The Clockwork Scarab (Stoker & Holmes 1)

Dylan nodded. "I remember that. It was considered a terrible robbery of the Egyptian people, as well as becoming a lucrative trade for Egyptian grave robbers, who stole from their own country and sold antiquities to the Europeans. There was a show on the History Chann-uh, anyway. So that means it's still here."

"Or the Ankh could already have it."

We looked at each other, and for a moment, I couldn't breathe. He was so close to me, and our faces were almost at the same level, and he was so handsome, so fascinating . . .

Then I thought of my prominent nose and my too-wide mouth and how tall and clumsy I was, and the warmth that had begun to bubble hopefully inside me eased. I was an odd duckling, an awkward, plain-looking girl who didn't know when to stop lecturing.

A handsome, unique young man like Dylan would never-

"Mina," he said. His eyes hadn't left my gaze, and I realized his fingers were brushing against mine. "I think you're really cool."

I wasn't sure what he meant by "cool"-was that good, bad, or literal? My brain seemed to freeze, being this close to him.

Although my brain was frozen (and possibly whatever other "cool" parts of me he was referring to), my cheeks were not. They felt as if they were on fire.

Before I could say anything, there was a knock on the door, and then it flew open. I was startled and leapt guiltily away from Dylan, lest someone accuse us of anything improper.

"Did you speak to Lilly Corteville?" demanded Miss Stoker as she burst in with a swirl of pale blue skirts and a flower-laden bonnet. She brandished a white parasol.

"Yes, of course I did," I replied, refusing to look at Dylan. Now not only were my cheeks hot, but my forehead and neck as well. Had I been gawking at him like one of those silly girls I disliked? "I learned quite a bit."

As I willed my face to return to its normal shade, I divulged the results of my interview of Lilly, and then showed Miss Stoker the pamphlet Dylan had saved.

"Right, then. We must find the diadem before the Ankh does." Miss Stoker suggested the obvious.

"That's one course of action," I said crisply. "But for all we know, she-or he-could already have acquired it. Lilly Corteville didn't say which of the instruments is still missing." I decided to keep my suspicions of Lady Cosgrove-Pitt to myself for the time being. "I've already planned to pay a visit to Witcherell's this evening. At nine o'clock."

"I'll be going too," said Miss Stoker.

I gritted my teeth. I didn't want her to disrupt things again, and I saw no reason for two of us to attempt to gain entrance to the society's meeting place. One would be difficult enough.

"You need me to protect you," she added. My jaw was in pain as I fought to keep it closed. Instead, I settled for shooting her a dark glance.

"By the way, I'm Dylan," said our companion, breaking into the moment.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she said, giving him a warm smile that set my teeth on edge. "Miss Holmes has told me all about your situation. I'm Evaline Stoker."

He looked at her, puzzlement and then comprehension crossing his face. "Stoker? As in . . . Bram Stoker? Didn't he write Dracula?"

Her brown eyes widened. "He is writing a book. About a vampire. Do you mean to say you know the book? From your time?"

"Oh, um . . . crap." Dylan stopped and looked at me. "I'm not sure if I should say anything about the future. It could really mess things up. Like in Back to the Future, this movie that-oh." He stopped again and huffed out a big puff of air that ruffled the long hair over his forehead. "Never mind. I shouldn't say anything."

"I agree, you probably shouldn't," I said, ridiculously pleased that he'd turned to me, that it was I he seemed to want an opinion from, instead of the pretty, vivacious Miss Stoker.

"Whatever the two of you are going to do," Dylan said, "I'm going to see if I can find the crate. At least then we'll know if the Ankh has already found the diadem."

"Excellent plan," I said. "If the Ankh hasn't found it, perhaps we can lure her into the museum and capture her that way. We can set a trap."

"Like Scooby-Doo," Dylan said with a grin that all of a sudden faded.

I turned to Miss Stoker. "In regards to our proposed visit to Witcherell's, you do realize that we cannot be noticed, and we cannot be recognized?" I said, in case she had any ideas about announcing her presence as she'd done the last time. "We're going to have to go in disguise."

"Right," she said. "And I know just the place to get whatever we need."

Miss Stoker

Of Crushed Cauldrons, Critics, and Characters

The public entrance to the Lyceum Theatre was at ground level on Wellington-street, but I brought Miss Holmes through the back entrance used by the actors and other personnel. I often visited Bram and knew how to navigate the backstage to his office.

It was just past noon, and the wings, prop closets, costume wardrobes, and dressing rooms were deserted. The actors and stagehands wouldn't arrive for several hours, having been up until well past two o'clock the night before. It was no wonder this was the quietest part of the day in the theater. Like vampire hunters and pickpockets, actors and actresses carried on their festivities until dawn.

My brother's voice boomed from his office as we approached. He was talking to someone, and he sounded bothered. I was used to Bram's moods, especially when he was working on his book. Miss Holmes looked at me in question, but I knocked on Bram's door.

The talking stopped, and the door swung open. "Evaline."

"I hope we aren't interrupting," I said, glancing around him into the office.

"No, no, come in," he said, gesturing us into the chamber.

I could feel my companion's attention sweep over him. The only resemblance between my brother and me is our thick, curling dark hair. I'm petite and elegant, and he's rather stocky. He has a full beard and a mustache with an auburn tint in the growth nearest the lips.

I walked into the office and wasn't surprised to find it empty.

"I thought I heard you talking to someone." Props and papers were everywhere, along with costumes, a sword, and a crushed papier-mache cauldron. The company was currently performing Macbeth.

"I was working on my book," he said, gesturing to a large typing machine. A paper protruded from its roll and was filled with words. Crumpled papers littered his desk and the floor. "You likely heard me cursing at the blasted thing. Writing a book is blooming difficult, even when ye know the topic of vampires and vampire hunters." His hair was a mess, as if he'd been pulling on it.