The Clockwork Scarab (Stoker & Holmes 1)

"Well?"

"No," he replied, and handed the scarab back. "But ye say it was in the pot t'night? I can find out."

He lifted his fingers and gave a sharp, piercing whistle. Immediately, two men detached themselves from a group and approached.

Interesting. Pix, for all his easygoing ways, had respect and stature in this place. It couldn't be simply that he was the champion of arm wrestling.

By now I'd seen enough of his face to confirm my earlier guess at his age. Twenty, twenty-two at the most. But here was a man who carried authority in a pub of thieves and pickpockets, who could whistle and summon them in an instant. And he could make his way into a Society ball, groomed and dressed like a neat servant who knew his way around the house and his tasks.

He was aptly named after an ever-changing, always on the move, sprite.

I took another sip of ale and didn't wince at the bitterness this time. I listened as Pix spoke to the newcomers. Their slang-filled cant was English and mostly incomprehensible to me, but I understood he was sending them off to find out who had put the scarab in the pot. After taking a close look at the object, the two men nodded and left the table. I saw them make their way around the pub and assumed they were asking about the talisman.

Pix watched them for a moment, then took a drink. As he lowered the mug, I asked, "Why were you at the Roses Ball, sneaking around in Lady Cosgrove-Pitt's-"

He covered my hand with his and squeezed, silencing me. "Not s' loud, luv."

My interest perked up, for my voice hadn't gone any louder than before. "What were you after?"

"Now, why would I tell ye that? Ye already know wot I was after. Gewgaws an' jewels an' the silver, o' course. Wha'ever I could stuff in me pockets."

He was confirming exactly what I suspected, but I didn't believe him. "You're lying."

He tilted his head and looked at me with an odd expression. "Right, there, luv. An' a bloke's gonna 'ave some secrets."

"I suspect you have a multitude of them," I said. "Like where you hide all the loot you've stolen. And who knows what else."

"On'y me an' the good Lord know, that's f'sure." One of the men approached, and Pix, reading something in his expression, rose to meet him. They spoke for a moment in undertones, then Pix turned back to me and bent over the table. "Yer in luck, darlin'. Ferddie o'er there was the one wot put the coin in the pot. 'E got it from Bad Louie, and-"

"Who's that?"

"A bloke ye don' wanna know. 'E's been stealin' girls offa the streets fer years. Even ye don' wan' 'im catchin' a glimpse o' the likes o' ye, luv. Ye kin trust me on 'at." His expression was fierce. "Ferddie says Louie's got 'imself a right purty speck o' a girl in fine, rich togs stayin' with 'im. Stayin' bein' a kind way o' puttin' it, iffen ye get m'meanin'." He looked at me closely, his voice still low. "Ye wouldna know anythin' about a missin' Society gel, would ye?"

"If he got the beetle coin from the girl, then I would definitely know all about her." I rose. Even if it wasn't Lilly Corteville, a Society girl-or any girl-had no business being held prisoner by the likes of Bad Louie. "Take me to her, Pix."

He sobered, eyeing me. "What's the chances you'd stay 'ere instead?"

"None."

Whatever he muttered under his breath probably wasn't a compliment. Resignation in his face, he gestured for me to stand. "Come on, then."

Pix's two friends accompanied us as we left the pub and descended to ground level. We went only a couple of blocks before turning down a dark, close alley. A bridge that had once connected across the third street levels sagged, untraversable, above my head. Pix glanced at my ready pistol and curled his lip. I could almost read his sneer: he didn't need a blooming pistol. "Stay 'ere. Wait. Watch. I'll be jus' a minute."

I complied, but only because one of the other men stayed as well. The night was filled with distant shouts and clanging noises, the rare rattling of carriages, barking dogs and yowling cats, the hiss of steam. Neither my companion nor I spoke.

I watched the area where Pix and his companion had disappeared. There was a dark building in front of us, and they'd gone in there at ground level. Then I heard a shout in the distance. And gunshots.

I sprang to attention, my gun in hand, and started to move. I couldn't wait to get my hands on Bad Louie. More gunshots and shouts echoed through the night. Light flashed in a small explosion as I started down the dark alley, hurrying in the direction Pix had gone.

But before I got more than a dozen steps, two shadowy figures appeared. They were running, and one of them had something large and heavy over its shoulder. I didn't need to see to know the runners were Pix and his friend.

"Run!" More shouts and gunshots filled the air.

I stayed with my companions as we dashed through a dizzying maze of streets and alleys, up flights of rickety stairs and over narrow bridges, down and up again until I was completely lost. We turned down a narrow street with dark sky-touching buildings and then ducked into the entrance of a large, black structure. There was a loud clang behind me, and the sound of a metal bolt being thrown.

Someone shoved me along in the dark, and I was propelled down some stairs. A man cursed, another person pushed and guided me, and finally I saw the faint glow of light. At the bottom of the stairs, I stepped into a completely different world than the dark, dingy, dirty Whitechapel streets above.

This was someone's living quarters, and very well furnished. Settees and rugs had been arranged in a large open space that looked just as comfortable as a parlor in any Society home. Gas lamps . . . no, electric lights cast cool, white illumination. Much sharper than the mellow golden glow that lit the rest of London. Something mechanical whirred softly in the corner.

Well, here was the answer to one question: where Pix hid all his stolen loot.

I turned to him. He was sliding the large, heavy item from his shoulder onto the settee. I realized his burden was a person he'd retrieved and carried all this way.

The clear light played over her face, and beneath the dirt and bruises, I recognized Miss Lilly Corteville. She was conscious. Her eyes fluttered and focused, then fear and shock filled her expression.

"Lilly," I said, kneeling next to her, yanking off my cap so she could see my face. The pins ripped from my hair and scattered. "It's me, Evaline Stoker. You're safe now."

I could have sworn I heard someone whisper Evaline behind me, as if testing out the name, but the chamber was filled with so many other sounds that I couldn't be certain.