Àìàíäà Êâèê - Quicksilver

Adriana swept past, glaring.

"He's all yours," Virginia said.

"Bitch," Adriana hissed.

At the foot of the stairs the porter lurched out of his office to open the door. He handed Virginia her still-dripping umbrella and cloak, and shot a grim look at the top of the staircase.

"Is there a problem, Miss Dean?" he asked.

"No, Mr. Fulton, there is no problem. Not anymore."

"It's still raining outside, ma'am," he said anxiously. "I'll summon a cab for you."

"Thank you," Virginia said.

Outside on the front steps, Matt held the large umbrella for her while Fulton took out a whistle. In response to the piercing sound, a cab materialized out of the driving rain.

"Number Seven Garnet Lane," Matt said to the driver. He handed Virginia up into the cab and got in behind her. The vehicle rolled forward.

Virginia contemplated the rain through the window and pondered the disastrous turn of events. Her career and the secure, prosperous future that she had been attempting to create for herself now lay in smoking ruins. She was surprised to realize that she felt strangely numb. It would no doubt take a while for the shock to set in, she concluded.

Matt watched her from the opposite seat.

"Uncle Owen won't like it when he finds out that Leybrook threatened your career, Miss Dean."

Virginia frowned. "Let me make something very clear. I appreciate your sentiments on my behalf, but what just happened between Mr. Leybrook and me is my problem. I will deal with it. Is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am, I understand. But I'm not sure Uncle Owen will see things that way."

"To clarify further, if I hear that Gilmore Leybrook has suffered an unfortunate or fatal accident of any kind in the near future, I will be very annoyed."

"Yes, ma'am. I was merely pointing out that Uncle Owen won't be happy."

"I am not particularly thrilled, myself. But I will not allow your uncle to use me as an excuse to do something dreadful to Leybrook. I was told that Sweetwaters only hunt the monsters."

"That's true."

"Heaven knows Gilmore has his faults, but he is not one of the monsters."

Matt regarded her with a considering expression. "Are you certain of that, Miss Dean? The monsters are usually well disguised. That is what makes them difficult to hunt. It is why J J asked for our assistance in this matter of the glass-reader murders."

She could not think of a response to that. He was right. The monsters of antiquity were easy to identify. They had three heads or snakelike tails and a terrifying, demonic aspect. But human monsters all too often were chameleons who blended into society.

Fifteen minutes later the cab halted at her address on Garnet Lane. Matt took the umbrella and escorted Virginia up the front steps. The Sweetwater men might be assassins for hire, she thought, but they were very well mannered. Gentlemen to their lethal fingertips.

"Something amusing, Miss Dean?" Matt asked.

Virginia realized she was smiling. "No, not really."

She took out her key and gave it to him. He opened the door and ushered her inside. The house felt dark and empty. There were no footsteps coming down the hall from the kitchen.

"It looks like Mrs. Crofton is not yet home," Matt said. He planted the umbrella into the wrought-iron stand. "Perhaps she has had some luck locating the Hollister housekeeper."

"That would certainly be helpful." Virginia undid her cloak. "The hem of my skirts and my walking boots are soaked from the wet streets. I'm going to dash upstairs and change into some dry clothes. Why don't you go into the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove? There are some biscuits in the pantry. I'll join you shortly."

"An excellent plan," Matt said.

He assisted her with her cloak and then ambled happily down the hall, a young man in search of food.

Well, it was not his future that had just burned to the ground, Virginia told herself. The Sweetwaters enjoyed a very secure profession. There would always be monsters around to hunt, as well as people and organizations such as J J who would no doubt be willing to pay well for the service.

She went up the stairs, the weight of her rain-soaked petticoats and skirts as heavy as the anchor of a ship. Or perhaps it was her mood that was weighing her down, she thought. She wanted very badly to talk to Charlotte, who was no doubt happily engaged in the exciting task of locating the mysterious paid companion.

At the top of the stairs, she went down the hall to her bedroom. Inside, she closed the door, unlaced her wet boots and stepped out of her damp clothing. She changed into a fresh petticoat and a simple day gown and secured the little chatelaine purse at her waist.

