The Chess Queen Enigma (29 page)

“Yes. Let's be off.”

Mina hesitated, but Dylan spoke softly to her. I knew from the first time we'd encountered the Ankh that she had a fear of dark, underground places. But she'd made it this far—and apparently the possibility of encountering and capturing the Ankh, as well as the calming presence of Dylan Eckhert, helped.

Grayling strode on ahead without a backward glance, and I was more than happy to catch up to him. Mina and Dylan could plod along at their own pace.

We went on for some time, picking our way carefully along the edge of the canal. In order to maintain an element of surprise—if indeed we found anyone or anything worth
surprising—we turned our headlamps off and made do with a small, handheld device that Grayling shone on the ground in front of his feet. I walked close behind so I could see where to step.

At last, we came to a widening of the tunnel. The walkway veered to the left, and the sewage canal continued straight on. The roof of the tunnel over the pathway became a pointed arch, and I could make out the columns carved into the wall here and beyond.

And just beyond, I could see a faint spill of light. I heard voices. And saw shadows moving about.

We were here.

We'd found the crypt of the monastery.

And as Grayling and I paused, edging into the shadows, I heard a cry of agony.

A man's cry.

Pix
.

I
could do this. I
had
to do this.

But I closed my eyes, gripping the back of Dylan's coat with both hands as he navigated our way through the dark, close, terrifying tunnel.

If I closed my eyes, I couldn't see how the walls and ceiling pressed down upon me. I couldn't feel how narrow the space was, how near the sewage canal was to my feet . . . ready to swallow me up in its darkness.

And so as we made our way along, tediously slow, I allowed my mind to click through what I'd observed and experienced in the last week. What I thought I knew, and what I had been led to believe. It was an organized, mental process, paging through everything I knew or deduced since Evaline gave me the note from Mr. Pix's client.

About the chess queen and the letter from Queen Elizabeth. About Lurelia and her blackmailer, about who
could be terrorizing a young princess and why . . . and who had the opportunity to do so. About why she'd lied about being attacked at the Welcome Ball, and what had happened instead. About the vanilla-scented face powder that matched the residue on the note to Pix—which he and I were both certain came from the Ankh. About the fact that Lady Cosgrove-Pitt had been present both times I believed the Ankh had shown up, and that no one seemed to recognize the Ankh at Bridge & Stokes. There was also the fact that Lurelia had actually
seen
the Ankh, and noticed the tiny diamond stud.

There were many things that made sense . . . and yet some of my observations didn't quite fall into place. Clearly the Betrovian princess was attempting to hide a love
affaire
—or at least an infatuation of hers. I had several suspicions as to whom it could be—none of which were ideal candidates. Particularly for a princess who was already engaged to be married. I'd suspected all along she was hiding something, particularly when she sneaked off to Westminster Abbey under the guise of pretending to be abducted. One could assume she was meeting her lover. Likely that, too, was the excuse for her so-called attack at the ball. Perhaps she made up the attack not only to gain my assistance in finding the chess queen, but also to explain a disappearance so she could meet her lover. If she loved someone else, that was yet another reason not to want to marry as her father ordered.

The question was what she intended to do about this presumed lover, and how it would reflect upon the English
nation. If she bolted, as her ancestor had done fifty years ago, that would be quite the diplomatic upset.

And then there was the question of who would benefit if she
did
run off and create a scandal, thus upsetting our relationship with Betrovia. The English? Someone in Betrovia? The French?

As we trudged along, I also thought about what those two marks on the back of the dead man's neck could mean. Two of the other bodies found in this area, both of which were part of the investigation Lestrade was leading and my uncle was consulting upon, also had tiny marks like that. In the same position, at the back of the neck.

And no other noticeable injuries on the body.

And then there was the museum guard, who'd also been found with the same markings.

I had no doubt Grayling had already made the connection.

I shivered and fought the urge to bury my face in the back of Dylan's coat. Even though my eyes were closed, I could still feel the darkness. And the closeness.

