The Chess Queen Enigma (21 page)

Click . . . snap. Click . . . snap!

The door to the chamber opened.

“Sir Mycroft Holmes and the Lord Regent of Betrovia!” announced a footman. My hand jerked.

Click . . . snap!

Clunk
.

The ball slammed into my gate. My light went on.

A great cheer went up from my competitors.

“Drink up, old boy!” cried Mr. Stanley. Who made him the game manager, anyway?

Everyone was looking at me, chanting, “Drink! Drink!”

My father and the Lord Regent walked over to the table . . . and came to stand
right behind my chair
. The whiskey churned in my stomach and I held my breath.

“Regent Terrence would like to sit in on a few rounds of Quick-Wit,” rumbled Sir Mycroft. “Is there anyone who cares to give up a seat?”

I swore I felt his words sift down over the top of my head and settle there like a vise. Perspiration began to pool in a variety of areas on my person. The whiskey swished more violently inside my belly.

“Drink up, now, there, old chap! The Lord Regent wants to play and the time's wasting!”

If my father hadn't been standing behind me, I would have bolted from my seat and given it up for the mustachioed regent in a trice. As it was, I had no choice but to sit as utterly still as possible . . . and to slowly bring the glass of whiskey to my lips.

“Drink! Drink!”

I was just about to take a sip when the chamber door burst open so hard it thudded against the wall and bounced back.

“Murder!” cried the man who stood in the doorway. “Sir Wexfeld has been murdered!”

C
onfident that Mina would get Lurelia out of Bridge & Stokes with her normal single-mindedness, I knew I could completely focus on the matter at hand.

As I hurried through the club, the cold, eerie sensation at the back of my neck remained strong. This made me sure there was more than one UnDead nearby.

Still, my inexperience left me with little else to go on. Were there two of them, or twenty? Or some number in between?

Clutching my walking stick, I hurried through the club, following the chilly sensation as well as I could. It ebbed and flowed, and I realized I needed to go up the stairs to the next floor.

I met few people on the upper floor, but just as I was rounding a corner, I heard a shout in the distance. It sounded shocked and fearful, and I heard “Murder!”

No! Oh, no!
The UnDead had already created a victim. Horror, regret, and a little fear shot through me. It suddenly became very real: someone here tonight had died.

It could be someone I knew. Someone I had danced with, spoken to . . . 
brought here
. No, surely Mina and Lurelia were long gone by now.

And if I didn't find the red-eyed demons, there would be more victims before the night was over.

It was up to me—only me—to stop it.

I spun around, the chill growing colder and more potent at the back of my neck as my insides bubbled nervously. Yet I was filled with purpose and determination. I heard noises above me, thuds and thumps, like a struggle, and realized I needed to find another set of stairs.

I sprinted around a corner and slammed full-force into someone. We ended up tangled on the floor, and when I opened my eyes I was looking up into the familiar face of Mr. Richard Dancy.

“What are you doing here?” I cried without thinking. “You have to leave immediately!”

It was only after I saw the confusion in his eyes, and then the sudden dawning of shock and recognition that I realized my mistake.

“
Miss Stoker?
” His eyes were wide, but, ever the gentleman, he assisted me to my feet. “What on
earth
—”

“There's no time for that now! You must leave!”

“I heard them crying murder. I don't know what's happened, but if anyone must leave, it would be you! Think of your reputation were you to be found here, not to mention the danger of having a murderer roaming about!”

He'd taken my arm as if we were at a ball and ready to enter the dance floor. I realized how surprising it might appear if someone came upon us and saw the way one man was looking down at another with something very much like affection. Nevertheless, a little wriggle of warmth shivered through me. Pix never looked at me that way . . .

And why on
earth
was I thinking about Pix at a time like this?

“Yes, yes, of course,” I said. “I got lost. Will you please show me the way out?”

What else could I do but that? Now that he'd recognized me, Mr. Dancy's chivalrous character would never allow me to go off on my own. He was just as determined to see me out of the club as I was to make certain he got to safety.

Oh, gad, if I hadn't run into him—literally—
he
could have been the next victim!

But the chill at the back of my neck was just as intense as ever, and I knew I didn't have much time. At this very moment, a horde of vampires could be mauling a table of poker players in the chamber above.

“This way, Miss Stoker,” said Mr. Dancy as he hurried me along. In fact, he didn't have to hurry me at all; I was
moving as quickly as possible. The sooner I could divest myself of him safely, the better.

The hallway we turned down didn't look familiar, but that didn't matter. I was more concerned we'd encounter an UnDead before we got outside to safety, and certainly Mr. Dancy knew his way around Bridge & Stokes better than I did.

In fact, he must have, for all of a sudden, he opened a door and we were outside. A dark, starry sky arced over us, and the soft bubbles of yellow gas lamps studded the city below. There was no moon tonight, and a chilly breeze lifted the loosening hairs on the back of my head. I realized I'd lost my hat in our collision. Some of the pins had come free, and my hair was sagging in places.

We were on a small terrace filled with potted trees, climbing vines, and benches. Under any other circumstance, it would have been romantic to be here with the handsome Mr. Dancy—but I didn't have time to waste.

“What are we doing here? Is there a lift down?” I asked, looking about in vain.

“Yes, over there. But . . . Miss Stoker . . .” He turned me to face him. “If I may . . . just for a moment. We're safe here.” He smiled down at me, never looking more handsome than he did at that moment.

Though I chafed and danced a little in his grip, I couldn't look away from his soft, warm eyes. “Yes, I know, but I must—”

“I cannot express how delighted I am to have encountered you here tonight! I always believed you were unique and
fascinating, but tonight my impression of you has become even more flattering. You are brave and bold and courageous. You must know I hold you in the highest of esteem, Miss Stoker . . . Evaline.”

