intent.”
“Pish,” said the Ankh. He sounded delighted. “But you are here, and it truly doesn’t matter how that happened. You won’t be leaving anytime soon, and Osiris would have made certain you came alone.”
At that moment, I heard a soft sound to the right behind me. As if something was sliding across the floor. Miss Holmes had a sudden coughing attack, meeting my eyes over her hand. I turned to look in that direction, on the other side of Sekhmet, but no one was there.
“Very well, then,” said the Ankh. “Where were we? Ah, yes,” he said, moving to the machine. His hand rested on the lever, which I had positioned so he stood in the perfect place for me to bring the statue down on top of him.
I craned my neck, trying to look at Mina, but she was too busy making some odd expression at me. Her eyes bugged out and her mouth was twitching.
The last thing I wanted to remember seeing before I died was Mina Holmes, silently lecturing me about the mess she’d gotten herself into.
I heard another soft, skimming sound of something going across the floor. I looked over as the Ankh began to lower the lever.
I focused, waiting for the right moment . . . waiting for the first sensation of shock. I must act before it paralyzed me.
The lever shot down and I propelled myself toward the Ankh.
Miss Holmes
A Disembodied Voice
I watched in horror as Miss Stoker jolted in pain, then all at once, she was falling—toward the Ankh.
The massive Sekhmet statue teetered ominously. I saw what was going to happen, and I screamed a warning, but it was too late. All three of them tumbled to the floor with a metallic crash that echoed through the chamber. A sizzle of power zapped from the machine, then fizzled into orange sparks.
“No!” I shouted, heedless of the firearm pushing into my back. “Evaline!”
Suddenly a loud noise filled the space. A blaring, blasting, screeching noise the likes of which I’d never heard before, but the sound of which was a relief. My plan was working! If only it weren’t too late.
Osiris whirled as the Ankh’s other servants bolted into action, confused at the distractions from every direction. As they spun around in panic, the second element of my plan was executed: a low, rolling boom! erupted from the fireplace.
In seconds, the chamber filled with heavy black smoke. I heard the sounds of footsteps and shouts, followed by a disembodied voice—“You’re surrounded! Stand where you are!”—and knew that Dylan had fulfilled the third and final element of the plan.
But, good gad, Evaline! Was I too late? What had she done? How could she think I’d appear without a plan?
I ducked away from Osiris and dashed through the thick fog toward Miss Stoker and the Sekhmet statue, terrified everything had happened too late and she was dead—crushed under the heavy weight or electrocuted.
I coughed and then remembered to pull up the mask I had around my neck, covering my nose and mouth as I crawled along the floor. How much easier it was to do so in trousers than a bundle of skirts! I touched the base of the Sekhmet statue first, then my frantic hands encountered something soft and warm.
It moved, and as I attempted to wave away the smoke, I felt the statue shuddering and shifting against my leg with someone’s effort to move it. I heard the sound of metallic clinks and clanks nearby. More shouts filled my ears, smoke stung my eyes, and I heard the sound of glass shattering. A rush of fresh air burst into the chamber.
“Stop her!” cried a voice I recognized. Evaline! Evaline was alive! She was a heap on the floor, a mass of clinking chains and struggling limbs, but she was alive.
But the Ankh was getting away! I bolted to my feet in time to see the slim, dark-clad figure stumbling toward the broken window. I stumbled after her, but tripped over something and fell hard on the ground. My palms landed on something sharp and painful. “Stop her! Dylan! She’s getting away!”
The sounds of pounding footsteps and shouts—real ones this time, not from Dylan’s useful device—came from the floor and stairs below. “Stop! Scotland Yard commands you to halt!”
I lurched toward the Ankh again. I wasn’t about to let her get away. “Oh, no, you don’t—” Someone or something slammed into me from behind, and I thwumped to the floor once more. My cut palms screamed as I struggled to remove myself from beneath the hindrance of something heavy, I watched the shape at the window.
The Ankh’s slender figure shone against the opening, now jagged with glass in the drassy moonbeams. She looked at me from across the dim, smoky chamber, and I fancied our eyes met in acknowledgment and understanding. Then, outlined by the silvery light, she gave a condescending lift of her chin in my direction. Infuriated, I started toward her again. I couldn’t let her get away. I had to find out who she was!
The door burst open behind me with a flood of light. I recognized Luckworth’s voice shouting orders. “Stop! Halt! Scotland Yard!”
At the window, the Ankh froze, an arrogant yet surprised silhouette. . . . I shouted, finally erupting unencumbered to my feet, but it was too late. My nemesis gave a flippant wave—a clear farewell—then tipped backward, tumbling out into the night.
“No!” I charged toward the jagged black window. My foot caught on something, and I hurtled through the air. Screaming, I clawed at where the window should have been. Just before I crashed through into midair, two hands grabbed me from behind.
I flew up and back, and landed on the floor in an ignominious heap of gangly trousered limbs and sagging hair. I saw Dylan’s relieved expression, then looked up into the furious face of Inspector Grayling.
Miss Holmes
Wherein Our Heroines Learn the
Meaning of the Word “Debrief”
“If you’d just waited a moment longer, everything would have been fine,” I said, eyeing Evaline with unconcealed resentment.
It was three days after the events above the fish-smokers’ shop at the docks.
“If you hadn’t shown up, my plan would have worked perfectly,” she retorted, folding her arms over her middle.
“Yes, and you would have been dead.”
“That might be the case, but at least we’d be certain of the Ankh’s identity. Thanks to your ridiculous, overly complicated plan, we still don’t know who she was.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then I saw the glint of humor in her eyes and relaxed. “Quite true,” I conceded, and exchanged a glance with Dylan. Our plan had been perfectly wrought and flawlessly executed . . . but in the end, the Ankh had had her own victory.
That was the only thing that continued to niggle at me.
We still didn’t know who the Ankh was, or precisely why she (at least I’d been correct about the gender) had collected young women. Had she been trying to stir up their independence while attempting to raise a goddess’s powers, or had that merely been a byproduct of her mad plan? I still found the concept absurd, but then again . . . Dylan Ekhert’s time traveling was a testament to events and concepts beyond my understanding.
We did have a body . . . but it was bloated and nibbled beyond recognition. Pulled just this morning from the canal where it met the Thames, the dead woman had been dressed in dark trousers and a loose black tunic—just
