Chapter Three
L
AST ONE IN THE CARRIAGE
, Exeter took a seat between Mia and America. Across the aisle, their bodyguards sat rather cozily together. He studied the two Nightshades, both darkly beautiful and private beings, who had revealed little about themselves until recently. Valentine Smyth and Jersey Blood had been wonderfully helpful in the first days and months of Mia’s shocking transformation.
Jersey was a strapping male half-breed, tied by birth legacy to an aristocratic line of Normans, who in ancient times had consorted with fallen angels. The result was a race of demon shifters. To his credit, the captain of the Nightshades appeared to be very much in control of his inner Beelzebub, who had never been seen by any of the other members of the clandestine order of sentries with the exception of Valentine, the stunning female Nightshade, who was also Jersey’s consort.
“His kind are known as watchers.” Valentine had once explained, after Jersey had left the room. “Rebellious angels in ancient times—they roam the earth in search of duties to perform. No matter what you may hear about them, they are warriors and heroes among men.”
Sensing Exeter’s notice, Jersey lifted his gaze and tried to probe his thoughts. When this Nightshade gazed at you, it was as if he met your soul, not your eyes, and if he was not mistaken, the very private man under the cloak was a surprisingly compassionate creature.
Exeter dipped his head to see out the carriage window. They were passing Green Park. He settled into the plush squabs of the spacious town coach and smiled at the bodyguards across the aisle. “Was it a good trip into the Outremer?” His gaze moved from one to the other. “Safe journey, I take it?”
“We had an informative meeting with an Eden Phillpotts—double l, double t—proprietor of the Antiquarian Bookshop, 77 Charing Cross Road.” Jersey’s gaze shifted to Mia, who raised an inquiring brow. Before she could question him any further, Exeter addressed her directly. “On a private matter.”
This was nothing he wanted Mia to know about—at least not until he heard what they both had to say in detail. Valentine had briefly mentioned something of their findings at breakfast. She and Jersey had apparently met with a shopkeeper who claimed to be able to help shifters acclimate to their new dual personas. Exeter had found her brief cap sum both alarming and, frankly, salacious. “Hard to take anyone seriously with a name like Phillpotts.” Exeter coughed a bit and changed the subject. “I don’t believe you have ever told us how you and Valentine met.”
A smile cracked the ends of Jersey’s mouth. “She tried to kill me.”
Valentine grinned. “Back in my novice demon-slayer days.”
“Novice as in novitiate,” Jersey added, “Sister Valentina.”
“It’s true. I was a Sister of Mercy for a month or two. I spotted Jersey one evening in the garden. He was wearing black robes. Mistook him for a possessed priest I was tracking and endeavored to—”
“As I said—you tried to kill me.” Jersey’s gaze moved over Valentine Smyth with such intimacy, Exeter was forced to look away. He had seen that same expression on Jersey’s face before the two had left for the Outremer.
Several evenings past, he had met with Jersey and Valentine in his study to discuss a method Mia could learn to use to control the time and place of her transformations. Jersey had talked about a little-known technique practiced by ancient shape-shifters, and a rare and collectible bookshop on Charing Cross Road. There had also been talk of a strange proprietor, not of this world.
“Who told you about this creature?” Exeter had asked.
“Tim Noggy.” Valentine offered, quite seriously.
He had shaken his head. Since Lovecraft’s death, the rotund Mr. Noggy, inventor and pseudo scientist, had overseen the repair of the professor’s underground factory and labs. And he had done an admirable job of it—case in point: the message that had arrived at breakfast this morning. But what did Noggy know of such things as shape-shifting?
Frankly, Exeter found it exasperating. Still, what could it hurt to inquire? So it was agreed that, while in the Outremer, Jersey and Valentine would pay a visit to the proprietor of the bookstore recommended by Noggy.
Before leaving his study, Valentine had intimated the involuntary shifts were caused by pent-up desire, and stressed Mia’s need for release. The number and frequency of her transformations suggested that she was—for lack of a more delicate description—sexually frustrated.
Exeter must have appeared unconvinced, as Valentine went on to explain: “Have you ever seen a cat that has been kept indoors, away from prowling toms in the alley? Pussy lifts her rump and cocks her tail to one side. If you stroke or scratch her scruff she’ll go into raptures. Doctor, you admit seeing the panther assume the lordosis position—she was soliciting you to mount her.”
