Miss Holmes

Of Firefly Lanterns, Copper Heels, and Convenient Waltzes

I felt Miss Stoker go rigid next to me. I turned to follow her gaze, but even my sharp observation skills revealed nothing that seemed out of place.

"Impossible," she muttered, staring down into the crowded room. "Not a bloody chance."

I'd been around my uncle and his friend Dr. Watson enough not to mind curse words, but I was taken aback that Miss Stoker employed them as handily as the men did. Just as I was about to ask her for an explanation, an unfamiliar roar from outside caught my ears. I turned to see a sleek steamcycle shoot up the steps and onto the far edge of the terrace. Bent over the handlebars, the rider wore goggles, a tight aviator cap with earflaps, and a long coat that whipped out behind him. He manipulated the cycle neatly into a spot far beyond the partygoers.

The vehicle, which looked utterly dangerous-and possibly illegal-gleamed like the sun with its copper and bronze machinery and sported a bit of brass detail around the bottom. A bell-shaped metal skirt hid whatever mechanism kept the cycle gliding along more than a foot above the ground, and there was a trio of copper pipes at the rear from which the steam could escape. The rider turned off the engine and the vehicle gave a soft hiss, then sank to the stone terrace as if lowering itself on invisible legs.

Like dismounting from a horse, the steamcycle's rider climbed off and raised his goggles, giving an abrupt wave to the grooms who'd noticed his arrival. If their gawking was any indication, those young men would be easily convinced to give up their livelihood of managing horses in favor of this tempting new mode of transportation.

But it wasn't until the rider yanked off his hat by an earflap and revealed a head of ginger-colored hair that I recognized him.

Inspector Grayling.

What on earth would he be doing at an event like this? A simple Scotland Yard investigator? At a Society party? Surely he wasn't here as a guest. Which meant he must be here in some official capacity. That conclusion caused me to relax only slightly. Could he be investigating something related to Miss Hodgeworth's horrible death-just as we were?

I was not about to let him interfere with my investigation.

Grayling hadn't yet noticed me. As I watched, he pulled off his long duster and slung it carelessly over the back of the cycle, giving some direction to the nearest groom. He was dressed in evening wear and not the more informal garb of his occupation.

My eyes narrowed in consideration, and I turned to speak to Miss Stoker, but she was gone. I perused the room from a high vantage point, but saw no sign of my companion's dark head.

It was to my advantage not to be seen by Inspector Grayling when and if he should enter the festivities, so I lifted my skirts and made my way as expediently as possible down the steps into the shallow, circular ballroom.

I reminded myself of the reason for my presence at this crush of a party. But looking over the number of people crowding the room, spilling onto the terrace and into other interior chambers of the mansion, I despaired that I would find anything related to Sekhmet, an Egyptian scarab, or the meaning of the number nine and stars.

I lifted my chin in determination. I was a Holmes. Observation, deduction, and duty to the Crown were my life. I would brave even a Society event to fulfill my destiny, though I hoped I'd remain beneath the notice of the eligible young men who were in attendance. I had no interest in attempting to converse with any of them.

Or-worse-to realize that none of them had the least bit of interest in conversing with me.

Chin still firmly in the air, I made my way along the perimeter of the room, skirting past topiaries and innumerable roses. I considered the situation as I brushed past an urn containing man-size red branches. The beetle marking on the invitation could be a form of identification or perhaps a call to action, such as to a meeting, which would confirm my suspicion that the nine had to do with some event at nine o'clock. An event that had to do with stars. And one thing had become clear: several young women were connected by Sekhmet's scarab, which implied some sort of association-or at least a communication system.

If they didn't know each other, the scarab must identify another member of the group. If they did know each other, then that would make it all the more difficult for me to masquerade as the recipient of a scarab message. The fact that I had the invitation with the beetle symbol on it was definitely a point in favor of attempting the risky proposition.

Something Lady Cosgrove-Pitt had said echoed in my mind. Please make certain you take a stroll through the art gallery while you are here.

An art gallery could include many forms of art and possible topics of conversation. Including that of Egyptology and Egyptian antiquities. Aside from that, looking for the gallery might also help me with the other part of my plan: to find the guest list for this event in Lady Cosgrove-Pitt's study.

