The Clockwork Scarab (6 page)

This one
 
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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
 
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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
 
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or could go
 
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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
 
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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
 
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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
 
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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
 
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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.”

“A crate? How big?”

He’d stopped, and although I had only an impression of where he was, I stared into the darkness. Why couldn’t I see him? I had excellent night vision.

“Bigger’n me. ’Eavy, from the looks o’ it,” Pix called from the shadows. “Put it in th’back o’ a wagon. One of ’em ’ad another thin’ too—long and slender. Like a cane. Went off southwise.”

“When? When did you see this? And what were you doing here?”

Silence. Drat. “Pix?”

There was no response from the darkness but a faint chuckle and the rustle of leaves.

In the distance, St. Paul’s tolled four, and I gave in to the urge to rub his kiss from my skin.

I hoped he was watching from the bushes.

I
was exhausted when I climbed into the horseless cab outside the museum. Miss Stoker had somehow excused herself from being escorted home and disappeared on foot into the shadow of the colonnaded building. I had given my official statement to Luckworth, leaving out the minor detail of the museum intruder. I felt certain I’d see the foreigner again soon.

The cab had traveled a mere block from the museum when my suspicions were proved right.

A black shape across from me in the vehicle shifted and became a face, followed by two hands shining pale in the gray light of near dawn.

I froze, realizing that what I’d assumed was a pile of cushions and blankets—granted, not the usual accoutrements of a hackney cab in London—had been the foreign intruder, hiding in the darkest corner of the carriage. I’d been too tired and distracted to look closely.

I fumbled the Steam-Stream gun out and into my grip. It took me longer than it should have, yet the intruder held up his hands and said, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Of course you aren’t,” I said, juggling the gun into position, pointing at him from my seat. My fingers were a trifle shaky, but in the dark, he wouldn’t be able to tell. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” It occurred to me that I could have screamed and drawn the cabbie’s attention, but I’m by nature a curious person, and after all, I was the one who was armed.

“My name is Dylan Eckhert. And I
 
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uh
 
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I wanted to talk to you.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be waxing the museum floors?” I asked.

“I didn’t really expect you to believe me.” He gave a little laugh. “Um
 
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could I put my hands down now? I promise I’m not going to do anything but talk to you.”

“Very well. I want to talk to you too. But any movements on your part, and I pull the trigger and you’ll be blasted with steam.”

His first question surprised me. “Are you really Sherlock Holmes’s niece?”

“Of course I am.” I realized he must have been hovering about listening to the conversations with Grayling and Luckworth.

“But I thought Sherlock Holmes was a fictitious character,” Mr. Eckhert said. His expression was bewildered and
perhaps a little frightened. “Am I in London? What year is this?”

Clearly, the stranger was suffering from a case of amnesia. Or he was utterly mad. And here I was, closed up in a carriage with him. I gripped the Steam-Stream gun more tightly. “My uncle is as real as you and I. And yes, you’re in London. The year is 1889. Who are you and where are you from? I want some answers.”

“I’d like some too, to be honest,” he said. “Actually, what I really want is my—that thing back. You picked it up off the floor.”

I pulled the device from my pocket. It looked like a small, dark mirror, but its window or face was black and shiny and reflected a bit of light and no clear image. About as big as my hand, it was slender and elegant, made of glass and encased in silver metal. I turned it over and noticed the faint image of an apple with a bite out of it. “This? I thought you’d given it to us. After all, you threw it across the room.”

“Yeah, right. You’re too smart to believe that.”

I couldn’t disagree, so I changed tactics. “What is it?”

“It’s
 
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a
 
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phone. A telephone,” he said hesitantly. “A special kind of telephone.”

It didn’t look like any sort of telephone I’d ever seen. There was nowhere to listen, and nowhere to speak. And it had no wires. I smoothed my fingers over the device, amazed at how light and sleek it was. I must have activated it somehow, because all at once, it lit up and there were multicolored
little pictures on its face. At least it didn’t start screeching. “I might give it back to you if you answer my questions.”

“What do you want to know? And by the way, why didn’t you tell those detectives about me?”

As I wasn’t certain of the answer to that myself, I declined to reply. There was something about this young man that I found compelling. I sensed there was more to him than met the eye. Instead of answering his question, I asked one of my own. “Did you see or hear anyone before you saw the girl’s body?”

“I might have heard a door opening and closing, but I’m not familiar with all the sounds in the museum, so I can’t be sure. Probably. Then I heard a scuffle, like someone’s shoe on the floor. I was
 
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um
 
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walking through the museum, trying to find my way
 
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out, and I almost tripped over her. I only got there a few seconds before you.”

From Miss Adler’s office, we’d heard the rumbling sound of a steam-powered door, but it had taken us a minute or two to get to where we’d found Miss Hodgeworth and Mr. Eckhert.

“Where was the knife when you got there? Was she holding it?”

“No. It was on the floor next to her. I think
 
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I think I might have interrupted someone. It looked as if the knife was lying next to her, as if it had been dropped.”

“Why are you living in the museum?” I asked, changing the subject.

“I’m not living in the museum. I just got there tonight. A few hours before I saw you.”

“That’s impossible. Your shoes are clean.” I shifted the gun in warning. “How about the truth, now, Mr. Eckhert?”

“It’s complicated. But I guess if there’s any chance of me getting home, I’m going to have to trust someone.” He looked out the window and a gaslight streetlamp cast a brief golden glow over his sober face and the tousled hair that brushed his neck and covered his ears and forehead. I felt my chest tighten and looked away. He was one of the most handsome young men I’d ever seen.

At last he turned and looked at me once more. “So
 
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I’m
 
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uh
 
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from a long way away. And I’m not sure how I got here, and I’m
really
not sure how I’m going to get back home. It was freaky. I was in the museum, back in a far corner all alone. It was dark and empty, and it was—well, okay, I’ll be honest. On a dare, I sneaked into one of the back rooms in the basement, and I found this door in the middle of nowhere. It was, like, locked, but the lock was old and rusty, and I got it to open. Inside, I found an old Egyptian statue, totally covered with dust. I don’t think anyone had touched it for years. It was a person with the head of a lion. I looked it up. I think it was—”

“Sekhmet.” I spoke the name in a whisper. A chill washed over me.
There are no coincidences
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“Right. Sekhmet.” He seemed to relax a little bit. “I noticed a sort of emblem, like a button, set into the stone
base. It was so tall that I could crouch down and fit my head between its knees. It was glowing. I touched it, and then all of a sudden I felt this really odd vibration, this strange
buzzing
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and then all of a sudden, I realized I was lying on the floor.” His expression was one of misery and shock. “I don’t know how long I was out of it, but when I opened my eyes, I was in the same room, but there were different things there. The statue of Sekhmet was gone. It was like I’d
 
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.”