The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (172 page)

Sophronia winced. She was well aware she hadn't her sisters' looks. For some reason the Fates had seen fit to design her rather more in her father's image than her mother's. But there was no need to discuss such a thing openly with a stranger!

“That could be arranged.” When the woman finally spoke, it was with such a strong French accent that her words were difficult to understand. “Miss Temminnick, why is there india rubber wrapped around your boots?”

Sophronia looked down. “Mumsy was complaining I kept scuffing them.”

“Interesting solution. Does it work?”

“Haven't had a chance to test them properly.” She paused. “Yet.”

The stranger looked neither shocked nor impressed by this statement.

Frowbritcher reappeared. He made a motion with one clawlike mechanical arm, beckoning. Sophronia's mother stood and went to confer with the butler. Frowbritcher had a sinister habit of turning up with secrets. It was highly disconcerting in a mechanical.

After a whispered interchange, Mrs. Temminnick went red about the face and then whirled back around.

Oh, dear
, thought Sophronia,
what have I done now?

“Please excuse me for a moment. There appears to be some difficulty with our new dumbwaiter.” She gave her daughter a pointed look. “Hold your tongue and behave, young lady!”

“Yes, Mumsy.”

Mrs. Temminnick left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

“Where did you get the rubber?” The crow dismissed Sophronia's mother with comparative ease, still intrigued by the shoe modification. India rubber was expensive and difficult to come by, particularly in any shape more complex than a ball.

Sophronia nodded in a significant way.

“You destroyed a dumbwaiter for it?”

“I'm not saying I did. I'm not saying I didn't, either.” Sophronia was cautious.
After all, this woman wants to steal me away to finishing school. I'll be there for years and then foisted off on some viscount with two thousand a year and a retreating hairline.
Sophronia rethought her approach; perhaps a little less circumspection and some judiciously applied sabotage was called for.

“Mumsy wasn't lying, you understand, about my conduct? The climbing and such. Although it has been a while since I tried to climb up a person. And the footman and I weren't flirting. He thinks Petunia is the pip, not me.”

“What about the taking apart?”

Sophronia nodded, as it was a better excuse for destroying the dumbwaiter than spying. “I'm fond of machines. Intriguing things, machines, don't you find?”

The woman cocked her head to one side. “I generally prefer to make use of them, not dissect them. Why do you do it? To upset your mother?”

Sophronia considered this. She was relatively fond of her mother, as one is apt to be, but she supposed some part of her might be on the attack. “Possibly.”

A flash of a smile appeared on the woman's face. It made her look very young. It vanished quickly. “How are you as a thespian? Any good?”

“Theatricals?”
What kind of finishing school teacher asks that?
Sophronia was put out. “I may have smudges on my face, but I'm still a
lady
!”

The woman looked at Sophronia's exposed petticoat. “That remains to be seen.” She turned away, as though not interested anymore, and helped herself to a slice of cake. “Are you strong?”

Down the hall, something exploded with a bang. Sophronia thought she heard her mother shriek. Both she and the visitor ignored the disruption.

“Strong?” Sophronia edged toward the tea trolley, eyeing the sponge.

“From all the climbing.” A pause. “And the machine lifting, I suppose.”

Sophronia blinked. “I'm not weak.”

“You're certainly good at prevarication.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“That depends on whom you're asking.”

Sophronia helped herself to two pieces of cake, just as though she had been invited to do so. The visitor forbore to remark upon it. Sophronia turned away briefly, in the guise of finding a spoon, to tuck one piece in her apron pocket. Mumsy wouldn't allow her any sweets for the next week once she found out about the dumbwaiter.

The woman might have seen the theft, but she didn't acknowledge it.

“You run this finishing school, then?”

“Do you run this finishing school, Mademoiselle Geraldine?” corrected the crow.