Exhilarated by these possibilities, I turned to the interior of the house. My skirt caught on my tall, skinny copper heel, and I felt the fabric of my crinoline tear beneath it. Even worse, in my haste, I bumped into one of the pots holding a tree-branch arrangement.

The urn wobbled, tipped, and then the whole cluster began to fall. I lurched at the branches and tried to catch them, my skirt still caught on my heel, and somehow managed to rescue the whole pot before it crashed to the floor.

Well, almost all of it.

One of the branches escaped my grip and fell into another set of false trees, throwing them off balance in their own vase. I grabbed them before they tipped over and spent the next few moments breathing heavily, rearranging the blasted things, and hoping no one had noticed my near disaster.

But when I turned away from them, ready to make my escape and to continue on my mission, I found myself face- to-face with Inspector Grayling.

"Are you quite finished, Miss Holmes?"

I wasn't certain whether to be mortified that he had witnessed my mishap or vexed that he'd stood by and watched me struggle without bothering to offer assistance. My face, which was hot and damp, was probably crimson-a fact which I tried not to think about, but couldn't dismiss, causing my cheeks to grow even hotter.

Since I had no good response to his query, I responded with one of my own. "What are you doing here?" I lifted my nose and tried not to be annoyed by how tall he was.

"I'm here in an official capacity," he said, lifting his nose.

"As am I," was my rejoinder. I was trying to inconspicuously extricate my slender copper heel from where it was still embedded in the lace trim of my underskirt.

"Is everything quite all right, Miss Holmes?" he asked, looking in bemusement at my skirts, which were moving due to my foot's contortions. I wished earnestly for one of the flying firefly lanterns to crash into his arrogant, too-tall head.

But before I could reply, a sunny voice from behind interrupted us. "Why, Miss Holmes! I see you've met our dear Ambrose."

I turned to see Lady Cosgrove-Pitt bearing down on us. Her pale gray eyes lit with enthusiasm, and she looked from Grayling to me and back again. Perhaps she read our tension, for she said, "Brose, darling, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes's niece. It would be nice for you to get to know her a bit, since you might cross paths with him in your line of work. Miss Mina Holmes, please meet my husband's cousin's nephew by marriage, Inspector Ambrose Grayling. Perhaps the two of you would like to get better acquainted during this waltz?"

"Oh, no, I don't think-"

"Miss Holmes, would you do me the honor?" he interrupted, and offered his arm. His cheeks had gone a bit dusky beneath their freckles.

My face was hotter than ever. It was approaching nine o'clock, and I had other things to do. I didn't even want to dance with him, and I certainly didn't want to dance with a man who was forced into partnering me.

But words failed me, and before I knew it, I'd placed my fingers on his arm. It was warm and steady, and very sturdy. I took one step before I discovered my heel was still caught up in my crinoline.

I managed a muffled "Drat!" before the underskirt pulled my shoe off rhythm and I lost my balance. I released Grayling's arm, but not before I jolted into him.

He'd stopped after that one step and looked down at me. "Miss Holmes, is everything quite all right?" The bemusement was gone, and now he wore an expression of wariness.

That was when I noticed the dark mark on his square chin. A small cut from shaving. How could I have missed it? And then it occurred to me with a cold shock that I'd been standing next to him for several minutes and had forgotten to be observant.

"Erm," I managed to say. My head was pounding from the heat on my face and my thoughts had scattered. "Yes, I just . . . I tripped and-"

"Yes, I can see that," he said. "Although I'm not certain on what you tripped," he muttered, looking around on the ground, which happened to be devoid of anything trippable.

Once again, I had the strong desire to see one of the lamps veer down and slam into his forehead.

He was still looking down around the hem of my skirts, as if to discover what nonexistent item I'd tripped over. "Oh," he said. "Have you caught a shoe on your skirt? May I?" He made a move as if to bend and assist me in extricating the recalcitrant heel, then paused and straightened, as if realizing how improper that would be, fumbling around at the hem of my skirts and possibly seeing my ankles. Or worse-my legs.

