Primrose relaxed a fraction. Things seemed to be going well so far. No one had charged for their necks, or bottoms, or whatever it was that pishtacos charged for when they were hungry. Remembering her stuffed reticule, Primrose held it up. “I have brought offerings of amnesty.”
At the pishtaco’s nod, she reached inside and produced the butter. “For you.” And then the face cream and the bracelet. “For your queen.”
“The children of the sanguinus are most kind.”
“The butter is merely a token, for we suspect you cannot eat it, much as my mother could not drink the blood of an animal. But we wished you to understand that we know who you are. And we thought your companions might enjoy the treat.”
“They will indeed, thank you. Would you offer of yourselves?”
He and the other pishtacos made a show of examining both Percy and Primrose from head to toe. It was odd to be so viewed, as if they were a juicy chop on display at the butcher’s, but there was no menace to it. It was almost like a form of flirtation, only without fans or flowers.
Primrose said, voice gone a little lower to prevent it from shaking. “If it is necessary to engender trust I would offer a very small amount, but, you understand, I would prefer not.” Percy gave her a startled and slightly disgusted look but spoke her words faithfully. His gesture indicated he was making it very clear that she was the only one on the table, as it were.
“We understand. And without contract, it is merely a remnant of very old traditions. Not necessary given your own birth mother’s immortality.”
Prim let out a relieved sigh.
“However, if you wish to meet our queen, you must offer her something more of yourself than jewellery.” Cauac’s tone suggested there could be no other reason for their visiting.
Primrose pursed her lips. “It is a delicate matter, which has been stymied by an unfortunate initial foray.” She straightened her spine, put on her best autocratic air and her most serious expression. “We are on a rescue mission.”
The pishtacos all looked around after Percy translated this, taking in their shabby surroundings and their timid companion drones. Everything about them was slender and transient, as if they were wraiths from a forgotten time.
“Our companions are all volunteers, children of the sanguinus. We see to their care as much as we are able. It is a consequence of who we are that they appear so thin. We do feed them well and often. They are offered the bite by our queen when the time is right so that they might become one of us. We observed the correct protocols of transition.”
Primrose shook her head. “No, no, you misconstrue. It is you we wish to save.” Primrose thought of Tasherit and her werelions. They too had been the last of their kind. She couldn’t bear the idea that these ancient people would be eliminated forever, wraiths or no.
The pishtacos didn’t seem to know whether to be pleased or insulted by this statement. The idea that they could not take care of themselves would, of course, take its toll on any immortals. But manifest to all was the fact that there were only seven of them left in the world. They clearly needed someone’s help. And any race to have lived so long also knew when to ask for help. “Pride,” Lord Akeldama always said, “only lasts a century or two. It is the first sin to go. Deadly sins don’t last long if you’re already dead.”
Primrose also suspected the pishtacos might be motivated by a profound need not to be forgotten. They were now, quite unexpectedly, known to the vampires from overseas. They were different, but they were no longer so very alone.
A voice spoke from the shadows of a hallway to one side of the fireplace. “I will speak with her, Cauac.”
And into the light of the fire walked the snowy perfection of the pishtaco queen.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Weddings and Their Consequences
Unlike the vampire queens of Prim’s experience, which admittedly was confined to her mother and Countess Nadasdy, the pishtaco queen had not waited in an inner sanctum for others to come to her.
Instead, like any friendly society hostess, she came forth towards them, both hands held out in true welcome. Her fingernails were silvery too, but much longer, almost as long as her fingers themselves, and they had been pierced and decorated with silver rings.
“You are strong and brave, children of my fellow queen.” Her voice was low and musical, lilting and siren-like. The pishtaco queen resembled her male counterparts but skewed slightly. Like them, she was thin and very white from head to toe. But she also wore white, where the males were dressed in the colourful woven cloth of local manufacture. Her eyes were more pink than red, magenta in tone. This made them look less tired and less angry. She was very tall, much taller than any of her menfolk. There was something unnaturally beautiful about her in ways they lacked, powerful ways.
Primrose was reminded, inexplicably, of stories told to her by an Irish nanny, of the people of the mounds. Percy, as a child, had become obsessed with researching them for a time. She looked to her brother. “Does she remind you of the daoine sidhe?”
The queen said in English barely accented but somehow old-fashioned in tone and cadence, “Daoine sidhe, what means this?”
Primrose blushed, she had forgotten to be careful that someone might know her native tongue. “Your pardon, great lady. It is a word from Gaelic times, before our recorded history. The Fair Folk they were also called. You look much as they were described - terribly beautiful.”
A flash of a smile exposed the queen’s fangs, columnar like the other pishtacos’, yet unlike them she had two sets. Maker fangs, thought Primrose. So pishtaco queens are much like vampire queens, in this at least.
The queen’s thin face brightened with real pleasure. “You think me beautiful?”
Primrose nodded. “I do.” Like an ice goddess.
“You have surprised me, little mortal. And it has been many years since I have been surprised. I will listen to what you have to say.” She turned to one of her drones. “Mate de coca,” she said, and he scuttled away.
She gestured. “Please sit. I am Queen Madera Acebo, welcome to my nest.”
