Colleen Gleason - The Clockwork Scarab

Dylan was staring at me as if I were speaking in some slang that was just as incomprehensible as some of the things he’d said to me. “So what does this all mean? In plain English?”

“It means that I have a decision to make.” I realized the churning, which was normally a comforting feeling, had turned into something akin to nausea. “I either follow the instructions herein, or I go where our messenger was—and where he received this message. That’s where the Ankh is.”

Suddenly the image of last night, with Lady Cosgrove-Pitt in her housecoat and her bemused expression rose in my mind like a terrible specter. Along with Grayling’s exasperated, rigid face. The nausea grew stronger.

“I think.”

I don’t believe I’d ever said or even thought those words before. I think.

Dylan watched me. “So you’re thinking we ignore the message and track down the Ankh somewhere . . . where? By the wharf? How will we know what building?”

“I can narrow it down to a block,” I said, thinking of the particular smell clinging to the lock of Evaline’s hair. “The one with the fish-smokers on New Gravel Lane. And as for which building? We’ll look for the one with the airship coming out of the roof. Surely the Ankh won’t risk leaving her Sekhmet statue behind.”

I glanced at him, my palms damp and my insides heavy and rock-like. That was what the facts told me.

But the message—directions from the desperate woman who held my partner and who wanted the diadem above all else—commanded me otherwise.

Yesterday, I wouldn’t have hesitated. I’d have listened to my deductions and ignored the message.

But today . . . I had to decide whether to follow my instincts and my conclusions . . . or to follow directions and possibly put myself into a trap.

But if I didn’t follow the directions, I risked Evaline’s life.

Last night’s mistake had been nothing more than mortifying and inconvenient.

Today’s decision was a matter of life and death.

I looked at the clock, my insides roiling. After six. I had to make a decision.

“I can’t risk it. We’re going—” I drew in a deep breath, fighting my logical mind. I made the decision and immediately felt ill. But I soldiered on. I couldn’t afford to be wrong this time. “We’re following the directions. We’re going to Fannery’s Square.”

With the Ankh gone, I investigated my prison, limited as I was by the length of my bonds. I was looking for weapons or at least something to unlock the chains.

One option was to pull the heavy statue over and unloop the chains from around her. While that would free me from that massive anchor, it wouldn’t unlock my ankles or wrists. I’d still be trussed. And whoever was below would hear the sound of Sekhmet crashing to the floor. There had to be another option.

Two huge floor-to-ceiling windows offered dirty light, but I couldn’t get close enough to draw attention to myself. The roof was closed to the sky, but I could tell it was near twilight. Chairs and tables lined the space, and an empty fireplace yawned in one wall. The faint glow of coals cast an eerie red light in the darkening chamber. A bookshelf and a desk were arranged at one end of the room. This had been an office at some point, but now there was a pile of clothing in a corner, as well as a trunk.

The smell of rotting fish and the distant sounds of water told me I was near the wharf, in a completely different area of town than Witcherell’s Pawnshop. I wondered if Pix considered these streets and docks part of his domain.

Surely he was back in the stews, arm wrestling with his friends. From what I understood of his brief explanation in the opium den, he’d come to rescue his friend Jemmy from the Ankh. And in the meantime, he got caught up with Miss Holmes and me. He had helped the other girls to escape too. And he’d taken advantage of my confusion and stolen a kiss as well. Although Pix seemed to care about my well-being, he would have no way of knowing where and how I’d come to be here, in the captivity of the Ankh.

I looked around the room and at the altar. There was no doubt what the Ankh had planned for me. The mechanical device, with all of its wires, waited, eerie and foreboding, next to the sleek Sekhmet.

Miss Holmes was going to bring the diadem, the real diadem, to trade for me, and then the Ankh would have it. She’d have all the instruments.

She’d also have both of us.

I wasn’t a fool. No matter how intelligent my partner was, the Ankh was the one giving the orders. Setting up a trap.

It didn’t matter whether the goddess could be reanimated, or if her power could be harnessed. The Ankh didn’t care. She’d keep trying. She’d already killed too many young women. She wasn’t about to stop there. She’d keep killing and killing until she managed to raise Sekhmet. . . .

My path became clear. Crystal and absolute.

I had to stop the Ankh before Miss Holmes stepped into the trap.

I looked up at the statue of Sekhmet and then over at the mechanical device, its ugly wires a portent of what was to come.

Yes. That was it. A feeling of calm and rightness settled over me. I’d never been more certain of anything in my life.

I was bound and restricted by the length of my chain, but I still had some range of motion. I inched toward the mechanical device and used my body to shift its position. It had to be in the correct location, and I could only hope the Ankh didn’t notice.

It was difficult work. I had to use my considerable strength to tug the massive statue a little closer to the device, taking care not to tip Sekhmet over. Not yet. By the time I got everything into position, I was out of breath but satisfied.

No sooner had I finished with my arrangements than I heard the sounds of voices and footsteps. Quickly, I scooted my bound body back over to the opposite side of the statue and tried to appear docile and hopeless.

“The girl didn’t go to the station,” someone said as the door opened. “We waited, and she didn’t appear.”

The Ankh swept in, and I could feel his rage. He had changed clothing again, and this time was attired in trousers and a shapeless dark tunic. A low hat was settled down to his eyebrows, and a mask covered him from eyes to nose. A short dark beard shadowed his jaw and mouth.

“What does she mean to do?” the Ankh said as he stalked into the chamber. He was followed by Hathor, Bastet, and Amunet.

They couldn’t find Miss Holmes. She’d done something unexpected. Was she coming or not?

I wasn’t certain whether to be relieved or offended.

“It’s nine o’clock.” The Ankh looked over at me, his eyes dark and furious from behind the mask. “Your friend has recanted on our agreement. She’s leaving you to die.”

“She lied, you know,” I said. “She doesn’t have the diadem. She intended to trick you all along.”

The Ankh swept over to the table. “I’ll find her and show her what happens to one who tries to trick me. She might have caused a delay, but in the end, I’ll win. As for tonight—I shan’t wait any longer. I have everything I need.” He looked at me and then at the crown Amunet had placed on the table. “This one will work. I’m certain of it. And if it doesn’t . . . I’ll continue to search for the real one.”

I kept my eyelids hooded. I didn’t want him to see I was ready. And willing.

Because I was taking him with me.

The Ankh conducted the same preparations as last night, and soon red smoke curled throughout the chamber. Hathor dragged me to my feet and, as Amunet kept a gun pressed into my side, he unbound my hands and one ankle, leaving the other still chained to the statue. If I made any sort of move, they’d shoot me . . . but not to kill. I was meant to die another way, and the level of agony was up to me.