Now his face was flushed.

"I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself," I said with sharpness meant to cover my mortification. I bent down to free my heel, taking care not to show anything more than a flash of ankle in that endeavor.

My shoe thus liberated, a section of my delicate crinoline in tatters and dragging on the floor, I once again curved my fingers around the wool sleeve of his forearm.

I'd never had occasion to dance with a young man before. Practicing the waltz with a Sure-Step Debonair Dance-Tutor and its creaking, mechanical pacing was hardly the same as waltzing with a tall, arrogant, ginger-haired, freckled Scot.

My palms were damp beneath my fingerless gloves, and my bare digits had turned to ice. My stomach fluttered as Grayling maneuvered us out onto the dance floor and turned me to face him. His movements were careful and deliberate, almost as if he wasn't any more sure of himself than I was. Or, more likely, as if he were expecting me to somehow trip again.

He put his right hand lightly on my waist and collected my fingers in the left. His hand, despite its white glove, was warm around mine. This proximity affirmed that not only was he nearly a head taller than I, but that his shoulders were so broad I could hardly see around them. He was so solid. I drew in a deep breath, trying to steady my pulse. He smelled pleasant, like German cedar, lemon, and Mediterranean sandalwood, with an underlying scent of-mechanical grease? Of course. From the steamcycle.

My other hand had settled on his shoulder, my fingertips sensing the soft bristle of wool and the movement of shoulder muscle beneath them. My skirts swayed, rustling between us as he stepped into the rhythm of the waltz. It was more of a hitch than a confident step, and the second one was just as jerky and abrupt.

"Miss Holmes," he murmured, his mouth just above my temple, "if you would allow me to lead, we might perhaps find ourselves waltzing a bit more gracefully."

"Oh, yes, of course." I forced myself to relax and allow him to dictate our movements.

Soon, to my astonishment, we were gliding about the dance floor in a sedate but smooth rhythm. If it weren't for the full layers of my skirts, our legs might have brushed against each other. He was so close to me I could feel the warmth of his body, and I found myself having to gaze fixedly over his arm to keep from staring up at the smooth skin of his clean-shaven neck and chin. The sandalwood and lemon scents were likely from his shaving lotion. And we must have been moving more energetically than I realized, for I found it hard to catch my breath.

"I must apologize for putting you in such an awkward situation," I blurted out.

Grayling pulled back a bit to look down at me and made a slight misstep that told me he wasn't quite as accomplished a dancer as he seemed. I wasn't sure why I felt a surge of gratification at that realization.

"I don't know what you mean."

I didn't know what I meant either, and I felt ridiculous. My thoughts simply seemed to disintegrate when I tried to make conversation with a member of the opposite gender. I hoped I wouldn't be required to interrogate many of them as part of my work for Her Royal Highness. Although I seemed to have no problem interrogating and conversing with Mr. Eckhert.

"I had no intention of dancing tonight," I replied. "I have other reasons for being here."

"As do I." His voice took on that Scottish burr and its proximity sent little prickles over my temple. "But taking a turn around the dance floor is a convenient way to observe the room and get my bearings."

"Indeed." So it wasn't that he had the desire to dance with me. He merely wanted an excuse to look around the room. My cheeks were hot again, and I felt the weight of my hair shifting as if one of my clockwork gears was coming loose. "I'm delighted I was able to be of assistance," I added crisply.

"Miss Holmes, I-"

"You need say no more, Inspector Grayling. I presume you've observed enough that you might release me to my own devices? Do you perhaps know where I might find some cool refreshments?"

I felt him swallow hard, then he seemed to release a pent-up breath. "My apologies, Miss Holmes. I meant no insult. Perhaps-oow-mph." He stifled a cry of surprise as my pointed copper heel landed on one of his toes.

The misstep was an accident, but I cannot say I regretted it.

Grayling looked down at me, his expression of exasperation mingled with apprehension and perhaps a bit of chagrin. "Very well, then," he said. "You've made your-ah-point. Perhaps you'd prefer to get some lemonade on the Star Terrace instead of finishing this dance? I'm quite certain my toes, at least, will appreciate it," he added not quite under his breath.