Things proceeded remarkably smoothly from that point on. The queen greatly admired both the face cream and the bracelet Prim offered up. She did not try to bite either of them. The tea, when brought in, was as Primrose feared, that of local extraction, which tasted one note shy of horse dung. Or should I say, alpaca dung? But she managed to drink it without even a nose wrinkle of disgust. For all its flavour it was most invigorating.
Primrose and Percy shared stories of their childhood growing up in a hive, and much of what they knew of vampires. Queen Madera was fascinated. They even discussed excess soul. It seemed the pishtacos had no better way of knowing if a mortal might survive their metamorphosis bite.
“Our preference is to feed off the truly dramatic - singers, actors, and so forth. Like you two.”
“You believe Percy and I are actors?”
“You aren’t? What a waste. You perform beautifully.”
Primrose had no idea whether to be flattered by this or not, so she carefully moved them on to the concept of relocation. She explained that their visit may have encouraged the bishop to pursue an extermination mandate. Even if they left the pishtacos untouched, others were coming.
The queen only sighed. “We have never been safe here since the conquistadores came, and before them we were barely tolerated. We do not have your history of occasional acceptance of the supernatural. Fat, in the mountains, is highly prized and jealously guarded. We have ever been a threat rather than an asset to our country.”
“See,” said Percy proudly, “I told you it was an environmentally deterministic stance.”
“Yes, Percy, you were right.” Primrose rolled her eyes.
“Go on,” said Percy, crossing his arms. He glared at his sister.
The pishtacos were clearly trying not to be amused. Primrose allowed Percy’s sibling antics because they were, at le
ast, relaxing in their familiarity.
“You’re always right, Percy. O brilliant brother of mine. Now explain to the nice lady your scheme.”
Percy outlined his plan of putting her nest on a private train north into California. “The North Americans are rather obsessed with a slender physique, even if they generally do not welcome the supernatural. It is my opinion that fashion may override sense in this matter. No offence.”
Primrose quickly jumped in. “What my brother is trying to say is that a moral objection to something, like ladies in trousers, may be overcome by something perceived as more immediately valuable, like bicycle riding.”
“You think we may be overlooked for being devils under religious law because we can make people thin? Thin is… desirable?” The queen looked doubtful but did not outright refuse. “What is the name of this town in California, this one you think might welcome us?”
Percy said, “It’s rather small but very up-and-coming.” He scrabbled for something nice to say about the place. “Has a large theatre district. It is called Los Angeles. Still predominantly Spanish speaking. You might set up there, buy a music hall or something similar. Encourage performances of willowy blondes.”
The queen smiled, taking that, too, as a compliment. Which Primrose supposed it might be. She had no idea into what arena her brother’s tastes ran. She hoped he had not developed a tendre for the pishtaco queen.
The queen looked cautiously interested - difficult to tell with magenta eyes. “There is nothing to keep us here. We have no particular ties or love for this place. I should enjoy going somewhere warmer, near the sea.”
Primrose frowned. “It is not difficult for you to leave? You are not tethered to this house? Our vampire queens cannot move home without great trauma.”
Queen Madera frowned. “We must stay together, close, the seven of us. If too many of them weaken or depart, I would die, but we can relocate together.”
Primrose nodded and side-eyed Percy. “So, more like werewolves in that, then?”
“I have only heard of your werewolves, never seen one. Are they like your vampires, survivors?”
Primrose nodded.
“We should like to be survivors too. I am not so old and not so tired that I have given up the fight.”
Primrose said, “How can you trust us?”
The queen shrugged. “You bring me gifts of fat. You come into my nest with no weapons and no fear. You bring us hope when we had none. You talk of trains and places far away. If you are spinning lies they are great ones, but I think perhaps too complicated to be anything but truth.”
“How are you on floating?” Primrose asked, intrigued.
“To fly, above the ground and close to the aether? It would likely not be healthy for any of us. We could try, of course, but we must stay together. How do your vampires react?”
“They go mad,” said Primrose, not attempting to hide the horror of it. “Werewolves get very ill. But our werecat, our nahual as you call her, she is fine. She falls into deep sleep. It seems all immortals react differently.”
Percy was frowning. “We could use the Porcini. Keep it low and near the ground whenever possible, and drag them behind us over the mountain tomorrow night and into Lima to catch the morning train.”
Primrose hesitated and then asked, “I know they pose more danger than Percy and myself, and I know we all started off on the wrong foot, but might my captain and her officers come to speak with you as well? It would be good to have her confidence.”
The queen considered a moment and then agreed.
And so Rue joined them, bringing with her food and tea. She was accompanied by Quesnel (who clearly was not letting her out of his sight again) and Tasherit (who clearly wanted to make certain Primrose was not sucked to a skeletal state). Which meant Anitra was in charge of the ship, with Rodrigo. Which made Primrose less nervous than it should. Which she assumed meant she trusted the Italian.
