Colleen Gleason - The Clockwork Scarab

“Yes, of course I did,” I replied, refusing to look at Dylan. Now not only were my cheeks hot, but my forehead and neck as well. Had I been gawking at him like one of those silly girls I disliked? “I learned quite a bit.”

As I willed my face to return to its normal shade, I divulged the results of my interview of Lilly, and then showed Miss Stoker the pamphlet Dylan had saved.

“Right, then. We must find the diadem before the Ankh does.” Miss Stoker suggested the obvious.

“That’s one course of action,” I said crisply. “But for all we know, she—or he—could already have acquired it. Lilly Corteville didn’t say which of the instruments is still missing.” I decided to keep my suspicions of Lady Cosgrove-Pitt to myself for the time being. “I’ve already planned to pay a visit to Witcherell’s this evening. At nine o’clock.”

“I’ll be going too,” said Miss Stoker.

I gritted my teeth. I didn’t want her to disrupt things again, and I saw no reason for two of us to attempt to gain entrance to the society’s meeting place. One would be difficult enough.

“You need me to protect you,” she added. My jaw was in pain as I fought to keep it closed. Instead, I settled for shooting her a dark glance.

“By the way, I’m Dylan,” said our companion, breaking into the moment.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, giving him a warm smile that set my teeth on edge. “Miss Holmes has told me all about your situation. I’m Evaline Stoker.”

He looked at her, puzzlement and then comprehension crossing his face. “Stoker? As in . . . Bram Stoker? Didn’t he write Dracula?”

Her brown eyes widened. “He is writing a book. About a vampire. Do you mean to say you know the book? From your time?”

“Oh, um . . . crap.” Dylan stopped and looked at me. “I’m not sure if I should say anything about the future. It could really mess things up. Like in Back to the Future, this movie that—oh.” He stopped again and huffed out a big puff of air that ruffled the long hair over his forehead. “Never mind. I shouldn’t say anything.”

“I agree, you probably shouldn’t,” I said, ridiculously pleased that he’d turned to me, that it was I he seemed to want an opinion from, instead of the pretty, vivacious Miss Stoker.

“Whatever the two of you are going to do,” Dylan said, “I’m going to see if I can find the crate. At least then we’ll know if the Ankh has already found the diadem.”

“Excellent plan,” I said. “If the Ankh hasn’t found it, perhaps we can lure her into the museum and capture her that way. We can set a trap.”

“Like Scooby-Doo,” Dylan said with a grin that all of a sudden faded.

I turned to Miss Stoker. “In regards to our proposed visit to Witcherell’s, you do realize that we cannot be noticed, and we cannot be recognized?” I said, in case she had any ideas about announcing her presence as she’d done the last time. “We’re going to have to go in disguise.”

“Right,” she said. “And I know just the place to get whatever we need.”

The public entrance to the Lyceum Theatre was at ground level on Wellington-street, but I brought Miss Holmes through the back entrance used by the actors and other personnel. I often visited Bram and knew how to navigate the backstage to his office.

It was just past noon, and the wings, prop closets, costume wardrobes, and dressing rooms were deserted. The actors and stagehands wouldn’t arrive for several hours, having been up until well past two o’clock the night before. It was no wonder this was the quietest part of the day in the theater. Like vampire hunters and pickpockets, actors and actresses carried on their festivities until dawn.

My brother’s voice boomed from his office as we approached. He was talking to someone, and he sounded bothered. I was used to Bram’s moods, especially when he was working on his book. Miss Holmes looked at me in question, but I knocked on Bram’s door.

The talking stopped, and the door swung open. “Evaline.”

“I hope we aren’t interrupting,” I said, glancing around him into the office.

“No, no, come in,” he said, gesturing us into the chamber.

I could feel my companion’s attention sweep over him. The only resemblance between my brother and me is our thick, curling dark hair. I’m petite and elegant, and he’s rather stocky. He has a full beard and a mustache with an auburn tint in the growth nearest the lips.

I walked into the office and wasn’t surprised to find it empty.

“I thought I heard you talking to someone.” Props and papers were everywhere, along with costumes, a sword, and a crushed papier-mâché cauldron. The company was currently performing Macbeth.

“I was working on my book,” he said, gesturing to a large typing machine. A paper protruded from its roll and was filled with words. Crumpled papers littered his desk and the floor. “You likely heard me cursing at the blasted thing. Writing a book is blooming difficult, even when ye know the topic of vampires and vampire hunters.” His hair was a mess, as if he’d been pulling on it.

He noticed Miss Holmes for the first time, and I introduced her.

“Sherlock Holmes’s niece, are you? You’re being the intelligent one, then, aye? You don’t go taking yourself off and doing dangerous things like my sister here, do you? Trying to find vampires, hunting them with supernatural strength,” he muttered, glancing at the typing machine again. His brows drew together. “That’s after being my biggest problem with this book. No one would believe it, Evvie. The critics would be laughing for weeks—a story in which a woman kills the evil, cunning vampire. It’s not possible for a woman to outsmart and kill the powerful and intelligent Count Dracula.” He looked at Miss Holmes and added, “It’s the character of which I speak, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But you know it is possible,” I reminded him. Why did he always have to bring this up?

“If you ever actually kill a vampire, I might be believing it. But it’s no more than a legend anymore, Evvie. You’ve got the skills, but you’ve never actually staked an UnDead.”

I stiffened and gave him a lethal glare. My face was hot. Bram was a blooming idiot. Drat him for blathering my secrets. Blast him for announcing my failure. “That may be the case, but I can, and I will. Someday.”

At least he didn’t know the details of that night. How I’d frozen up and nearly become a victim myself.

“Right. I do believe it, Evvie,” he said, holding up his hand as if to ward off my supernatural strength. “But there aren’t any vampires about to be killed anymore. And no one would believe a young woman could do it, even if there were. A young woman? Never. But what would they believe?”

“Perhaps the precise opposite of a young woman?” Miss Holmes said.

Bram must have missed the sarcasm dripping from her voice. His eyes suddenly popped wide open, and he stared at her. Then he pivoted toward the desk, then back to her again. Papers fluttered to the floor in the cyclone.

“But aye!” he said in a triumphant voice. “The opposite of a young woman is an old man. A brilliant old man who uses his brains to outsmart the count instead of a young woman who uses her strength and speed.”

Miss Holmes and I exchanged exasperated glances. I saw vexation, obviously on my behalf, in her expression.

“I’m gratified to be of assistance,” she said coolly.

“What did you say your name was?” he said, looking over his shoulder as he yanked the paper from its mooring in the typing machine.

“Miss Mina Holmes,” she said.