Exeter had stared at Valentine. “What can be done about it, short of marrying her off?” He had wanted to add “and to whom” but the thought disturbed.
The carriage turned onto Lower Thames Street and hit a pothole, rousing Exeter from his troubled thoughts. Mia brushed against his shoulder. She wore a dark blue high-crowned hat, set at a jaunty angle. She looked up and met his gaze through the netting over her eyes. Once again he experienced a momentary falling sensation.
What was he to do with this brave and lovely young woman? The question continued to remain unresolved. He hoped that by the end of this day, he’d have some answers.
Exeter read the sign above the door. “
Deus Ex Machina,
God in the machine.” Metal letterforms circled the large initial
L
—for Lovecraft. The insignia appeared to be scorched, and the
x
in
Ex Machina
hung askew, but the factory entrance was otherwise tidy and presentable. All the debris from the invasion had been cleared away. In fact, there was barely a trace of the mayhem and destruction that had taken place here just months ago.
He gestured his small coterie inside and followed them down into the bowels of Lovecraft’s late, great enterprise. The elephantine Inter-Dimensional Injection Portal or iDIP sat on the old underground train tracks looking, oddly, as magnificent as ever. As they passed by the iron portal enclosure, Exeter suspected they were all thinking the same thing. The last time any of them had seen Phaeton Black alive, he had been sucked into the gigantic engine and blasted off to . . . France.
Exeter bit back an unexpected grin. Only Phaeton could get lost in Paris. He approached the round, unkempt, and affable young scientist who waited for them on the platform outside the laboratory. “Mr. Noggy.”
“G’day, Doc.” Tim Noggy nodded to Jersey and the ladies. “Nightshade and Shade-ettes.” The heavyset young inventor smoothed back a wild bunch of curly hair, only to have it spring back in his face. He gestured the group inside the lab. “As some of you already know, we moved Gaspar to an underground surgery at Black Box—my brother’s facility.” Tim rolled his eyes a bit, an expression he used with some regularity. “That would be the technology genius brother, not the short rebellious one.”
“May we speak with Gaspar, briefly?” Exeter inquired. “There must be some sort of Outremer device we can use to communicate.”
The largish inventor shook his head. “He’s being kept alive—in stasis—until we find Phaeton and reunite him with the Moonstone.” Tim exhaled a heavy sigh. “Ruby and Cutter keep a close watch.”
Exeter nodded. Gaspar Sinclair was the organizer and de facto leader of the Gentlemen Shades. The man was also unraveling. In order to preserve his brain, the decision had been made to move him to a facility in the Outremer where the disintegration would be greatly slowed, if not halted entirely.
And the security was impeccable at Oakley’s underground facility. Even in his decrepit condition, the man was still the leader of the Nightshades and, as such, was vulnerable to abduction by Prospero’s forces.
“I understand . . . Jersey mentioned that he’s cognizant for a few minutes a day.” Exeter’s inquiry was more of a statement.
“Only for a few moments. They raise him to near consciousness—keeps the brain synapses firing. I realize this sounds more like sorcery than science in this world.” Tim added with a shrug. “Ruby tells me he seems reassured that she and Cutter remain by his side.”
Ruby and Cutter, as well as Jersey and Valentine, were the foursome who made up the Nightshades guard. Normally detailed to Gaspar’s security, they had been reassigned to watch over those closest to Phaeton, which included Mia and himself, and—the gruesome truth was—anyone who might be abduction and torture worthy. The stakes were high between desperate, competing forces whose world continued to disintegrate. They would find a way to motivate Phaeton, for it was he alone who controlled access to the powers of the Moonstone—in the service of which, according to Mr. Ping, were unlimited.
There was a kind of genius on the part of the Egyptian goddess who bestowed keeper of the Moonstone on Phaeton. He was the least likely character of any of them to control such power, and yet Qadesh could not have made a wiser choice. Disdainful and delightfully dissipated by nature, Phaeton was also utterly incorruptible.
“And Professor Lovecraft’s disabled son?”
“Lindsay Lovecraft? He’s working with Oakley and Cutter.” Tim raised and lowered his shoulders. “It seems they’ve uncovered a large cache of aether buried under Prospero’s headquarters. Enough to keep the Outremer powered a while longer. They’re currently working on a way to redistribute the fuel.” Tim moved over to a tall worktable that had been cleared off.
