Soulless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the First

by Gail Carriger

  “Magnetized iron dust, I would hazard a guess, aligned to the domain of the automaton’s internal engine, possibly through an aetheric connection. You must find a way to undo it.”

  “Undo what?” she asked.

  “The VIXI.”

  “Ah.” Miss Tarabotti pretended to understand. “That simple, is it?”

  In the darkness of their lonely cell, Lord Akeldama grinned at her. “Now you are playing me for a lark, my sweet. I am sorry I do not know any more. I have never had to deal with a homunculus simulacrum personally. Alchemic sciences have never been my forté.”

  Alexia wondered what was his forté but asked, “What else do you think they are doing at this club? Aside from building an automaton.”

  The vampire shrugged as much as his handcuffs would allow. “Whatever they do must, perforce, involve experimentation on vampires, possibly a forcing of metamorphosis. I am beginning to suspect that rove you killed—when was it, a week or so ago?—was not actually made supernatural at all but was manufactured as a counterfeit of some kind.”

  “They have been abducting loner werewolves too. Professor Lyall found out about it,” Alexia told him.

  “Really? I did not know that.” Lord Akeldama sounded more disappointed in his own abilities than surprised at the news. “Stands to reason, I suppose; might as well work with both sides of the supernatural living. I assure you, even these scientists cannot figure out a way to cut open or replicate a ghost. The real question is, what are they doing with all of us in the end?”

  Miss Tarabotti shuddered, remembering that Countess Nadasdy had said the new vampires rarely lived beyond a few days. “It cannot be pleasant, whatever it is.”

  “No,” Lord Akeldama agreed quietly. “No, it cannot.” He was silent for a long moment, and then he said soberly, “My dear child, may I ask you something, in all seriousness?”

  Alexia raised her eyebrows. “I do not know. Can you? I did not think you actually possessed the capacity for seriousness, my lord.”

  “Ah, yes, it is an assumption I have taken great care to cultivate.” The vampire cleared his throat. “But, let me give it my best attempt this once. It seems unlikely that I will survive this little misadventure of ours. But if I do, I should like to ask a favor of you.”

  Miss Tarabotti did not know what to say at that. She was struck by how bleak her life suddenly looked without Lord Akeldama to color it. She was also amazed by his calm acceptance of his impending demise. She supposed that after so many centuries, death was no longer a fearsome thing.

  He continued. “It has been a very, very long time since I have experienced the sun. Do you think you might wake me early one evening, with contact, so that I could see it set?”

  Miss Tarabotti was touched by such a request. It would be a very dangerous endeavor for him, for he would have to trust her implicitly not to let go. If they broke contact for even a moment, he would immolate instantly.

  “Are you certain?”

  He breathed out acknowledgment as though it were a benediction. “Absolutely positive.”

  Just then, the door to the cell banged open. One of the flunkies came in and unceremoniously lifted Lord Akeldama over one bulky shoulder.

  “Promise?” said the vampire, hanging limply upside down.

  Miss Tarabotti said, “I promise,” hoping she would have the chance to live up to her vow.

  With that, Lord Akeldama was carried from the room. The door was closed and bolted behind him. Miss Tarabotti, with nothing but her own thoughts for company, was left alone in the dark. She was particularly annoyed with herself; she had meant to ask about the brass octopuses appearing everywhere.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Among the Machines

  Miss Tarabotti could think of nothing to do but wiggle her hands and feet to keep up blood circulation within the tight confines of the manacles. She lay there for what seemed like an age, simply wiggling. She was beginning to infer she had been forgotten, for no one came to check up on her, nor, indeed, showed any interest at all in her physical condition. She was quite uncomfortable, for corsets, bustles, and all other accoutrements of a lady’s appropriate dress were not conducive to lying, bound, on a hard floor. She shifted, sighed, and stared up at the ceiling, trying to think about anything but Lord Maccon, her current predicament, or Lord Akeldama’s safety. Which meant she could do nothing but reflect on the complex plight of her mama’s most recent embroidery project. This, in itself, was a worse torture than any her captors could devise.

  Eventually, she was saved from her own masochistic meditations by the sound of two voices in the corridor outside her cell. Both seemed vaguely familiar. The conversation, when they were in close enough proximity for Alexia to overhear the particulars, bore a distinct semblance to a guided museum tour.

  “Of course, you must acknowledge that in order to eliminate the supernatural threat, we must first understand it. Professor Sneezewort’s most worthwhile research has shown… Ah, in this cell, we have another rove vampire: splendid example of Homo sanguis, although rather young for exsanguination. Unfortunately, his origin and original hive association are unknown. This is the sad result of having to rely so heavily on rove specimens. But, you understand, here in England, members of a hive tend to be too much in the public eye and too well guarded. We are having a very difficult time convincing this one to speak. He was transported over from France, you see, and has not been quite right in the head since. There appear to be some serious physical and mental repercussions when one removes a vampire from his immediate localized area: tremulations, disorientation, dementia, and the like. We have not determined the exact mathematical nature of the distance, whether bodies of water are key factors, and so forth, but it promises to be a fascinating branch of research. One of our younger, more enthusiastic, investigators is producing some interesting work utilizing this particular specimen as his main study source. He has been trying to convince us to mount a collecting trip across the Channel into the farther reaches of Eastern Europe. I believe he wants Russian specimens, but we are concerned with remaining inconspicuous at the moment. I am certain you understand. And, of course, there is the cost to consider.”

