The Clockwork Scarab (Stoker & Holmes 1)

He noticed Miss Holmes for the first time, and I introduced her.

"Sherlock Holmes's niece, are you? You're being the intelligent one, then, aye? You don't go taking yourself off and doing dangerous things like my sister here, do you? Trying to find vampires, hunting them with supernatural strength," he muttered, glancing at the typing machine again. His brows drew together. "That's after being my biggest problem with this book. No one would believe it, Evvie. The critics would be laughing for weeks-a story in which a woman kills the evil, cunning vampire. It's not possible for a woman to outsmart and kill the powerful and intelligent Count Dracula." He looked at Miss Holmes and added, "It's the character of which I speak, of course."

"Of course."

"But you know it is possible," I reminded him. Why did he always have to bring this up?

"If you ever actually kill a vampire, I might be believing it. But it's no more than a legend anymore, Evvie. You've got the skills, but you've never actually staked an UnDead."

I stiffened and gave him a lethal glare. My face was hot. Bram was a blooming idiot. Drat him for blathering my secrets. Blast him for announcing my failure. "That may be the case, but I can, and I will. Someday."

At least he didn't know the details of that night. How I'd frozen up and nearly become a victim myself.

"Right. I do believe it, Evvie," he said, holding up his hand as if to ward off my supernatural strength. "But there aren't any vampires about to be killed anymore. And no one would believe a young woman could do it, even if there were. A young woman? Never. But what would they believe?"

"Perhaps the precise opposite of a young woman?" Miss Holmes said.

Bram must have missed the sarcasm dripping from her voice. His eyes suddenly popped wide open, and he stared at her. Then he pivoted toward the desk, then back to her again. Papers fluttered to the floor in the cyclone.

"But aye!" he said in a triumphant voice. "The opposite of a young woman is an old man. A brilliant old man who uses his brains to outsmart the count instead of a young woman who uses her strength and speed."

Miss Holmes and I exchanged exasperated glances. I saw vexation, obviously on my behalf, in her expression.

"I'm gratified to be of assistance," she said coolly.

"What did you say your name was?" he said, looking over his shoulder as he yanked the paper from its mooring in the typing machine.

"Miss Mina Holmes," she said.

"Mina," he repeated. He froze once more. His eyes glazed over as his mind slipped off somewhere again. "Mina." He stepped over to his chair and sat down this time, scrabbling through papers. "It's just the sort of name I need. She's a very proper, very intelligent young woman. Strong of character, not flamboyant. The epitome of the Victorian woman . . ." He was mumbling to himself as he flipped through sheaves of paper. "She even knows all the train schedules."

"I know all the train schedules," Miss Holmes informed him. "And the buses and underground as well."

Then he looked at us, obviously remembering we were there. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be returning to my work now." His eyes were alight with excitement and passion.

"Right, then," I said. "We'd like to borrow some of the costumes and makeup, Bram. May we?"

"Whatever you like," he said, flapping a hand in our general direction. "Wait," he commanded as we started toward the door. "Is that your given name, Mina? Or is it short for something?"

My companion paused, her expression turning to one of distaste. "Alvermina." She spoke as if it were a confession.

"Hell," Bram said. "You'll be pardoning me, but that's the most terrible name I've ever heard. I can't name a character that. But I do like Mina," he muttered, turning back to his typing machine. "Hmm. Mina. Philomena? Wilhelmina?"

His words followed us as we left him to his work.

Chapter 11

Miss Holmes

A Civil Conversation

After an hour digging through the makeup and costume closets at the Lyceum Theater with Miss Stoker, I had a generous cache of disguises. Apparently there was some benefit to having her as a partner. If I'd had to resort to raiding my uncle's stash, I don't believe I would have been as successful, because despite what some people might think, Uncle Sherlock doesn't have a large variety of female clothing or accessories.

Miss Stoker and I took a smooth, silent lift up to the highest streetwalk and made our way back to the Strand. I took my leave in front of Northumberland House after lecturing her about why we couldn't arrive at Witcherell's together without inviting comment. And I reminded her to keep her gloves on at all times tonight, for hands could be very telling about one's identity.

With traffic clogging the throughways at all levels, it took three quarters of an hour to travel home. But that was typically London, even during the later hours of the evening and night. It was impossible to move quickly from one area to another. By the time I walked into my house, it was after four o'clock, which gave me three hours to work in my laboratory before I had to eat dinner and assemble my disguise.

When I had been called to post bail for Dylan, I left my studies analyzing the different characteristics of ladies' powder and creams. Because I hoped that giving my mind a rest from the Society of Sekhmet case might produce some deductions when I returned to it, I was determined to finish the analysis of the imported Danish face powder before leaving my lab today. To that end, I donned a protective apron and strapped on my goggles, then closed the door to my work area.

However, the best-laid plans tend to be wantonly disrupted, and mine were no exception. I'd just set fire to the small dish of geranium-scented powder when there was a knock at the door.

"Yes?" I called, taking no pains to hide my displeasure. The powder was burning more quickly than I'd anticipated, and the floral scent was distinct.

The door opened enough to show Mrs. Raskill's sleek pepper-and-salt hair and small, inquisitive nose. "You've a visitor."

I gave an unladylike huff. Since I wasn't socially active, my visitor was likely her nephew Ben. "I'm quite busy," I said, poking at the now-smoldering ruins of powder.

The geranium scent was still strong in the air, and the powder had turned an interesting shade of honey. I lifted one side of my goggles onto an eyebrow so I could peer through a magnifying glass to determine whether there were any other physical changes to the residue. I had only a handheld glass, not one of the fancy Ocular-Magnifyers I'd seen Grayling use at the museum. This limitation necessitated awkward contortions on my part as I bent, peered, poked, and held the magnifying glass all at one time-while jotting notes.