If it hadn't been for him, I wouldn't have stepped foot inside this tunnel. I was very grateful Dylan was with me, and not Grayling . . . for the last thing I wanted was for the inspector to see me in a moment of weakness.

And yet . . . I was certain I'd seen him in a moment of weakness. He was clearly favoring one arm, and the pallor of his skin wasn't quite right. He seemed to move less gracefully,
more carefully, more slowly. There were beads of perspiration along his temples and hairline.

I admitted to myself I was concerned for his health. Dylan's tales about patients dying from infected vampires wounds had made a strong impression on me. If I had been aware of Grayling's worsening condition, I would never have sent word for him to come to our aid tonight.

If something happened to Grayling, then . . . well, who would find out who'd killed his mother?

Just then, I heard the sound of a long, keening cry in the distance. It sounded as if someone was being tortured.

My eyes flew open and I stumbled around Dylan, trying to listen even as he continued to edge along.

“Careful,” he whispered, taking my arm.

I could see the dim filter of illumination ahead, and that emboldened me enough that I no longer squeezed my eyes closed. Two dark shadows ahead of us, one exceedingly tall, and the other slighter and much shorter, told me Evaline and Grayling had paused as well.

When Dylan and I approached, she gestured for us to move in more closely.

“Vampires,” Evaline said into my ear. “Somewhere ahead.”

Then the four of us held a whispered argument for a moment in which the suggestion was raised that Dylan and I remain here while Grayling and Evaline went on ahead and investigated, but I immediately declined. Regardless of what was ahead, I preferred to find out rather than to wait here in the close, enveloping darkness.

I was prepared. We were all armed. We had the element of surprise. And we had a vampire hunter in our midst.

For the first time, I was quite relieved to leave Evaline in the lead.

My opinion prevailed, and the four of us inched along through the dim light. The pointed stone arches resembled nothing so much as a church, and the passageway led around a corner. There were two other branches leading off into dimness, but by now, flaming sconces lit the way very nicely.

I held my uncle's Steam-Stream gun at the ready, and noted that my companions had also armed themselves. Grayling gripped the fascinating firearm I'd noticed the night he brought me home and we encountered Dylan trying to get into my house. Evaline, of course, brandished a stake along with her knife-blade walking stick. Dylan had also been outfitted with a gentleman's walking stick that doubled as a sword.

The tortured cries echoed more loudly . . . but the victim was becoming weaker. I shivered, but pressed on until Evaline held out her arm in a silent, sudden gesture to halt. She curled her fingers around the edge of an entrance and turned to look back at us with shocked eyes.

A spill of light poured onto the uneven dirt floor just beyond the wall where we'd paused. I edged forward, pushing past Grayling to peer around the corner.

What I saw made me catch my breath audibly. The chamber was low-ceilinged and quite large. It was punctuated by a series of pointed archways that led into the darkness, and
I deduced the space might originally have been a chapel or even a small church for the friars. It smelled musty and damp, but there was a lingering scent of something burning . . . something unfamiliar and ghastly. I feared I knew what it was. Gas lamps studded the walls, lighting the space as brightly as a parlor in Mayfair, but the rest of the furnishings were rudimentary: stone walls, uncovered floors, crude tables, chairs, and benches.

Except for the scene in the center of the chamber.

It was a laboratory; that was the only way to describe it. Machinery, wires, lights, and a variety of tools filled the space. At the far end was a tall glass enclosure with an opening on one side. In the center were three long tables. And on each of the long tables and in the glass enclosure was a figure. Captives—all men as far as I could tell, held in place by straps and cuffs.

Moving between the three tables was the perpetrator of the torture. I say this because the individual would stop next to a table, move a lever, and there would be a white spark that traveled from a wire to the man on the corresponding table. He would arch and shriek and writhe as sparks zipped over the wire. Thus, the scent of burnt flesh.

