Curse of the Nandi (Society for Paranormals Book 5) (22 page)

For our endeavor however, the location of his dwelling was less than ideal, for the small hotel was a center of social activity once night settled in. Despite the fact that it was close to two in the morning, there was light and movement from within, as the visiting hunters continued to celebrate their success decimating populations of unarmed animals. And it was more than possible that while the hunters were carousing, other people were enjoying the excesses of the night with them. Given that the doctor did overly enjoy both food and drink, it was plausible that he was amongst them.

We left the horses in the trees behind the hotel, and I fervently prayed the Kerit had little interest in horse brains. As we approached the building, I glanced up at the first floor where the bedrooms were. I had already ascertained through Jonas that the doctor’s room was the finest, a corner suite with a grand view of the burgeoning town and the Savannah beyond. How Jonas had come by that information amazed me and caused a moment of discomfort upon realizing that the Africans chatted about their European neighbors in such detail.

“You proceed upstairs while I shall order myself a beverage and ensure no one follows you,” Father said as he too peered up to the room which was unlit.

“I wasn’t aware you drank,” I said.

“I don’t,” he said with a wink. “At least, not liquors.”

With that, he boldly entered the hotel and, as most of the ground floor was the dining room and bar, he was embraced in light and noise, all of which vanished as the door closed behind him.

“How shall we avoid being sighted going up the stairs?” I wondered, for the staircase was inside, near the entrance. It was this need for stealth that had prevented us from visiting Dr. Spurrier in his office, for it would have seemed very odd if Mr. Timmons had entered the office but was not seen exiting it with me.

Mr. Timmons shifted the canvas bag of goodies to his other side and began to walk around the hotel. “We shan’t be using the stairs, my dear.”

“Oh bother,” I said with a sigh, and was grateful I had a pair of cycling pants under my skirt. The pants were a gift, a rather odd one at that, from Lilly. She insisted they were the height of fashion and practicality in London and were endorsed by no less than the Rational Dress Society. I wasn’t convinced on the aspect of fashion as I found them far too manly for my taste, but they were practical, particularly when I realized how Mr. Timmons intended for us to proceed to the upper floor.

I eyed the trellis. Made of thin slats of wood, it had been placed against the side of the hotel and a few climbing vines had been planted along its base. I was certain that in a few years, the effect would be spectacular, but for our purpose, I was less persuaded.

“Will it hold?” I demanded, somewhat skeptical that the trellis would tolerate the weight of anything more than a green creeper.

Mr. Timmons grinned at me and raised an eyebrow in a most provocative manner. “We’ll send you up first then, shall we?”

“You are truly insufferable,” I scolded him. “I would have hoped a gentleman would offer to go first.”

He shrugged. “I’ve not laid claims to being one, my dear. Besides, how shall you catch me if I went first and began to fall?”

“I wouldn’t,” I said and nodded to the wall. “Up you go then.”

“I suspect you might relish the view of me climbing up first,” he retorted with a leer that would be utterly unbecoming if it had been any other man but my husband.

“Indeed I might,” I said and in fact, I very much did.

It didn’t take the rogue more than a few minutes to heave himself up the trellis and onto the narrow balcony that encircled the first floor. He flung himself over the rail, then turned to face me.

“I might have a decent view myself,” he said and he gestured me forward with a hand motion.

“Hm,” was all I dared say as I prepared to toss up my walking stick.

“Try not to aim at my head, dear,” Mr. Timmons called to me.

“It’s so big, I’d rather find it difficult not to,” I said.

Raising my walking stick over my shoulder, I heaved it bottom tip first, as I would a spear if I were in the habit of tossing spears at my husband. Mr. Timmons ably caught it before it could pierce the window behind him, and I set out to clamber up the thin wooden trellis, after ensuring my wolf energy was still glowing in my metal hand.