“Do you run this finishing school, Mademoiselle Geraldine?” parroted Sophronia dutifully, even though they had not been properly introduced.
Odd, in a finishing school teacher. Shouldn't she wait until Mumsy returns?

“It
is
called Mademoiselle Geraldine's Finishing Academy for Young Ladies of Quality. Have you heard of it?”

Sophronia had. “I thought only the very best families were allowed in.”

“Sometimes we make exceptions.”

“Are you
the
Mademoiselle Geraldine? You don't seem old enough.”

“Why, thank you, Miss Temminnick, but you should not make such an observation to your betters.”

“Sorry, madam.”

“Sorry, Mademoiselle Geraldine.”

“Oh, yes, sorry, Mademoiselle Geraldine.”

“Very good. Do you notice anything else odd about me?”

Sophronia said the first thing that came to mind. “The gray in your hair. It's amiss.”

“You
are
an observant young lady, aren't you?” Then, in a sudden movement, Mademoiselle Geraldine reached and pulled out the small throw pillow from behind her back. She tossed it at Sophronia.

Sophronia, who had never before had a lady throw a pillow at her, was flabbergasted, but caught it.

“Adequate reflexes,” said Mademoiselle Geraldine, wiggling her fingers for the return of the pillow.

Bemused, Sophronia handed it back to her. “Why—”

A black-gloved hand was raised against any further questions.

Mrs. Temminnick returned at that juncture. “I do apologize. How incurably rude of me. I can't comprehend what has happened to the dumbwaiter. It's making the most awful racket. But you don't want to hear of such piddling domestic
trifles
.” She put a great deal of emphasis on the word
trifles
.

Sophronia grimaced.

Mrs. Temminnick sat down, rubbing at a grease spot on her formerly impeccable gloves. “How are you and Sophronia getting on?”

Mademoiselle Geraldine said, “Quite well. The young lady was just telling me of some history book she was recently reading. What was the subject?”

So, she doesn't want Mumsy to know she's been throwing pillows at me?
Sophronia was never one to let anyone down when fibs were required.

“Egypt. Apparently the Primeval Monarchy, which follows directly after the Mythical Period, has been given new dates. And—”

Her mother interrupted. “That's more than enough of
that
, Sophronia. A headmistress isn't interested in education. Really, Mademoiselle Geraldine, once you get her started she'll never stop.” She looked hopeful. “I know she's a terrible mess, but can you
do
anything with her?”

Mademoiselle Geraldine gave a tight smile. “What do you say to a probationary period? We'll return her in time for that coming-out ball of yours in a few months and see how she gets on until then?”

“Oh, Mademoiselle Geraldine, how perfectly topping!” Sophronia's mother clasped her hands delightedly. “Isn't this thrilling, Sophronia? You're going to finishing school!”

“But I don't
want
to go to finishing school!” Sophronia couldn't help the petulance in her voice as visions of parasol training danced through her head.

“Don't be like that, darling. It will be very exciting.”

Sophronia grappled for recourse. “But she threw a pillow at me!”

“Oh, Sophronia, don't tell fibs—you know how unhappy that makes me.”

Sophronia gawped, swiveling her gaze back and forth between her now-animated mother and the crowlike stranger.

“How soon can she be made ready?” Mademoiselle Geraldine wanted to know.

Sophronia's mother started. “You wish to take her away
now
?”

“I am here, am I not? Why waste the trip?”

“I didn't think it would be so soon. We must shop for new dresses, a warmer coat. What about her lesson books?”

“Oh, you can send all
that
along later. I shall provide you with a list of required items. She'll be perfectly fine for the time being. A resourceful girl, I suspect.”

“Well, if you think it best.”

“I do.”

Sophronia was not accustomed to seeing her mother railroaded so effectively. “But Mumsy!”

“If Mademoiselle Geraldine thinks it best, then you had better hop to it, young lady. Go change into your good blue dress and your Sunday hat. I'll have one of the maids pack your necessities. May we have half an hour, mademoiselle?”

