The Moonstone and Miss Jones (10 page)
Chapter Eleven
“M
Y WORD YOU LOOK RAVISHING
. Might I ravish you, Miss Jones?” Phaeton slipped in beside America at Gaspar’s library table.
Y WORD YOU LOOK RAVISHING
. Might I ravish you, Miss Jones?” Phaeton slipped in beside America at Gaspar’s library table.
“You and Captain Blood made it here just in time,” she harrumphed
“Apologies, we should have traveled by river this time of day. Had a miserable time finding a cab.”
The slight eye roll and tilt to the master’s chin smacked of impatience, still it appeared Gaspar was curious. “And how is Scotland Yard these days?”
“Unnerved. And rather occupied chasing after succubi at the moment.”
Gaspar nodded. “Good.”
Phaeton made a cursory scan of the study. “Where’s the doctor?”
Gaspar settled into a wing chair. “In a few minutes we will be traveling to a location on Fleet Street, where we hope Doctor Exeter will join us.” The Shades’ leader gestured to a wild-haired young man with plenty of flesh on him. “Phaeton Black, meet Tim Noggy.”
“Your reputation proceeds you . . . all good, mate.” When Phaeton glared, Noggy backed away. “Good in a bad way?”
“Tim keeps track of the dregs,” Gaspar explained. “And, on occasion, gets cornered by them. This afternoon, while you and Jersey were consulting with Director Chilcott and Zander Farrell, the lovely Miss Jones and the remaining Nightshades managed to rendezvous with Tim and bring him safely in.” The Shades’ leader waved Valentine and Ruby over to the table. “Tim also happens to be an excellent instructor. He will act as supervisor for this expedition.” Gaspar gave him the nod. “Make your briefing—brief, Tim.”
Phaeton sized up their otherworld guide. “Will you refresh my memory as to why America and I need to embark on this maiden voyage?”
Tim stared. “Because you’re the Moonstone man. If anyone can get us close to the stone, it’s you, mate.” Tim rolled his eyes, “Nobody on either side can get a drop of aether out of the stone without you.” The large man’s gaze shifted to America, “She’s vulnerable in this whole deal because of you . . .”
Phaeton nodded. “I understand she needs protecting at all times.”
“I couldn’t agree more, but it is also imperative that America is familiar with the basics. How to get in, how to navigate the city, and most important, how to find her way home.” Gaspar winked at America, which irked Phaeton no end. “After she completes her training, we can likely spare a guard to remain here with her. Reapers patrol in much greater numbers on the other side. It is always advisable to bring as many Nightshades as possible with you.
Tim cleared his throat and broke the silence. “Right. So . . . does everyone remember their inkling?”
“Inkling?” America asked.
“Insertion. Reentry. Inklings. Terms we use to describe things that defy description,” Jersey Blood explained. The captain rested an elbow on the curved arm of the chaise longue.
“The everyday object you selected last night is your inkling.” Tim raised his hands, palms out. “Whatever you do, don’t speak your inkling out loud. But I do ask you to write it down.”
“Why can’t we speak it out loud?” Phaeton queried.
“It weakens the charm.” The cherub-faced young man passed out strips of notepaper. He pushed a canister full of stubby pencils into the center of the table. “An inkling is a kind of trigger or recall device which allows us to pass between worlds.”
Tim Noggy swept around the library table, completely agile for a young man of such bulk. “When you first start to—slip in and out—there’s a kind of an adjustment period. Your inkling is like a clue—it points the way out. We can get you in there, but everyone has to find their own way back.”
“Eyes to yourself—no peeking at each other’s papers.” Tim leaned over Phaeton’s shoulder. “Sorry, mate, you’d better print those letters—I’ll never be able to read that.”
Gaspar leaned back into his throne-like wing chair. “The task for your first tour will be simple. You will be given the name of a hotel to locate. Once there, you will ask for a room and you will be given a key. Inside the room, you will search for your inkling. If you do not find your inkling, look for a related object. Be acutely attuned for clues and use all of your senses. The hints to your reentry can be a whisper or something so obvious a person can’t readily perceive it.” Gaspar grinned “These inklings can also take the form of a riddle or puzzle, which when solved will be your way out.”
Phaeton twirled his pencil between fingers. “Why was I expecting something more . . . scientific?”
“More like Jules Verne.” Tim Noggy circled a chubby finger at the group. “A person’s ability to move from one field to another has more to do with perception than reality.”
Phaeton stared at Tim.
Tim returned the stare. “Best not to get too deep in the weeds. And I don’t expect you to have any problems.”
