The Moonstone and Miss Jones by Jillian Stone

of military men—as you may have sensed he is not entirely of this world. But I leave it to you to get to know one another.” Gaspar turned back to Phaeton and Exeter. “I have assigned the Nightshades to your protection—”
    “Is that really necessary?” Phaeton complained.
    “Think of it as a temporary inconvenience.” The cigar-chomping captain grinned.
    Gaspar pivoted to the fair-skinned female sitting close to Captain Blood. “The very lovely and dangerous Valentine Smyth. Miss Smyth in on permanent sabbatical from the Sisters of Mercy Convent in Mayfield. Suffice to say she began her unusual avocation by identifying priests as demons. She managed to scare the church hierarchy enough, and they ran her off before she finished the job. We are lucky to have her.” Gaspar’s smile was cagy—measured. “Though she makes Ping nervous.”
    She nodded politely. “Gaspar took me in after I chased down and eliminated a red-eyed devil on his doorstep.”
    Captain Blood crossed booted legs at the ankles. “When this is all over, I expect Valentine will try to liberate my head from my shoulders.”
    Despite the blush on her cheek, Valentine Smyth’s answer was almost chilly. “I have sworn my allegiance—for the duration—to Gaspar’s army.”
    “A very small army.” Phaeton snorted. “More of a squadron.”
    A tap at the door brought several servants into the study carrying tea trays and other libations. Gaspar waved off the help and set about pouring Darjeeling for himself and the ladies, while Phaeton, Exeter, and Captain Blood all opted for something stronger. The young man wearing the mask helped serve refreshments.
    “I plan to stop this invasion with talent, not numbers.” Gaspar sat back with his saucer and cup. “Cutter Coppersmith is a master shinobi trained warrior. He and Valentine are also our best trackers. They can sense where the portals move, and can facilitate a disruption insertion if necessary.”
    “Do you mind if I ask what happened to you?” America bit her lip, hoping she did not offend. “I only thought that perhaps it would be best . . .”
    “Yes, why not?” Coppersmith’s mechanical voice clicked and gasped. “Get the whole bloody story out of the way. My fifth trip over, I was captured and tortured. They took an eye—crushed my voice box. I lost hearing in this ear,” he banged his finger against a sculpted metal ear. Above the curve of the brass ear plate a small conical-shaped horn vacillated back and forth—picking up sound, presumably.
    “Mr. Coppersmith’s hearing has been enhanced tenfold beyond the human range.” Gaspar balanced his cup and saucer on his knee. “Professor Lovecraft’s handiwork. His science has advanced well beyond our time. So much so, he has now become a liability to our world.”
    America’s heart bled to think of young Coppersmith’s painful ordeal, but the apparatus he wore on his head fascinated her. “Do you see as well—out of the . . . ?” The pupil of the mechanical eye dilated wide, then slammed shut. It looked very much like a wink . . . in fact, it was a wink. “Well enough, Miss Jones.”
    America laughed and Cutter Coppersmith pressed full, rather sensuous lips together, his one remaining intact feature.
    She had once attended a demonstration of the Edison Speaking Phonograph, where a person’s speech might be copied and played back. It reminded her of the raspy voice that came out of his throat mechanism.
    What remained to be seen of Coppersmith was a shag of golden brown hair, a strong cheekbone and jaw line, and one dazzling green eye framed by dark lashes. The unadorned half of his face was startling proof he had at one time been an extraordinarily handsome man.
    Jersey Blood drained his glass. “Cutter has shifted over as many times as Gaspar. And he is the only one who has ever been close to the one who keeps popping out these Outremer vermin—Skeezicks and Grubbers—Reapers as well.
    Cutter removed a large key