The Clockwork Scarab (Stoker & Holmes 1)

But my juvenile insult didn't have any effect on the young man, who was years past being a boy.

He gave another of those low, rumbling laughs. " 'Aving the advantage o'er a vampire rozzer is quite the accomplishment, then, aye?"

This time, the prickle that squirreled up my spine wasn't as pleasant. Not only did he know my name, but he knew my secret identity as well? My fingers tightened around the cool butt of the pistol.

"What do you want?" I asked again. I'd definitely lost my advantage, if I'd ever even had one.

He seemed to sense the change in my demeanor, for his own easy personality became more intense. "I don't know all that 'appened inside there tonight, but when the Jacks get called in, even a glocky like me knows 'tain't for the good. Someone buy it? The Ripper at it again?"

I raised my eyebrows, even though I'm sure he couldn't see them in the dim light. "A glocky like you?" I understood his Cockney slang and the false modesty he was attributing to himself. Even from the few moments in his presence, I knew this man was not the least bit half-witted or, in his term, "glocky."

"Nothin' wrong with a bit o' modesty, luv, now, is there?"

Just then I caught the faintest shadow of movement from above. He noticed it too, for we both looked up at the same moment. It was an odd airship, cruising much lower to the ground than usual.

My companion muttered something, and the next thing I knew, I was propelled back into the deepest niche of the building's exterior. The force of his body, strong and quick, shoved me into the dark V of two brick walls as if he intended for us to melt into them.

Surrounded by the damp, tobacco-scented wool of his coat, I found my chin pressed into his shoulder as a strong arm curved around my waist. Nevertheless, I kept looking up and watched as the strange airship slid past us. Low enough to enter an air-canal, it slid between the buildings. It was so close, a person could step from the upper streetwalks onto the vessel.

This was unlike any airship I'd ever seen. It was a slender, elliptical shape, smaller and more elegant than the ones I was familiar with, and it boasted wicked-looking fan-like wings and a swallowtail.

This one . . . it moved like a dark cloud. Eerie and forbidding. Breathless. Ghost-like.

"Bloody hell," my companion murmured.

I realized with a shock that I was still plastered up between his formidable chest and the damp brick wall. And that his Cockney accent was all but gone. "What was that?"

" 'Tis jus' as well ye don't know. 'S a battle ye'd be best out of." He looked down. His face was close, his eyes focused steadily on me. The bridge of his nose was a slightly lighter shade than the shadows around him. I realized my breathing had gone shallow.

"I'm certain they didn't see us." I had to say something. Then I started to push him away, but he didn't move. And although I could have shoved him to the ground with ease, I held back. I didn't want to expose the full extent of my strength . . . even though he knew my identity.

It was only then that I remembered to uncurl my fingers from the lapel of his coat.

"What's the 'urry, luv?" he asked in a low, rumbling voice. "Ye' afraid I'm gonna fan ye 'ere?"

The accent was back, thicker than ever. He was definitely faking it. "You won't find anything of value in my skirts," I replied, and tried not to think about where his hands had been . . . or could go . . . if indeed he tried to feel around my clothing in search of valuables. My cheeks heated there in the dark.

"Not even this?" he asked, and suddenly there was my dratted pistol, right there between us, in his hand. The moon glinted off the engraved barrel as if magneted to it, being the only light in a dark corner. "A nice piece o' iron, luv. Though I would've expected somethin' a bit more fancy from the likes of a fang rozzer."

Blast! I hadn't even felt his hand moving about. "Who are you?" I needed to at least know the name of this man, who smelled like wood smoke and something else that was fresh and spicy.

Our pivot into the corner had resulted in his soft cap being jolted to the back of his head, and I caught a full look at his face. I saw sharp eyes and a few waves of hair curling about his temples, but couldn't tell its color. He had a slender, elegant nose and dark slashing brows, and looked about twenty years old.

He turned away, as if realizing I could see him clearly. "I'm called Pix," he replied, adjusting his cap low. To my surprise, he handed back my pistol.

"Picks?" I repeated, slipping the pistol back into my pocket. There was no sense in letting him think I felt threatened and in need of a weapon. "As in . . . what you do to pockets? How appropriate."

"Nay, luv. Just Pix. Like the dangerous little sprites of legend that canna be caught." His grin came again, but a bit lopsided this time.

I smothered a snort. He was about as far from being like a little pixie fairy as I was from being a properly demure lady-in-waiting to Princess Alexandra. Although . . . I might have agreed with him on the dangerous part.

"If ye ever get into trouble in the stews, ye just say you know Pix." His voice had dropped to that low rumble again, and he captured my hand in his. Before I could pull it away, he lifted it between us, watching me . . . and then as my breath caught and my insides fluttered, he pressed his lips to the back of my hand.

They were warm and soft, and left just the faintest bit of damp when he lifted his face.

I couldn't believe his boldness, and I yanked my hand away, giving him a good, solid shove in the process. The back of my hand felt as if it were alive, burning from some searing mark, and my pulse pounded as if horses galloped through my veins. "Why would I need to invoke anyone's name for help?" I told him haughtily, resisting the urge to rub the imprint of his lips from my skin. "I am a Stoker, after all."

"Aye, ye are . . . every bit o' you," Pix replied, his voice low and smooth. He began to ease back, into the shadows cast by a row of hedge. "Which is why I'll leave ye to your own devices wit' nary a twinge o' my conscience."

"Wait," I said, remembering what he'd said earlier about seeing someone near the musuem. I stepped toward him, but he slid into darkness. The moon had gone behind a heavy cloud, and the lights that should have dotted the perimeter of the museum were dark. The bushes shifted.

He didn't stop, but his voice floated in the night air, "If you need me, Miss Stoker, ye can find me through Old Cap Mago."

"Why would I need you?"

"To tell ye what I saw tonight." Now his voice was even farther away. "Before the razzers arrived. Big crate, bein' moved out. Guilty-lookin' flimpers, four o' 'em."