“Why not?”
“Because the weirdness is strong in you, mate.” The stout young man continued his stroll around the table. “Now turn the sheet over and write your inkling again, only this time write it backward.”
Phaeton finished in a flash and glanced about the room. He noticed none of the other males in the room were scribbling. Jersey and Cutter were stretched out on settees and wing chairs. “Why aren’t they writing?”
“Rather a long story—just consider yourself fortunate you need a trigger,” Gaspar replied. An entirely unsatisfactory answer and typical of the Gentleman Nightshade who clearly had something to hide.
Tim collected the strips of notepaper and handed them to Mr. Ping. “Ping will be the keeper of the inklings.”
Ping’s pale silver eyes dilated into large black orbs, like a cat’s eyes in a dark room. “Should one of you not return—I will go in after you.” He turned to Gaspar. “The hour between light and dark approaches. We must get ourselves to 16 Wine Office Court.”
The only good thing about being stuffed into Gaspar’s town coach was having America on his lap. Phaeton settled her into the crook of his arm. “That narrow little pedestrian walk outside the Cheshire Cheese is the entry point? We were just there the other night—for chops and a pint.” He snorted at the thought.
Tim Noggy opened the satchel on his lap and passed out pocketsize mirrors. “Expect some disorientation at first. Don’t be surprised if you have trouble reading street signs, storefronts—left to right becomes right to left. The mirrors can help, especially if you have to read.”
Tim dug back inside his bag. “Or—you can wear these.” He pulled out a pair of strange looking spectacles. “Noggle Goggles. They enhance vision and there’s also a listening device.”
Phaeton reached for the glasses. “I’ve used these before.” He buckled on the goggles and adjusted the eyepieces. Outside the carriage streetlamps glowed the most lurid chartreuse color.
“Yeah, you have. These are based on one of Doctor Exeter’s original designs, but they’ve been modified to pick up on Grubbers and Reapers.” Tim looked around the cabin. “I have another couple of pairs, who wants them?” When everyone reached out, Tim had to choose. “Ruby—you already have enhanced vision. Miss Jones—stick like glue to Mr. Black.” He gave the goggles to Valentine and Jersey. “Take good care of these, you don’t want to know how much they cost Gaspar.”
Tim studied the goggle wearers and grinned. “Adds a bit of swagger. You’ll find that most of the perception issues go away in time.”
The carriage pulled up outside the Cheshire Cheese so they could watch the pedestrian traffic down the narrow court off Fleet Street. “Jersey and Cutter, you need to make the jump now—give the Reapers something to chase.”
Cutter hopped down from his footman’s station at the back of the carriage and opened the door. “Ready?”
Tim caught Phaeton’s eye with a wink. “Watch this.” It was near twilight—they all hunkered down inside the carriage and watched Jersey and Cutter turn down the passageway. They both had their capes on and hoods up. With the goggles everything was seen, including a fleeting glance at the strange, tentacle-haired creature just ahead of the two Nightshades.
“A Reaper—and he’s a big one. The simplest way to pass through is a disruption insertion,” Tim whispered. “Which means one person disrupts while the other slips through quietly. But it is also the most dangerous way in. All the Reapers near the insertion point will be alerted to your presence and there are patrols of those things over there.”
The creature passed under a pedestrian bridge, and Cutter sprinted ahead. A flash like a sheet of lightning illuminated the struggle—Cutter tackled the wiry devil, while Jersey slipped past and disappeared. Cutter swung around, leaped into the air, and kicked. His foot connected and the Reaper was tossed backward. Cutter turned and made a dive under the bridge and was gone.
Phaeton nodded at Tim. “What’s with the strange hair?”
“The Reaper gets a hold of you. One of those tentacles goes into an orifice—any entrance will do—you’re dead.”
Phaeton tilted his head toward the narrow lane. “Is this passage always here? Not Wine Office Court, but . . . the rabbit hole, or whatever you call it.”
“You can call them whatever you want. Everyone else does. Cutter calls them loos.” Tim continued, “Most insertion sites are shut down once the outsiders find out we’re coming through. We only keep track of a few in and out points as they constantly change.”
“How many times have you been through?” America asked.
Tim counted soundlessly on his fingers. “Not that many—a dozen maybe. Gaspar has gone through more than anyone except for Ping. But then Ping really isn’t . . . human.” Tim squinted at the rest of the crew in the carriage. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this . . .”
Phaeton and America leaned across the aisle, as did Valentine and Ruby. “Gaspar is sick from it.”
Phaeton straightened. “Sick how?”