The Star Terrace?

My aggravation evaporated. "What time is it?"

"It's ten of nine. Did you not hear the clock chime the quarter hour?"

"I must go." I pulled away. "To-ah-attend to something."

He frowned but didn't release my hand. "Miss Holmes, I do hope you aren't about to get involved in something you shouldn't be."

"I'm quite certain," I said, pulling free of his fingers, "that you haven't any idea with what I should and shouldn't get involved. Good evening, Inspector Grayling."

With one well-placed query to a handsome young waiter, I learned that the Star Terrace was on the same level as the ballroom, but on the east side of the building.

Just as the clock struck nine, I broached the terrace in question. It was aptly named, for natural stars glittered above in a wide swath, and there were few lights to distract from those celestial bodies. Small sparkling lights hung around the edges of the space, but the area was darker than the main terrace, where Evaline and I had made our arrival.

Miss Stoker had disappeared into the crush of people shortly after our conversation with Lord and Lady Cosgrove-Pitt. I didn't have time to search for her, and even if I had, I would have done so only cursorily. She might have been pressed into service just as I had, but she was also more comfortable in these social gatherings than I. Aside from that, I preferred to work alone and saw no need to constantly point out information and data to someone who couldn't see it herself.

I turned my attention from thoughts of Miss Stoker-who was probably chattering happily with some other young ladies, her dance card (unlike mine) filled with the names of partners for the evening-and observed the area. There was, as Grayling had suggested, a long table filled with libations at one end of the terrace. People stood nearby, talking, laughing, and drinking their lemonade-strawberry punch. Others strolled around the terrace. There seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to draw my attention.

Then I noticed a movement near the dark line of arborvitae and thick dwarf pines separating the stone terrace from the rest of the grounds. A well-hidden someone was standing there. As I watched, a young woman approached. She walked up to the figure, handed over something white and flat, then progressed past and into the shadows.

My heart began to pound, and excitement made my mouth go dry as I made my decision. I had the fake invitation. I was going to use it.

I pulled it from my reticule and made my way quickly across the stones. When I approached, I saw the figure was cloaked and hooded in dark fabric so as to obscure gender and any other identifying factors. I felt certain the individual wouldn't be able to discern my features due to its enveloping cloak and the drassy light.

He or she held out a white-gloved hand, and I saw that the image of a scarab beetle had been inked on the palm.

I handed over my invitation and was gestured toward a narrow pass between two tall arborvitae. Drawing in a deep breath, I stepped through.

Miss Stoker

Wherein Our Heroines Encounter an

Overabundance of Perfumes

By the time I made my way through the crowded party to find the familiar-looking waiter, he'd disappeared.

Surely it wasn't Pix. It was impossible for a streetwise Cockney pickpocket to be hired for the event of the season. I put the thought of him out of my mind and in doing so, let down my guard. This was a mistake, for I was promptly caught up in conversation with one of those anemic young men I preferred to avoid. But though I had to listen to him compare my lips to rose petals and my hair to spirals of ink, I also learned that the Cosgrove-Pitt home boasted a Star Terrace.

Miss Mina Holmes wasn't the only person who could make a deduction.

Moments later, as I stepped onto the Star Terrace, I saw a young woman making her way quickly toward the dark end of the patio. Miss Holmes.

Here I was, only a moment in deduction behind Miss Observation herself, and she hadn't even searched for me before continuing on her way. Satisfaction with my discovery faded into aggravation. A flimsy brain-beak like Mina Holmes had no bloody business walking into dark shadows alone. Blooming idiot.

I followed her across the terrace, grudgingly grateful that she'd had the foresight to mark up my invitation to match hers. Careful not to accidentally pull out my stake, I dug the crumpled card out of a hidden pocket in my skirt and handed it to the cloaked figure who reached out a silent, gloved hand. He gestured for me to move forward.

A rush of energy pumped through my veins as I walked between two tall bushes. Finally, things were getting interesting.

On the other side of the bushes and trees, I found a mechanized vehicle. It was in a secluded area of the grounds of Cosgrove Terrace. A tall wall ran along behind it and ended in an open gate. A lamp burned in the street beyond and in the distance, the spiky, oblong shapes of London proper loomed.