So it was that they used the Porcini and an improvised sling to transport seven pishtacos into Lima. Percy said it took more mathematics than was healthy in an eight-hour period to keep them from dragging, and everyone ought to be very grateful to his old trigonometry professor, and, of course, Percy’s innate genius. Tasherit said they looked like nothing so much as a fishing net full of large sardines, although pishtacos did not smell as good as sardines would. Then she licked her lips in such a way that meant Primrose had to kiss her, right there on the main deck. No one minded.
Those companions who wished to immigrate with their pishtacos travelled to Lima in great comfort aboard the Spotted Custard, where Cook went to every effort to fatten them up. Cook was thrilled by the challenge, a true test of his genius. There was a lot of pudding.
After some consultation several of the crew and staff came forward and offered themselves for feeding before the pishtacos departed for points north. Including, much to Prim’s surprise, Aggie Phinkerlington. She was a very solid lady, all things considered, but it had never occurred to Prim that Aggie was self-conscious about anything, least of all her weight.
Rue was not surprised. “I would have offered myself, despite Quesnel’s griping, except, of course, it won’t work.”
Prim gave her a shocked look.
“Oh no, not for that reason. I’ve never minded how I looked. It’s simply that we live aboard a dirigible, weight is a concern.” Rue frowned then. “Pity we can’t keep them with us, it would make restock calculations so much easier if we could simply take a little off the crew now and then.”
Primrose blinked at that. “I think I find that mildly upsetting, Rue dear.”
“Do you? Is it? Well, it’s not possible either way.”
Once in Lima, Rue spared no expense in seeing to the pishtacos’ comfort. She drew extensively upon her vampire father’s resources, which, fortunately, stretched even to Lima. Apparently, Lord Akeldama had investments in local lime quarries, which meant he kept money in a local bank, which meant Rue could access it. Good thing, too, for Rue ended up having to purchase the pishtacos’ whole train car. She ordained them Akeldama’s Travelling Circus on all customs forms, and apparently thought it hilarious that there was no elephant. (When Prim asked, Rue muttered something about Gaugamela, and chuckled some more.) Quesnel and his team boarded over the windows as much as possible (on account of sensitive circus animals, they claimed), and outfitted the interior with every luxury they could find.
The pishtacos were gratifyingly grateful. They acknowledged that, should they survive the journey, they would owe Lord Akeldama a huge debt. Rue was pleased, no doubt her Dama would be as well. Vampires have long memories, and even cross-continental agreements are no bad thing.
Primrose ensured that Queen Madera had her personal forwarding address. It was Prim’s mother’s hive but Primrose very much wished to keep up relations. “Once you’re settled, please do write. I may take some time to answer - heaven knows where we are headed next - but I should love to stay in touch.”
“I shall send you news when we are safely settled,” the pishtaco queen assured her with a companionable hand squeeze despite the deadly nails.
Then the train was tooting, and Primrose left the dark carriage, shutting the door and joining her friends on the station platform.
Rue said, “Is it a good thing we do here?”
Primrose tucked her arm into her captain’s. “It was our best option. And it is done now. What next?”
Rue sighed. “Anitra and Rodrigo. I rather fear we have a wedding to plan. Would you be interested…?”
Primrose knew that pained expression well. Rue was all enthusiasm and excitement for adventure and intrigue and floating and even fighting, but attempt to organise a social event and she promptly fell apart.
“I should be delighted to coordinate the festivities,” Primrose said, because it was her duty and because she was indeed delighted.
In the skies over the Pacific Ocean near Lima, Anitra Floote married
Rodrigo Tarabotti on a clear New Year’s evening. The Spotted Custard rang in 1896 with cognac and smoked trout, which oddly pleased all parties concerned. Except, of course, for the sooties and the decklings, who, being still young, were allowed only the trout.
The stars twinkled, as stars are wont to do. The air was crisp and tinged only slightly with the scent of smoked fish. Cook’s attempted preservation techniques earlier that afternoon had met with only limited success, hence the need to eat most of the trout at the wedding.
Lady Prudence Akeldama, captain of the Spotted Custard, presided over the ceremony. The Honourable Professor Percival Tunstell, in a borrowed top hat, stood as best man, with his sister, the Honourable Primrose Tunstell, as maid of honour. Tasherit Sekhmet made a very nice speech on the enduring nature of love, while wearing a Turkish lounging cap of dubious taste and questionable length of tassel.
No official announcement was sent to the London Times. It was too far away and anyone who cared already knew anyway.
Percy withstood both the ceremony and the following feast and musical celebration with great dignity. Until someone brought out a pennywhistle and someone else the bagpipes, and really, it had all gone too far.
He escaped to the forecastle prow with a glass of cognac and a long-suffering expression. He wanted his library, but he thought Primrose would yell if he left too soon.
He found Formerly Floote already floating there, looking away from the celebration and out at the vast ocean.
“You all right there, Formerly Floote?” he asked, because it was the polite thing to do. And the ghost wasn’t half bad, he never got chatty.
Formerly Floote nodded.
Percy sipped and frowned. “You aren’t displeased with the match?”
The ghost wafted in distress. “Not at all. What would give you that impression?”
“You’re here, apart, and not there enjoying the festivities.”
“Ah, no. It is simply disconcerting to be attending a celebration with nothing to do. I am accustomed to being behind the magic, as it were.”
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