Tim lifted and dropped his shoulders. “Nobody knows—too many trips, possibly. He doesn’t talk about it much.” Their young instructor dipped his head to see down Fleet Street. “I think I have a sighting. Two more Reapers.”
Phaeton flipped his goggles down and they all prepared to exit.
Tim reached for the door latch. “One more thing—their time frame is different from ours—by a century. So if anyone asks—just say you’re going to a costume party.”
America dragged a plump bottom lip under pearly white teeth. Tim smiled at her. “The safer kind of insertion is one where we let them show us the way in. We follow the dregs across, stealth-like, using this.” Tim dug around his satchel, and retrieved a length of metal pipe.
America blinked at the object. “You used that this afternoon, to eliminate the Reaper on the roof of the carriage,.”
“My
objet éstrange
.” The round-cheeked youth toggled his brows with a grin. Tim Noggy had an infectious smile all right, but there was also something else about him. A lost boy—out of place and time.
objet éstrange
.” The round-cheeked youth toggled his brows with a grin. Tim Noggy had an infectious smile all right, but there was also something else about him. A lost boy—out of place and time.
He held up the tubular device. “I ripped this out of the Praed Street Reaper station. I’ve no idea how it works. It seems to be able to form links with the Outremer as well as hold the way open—long enough to get us through.” Tim grimaced. “I hope.”
Chapter Twelve
A
MERICA DIDN’T FEEL ANY DIFFERENT
. And she certainly didn’t see anything different. In fact, as she looked around she felt a little silly. Even the oval sign that hung above the pub was the same. She wrinkled her brow and stepped closer. Strange, the lettering was muddled.
“Ezzich errsitch dlow aye.”
She whispered, sounding out the foreign words.
MERICA DIDN’T FEEL ANY DIFFERENT
. And she certainly didn’t see anything different. In fact, as she looked around she felt a little silly. Even the oval sign that hung above the pub was the same. She wrinkled her brow and stepped closer. Strange, the lettering was muddled.
“Ezzich errsitch dlow aye.”
She whispered, sounding out the foreign words.
“Hold on.” She reached into her coat pocket and retrieved the small hand mirror. Angling it up at the overhead sign, she smiled. Ye Old Cheshire Cheese.
As she lowered the looking glass she caught sight of a man on its surface, waving. She whirled in a circle. “Phaeton?”
“Come have a look!” Phaeton was standing out on Fleet Street. America picked up her skirts and hurried down the passageway. He opened his arms and she leaped into his embrace. Holding her tight, he soothed her fears. At the same time he excited her senses, by just being . . . him.
He kissed her cheeks and the tip of her nose. “We’re down the rabbit hole, love.” He was exasperating at times, but the truth of it was—he was exactly what she needed at this moment. Fearless and comical.
A great swathe of red swept past them on the street. America jumped back as the double-decker omnibus hurtled down the road at a frightening speed—only there were no horses pulling the transport. Nor were there any carriages or horses about. A number of vehicles sped past, all of them under their own power.
“Everything is so fast and . . .” America stared at the vehicles going here and about in a blur of motion and color. She swayed slightly and Phaeton held onto her. “It does appear the horseless carriage has caught on here.”
Suddenly aware of people on the street, she spun around. “Where are the others? Have you seen Valentine or Ruby? Where is Jersey? And Cutter and Tim?”
“They’re not in the pub; I searched it the moment I arrived.” Phaeton was staring at something. America followed his line of sight. A young woman strode down the sidewalk wearing tall boots and a chemise—nothing more. The flesh of her thighs was exposed, and her hair was down, flowing behind her shoulders—a Greek goddess come alive on the streets of London.
America’s mouth dropped open. Vaguely aware her eyes were popping out of her head, she checked the other pedestrians on the street. Everywhere she looked women wore trousers, or—nightshirts. Those couldn’t possibly be dresses, could they? Nearly breathless, she made the silliest observance. “Not a single person is wearing a hat.”
Phaeton turned to her a little dazed. “. . . Hat?”
Across the street, between blurs of noisy engines, another young lady wore an unbuttoned coat, which flew back revealing what she could only assume was a skirt underneath—and bare legs and spindly high-heeled shoes. “Phaeton, this couldn’t be the fashion—could it?”
He tore his eyes off the second young woman and smiled. “I do hope so.”
“Look, there’s St. Paul’s.” America exhaled a sigh at the sight of the cathedral at the end of Fleet Street. The familiar dome was comforting, somehow. And yet, the image niggled her memory—a task set by Tim Noggy.