Several cloaked figures stood there, mixing with the shadows. Someone handed me a wad of black fabric, and I found the head and armholes of an enveloping cloak. As I finished pulling my hood up and over, a black-garbed figure stumbled into me as it contorted beneath its cloak. Snickering, I helped Miss Holmes find her way out from beneath the fabric. When her head appeared, I shifted my hood so she would recognize me.

To my disappointment, she didn't seem surprised. "So you figured it out. Excellent."

"Of course I did," I replied, noticing that the other figures were climbing into the vehicle. A soft rumble accompanied by the familiar hiss of steam indicated that the trolley-like carriage had been started.

"Yes, of course," she said dismissively as we edged along with the cluster of figures. "Once discovered, the message had to be exceedingly simple to interpret."

I was proud of myself for not planting my foot on the hems of her full skirts. Instead, I fingered the stake deep in my pocket and bit my tongue.

We climbed into the automated vehicle amid other cloaked figures who spoke briefly and in hushed voices. I'd never encountered a group of females who could be this quiet for so long. There'd hardly been a titter or giggle since I arrived.

I disliked the new carriages, propelled by a steam engine and with no visible driver or engineer. They ran on some sort of magnetic tracking system. Ever since the Moseley-Haft Steam-Promotion Act had been passed by Lord Cosgrove-Pitt and his Parliament, everyone in London had been keen on them and anything else that could be mechanized and automated. The current favorites were the sleek trolleys that were narrow enough to pass along even the uppermost streetwalk levels, the vehicles just wide enough for two people to sit side by side.

The trolley's doors closed. Miss Holmes tensed as I swallowed a thrill of excitement. The only thing I had cause to fear was a vampire . . . and as I didn't sense any UnDead in the vicinity, I settled in for an adventure.

There were no more than a dozen of us. From the amount of eau de toilette clogging my nose, it smelled as if each one of those present had spilled an entire bottle of perfume over her bodice. In the close quarters, my eyes began to water, and I had to pinch my nose to keep from sneezing.

My partner murmured street names, landmarks, and observations as we drove along at ground level. I had to reluctantly appreciate her comments. Unlike Miss Holmes, I didn't know the name of every single alleyway, bypass, or mews, let alone the different combinations of street levels and how the addresses worked. I'd always been awestruck by the height of the buildings and how close they swayed toward one another. And I wasn't convinced that the helium-filled sky-anchors attached to the tops of the tall structures did anything to keep their tops from bumping into each other.

More than once, I'd been resigned to walking at ground level because I'd forgotten to bring coins with me. You needed them to insert in the street-lifts to take a ride to the less smelly, cleaner, brighter level of fly-bridge. But I was very familiar with the smell of saltwater, algae, and fish that lingered near the docks, and when those aromas drowned out the perfumes from my companions, I realized we'd reached the East End and shipping yards on the Thames.

"Wapping," Miss Holmes muttered, and I looked out onto the street to see the gaslit sign for that underground railway station. The area was deserted, for trains didn't run this late at night.

When the trolley turned, maneuvering into the narrow passage between the station and its adjoining building, the interior became darker. The car stopped, and I felt my companion's attention sharpen.

A nervous giggle broke the silence, then a loud mechanical hiss startled the girl across from me. The door slid open to reveal a slender female figure holding a lantern. Her features were shadowed in part by a tall hat with a low-riding brim.

"Please disembark, ladies," said the woman, and gestured with a gloved hand.

We exited the trolley car and followed our hostess's mellow golden light down the alley at ground level. I managed to avoid stepping in anything that was soft and smelled disgusting, but Miss Holmes wasn't as agile.

"Drat," she muttered, pausing to scrape her shoe on a stone. "We're going toward the river."

Were they taking us to a boat? I groped in a pocket for my knife. I'd never had cause to use it, and I hoped tonight wouldn't change that. But before we reached the river, our guide gestured to the entrance of an octagonal structure built into the side of Wapping Station. "This way, ladies," she said as we walked through the door into a high-ceilinged, eight-sided chamber.