Mr. Timmons had provided the illusion that it was rather a simple business to scale a wall, but in point of fact, it was not. Even after hitching my skirt up above my knees (for which I received a few scandalous comments from my one-man audience), it was still a tiresome endeavor. It hadn't seemed too far up while standing on the ground, but three-quarters of the way up the wall, I paused to draw breath and rest my quivering arms.

“It doesn’t help to rest there, Mrs. Timmons,” Mr. Timmons informed me just as I came to a similar conclusion. “Best to push on. You’ve not far to go. What’s that you said, dear? Stop nattering.”

“Next time, I’ll most assuredly aim for your head,” I muttered as I stretched up for the next handhold which was just below the top of the trellis. After that, he had best pull me up and over the balcony rail. “What?”

I glanced up but Mr. Timmons had turned aside to peer into an open window of a bedroom. Yet the sound that had snagged my attention continued, and it wasn’t issuing forth from him. I paused, my hand hovering above my head as I strained to identify the source of the creaking noise. A bedroom door opening, perhaps? I lowered my hand slowly and grabbed onto the wood while lifting one leg and inserting my boot into another gap created by the slats of wood.

As I simultaneously pushed with my legs and pulled with my arms, my new foothold snapped underneath my boot and I lurched to that side while tightening my handholds. From above, a series of snapping sounds added to the creaking and cracking, and a nail landed on my forehead just as the top of the trellis peeled away from the wall.

“Mr. Timmons!” I called out.

“Don’t shout. I think there’s someone in the next bedroom,” Mr. Timmons said as he spun around, just in time to see the trellis pull farther away from the wall. My legs were now dangling, even as I struggled to push them back into the gaps between the wood. My efforts only seemed to exasperate my precarious situation.

“Blast it,” Mr. Timmons cussed as he wielded my walking stick and attempted to hook the top of it through the trellis. He was successful in pushing the fist in between the slats, and in nearly punching me in the nose.

“Do watch where you’re aiming that, dear,” I chided him as I pulled myself up. If I could reach over the top of the trellis, I reasoned, I could grab the walking stick and pull the structure to which I was clinging back against the wall. It did seem a practical idea in my head, but what I hadn’t anticipated was that my upward motion would cause the trellis to angle away from the hotel.

“Stop fidgeting,” Mr. Timmons said and he was chuckling. Chuckling!

“This is no laughing matter,” I fumed as I stretched my arm over bits of thin wood that poked at my armpit.

“Indeed not,” he replied agreeably, but that devilish glint remained, and I marveled how I could put up with a man who would find amusement in observing his wife in such a precarious position.

My metal hand latched onto the walking stick, the fingers locking around it in a deathly grip, for which I was grateful. But in my agitation, I lost focus and my wolf energy hopped out of the hand and leaped toward Mr. Timmons against whom my ire was directed.

“No!” I wailed, for I didn’t wish to see yet another husband of mine dying before my gaze. Apart from the inconvenience of having to explain it to the authorities and other nosy individuals, I’d have to arrange the funeral and a possible replacement. Besides, I was rather attached to this man despite his propensity for crude comments and exasperating behavior.

Should I try to unlock my metal hand so I could pull myself toward the veranda? Or should I focus on controlling the wolf? All these thoughts and questions pulsed through my mind in a fraction of the time it took to inhale, yet it seemed a small eternity. The wolf energy, oblivious to my real distress, had latched onto Mr. Timmons’ arm, the very one that held onto the walking stick and, by extension, me. Gifted as he was, he could see what was gnawing its way toward his jugular, and yet his only reaction was a determined calm as he summoned up his own energy field and directed it into action.

“Don’t drain it,” I yelped, for I remembered too well how depleted I’d become when a certain dwarf named Nameless had captured my wolf and bottled it.

“Perish the thought,” Mr. Timmons said as a tentacle of energy slapped the wolf away.

Come back
, I willed.
Come back, you miscreant of a canine
.

The wolf, growling silently, glared at Mr. Timmons.

