The Zeppelin Deception Page 20

  I didn’t know or care where Sergeant Blaketon had gone, the lout.

  “Which might very well be in question once the evening is over,” Smith continued, examining his firearm idly. “But let me get to the point of my speech—I’m certain you’re all waiting for me to get there so you can return to the revelry, no?” He swung the pistol in an arc over the top of the audience, and everyone ducked and gasped as he did so (even though I could tell it was aimed far too high to do any damage to anyone).

  “The point of my speech is to tell the truth of what happened that night to Hiram Bartholomew.” He paused for a moment, tilting his head as if he heard something, and then reached behind the back of his neck. He seemed to be scratching or massaging something there, then: “Ah, yes, there we are. Much better.”

  His hand came up and over from the back of his neck, and I saw the glint of something metal—mechanical—in his grip just before he flung the small rectangular object to the side.

  I gasped. Good heavens.

  I actually felt faint, for up until that moment, I thought—I truly believed; I desperately hoped—that Edison Smith was somehow acting out a part, that he had captured everyone’s attention in order to make some grand accusation or announce some startling revelation.

  But now I knew better.

  “Ambrose,” I said desperately, but he was too far away to hear me. Surely he’d seen it too. Where the devil was Evaline?

  I pushed through the crowd after Grayling as Smith continued, “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, I was going to tell you all about what happened the night Hiram Bartholomew died. It truly is a sordid story.” He grinned, and even from below, I could see that his eyes were a little wild. My heart thudded harder.

  As he spoke, Smith gestured exuberantly with both of his hands, as if he didn’t recollect that one of them held a lethal weapon. “Are you listening, there, young lady? Our masked birthday queen?” Everyone glanced at Marie Antoinette, and some of the crowd edged away from her a bit. “This is a story just for you, luv. You’ll—”

  A loud, clanging crash interrupted him; it sounded as if someone had knocked over several large trays at once. The sudden noise released people from their horrified stupor—or, more likely, terrified them even more. The room was suddenly filled with confusion—screams, shouts, shoves—and then I heard an ugly, definite pop.

  I knew that sound. Good gad, I knew what that was, and I looked up at the balcony in terror where Pix still held his gun. The gun that had just gone off.

  Everything happened very quickly and very confusedly after that.

  Someone screamed, “She’s been shot!”

  “He shot her!”

  “He’s shot Miss Stoker!”

  People spun and shifted, gasping and crying out. Some ran for the exits as if fearing he would shoot again. But I saw the hint of a figure moving in the center of the room, turning to face the balcony—instead of toward the person who’d been shot. I couldn’t see who it was, only the suggestion of a figure and the glint of metal as it lifted from the crowd.

  The next events happened so quickly, all at the same time, and yet so very slowly…the figure raised a firearm, aimed it toward Pix—who was still standing on the balcony railing—there was the blur of sparkling bronze flying through the air, the report of another gunshot, and more screams as the blur of bronze—Evaline!?—slammed into Edison Smith and they tumbled off the railing onto the balcony and out of sight.

  Miss Stoker

  ~ Flight ~

  I felt the bullet strike me just as I crashed into Pix.

  I must have cried out, but it was lost in the pandemonium—both below and when we hit the floor of the balcony—because it hurt. Bloody hell, blooming Pete, devil take it—it hurt.

  Nevertheless, my instincts took over, and, holding on to the man whose life I’d just saved, I rolled us both to the side away from the railing.

  Whoever had shot at him would likely try again.

  He’d regained his breath, for I’d landed on top of him with great force, and he fairly leapt to his feet, dragging me upright with him.

  “Evaline!” he breathed. “You bloody fool!”

  Before I could reply, he caught me up under his arm and lunged for the rear of the balcony. I couldn’t catch my breath from the blow and the tumble, and I sagged against him.

  We burst out into the hall behind the balcony. Though my head was swimming and the back of my shoulder throbbed with a dark, raging pain, I struggled to get free of his grip. Then I saw a figure approaching.