Although we still wore our cloaks, my companion and I held back. Until now, we'd been protected by our anonymity. But now there was the chance we might be recognized in the brighter light as uninvited guests.

I looked at as many of the hooded faces as I could see, and recognized several. All young women. All my age. Most from upper-class families, some from wealthier trade families. Each one of them vibrated with excitement. No one seemed to notice or care that we had joined them.

The windowed chamber was empty except for a grand staircase that led down into darkness. Dirty gold paint peeled from ornate molding around a high octagonal ceiling. There were other signs of neglect: a ragged chandelier and a few dusty, broken benches.

"The Thames Tunnel," Miss Holmes informed me as we began to shuffle with the rest of the group toward the stairs. "The first underwater tunnel ever constructed. The engineer, Marc Brunel, first proposed his excavation plan to Czar Nicolas of Russia-"

"It goes beneath the river?" I interrupted as the lantern began to descend in the hand of its carrier, leaving the room to darken by degrees.

She nodded. By now, the other young women were following the lantern down the staircase, but my companion seemed more interested in giving me a history lecture. She held back.

"It's part of the Underground now," she told me, speaking rapidly near my ear. "But in the fifties, it was open to the public. People could walk through to the other side of the river, and there were vendors and shops down there and entertainers-"

"Let's go," I said, but her fingers curled around my arm, holding me back.

"I don't think I can. I don't like . . . close, dark places. Deep places."

"Brilliant," I said, peeling her fingers away. "You stay here and keep watch. I'm going down there to see what's happening."

Without a backward glance, I moved toward the grand staircase. I justified abandoning her because she hadn't waited for me at Cosgrove Terrace. Miss Holmes would have left without me if I hadn't shown up. Besides, I was used to working alone. I didn't want anyone hampering me. And it was prudent to have someone keeping watch in case the worst happened.

Not that I thought she'd be all that much help if it did.

I pushed away my gnawing conscience as I hurried down the steps. Some people were meant for adventure, and others-as she'd pointed out to me-were meant to merely observe. Miss Holmes could observe all she wanted.

I was going to do something.

My pulse picked up. There could be vampires lurking below, living underground safe from the sunlight. This could be my chance!

The rest of the group had reached a spacious landing, and the glowing yellow lantern led the way down another set of stairs. We were probably a hundred feet below the ground (I was sure Miss Holmes would know exactly how deep the Thames Tunnel was) and for the first time, the handmaker in me wondered why there wasn't a lift or some other mechanized way to descend. The walls yawned around us, and I pushed away a niggle of guilt for leaving her alone. Bloody beans, I wasn't the girl's governess!

Just as I began to start down the second flight, I glanced up and saw a clear white light, very small, bobbing ever so slowly down the stairs.

It had to be Miss Holmes. Blast. Closing my eyes briefly, I let my conscience take over. I waited . . . for a minute. But she was moving so slowly I lost my patience and started back up the steps to meet her.

"Hurry." I tugged on her arm.

She gave a whimper, and then I saw her eyes were closed. I wanted to laugh. Wasn't it darker behind closed eyelids than in here with her light?

"Come on," I said, towing her down the stairs. I think she kept her eyes closed all the way to the bottom. But she kept going, even though her fingers felt like they were digging through my skin and muscle clear to bone. My impatience ebbed when I remembered the way she'd stepped in and helped me last night. She never said a word about my reaction to Miss Hodgeworth's body.

At the bottom of the steps, we found ourselves inside the train station. However, we were on the rear side of the two parallel rows of tracks. Each track disappeared into its own dark tunnel, and I could see light glowing down one of them. A single lantern hung on the far side of the space, casting a weak circle.

"Miss Holmes. You can open your eyes now. It's not dark. Let's go," I said, starting off down the tunnel to the right, where I could see illumination in the distance as well as the lamps glowing at intervals along the tunnel.

As we hurried along the walkway beside the train track, I noticed large, dark archways connecting the two tunnels. Each time we approached one, I peered into the darkness to see if danger lurked. I also carried my knife.

"When the Thames Tunnel was open to the public, the vendors set up shops inside those arches," Miss Holmes informed me. "It was a very busy shopping district for some time. There were a variety of shops, most of which carried imported items and all of which were expensive."

