The Clockwork Scarab (17 page)

Faint scrapes on the stones—
something heavy had been moved
.

Clean, no dust or dirt—
it had been moved recently
.

Suddenly, a strange noise blared into the silence. It sounded like nothing I’d ever heard before. A sharp, high, screeching sound that might have been attempting to be music.

Dylan, who’d been standing off to the side watching in fascination, jolted to attention. His eyes wide, he began to fumble through his waistcoat and then his outer coat and in his agitation and excitement, the sleek “telephone” erupted from the depths of a pocket and tumbled onto the ground.

He ducked to the floor and snatched it up, but by then, the noise had stopped. “Oh my God,” he said, staring at the object as if he’d never seen it before.

The device had come to life—it was illuminated and I was close enough to where he was kneeling that I could see tiny words on the front of it.

BenBo text (3)
Jillian text (5)
Flapper missed call

“I’ve got
two bars
,” he exclaimed, looking around the small, dark space, then down at the shiny telephone. “How can I have bars? One bar. Now I only have one. How the
hell
can I have b—they’re
gone
!” He stared at the device, shaking it, jabbing at it with his finger, bolting to his feet to point it in different directions. “They were there a minute ago. Did you see that? There’s no way.
No way
.”

“What is it? What happened?” Leaving the illuminator on the floor, I gathered up my skirts and pulled to my feet.

I understood little of what he was talking about, but his emotions—excitement, disbelief, and hopefulness—were obvious. And then they gave way to despair. I’d never seen anyone with such an expression of bewilderment, hope, and sorrow.

“For a minute,” he said, “for just a minute I was
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
somehow
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
connected with the future. My future.”

Silence reigned as we both stared at the device.

I heard him swallow hard, and he looked away. His knuckles were white and his jaw moved, shifting from side to side. “I have to figure out how to get home,” he whispered. “My mom and dad must be going crazy.”

“Dylan,” I said, groping for words I didn’t have. Trying to manage emotions I didn’t know. I didn’t know how to act, to even be a friend. But at that moment, I
wanted
that connection. It wasn’t just curiosity about who he was and from where he’d come. It was empathy: a feeling that was just as foreign to me as he was.

I’d spent much of my life feeling lost and out of place. An overly educated, brilliant young woman in a world owned and managed by men. Dylan seemed nearly as misplaced, and I wanted to help him.

“I’ll do anything I can, Dylan. Whatever I can.”

He nodded, his handsome face grim and his eyes bleak.

Then I did something I’d never done before, never even imagined doing. I opened my arms and pulled him into an embrace.

There was no awkwardness, no fumbling of words, no mortifying flush burning my cheeks. He was warm and alive, and I could feel grief and despair emanating from his body.

“Thanks, Mina,” he said, his chin moving against my shoulder.

And inside me, something shuddered and cracked, like a door opening.

M
iss Holmes didn’t contact me the day after the Roses Ball. Nor the next day, nor even the next. Her silence didn’t concern me
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
in fact, I almost welcomed the rest from her bossiness.

But when it got to the fifth day after our adventure with the Society of Sekhmet and I’d had no word from her or Irene Adler, I began to wonder. What a nuisance.

Miss Holmes must be sulking.

I took out my aggravation on Mr. Jackson’s Mechanized-Mentor, beheading his metal self in an explosion of gears. As I was picking up a dented cog before Florence came to investigate the noise, I was struck by an unpleasant thought.

What if my outburst had put Miss Holmes in danger with the Ankh and the Society of Sekhmet? What if she hadn’t been in communication because something happened to her?

I wouldn’t be worried for myself. But for Miss Holmes? The awkward, brain-beaked young woman spent too much time thinking and not enough time in action. She’d probably deduced herself into a trap.

Or maybe she was still sulking.

I supposed I’d better look into the situation.

