The Spiritglass Charade by Colleen Gleason Read Free Book Online

lemonade,” the bartender ventured. “Wit’ ice.”
    â€œI don’ care wot she prefers.” Pix gave the bartender a steely grin, then swept the same look over the rest of the pub. Then he took my arm with a firm grip. “This way.”
    With that, the patrons seemed to lose interest and they returned to their cards, arm wrestling, dice, and conversation.
    I lifted a brow at Pix. “I’ve already broken two bones tonight because a bloody facemark thought he could manhandle me. Do you really want to attempt the same?”
    â€œNow, luv, y’ know it wouldn’ be only an
attempt
,” he said, his voice pitched only for my ears. His hold on me didn’t ease, but I allowed him to lead me away. He was aware I could shake his grip if I wanted. “Ye came ’ere t’see me, and ye know it.”
    â€œI have no other way of contacting you, and you know
that
.”
    â€œAye. I jus’ didn’ expect ye to ’ear ’bout it so quick,” he muttered.
    I hid my surprise. Hear what? What did he mean?
    By now we’d reached the pub’s back wall, which was covered with heavy walnut paneling—an expensive addition to such a lowly place.
    Pix must have pushed a button or stepped on some release, for the paneling slid open as we approached. We walked through and it closed silently behind us, leaving us in near-darkness.
    My heart thumped as I wondered if he meant to try and kiss me, which he’d done once before. Instead, he directed me farther into the dim space. I drew back in surprise when I felt a cobweb brush against my face, then drift over my shoulders . . . only to realize it was a heavy curtain. Pix lifted the drapes away, revealing a brick passageway lit with a cool, crisp, white illumination.
    Electric lights
.
    The glass bulbs with their glowing interior wires were contraband in London since electricity had been banned by the Moseley-Haft Act.
    â€œWill this lead us to your lair, Mr. Spider?”
    â€œI didn’ think ye’d be that eager t’visit me crib again, luv,” he said, releasing my arm and gesturing for me to precede him down a well-lit stairway. “But if ye insist . . .”
    The steps were clean and well constructed. Brightly illuminated by glass bulbs, their naked wires dangling along the brick walls, the stairwell curved into a gentle spiral. I saw no sign of rats, sewage, or any other refuse as we descended.
    At the bottom, Pix gestured to the left. We went only another short distance before the arched corridor ended in a brick wall . . . or so it seemed.
    He pulled back the sleeve of his overcoat, revealing a curious device strapped to his wrist. A small glow emitted from it, and he moved something on the mechanism. I heard gears whirring and a soft sizzle. Even a little flash of light zapped through the air.
    Then . . . a click, a low, long groan, and the brick wall parted.

Miss Stoker
Of Daisy Roots and Gatter
    P ix bowed with a grand flourish. “After ye.”
    I stepped into his private living quarters. I had been here once before, though via a much less direct route. We’d been running through a warren of streets and alleyways while trying to elude dangerous pursuers.
    The chamber I entered was as comfortable as any parlor in St. James’s. Settees and low tables were arranged in a neat group. Silk drapery covered two of the walls, fine rugs from India covered the floor, and a small dining area was nestled off to one side. A fireplace tall enough for me to stand in covered half of one wall and was currently empty of a blaze. Four large logs sat inside and two tall-backed brocade chairs were arranged in front of it. “So this is how you travel so easily to the pub. But it seems rather inconvenient for Bilbo to deliver your . . . what was it you ordered? A gatter? It sounds unpleasant.”
    â€œNay, ’tis simply ale.