But what caught my attention most horrifically was that when the victims arched and cried out, their eyes turned blazing red. Fangs burst from their gums, and tendons and muscles bulged as they writhed helplessly against their bindings.

Vampire torture.

But even knowing they were malevolent beings, I couldn't bear to watch . . . I couldn't excuse the ongoing torture.

And while I
wanted
and
expected
the torturer to be the Ankh, I immediately recognized it wasn't. However, when she—yes, indeed, a female—moved away from the line of tables to adjust some settings on a panel, I saw her face and recognized her as one of the Ankh's assistants during the Sekhmet ordeal. I couldn't tell which of the two nearly identical women known as Amunet and Bastet she was, but at the moment, it didn't matter.

Evaline gripped my arm, pulling my attention away. Her eyes shone wide in a face of dead white.
Pix
, she mouthed, but I had already noticed the dark-haired man at the far end of the row of tables. Unlike the others, he wasn't strapped to a table, but was affixed upright in the glass enclosure, sagging in some sort of bindings. His condition didn't appear promising.

Then the horrible thought struck me. Good gad . . . was Mr. Pix an UnDead now? Though he was a miscreant and a thief, I didn't want to see him like that. Being vampiric was a death sentence . . . and despite the inadvisability of it, Evaline seemed to care somewhat for him.

Thus it was my turn to grab Evaline's arm, and she seemed to read my mind. Face taut, eyes dark pits, she shook her head in sharp negation—whether it was to tell me he wasn't an UnDead, or whether he
was
and she was writing him off, or whether she didn't know wasn't at all obvious.

But before I could insist on clarification, a different sound filled the chamber. A number of new arrivals made themselves known: three burly men, one of whom I was certain was Hathor—another unpleasant individual from the affair of the clockwork scarab—as well as two more females (one being Amunet or Bastet's counterpart, and the other unfamiliar to me) . . . and the Ankh. The lower half of her face was covered, but her mode of dress and the gloves on her hands told me everything I needed to know.

I tensed, vibrating with fury and triumph. She was here. I'd
known
she would be.

Strong fingers closed over me from behind, and I struggled, then realized it was Grayling and Dylan, both of whom had clamped hands on my arms to hold me back. As if I would have rushed forward willy-nilly. That was Evaline's style, not mine.

Still, I could feel myself itching to go boldly forth and take that evil villainess by surprise.

“What have you to report, Bastet? Any progress with these gentlemen here?” The Ankh spoke in a deep voice as she gestured to the row of three beds.

“They don't seem to be responding properly to the treatment, master.”

The Ankh's demeanor portrayed displeasure. She gestured to Hathor and the other two burly men. “Free one of them. Let us see whether they have learned to respond appropriately.”

I was quivering with fascination, even as I felt Evaline gather herself up to burst forth.
No
, I thought silently.
Wait
. We had to see what she meant to do . . .

As her men went about doing her bidding, the Ankh retrieved a small metal device from near the table and spoke intently to Bastet. The mechanism was larger than the one Mr. Pix dealt in, and even from my position I could see it was not the same. It was less elegant and more bulky. Additionally, there were dials and levers on it, as well as a curling wire that dangled like a tail. The Ankh held the mechanism in her hand as one of the vampires was freed from his bindings. He stumbled off the table, looked around, and then lunged toward the nearest individual—Amunet. No, it was the scientist/torturer Bastet.

The Ankh did something with the device—turned a knob—and the vampire jolted, pausing for a moment . . . but he did not release Bastet.

He plunged his fangs into her throat, and the woman shuddered and arched, clawing ineffectually at him as he drank deeply, roughly and violently. I could not look away from the horror of the tableau. The rich, iron scent of too much blood filled the air, and the other two vampires began to struggle, fighting desperately against their bonds. They wanted the blood too. They wanted to drink.

Evaline shivered next to me and I felt her body as it grew taut and ready.

Not yet
, I thought hard, trying to send her a mental message.
Not now
.