However, that afternoon, Florence reminded me it was her day to stay in and receive social callers. She insisted I stay in and help her serve tea and converse with whomever came to visit. I was only able to beg off by claiming I had plans to meet an acquaintance at the British Museum and by forcing Pepper to accompany me so I wasn’t going unchaperoned. I wasn’t lying about my destination, and Florence was thrilled that I actually
had
a social engagement.

“Who are you meeting, Evvie?” she asked, arranging a vase of flowers in the parlor.

“Miss Banes absolutely
loves
the Greek Wing,” I said.

“Miss Venicia Banes?” Florence perked up, her bright blue eyes widening. “The very eligible Viscount Grimley’s sister?”

“Yes, she is,” I said, adjusting my bonnet. I avoided looking at Pepper, who stood by, attempting not to giggle. She was just pleased she’d be able to walk to the livery and visit her beau while I was at the museum.

“Perhaps the viscount will be chaperoning his sister today,” Florence said.

“It’s possible,” I called, rushing out of the parlor. “So I don’t dare be late! Good-bye, Florence.”

By the time I got to the museum, it was near closing. The guard warned me I had less than half an hour with the artifacts and antiquities as I breezed past and into the echoing halls.

I made two wrong turns, but I finally found myself at the Special Office of the Keeper of the Antiquities. Below the sign was the Royal Seal of Her Majesty the Queen.

“Evaline,” said Irene Adler when she opened the door. She removed her spectacles, blinking as if she’d been reading for a long time. “Come in.”

I stepped into the office. The last time I’d been there was the night Miss Holmes and I met, a week ago. Then, the office had been neat and organized, but today was a different story. Books and papers littered the large round table, as well as the floor, desk, and every other available surface.

“Have you spoken to Miss Holmes?” I couldn’t imagine anything more mind-raking than sitting in this chamber, reading books and organizing them for hours. The bottoms of my feet felt prickly and uncomfortable at the very thought. But Miss Holmes would probably be happy as a pig in slop.

Miss Adler looked at me in surprise. “Of course. She’s been—”

A door on the opposite side of the chamber opened and Miss Mina Holmes strode in. She had her nose in an ancient-looking book. Behind her chugged a small self-propelled cart
laden with more volumes. It came to a halt with a little burp of smoke.

“Right, then. Are you moving the entire library into your office?” I asked Miss Adler.

The older woman smiled, and Miss Holmes looked up from her book. “Miss Stoker,” she said. Her voice was cool but not quite rude. “How kind of you to join us.” Now it had gone a little more frosty.

“I would have been here sooner, had you requested my help,” I replied. Glancing at the never-ending piles of books, I thanked Fortune she hadn’t.

“I wasn’t suggesting you offer your assistance,” Miss Holmes replied, her nose back in the book. “I was under the impression this was precisely the sort of endeavor with which you preferred not to be involved.” She glanced up at me with a flash of chilly green-brown eyes. “My experience is that you’re more inclined toward drawing attention to yourself so you can demonstrate your superior fighting skills, regardless of the dangers involved or the prudence of such activity.”

Right. Definitely sulking.

“And, clearly, without any semblance of plan or organization,” she added, thumping the book closed in emphasis.

I bit my lip. So I’d made a mistake. I hadn’t
meant
to draw attention to myself. I was just
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
doing what I was made to do.

I cast a covert glance at Miss Adler to see her reaction, but the lady seemed engrossed in the book she was reading.

“I would have been here to provide my help with whatever you’re doing. But I received no communication from you.”

Miss Holmes sniffed. “I didn’t realize you required a summons to your duty.”

My spine stiffened. “I—”

“Perhaps,” Miss Adler said without looking up from her page, “you might bring Evaline up to date on our discoveries and theories, Mina.”

Miss Holmes set her book aside and looked up at me. “You might as well take a seat.”

Her cheeks had tinged pink at Miss Adler’s gentle direction. I noticed for the first time that her rich golden-brown hair was in nothing more than a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Dark patches under her eyes made her appear tired, and her dress was rumpled. Had something bad happened? If so, I hadn’t been here to help. I’d been doing my own sulking.

