The Moonstone and Miss Jones (22 page)
“Duck out?” The dwarf raised a brow.
Phaeton glared.
“Ah, the reluctant hero.” Victor appeared entirely too entertained by Phaeton’s dilemma. “The young Jason embarks upon an impossible quest, fraught with harpies, hydras, and horrible beasts.” There was a momentary hint of longing in his eyes before the small man came around. “I understand you drink eighteen-year-old Talisker’s.”
The lovely succubus brought over a bottle and two glasses. “If you’ll excuse me gentlemen, I have to undress and go to work.”
Phaeton followed a sultry sway of hip as she exited the room. “A dangerous flirtation, Victor.”
The dwarf poured their drinks. “Don’t I know it.”
Phaeton leaned forward. “Have you found a way to—you know . . .” He rolled his eyes. “. . . That is, without getting the bloody life sucked out of you?”
Victor handed him a whiskey. “We’re working on it.”
Phaeton sensed a possible kindred spirit, at least in matters involving the penis. “Cheers.” He took a swallow and enjoyed the whiskey burn. “I understand that dwarves do not get the short shrift—between the legs that is.”
The man raised both brows. “Shall we compare cocks?”
Phaeton grinned. “Hard or soft?”
Victor threw back his head and laughed.
Chapter Twenty-six
“O
NLY
I
CAN UNLEASH THE SECRET POWERS FROM THE STONE
—or so they keep telling me.” Phaeton swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “And here’s the rub—I have no idea how to access this amorphous aether. It’s rather comic; I control the power but have no idea how to use it.”
NLY
I
CAN UNLEASH THE SECRET POWERS FROM THE STONE
—or so they keep telling me.” Phaeton swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “And here’s the rub—I have no idea how to access this amorphous aether. It’s rather comic; I control the power but have no idea how to use it.”
“Or perhaps it is a kind of perfect genius. The man entrusted with the stone doesn’t know how to open it.” Victor grinned. “And what if I told you I can help you with that?”
“You can show me how to loose the power?”
Victor rocked his head, equivocating. “I think I can get you close—but there are others with knowledge of the stone. Gaspar and Lovecraft went to a great deal of trouble to have you captured and brought back to London—your London. And the moment you arrive the stone is snatched from under their noses.” Victor sipped his drink. “That should tell you something, Phaeton.”
“That there are forces on this side, who seek the stone just as desperately.”
Victor did not break his gaze. “Powerful enough to punch holes into your world and recover the one thing that could save ours.”
“And what role do you play in this game?” Phaeton tilted his head. “Are you puppet, master, or candlestick maker?”
Victor scanned the wall of screens behind Phaeton. “Your lovely young lady is out on the dance floor.” He dipped his head to view another screen. “She’s with several Nightshades, and where is Gaspar . . . ?”
Phaeton stole a quick glance at America. Smiling, laughing—swinging that booty around. It struck him dumb, sometimes, how much he loved her.
Victor’s gaze landed on another screen. “Ah, there he is—snooping around outside in the yard with Tim Noggy.”
Phaeton turned back to Victor. “How is it you seem to know everything about us, and yet we know next to nothing about you? We have this cryptic name—the maker—which came from a cockney rhyme. A menacing henchmen gave it up—one of those creatures without the Medusa helmet.”
“Those are Skeezicks.”
He nodded. “That
thing
tried to abduct America.” Phaeton shrugged. “Cutter got close enough to be tortured and left for dead. Whoever captured him took half his face away. Nice characters you’ve got over here.”
thing
tried to abduct America.” Phaeton shrugged. “Cutter got close enough to be tortured and left for dead. Whoever captured him took half his face away. Nice characters you’ve got over here.”
The dwarf nodded. “But no names?”
“All we’ve got—correction. All
I’ve
got are the names like Reapers and their comrades in arms—the scavengers.”
I’ve
got are the names like Reapers and their comrades in arms—the scavengers.”
Victor wore that amused look on his face again. “I believe your side calls them Grubbers.”
“Whatever.” Phaeton glowered. “I need to know at least as much as Gaspar and Lovecraft know about what is happening to your world. I already know their personal reasons for wanting the stone.”
Victor raised a brow.
