Nick’s skin crawled, the hair on his arms standing straight up. He’d only ever heard that kind of cry once, when a tiger tore open the underbelly of one of the horses.
A dark shape lay on the ground where Magnus had been. It stank of cooking flesh, a shade too similar to what Nick had eaten for supper. Bile rose in his throat, but he stubbornly swallowed it down. He couldn’t stand the thought of heaving with his side bloody and raw.
Striker stood to the left of Magnus, the gun casting a pool of oscilating blue light around him. With an almost mechanical motion, he reached over and hit a switch. The gun powered down with a whirr.
Nick found his feet and jumped to the soft grass below with a grunt. There were no stairs anymore. “You got the range sorted.”
Striker rubbed his forehead. “That I did.”
Neither man sounded triumphant, because they weren’t. There was nothing there to celebrate. Magnus was lying on the ground, his chest a burned mass of bone and blood. He’d fallen on one side, his tall hat adrift on the paving stones, his fingers helplessly trailing in the dirt. From his staring eyes, there was no question he was dead. Striker had shot him in the back, blowing his heart through his breastbone.
Well, he wouldn’t be bothering Evelina anymore. Nick bent with a shuddering intake of breath, and searched Magnus’s pockets.
“You robbing the bloke?” Striker sounded more curious than judgmental.
Nick found what he was looking for. A tiny steel mouse. He could just sense a consciousness inside, shivering in terror. He slipped it into his own pocket. “I’ve got what I want.”
Striker hesitated an instant, and then made his own search, letting out a gratified grunt when he found the doctor’s purse.
Nick looked away from the puddle of blood darkening the ground, a sudden foreboding taking him. A few yards away, brass gleamed dully in the uncertain light. The bird lay in pieces, shattered by the force of the blasts. He had no idea if destroying the mechanism freed the deva, or if it was trapped inside a broken shell.
The street was in chaos now that Magnus’s magic was gone. The black fog was lifting and people were streaming out of their houses and coming their way. They would be on them in seconds.
“Come on,” said Striker. “Time to run.”
Forgetting his wound, Nick dropped to his knees, sweeping up the shards of Evelina’s creation. He pulled the kerchief from around his neck, using it to gather the pieces.
“Come on!” Striker repeated, his voice rising.
Nick tucked the kerchief inside his shirt, feeling the bundle of cool brass against the heat of his body.
“Bloody hell, mate.” Striker hauled Nick up by his collar, then his eyes widened as he saw the blood-soaked side of Nick’s clothes.
A police whistle shrilled.
The streetkeeper swore viciously. “You just keep making my life interesting, don’t you?”
Chapter Thirty-five
VIOLENT EXPLOSION DESTROYS HOUSE
A respectable neighborhood in the Yellow District was shattered last night as a detonation of unknown origin destroyed 113 Pemberton Row. The owner, Dr. Symeon Magnus, was found dead in his front yard, clearly the victim of a vicious attack. Police are investigating the matter, but will give no further comment at this time.
—
HILLIARD HOUSE
Evelina was attempting to read
And the problems just kept mounting. A whole week had passed, and she still hadn’t found out who had killed Grace Child and the grooms, or why the automatons were so valuable. And she had a hundred questions about the ancient Greek object they called Athena’s Casket. She’d looked it up in what books she could find, but they all said it was an instrument used for navigation. Magnus had suggested it had magical properties—infusing spirit into mechanics and all that—but none of the volumes in Lord Bancroft’s library mentioned any such thing.
And what had been going on at the warehouse? A lot of people were dead, including the Chinese workers, but what exactly had they been doing there? Whatever it was, somehow Grace Child and her silk bag of gold was the link between the warehouse and Hilliard House.
Evelina had started to investigate in order to protect Imogen and her family from scandal. Unfortunately, all she’d managed to do was piece together a reason someone in the house was guilty. It was simple math. Gold artifacts arrived at the warehouse in crates, and melted gold and unset stones were carried away by a servant who worked at Hilliard House. It didn’t take a huge intellect to make a connection. Clearly, someone with no respect for archaeology was melting down the treasures. And since Keating was mad for all things Greek and Roman, it would be out of character for him to allow the destruction of historical treasures. And besides, the wealth was showing up in Lord B’s cloakroom, not Jasper Keating’s bank. Everything pointed to the fact that he was being robbed.
So who was doing it and how? Was that where the Chinese came in? So why had they been murdered? If she had to guess, they were the worker bees and their usefulness had expired—and that meant the villain was beating a retreat. If she meant to find out who that was, she had better do it now.
For more reasons than one. Her Uncle Sherlock was back in London and had written to say that he had begun work on Jasper Keating’s case. He planned to stop by that afternoon to see her. At any other time, she would have been delighted by a visit. Now, with so much at stake, it was a glaring reminder of her failure to preemptively solve Grace’s murder.
And Lestrade would be sure to contact him, because Scotland Yard was having no better luck than Evelina. There had been no progress in solving the murders of any of Lord Bancroft’s servants, the dozen Chinese, and now Dr. Magnus. Public opinion was growing foul.
If Uncle Sherlock got involved, the question of the magic-infested automatons would be sure to come to light. The only thing Evelina could do was try to deflect her uncle from that part of the puzzle. It wouldn’t be easy, because Sherlock Holmes was not a man easily fooled.
Evelina buried her face in her hands, summoning her strength. It was hard to believe, but her uncle was only one problem. There were others.
She’d sent Bird for help, hoping he’d find Nick, but it hadn’t returned. She’d seen—with the sense of an answered prayer—the article on Magnus’s death, but there had been no sign of Mouse scampering back home. A frantic need to find the two creatures gnawed at her, but London was a vast city. She’d search the sorcerer’s house, or his personal effects at the morgue, but she’d need her uncle’s help to gain access. Explaining her need to search a corpse was going to take some doing.
Then again, it was Uncle Sherlock.
“Evelina?”
Tobias came through the door of the sitting room. She greeted the interruption with relief, and set the book aside. “Yes?”
“There is, um, a person who wishes to see you.”
“Uncle Sherlock?”
“No. Mr. Keating’s streetkeeper, I understand.” Tobias frowned. “Highly irregular, so I told Bigelow I’d see to this personally. I don’t like the looks of him. Says his name is Striker.”
“What does he want from me?”
“He won’t say.” Tobias was clearly irritated. “Since he’s Keating’s man, it’s harder to simply toss him down
