The Miss Education of Dr. Exeter (17 page)

“America and gargoyle are off having a visit with one of Edvar’s relations, the chimera, Le Stryge,” Valentine advised. “At Notre Dame Cathedral . . .”

He must have blinked.

“I believe he resides above the Northeast Façade—along with a few more of Edvar’s kind.” The female Nightshade fashioned a pretty eye-roll. “He was quite insistent.”

“The
gargouille
—they are waterspouts, are they not?” Mia asked.

“Turned to stone, centuries ago. Edvar was correct about that.” The gentle, mannered voice came from behind them.

Exeter pivoted. “Mr. Ping, you have returned to us.”

Ping appeared slightly more male than female. Exeter had witnessed the immortal jinni vary his gender on several occasions. It was . . . stunning, to say the least.

“Doctor Exeter. Mia. You’re just in time for my report.” Ping slanted silver eyes as he pushed a lever on Tim’s projection map. “Several tunnels have been lost and others gained.” The genie pointed out the best and worst of what they might face, if they decided to enter the catacombs from alternate, Outremer Paris. “I ran across a troll by the name of Gobb Filkins who knows the catacombs and moves quite comfortably back and forth through the warples.”

Exeter frowned. “Good God, trolls.”

“Says he’s glad to help us.” Ping shrugged. “Apparently, Prospero elbowed him out of his favorite niche, and Gobb is . . . perturbed.”

“Warples?” Mia queried.

“Short for Trans-temporal warp portals—wherever both worlds touch. Oakley’s going to use the warples to prove his Uncertainty Principle. The more precisely one measures the momentum of a particle, the less precise one’s measurement becomes.” Tim rubbed sweaty palms on his trousers. “It helps explain why the portals tend to drift.” The young inventor’s anxiety level was palpable. Clearly he was agitated.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Noggy?” Exeter had never seen the young inventor in such a state.

“The wizard container is ready.” Noggy removed a dingy-looking pocket square and wiped the perspiration off his brow. “Oakley’s latest device . . . I thought I mentioned it in London . . . designed to capture and contain Prospero—for a few minutes. Actually, we’re not sure how long it might hold him. Kind of hard to run beta tests, if you follow.” Tim scanned blank stares. “Guess not. Anyway, once we’ve got him in the trap, we have to get him to Black Box headquarters, where there’s a permanent cell that will hold him indefinitely.”

Exeter suddenly understood the level of anxiety in the room. He had never met Tim’s twin brother, an inventor in his own right, but he had heard enough . . . Oakley was a genius and a recluse, with a talent for making money. Bazillions, was the word Tim had used.

At one time, Oakley had been a competitor of the powerful Prospero, maker of strange and sundry creatures, who also controlled the aether supply in the Outremer. To Exeter’s mind, their much reported rivalry had always begged the question—where exactly did Oakley fit in—and who, exactly, was the enemy? Whatever the answer, Prospero had presumably forced Black Box underground. The details were fuzzy. Exeter continued to scrutinize Noggy. He disliked fuzzy details, and he greatly disliked this dangerous, sideways shift in their mission. “I take it we are going to have to lure him in?”

The corpulent young scientist nodded.

“Well, this is a good deal more than we bargained for.” Exeter checked the mood around the room. Sober, indeed. “However, it may also be the only way to free Phaeton and protect the Moonstone.”

Tim hesitated. “Uh . . . about the Moonstone.”

M
IA SENSED AN UNDERCURRENT OF HYSTERIA
in the dining room; conspiratorial forces were at work. Exeter arched a brow and she answered him silently, shifting her gaze to the cherubic young scientist. “What exactly are America and Edvar doing with those old stone waterspouts?” she queried.

Tim mumbled something she could barely make out.

Exeter leaned forward. “Sorry, did you say—setting a trap?”

“I suspect they’re not visiting with Edvar’s distant relations.” Mia scanned the room and didn’t receive much eye contact.

Finally Ping spoke. “We tried to bring you in on the plan, but found your bedchamber empty. One of the tall windows was open . . .”

