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Authors: Jillian Stone

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The Moonstone and Miss Jones (23 page)

BOOK: The Moonstone and Miss Jones
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Chapter Twenty-seven
 
A
MERICA STEPPED OUT OF THE CAB LOOKING FOR HIM
. “He’s not here.” A huge red omnibus roared past. “Wait a moment.” She smiled. The passing double-decker revealed Phaeton standing across the street. She waved to him, but as her focus took in the backdrop behind him, her mouth dropped open.
“Wait there,” she called and ran to join him across the road. He led her to the bridge path. “Good God, Phaeton, what is happening here?” He held her in his arms while she peeked now and again at the ghastly sights. The grand waterway that was once the Thames was a muddy wash, with nothing but a trickle of water running down its center. All along the North bank, buildings were disintegrating—unraveling, including the whole of Westminster Palace. Her gaze trailed the riverbank all the way down to—half of St. Paul’s dome appeared eaten away, as though some giant had taken a bite out of the cupola.
Phaeton spoke softly. “I was worried, my love—I wasn’t sure if you avoided the Reaper patrols.”
She arched back in his arms. “You were worried? Phaeton, you do realize we had no idea where you were? All we could do is hope you made it here, as well.”
“I can assure you I was perfectly safe and had my eye on you all the whole time—well, Victor did anyway.”
“Who’s Victor?”
“Yes, Phaeton, who is Victor?” Gaspar stood a few feet away, eavesdropping.
Phaeton spun away from her to confront the Shades’ leader. “I say we trundle on home to bed, and debrief in the morning. ”
Gaspar studied him, as well as the satchel in his hand. “As you wish, Phaeton.”
Tim Noggy approached them, followed by the Nightshades, all of whom were dressed for clubbing in the Outremer. Phaeton found the sight highly amusing. “This must have cost Gaspar a bloody fortune.”
“Let me tell you what’s not so comical.” Tim got out the small device he sometimes used to locate the ins and outs between worlds. “The stream is gone, mate.”
“But there are others, right?” America asked. “We could go back to the hotel, again—might that work?”
Tim looked around at the concerned faces. “It’s worth a try—otherwise we have to find a new one and they’re harder to locate over here.”
Phaeton’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll tell you what I think—I think Lovecraft tampered with this return point.”
Tim looked at him. “I was thinking it, I just wasn’t saying it.”
“I asked the driver to wait.” Gaspar did not look pleased. “Let’s get to the hotel.”
Phaeton pivoted toward the boxy black cab. “I do hope you got the driver with the red turban.”
The ride over to Whitehall was taken up by an argument over the hotel room number. America tried a fresh start. “We agree on one thing—we were on the tenth floor.”
“I swear we were in room twenty-eight, in the east wing.” Ruby huffed.
“She’s got a truly remarkable memory for topography as well as a sense of direction.” Valentine eyeballed every man crammed into the cab. “We follow her lead first.”
“Fine. Agreed. We go to twenty-eight first.” Tim rolled his eyes. “Why do you like this guy with the turban?” he asked Phaeton.
“Because he has experience.”
It appeared to be a quiet night at the hotel—the lobby was nearly empty as they traversed plush carpets and marble floors. As they had done the last time, they split up and met on the tenth floor.
“Here it is, room twenty-eight. Tim got out his sensor. “What do you know? We’ve got an opening.”
America walked up and down the corridor. “No maids about.”
Cutter removed a key from his pocket and fiddled with the teeth end. “I have an uncle who works as a second-story man now and then. He taught me a thing or two about jimmying a lock.”
“The one doing time at Wormwood Scrubs.” Ruby rolled her eyes.
America tried to suppress a smile. Cutter had received an inordinate number of booty rubs on the dance floor this evening. He not only had some amazing dance moves, but his clockwork half mask had the young ladies swooning over him in the Outremer. Tim had called it a chit magnet. It was also hard not to notice Ruby’s cool, aloof reaction to all the attention he received. She supposed they would quibble and bicker until one day one of them would get up the nerve to jump the other’s bones.