“We’ve been researching Sekhmet’s instruments for the last five days,” Miss Holmes told me as I moved a pile of books to sit on a nearby chair. “I’ve not even left the museum and hardly slept—there are so many references to review. We believe that someone, presumably the Ankh and her Society of Sekhmet, is attempting to follow a legendary formula involving four items that either belonged to the goddess—which is unlikely—or somehow have some supernatural tendencies attributed to her.”

“What sort of instruments?” I asked, thinking of pianos and violins.

“A scepter, a diadem or crown, a cuff or bracelet, and a sistrum, which is a musical instrument.”

Right. Well, I hadn’t been that far off.

I listened with growing interest as she described each of the instruments. They’d found several passages about them in a collection of books and scrolls, and they were even mentioned on a stone with hieroglyphics on it. This sort of puzzle, tinged with supernatural and otherworldly elements, reminded me of the stories from my vampire- and demon-fighting family tree. One of my family members had battled an UnDead who attempted to infuse a large obelisk with evil traits.

“What did the hieroglyphics say?”

My companion gave me a pained look. “Hiero
glyphs
, not hiero
glyphics
. The former is the text or the characters, the latter is an adjective. To wit, a hiero
glyphic
text.”

I glared, and she continued, “The hiero
glyphs
clearly represented Sekhmet and her instruments, which gives credence to the writings we found in scrolls and papers that simply couldn’t have existed—or at least survived—for the thousands of years since Sekhmet was worshipped as the favored goddess. Thus, we believe the instruments do, or did, exist. But other than that, we haven’t found any further information about where the instruments were, where they might be now, and what they could be used for if collected together—which is the crux of the text that originally sent us off in this direction.” Exhaustion showed in her face. “We could be completely wrong about this, and meanwhile, more girls could die.”

“Wait,” I said, my eyes widening. “A scepter?”

“A scepter, a diadem, a—”

“Some men were taking a large, heavy crate from the museum on the night Miss Hodgeworth was killed, and one of them also had a long, slender object.”

“A large crate? Large enough for the statue of Sekhmet to fit in? Who was it?”

“How the blooming fish should I know? Someone who didn’t want to be seen. Or someone involved with the Society of Sekhmet.”

Did that mean Pix was involved? If so, why would he tell me about it? Was it possible
he
was aware of the Society of Sekhmet too?

“I don’t know anything more, but I can try to find out while you continue to research more information.” I didn’t try to hide my delight. At least I could be doing something instead of poring over page after page of cramped, faded, archaic writing.

“Did you see the thieves? Do you remember anything—”

“No, I didn’t see them. He said they went off southwise, though,” I added to myself.

“He? Whom do you mean?”

“Some con artist who goes by the name of Pix. I found him lurking around the outside of the museum after you left that night, and he told me.” I stood with enthusiasm. “I’ll track down Pix and get as much information as I can.”

I was nearly to the door when Miss Holmes spoke again. “There is one other situation of which you might like to be
apprised, Miss Stoker. If you can bear to be detained long enough for me to do so.”

“Carry on.” The sooner I was out of the room and on the streets, the better.

“Mr. Dylan Eckhert is the young foreigner we found with Miss Hodgeworth’s body,” she said. “He’s been staying here at the museum because he has an unusual problem.”

“Why? Is he partial to hieroglyphs?” I couldn’t help but ask. Miss Adler’s lips twitched, but she remained silent.

“No,” Miss Holmes said in a cool, affronted voice. “He’s traveled more than a hundred years through time, back from the future.”

Right. I blinked. And let the concept settle.

The rest of London would never believe it of their staid, gear-ridden, mechanized world. Vampires. Demons. Supernatural instruments supposedly belonging to an Egyptian goddess
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
and now time travel?

Fascinating and intriguing.

Because of this, Miss Holmes probably expected more from me than a nod of comprehension. But being a vampire hunter, I wasn’t easily surprised by supernatural things. I simply asked, “Does he know how it happened?”