The Spiritglass Charade (29 page)

I held back a snort. Pix. Angelic. Those two words didn't go together. “Is that why you're vexed with me?”

His low laugh was devoid of humor. “Vexed is too pretty a word t'describe 'ow I'm feelin' wi' ye, luv. Ye broke one a m'best cove's fingers, ye paraded ye'self into th' rookery like ye' 'ad no care fer yerself, causin' fights and disruptin' the place—”

“
You
,” I said from between gritted teeth, “practically begged me to come find you when you interrupted us, playing that blooming violin.”

“If'n I'd'a
wanted
ye to find me in Vauxhall, luv, ye would've,” he said tightly. “But I didn't.”

“What were you doing there anyway?”

“Now, luv . . . 'ow many times do I 'ave t'tell ye . . . there're some things ye jus' don' want t'know.”

I wanted to stomp my foot. “You could use a music tutor. Your playing sounded like a cat squalling.”

“Listen, luv. I don' need n'more crippled blokes. Ye leave a blind trail be'ind ye, Evaline, and ye take risks ye don' need to. Some day ye'll fin' yerself in a fine chancery. Stay away from m'rookery, luv.”

“
That's
a likely chance.”

He sighed. “Don' I know'at, ye darly female.”

I shook my head. The man was impossible. “One thing I did find out in Smithfield is that
La soci
é
t
é
has returned to London. But I haven't been able to determine where they meet, or where the vampires are living.”

“Aye.” Pix's voice was ironic. “An' if ye wouldn'na come flyin' in on me 'n' Fagley tonight wi' yer pointy stick, I'd'a squeezed the split from 'im and ye'd know all 'bout it.”

“What?” I couldn't understand his slang half the time, but I was pretty sure he'd just called the vampire Fagley.

He stopped and looked at me, frustration oozing from him. “I've tol' ye, luv, I deal in information. It's m'business. An' ye came blastin' in on a very delicate predicament and spleefed it all t'hell.”

“You
knew
he was a vampire.” I couldn't help but feel a bit foolish . . . and aggravated.

“O' course I did. D'ye take me for a complete nobber, Evaline?” He shifted, moving the lapel of his overcoat to reveal a silver cross pinned to the inside.

Right. “What else do you know? Where they stay? Where
La soci
é
t
é
is?”

“Not as much as I 'oped.” He lifted a brow at me. “But I did d'scover the name o' the UnDead wot's leadin' the rest of 'em. Frenchman named Gadreau. 'E's got 'imself a mortal woman wot serves 'im. She 'as a pet spider wot she keeps in a cage. An' they frequents th' Pickled Nurse.”

That I already knew. “And she's fond of Honey-Sweet pickles. But what's her name? Where do they stay? How can I find them? What else did you find out?”

Pix shook his head, his mouth still flat. “Yer gonna 'ave t'learn, Evaline Stoker, ye jus' can't rush in an' molly things up wi'out thinkin'. Th' fact is, I din't need savin', and ye darlied up me work tonight.”

I bristled. “I'm a vampire hunter, and my job is to hunt vampires. I'm not going to stop and think about it—especially when I see a situation that looks threatening.”

“Ye need t' take care, luv. Ye mi' be a mighty vampire-rozzer, but ye're still mortal. And ye still can be drained dry.” His words were taut and his eyes glittered. “Or worst, turned UnDead yersel'. An' I'd 'ate that t'appen t' such a bang-up loidy as ye are. Once word gets out 'bout the female Venator,
they'll be after puttin' a stop t'ye. And ye won' be safe nowhere.” His voice had softened at the end of his speech.

I stilled as he reached up to brush my cheek, pushing a loose lock of hair from my face. His bare, elegant fingers tucked the curl behind my ear then skimmed lightly down the side of my neck.

“What . . . what was that thing he dropped back there?” He was standing so close . . . was he going to kiss me? Would I let him? “You picked it up and put it in your—”

“Ye don' wanna be worryin' 'bout that-there, luv,” he said, easing closer to me. His lips had softened and twitched into a half-smile. The timbre of his voice had dropped. “An' I'm supposin' Oy should a' least be thankin' ye for savin' me . . . though ye really mollied m' work up instead.”

“I didn't—”

But he leaned in and covered my mouth with his.

I didn't push him away. And I'm not ashamed to admit it.

When our lips touched, his were soft and gentle, pressing to mine and molding to them like a caressing hand. Heat and prickling shivers rushed through my body. Pix's arms had gone around me, and he pulled me close. I could feel the power in his embrace and the warmth of his torso. I knew I could break his hold at any moment. So I relaxed, kissing him back. I tasted a hint of ale and tobacco mixed with mint.

When he pulled away, the world was a little fuzzy. Kind of tilty. But I also had my hand in his pocket. I smoothly
withdrew the item he'd placed in there as I stepped back, hiding it in the folds of my skirt.

“Well, then, there, luv.” He straightened his coat sleeve. “Oy'm not sure 'oo was thankin' 'oo just then, but ye'll 'ear no complaints from the likes o' me.”

“I'm fairly certain there shouldn't be any thanking at all,” I said, once again adopting Mina's crisp, affronted tones. “In fact, I do believe an apology is in order.”

He made a low, gritty sound that streaked down my spine. “O' course, luv. I'll accept yer apol'gy an' time ye want t'give it. So long's it's just like that.”

And then, without another word, he slipped into the shadows and disappeared. The last thing I heard was his silky chuckle coming from the darkness.

But it was I, for once, who had the last laugh. I shoved the paper-wrapped item I'd pilfered into my pocket and headed for home.