“If I give you this, I want the whole bloody story.” Phaeton eyeballed the little man, who gestured for him to proceed. “Gaspar is unraveling and believes the stone can cure him. Lovecraft’s son lives in a machine that keeps him alive. Reportedly, the professor has invented something better—sophisticated mechanics that will give his son mobility—but he needs a potent, efficient aether.”
Victor knocked back the last half dram and set his glass down. Phaeton closed his eyes and waited for answers. “Once upon a time, there were three brothers. One set of identical twins, and the other, a badly deformed child. All three children were raised together, played together . . . educated together. But when it came time to run the business, the eldest child, eleven minutes older than his twin, was chosen.”
“I take it you are one of the brothers.”
“Guess which one.” A wry grin curved Victor’s mouth. “From the moment the torch was passed there began a struggle for power that continues on to this day. We live in a world that is run by a corporate oligarchy. A few wealthy entrepreneurs are in control”—Victor waved his hands in the air—“of everything.”
Phaeton blinked. “Then what goes on in Westminster Palace–or Buckingham Palace for that matter?”
“Government as usual—just as you are accustomed to it.”
“You’re saying there’s a shadow government here, in the Outremer.”
Victor smiled. “The land beyond the sea. Much too romantic for us, Phaeton.” The dwarf straightened. “The eldest twin pushed the younger out, then came to me and asked for my help—it’s a long, tiresome story of struggle, which also includes a wizard of science and industry who saw our vulnerability and made his own grab for power.
“Eventually, I led what some call my own bid for control.” Victor leaned back into the plush sofa. “I became the de facto commander of a league of insurrectionist rebels; we disbanded months ago. Most of us were forced into hiding—decimated by the first few editions of Reapers, which were very powerful. They are less so now. The second rebellion started forty-eight hours ago, the wreckage around town still smolders from it. We won a major skirmish, but the war is far from over. Hundreds of Reapers roam about largely unsupervised.”
Phaeton blinked. “I’ve seen the overturned vehicles and the burnt out buildings.”
“That would be our refuse. The powers that be would have cleaned up any evidence of insurrection by now except we have bigger problems to solve at the moment.”
“You’re unraveling.”
“You noticed.”
“And the maker?” Phaeton queried.
“A leviathan-sized aether company run by a twenty-two-year-old cyber geek. He’s into creating and manufacturing cybernetic organisms.”
Phaeton tilted an ear. “Which are?”
Taking pity on his blank look, Victor explained. “Beings with biological and mechanical parts. The machines this young man builds are programmed to call him their maker. As a matter of fact, there have been rumors of industrial spying recently. . . from your world.”
“Professor Lovecraft.”
“Very likely.” Victor shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint, Phaeton, but I fit in nowhere here.”
“I have to ask.” Phaeton looked up from his empty glass. “Do you know where the Moonstone is?”
Victor studied him. “And what if I do?”
“Then,”—Phaeton leaned closer—“I might be willing to cut a deal.”
Victor stared at the wall behind Phaeton. “Reaper squad—a big one.”
Phaeton stood up and whirled around. A screen in the top row showed a number of motorized two-wheeled vehicles pull up and park outside the club.
Victor touched a device that appeared to be hooked over his ear. “Reapers—get them out the back way.”
Several dancers—operatives of Victors—approached Gaspar and within seconds America, Tim, and all the Nightshades were whisked downstairs, past the lap dancers and out the secret exit. Phaeton watched their escape until he ran out of screens.
Victor looked as frustrated as he felt. “Unfortunately there is no coverage of the rear stairs; if this lair is ever found, I don’t want them to know about the stairs.”
Phaeton nodded. “Did they get out?”
“Presumably.” Victor shrugged on a jacket. “Where do you reenter?”
“South side of Vauxhall Bridge.”
“We’ll not only catch up—we’ll beat your friends over there.” Victor dimmed the lights and opened the door a crack. “Come.”
All hell had broken loose in the yard near the club. Reapers herded a number of detainees into paneled vehicles using some sort of stick; Phaeton flinched at the sharp crack. “Electrical switches,” Victor whispered, waving him up beside him. “Straight across the yard there’s a covered passage that leads to a mews. Stay to the shadows and circle about, I’ll meet you over there.”
