Tenfold More Wicked (23 page)

I
BLINK IN WARM SUNLIGHT AT THE GRAND THREE-STORY
shops along Piccadilly. Shoppers stroll, trailing parcel-toting metal servants. A lady's carriage halts, and her clockwork footman dashes into a dress shop to fetch the proprietor so she needn't alight and dirty her fine shoes.

The smell of fresh-cut grass wafts across the road from Green Park. In a gap in the trees, a canvas banner flutters.

H
AIL
T
HE
E
NLIGHTENED
B
RITISH
E
MPIRE!

HMS
INVINCIBLE

F
LAGSHIP OF THE
R
OYAL
N
AVY'S
S
KYBORNE
F
LEET

B
Y
O
RDER OF THE
P
RESIDENT OF THE
R
OYAL
S
OCIETY

H
IS
G
RACE THE
L
ORD
H
IGH
A
DMIRAL

AND

H
ER
G
RACIOUS
M
AJESTY
Q
UEEN
V
ICTORIA

In that order of precedence, I'm betting. Acres of linen screen puff in the breeze, hiding the skyship's silvery bulk from prying eyes. They say the Mad Queen herself will ap
pear at the launch. Ha! The Philosopher cutting her leash, after all these years? I'll believe it when I see her podgy face in the sun.

I stroll, peering into each window, looking for Quick's pharmacy. Dress shop. Hat shop. Dress shop. Jeweler's . . .

I pause at an etched bay window. Advertising boards are bedded in white lace.

M
AGNETIC
R
OCK
W
ATER
D
EW FROM THE
S
AHARA
D
ESERT!

A
RMENIAN
L
IQUID FOR
R
EMOVING
W
RINKLES!

A particularly fancy one reads

T
HE
R
OYAL
A
RABIAN
T
OILET OF
BEAUTY

E
NAMELING—20 GUINEAS PER ANNUM

B
EAUTIFUL FOR
E
VER

accompanied by a drawing of a mad-eyed lady with a stiff china-doll face. Twenty guineas to clog your skin like a circus clown's? Do they really think gents
like
that? Or are they just taught to loathe their own faces?

The shop's insides are hidden by bell-fringed saffron drapes. No apothecary's serpent symbol, no brass shingle reading M
.
Q
UICK,
LSA, or P
ROFESSOR
Q
UICK
M
.
D
.,
or even M
ORIARTY
Q
UICK,
D
EMENTED
F
ENIAN
A
BOUT
T
OWN,
B
UY
Y
OUR
S
NAKE
O
IL
H
ERE!
The placard above the door just says

M
ADAME
R
ACHEL

P
URVEYOR OF
B
EAUTY

Oho. Quick's shop isn't an apothecary. It's a beauty parlor. Beneath, in smaller letters:

B
Y
A
PPOINTMENT
HM
THE
E
MPRESS OF
A
USTRIA

Not anymore, sunshine. I believe that lucky lady's bleeding head dropped into a basket when the revolution hit. But who's arguing?

Squeak!
No bell rings as I enter. Inside, it's decorated as an Oriental boudoir, with saffron and white drapes, a sofa or two, cascades of fresh flowers. Sultry sandalwood perfume makes me sneeze, but a bad fairy drifts beneath, a sinister echo of misfortune and mishap. As if last night, in the dark, evil happened here.

Wrapped parcels pile on the counter, awaiting the courier. I pick one up. L
ADY
G
RAY'S
F
AMOUS
P
ARISIAN
E
NAMEL
. That twenty-guinea gear? The parcel smells chalky, sour. I pocket it. Let's see what quackery Quick's peddling. He ain't the only one what might indulge in a spot of blackmail.

Fragrant steam puffs from behind a lacy screen. Bathwater splashes, some fancy lady having a Royal Arabian Toilet of Bullshit. Like as not, he takes coin from sweaty old gents to spy on the bathing beauties through a peephole. A line of 'em back there, fiddling with 'emselves while they wait their turn.

I shiver, despite the heat. The shop's not empty, but it feels deserted. Forsaken. Damned.

“Professor?” I puts on a prissy voice. “I say, is anyone in attendance, I'd rather like an Arabian Toilet . . . Oik!”

