“Number Seven Garnet Lane,” Matt said to the driver. He handed Virginia up into the cab and got in behind her. The vehicle rolled forward.
Virginia contemplated the rain through the window and pondered the disastrous turn of events. Her career and the secure, prosperous future that she had been attempting to create for herself now lay in smoking ruins. She was surprised to realize that she felt strangely numb. It would no doubt take a while for the shock to set in, she concluded.
Matt watched her from the opposite seat.
“Uncle Owen won’t like it when he finds out that Leybrook threatened your career, Miss Dean.”
Virginia frowned. “Let me make something very clear. I appreciate your sentiments on my behalf, but what just happened between Mr. Leybrook and me is my problem. I will deal with it. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am, I understand. But I’m not sure Uncle Owen will see things that way.”
“To clarify further, if I hear that Gilmore Leybrook has suffered an unfortunate or fatal accident of any kind in the near future, I will be very annoyed.”
“Yes, ma’am. I was merely pointing out that Uncle Owen won’t be happy.”
“I am not particularly thrilled, myself. But I will not allow your uncle to use me as an excuse to do something dreadful to Leybrook. I was told that Sweetwaters only hunt the monsters.”
“That’s true.”
“Heaven knows Gilmore has his faults, but he is not one of the monsters.”
Matt regarded her with a considering expression. “Are you certain of that, Miss Dean? The monsters are usually well disguised. That is what makes them difficult to hunt. It is why J & J asked for our assistance in this matter of the glass-reader murders.”
She could not think of a response to that. He was right. The monsters of antiquity were easy to identify. They had three heads or snakelike tails and a terrifying, demonic aspect. But human monsters all too often were chameleons who blended into society.
Fifteen minutes later the cab halted at her address on Garnet Lane. Matt took the umbrella and escorted Virginia up the front steps. The Sweetwater men might be assassins for hire, she thought, but they were very well mannered. Gentlemen to their lethal fingertips.
“Something amusing, Miss Dean?” Matt asked.
Virginia realized she was smiling. “No, not really.”
She took out her key and gave it to him. He opened the door and ushered her inside. The house felt dark and empty. There were no footsteps coming down the hall from the kitchen.
“It looks like Mrs. Crofton is not yet home,” Matt said. He planted the umbrella into the wrought-iron stand. “Perhaps she has had some luck locating the Hollister housekeeper.”
“That would certainly be helpful.” Virginia undid her cloak. “The hem of my skirts and my walking boots are soaked from the wet streets. I’m going to dash upstairs and change into some dry clothes. Why don’t you go into the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove? There are some biscuits in the pantry. I’ll join you shortly.”
“An excellent plan,” Matt said.
He assisted her with her cloak and then ambled happily down the hall, a young man in search of food.
Well, it was not his future that had just burned to the ground, Virginia told herself. The Sweetwaters enjoyed a very secure profession. There would always be monsters around to hunt, as well as people and organizations such as J & J who would no doubt be willing to pay well for the service.
She went up the stairs, the weight of her rain-soaked petticoats and skirts as heavy as the anchor of a ship. Or perhaps it was her mood that was weighing her down, she thought. She wanted very badly to talk to Charlotte, who was no doubt happily engaged in the exciting task of locating the mysterious paid companion.
At the top of the stairs, she went down the hall to her bedroom. Inside, she closed the door, unlaced her wet boots and stepped out of her damp clothing. She changed into a fresh petticoat and a simple day gown and secured the little chatelaine purse at her waist.
She crossed the room, went out into the hall and down the stairs. There were no sounds coming from the kitchen. That was curious. By now Matt should have gotten the kettle going and started rummaging around in the pantry for the biscuits.
“Matt? Did you find the tea things?”
She went through the doorway into the kitchen. There was no sign of Matt. The swinging door of the pantry was closed. She pushed it open.
She stopped at the sight of Matt sprawled unconscious on the floor.