Exeter swept his frock coat back, resting his fist on his hip. “Mia has reached a point where she can control her shifts.” His gaze connected with hers. “A real breakthrough, actually. We were out together this evening, as an exercise.”

“That is wonderful news.” Valentine approached them both. “America believes Phaeton entrusted the Moonstone to Edvar, and that the gargoyle hid the stone in one of the creatures at the cathedral.”

“Please tell me Jersey is with her.” Exeter raised his voice.

Tim licked the droplets of sweat on his upper lip before speaking. “America got a bit ahead of plans—Jersey went after them the moment we discovered the note.”

Valentine handed over the message. “Ping and Victor both advised Phaeton to entrust the stone to someone of great loyalty. A person or creature who could not be swayed.” Mia thought the female Nightshade stood up rather well under the doctor’s severe scrutiny.

Exeter crumpled the notepaper. “You realize America is in grave danger, especially now . . .” Nodding to something behind the inventor, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Step aside, Tim.” He pointed a finger at the low-flying spy, zapping the small intruder with a pinpoint beam of energy. Mia quivered involuntarily at the memory of his extraordinary touch. Exeter noticed, and winked.

“We need to find them quickly, before Prospero can act.” He motioned them out the door, and down to the lobby.

No matter how angry he was, Mia had to admit that Doctor Exeter was the most reassuring of men, at times. Somehow, no matter how great the difficulty, she knew he would see them through the trials ahead. In the courtyard, he helped the ladies into the coach and waited for Ping and Tim to climb inside. He poked his head in the door. “What’s the address again—of the café?”

Valentine leaned forward. “Fifty-five Boulevard de Clichy.” Exeter looked a bit sheepish. “I apologize for raising my voice earlier.”

En route to the cathedral, Tim quickly laid out the situation. “If Edvar has loosed the Moonstone, the logical place to store it would be in the incarcerator.”

“The only way to lure clever game into such an obvious trap. I take it America has the device with her.” Exeter’s jaw twitched as he studied Tim. “Tell me truthfully, Mr. Noggy, was it in your brother’s plans to
incarcerate
the Moonstone as well as Prospero?”

Tim’s mouth flattened into a thin, grim line. “More than likely.”

Mia was curious. “Rather a neat trick—capture two for the price of one. But how could anyone possibly know it would work—the device, that is?

“Several years ago, during a brawl, Oakley whacked some skin off Prospero’s skull.” The mental picture of Tim’s brother engaged in knives and fisticuffs with the evil wizard caused several mouths to drop open.

“It was brutal. A fight to the death, only . . . it didn’t exactly turn out that way.” Tim shook his head. “Prospero fled with some of my brother’s top-secret designs and Oakley ran his DNA profile.” The roundish young scientist read the look on Exeter’s face. “Chill, mate—it’s a medical identification procedure that doesn’t get invented in your world for another hundred years.”

“Anyway, if we can get Prospero within a few feet of the incarcerator”—Tim pursed his lips and made a siphoning noise—“he gets reduced to subatomic bits and sucked right in.”

Mia clapped her mouth shut and checked Exeter, who continued to stare rather pointedly at Noggy. “And you’re quite certain the device will hold both the Moonstone and Prospero.”

She caught an upward flicker of exotic silver eyes, as did Exeter. “Thoughts, Ping?”

“Any calculations for the Moonstone would be guesswork. As for Prospero . . .” The jinni did not appear overly concerned. “Remember the Moonstone senses intentions.”

Tim craned his neck for a glance out the window. “We’re at the western façade of the cathedral—does anyone see them?” The cathedral’s doors appeared to be open, though it was hard to make out much detail, as the impressive Gothic structure was dimly lit. A number of visitors lingered near the entrance.

“There—up in the gallery of chimeras.” Valentine pointed to the figure of the smallish gargoyle perched on the head of Le Stryge. Edvar bounced up and down on his larger stone cousin in the most insistent way, as if he was attempting to dislodge—one might surmise—the Moonstone. In a burst of color and light, a globe-shaped object emerged from the head of Le Stryge. The glowing object hovered momentarily in midair and then dove for the concourse. The diminutive comet whooshed its way around clusters of tourists, who cried out in alarm at the strange, low-flying object. A cloaked character chased after the fireball—almost certainly Jersey.