I whirl, the back of my neck prickling.

Moriarty Quick sniggers like a mad mudlark. Same snotgreen
coat, that louche blond hair curling. “Good morning to ye. Get your attention at last, did I?”

Shit. I heave a breath. “Let's get this over with, before the sight of you makes me puke. What d'you want from us?”

“You're the one who snuck into my shop like a criminal.” His crazy eyes twinkle. “Perhaps I just want me money.”

“Bollocks. She don't owe you one fart-arsed penny.”

“Aren't you the smart one? I only want to help, Lizzie Hyde.” His accent makes my name sound like
Hoyd.
“I can see that sharing a body's not workin' for ye. I can make that problem disappear. Pewf!” He flutters his fingers.

My mouth waters. Make Eliza disappear. Not just lurking about beneath my skin, sneering at me. Gone. So she can't wriggle and evade, like she done last night with the red-haired loon at our mercy.

Can't drag me back from what needs doing.

“Temporarily, o' course,” adds Quick. “Only for long enough.”

I fake a bored yawn. “Long enough for what?”

A snaky Quick grin. “I imagine you'll think o' somethin'.”

God rot him. He knows I crave what he's offering. But I trust this grubby snotgroper as far as I can spit him, which considering his size ain't very far. “And why would a poxy blackmailing rat-squeezer like you want to help me?”

He winks, and I wish he hadn't. “Call it professional curiosity. The potion's experimental, y'see. Lend a hand, and we can talk about settling that debt. A shame, if
both
o' ye should rot in the compter over a trifle.”

All my instincts scream, and a clearer message I've rarely heard.
He's up to no good. Fallen out of his tree. Madder than a shithouse rat. Walk away, Lizzie, and don't look back . . .

“You call fifty-six quid a trifle? Screw your eyes, ratbrain. For quaffing your stinking brew on spec, I want more than you ceasing your lies.”

“Such as?”

Screw me suspicious, but I don't entirely trust Finch's story, with his god-rotted loyalty to Eddie Hyde above all. “Tell me about you and Marcellus.”

Quick licks his teeth. “It's complicated.”

Already I'm cursing myself for a fool. “Poor you. It's that or nothing.”

“Very well. I tell you about Marcellus, you test my potion, we forget the fifty-six quid and walk away smiling.” He offers his hand. “Agreed?”

Guilt stings, a thousand angry wasps. I can't betray her like this. Even if Quick's telling me true, which he likely ain't.

But a lifetime of black resentment bubbles up to choke me. She'd do it to me. She hates me. Wants me gone. Wants Remy all to herself, and as for the red-haired loon . . .

It's either Todd or us. And I can't get rid of Todd while Eliza's still here. Miss Lizzie needs to take control. Or poor innocent Eliza will get us
both
killed.

I suck in a breath, and for the first time in my sordid half-dead existence, I step across the line.

I shake his scaly-smooth hand. Jesus in a jam jar, I'm a bloody idiot.

Quick lights a cigarette, puffing brown smoke. “'Twere a long time ago. We worked together, Marcellus and I and Henry Jekyll. You know the sort of lines they crossed?”

“Murdering my mother? Bringing corpses back from the dead?”

“Right. So Henry had the nerve to call
my
experiments ‘uncanny.'” Quick waves his cigarette, deepening his voice in mockery of the good doctor. “‘Moriarty, some things we're just not meant to know. Things only the lord God can control.' Nice talk, for a bloody Protestant.”

“Witchcraft, you mean? That black magic hocus-pocus?” My feet itch. Sommat about his tale smells rotten.

Quick blows smoke rings. “Witchcraft is bollocks. My work's solid alchemy and I won't hear a word to the contrary. But back to Marcellus. He and I fell out over a young lady.” A melodramatic eye roll. “The love of his life. Wasting away, poor thing, and try as he might, Marcellus couldn't treat her. In despair, he came to me.”

And that crafty old Finch-bean told Eliza he'd never been in love. “And?”

“It didn't work out. At least, not for him.”

“Is that what this is about? You stole Finch's lady friend?”

That sly namesake grin. “You can't fight true love, Miss Hyde. Marcellus couldn't see that. He tried to come between us. It got ugly.”