“Of course. Perhaps I will take a little tour of the grounds while you organize? To stretch my legs before the drive.”

“Please do. Come along, Sophronia, we have much to do.”

Frustrated and out of sorts, Sophronia trailed after her mother.

Accordingly, she was given an old portmanteau from the attic, three hatboxes, and a carpetbag. With barely enough time to ensure a nibble for the drive—to goodness knows where, at a distance of goodness knows how far—Sophronia found herself being shoved hastily into a carriage. Her mother kissed her on the forehead and made a show of fussing. “My little girl, all grown up and leaving to become a lady!” And that, as they say, was that.

Sophronia might have hoped for a grand send-off with all her siblings and half the mechanical retainers waving tearstained handkerchiefs. But her younger brothers were exploring the farm, her older ones were away at Eton, her sisters were busy with fripperies or marriages—possibly one and the same—and the mechanicals were trundling about their daily tasks. She thought she spotted Roger, the stable lad, waving his cap from the hayloft, but apart from that, even her mother gave only a perfunctory waggle of her fingertips before returning to the house.

If you enjoyed

THE PARASOL PROTECTORATE: THE COMPLETE SERIES,

look out for

DIRTY MAGIC

Prospero's War: Book One

by Jaye Wells

MAGIC IS A DRUG. CAREFUL HOW YOU USE IT.

The Magical Enforcement Agency keeps dirty magic off the streets, but there's a new blend out there that's as deadly as it is elusive. When patrol cop Kate Prospero shoots the lead snitch in this crucial case, she's brought in to explain herself. But the more she learns about the investigation, the more she realizes she must secure a spot on the MEA task force.

Especially when she discovers that their lead suspect is the man she walked away from ten years earlier—on the same day she swore she'd given up dirty magic for good. Kate Prospero's about to learn the hard way that crossing a wizard will always get you burned and that when it comes to magic, you should never say never.

It was just another fucked-up night in the Cauldron. Potion junkies huddled in shadowy corners with their ampules and pipes and needles. The occasional flick of a lighter's flame illuminated their dirty, desperate faces, and the air sizzled with the ozone scent of spent magic.

I considered stopping to harass them. Arrest them for loitering and possession of illegal arcane substances. But they'd just be back on the street in a couple of days or be replaced by another dirty, desperate face looking to escape the Mundane world.

Besides, these hard cases weren't my real targets. To make a dent, you had to go after the runners and stash boys, the potion cookers—the money men. The way I figured, better to hunt the vipers instead of the 'hood rats who craved the bite of their fangs. But for the last couple of weeks, the corner thugs had been laying low, staying off the streets after dark. My instincts were tingling, though, so I kept walking the beat, hoping to find a prize.

Near Canal Street, growls rolled out of a pitch-black alley. I stilled and listened with my hand on my hawthorn-wood nightstick. The sounds were like a feral dog protecting a particularly juicy bone. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and my nostrils twitched from the coppery bite of blood.

Approaching slowly, I removed the flashlight from my belt. The light illuminated about ten feet into the alley's dark throat. On the nearest wall, a graffiti-ed dragon marked the spot as Sanguinarian Coven's turf. But I already knew the east side of town belonged to the Sangs. That's one of the reasons I'd requested it for patrol. I didn't dare show my face on the Votary's west-side territory.

Something moved in the shadows, just outside of the light's halo. A loud slurping sound. A wet moan.

“Babylon PD!” I called, taking a few cautious steps forward. The stink of blood intensified. “Come out with your hands up!”

The scuttling sound of feet against trash. Another growl, but no response to my order.

Three more steps expanded my field of vision. The light flared on the source of the horrible sounds and the unsettling scents.

A gaunt figure huddled over the prone form of a woman. Wet, stringy hair shielded her face, and every inch of her exposed skin glistened red with blood. My gun was in my hand faster than I could yell, “Freeze!”