  I twisted harder, pulling from Pix’s grasp as I fumbled for one of my weapons—any of them—and staggered against the wall, nearly falling again. I couldn’t seem to breathe properly. Pix yanked me upright and dragged me after him, but this time he didn’t try to pick me up as he ran toward the person blocking our way.

  Through the murkiness of pain and confusion, I managed to drag out the small dagger I’d slipped inside my corset belt and brandished it as we ran toward the person—whoever it was wore something shapeless. It flapped and fluttered and made it impossible to tell whether it was a cloak, a gown, or some other costume.

  But instead of trying to stop us, the shadow stepped aside, showing us a narrow, open door.

  “Go!” the figure hissed. “There’s no time to lose.”

  We didn’t slow as we scrambled down the steps—Pix half carried me, although I would have been able to walk if he hadn’t done so—and we followed the narrow, dark spiral down, down, down…

  My mask was long gone, which meant I could see where I was going, though I had to take care not to trip on the frothy, pooling gown I wore. Fortunately, my boots were low-heeled and I could run in them—not that what I was doing was running. Barely stumbling would be a better description.

  From a distance, we could hear the wild melee of what was left of my birthday masquerade. I blocked the thought that someone had shot Marie Antoinette—someone? No, Edison Smith, the very person I was trying to save!—and focused on moving, keeping moving, keeping breathing, ignoring the throb of pain below my shoulder blade…

  At last we reached the bottom and there was another door. I shoved Pix aside (he was Pix to me, not Edison Smith; not that murderer, not that crazy-eyed man who’d taunted and lectured from the railing) and fumbled for the latch.

  He shoved me back and closed his fingers around the latch, then, as I breathed heavily down his neck, he lifted it carefully…eased the door open…and listened.

  The only sounds were our panting, labored breathing, and he grabbed me by the wrist and darted into a dark, dingy hallway that could only be underground.

  It seemed forever, but it couldn’t have been that long before we exploded from the cellar of the Starlight Palace onto some dark, dingy, close alley. But even then, we didn’t stop.

  We couldn’t.

  We couldn’t stop, and we didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. All we needed to do was get to safety, and we didn’t dare try a hackney. So we were on foot, dodging and dashing in the shadows, with Pix half dragging me most of the time.

  We didn’t speak even when we got to Fenman’s End. Not even to Bilbo, who barely lifted his eyebrows when we rushed across his pub and through the door to the tunnel.

  Then we reached the door to Pix’s secret hideaway and he began to see to the locks.

  Miss Holmes

  ~ A Gathering of Clues ~

  By the time I got to the balcony, Evaline and Pix had disappeared. Grayling met me as I dashed into the space after bounding up a flight of moving stairs. I was out of breath but at least not restricted in movement.

  “She’s dead,” he said flatly.

  My heart nearly stopped, but I was too out of breath to react other than a weak gasp of denial. Then I realized he was looking out over the balcony into the ballroom, where a crowd remained around the fallen Marie Antoinette.

  Even from up here, I could see that he was correct. The red bloom in the center of her sparkling pale pink bodice told t
he story. Her towering wig had tumbled into a sad white pile next to her. The broad, ungainly skirts were a creamy froth that seemed about to swallow up the slender, lifeless body.

  “Dear heaven,” I whispered. “That was meant to be Evaline.”

  “There’s little doubt.” He was already crouching, looking about the floor of the balcony. “No blood here. Either the bullet missed her—”

  “It didn’t.”

  I’d seen her jerk sharply on impact. The sight was burned into my memory: her graceful arc through the air, then the sharp, ugly jolt just before she slammed against Pix and fell out of sight.

  But Grayling was correct—there was no blood. Not here, anyway. I moved toward the rear of the balcony, where they must have made their exit, but the lighting was so dim that I couldn’t determine whether there were any blood spatters there either.

  “And this.” He stood, a pistol in his hand. “On the floor.”