  A second male voice answered in a flattish accent, “This is quite fascinating. I had heard of the territorial aspect of vampire psychology. I did not know of the physiological repercussions. I would be quite interested to read the research once it is published. What little gem do you hold in the last cell?”

  “Ah, well, it did house Akeldama, one of the oldest vampires in London. His capture this evening was quite the coup. But he is already on the exsanguination table, so we have our mystery guest in residence for the moment.”

  “A mystery?” The second voice sounded intrigued.

  Miss Tarabotti was still unable to determine why this voice seemed so very familiar.

  “Indeed,” answered the first, “a spinsterly young lady of moderate breeding who has persisted in turning up during the course of our investigations. After one too many appearances, we brought her in.”

  The second voice said, shocked, “You have imprisoned a lady?”

  “Unfortunately, she has made it increasingly necessary. It is the end result of her own meddling. Quite a puzzle she is too.” The first man was sounding equal parts annoyed and enthralled. He continued. “Would you be interested in meeting her? You might be able to provide some insight. You are, after all, approaching the supernatural problem from an entirely unique perspective, and we would value your input.”

  The second man sounded genuinely pleased. “I would be delighted to offer my assistance. How kind of you to ask.”

  Miss Tarabotti frowned in ever increasing frustration at her terribly inconvenient inability to place the man’s voice. There was something about his accent. What was it? Fortunately (or more accurately unfortunately), she did not have to live in confusion much longer.

  The door to her closet of a prison swung open.

  Miss Tarabotti blinked
and inadvertently coiled away from the seemingly blinding light of the hallway.

  Someone gasped.

  “Why, Miss Tarabotti!”

  Miss Tarabotti, eyes watering, squinted at the two backlit figures. Eventually, her eyes adjusted to the unsteady light of the oil lamps. She squirmed about, trying to assume a more elegant position on the floor. She was only mildly successful, remaining ungracefully prone and manacled. She did manage a better angle, which enabled her to see her visitors with greater clarity.

  One proved to be the shadowed man, and for the first time in their unsavory acquaintance, his face was not actually in complete shadow. It was he who was playing the part of tour guide. Seeing his countenance at last was an unsatisfactory experience. Alexia had hoped for something particularly horrific and evil. But it was nothing singular, comprised of large graying muttonchops, excessive jowls, and watery blue eyes. She had expected at least some kind of dramatic scar. But there stood her great and sinister nemesis, and he was disappointingly ordinary.

  The other man was plumpish, bespectacled, and in possession of a hairline midretreat. His was a countenance Alexia was quite familiar with.

  “Good evening, Mr. MacDougall,” she said. Even when one was horizontally prone, there was no call for rudeness. “How nice to see you again.”

  The young scientist, with a cry of profound surprise, came instantly over to kneel solicitously next to her. He helped her gently into a sitting position, apologizing profusely for having to manhandle her person.

  Miss Tarabotti did not mind in the least; for, once upright, she felt considerably more dignified. She was also pleased to know Mr. MacDougall had no intentional hand in her abduction. That would have grieved her sorely, for she liked the young man and did not wish to think ill of him. She had no doubt his surprise and concern were genuine. She might, she thought, even be able to turn his presence to her advantage.

  Miss Tarabotti then realized the state of her hair and was mortified. Her captors had, of course, removed her hair ribbon and her two deadly hair pins—the one of wood and the other of silver. Without them, heavy dark curls fell down her back in wild abandon. Pathetically, she raised a shoulder and bent to the side, trying to push it away from her face, not realizing, of course, how fetchingly exotic she looked with loose hair in combination with her strong features, wide mouth, and tan skin.

  Very Italian, thought Mr. MacDougall when he could spare a moment in his concern for her well-being. He was genuinely worried. He also felt guilty, for if Miss Tarabotti was caught up in this mess, it must be of his doing. Had he not encouraged her interest in the supernatural during their drive together? And her, a lady of good breeding! What could he have been thinking to talk so unguardedly of scientific pursuits? A woman of Miss Tarabotti’s caliber would not be content to let matters lie, if she was really intrigued. It must be his fault that she had been imprisoned.

  “You know the young lady?” asked the shadowed man, pulling out his pipe and a small velvet tobacco pouch. There was an octopus embroidered on the outside of the pouch, golden thread on chocolate brown velvet.

  Mr. MacDougall looked up from where he knelt. “I certainly do. This is Miss Alexia Tarabotti,” he said angrily before Miss Tarabotti could stop him.

  Oh dear, Alexia thought philosophically, the cat is well and truly out of the bag now.

  Mr. MacDougall continued speaking, a flush staining his pasty, pudgy cheeks and a small sheen of sweat lining his brow. “To treat a young lady of such standing as shabbily as this!” he sputtered. “It is a grave blow, not only to the honor of the club, but also to that of the scientific profession as a whole. We should remove her restraints this moment! Shame on you.”