Back into the hand
, I insisted.
He’s not the problem. Well, not this time, at any rate
.

Shaking itself as a dog does after a bath, the wolf loped through the railing and back into my hand. Before I could unlock my fingers or think beyond an overwhelming relief that I wouldn’t be responsible for murdering my husband that evening, the trellis jerked forward, and a hand gripped my upper arm.

With Mr. Timmons’ assistance, I scrambled over the railing in a thoroughly undignified manner. But allowances should be made for the lack of dignity when it involved matters of life and death. And so, I forgave myself and my husband, and simply sagged into his arms, grateful that we were both in one piece and, better yet, still breathing.

“Why wouldn’t you have taken the stairs?” a voice inquired politely, and we spun about, both of us preparing to launch an assault at the unfortunate soul who had so silently appeared behind us.

Instead, we observed Mr. Elkhart Senior. For his part, he was consumed by both incredulity and hilarity.

“Well, we assumed we wouldn’t want to be spotted,” I said with a sniff, but unable to prevent a warm flush that bloomed across my cheeks.

“I am truly all astonishment,” my father said, the softness of his voice doing little to disguise his bewilderment. “It was my purpose to distract anyone in the dining room so that you could slip by unseen, but instead, I find you,” and he turned to Mr. Timmons, “dragging my daughter up the side of the wall like a common thief.”

“In my defense, sir, I am a most uncommon thief,” Mr. Timmons replied, not at all pleased with being labeled as
common
.

Father merely shook his head with a disapproving clucking noise and gestured toward the corner room where a glimmer of light had appeared behind the curtains. “Our victim has returned to his rooms, and let’s hope he’s not been alerted to our presence by all the ruckus.”

Eager to impress upon the vampire that I was more than capable of carrying out my work without making an imbecile of myself, I slid to the side of the window frame. The curtains were not closed tight, so I could see the bulk of the Medical Officer shuffling about, his bald head reflecting the glow from the kerosene lantern. I could also hear him, as the windows were cracked open, and I marveled at the lack of concern for security. Then again, crime wasn’t as much an issue here as it was in London, apart from the fruit-stealing monkeys or the occasional marauding lion snatching up a goat or two.

“And for your next trick?” Father said in a bemused voice.

I startled at the nearness of his voice, for he had moved to my side with such swiftness that not even the wood decking had felt his steps.

“We can’t let him see us,” I replied as I pressed a disguised knob on my walking stick. A small drawer slid out, disclosing a delicate blowgun and three darts dipped in a fast-acting narcotic. It was my weapon of choice for these sorts of situations. Not that I was in the habit of abducting people, of course.

I slipped a dart into the blowgun, crouched under the window, and shuffled until I was under the opening. Mr. Timmons maintained a watch on Dr. Spurrier while Father gazed out toward the quiet Victoria Street, his features gently vigilant.

A few minutes ticked by, and with each one that passed, my legs quivered, having not fully recovered from their climb up the trellis. According to Prof Runal, the most important tool for a paranormal investigator, apart from hearty doses of curiosity and imagination, was patience, of which I unfortunately had little. I compensated for that lack with a fully loaded walking stick and a sachet of powdered cinnamon, amongst other tools. These in my opinion were far more useful for one of my trade, unless one was attempting an abduction.

I was about to comment that it was most fortuitous that I was not a professional kidnapper when Mr. Timmons whispered, “Now.”

I lurched upward, the blowgun at my lips before I’d finished rising, and blew. The dart smacked Dr. Spurrier in the back of his thick neck, and I had resumed my squat before he had even lifted a hand to swat at the thing that had bitten him.

“Blasted mosquitos,” he muttered crossly, and a couple of breaths later, we heard and felt his body fall to the floor.

I didn’t wait for further confirmation that the dart had done its job, and instead opened the window fully, sat on the sill, and swung my legs into the room.

“My daughter is quite proficient at illegal entering and other such activities,” Father commented behind me. “I’m not sure how I should feel about that.”