The Spiritglass Charade (Stoker & Holmes 2)
Page 11If I could do it.
Of course I could do it. I had to do it.
“Aren’t ye thirsty? ’Ave a drink, ’ere, darlin’.” Pix gestured to the tankards of ale. “Ye can be sure I ain’t mollied with ’em, fer ye can choose which one t’drink. I’ll take either.”
“No thank you.”
“Please yerself, then, luv. And might I say, them daisy roots ye ’ave are some nobby nacks.”
“Daisy roots?”
He grinned, gesturing toward me with one of the tankards. “Daisy roots—daisies. Boots. Yer boots’re some nobby nacks, if I say. I find’em quite . . . mem’rable.”
I stood, aware of his attention trailing along my leather-clad calves. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to wear something so . . . daring. “I’ll be going, then. Apparently, despite your claim to know everything that happens in the Underground, you have no information about the vampires.”
He didn’t move, but his expression changed from easy to sober. “Ver’ well. So much fer th’ sweet talkin’. It’s business on yer mind, and nuthin’ more, then.”
He remained seated, even though I’d risen. That would have been a terrible breach of etiquette had we been in polite company. But social niceties were of no interest to Pix. I learned that the first time we met—when he pulled me up against him in a dark shadow. So that we not be seen—or so he’d claimed.
And then there was the time he’d kissed me. My cheeks warmed. I drew in a deep breath and held it. Florence had taught me that little trick would quickly dissipate a blush.
A flash of something dark crossed his face, then was gone. “Right then . . . but a’fore I talk, ye tell me this, luv—if ye didn’t know about the vampires, wot’s brought ye ’ere t’Spitalfields, then?”
Oh. Right. I dug in my skirt pocket and pulled out the sleek silver telephone-device and a white cord Dylan had also given me. “Do you know how to put electricity into this?”
“Wot the bloody ’ell is it?” He appeared unabashedly fascinated by the object.
I wasn’t quite ready to hand it over. And I wasn’t ready to tell him it had come from the future, either. “You have your secrets, and I have mine. Can you put electricity into it or not?”
Pix fixed me with an expression I’d never seen before. “That’s illegal, Evaline.”
I held his gaze as my pulse raced faster. I understood all of what he was saying with that simple statement. “It’s important,” I said, sitting back down.
He held out a hand and I let the device slip into his palm. I was placing a great bit of trust in this disreputable young man. Gad. Don’t let me be making a mistake.
“Brilliant,” he muttered, turning it over and over in his hands.
“I’m told the electricity goes in through this.” I indicated the cord and its two-pronged end.
Pix nodded, fingering the cord. “Ye’ll need to leave it wi’ me.”
“If I narked ye that, I’d jeopardize more’n meself, luv. Don’t ye trust me, Evaline?” His voice was wry.
“Do I have reason to trust you?”
“Ye came t’me, luv. I didn’t seek ye out.”
“This time.”
He gave a short laugh, then turned back to the device. “I’ll no’ let it out from me possession.”
I drew in a deep breath. I had no other option if I was to help Dylan. “Very well. But please take good care of it. And now that I’ve shown you a bit of trust, perhaps you could return the favor. What makes you believe vampires are back in London if you haven’t seen one? Or have you?”
“I ain’t seen one m’self—at least, ’ere in London—but there be plenty o’ rumblings.” He lifted his tankard again, watching me over the rim. “An’ a coupla blokes was nattering about La société . . . pernishun. . . .”
My breath caught. “La société de la perdition?”
He nodded. “Aye. ’T could be. Ye’ve ’eard o’ it, then.”
Certainly I’d heard of it. Any self-respecting vampire hunter must know about the Society of Iniquity, for the mortal members of that group were nearly as dangerous as the UnDead themselves. Those who called themselves participants of La société enjoyed the company of vampires, seeking them out for various illicit reasons.
He watched me with a strange expression, as if he wanted to say something more. Instead, he rubbed his stubbly chin and I heard the soft scrape of finger over bristling hair. He seemed suddenly introspective in comparison to the glib charm he usually adopted.
“What are you not telling me?” I demanded.
“Nawt. Nawt but to have a care, luv.”
I opened my mouth to tell him yet again I knew how to protect myself, then stopped. There was something in his eyes . . . something different. “Of course I will,” I said tartly, covering up my sudden uncertainty. I watched him. There was something more.
I sat upright, my heart thudding. “La société. They love the UnDead, they know all about them . . . and you’re a member, aren’t you?”
It all made sense: how he had so much power and control here in Whitechapel among stronger, meaner, older men than him . . . how he knew about me, including that I was a vampire hunter. . . .
His eyes widened a fraction, then narrowed, lit with wry humor. “But nay. Ye already know I don’ bear the mark of La société, don’t ye now, luv?”
“Wha—” I stopped myself as I realized exactly what he meant. The last time I’d seen Pix, he’d been wearing an open vest . . . over a shockingly bare torso. His biceps were smooth and muscular and unmarked . . . with not a sign of the spindly-legged spider image that labeled one a member of La société.
My face went steaming hot, and I felt parched. Yet I resisted picking up one of the tankards to drink. I still didn’t trust him not to have “mollied with” the ale.
I gathered my wits. “You didn’t have the mark on your arms, but it could be on the back of the shoulder. It wouldn’t surprise me if you were a member—that’s how you knew I was a Venator.”