  “It was his.”

  “Yes.” He examined it in the low light and made a thoughtful noise. I itched to do the same, but he spoke before I could offer. “I’m certain you have other things on your mind, but I’d appreciate your opinions on the crime scene, Miss Holmes.” His voice was grim as he looked out at the ballroom below.

  I struggled internally with the realization that Evaline and Pix were gone—quite possibly together—and then made the decision to follow Grayling. “Of course.”

  Sergeant Blaketon had made himself useful, at least momentarily, by enlisting a group of footmen to keep the crowd away from the poor dead woman. Apparently even he understood that the crime scene must be preserved.

  I didn’t deign to give him even the barest of glances as I followed Grayling through the crowd and past the sergeant. I’d removed my mask by now and had no concern that Blaketon would dare attempt to put his hands on me. He had a much more pressing problem.

  I didn’t see Mr. and Mrs. Stoker, but Sir Emmett and Mr. Oligary were both standing nearby with stunned expressions. Their masks, and that of most of the guests, had been removed. However, the dead Marie Antoinette’s covering was still in place, obscuring her features. It wasn’t clear to me whether the Oligarys had realized it wasn’t Evaline who lay there with a bullet hole in her middle. But from the way they murmured in hushed voices and glanced covertly at the Oligarys, it was obvious that the others still believed it was the guest of honor who lay there.

  It seemed to me that if they had realized it wasn’t Evaline, Sir Emmett and his brother—or at least the younger Oligary—would be looking for her, especially considering the fact that someone had publicly attempted to murder her. For there was simply no way in which Mr. Oligary the younger could have known it was his fiancée who’d launched herself at her would-be assassin.

  And so instead of watching Grayling as he knelt next to the body, I observed the Oligary brothers when the inspector removed Marie Antoinette’s mask. I heard the gasp from the crowd as her identity was revealed, but I was watching Ned Oligary when it happened.

  His face blanched with shock, his eyes widening with what could only be described as disbelief. But what followed that initial reaction was not the relief one might feel at learning one’s fiancée hadn’t been murdered. Only the dumbfounded-ness remained—an emotion he seemed to share with his brother, if the expression on Sir Emmett’s face was any indication.

  “Who is it?” someone in the crowd whispered, drawing my attention to the unmasked woman.

  Good gad. I smothered my own gasp as I recognized the dead woman as Princess Lurelia of Betrovia.

  What on earth was she doing here? That and a hundred other questions shot through my mind.

  Grayling’s eyes met mine in a silent entreaty to say nothing—which was a quite unnecessary request. I certainly wasn’t about to announce to the entire ballroom that what had been a horrific tragedy had instantly been elevated to an International Incident.

  And then I took a closer look at the bullet wound. My breath caught and I looked at Grayling from across the princess’s lifeless body as I eased her flat onto her back once again.

  The inspector nodded grimly. He’d seen it too, for the location of the exit wound indicated an astonishing development.

  “I’m going with you, Miss Holmes,” Grayling said in a tone I’d never heard him use.

  It was hard and angry and very, very determined. He would brook no arguments.

  I was astute enough to know that the anger wasn’t directed at me, although the determination doubtlessly was. “Very well.”

  Big Ben was striking midnight—the very moment of the planned unmasking—as we climbed aboard his steam-cycle. I didn’t ask how he’d had it delivered to the Starlight Palace on such short notice. Perhaps, knowing him, he’d actually parked it there earlier today in case of an emergency. That was the sort of thing I’d expect him to do. After all, he did have a point when he commented (often) that I had a habit of attracting dead bodies. He probably assumed something like this would happen.

  Grayling removed his coat and insisted I wear it, since I had nothing else to protect me from the February night. My short flapper-girl shift rode up shamefully high when I swung my booted leg over the cycle, but I refused to dwell on it. Time was of the essence—we’d already been delayed nearly an hour behind Evaline and Pix—and besides, in less than thirty years, women would be doing it every day without batting an eyelash. At least my knees were covered by the supple leather boots. The costume really was no more revealing than wearing breeches and boots, I told myself as I slid my arms around Grayling’s waist, then smothered a gasp as the steam-cycle surged forward.

