The Spiritglass Charade (6 page)

A soft chime interrupted whatever Pix might have replied, and I looked over as my host slid open a small door in the wall. Inside the neat cubbyhole sat two large tankards.

Right, then. That was how Bilbo managed the bar
and
delivered down here.

Pix set the tankards on the table in front of me and settled on the settee next to mine. The bitter scent of ale wafted to my nose. As I examined the mug filled with creamy foam, he nudges one toward me.

Not a bloody chance I'd get even close enough to wet my lips. Especially since I had other reasons for being here. Though I had no idea what he meant earlier when he said he hadn't expected me to “hear about it,” I intended to find out exactly what he meant—and what he believed had brought me here.

“Now that you've gone through all the trouble to get me here,” I said, my voice cool, “giving me the chance to see yet again where you hide all your loot, you can tell me what you know.”

“Wot about, luv?”

“You know why I'm here,” I countered. “No sense in playing games, Pix. Talk.”

“Wot d'ye want t'know? I ain't seen any m'self, but th' signs're there. They're back, is all I know.”

A cold shock rushed over me.
They're back
. “The UnDead?” I said without thinking.
Vampires are back in London?

“Ye didn' know? Devil it!”

“I would have known . . . eventually. And I
should
have known. I'm a vampire hunter . . . which, hmm, you knew the first time we met.” I narrowed my eyes, fixing on him darkly. “Now would be a good time to tell me how you came upon
that
bit of information.”

Pix lounged back in his seat. He'd removed his overcoat and left it lying over the back of the sofa. His shirt was made of fine, cream-colored linen. Much too fine for a resident of Spitalfields.

He gave a nonchalant shrug, which shifted his sleeve, giving me another glimpse of the device strapped to his wrist. “I know ever'thin' that 'appens 'ere in the Underground Worl' . . . not to be confused wi' the Underground trains, ye savvy. Information gets t'me faster'n the pox gets spread in 'aymarket. I buy it, sell it, trade fer it—”

“Kill for it?”

That dark gaze flashed to mine. “Per'aps that's one question ye don' wan' t'be askin' o'me, Evaline.”

Despite the warning, warmth fluttered through my insides when he said my name, lingering over the syllables like a caress. He seemed to be trying to read my response. My
heart thudded hard, for I found it difficult to pull my eyes from his.

Then sense rang in my head, and I turned away. I'd forgotten how improper and foolish it was for me to be alone with him. Or any man.

I had nothing to fear from Pix. The only thing I risked by being here was my reputation. When I looked up again, he was still smiling—cool, and yet charming enough to make my bloody fickle heart skip a beat.

But the most important thing was . . . the UnDead were back in London. A thrill of excitement rushed through me. Then a flicker of apprehension. I'd have the chance to prove myself worthy of the Venator title by slaying my first vampire.

If I could do it.

Of course I could do it. I
had
to do it.

“Aren't ye thirsty? 'Ave a drink, 'ere, darlin'.” Pix gestured to the tankards of ale. “Ye can be sure I ain't mollied with 'em, fer ye can choose which one t'drink. I'll take either.”

“No thank you.”

“Please yerself, then, luv. And might I say, them daisy roots ye 'ave are some nobby nacks.”

“Daisy roots?”

He grinned, gesturing toward me with one of the tankards. “Daisy roots—daisies.
Boots
. Yer boots're some nobby nacks, if I say. I find'em quite . . . mem'rable.”

I stood, aware of his attention trailing along my leather-clad calves. Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea
to wear something so . . . daring. “I'll be going, then. Apparently, despite your claim to know everything that happens in the Underground, you have no information about the vampires.”

He didn't move, but his expression changed from easy to sober. “Ver' well. So much fer th' sweet talkin'. It's business on yer mind, and nuthin' more, then.”

He remained seated, even though I'd risen. That would have been a terrible breach of etiquette had we been in polite company. But social niceties were of no interest to Pix. I learned that the first time we met—when he pulled me up against him in a dark shadow. So that we not be seen—or so he'd claimed.