As the carriage slowed Exeter leapt onto stone pavers and headed for the dark side of the cathedral. Valentine followed after, but stopped at the front entrance. Using a push of potent energy, she jumped to the balcony. Mia squinted to separate living figures from stone gargoyles on the upper tier. In a triumphant gesture, America held up a shiny metal tube and followed Valentine onto the roof behind the towers.

Ping joined Mia as she made her way around Notre Dame and onto a darkened pathway. Valentine slid down the arch of a flying buttress and waited for Edvar and America to follow. It seemed to Mia that the gargoyle and America were sliding at a worrisome speed—perhaps too fast. Mia picked up her skirts and ran alongside the nave. “Valentine, don’t let her fall!”

And suddenly, Exeter was there. He caught Edvar first, then America as they slid off the buttress and into the deep shadows of the great cathedral. “Nice bit of potent leaping, ladies.” Mia joined them at the bottom of the buttress. Exeter set America down. “As well as a rather excellent bit of rescuing,” she smiled at him.

“America, do not try to keep pace with Valentine,” Exeter grumbled.

“Has anyone seen Jersey?” Mia asked.

“The object disappeared over there.” Exeter rasped, slightly out of breath. He nodded to a stand of trees.

Mia nodded. “I’m almost certain I saw him run after the Moonstone when it . . .
whooshed
off the balcony.”

“Oh, that’s not the Moonstone, the Moonstone is in here.” America held up a cylindrical device—presumably the portable incarcerator.

“The orb with the dazzling tail was a decoy.” They all pivoted toward the familiar craggy voice. Jersey stood in between a row of poplar trees. “In case Prospero’s wraiths were lurking about.”

Tim caught up to the gathering. “Now that the trap is set, all that remains is to lure Prospero in close.”

“And, I have someone special in mind.” Exeter turned to Ping, who sauntered up to join them. There was something about Ping in a top hat and evening coat that was both delicious and strange. Or perhaps it was the blue-tinted spectacles that turned his eyes violet—the color of relic dust and champagne—the ethereal jinni’s term for potent energy.

Ping smiled pleasantly, and nodded a bow. “How may I be of service?”

“I need you to seduce Prospero.” Exeter was deadly serious.

Ping’s long lashes fluttered slightly as he cocked his head. “As Ping or Jinn?”

Exeter cracked a grin. “Perhaps, both.”

 

“Entrez et soyez condamné!”
The café’s doorman, dressed in a Satan suit, welcomed them to le Café de l’Enfer.

“Enter and be damned—warm greeting.” Exeter escorted Mia inside the gaping devil’s mouth that made up the front door of the café, which had to be the most eccentric, and quite frankly bizarre nightspot in all of Paris.

Mia distinctly heard Phaeton’s voice in her head. She looked at Exeter—nothing—he was occupied with the maître d’. She looked back at America, who appeared a bit fidgety standing beside Ping. “Was that him?”

America shrugged a bit warily. She had heard the voice as well, but looked to Ping. Peering over the rims of his spectacles, his eyes flashed silver. “Watch yourself, we’ve crossed into the Outremer.”

Mia blinked as she took in the crowd at the bar. Yes, the attire was different—so very plain, and informal. She hadn’t felt a thing, and now suddenly she found herself in an alternate Paris.

Ping tapped the doctor on the shoulder. “Should anyone comment—we’ve just come from a costume ball.” After a quick, furtive glance around the room, Exeter nodded.

