentine slipped a finger between pages and shut the book. “I do believe all those moans and grunts from the bedchamber last night had their effect,” she spoke quietly. “He agreed to a test.”
“And?”
Valentine whispered in her ear. “Three kisses—each one longer than the last.”
America nodded. “He wanted more, but also learned he could stop.”
Valentine rolled her eyes over to the sleeping Nightshade on the settee. “Shall we take a walk about the garden?”
The afternoon sun warmed paths that meandered through neatly trimmed boxwood hedges. They found an iron bench, between flowerbeds filled with red poppies and delphiniums.
Valentine took a seat, angling herself toward America. “Next lesson?”
“It’s important not to rush things. That lovely hunk of a man curled up on the settee wants you, badly. If you move too fast, and he looses the beast inside, you risk a setback.” America smiled. “Make him come to you this time.”
Phaeton entered Hanway Yard and checked his surroundings. Even though the uneven pavers were enough to trip a person up, gaslights had been replaced by electric lampposts, and shop windows blazed with light. He was definitely in the Outremer, and it was nearly dark out. Phaeton strolled past chic boutique windows with smart looking togs on display and racks of clothing for sale inside. The future—if indeed this was the future—appeared ready-to-wear.
He stopped short near Tottenham Court Road, mesmerized by a shop window filled with ladies’ unmentionables. The delicate undergarments lay scattered about in front of large photographs of statuesque women, nearly all of them nude, except for a tiny string, running between the cheeks of their buttocks.
Christ, he was instantly hard as a stone.
The fragile, lace pantalettes on display came in every shade of pastel, cream, and black. Tiny pieces of cloth and string—and all he could think about was how they might look on America.
One of the life-size women in the photographs looked over her shoulder. She cupped bare breasts with her hands—like there was something to be modest about when your buttocks were jiggling in the breeze? Still, he enjoyed a quick fantasy.
Phaeton scanned the yard behind him and entered the shop. A pert young woman with bobbed hair popped up from behind a pink and white striped counter. She looked him up and down. “Love your outfit—going to the Anti-Christ?”
“Pardon?”
“The nightclub in Whitechapel? Steampunk theme night?”
A bit slack jawed, he nodded. “Right.”
She pointed to the goggles around his neck. “Nice touch.”
Phaeton cleared his throat. “Might I inquire about the cream colored lingerie in the window?”
“Oh!” The shop girl gasped. “One of my favorites—did you notice the strategically placed little rhinestone? Adorable!” The enthusiastic young woman opened a shallow drawer in a display cabinet. “We have them in every color!”
Phaeton picked out the cream with the rhinestone, a violet lace little nothing, and something in transparent black with a velvet bow at each hip.
“Is this a gift? Wife or girlfriend?”
Phaeton noted a flash of pale light out in the yard. No doubt his comrades were arriving. “More of a gift for me, actually.” He picked up the delicate undergarments and stuffed them in his pocket. “How much?”
“Thirty-one and six.” When he stared, she added, “Including VAT.”
Luckily, he still had a money clip full of his gambling winnings. He counted out nearly a half year’s rent.
“Phaeton—we’ve been looking all over for you.” Jersey swept through the doorway, goggles resting on top of his head, his cloak swept back off his shoulders looking for all the world like the adventurer he was.
The shop girl’s mouth dropped open as her gaze moved from Jersey to Cutter, who stood in the doorway—whirring and rasping. “I could call a few friends . . . meet up with you blokes later in Whitechapel?”
Phaeton stepped away. “We’re off to a . . . costume party. Perhaps later, love.”
“After hours, then.” She winked.
They joined Ping and Lovecraft outside. “Shopping, Phaeton?” Despite the annoyed look, the professor stole another glance at the display window. They all did. Phaeton deciphered the sign above the pink striped awning and snorted. “Of course the queen would want to keep this shop a secret—what year is this exactly?”
“Outremer years don’t parallel ours—and their reality may or may not be our future.” Lovecraft led the way to the center of the small yard. “One of my scouts spotted a horde of RALS in this vicinity last night.”
Phaeton stared at the boxy device in the professor’s hand. Lovecraft toggled a switch and pivoted slowly in a circle. A quiet chime sounded at regular intervals—but as the device swung toward a main thoroughfare, the dinging increased to more frequent intervals. Lovecraft headed straight for the Underground entrance near the intersection of Oxford and Tottenham Court Road.
Jersey and Cutter spread out into the first level of the large Underground station and waved them onto a moving staircase which took them down into the lower tube and train platforms.
Phaeton and Ping hovered around Lovecraft’s device, while Jersey and Cutter swept up and down the platform for any visual sign of the rats. The detector had begun to chime repeatedly—much to the curiosity of those waiting for the train.
“Can you turn that thing down?” Phaeton inquired. The sickly, yellowish-green light that illuminated the platform began to flicker, then cut out entirely. Lovecraft looked up furtively and clicked the locator off. A few more flickers and they were plunged into darkness.