“Matt.”
He did not move. But something else did. She heard the ominous clank and thump before the clockwork doll toddled out of the shadows. The automaton was nearly three feet tall, a chillingly lifelike replica of Queen Victoria. Every detail was exquisitely rendered, from the miniature crown set with crystals to the high-button boots and the dark mourning attire that Her Majesty had worn since the death of her beloved Albert.
The Queen’s icy glass eyes rolled in their sockets and fixed on Virginia. Cold energy shivered in the small space. Virginia experienced the now-familiar chill with all of her senses. She fought back, heightening her talent.
The Queen clanked forward in her miniature boots. Desperate, Virginia pushed her talent higher. The clockwork doll stopped as though confused.
Virginia grabbed the nearest heavy object, a large iron skillet, and hurled it at the doll. The pan struck the curiosity full on, knocking the device off its feet. It toppled onto its back. The booted heels drummed relentlessly on the floor. The eyes rattled in the porcelain skull, seeking a target.
Virginia seized Matt’s ankles and tried to haul him across the floor out of range of the doll. The Sweetwater men were not small, and they were evidently constructed of pure muscle and bone. The smooth wooden floor was in her favor, though. She managed to slide Matt’s heavy frame halfway out the pantry door before she had to stop and gather her strength for another tug.
The clanking, thumping and rattling of the clockwork mechanism muffled the sound of the footsteps behind her until it was too late. She caught a whiff of a sweet, flowery scent just before the chloroformsoaked cloth covered her nose and mouth.
A man’s arm wrapped around her throat and wrenched her back against a hard chest. She reached upward, trying to claw at her captor’s eyes. Her fingers closed around a pair of spectacles. She ripped them off and dropped them to the floor. There was a sharp crack when the lenses shattered.
“You stupid woman,” Jasper Welch snarled. “Why do you have to make things so bloody difficult? You have come close to ruining my great work.”
She held her breath, but she had already inhaled some of the vapor. Her head was spinning, and the world was disappearing into a fathomless fog. She tried to struggle—at least, she thought she struggled—but she could not be certain.
She fell into an endless night.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Flames smoldered deep in the mirrors.
Virginia sensed the paranormal heat before she was fully awake. She knew glasslight the way she knew sunlight or rain. She did not have to look into the mirrors to know that they surrounded her and that they were infused with energy unlike anything she had ever experienced.
The power in the looking glasses called to her, triggering frissons of awareness, summoning her out of the darkness.
Warily she opened her eyes and beheld a dazzling, glittering wonderland of ice lit by massive glass chandeliers. For a few seconds she wondered why she did not feel the cold. It took her some time to realize that there was no ice. She was lying on a low bench in a long, highceilinged chamber that was entirely paneled in mirrors.
The room reminded her of the terrible chamber in the basement of the Hollister mansion, but this hall was fashioned on a far larger and grander scale, a palace room of mirrors. There were no windows, no obvious door.
The brilliantly reflective surfaces were everywhere. They covered the walls and clad the stately columns. An elaborate mosaic of tiny mirrored t
iles patterned the coved ceiling and accented the decorative molding.
And all of the mirrors simmered and seethed with the paranormal fires trapped inside the glass.
She struggled to a sitting position and discovered that the bench on which she had awakened was padded in white velvet. She was still wearing the day gown she had changed into before she was kidnapped. The small chatelaine purse dangled at her waist.
For a moment she sat there, entranced and intoxicated by the energy that flooded the gallery. After a while, she gathered her nerve, heightened her senses and looked deeper into the mirrors.
She was braced for dreadful visions of death, but there were no afterimages, no visions that indicated that people had been murdered in the glittering chamber. All she perceived was power, an enormous quantity of it, locked inside the looking glasses.
She had been reading mirrors since the age of thirteen, but she had never seen or experienced anything like what she was viewing now. She could not imagine how so much raw energy had been trapped in the mirrors.