I
t was with some trepidation that I left Miss Ashton's home after spending the night there, but there was no help for it. I had preparations to make and clues to investigate. However, I fully intended to return by early afternoon and to remain with Willa until I'd put a halt to the evil plot surrounding her.

My first stop was home, to freshen up and repack my reticule. I slipped in and out without being trapped in conversation by Mrs. Raskill, taking enough time to send a message to Miss Stoker to meet me at Miss Adler's office.

We needed to reconnoiter and make plans for our next steps.

On my way to the Museum, I made a detour to Miss Louisa Fenley's s
é
ance parlor. Using the threat of exposure of her fraudulent activities, I induced her to show me some tricks of her trade. Although I left feeling pleased about that
progress, my intention to find out who'd hired her to fool Miss Ashton met with a dead end. Miss Fenley hadn't been contacted by anyone to conduct s
é
ances for Willa Ashton. So the supposed referral from Mrs. Yingling had, in fact, been forged and manufactured by our villain.

Miss Fenley, however, did confess to taking advantage of the young woman's desperation and researching Willa's past in order to hold a realistic meeting.

“And how did you come by the papers you used?”

“The papers the spirits wrote on?” Miss Louisa was the very picture of ingenuousness.

“The ones on which
you
wrote. Let's be honest, shall we? You faked the messages—and I care not that you did so as much as I want to know
from where those papers came
.”

She shrugged and I believed her when she said, “They're the same papers I use for all my spirit-writing.” She showed me the drawer in which they were kept and I accepted that information as truth. Which meant that the papers with the glowing-in-the-dark message had been altered
after
they arrived at Miss Ashton's house.

This only confirmed my deductions that one of three people had the means with which to make such alterations.

One question I chose not to ask Miss Fenley was in regards to the strange and eerie message Espasia had delivered to Evaline in the voice of Mr. O'Gallegh.

I didn't want to know the answer to that query.

When I arrived at Miss Adler's office, I was pleased to find Dylan present. My mentor was not, and Miss Stoker had not yet arrived—which gave me the pleasure of a few moments of privacy with him. After all, I hadn't spoken to him since the night in the carriage when he kissed me.

But when I noticed Dylan's pasty complexion and its underlying gray tinge, the dark circles under his eyes, and the dullness in his gaze, I was horrified. He appeared worse than Miss Adler had.

I frowned. Maybe there was some sort of illness they both had contracted.

“Are you sick? What's happened? You look . . . terrible.”

He waved off my concern. “I'm fine, Mina. All is well. I'm totally fine.” His smile was bright and sincere, but I felt the rest of his appearance was cause for alarm.

“Truly, you look as if you should be in bed. Are you certain you feel all right?”

“Never better! Honest.” He lifted a hand to brush his long blond hair from his eyes, and I noticed how thin his wrist seemed to be. Even the skin there was pasty and gray. There was blood on the inside of his sleeve, dots here and there all along the white cotton.

“What have you been doing? I'm sorry I haven't been here to see how you're faring.” If it wouldn't have been so
improper, I would have grabbed his arm and pulled back the sleeve.

“Oh, I've been busy. I just came back here to get some of my things. Everything is just fine, Mina. Don't you worry! Things are going really well.”

Though enthusiastic, his voice sounded thick and slow, and I was growing even more worried. This was not the Dylan I knew. There was something wrong, something that made him different.

The office door burst open and Evaline swept in. “Do I have some news for you, Mina!”

“Do you indeed?” I intended to continue my conversation with Dylan, but he'd gathered up his things and, giving me an affectionate pat on the shoulder, hurried from the chamber before I could say another word.

“Later!” he called just as the door closed behind him.

I stared after him, torn between demanding more answers that he didn't seem willing to give, and knowing that Willa Ashton's life was on the line. I had to choose the more pressing problem, and turned to Miss Stoker—who'd been chattering on anyway.

“Gadreau? That's the vampire leader's name? He has a mortal mistress who has a pet spider and frequents the Pickled Nurse? Indeed. Excellent information, Evaline—at least, it would be if we were investigating the whereabouts of the UnDead instead of a disturbing plot to incarcerate—or kill—an innocent young woman.” I could hardly conceal my
frustration. In fact, I don't believe I concealed it at all. “Do you not even care to know what happened in Willa's chamber?” “Of course I do.”

Evaline flumped into a chair. “Do
you
not even care to know how many UnDead I killed last night?”

“You needn't sound so . . . delighted about it.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Of course you're a Venator, but you needn't be so gleeful about killing people. It's rather unbecoming, and a little startling.”

Miss Stoker gaped at me. “Blooming fish! They're
not people
, Mina. They're UnDead. Vampires. Half-demon, immortal beings. Horrible creatures. They
drink blood
from mortals in order to stay alive. They
live
off the human race. And they'd as soon as leave a person to bleed dry than kill them outright.”

“I'm aware of all that. I
have
read
The Venators
.” I sniffed and looked away. “Still. It seems wrong to feel that way. They were people at one time.”

“I suppose you don't believe a murderer should hang, then, for his crimes?”

I spread my hands, unsure how we'd even come to this conversation. “I believe in the judicial system, but I certainly don't
celebrate
a hanging.”

“I'm not
celebrating
—well, maybe I am a little. After all, it's my legacy to protect the mortal world from these creatures. And
they aren't people
, not any longer. There's no hope for them to ever . . . get better, or return to their normal, mortal self.
They're like that forever. And every vampire I stake is one less horrible creature that takes from people we know, draining the blood from people we love.”

I went cold. A horrible, frightening thought lodged in my brain.
Draining the blood from people we love
.