“This way—
monsieurs et mademoiselles
.” The maître d’ wore a tuxedo and was normal in appearance, but for the brilliant crimson horns that poked out of salt-and-pepper hair. Mia pressed close to Exeter. “I cannot help but think our costumes will hardly be noticed in such a venue.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

They were led through a standing-room-only crowd at the bar to a larger, dining area in the rear of the café. A soft rhythmic music pervaded the cavern-like atmosphere. In keeping with the motif, lost souls undulated on the dance floor in a macabre burlesque, a queer tribute to the tortured plaster figurines that writhed on the walls and ceiling. Exeter dipped close. “Hellish, indeed,” he murmured. Skirting the dance floor, Mia noted musicians of dark skin color, Africans, she thought, but Parisian, as well. A female cabaret singer crooned in sultry tones. Mia listened carefully to the French words . . . a love song.

“Très bon.”
The maître d’ flourished a gesture, as a waiter pushed two smaller tables together. The rather dashing looking devil helped Mia into her chair.
“Soyez un belle coquine, s’il vous plaît.”

Mia turned to Exeter as he slid in beside her. “Did our waiter just call me a naughty girl?”

In a most irregular display of public affection, Exeter placed his arm across the back of her chair. “I believe his advice was—
soyez
—‘be a beautiful rascal.’ And he was rather polite about it—the young man did say . . . please.” His sensuous, heavy-lidded gaze held hers as he leaned close. “I must say I’m looking forward to it.” It seemed Hell’s Café was already having an effect. As if their lives weren’t odd enough.

Several intoxicating drinks helped put a full-tilt spin on the evening. Everything—the sights, the sounds—all seemed enhanced, if a bit fuzzier. And still no sign of Phaeton.

Exeter leaned across the table. “We should break up.”

Ping nodded. “I sense wariness. We may appear too formidable.” The wariness Ping noticed only made sense if Prospero lacked any kind of battle squadron. Mia found it hard to believe the man could be so lacking in resources.

“Somebody get out there and dance,” Tim suggested.

Jersey looked stricken. “I don’t dance.”

Valentine set down her drink and winked. “I’m working on him.”

Strains of piano and the soft rhythm of bass fiddle and drum drew Mia’s attention to the dance floor. As the cabaret’s entertainers struck up a new tune, Exeter leaned close. “Dance with me.”

Mia gaped at him as well as the others around the table. “What kind of dance is this?”

“Give me a minute. I have to think back to cotillion—a painful experience.” Chin in hand, Tim’s eyes rolled upward. “Fox-trot, I think, but feel free to dance a jig. Just get out there and fake it.”

Exeter coaxed her up out of her chair and onto the dance floor. “I believe this dance is close to a waltz, only instead of three-four, we move in four-four time.” She had no idea what step came next, but he made it easy to follow his lead. As a small child, he had taught her to dance. “Place your feet on top of mine, Mia.” She recalled happy hours spent waltzing around the parlor on a rainy afternoon.

Mia imagined her ballroom slippers on top of his dress boots and concentrated for a turn or two. He was a strong dancer, and she soon relaxed in his arms. “Two slow glides followed by two quick steps.”

Exeter smiled. “Exactly.” He lengthened his stride, smoothing out the dance. The strains of a smoky, silken voice blended perfectly with the cabaret musicians. Almost effortlessly, he led her around the dance floor, brushing against her in the turns. She felt the power of his legs, the heat of his body as he pulled her closer. “Do you remember how we used to practice for your French exams?”

Mia nodded, adding a shy smile. “You would sing to me in French, and I would sing the line in English.” Exeter turned her about the floor listening to the cabaret singer. “You put your hand in mine . . . and then you smiled hello . . .” He sang softly in a husky voice.

“And I have no words . . . my heart is pounding so.” She translated as strong thighs, pulsing with rhythm, whirled her through a labyrinth of other dancers.

“Tweedledum and Tweedledee.” Exeter nodded over her shoulder and turned so that she could get a better look. Two identically dressed creatures huddled together in the shadows, vulture-like, bony shoulders hunched over frail bodies. The duo wore coachman’s hats over mourning veils to obscure their faces. They turned in unison as Exeter swept her across the dance floor, sending a shiver down her spine.

For some reason, she could hardly sing the French lyrics over the ache in her throat. “Keep going, Mia—”

She swallowed. “. . . I long . . . long to hold you close.” Her vision blurred. The song spoke of a burning hunger and unrequited love—entirely too close for comfort.