“Our first checkpoint is in St. Paul’s Churchyard.” He stepped out to the curb to peer down the block. “Shall we explore?” Phaeton took her arm and they started down the street.
Suddenly her mind flooded with directives. In the carriage, just before they had turned into the bustle of Fleet Street, Tim had given them all a number of directives. They were to meet up at St. Paul’s and travel en mass to an apartment in Whitehall Court—their reentry point. But could she remember her inkling—the key to her return?
Phaeton stopped abruptly and pulled her over to a chalkboard on the street.
“
Spihc dna hsif
. . . fish and chips.” Phaeton appeared to be wonderfully clever at reading backward,until he read the price. “Nine pounds.”
Spihc dna hsif
. . . fish and chips.” Phaeton appeared to be wonderfully clever at reading backward,until he read the price. “Nine pounds.”
She frowned. “That can’t be right.” They continued down Fleet Street, stopping here and there to read jaw-dropping menu prices. As instructed, America had worn a long duster coat. Phaeton had on a sporty hunting jacket, instead of his usual frock coat. The idea, she supposed, was to try to dress to blend into any London they might encounter. And it seemed they attracted stares but nothing they weren’t already used to when out together in public.
Just past the Old Bailey the small hairs at the back of her neck caused a furtive glance back. At the edge of perception, she caught a smattering of particles. Tiny specks of gray all moving in unison, like a swarm of bees. The small bits swept in and out of the niches in storefronts, passageways between buildings. Even though it was clearly evening in this world, it still appeared to be dusk. The entire city was bathed in a perpetual twilight of electric street lights and vehicle lanterns.
Phaeton sensed them as well, and picked up the pace. “The Churchyard is just ahead. When we make the turn, get ready to pick up your skirts, my dove.”
Those horrible clicking and hissing noises started as they turned into the yard near St. Paul’s. The quiet lane featured a tea room and a number of solicitors’ offices. “Run, America.” At the end of the court, they turned down a narrow row and ran toward a busy connecting street. Phaeton came to an abrupt stop waiting for a break in traffic. Out of breath, they both turned back to see a wraith-like creature with a head full of tentacles leap off the side of a building and gallop toward them.
A black vehicle pulled alongside the curb. A man in a suit climbed out of the back. Immediately another bloke carrying a leather case and wearing a tan coat climbed into the vehicle. He spoke to a man in front. “Eighty-eight Curzon Street.”
America turned to Phaeton. “A horseless hansom?”
Phaeton grabbed her hand and they ran down the street. “There’s another up ahead.” As they ran for the cab, the door opened and two hooded beings emerged.
A moonfaced young man stuck his head out the door. “What are you doing out there? Get in, we haven’t got all day.” Phaeton helped America inside and leapt in behind. As the cab moved out into traffic, America landed on his lap between Valentine and Ruby.
Almost in unison, they all turned to look out the rear window. She could just make out Jersey and Cutter running down an adjoining alley. They had successfully distracted the Reaper now breathing down their tail.
From his pull down bench seat, Tim yelled instructions to the driver. “Take us around St. Paul’s and back down Fleet Street.”
Alarmed, America turned back to Tim. “We aren’t going to leave them here—are we?”
“They’ve been in tighter spots before. They can get back on their own if they have to. That Reaper will alert others—Jersey and Cutter will likely double back—” The cab rounded the corner at high speed then screeched to a halt. America nearly flew off Phaeton’s lap.
“I’ve got you, love.” The door swung open and Jersey and Cutter flung themselves onto the floor in a flurry of capes and boots. They were all tossed back into their seats as the cab sped off.
America dipped her head to look out the front of the vehicle, and then wished she hadn’t. They were traveling at breakneck speed weaving in and out of slower moving traffic. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore her lurching stomach.
Phaeton consulted his watch. “I’m still on pre–rabbit hole time, but I believe we have an appointment at Whitehall Apartments.”
“Good recall, mate.” Tim angled his hulking frame so he could yell instructions to the driver. “Did you hear that, Singh?”
Their driver wore a red turban and presumably carried a curved, jewel-handled blade on his person. It seemed to America that everyone in this vehicle was rather lethal.
She pressed her nose to the window. Strange. London appeared to be a great deal less muddy, and the sky was—clear. The familiar dark curls of smoke from thousands of chimneys all over town was missing. “What year is here? Are we seeing our own future?”
Tim Noggy’s eyes darted around the cabin of the cab and finally returned to her. “Two distinctly different—but mirrored—worlds, affected by a survival scenario that involves both realms.” Changing the subject, he nodded out the window. “Trafalgar Square.” He yelled instructions over his shoulder. “Take us round to the embankment and drop us off.”
