a corner.
Exeter studied him for a moment. “Well then, shall we let the scenario play out?” The doctor angled his chair so that they could each cover two corners and the entrance.
Two pints and four shots later, Phaeton appeared well on his way to a state of blissful intoxication. America turned to Exeter. “We both sense . . . a different energy about in the city. Perhaps you might bring us up to date?”
“Since you’ve been gone, there have been . . . disturbances.” The doctor leaned across the table. “Attacks by strange entities, as well as missing persons—abductions perhaps—are popping up all over London. According to reports in the Weekly Dispatch and the Guardian, packs of strange, ungodly creatures roam the streets at night.” Exeter referred to newspapers popular with the lower classes. The papers often published wildly speculative stories, which included grisly reports of violence written in lurid detail. The doctor drained the last of his pint. “The entire East End is in a hysteria over it.”
Indeed, even here in the Silver Lion things were slightly askew. She sensed a giddy sort of madness among dancers and patrons alike. The laughs were louder, the women wilder—and though she couldn’t be sure, even the whiskey appeared more intoxicating. But perhaps the strangest counterpoint to all this heightened merrymaking was the pall that hung heavy in the air, as thick as a black fog.
Exeter related a few of the yellow press reports which included skeletal-like creatures sighted rummaging in dustbins, and various other unspeakable abominations carrying off living beings wrapped in rags—like mummies in the British Museum.
America’s eyes widened. “The Skeezick.”
Phaeton and Exeter both rocked their chairs forward. “The what?”
That horrid creature I told you about—the one that attacked me in the hansom. He called himself Skeezick.” Nervously, America moistened her lips. “Skeletal body, bulbous, nearly hairless, head with beady gray eyes that . . .” America twirled her index fingers in opposite directions.
Phaeton drained his glass. “One eye is on London while the other is winking at Paris?”
Exeter grinned. “The medical term is extropia .”
America sighed. “The thing implied there are many more like him.”
The doctor spoke in a low tone as he scanned the room. “I don’t believe the city has ever experienced a metaphysical assault of this magnitude, at least in recent history.”
Phaeton rubbed the stubble of new beard on his chin. “I’m sensing something older. Who might have recorded such things in the ancient past?”
Exeter poured another dram. “We might consult the runes of druids.”
Absently, America turned the base of her empty glass and stole another glance at the wickedly provocative table dancers. She experienced a touch of vertigo as both young women widened their stance and flung their arms out to their sides.
Phaeton sat up straight. “Is it my state of inebriety, or is the room moving?”
Exeter, as well, readied himself for what none of them could fathom—yet.
Yes, she was quite sure of it. The room expanded and contracted, as though it was trying to breathe or collapse. An eerie cacophony of moans and whispers blew open the doors like gale winds, and swept through the pub. Terrified patrons fled or hid under tables. A chorus of hisses hovered just outside in the street. The rustle of leaves, or the rattle of serpents?
“Shall we retreat now, rather than later?” Exeter stood and backed away from the table. Phaeton reached for her hand. The doctor nodded toward the entrance. “Harpies?”
Phaeton shook his head. “More like . . . snakes. Fiver it’s a Gorgon.”
Exeter checked the gaming room behind them. “Place a wager with the house, perhaps?” They all fell back into the gambler’s den where they found a reasonably defensive position and waited. Phaeton’s arm went around her waist. Calming, even though the quiet
Exeter studied him for a moment. “Well then, shall we let the scenario play out?” The doctor angled his chair so that they could each cover two corners and the entrance.
Two pints and four shots later, Phaeton appeared well on his way to a state of blissful intoxication. America turned to Exeter. “We both sense . . . a different energy about in the city. Perhaps you might bring us up to date?”
“Since you’ve been gone, there have been . . . disturbances.” The doctor leaned across the table. “Attacks by strange entities, as well as missing persons—abductions perhaps—are popping up all over London. According to reports in the Weekly Dispatch and the Guardian, packs of strange, ungodly creatures roam the streets at night.” Exeter referred to newspapers popular with the lower classes. The papers often published wildly speculative stories, which included grisly reports of violence written in lurid detail. The doctor drained the last of his pint. “The entire East End is in a hysteria over it.”
Indeed, even here in the Silver Lion things were slightly askew. She sensed a giddy sort of madness among dancers and patrons alike. The laughs were louder, the women wilder—and though she couldn’t be sure, even the whiskey appeared more intoxicating. But perhaps the strangest counterpoint to all this heightened merrymaking was the pall that hung heavy in the air, as thick as a black fog.
Exeter related a few of the yellow press reports which included skeletal-like creatures sighted rummaging in dustbins, and various other unspeakable abominations carrying off living beings wrapped in rags—like mummies in the British Museum.
America’s eyes widened. “The Skeezick.”
Phaeton and Exeter both rocked their chairs forward. “The what?”
That horrid creature I told you about—the one that attacked me in the hansom. He called himself Skeezick.” Nervously, America moistened her lips. “Skeletal body, bulbous, nearly hairless, head with beady gray eyes that . . .” America twirled her index fingers in opposite directions.
Phaeton drained his glass. “One eye is on London while the other is winking at Paris?”
Exeter grinned. “The medical term is extropia .”
America sighed. “The thing implied there are many more like him.”
The doctor spoke in a low tone as he scanned the room. “I don’t believe the city has ever experienced a metaphysical assault of this magnitude, at least in recent history.”
Phaeton rubbed the stubble of new beard on his chin. “I’m sensing something older. Who might have recorded such things in the ancient past?”
Exeter poured another dram. “We might consult the runes of druids.”
Absently, America turned the base of her empty glass and stole another glance at the wickedly provocative table dancers. She experienced a touch of vertigo as both young women widened their stance and flung their arms out to their sides.
Phaeton sat up straight. “Is it my state of inebriety, or is the room moving?”
Exeter, as well, readied himself for what none of them could fathom—yet.
Yes, she was quite sure of it. The room expanded and contracted, as though it was trying to breathe or collapse. An eerie cacophony of moans and whispers blew open the doors like gale winds, and swept through the pub. Terrified patrons fled or hid under tables. A chorus of hisses hovered just outside in the street. The rustle of leaves, or the rattle of serpents?
“Shall we retreat now, rather than later?” Exeter stood and backed away from the table. Phaeton reached for her hand. The doctor nodded toward the entrance. “Harpies?”
Phaeton shook his head. “More like . . . snakes. Fiver it’s a Gorgon.”
Exeter checked the gaming room behind them. “Place a wager with the house, perhaps?” They all fell back into the gambler’s den where they found a reasonably defensive position and waited. Phaeton’s arm went around her waist. Calming, even though the quiet
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