Still partially in shadow, the attacker—male judging from the size—swung around. I had the impression of glinty yellow eyes and shaggy hair matted with blood.

“Step away with your hands up,” I commanded, my voice projected to make it a demand instead of a suggestion.

“Fuck you, bitch,” the male barked. And then he bolted.

“Shit!” I ran to the woman and felt for a pulse. I shouldn't have been relieved not to find one, but it meant I was free to pursue the asshole who'd killed her.

My leg muscles burned and my heart raced. Through the radio on my shoulder I called dispatch.

“Go ahead, Officer Prospero,” the dispatcher's voice crackled through the radio.

“Be advised I need an ambulance sent to the alley off Canal and Elm. Interrupted a code 27. Victim had no pulse. I'm pursuing the perp on foot bearing east on Canal.”

“Ambulance is on its way. Backup unit will be there in five minutes. Keep us advised of your 20.”

“10-4.” I took my finger off the comm button. “Shit, he's fast.” I dug in, my air coming out in puffs of vapor in the cool night air.

He was definitely freaking—a strength or speed potion, probably. But that type of magic wouldn't explain why he mauled that woman in the alley—or those yellow predator's eyes. I tucked that away for the moment and focused on keeping up.

The perp loped through the maze of dark alleys and streets like he knew the Cauldron well. But no one knew it better than me, and I planned to be right behind him when he finally made a mistake.

As I ran, my lead cuffs clanked heavily against the wood of my nightstick. The rhythm matched the thumping beats of my heart and the puffs of air rasping from my lungs. I had a Glock at my side, but when perps are jacked up on potions, they're almost unstoppable with Mundane weaponry unless you deliver a fatal shot. Killing him wasn't my goal—I wanted the notch on my arrest stats.

“Stop or I'll salt you!” I pulled the salt flare from my left side. The best way to incapacitate a hexhead was a little of the old sodium chloride.

A loud snarling grunt echoed back over his shoulder. He picked up the pace, but he wasn't running blind. No, he was headed someplace specific.

“Prospero,” Dispatch called through the walkie. “Backup is on its way.”

“Copy. The vic?”

“Ambulance arrived and confirmed death. M.E. is on his way to make it official.”

I looked around to get my bearings. He veered right on Mercury St. “The suspect appears to be headed for the Arteries,” I spoke into the communicator. “I'm pursuing.”

“Copy that, Officer Prospero. Be advised you are required to wait for backup before entering the tunnels.” She told me their coordinates.

I cursed under my breath. They were still five blocks away and on foot.

A block or so up I could see one of the boarded-up gates that led down into the old subway tunnels. The system had been abandoned fifty years earlier before the project was anywhere close to completion. Now the tunnels served as a rabbit warren for potion addicts wanting to chase the black dragon in the rat-infested, shit-stench darkness.

In front of the gate, a large wooden sign announced the site as the “Future Home of the Cauldron Community Center.” Under those words was the logo for Volos Real Estate Development, which did nothing to improve my mood.

If Speedy made it through that gate, we'd never find him. The tunnels would swallow him in one gulp. My conscience suddenly sounded a lot like Captain Eldritch in my head. “Don't be an idiot, Kate. Wait for backup.”

I hadn't run halfway through the Cauldron only to lose the bastard to the darkness. But I knew better than to enter the tunnels alone. The captain had laid down that policy after a rookie ended up rat food five years earlier. So I wasn't going to follow him down there, but I could still slow him down a little. Buy some time for backup to arrive.

The salt flare's thick double barrel was preloaded with two rock salt shells. A bite from one of those puppies was rarely lethal, but it was enough to dilute the effects of most potions, as well as cause enough pain to convince perps to lay down and play dead. The only catch was, you had to be within twenty feet for the salt to interrupt the magic. The closer, the better if you want the bonus of severe skin abrasions.

The runner was maybe fifteen feet from me and a mere ten from the gate that represented his freedom. Time to make the move. I stopped running and took aim.

