The Spiritglass Charade (Stoker & Holmes 2)

Mina’s mouth was slightly open, and she stared at me without blinking. In the shadowy carriage, her eyes were wide and white around the irises.

“I had finished my initial training as a vampire hunter—”

“Venator,” she murmured.

Of course she had to correct me. Could she be any more annoying? I gritted my teeth and continued. “That night I was to hunt and slay a vampire on my own. I’ve told you . . . I can sense the presence of an UnDead. One was in the vicinity. I was with Siri, the woman who trained me—”

“A female mentor? Fascinating.”

“—and I came upon Mr. O’Gallegh. The vampire was still feeding off him. It was a terrible sight. . . .” I squeezed my eyes closed for a moment to try and erase the memory of that horrible image. “I . . . froze. I—my mind blanked. . . .”

I opened my eyes. Mina watched me closely, and I could almost read her mind. She wanted to know how a person “chosen” to hunt vampires could be so shaken by the sight of blood. As if I hadn’t berated myself for that enough over the last year.

For some reason, it was important she understand. “It wasn’t the blood that affected me. It was—oh, there was so much of it, and his body was torn and open, his insides spilling out. Horrific. And then the vampire looked at me. I held my stake in my hand, I remember that. I hefted it in my grip. And I remember lunging toward the creature, just as Siri taught me . . . but it felt as if I was running through deep water. I couldn’t move fast enough. And then I. . . .”

My voice trailed off. I couldn’t tell her what happened.

The truth was, I didn’t know. I didn’t remember. I didn’t even recall if I’d actually killed the UnDead or not.

And if I hadn’t . . . did that mean Siri had killed the creature for me? And was that why she’d disappeared the next day? I hadn’t seen her since.

Had Siri given up on me? Had I made such a mess of things that she had to leave?

“And then . . . what?” Mina demanded.

The carriage stopped with a violent lurch that slammed me back into my seat and tumbled Mina to the floor. People outside were shouting. Whistles blew and bells rang. I had never been so grateful for a traffic delay as I was at that moment.

“Are you hurt?” I pulled her back into the seat, her skirts and petticoats a violent froth of lace and satin. It’s no easy task for a woman to pick herself up when she can hardly bend at the waist, thanks to the steel or bone corset that encases her.

“Not really.” But I noticed she was moving a little stiffly. “Except for my . . . er . . . posterior.”

I looked out the window but couldn’t see what had caused the ruckus or the blockage of traffic. The gas lamps weren’t on yet because it was still midday, and the fog was relatively light for once. I made out a conglomeration of carriages, flower-sellers, wagons, and pedestrians. The sounds of barking dogs, continuous shouting, and more clanging bells filled the street.

All at once, the door to the carriage opened. Mina froze and I gaped at the shadowy man who appeared there.

“Who are you?” I reached for the small knife in the hidden pocket in my shirtwaist. And where was my coachman?

The man looked from me to Mina. In the uneven light, I had the impression of white-blond hair from beneath a low-riding bowler hat, a dark suit with a high-necked coat muffling the neck and chin, and a slender, crooked nose.

“I gots a li’l sumpin fer ya.” He moved suddenly, pulling a hand from his pocket.

I bolted out of my seat, knife gripped, blocking him from entering any further or releasing whatever was in his gloved fingers. “Get out, or I’ll give you a little something of my own.” My blade, small as it was, caught a bit of light and glinted wickedly. I loomed over him, aided by the height of the vehicle. I could kick him in the torso hard enough to send him flying.

“As ye wish, then.” He edged back, then his hand moved again, sharply. An object flew into the carriage. “’Ere ye are.”

He was gone in a swirl of dark wool, slamming the door and disappearing into the loud night . . . but not before I caught a good glimpse of one familiar eye, laughing up at me.

Miss Holmes

Of Clumsy Umbrellas and Honey-Creme Mandarins

Miss Stoker muttered an unladylike term which I will not repeat here. She glared at the carriage door, and I realized she wasn’t upset or unsettled in the way I expected. She was furious.

“What on earth . . . ?” I willed my heart to stop pounding while also having the presence of mind to latch the carriage door. I didn’t relish any more surprises. I had no idea what had happened to the lock in the first place, as well as our driver. Perhaps he had left his post to see what caused the traffic snarl.

The strange man in our carriage had disappeared as quickly as he’d come, and I was so taken off guard by his sudden presence, it took me a moment to reflect upon my natural observations.

His hair was false, attached to the hat he wore, and the one boot with which he’d stepped onto the carriage threshold was well made and polished . . . utterly at odds with the rest of his shabby, ill-fitting attire. He wore well-fitting gloves. One was patched over the left thumb.

As I reviewed these facts, along with my impression of the man’s height and age, Evaline scrabbled about on the floor among our skirts, still muttering epithets. At last, she came up, holding a wad of cloth.

Wrapped in it was Dylan’s telephone-device, sleek, silver, and fully intact. As Miss Stoker manhandled the object into her palm, she must have pushed a button, for the thing lit up, revealing all of its small, colorful images. At least it didn’t launch into those loud, screeching noises it sometimes made.

By then, the pieces had clicked into place. “It was that individual . . . from the opium den, during the affair with the Ankh. The young man, the pickpocket who lives in the stews. Pix.”

“Right. Apparently he found a way to put electricity back into this.”

“He has a very odd and inefficient way of delivering it.” I tried to forget that the last time I’d seen the shady (literally and figuratively) character, I’d been slung over his broad, half-clothed shoulder as he hauled me from a burning building.

“You’re right about that. Pix prefers the dramatic, and he likes to take me—and everyone else—off guard. He has a need to be in control. I wouldn’t put it past him to have even arranged the traffic problem. Caused a vendor to overturn in the street, or a sewage canal to overspill or something of that nature.”