And then there was the time he'd
kissed
me. My cheeks warmed. I drew in a deep breath and held it. Florence had taught me that little trick would quickly dissipate a blush.

“It's always business on my mind, Pix. I've an important job to do—something the likes of you can't understand.”

A flash of something dark crossed his face, then was gone. “Right then . . . but a'fore I talk, ye tell me this, luv—if ye didn't know about the vampires, wot's brought ye 'ere t'Spitalfields, then?”

Oh. Right. I dug in my skirt pocket and pulled out the sleek silver telephone-device and a white cord Dylan had also given me. “Do you know how to put electricity into this?”

“Wot the bloody 'ell is it?” He appeared unabashedly fascinated by the object.

I wasn't quite ready to hand it over. And I wasn't ready to tell him it had come from the future, either. “You have your secrets, and I have mine. Can you put electricity into it or not?”

Pix fixed me with an expression I'd never seen before. “That's illegal, Evaline.”

I held his gaze as my pulse raced faster. I understood all of what he was saying with that simple statement. “It's important,” I said, sitting back down.

He held out a hand and I let the device slip into his palm. I was placing a great bit of trust in this disreputable young man.
Gad. Don't let me be making a mistake
.

“Brilliant,” he muttered, turning it over and over in his hands.

“I'm told the electricity goes in through this.” I indicated the cord and its two-pronged end.

Pix nodded, fingering the cord. “Ye'll need to leave it wi' me.”

I hesitated. “What are you going to do? How long?”

“If I narked ye that, I'd jeopardize more'n meself, luv. Don't ye trust me, Evaline?” His voice was wry.

“Do I have reason to trust you?”

“Ye came t'me, luv. I didn't seek ye out.”

“This time.”

He gave a short laugh, then turned back to the device. “I'll no' let it out from me possession.”

I drew in a deep breath. I had no other option if I was to help Dylan. “Very well. But please take good care of it. And
now that I've shown you a bit of trust, perhaps you could return the favor. What makes you believe vampires are back in London if you haven't seen one? Or have you?”

“I ain't seen one m'self—at least, 'ere in London—but there be plenty o' rumblings.” He lifted his tankard again, watching me over the rim. “An' a coupla blokes was nattering about
La soci
é
t
é
 . . . pernishun. . . .”

My breath caught. “
La soci
é
t
é
de la perdition
?”

He nodded. “Aye. 'T could be. Ye've 'eard o' it, then.”

Certainly I'd heard of it. Any self-respecting vampire hunter must know about the Society of Iniquity, for the mortal members of that group were nearly as dangerous as the UnDead themselves. Those who called themselves participants of
La soci
é
t
é
enjoyed the company of vampires, seeking them out for various illicit reasons.

I glanced at Pix. Did he know about the Society? And what should—or shouldn't—I tell him?

He watched me with a strange expression, as if he wanted to say something more. Instead, he rubbed his stubbly chin and I heard the soft scrape of finger over bristling hair. He seemed suddenly introspective in comparison to the glib charm he usually adopted.

“What are you not telling me?” I demanded.

“Nawt. Nawt but to have a care, luv.”

I opened my mouth to tell him
yet again
I knew how to protect myself, then stopped. There was something in his eyes . . . something different. “Of course I will,” I said tartly,
covering up my sudden uncertainty. I watched him. There was something more.

I sat upright, my heart thudding. “
La soci
é
t
é
. They love the UnDead, they know all about them . . . and
you're
a member, aren't you?”

It all made sense: how he had so much power and control here in Whitechapel among stronger, meaner, older men than him . . . how he knew about me, including that I was a vampire hunter. . . .

His eyes widened a fraction, then narrowed, lit with wry humor. “But nay. Ye already know I don' bear the mark of
La soci
é
t
é
, don't ye now, luv?”

“Wha—” I stopped myself as I realized exactly what he meant. The last time I'd seen Pix, he'd been wearing an open vest . . . over a shockingly bare torso. His biceps were smooth and muscular and unmarked . . . with not a sign of the spindly-legged spider image that labeled one a member of
La soci
é
t
é
.