Cutter wasn’t on his knees for a quick minute when the door swung open. “I thought I might find you all here.”
America noted Phaeton’s glower. “Not particularly hard when you shut down the main highway out of here, Lovecraft.”
“If any of you had thought to check with me . . .” The man’s pale, watery eyes swiveled eerily. “I would have told you Vauxhall was down—a few maintenance issues.” So this was Professor Lovecraft. The man was not imposing in the least, but he wore a perpetual half smile that was disturbing because of its obvious insincerity.
“If you wish to return to our side of the universe, please join me inside.” Lovecraft stepped back to allow Gaspar and the Shades in first.
“Back away quickly,” Phaeton whispered and grabbed her hand and made for the lift.
“Phaeton, what are we—?” She had no time to finish the sentence, the elevator doors opened. Phaeton blindly pressed a number of buttons on the panel.
“Step out of there now, or I’ll shoot.” The professor stood in the corridor brandishing a pistol pointed at America.
Phaeton swept her behind him. “You’ll have to shoot me to get to her, and then where will you be?” Jersey Blood rounded the corner and tackled Lovecraft from behind. The gun went off just as the doors closed.
America squeezed Phaeton’s hand and moved forward.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Well and bravely protected.” She examined his jacket. “If you’ll excuse me.” She leaned close. “I have to check for bullet holes.” She opened his jacket and a few buttons of his shirt. She loved the feel of his fuzzy mat of chest hair—sweeping her fingers lightly over his chest she moved lower until his stomach muscles quivered.
“I remember now, danger excites your desire for me.” Phaeton grinned, looking up and around. “I’ve never done it in a lift—might be fun.”
The elevator suddenly lurched to a halt. America moved beside Phaeton and waited for the doors to open. But nothing happened. Phaeton checked all the buttons on the side panel. “Ah here we are.” He pressed the button marked DOOR OPEN.
“Hello?”
The voice came from a small mesh square above the control panel. America looked up at Phaeton. “Might it be a telephone of some sort?” America stood on tiptoe and answered. “Hello?” She had observed that Outremer denizens either carried or wore strange little communication devices. In the club, Gaspar had explained these gadgets were more important than flesh and blood people.
A face appeared in the flat square above the buttons and America jumped back. “Apologies for the delay, we’ll be bringing you down shortly.” It appeared to be a photograph of a young man with close cropped hair, near their age. And she distinctly saw the disembodied head animate. The image turned profile and bobbed about.
Just to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating she checked in with Phaeton. “Are you seeing this?”
The lighting inside the elevator dimmed, and the panel of buttons flashed.
Phaeton cleared his throat. “Mind telling us where we’re going? Just so we don’t get the mistaken idea we’re being abducted?”
The elevator dropped suddenly, then corrected itself for the trip down. They both anxiously watched the numerical digits above the door, until the word
Lobby
appeared. But the metal cubical didn’t stop; it continued its descent, past P1, P2, P3, P4.
Then there were no more numbers or letters. Phaeton caught America around the waist and gave her a reassuring squeeze. Suddenly, the word
Pool
flashed above the metal doors and the lift came to a stomach lurching stop.
The doors opened onto a room encased by glass walls and a rectangular bathing pool. The main plunge was large indeed with two smaller, steaming pools at one end. America reached for Phaeton’s hand. The air was sultry, with a tinge of antiseptic in the air.
They walked around the entire glassed-in pool, until they found the entrance. An envelope was attached to the door with a message:
One for each ear
.
“Welcome to Black Box.” A young man approached them wearing a dressing robe, over loose fitting plaid pajamas, and bedroom slippers. “My name is Jared J. Oakley. Most everyone calls me JJ or Oakley—take your pick.” He pointed to the packet on the door. “You don’t need to put in the ear buds unless you want to send or receive messages.” His smile was relaxed, affable.