The moment the last person stepped out of the vehicle, the cab sped off down Horse Guards Avenue. “Psst!” Tim Noggy motioned them up the block. “We’re heading out this way. Stay under the cloaks while we’re in the park.”
Jersey Blood led the way down a meandering path through private gardens to the imposing multi-spired residence. The structure was edged by the river on one side and the government offices of Whitehall on the other.
They all crouched behind a tall clipped hedgerow on the grounds of the Whitehall Apartments. Lights ablaze on the ground floor, muted strains of music and the tinkle of laughter could be heard behind a bank of French doors overlooking the park. Just inside the paned frames, a cluster of champagne guzzlers clinked glasses.
“Rather lively for a stuffy government official’s apartment, wouldn’t you say?” Phaeton commented without taking his eyes off the festivities. “Look, mate. It’s a hotel now.” They all followed Tim’s eyes to the large brass plaque alongside the entrance: Horse Guards Hotel.
Cutter’s wheels whirred. “You’re sure we’ve got the right place?
Tim turned to Cutter. “Crank up your clockworks, you see another giant residential complex attached to Whitehall?”
“Right. All we need is a room key.” Phaeton gave the Nightshades a once-over. “Anyone dressed for a soiree under those cloaks?”
Jersey snorted. “I say we pick a floor and jump the first person entering or exiting a room.”
Phaeton nodded. “Good plan.”
Stealth-like they moved up a grand set of stairs and then spread out. “Tenth floor,” Jersey called out, as he and Valentine disappeared up the servants’ entrance. She and Phaeton started up the main stair with Tim lagging behind.
“Hold on.” Tim was puffing. He waived them down the hall and pressed a button by a set of gleaming double doors.
“Lifts?”
Tim nodded. “A good deal better than the steam elevators back home.” A bell dinged and doors opened. He motioned them inside. “Trust me—you don’t want to miss this.”
She and Phaeton stepped inside, and Tim pressed the number ten, in a row of buttons next to the sliding doors. He turned to them wearing a grin.
“How is it that numbers aren’t backward, but letters are?” America asked.
“The letters aren’t backward anymore—you read Horse Guards Hotel didn’t you?” As the elevator ascended there was a sensation of climbing rapidly. She looked from Tim to Phaeton, who winked.
“I suppose I did read the hotel plaque.” As the lift slowed, the bell dinged again and there was the oddest, momentary floating sensation. The doors opened onto the tenth floor corridor. Tim swept his hand forward. “Ladies first. The longer you’re over, the easier it gets to read stuff.”
They met up with the Nightshades in the west wing of the hotel. Cutter slipped the pass key into the lock. “Liberated from an unsuspecting maid, currently confined to a linen closet.” The Nightshades fanned out into the rooms, checking bedchambers, then the armoires in the dressing areas. The suite chosen appeared unoccupied. Quickly, they all collected around a writing desk at one end of the parlor
Tim pulled out a chair and settled his gaze on America. “Ladies first.”
She took a seat, and the Nightshades drew closer. “Do you remember your inkling?” Tim asked.
America nodded.
“Good. You’ll need a sheet of writing paper from the drawer, and you can use the pen from the desk.”
Scanning the desktop, her heart beat erratically. “But . . . there’s no inkwell.”
Tim straightened. “Is that a problem?”
She frowned. “I suppose I chose inkwell because of inkling.”
Phaeton raised a brow. “Inkling—inkwell? Not very original, but as I recall we were rather . . . spent, last evening.”
Tim stared at Phaeton. “What did you choose?”
“Ink pen.”
“That’s certainly original.” Tim’s eye roll landed on Valentine.
She swallowed. “Ink spot.”
“Uh-huh.” His gaze shifted to Ruby. “Don’t tell me, ink . . . blotter?”
“Afraid not.” Ruby shook her head. “Ink bottle.”
Tim hunched over and nodded slowly. “Great.”
“Actually, I pictured a quill in an ink bottle,” the tall blonde clarified.
A grin broke out on the chubby-cheeked face. He dug a fountain pen from his pocket and placed it on the notepaper. “I guess you’ll just have to draw one, then.”
America uncapped the stylus and leaned over the secretary. “Should I draw an ink bottle or an inkwell?”
Tim shrugged. “Your choice. Just make sure you picture a desk in this same room . . . back home.” He waved the troops in closer. “Ladies and gentlemen—important point. If you can’t find your object, you can always draw it.”
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