The sly dwarf turned back downstairs.
“Wait, where are you going?” Phaeton hissed.
“Secret passage—if I showed you . . .”
“Never mind,” Phaeton growled. He slipped into the darkest shadows of the courtyard and quietly made his way over to a narrow walk between buildings.
“Who goes there? Stop where you are!” The voice sounded artificial, somewhat like Cutter’s voice box. Phaeton thought about running, but slowed and turned. All he could make out was the silhouette of a snake entangled head.
On second thought.
Phaeton did an about face and ran. At the far end of the passage, he paused. This was supposed to be a mews but there were no carriages or stables. He turned toward the street, only to find himself in a blind court with a whip-cracking Reaper bearing down on him. The creature sprang out of the tunnel, leaping from wall to wall. Phaeton forced himself to stop, before he backed himself into a corner.
Something dark and fast rumbled into the alley. Phaeton squinted. An engine on two wheels moving very fast—and it was very loud. The strange vehicle struck the Reaper full bore and sent the creature flying into the air. The tentacled head smacked into the wall and the body slid to the ground.
The powerful engine pivoted in the middle of the yard. Phaeton sniffed the burn and smoke off thick, black wheels. The driver, who wore a helmet and dressed in leather, straddled the vehicle like it was a bicycle. “Climb on back, Phaeton.”
The creature stirred. Phaeton jumped on and held on for dear life. The motor bike took off with such power he thought he might be thrown off the back.
“Hold on tight.”
At Tottenham Court road, the bike accelerated to such a speed that it took his breath away. Now and then, they slowed at a cross street, but otherwise blew through traffic lights and stop signs—something he had come to understand was de rigueur in the Outremer.
The power between his legs was like nothing he had ever encountered. Then he thought about standing up on the bowsprit of the
Topaz
—the sea rushing under you, the sun rising over an ocean of blue. Okay, this was the third most exhilarating experience of his life.
Topaz
—the sea rushing under you, the sun rising over an ocean of blue. Okay, this was the third most exhilarating experience of his life.
The driver slowed as they wove in and out of the wreckage of an old urban conflict. The rebels must have taken refuge behind that overturned double-decker. He wondered absently how long they had lasted.
Several Reapers jumped out at them and made a swipe at the handlebars of the motor bike. Phaeton tightened his grip as they accelerated to a speed that left even the Reapers in the dust—and Reapers, if he remembered correctly, were wicked fast creatures.
As they approached the Vauxhall Bridge, the driver slowed down. They continued along the bridge cautiously—waiting, he assumed, for a sign. There. Near the south end of the bridge, a flash of light. And a second flash.
The driver accelerated. At the southeast corner of the bridge, the driver made a cautious turnabout. “I believe this is my stop.” Phaeton swung a leg over and approached the driver.
“Thanks for the—”
Under the streetlamp he caught a better look at the driver. He should say the curves of the driver—definitely female. Taken aback, Phaeton stammered, “Thanks for the—”
The driver took off in a blur of thrust and noise. He stared after the motor bike until it disappeared on the other side of the river.
“Hypothetically speaking, if I were in possession of the Moonstone, I would need Phaeton Black—that would be you—to help do what must be done.” Phaeton turned to the familiar voice. Victor sat behind the driver of yet another motor bike. The silence felt odd—the engine had been turned off.
Phaeton dipped to look in the black cab that passed by. No America. No Gaspar. No Nightshades. “If you have a plan, let’s hear it, Victor.”
The dwarf handed over a satchel—the same one he had purchased earlier that evening, only heavier than he remembered.
“Nested among your clothes you’ll find a perfect copy of the Moonstone, complete with a swirl of relic dust and champagne and the occasional quiver.” The driver of the motor bike stepped down hard on a metal plate and the engine chugged to life. “Should you need anything, contact me through Fleury or Georgiana. Prepare yourself and your young lady, Phaeton. There are men who will stop at nothing to force you to loose the power in the stone. We’re going to flush them out—find out who’s against us and who’s with us.”
“Then what?” Phaeton yelled above the engine.
Victor waved as they moved off. “Then we save the world.”
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