Miss Exington pulled more violently against the wires that bound her. “I—I don’t think I—”
“Be still, my darling,” said the Ankh from outside of the circle of red smoke. “You are receiving a great honor from Sekhmet. You will be well rewarded. Hathor,” he said, gesturing to the man who’d been assisting him. The man stepped away from the stage.
Miss Exington seemed to acquiesce, and her captor turned to the device.
“So shall it be! Sekhmet, I call to you to return.”
Before I could react, the Ankh pulled down on a lever. A brilliant yellow spark snapped audibly, and I could see a hot red sizzle zip along the wires, through the device, and then over to the cuff and scepter. It was almost like electricity . . .
“Stop!” I shouted as Miss Exington jolted and screamed, then went rigid.
The Ankh spun around. “You!” He released the lever and lunged toward the table, snatching up the curved knife. I saw the lever swing back into its starting position. The sizzling sparks ceased, and Miss Exington sagged, struggling weakly against her bonds. She was crying.
I launched myself toward the front of the room, vaulting over a table that stood in the way. The Ankh’s arm moved, and something silvery spun through the air toward me.
Someone cried out, and I heard a low shout . . . and then something red-hot tore into my side. Despite the sudden agony, I landed on two feet on the other side of the table just as Hathor sprang to action. Energy flooded my body as I spun into motion. I yanked up the table over which I’d just leapt, holding it with the legs facing the man.
As he rushed toward me, I whipped the heavy piece of furniture through the air. It crashed into him, and he stumbled back and into his companion. They landed in a heap on the floor.
I whirled to see that the Ankh had returned to the lever. His hand closed around it, and his eyes danced. “You’re too late.”
I pulled out my pistol and looked down at it as I lifted it to aim. And saw blood.
My blood.
I felt as if I’d been plunged into an ice-cold pool of water. Everything stilled and slowed and became murky and mottled.
I couldn’t make my lungs work. They were thick and heavy, my vision narrow and hypnotized by the slick red blood . . . everywhere. On my hands, my torso, the gun, the floor.
I tried to fight the images assaulting my mind . . . I was back there again, with Mr. O’Gallegh . . . his throat and chest torn open, the scent of blood everywhere, the burning red eyes of the vampire mocking me as I froze. . . .
I tried to breathe, I thought I heard Mina, but she sounded far away. Too far away.
I had to . . . move . . . I had to . . . stop . . .
I heard someone laugh. Triumphant.
I pulled my face upright, looking at the Ankh.
He was smiling as he pulled the lever.
Miss Holmes
Horror
Miss Exington screamed again, the horrible sound cutting through the chamber.
Frantic, I looked over at Miss Stoker. Her eyes were empty, her expression dull. The hilt of a dagger protruded from her side. A dark stain ate into the fabric of her tunic, spreading rapidly, and blood covered her hand. Her chest heaved, as if she’d been running. The blood-slicked pistol slipped from her grip and tumbled to the floor.
I returned my attention to the Ankh, and then to Miss Exington, who had gone silent in her agony, still straining at her bonds. Then I turned back to my partner, who still hadn’t removed the knife. All the while, I was cognizant of the heavy, hard metal of a pistol barrel pressing into my side.
Unfortunately, that heavy, hard metal of a pistol barrel was just above the pocket which held my own heavy, hard metal pistol . . . currently unavailable to assist me.
I could do nothing but watch the grisly scene unfold.
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,
