The Spiritglass Charade (Stoker & Holmes 2)
Page 10The steps were clean and well constructed. Brightly illuminated by glass bulbs, their naked wires dangling along the brick walls, the stairwell curved into a gentle spiral. I saw no sign of rats, sewage, or any other refuse as we descended.
At the bottom, Pix gestured to the left. We went only another short distance before the arched corridor ended in a brick wall . . . or so it seemed.
He pulled back the sleeve of his overcoat, revealing a curious device strapped to his wrist. A small glow emitted from it, and he moved something on the mechanism. I heard gears whirring and a soft sizzle. Even a little flash of light zapped through the air.
Then . . . a click, a low, long groan, and the brick wall parted.
Miss Stoker
Of Daisy Roots and Gatter
Pix bowed with a grand flourish. “After ye.”
I stepped into his private living quarters. I had been here once before, though via a much less direct route. We’d been running through a warren of streets and alleyways while trying to elude dangerous pursuers.
The chamber I entered was as comfortable as any parlor in St. James’s. Settees and low tables were arranged in a neat group. Silk drapery covered two of the walls, fine rugs from India covered the floor, and a small dining area was nestled off to one side. A fireplace tall enough for me to stand in covered half of one wall and was currently empty of a blaze. Four large logs sat inside and two tall-backed brocade chairs were arranged in front of it. “So this is how you travel so easily to the pub. But it seems rather inconvenient for Bilbo to deliver your . . . what was it you ordered? A gatter? It sounds unpleasant.”
“I’m not drinking anything from you,” I told him flatly, settling on the larger sofa. “Did you think I’ve forgotten what happened last time?” The tea he gave me as a soother had ended up being a literal one: He’d put a sleeping powder in it so I’d be unconscious as he delivered me home.
“Ah, aye. I thought ye might be still brushed up o’er ’at.” The grin flashed, then disappeared. “Bu’ after what ye did t’Marv, I should be feedin’ ye a lecture. Did ye ’ave t’break two fingers—an’ one on each ’and? Now the bloke’ll be useless t’me fer an ’ole month!”
Right. “Perhaps you need to reconsider the type of man you have working for you. I can’t imagine he’s useful for much other than terrorizing women.”
“Marv is a dangerous cove. Ye were foolish t’bait ’im as ye did.” His expression turned sober.
“Me bait him? He was the one who put his hand on my—who forced me to sit with him. And wouldn’t let me leave. I warned him what would happen if he didn’t release me.” My voice rose. Did Pix really think I couldn’t handle myself? Did he really think I should have allowed that man to put his hands on me and do nothing? Blooming facemark!
“An’ now ye’ve made an enemy o’ Marv, ’ere in the rook’ry. As if ye weren’t in danger enough as ’tis.”
“He has two broken fingers. What sort of threat do you imagine he might be? Especially to me?” I countered, still furious at his assumption that I had caused the altercation. Tempest in a teapot, my arse.
A soft chime interrupted whatever Pix might have replied, and I looked over as my host slid open a small door in the wall. Inside the neat cubbyhole sat two large tankards.
Pix set the tankards on the table in front of me and settled on the settee next to mine. The bitter scent of ale wafted to my nose. As I examined the mug filled with creamy foam, he nudges one toward me.
Not a bloody chance I’d get even close enough to wet my lips. Especially since I had other reasons for being here. Though I had no idea what he meant earlier when he said he hadn’t expected me to “hear about it,” I intended to find out exactly what he meant—and what he believed had brought me here.
“Now that you’ve gone through all the trouble to get me here,” I said, my voice cool, “giving me the chance to see yet again where you hide all your loot, you can tell me what you know.”
“Wot about, luv?”
“You know why I’m here,” I countered. “No sense in playing games, Pix. Talk.”
“Wot d’ye want t’know? I ain’t seen any m’self, but th’ signs’re there. They’re back, is all I know.”
A cold shock rushed over me. They’re back. “The UnDead?” I said without thinking. Vampires are back in London?
“Ye didn’ know? Devil it!”
Pix lounged back in his seat. He’d removed his overcoat and left it lying over the back of the sofa. His shirt was made of fine, cream-colored linen. Much too fine for a resident of Spitalfields.
He gave a nonchalant shrug, which shifted his sleeve, giving me another glimpse of the device strapped to his wrist. “I know ever’thin’ that ’appens ’ere in the Underground Worl’ . . . not to be confused wi’ the Underground trains, ye savvy. Information gets t’me faster’n the pox gets spread in ’aymarket. I buy it, sell it, trade fer it—”
“Kill for it?”
That dark gaze flashed to mine. “Per’aps that’s one question ye don’ wan’ t’be askin’ o’me, Evaline.”
Despite the warning, warmth fluttered through my insides when he said my name, lingering over the syllables like a caress. He seemed to be trying to read my response. My heart thudded hard, for I found it difficult to pull my eyes from his.
Then sense rang in my head, and I turned away. I’d forgotten how improper and foolish it was for me to be alone with him. Or any man.
I had nothing to fear from Pix. The only thing I risked by being here was my reputation. When I looked up again, he was still smiling—cool, and yet charming enough to make my bloody fickle heart skip a beat.
But the most important thing was . . . the UnDead were back in London. A thrill of excitement rushed through me. Then a flicker of apprehension. I’d have the chance to prove myself worthy of the Venator title by slaying my first vampire.