She crossed the room, went out into the hall and down the stairs. There were no sounds coming from the kitchen. That was curious. By now Matt should have gotten the kettle going and started rummaging around in the pantry for the biscuits.

"Matt? Did you find the tea things?"

She went through the doorway into the kitchen. There was no sign of Matt. The swinging door of the pantry was closed. She pushed it open.

She stopped at the sight of Matt sprawled unconscious on the floor.

"Matt."

He did not move. But something else did. She heard the ominous clank and thump before the clockwork doll toddled out of the shadows. The automaton was nearly three feet tall, a chillingly lifelike replica of Queen Victoria. Every detail was exquisitely rendered, from the miniature crown set with crystals to the high-button boots and the dark mourning attire that Her Majesty had worn since the death of her beloved Albert.

The Queen's icy glass eyes rolled in their sockets and fixed on Virginia. Cold energy shivered in the small space. Virginia experienced the now-familiar chill with all of her senses. She fought back, heightening her talent.

The Queen clanked forward in her miniature boots. Desperate, Virginia pushed her talent higher. The clockwork doll stopped as though confused.

Virginia grabbed the nearest heavy object, a large iron skillet, and hurled it at the doll. The pan struck the curiosity full on, knocking the device off its feet. It toppled onto its back. The booted heels drummed relentlessly on the floor. The eyes rattled in the porcelain skull, seeking a target.

Virginia seized Matt's ankles and tried to haul him across the floor out of range of the doll. The Sweetwater men were not small, and they were evidently constructed of pure muscle and bone. The smooth wooden floor was in her favor, though. She managed to slide Matt's heavy frame halfway out the pantry door before she had to stop and gather her strength for another tug.

The clanking, thumping and rattling of the clockwork mechanism muffled the sound of the footsteps behind her until it was too late. She caught a whiff of a sweet, flowery scent just before the chloroformsoaked cloth covered her nose and mouth.

A man's arm wrapped around her throat and wrenched her back against a hard chest. She reached upward, trying to claw at her captor's eyes. Her fingers closed around a pair of spectacles. She ripped them off and dropped them to the floor. There was a sharp crack when the lenses shattered.

"You stupid woman," Jasper Welch snarled. "Why do you have to make things so bloody difficult? You have come close to ruining my great work."

She held her breath, but she had already inhaled some of the vapor. Her head was spinning, and the world was disappearing into a fathomless fog. She tried to struggle-at least, she thought she struggled-but she could not be certain.

She fell into an endless night.

Flames smoldered deep in the mirrors.

Virginia sensed the paranormal heat before she was fully awake. She knew glasslight the way she knew sunlight or rain. She did not have to look into the mirrors to know that they surrounded her and that they were infused with energy unlike anything she had ever experienced.

The power in the looking glasses called to her, triggering frissons of awareness, summoning her out of the darkness.

Warily she opened her eyes and beheld a dazzling, glittering wonderland of ice lit by massive glass chandeliers. For a few seconds she wondered why she did not feel the cold. It took her some time to realize that there was no ice. She was lying on a low bench in a long, highceilinged chamber that was entirely paneled in mirrors.

The room reminded her of the terrible chamber in the basement of the Hollister mansion, but this hall was fashioned on a far larger and grander scale, a palace room of mirrors. There were no windows, no obvious door.

The brilliantly reflective surfaces were everywhere. They covered the walls and clad the stately columns. An elaborate mosaic of tiny mirrored tiles patterned the coved ceiling and accented the decorative molding.

And all of the mirrors simmered and seethed with the paranormal fires trapped inside the glass.

She struggled to a sitting position and discovered that the bench on which she had awakened was padded in white velvet. She was still wearing the day gown she had changed into before she was kidnapped. The small chatelaine purse dangled at her waist.

For a moment she sat there, entranced and intoxicated by the energy that flooded the gallery. After a while, she gathered her nerve, heightened her senses and looked deeper into the mirrors.

She was braced for dreadful visions of death, but there were no afterimages, no visions that indicated that people had been murdered in the glittering chamber. All she perceived was power, an enormous quantity of it, locked inside the looking glasses.