She droned on, and I noticed that the moving lantern ahead of us had disappeared. Our quarry had made a turn, and I had no idea where.

"Hurry," I said.

We had taken a few more steps when two dark shapes emerged from the shadows and stood blocking our way. One of them held something that gleamed silver in the light of his accomplice's lantern.

"An' wha' 'ave we 'ere now, Billy," said the one with the lantern. Grinning, he lifted it high to examine us. And, mackerel's eyes, I could see the bloody sot needed at least three teeth pulled. "Looks'a like we got a coupla nice, prime peaches 'ere."

"A pritty pair, they is," agreed a voice.

From behind us.

I kept the knife hidden in the folds of my skirt. Though my heart was pounding, I made my movements slow and easy as I turned to see what mischief had sneaked up on us. Meanwhile, Miss Holmes dug frantically among her skirts. What good is being armed if you can't get the blasted weapon out when you need it?

Behind us were two more men. One had a wooden truncheon, and the other was flexing his hands. No red eyes, no uncomfortable, prickly chill over my neck . . . these were mortal men. I relaxed. This would be amusing.

"I assume," I muttered, "you don't have that bloody Steam-Stream gun in your skirts."

"No," she murmured back from the side of her mouth. "But I have-"

"Never mind." I turned back just as the man with the knife swiped a hand toward me.

I dodged and then, to his surprise, lunged toward him. My cloak flapping, I caught him in the midriff with my head, sending him tumbling to the ground. Before he even hit the dirt, however, I spun toward the lantern man, whipping my cloak off and into his face as I did so. Kicking out with a well-placed foot, I felt a rush of satisfaction when my shoe connected with a soft area on his person. He squealed like a dry wheel cog and dropped the lantern as he collapsed.

Exhilarated, I turned to meet the man with the truncheon as he rushed up behind me. His club whistled through the air, and with a cry of delight, I ducked beneath it, then leapt behind him as the force of his would-be blow sent him pivoting around to face me.

I glanced over as I surged upright and saw Miss Holmes staring at me, her eyes wide. She held something in her hand, and a dark figure was crumpled on the ground at her feet.

My assailant must also have noticed his companions had been disabled, for he began to back away into the shadows. "Don' mean n'arm t'ye, loydies. Jus' tryin' t'be fren'ly."

I stepped toward him, brandishing my knife, showing him a tight, feral grin. He stumbled backward, then spun and dashed into the darkness.

Knowing my job wasn't done, I turned back to the first two. One of them had dragged himself off, and the other was still a sobbing bundle of skin and bones. He was hardly worth the effort, but I walked over to him and placed my foot on the hem of his coat anyway. "I took it easy on you tonight." I gave him a good look at my knife. "Next time we meet, I won't be so friendly."

His eyes goggled, and he managed to nod.

"Get out of here," I said, and watched with satisfaction as he crawled off into the darkness. When I turned back to Miss Holmes, she was looking at me as if I'd grown another head. I gestured to the last attacker, who still lay unmoving on the ground. "What did you do to him?"

She handed me a slender metal object and explained, "It sends a little shock of steam. Unfortunately, it only works once, and only at close range."

We vampire hunters had been fighting with stakes and swords and knives for centuries. We didn't need cognoggin gadgets like that. Still . . . I felt a pang of fascination and maybe a bit of envy. "It's brilliant."

"You were brilliant. I-you moved so fast! And you're strong. Really strong."

I was a little stunned by her words and admiration, and it took me a moment to respond as I patted my hair back into place and picked up my cloak. "I'm a Venator. It's what I'm called to do. To be."

"And your gown! It's all beyond cleverness to have split skirts-you have such freedom of movement. I shall have to have some of my own made if these sorts of events are going to occur regularly."

"Thank you," I said, choosing not to point out that she could hardly expect to be as accomplished a fighter as I was.

"What I find difficult to comprehend is how you can inflict such pain and violence so easily and yet become ill at the very sight of blood."

My smile faded. "Right. Well, it's quite simple. Vampires don't bleed."

Or so I'd heard.