My heart was thudding and I felt soft and murky as he held me there under the stars. His face drew closer, and I knew he was going to kiss me.

I needed to go, to get back and save people—but just for a moment . . .

The walking stick fell from my hand as he bent closer. I lifted my face to meet his lips. And just as my eyes began to sink closed, I saw the red flare suddenly glowing in his.

My eyes bolted wide as he plunged his fangs into my throat.

I
had the presence of mind to fling the contents of my whiskey glass under the table while everyone was gawking and bolting to their feet to the cries of “Murder?”

Due to the fact that my father still hovered behind me, I was one of the few who did not rise. In fact, I remained resolutely facing away from him and the cacophony behind me.

Naturally, Sir Mycroft took control of the situation. “Scotland Yard has been notified, I presume,” he said as if he were commenting on the weather. Though his voice wasn't particularly loud, it held the sort of command that made it heard without the need for volume. The general chaos in the chamber settled into something more like quiet shock.

“Sir, if you will deliver me to the location of the tragedy,” my father continued, presumably speaking to the footman (my face was still averted). “And . . . it would not be remiss if you were to notify my brother in addition to the Met.”

The noise gave a brief uptick in volume, but Sir Mycroft's next words brought the chamber to a sudden hush. “No one is to leave the building. Everyone is to remain in their current location until the authorities have arrived and conducted their investigation. Everyone must be interviewed about anything they might have heard or seen.”

My stomach dropped like a lead ball. This was it. Lurelia and I were in a complete and utter fix.

The only thing that would make it worse would be if someone remembered we had come in with Sir Mycroft's cousin.

No, the only thing that would make it worse would be if Inspector Grayling was part of the investigative team.

Now the lead ball in my belly broke up and began to churn like chunky butter. The liquid contents of my belly swished violently, threatening to surge back up. I swallowed hard, desperate not to allow that to happen.

I hadn't dared look at Lurelia since the unexpected appearance of Sir Mycroft and the Lord Regent, but as they made their way out of the chamber (apparently neither of them were required to remain in their current location—a fact which I, mostly, appreciated) I chanced a look over.

The princess's thick mustache and sideburns were still intact. She'd done nothing to draw attention to herself—not that that was a surprise, for that seemed to be her personality in general. I caught her eye and gave her a nod of encouragement. As soon as my father and the Lord Regent were gone, I rose and went to sit in the chair next to her.

“Where're you going?” exclaimed someone—and I realized he was speaking to me. “We have a game to finish here!” It was Mr. Stanley, the self-appointed manager of the betting game.

“Might as well keep playing since no one of us is going anywhere. Pass the time faster,” added the man with the black mustache.

“Er . . . no thank you, old chap. I'm not feeling quite the thing at the moment,” I said. “All this talk of murder makes my eye twitch.”

They grumbled and tried to bully me into playing again, but I was firm in my refusal. Actually, it was desperation more than anything, for I had a feeling even the smell of whiskey would have me losing control of the swirling contents of my stomach.

Once they left me alone—after pressing the poor footman into making up the seventh person in the game (I had no idea who was fronting him the pound note)—I was finally able to give Lurelia my full attention.

“What are we going to do?” Her eyes were wide beneath the thick, too-long hair that kept getting caught in her bushy brows.

“Don't worry. I have a plan.”

That wasn't strictly true . . . but one was forming in my mind.

I didn't like where my thoughts were leading, but at the moment it seemed the only possible way Lurelia and I might extricate ourselves without being discovered.

For the more I thought about it, the more I realized several things.

Under no circumstances could Sir Mycroft or the Lord Regent see us. That had to be the first priority.

(To be clear, it was the first priority
after
avoiding the UnDead and staying alive. But I had to trust Evaline had that element under control.)

Second, under no circumstances could I be seen by Uncle Sherlock. A master of disguise himself, he would immediately recognize me.

Third, if we were interviewed by Scotland Yard, we would need to provide our names and addresses, which we obviously could not do.

And finally, we would be asked to provide any information we could about the murder. Obviously, what I suspected about the crime—which was that it was the result of the vampire or vampires Evaline had sensed—was not going to be helpful to the police.

With the possible exception of one individual.

As much as it pained me to admit it, and as much as I dreaded the fact that it was the only solution, I corrected my thoughts to desperately hope that Inspector Grayling was going to be on the investigative force. Because if he were not, I suspected the threat of a vampire would be the least of my worries.

With this in mind, all I could do was wait until the investigators arrived, and hope whatever vampires might be
present had either been exterminated by Evaline, or had fled the club. Never one to leave anything to chance, I spent my time examining the chamber in search of anything that might be used as a weapon against the UnDead, should we be confronted by them.

While there was no garlic to be found (I even lifted the lids on the used meal trays), there was a decorative cross hanging on the wall among several other items from the collection of the sixteenth Archbishop of Canterbury. I surreptitiously slid it from its mooring and tucked it into my pocket. Since it was made from iron, it weighed down my coat, but there was no help for it.

I was just searching for something that could be used as a wooden stake when I heard voices in the corridor. I spied an automated umbrella stand tucked in the corner and pushed the button, hoping to find at least one with a wooden handle. The machine was surprisingly old and slow for such a luxurious club, and I chafed at the delay as it rumbled ever so slowly around in its circuit. It offered me two different brollies I had to reject because they were too thick for me to break. The third one, fortunately, was more like a parasol and I snatched it out before the stand came to a halt.

I'd just managed—with greater difficulty than I care to admit—to break it in two over one of my knees when the chamber door opened. I jammed the shorter piece into the inside pocket of my coat, which was now beginning to sag
unfashionably due to all of the accoutrements I'd stuffed inside. One of the benefits of being a female—one of the few—is the ability to carry a reticule within which one can hide numerous useful objects.