I raised my eyebrows, even though I’m sure he couldn’t see them in the dim light. “A glocky like you?” I understood his Cockney slang and the false modesty he was attributing to himself. Even from the few moments in his presence, I knew this man was not the least bit half-witted or, in his term, “glocky.”
“Nothin’ wrong with a bit o’ modesty, luv, now, is there?”
Just then I caught the faintest shadow of movement from above. He noticed it too, for we both looked up at the same moment. It was an odd airship, cruising much lower to the ground than usual.
My companion muttered something, and the next thing I knew, I was propelled back into the deepest niche of the building’s exterior. The force of his body, strong and quick, shoved me into the dark V of two brick walls as if he intended for us to melt into them.
Surrounded by the damp, tobacco-scented wool of his coat, I found my chin pressed into his shoulder as a strong arm curved around my waist. Nevertheless, I kept looking up and watched as the strange airship slid past us. Low enough to enter an air-canal, it slid between the buildings. It was so close, a person could step from the upper streetwalks onto the vessel.
This was unlike any airship I’d ever seen. It was a slender, elliptical shape, smaller and more elegant than the ones I was familiar with, and it boasted wicked-looking fan-like wings and a swallowtail.
This one . . . it moved like a dark cloud. Eerie and forbidding. Breathless. Ghost-like.
“Bloody hell,” my companion murmured.
I realized with a shock that I was still plastered up between his formidable chest and the damp brick wall. And that his Cockney accent was all but gone. “What was that?”
“ ’Tis jus’ as well ye don’t know. ’S a battle ye’d be best out of.” He looked down. His face was close, his eyes focused steadily on me. The bridge of his nose was a slightly lighter shade than the shadows around him. I realized my breathing had gone shallow.
“I’m certain they didn’t see us.” I had to say something. Then I started to push him away, but he didn’t move. And although I could have shoved him to the ground with ease, I held back. I didn’t want to expose the full extent of my strength . . . even though he knew my identity.
It was only then that I remembered to uncurl my fingers from the lapel of his coat.
“What’s the ’urry, luv?” he asked in a low, rumbling voice. “Ye’ afraid I’m gonna fan ye ’ere?”
The accent was back, thicker than ever. He was definitely faking it. “You won’t find anything of value in my skirts,” I replied, and tried not to think about where his hands had been . . . or could go . . . if indeed he tried to feel around my clothing in search of valuables. My cheeks heated there in the dark.
“Not even this?” he asked, and suddenly there was my dratted pistol, right there between us, in his hand. The moon glinted off the engraved barrel as if magneted to it, being the only light in a dark corner. “A nice piece o’ iron, luv. Though I would’ve expected somethin’ a bit more fancy from the likes of a fang rozzer.”
Blast! I hadn’t even felt his hand moving about. “Who are you?” I needed to at least know the name of this man, who smelled like wood smoke and something else that was fresh and spicy.
Our pivot into the corner had resulted in his soft cap being jolted to the back of his head, and I caught a full look at his face. I saw sharp eyes and a few waves of hair curling about his temples, but couldn’t tell its color. He had a slender, elegant nose and dark slashing brows, and looked about twenty years old.
He turned away, as if realizing I could see him clearly. “I’m called Pix,” he replied, adjusting his cap low. To my surprise, he handed back my pistol.
“Picks?” I repeated, slipping the pistol back into my pocket. There was no sense in letting him think I felt threatened and in need of a weapon. “As in . . . what you do to pockets? How appropriate.”
“Nay, luv. Just Pix. Like the dangerous little sprites of legend that canna be caught.” His grin came again, but a bit lopsided this time.
I smothered a snort. He was about as far from being like a little pixie fairy as I was from being a properly demure lady-in-waiting to Princess Alexandra. Although . . . I might have agreed with him on the dangerous part.
“If ye ever get into trouble in the stews, ye just say you know Pix.” His voice had dropped to that low rumble again, and he captured my hand in his. Before I could pull it away, he lifted it between us, watching me . . . and then as my breath caught and my insides fluttered, he pressed his lips to the back of my hand.
They were warm and soft, and left just the faintest bit of damp when he lifted his face.
I couldn’t believe his boldness, and I yanked my hand away, giving him a good, solid shove in the process. The back of my hand felt as if it were alive, burning from some searing mark, and my pulse pounded as if horses galloped through my veins. “Why would I need to invoke anyone’s name for help?” I told him haughtily, resisting the urge to rub the imprint of his lips from my skin. “I am a Stoker, after all.”
“Aye, ye are . . . every bit o’ you,” Pix replied, his voice low and smooth. He began to ease back, into the shadows cast by a row of hedge. “Which is why I’ll leave ye to your own devices wit’ nary a twinge o’ my conscience.”
“Wait,” I said, remembering what he’d said earlier about seeing someone near the musuem. I stepped toward him, but he slid into darkness. The moon had gone behind a heavy cloud, and the lights that should have dotted the perimeter of the museum were dark. The bushes shifted.
He didn’t stop, but his voice floated in the night air, “If you need me, Miss Stoker, ye can find me through Old Cap Mago.”
“Why would I need you?”
“To tell ye what I saw tonight.” Now his voice was even farther away. “Before the razzers arrived. Big crate, bein’ moved out. Guilty-lookin’ flimpers, four o’ ’em.”
“A crate? How big?”
He’d stopped, and although I had only an impression of where he was, I stared into the darkness. Why couldn’t I see him? I had excellent night vision.
“Bigger’n me. ’Eavy, from the looks o’ it,” Pix called from the shadows. “Put it in th’back o’ a wagon. One of ’em ’ad another thin’ too—long and slender. Like a cane. Went off southwise.”
“When? When did you see this? And what were you doing here?”
Silence. Drat. “Pix?”
There was no response from the darkness but a faint chuckle and the rustle of leaves.
In the distance, St. Paul’s tolled four, and I gave in to the urge to rub his kiss from my skin.
I hoped he was watching from the bushes.
Miss Holmes
Miss Holmes Has an Unexpected Visitor
I was exhausted when I climbed into the horseless cab outside the museum. Miss Stoker had somehow excused herself from being escorted home and disappeared on foot into the shadow of the colonnaded building. I had given my official statement to Luckworth, leaving out the minor detail of the museum intruder. I felt certain I’d see the foreigner again soon.
The cab had traveled a mere block from the museum when my suspicions were proved right.
A black shape across from me in the vehicle shifted and became a face, followed by two hands shining pale in the gray light of near dawn.
I froze, realizing that what I’d assumed was a pile of cushions and blankets—granted, not the usual accoutrements of a hackney cab in London—had been the foreign intruder, hiding in the darkest corner of the carriage. I’d been too tired and distracted to look closely.