“I should say. Fourteen years on the wave?”

“Well, there was that. But the past is past. I'm not the man holdin' a grudge.” Quick stubs the cigarette out. A glass-stoppered bottle appears in his hand, and with a bad stage magician's flourish, he offers it to me. “I believe it's your turn.”

I hold the bottle to the light. Slimy pewter-colored goo slides inside, like the oozings from a cooked snail. Sparkles drift in the liquid, dreamlike, as if it's sleeping . . . or dying. “How much do I take?”

“Up to you. No charge,” he adds airily. “Just tell me what happens. I'll know if you lie.”

I slam him against the bar, and jam my blade under his pointy chin. “And what's to stop me from killing you right now? Put an end to your sneaky lawsuit for good, that's what.”

He giggles. “Easy, darlin'. We've barely met. And I've made arrangements. A package to be mailed to the Philosopher himself in the event of my untimely demise. About you, Dr. Jekyll, Marcellus. Everything.”

“Don't believe you.”

Quick's breathing hard, eyes glazed. He
likes
this. “That essence is experimental, y'know. Might not work . . . or it might work too well. Who's to know? Can you trust Marcellus to clean up the mess?”

“Shut up.” I shove his chin higher, and his necktie loosens, shirt pulling from his shoulder. He's got a design inked there, a tiny tattoo.

Half-circle, circle, cross. Mercury.

“Well, lookie here,” accuses I. “Witchcraft's bollocks, is it? What's this mark mean?”

“I've got more.” He wheezes laughter. “Want to see 'em?”

“What d'you know about two dead artists and a chewed-up heart?”

He laughs still harder. “Sweetie, you're making no sense. Now, will you do me, or must I satisfy meself?”

My blade slices, a slim crimson kiss that warms my cockles. I want to lick it. Press harder, slit the blackmailing bastard a fresh-bleeding grin . . .

Excuse me, madam,
whispers ghostly Todd,
was this fellow bothering you?

No. I ain't delighting in death. This is self-defense. Not the same thing . . . but we made a god-rotted deal, Quick and I, and screw me for a simpleton, but Miss Lizzie keeps her word.

Disgusted, I hurl Quick to the floor. “If you've tricked me, you addle-brained worm eater, I'll come for you, and you won't get off on what comes with me.”

He cackles. “Wouldn't bet on that.”

I pluck the bottle's glass marble stopper. Thumb the neck, and upturn it. A slick pewter drop oozes, and a rusty smell assaults me, some rotted, corrupt stench that oils my nostrils.

Fuck it. I shove my wet thumb into my mouth.

My tongue burns, gritty slime spreading. I inhale, and metallic fumes water my eyes. My heart jumps a few beats faster, and stays there. And a strange knot in my belly I didn't realize was there . . .
loosens
.

That's all.

On the floor, Moriarty Quick wipes his bleeding throat and licks his fingers, sniggering. “Enjoy.”

I kick him, just for fun, and stride out.

Warm Piccadilly sun kisses my skin awake. That oily taste is fading, leaving a contented glow. Compelled, I sip a little more. It slides down nice, murmuring like a dream lover, eager to please. I flex experimental muscles. I'm strong, relaxed, untroubled by doubt. The chortling little facteroo that Moriarty Quick might have more'n his share to do with that black-magic malarkey makes no nevermind to me. I feel
good
.

I'm twenty yards up the street before I tumble to what were nagging me.

Henry Jekyll's near twenty years gone. Which makes Marcellus Finch quite the youngster, back in the day when he brewed Henry's potion. Now, Finch is white-haired, frail, misplacing his marbles. Practically an old man.

But Quick—the P
URVEYOR OF
B
EAUTY
—Quick's skin is smooth. Good teeth, bright yellow hair. Looks twenty-five at worst, even after fourteen hard-bitten years in Van Diemen's Land, which by all accounts is on the far side of the world and the Empire's blackest hell.

Potions, lotions, efficacious pharmaceuticals. The best in town.

Half-circle, circle, cross. Mercury.

Unsettled, I glance back at Quick's window. That pamphlet, wreathed in white lace. B
EAUTIFUL FOR
E
VER.