Slowly, cautiously, she got to her feet and discovered that she was in a museum gallery. All of the artifacts and antiquities were fashioned of mirrors and glass. Each relic was displayed on a mirrored pedestal or inside a glass case. Combined with the mirrored walls, floor and ceiling, the effect was visually disorienting. She had to elevate her talent slightly in order to maintain her balance.
Her bedazzled senses whispered that not all of the energy in the room came from the mirrors. The antiquities around her were infused with power.
It occurred to her that the relics were very likely the source of the fire in the mirrors. Over time the looking glasses had absorbed the paranormal radiation that emanated from the antiquities.
One of the display cases sat on the floor. It was roughly the size and shape of a coffin. The case was draped in a white-velvet cloth. Virginia’s intuition told her that she probably did not want to see what lay beneath the velvet covering.
She looked around, but there was no obvious way to tell which mirror concealed the door. There was always a slight draft across a threshold, she reminded herself. Perhaps if she walked the length of the gallery she would be able to detect a shift in the flow of air.
She made her way slowly through the room, the low heels of her walking boots ringing on the mirrored floor tiles. Each artifact she passed called to her senses. It took willpower to ignore the silent summons of an ancient urn fashioned of cobalt-blue glass. She had to force herself to look away from a gleaming obsidian dagger that reeked of dark glasslight.
Farther along the gallery she glanced into a case and saw a small statue of Pan formed of opaque green glass. She could have sworn that she heard the faint, lilting notes of the god’s flute. The paranormal music was as unnerving as it was erotic.
But it was the long coffin-shaped case covered in white velvet that tugged most powerfully at her awareness.
She tried to ignore the pull of the covered case and moved on quickly, seeking the slight draft that would indicate a door. She passed another display case and saw that it contained a glass-plate photographic negative.
She told herself that she should not look at the image on the plate, but she could not resist. She glanced down and saw a picture of a woman. At first there did not appear to be anything extraordinary about the negative. Then she realized that the eyes of the woman in the picture glowed as though lit from within. The heat in the subject’s eyes grew brighter and hotter the longer Virginia studied the image.
When she realized that she was reaching out to open the glass case, she gasped and stepped back quickly. The compulsion to touch the negative faded.
She turned away quickly and found herself staring, yet again, at the case draped in white velvet. She knew then that she could not escape the chamber until she had discovered what was concealed inside.
She crossed to the case, grasped a handful of the velvet, took a grip on her nerves and pulled the cloth aside.
She was prepared for the sight of the glass coffin. But it was the body inside that horrified her.
“Mrs. Crofton.”
The housekeeper was dressed in the serviceable gown that she had been wearing when she left the house that morning. Her eyes were closed, as though she were asleep.
The knowledge that Mrs. Crofton had been murdered because she had become involved in the investigation sent waves of crushing guilt and rage crashing through Virginia.
Anguished, she raised the glass coffin lid.
Mrs. Crofton snored gently.
Light-headed with relief, Virginia reached inside and shook the housekeeper, gently at first.
“Wake up, Mrs. Crofton. Can you hear me? Please wake up. We must escape this place.”
Mrs. Crofton grimaced in her sleep. Virginia shook her again, more forcefully this time.
“Mrs. Crofton, wake up.”
This time Mrs. Crofton stirred, raised her lashes and peered up at her with glazed eyes.
“What?” she mumbled in a thick, drugged voice.
“We have to get out of here,” Virginia said.
“So sleepy,” Mrs. Crofton murmured. She closed her eyes again.
“For pity’s sake, you are lying in a coffin, Mrs. Crofton. Unless you wish to be buried, I strongly suggest that you resurrect yourself immediately.”
Mrs. Crofton’s eyes popped open again. “Coffin? Made of glass?”
“Yes.”
“I remember bits and pieces now. I think.”
“You can explain later. We need to get out of here.”
“I’ll not quarrel with that plan.”