  My short hair, free from its headband, tossed and bounced wildly beneath the aviator cap Grayling insisted I wear. The long ropes of beads swung and slid with the force of every turn. Even with Grayling’s coat, it was freezing—and I didn’t have any sort of hat or even gloves to protect my fingers. I buried my face into his broad, warm back and hoped my nose wouldn’t get frostbite.

  Our ride was short but harrowing. Although I kept my eyes closed most of the way and shivered in the cold, this was the first time I truly appreciated the speed and maneuverability of the steam-cycle—for it could slip around and between carriages, Refuse-Agitators, and even buildings and through mews with far more ease and speed than any other vehicle. It could bound onto low walkways, take a corner with tight proximity, and even leap over a small canal. It was a good thing I was sitting behind Grayling, for if I had seen the canal before we were airborne, I would have humiliated myself by screaming.

  By the time we reached Fenman’s End, I was almost enjoying myself, imagining what it would be like in thirty years to be free to dress and act like this all the time (and wearing a fur coat while doing it). I wondered if women had their own steam-cycles in the future.

  And then I sobered quite suddenly, as I was reminded that I only knew about the future because of my friend Dylan—who was missing—but that my closest friend Evaline was in grave danger.

  Not from Edison Smith, but from the person—or persons—who’d tried to murder her.

  Miss Stoker

  ~ Wherein the Bard Is Validated ~

  Pix’s hands shook a little as he turned the cogs for the triple combination that would unlock the door. He still wouldn’t look at me.

  I didn’t want to look at him. But I couldn’t help it.

  The door opened and he fairly shoved me inside. I just caught myself from falling. With sharp movements, he secured the locks behind us.

  Then he spun and came toward me, a wild, dark light in his eyes.

  For one mad moment, I thought he meant to embrace me, to kiss me, and my heart leapt—but his hands were rough as he spun me away from him.

  “Where?” he said, tearing the frothy over-gown from the back of my shoulder. The mechanical flower brooch fell to the floor as the filmy fabric slid to my waist, exposing the sturdy leather gladiator-like corset and short paneled skirt beneath. “Where is it?”

  I di
dn’t have time to be shocked or embarrassed that I was so exposed, for his hands suddenly stopped. “I’ll be—” He muttered an oath. “It didn’t go through.”

  His touch gentled there on my back, brushing my shoulder blade through the corset where the dull pain still radiated—but not as strongly. I felt his fingers as they plucked free the bullet from where it had lodged in the material. And then a featherlight sensation as his fingertips brushed over my bare skin just above the leather.

  My flesh prickled where his fingers slid over it. I pulled away and turned to face him, rubbing my arms. My gloves were still intact—one long, one wrist length—but my arms were cold from the winter night and for other reasons. “No, it didn’t go through the corset. That’s why I wasn’t bleeding all over the place. But it still hurt like—like the devil.”

  “You fool,” he said, and flung the bullet aside. I heard it clatter onto the table. “What did you think you were doing, Evaline? A few inches higher and you would have been shot. A few inches higher and you would have been dead.”

  Though my heart thudded hard in my chest, all the way up into my throat, I shook my head. “I’m a Venator, Pix, remember?”

  His expression darkened. “Even a Venator can’t survive a bullet to the head. You were damned lucky. Damned lucky, Evaline.”

  He turned away. His fingers trembled as they hung at his sides, clenching and unclenching. “You need to leave now, Evaline.”

  It took every bit of control to keep myself from laughing crazily at his demand. “Not until I get some answers.”

  He sighed, his shoulders sagging as if he’d expected me to say that. “Devil take it, Evaline. You need to go.”

  “Look—I just saved your miserable life. If I hadn’t knocked you out of the way from that bullet, you’d have been dead!”