She and Phaeton were a bit slow to answer, since they were so busy staring.
Jared’s laugh was gentle. “Look, I know this is a bit overwhelming so why don’t I ramble on—stop me if you have a question.”
The young, rather handsome man looked them over. “You’re Phaeton and America.” He grinned. “Cool names.” There was something about the way he spoke that reminded her of . . . Tim.
“Where are we exactly?” Phaeton queried, having found his voice.
Jared turned to him. “You are in the guest sector of a very large complex of interconnected underground chambers.” His eyes rolled upward. “We are nine stories underground, and the space is hermetically sealed—impervious to harmful gases—and the chambers are lined with fifteen inches of lead, which means this environment is free from the destructive cosmic rays that are about to unravel our world.”
He paused to let them take it in. “About an hour ago, Victor called and said he suspected Vauxhall was down and thought you might try the hotel. He asked me to keep an eye out.”
“It appears Lovecraft had the same idea,” Phaeton said.
Jared nodded. “It’s late—enjoy your stay—sleep late. We’ll slip you back through in the morning.” He showed them to a sort of tropical bedchamber just off poolside. “We have regular rooms down the corridor.” Their congenial host rocked his head back and forth. “Maybe four star quality without the turn down and pillow chocolate.” He rolled back a glass door. “But since we have no other guests at the moment—you can have the pool and this room to yourselves.”
A four-poster bed veiled in sheer white drapes lay cantilevered over a rectangular pond, which featured a waterway that trickled over smooth black rocks, and zigzagged down into the swimming pool.
“There are three pools. The large for a swim, two hot pools for tired muscles, and the other is for bathing. If you decide to bathe—don’t get out until you are finished washing up. The bath automatically drains, sanitizes, and refills itself.” Jared nodded a bow and backed out of the room. “Sleep well.”
America whirled around. “What do you think, Phaeton?”
He set down the satchel. “I think I’m beginning to like it over here.” He shrugged out of his new blazer and rolled up a shirt sleeve. Down on his haunches he dipped his hand in the water. He peeked over his shoulder and raised a brow. She knew a signature Phaeton grin was hidden behind his sleeve.
She tilted her head. “Well?”
“Like a baby’s bath water.” Now she could see his smile.
“Stop! I know exactly what you’re thinking, Phaeton Black.”
His arm swept back and forth. “Oh no, Miss Jones, you’re wrong indeed.” He shook off droplets and sauntered close. “You are going to have to seduce me into removing all my clothes.” His smile turned into a challenging grin. “So that we might cavort like porpoises in and out of the pool.”
America lowered her chin and slanted her eyes. The sultry look that always captured his attention. She reached up behind the strapless gown and found the small metal pull.
And pulled.
The bodice slipped off her breasts, and down her hips. She stepped out of the dress and laid it across a lawn chair near the pool. She turned to him and unknotted the tie at her hip. She let the protective shawl fall away.
“I suppose there is no need for that, with fifteen inches of lead protecting pea in the pod from nasty cosmic rays.” He was so taken with the violet lace v-string pantie, he could barely speak the words.
America pulled the strings halfway down her buttocks and she caught a glimpse of him watching her disrobe with unapologetic interest. America began to laugh. “You might attend to the removal of your own clothes.”
Eventually, he did turn away, but not before taking a good long side-glance at her. Phaeton finished his undress while she waded into the pool. From a safe position in the water, she watched him disrobe with growing curiosity.
His shirt was off and his torso and arms were taut with muscle. His beautifully proportioned broad chest narrowed down to slim hips and long sinewy legs. America sank lower into the warm pool water. Needless to say, he was a particularly handsome man. But this evening, he could be a seductive stranger. “Shall we have a fantasy?”
“What do you desire, my love? To be captured by a centaur and ravaged in the road?”
BOOK: The Moonstone and Miss Jones
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