Exhale. Squeeze. Boom!

Rock salt exploded from the gun in a starburst. Some of the rocks pinged off the gate's boards and metal fittings. The rest embedded in the perp's shirtless back like shrapnel. Small red pockmarks covered the dirty bare skin not covered with tufts of dark hair. He stumbled, but he didn't stay down.

Instead, he leapt from the ground with a snarl. His hands grasped the top edge of the gate. A narrow opening between the gate and the upper concrete stood between him and freedom.

“Shit!” Frustration and indecision made my muscles yearn for action. My only choice was to take him down.

Speedy already had his head and an arm through the opening at the top of the gate. I surged up and grabbed his ankles. Lifted my feet to help gravity do its job. We slammed to the ground and rolled all asses and elbows through the dirt and grass and broken potion vials.

The impact momentarily stunned us both. My arm stung where the glass shards had done their worst, but the pain barely registered through the heady rush of adrenaline.

Speedy leapt off the ground with a growl. I jumped after him, my grip tight on the salt flare. I still had one shell left, not that I expected it to do much good after seeing the first one had barely fazed him. In my other hand, I held a small canister of S&P spray. “BPD! You're under arrest!”

The beast barely looked human. His hair was long and matted in some patches, which alternated with visible wide swaths of pink scalp—like he'd been infected with mange. The lower half of his face was covered in a shaggy beard. The pale skin around his yellow eyes and mouth was red and raw. His teeth were crooked and sharp. Too large for his mouth to corral. Hairy shoulders almost touched his ears like a dog with his hackles up.

If he understood my command he didn't show it. That intense yellow gaze focused on my left forearm where a large gash oozed blood. His too-red lips curled back into a snarl.

I aimed the canister of salt and pepper spray. The burning mixture of saline and capsicum hit him between the eyes. He blinked, sneezed. Wiped a casual hand across his face. No screaming. No red, watery eyes or swollen mucus glands.

His nostrils flared and he lowered his face to sniff the air closer to me. His yellow eyes stayed focused on my wound. An eager red tongue caressed those sharp teeth in anticipation.

For the first time, actual fear crept like ice tendrils up the back of my neck. What kind of fucked-up potion was this guy on?

I don't remember removing the Glock from my belt. I don't remember pointing it at the perp's snarling face. But I remember shouting, “Stop or I'll shoot!”

One second the world was still except for the pounding of my heart and the cold fear clawing my gut. The next, his wrecking-ball weight punched my body to the ground. My legs flew up and my back crashed into the metal gate. Hot breath escaped my panicked lungs. His body pinned me to the metal bars.

Acrid breath on my face. Body odor and unwashed skin everywhere. An erect penis pressed into my hip. But my attacker wasn't interest in sex. He was aroused by something else altogether—blood. My blood.

My fear.

The next instant, his teeth clamped over the bleeding wound. Pain blasted up my arm like lightning. Sickening sucking sounds filled the night air. Fear burst like a blinding light in my brain. “Fuck!”

The perp pulled me toward the ground and pinned me. The impact knocked the weapon from my hand, but it only lay a couple feet away. I reached for it with my left hand. But fingers can only stretch so far no matter how much you yearn and curse and pray.

The pain was like needles stabbing my vein. My vision swam. If I didn't stop him soon, I'd pass out. If that happened he'd drag me into those tunnels and no one would see me again.

Fortunately, elbows make excellent motivators. Especially when they're rammed into soft temples. At least they are usually. In this case, my bloodthirsty opponent was too busy feasting on my flesh and blood to react. Finally, in a desperate move, I bucked my hips like a wild thing. He lost contact with my arm just long enough for me to roll a few centimeters closer to my target.

I reared up, grabbed the gun and pivoted.

The pistol's mouth kissed his cheek a split second before it removed his face.

Backup arrived thirty seconds too late.