Colleen Gleason - The Clockwork Scarab

And I realized with a sudden cold rush that this was what awaited me.

After what seemed like forever—and yet not long enough—Miss Exington’s body went taut, vibrating rigidly. She convulsed against the statue as the vicious current continued to pulse through her.

The dull thud-thud-thud-thud was horrifying.

At last, the Ankh, her false facial hair gleaming golden, returned the lever to its original position, and the chamber fell silent. The only sound was my own heartbeat, filling my ears.

I focused and dared a glance at Miss Stoker. She seemed to become aware again and yanked the dagger out of her midsection. Holding it in her hand, she took one awkward step toward the Ankh, but stopped when her adversary swooped down, picked up the pistol, and pointed it at her.

Blood pooled on the floor at my companion’s feet. Splat. Splat. Splat.

“I don’t think you’ll be needing this any longer, Miss Stoker,” said the Ankh. She wiped off the pistol with gloved hands.

My attention riveted on those gloved hands. Something familiar . . . As the Ankh replaced her handkerchief in a breast pocket, giving it a particular tuck with an odd flutter of her fingertips, my breath caught. Lady Cosgrove-Pitt had done precisely the same movement this morning while speaking to Lady Corteville.

I’d observed our captor closely during the entire course of events, watching for familiar traits and movements. Instinct told me I was correct in my suspicions, even though the Ankh looked nothing like Lady Isabella—she was taller, for one thing. She also had a different shape to her nose and jaw—from what I could discern behind the false beard and mustache. Even her teeth were different, but I well knew the effects of theatrical costume. Her eyes were heavily made up and shadowed by the curling blonde hair falling over her eyebrows, making it impossible to observe their natural shape. Her voice wasn’t right either; it was much too low and deep.

I was an excellent example of how makeup and theatrics can obliterate one’s identity. But there were certain mannerisms one couldn’t or didn’t hide, even when deep in disguise.

“From a family of legend, but not quite legendary yourself, are you, Miss Stoker?” Our captor tipped her head just as she lifted her chin—in the very same way Lady Isabella had done this morning when she’d greeted me.

The Ankh was Lady Cosgrove-Pitt.

I was convinced, but now I needed to prove it.

My attention turned back to the room at large as our captor continued to taunt my companion. “I must admit, Miss Stoker, I was concerned when I recognized you during our last meeting. As you come from a family of vampire hunters, I expected you to be more of a challenge. I thought you might be a hunter as well . . . but I was clearly mistaken.”

Miss Stoker’s face twisted, her eyes burned, filled with loathing and guilt. “You killed her.”

The Ankh’s eyebrows lifted into a swath of thick blonde hair. I could almost see Lady Isabella’s sneer behind the mustache. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Miss Stoker. Miss Exington offered up her life force to the goddess Sekhmet. Did you not see how eager she was?”

“She begged you to release her.”

“By then it was already too late. If she died as a result of her decision, it’s no fault of mine. She wanted to raise the goddess as much as I do.”

I could no longer remain silent, despite the gun pressing into my side. “What you did was murder. Just as it was with Mayellen Hodgeworth and Allison Martindale and Lilly Corteville.”

The Ankh turned, her eyes scoring over me. She made a sharp gesture to my gun-toting guard.

Before she could grab me—and notice the firearm in my pocket—I snatched off my bonnet and its false hair. I no longer had reason to obscure my identity; I wanted her to know who I was. I peeled off the heavy dark brows, the rubber tip on my nose, and spit out the small clay pieces I’d held in my mouth to change the shape of my cheeks.

“Miss Holmes,” said the Ankh, “are you attempting to live up to the reputation of your family as well? That plan doesn’t seem to have worked in your favor.”

Considering that I had a gun pressed into my side, my companion was wounded (possibly mortally), and no one knew where we were, even I couldn’t make a convincing counterargument. Neither Miss Stoker nor I had done a particularly admirable job of carrying out our duties thus far.

Instead, I tried to think of a way out of our predicament, and for the first time, I felt a tremor of apprehension. The weight of the gun in my pocket mocked me with its uselessness. I eased away from my guard.

“It’s fortuitous that you’ve both chosen to join me here tonight,” said the Ankh, stroking her mustache with gloved fingers. “The two of you could be useful. Imagine what the life forces of a Stoker and a Holmes would bring to the resurrected Sekhmet. And what power I’ll have when she’s brought back to life.”

“Don’t be absurd,” I said with great bravado. If the Ankh meant to give my life force to Sekhmet, I was no longer in danger from the gun poking my side. “You don’t truly believe you can resurrect a goddess by . . . what? Collecting artifacts that might have belonged to her? I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous.”

The Ankh didn’t take my bait. “Believe what you will.” She aimed the pistol at me and gestured to the woman at my side. “Bastet, attend to Miss Exington. She’s in the way.”

As Bastet moved away to do her mistress’s bidding, I glanced at Hathor and his companion. They were watching, giving me no opportunity to pull out my firearm. I looked at Miss Stoker. To my horror, she’d slumped to the floor and sat with her head sagging to the side. Blood soaked the wall and floor around her.

Was she dead? Hadn’t she told me multiple times that vampire hunters had great strength, speed, and healing capabilities. How could she be dead?

I started toward my companion. “She’s hurt,” I said when the Ankh’s cold eyes fastened on me.

“That was my intent,” said our malevolent hostess. “But feel free to see to her if you like. The less blood she loses, the more useful she’ll be.”

“Miss Stoker,” I said as I knelt next to her, “Evaline.” The pungent scent of blood filled my nose. “Let me help you.” I began to feel around in an attempt to stanch her wound, but she closed her fingers around my wrist. Her grip was astonishingly strong.

I looked at her, able to see her face unobstructed for the first time. The fogginess had disappeared. Her eyes, downcast until now, when they fastened on mine, were as sharp as they’d ever been.

“Keep talking. I’m going to make a distraction,” she murmured. “When I do, the door . . . it’s in the back . . .”

“All right,” I said, glancing over at the Ankh. She was rearranging the wires from the device as Bastet and Hathor moved Miss Exington’s limp body away. The other guard watched me with a cold gaze. I manipulated myself so that the side with my firearm was out of his sight. “Miss Stoker, I—”

“I should have stopped it. I could have stopped it, and I didn’t.” Her voice broke. She looked down at the blood on her hand, dried and cracked. I wasn’t certain if she was truly seeing it, or looking at something that wasn’t actually there.

“Evaline,” I began again. Trying to be inconspicuous, I pushed my gun out without putting my hand in the pocket. She turned away. Her beautiful face had become stone.

“Get away from her.”

I jolted, looking up to see Hathor’s companion standing over me, pointing a gun. It had enough gadgets and gears on it that I wasn’t inclined to ignore his warning.

Reluctantly, I stood, using my foot and the cover of my skirts to slide the weapon firmly up against Miss Stoker. “She’s badly hurt,” I said as the guard gestured me to stand against the wall at what he must consider a safe distance from my companion.