Jersey looked about the room. “Blimey—the lab is brighter than ever.”
“The bulbs run off a turbine, electrical power converted from a steam engine in the rear of the iDIP,” Tim explained. He rolled out a huge sheet of paper. “This is the most current map I could find. According to Lovecraft’s manual, the iDIP isn’t capable of giving map coordinates outside of our own planet, which means that the location has to be—
our
Paris.” Tim hauled his hulking frame around the end of the lab table and spread out the street map.
“Forty eight degrees . . . fifty-three feet . . .” Tim mumbled the coordinates as he swept his hand through the streets of Paris, over Pont Saint-Michel, slowing near the University of Paris. “Puts us . . . here, Sorbonne Square.” A sausage finger, tipped with a ragged nail, stopped in a small blind court.
Exeter joined the others around the large table. He pointed up the Seine, to the larger of the two islands in the middle of the river. “Île de la Cité. A short distance away.” He traced a path across the Pont Neuf to the west end of the island. “Our base of operations.” Exeter thumped the map. “Trust the Parisians to nickname Place Dauphine
‘le sexe de Paris’
because of its suggestive V shape.”
Everyone leaned over the map to observe a perfect triangle, surrounded by uniform homes and apartment buildings. America looked up from the map and grinned. “Phaeton would approve.”
Exeter straightened. “I’ve arranged to take over the largest apartment available in the L’Hôtel Claude, Place Dauphine.” He looked around the room. “I’m hoping there will be seven of us. Jersey Blood, Valentine Smith—Mia and myself—Mr. Noggy and Mr. Ping . . . if we can locate him.”
Tim looked up in surprise. “I’m going to Paris?”
“Pack a bag, Mr. Noggy.” Exeter swiveled toward the ladies. “And America.”
America squeaked a cry of happiness, even as he narrowed his gaze. “You’re invited along for one reason and one reason only—I don’t trust you to stay put in London. If labor should start and you’re on the road somewhere alone . . .” Exeter shook his head. “As it is, we’ll have to sneak you into France—just keep that traveling coat on.”
He caught an exchange of winks among the women. “And let’s try to keep this trip discreet—we take as few people as possible into our confidence.” Exeter exhaled and looked to Tim. “Have there been any more transmissions?”
“Static. Garbled words, mostly.” A sly grin twitched at Tim’s mouth. “Then this, just before you arrived.” Tim held up a paper and cleared his throat. “There’s bit of transmission static, then a voice: ‘that’s because sexual perversion—kink—as you call it,’ . . . more static . . . ‘is only kinky the first time, and just because I’m interested in pornography, doesn’t mean I’m easy.’ ”
America grinned. “Phaeton has always been rather fond of titillating language and subject matter. He often borrows picture books from Mrs. Parker’s collection of erotica.”
Mia’s eyes widened slightly, and she moistened her lips. Exeter quickly read his ward’s response to America’s remarks and changed the subject. “What about map coordinates? Anything new? A number that might indicate a third dimension—height or depth? It would greatly narrow our search, would it not, if we knew to look on top of a building or below ground?”
Jersey sparked to his queries. “It’s obvious Phaeton is being held by unsavory elements of the Outremer. And if his captors are unraveling, they would likely hole up underground.”
Exeter nodded. “Tim’s reports indicate that deep, belowground shelter affords residents of the Outremer some form of protection.”
Tim leaned over the map and
tsk
ed. “Those nasty, destructive cosmic rays.”
“Catacombs!” Mia perked up. “At university, we spent nearly a week on the catacombs under the city—more than 180 miles of quarry tunnels snake through the foundations of Paris. I believe nearly all of them are off-limits, though I understand the ossuaries are open for public viewing. Rather fascinating, though eerie—piles of human skulls and bones arranged into columns and walls.”
Exeter’s gaze moved around the table. “A trip to the Drunken Lizard may be in order. Pop in on a cartographer by the name of Potter. If I recall, the man spent several years digging around below ground in Paris, as a surveyor for the proposed Métro—an underground rail system. For the price of a pint or two . . .” Exeter quirked up both brows. “Shall we, ladies and gentlemen?”