Mrs. Crofton sat up, still noticeably groggy. With Virginia’s help, she managed to scramble awkwardly out of the glass coffin. But it became clear at once that she could not stand. Virginia tried to steady her. Together they staggered a few feet.
“Can’t,” Mrs. Crofton whispered. “You must go on without me. Hurry. Before they come for you.”
“I’m not leaving you in this place.” Virginia got her to the bench and lowered her down onto it. “But I will be able to locate the door more quickly if you wait here.”
Mrs. Crofton groaned, folded her arms on her knees and lowered her head.
Virginia rushed through the room, ignoring the pull of the artifacts.
A draft whispered beneath one of the mirrored panels.
“I found it,” Virginia said.
Mrs. Crofton looked up, brightening a little.
“There must be a concealed lever, but I don’t have time to search for it,” Virginia said. “I will have to shatter the mirror to reveal the doorknob.”
She went back across the room and picked up a heavy glass statue of a cat. Frissons of energy crackled through her. She paid no attention.
The mirrored panel swung open just as Virginia started toward it with the statue.
For a heartbeat she dared to hope that Owen would enter the room, coming to the rescue as he had the night he found her in the Hollister mansion.
But of course it was not Owen who walked into the mirrored chamber. One did not get that sort of good luck twice, Virginia thought.
A woman stood in the opening. She was tall, with a face that would have been quite pretty, had her eyes not been so ice-cold. Her dark hair was swept up into an artful chignon. Her elegant silver-grayand-black gown was trimmed with glittering black glass beads. Strands of black glass gems sparkled at her throat and wrists. Obsidian earrings dangled from her ears. She gripped a pistol in one hand.
Virginia recognized her in spite of the fine clothes and expensive jewelry.
“Mrs. Hollister’s paid companion,” Virginia said. “I congratulate you on your wardrobe. It is certainly of a much finer quality than it was the last time we met.”
“Good evening, Miss Dean. Allow me to introduce myself properly this time. I am Alcina Norgate. You are, of course, acquainted with my brother, Jasper.”
Jasper Welch bustled into the room. He had a pocket watch in one ha
nd. “It is nearly midnight. Time to ignite my Great Engine.”
Alcina smiled at Virginia. “I’m afraid Jasper requires a contribution from you in order to complete his project. His grand experiment ought to have been concluded by now, but things did not go as planned that evening at the Hollister mansion. We have taken pains to ensure that this time matters will turn out quite differently.”
“Quite differently, indeed,” Welch said. He snapped the pocket watch closed. Reaching into another pocket, he produced a set of iron wrist manacles. “Only one set, I’m afraid. We didn’t plan on two of you being present for the final phase of the experiment. But there’s no reason you and your housekeeper can’t share these.”
THIRTY-NINE
Gilmore Leybrook was in his library, going over the latest financial reports for the Institute, when he sensed the ominous currents of energy. They rolled through the room like the waves of a dark, cold sea. Alarmed, he surged to his feet. He was suddenly sweating profusely. His heart beat too fast. Instinctively he looked around, searching for the source of the deadly danger that had invaded the room.
At first he saw nothing, but before he could assure himself that his imagination had overreacted, Owen Sweetwater came through the doorway, the wings of his long black coat flaring around him.
Gilmore stared at him, unable to breathe. He had never been so frightened in his life.
“I need an address, Leybrook,” Sweetwater said. “You will provide it to me.”
Anger surged through Gilmore, momentarily offsetting the raw terror that was roiling his guts. “Now, see here, I don’t know who you think you are, but you have no right—”
He broke off, choking on another wave of panic.
“You will give me the address,” Sweetwater said.
Gilmore crumpled back down on his chair. “Yes.” He sucked in a breath. “Who are you looking for?”
Sweetwater told him. Gilmore gave him the address.
Sweetwater turned and went toward the door of the library. He paused briefly to look back at Gilmore.