He sensed the Nightshades hovered close by. “The Noggle Goggles help.” Cutter’s rasp cut through the dark. A spark of illumination and a buzzing noise accompanied something Lovecraft called “emergency lights.” Red bulbs encased in a metal mesh flashed at regular intervals along the stairs, enough light to evacuate the station.
Ping gave his goggles to Lovecraft. “Now that we have the station to ourselves, why don’t you switch that machine back on?”
The device led them off the end of the platform and through a series of service tunnels. All of them ended at a hatch which, when opened, led to yet another passage. And all the while the device chimed faster or slower, depending on the direction they headed.
“Shhh!” Jersey held up an arm and they halted at once. The noise was familiar. Something akin to the hiss of a steam vent mixed with the sound of scissors snipping. Cutter pivoted in a circle, and then slowly tilted his head upward. “Try pointing that thing up.”
The device sounded like an alarm clock going off. “Where are they?”
“Hiding in air vents, storm drains—basements. Whatever is between here and the surface,” said Lovecraft.
Phaeton signaled Ping to accompany him back down the service tunnel. They stopped at the first air shaft they came to. A series of numbers and letters were stenciled in the rim of the shaft cover. “17–19 TCR.”
Ping mused aloud. “TCR . . . Tottenham Court Road.”
Phaeton squinted up through the louvers of the vent cover. He reached up, found the latch and twisted. The cover swung down and a gray metallic object fell out of the shaft and into the floor, toes up.
“Cheerio.” The clatter brought the others down the passage. Cutter jabbed the expired rat’s underbelly and its spindly spider legs contracted. “One Rat Ass Little Spider down—hundreds more to go.”
Phaeton exhaled. “Without a transit diagram that includes the service tunnels and vents between the tube and the surface—we could be down here for days. What say we try our luck from the surface down?”
Up on Tottenham Court Road, they passed a number of dark shop windows and a boarded up shooting gallery. Phaeton jogged down a closed courtyard to do a quick nose about. At the end of the row he discovered a narrow set of stairs. A flashy sign buzzed and glowed a lurid shade of fuchsia. “The Orchid Lounge.” Realizing his goggles were on, he lowered the protective lenses.
A deep throbbing beat thumped away at regular intervals. Not the whispered clicks and snips of the RALS, but intriguing nonetheless. Phaeton hesitated on the top step. A door banged open at the bottom and the sound blasted up the stairs and down the alley. The disturbance brought his cohorts out on the street, running down the alley.
A large chap wearing a shirt stretched across a bulging chest and arms took a seat outside the door of the . . . Phaeton read the sign again.
“Blimey, The Orchid Lounge—” Jersey spoke the words out loud. “You asked about the maker and the succubus uttered the name of this place.”
“I believe I called it succubus gibberish.” Phaeton grimaced.
Lovecraft’s watery bug eyes shifted back and forth. “I wouldn’t disappoint the maker, if I were you, Phaeton. You were sent an invitation.”
The door below stairs banged open again as two young women exited The Orchid Lounge. The girls wore breathtakingly short gowns that sparkled when they moved. Phaeton’s gaze moved from ankles to calves to thighs.
As they reached street level, he couldn’t resist a nod. “Good night, ladies.” Up close, they wore face paint and very unusual hair. The one with straight pink tresses gave him a wink. “Sorry boys, we’ve got an early shift in the morning.”
Both young women halted dead in their tracks and blinked. They were both staring at Cutter. Phaeton remembered what the shop girl said. “Been out . . . clubbing. Just came from Whitechapel—The Anti-Christ.”
Both girls exhaled a knowing, “Ahhh,” and one even batted her lashes at Cutter. “Hot.”
Phaeton tore his eyes off the two lovelies. “Shall we, gentlemen?”
“Welcome to The Orchid Club.” A young man inside the door took gobs of banknotes off them and stamped the back of their hands with something invisible.
Phaeton led the way, winding a path through a crush of dancers, everyone dipping and moving in rhythm. He wanted to call whatever it was music—because he could not for the life of him think of what else it might be. The vibration of the low notes thrummed up through the floor and permeated his entire body. He approached a throng of drinkers standing two deep at a bar lit up like a Christmas window at Harrods.
Exotic, colorful drinks were in everyone’s hands—Phaeton’s gaze meandered through a bevy of scantily clad women and landed on the absinthe fountain. Cold water dripped out of four spigots, dissolving lumps of sugar, and flowing into glasses gone milky green with . . . he turned to his compatriots. “Name your poison—I’m buying.”
Perhaps it was the throbbing beat or the lovely bodies—everywhere—but Ping was turning into Jinn. His hair flowed around his face, and his features had suddenly gone all luscious and feminine.
Lovecraft sidled over close and shouted in Phaeton’s ear. “If we meet with the maker—we should offer a deal. Promise anything—whatever he wants, if you take my meaning.” He rolled his eyes in that weirdly diabolical fashion—a signature look of the professor’s.
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