My face went steaming hot, and I felt parched. Yet I resisted picking up one of the tankards to drink. I still didn't trust him not to have “mollied with” the ale.

I gathered my wits. “You didn't have the mark on your arms, but it could be on the back of the shoulder. It wouldn't surprise me if you were a member—that's how you knew I was a Venator.”

A slow grin eased over his face. “Ver' well, then, luv . . . if yer to trust m'word, I s'pose I'm forced t'prove it to ye.”
He reached up to his collar, and before I could blink,
began to unbutton his shirt
.

“Don't.” I held out a hand to stop him as I put the other over my face.
Not
a good idea. Not at all. It would break so many Societal rules. Florence would faint dead away if she ever found out. My reputation would be in shambles. It would mortify me to no end. Blast . . . and it would fascinate me, too.

“And 'ere I thought ye was fearless, me bold vampire-rozzer.” There was laughter and something low and deep in Pix's voice that brushed my spine like a gentle finger.

Then I peeked through my hand. He'd stopped with only the top two buttons of his shirt unfastened. That was more than enough for me to see his strong throat and the shadowy
V
that opened onto his chest. Which, unfortunately, I remembered all too well from that open vest he'd worn at the opium den. I swallowed hard. “I believe you. For now. I don't know why I do, but I do.”

His face still bright with levity, Pix reached for one of the tankards. “
La soci
é
t
é
 . . . nay, luv, their way 'as no appeal for me.” He lifted the mug, drank several gulps, then returned it to the table.

“Nor to me.” The very thought of wanting to be with a vampire, to have one feed on me, piercing me with its fangs and drawing out my lifeblood . . . I shuddered. “It's the chance for immortality that attracts them. And some say there is a sort of pleasure involved.”

Siri had educated me about
La soci
é
t
é
. At the time, it seemed she spent more effort on the secret cult than on the vampires themselves. I wanted to learn to fight, and she wanted to teach me history. Both had been burned into my brain.

“There are some people who like to be fed on by the UnDead. They pine for it and become addicted to it. Like opium-eaters. And the vampires can feed without killing a person . . . without draining all of their blood,” I said.

“An' if they drain all o' the blood,” Pix said, his voice steady and quiet, “the mortal can drink from the vampire's veins . . . and become UnDead 'imself.” He looked up, his eyes hard and glittering. “I'll no' lie t'ye on this, Evaline. It's been offered t'me. In th' past. But as ye must know . . . I'm still as mortal as ye are.”

“That's good.” I really wanted to drink from the tankard. My mouth was dry as a wad of cotton. “For if you weren't, I'd have to kill you. And then how would I find my way out of this place?”

Pix laughed, and the dark spell was broken. “Drink up, luv. Then I'll take ye 'ome, like a proper cove. An' this time, I'll let ye stay awake.”

“V
ampires are back in London?” I lifted a brow at Miss Stoker, who sat across from me in Miss Adler's office.

It was the day following our visit with Princess Alexandra, and I was beyond anxious to begin the Ashton investigation. I would have arrived at Miss Ashton's front door at eight o'clock in the morning, but my companion refused to allow me to call so early. Despite my argument that Uncle Sherlock never allowed societal rules to dictate
his
investigations, Miss Stoker was adamant that we delay until a more proper time for making a call. Such as eleven o'clock.

“Did you actually
see
an UnDead?” I was still irritated with my companion's vehemence over the delay.

Miss Stoker was sitting—or, more accurately, lounging—in an armchair. Miss Adler wasn't present at the moment, or I'm certain she would have supported my disapproval for such an unladylike position. “Not exactly. But there have been
signs of them. A mutilated body was found in Whitechapel, and it looked as if a creature with fangs had torn into it. According to my—my
source
, two drunk men tried to lift a bloke's wallet outside the Pickled Nurse and were frightened off when the mark's eyes turned red. And they both swore he showed fangs.”