  How did that saying go? Alexia wondered. Ah, yes, “Brash as an American.” Well, they had won their independence somehow, and it was not with politeness.

  The man with the muttonchops filled his pipe bowl and nipped back into the hallway briefly to light it with one of the oil lamps. “Why does that name sound familiar?” He turned back and puffed for a moment, blowing fragrant vanilla-scented smoke into the cell. “Of course— the BUR records! Are you telling me this is the Alexia Tarabotti?” He took the pipe out of his mouth and pointed the long ivory stem at Alexia for emphasis.

  “The only one I’ve met in your country so far,” answered Mr. MacDougall, sounding unbelievably rude— even for an American.

  “Of course.” The shadowed man finally put two and two together. “This explains everything: her involvement with BUR, her visiting the hive, and her association with Lord Akeldama!” He looked to Miss Tarabotti severely. “You have led us a merry dance, young lady.” Then he looked back at Mr. MacDougall. “Do you know what she is?”

  “Aside from manacled? Which she should not be. Mr. Siemons, give me the keys this minute!”

  Miss Tarabotti was suitably impressed by Mr. Mac-Dougall’s insistence. She had not thought he would be such a champion or possess such backbone.

  “Ah, yes, of course,” Mr. Siemons said. At last the shadow man had a name. He leaned backward out the doorway and yelled up the hallway. Then he came inside the cell and bent down toward Miss Tarabotti. He grabbed her face quite roughly and turned her toward the light in the hall. He continued to puff on his pipe, blowing smoke into her eyes.

  Alexia coughed pointedly.

  Mr. MacDougall was further shocked. “Really, Mr. Siemons, such crass treatment!”

  “Amazing,” said Siemons. “She seems perfectly normal. One would never be able to tell simply by looking, would one?”

  Mr. MacDougall finally got over his gentlemanly instincts enough to allow the scientific part of his mental faculties to participate in the conversation. In a voice colored with both hesitation and dread, he asked, “Why shouldn’t she be?”

  Mr. Siemons stopped blowing smoke in Miss Tarabotti’s face and blew it instead at the American scientist. “This young lady is a preternatural: a Homo exanimus. We have been looking for her since we first deduced her existence here in London. Which, I might add, was only shortly after finding out that preternaturals existed at all. Of course, if you follow the counterbalance theorem, her kind seems perfectly logical. I am surprised we never before thought to look. And, of course, we knew the supernatural set had ancient legends pertaining to certain dangerous creatures that were born to hunt them. The werewolves have their curse-breakers, the vampires their soul-suckers, and the ghosts their exorcists. But we did not know they were all the same organism and that that organism was a scientific fact, not a myth. They are startlingly uncommon, as it turns out. Miss Tarabotti here is a rare beast, indeed.”

  Mr. MacDougall looked shocked. “A what?”

  Mr. Siemons did not share his shock; in fact, he looked particularly delighted all of a sudden—a lightning change of mood that did not strike Miss Tarabotti as entirely sane.

  “A preternatural!” He grinned, waving his pipe about haphazardly. “Fantastic! There are so many things we need to know about her.”

  Alexia said, “You stole the paperwork from BUR.”

  Mr. Siemons shook his head. “No, my dear, we liberated and then secured important documents in order to prevent dangerous societal elements from fraudulently identifying themselves as normal. Our initiative in this matter will enhance our ability to assess threat and confirm identity of those enabling the supernatural conspiracy.”

  “She is one of them?” Mr. MacDougall said, still stuck on Miss Tarabotti’s preternatural state. He jerked away from her and thus stopped supporting Alexia in her seated position. Luckily, she managed not to fall backward.

  He seemed almost repelled by her. Alexia began to wonder about the story of his brother becoming a vampire. How much of that had been truth?

  Mr. Siemons slapped Mr. MacDougall’s back delightedly. “No, no, no, my good man. Quite the opposite! She is the antidote to the supernatural. If you can think of an entire living organism as an antidote. Now that we have her, the opportunities for study are endless! Si
mply think of what we could accomplish. Such possibilities.” He was positively gregarious. His watery blue eyes shone with an excess of scientific enthusiasm.

  Alexia shuddered at the idea of what such a study might entail.

  Mr. MacDougall looked thoughtful and then stood and pulled his companion out into the hallway. They engaged in a whispered conversation.

  During their brief absence, Miss Tarabotti tried frantically to slip free of her handcuffs. She had a sinking suspicion that she would not like anything they wanted to do to her in this ghastly place. But she could not even manage to stand upright.

  She heard Mr. Siemons say, “It is an excellent suggestion and could not hurt. If she is as intelligent as you purport, she may yet perceive the merits of our work. It would certainly be novel to engage with a willing participant.”

  The most miraculous change in Miss Tarabotti’s circumstances then proceeded to occur. She found herself gently lifted by a pair of subdued lackeys. She was carried upstairs into the lavish precincts of the foyer, with its plush Oriental carpets and luxuriant furnishings. Her restraints were unlocked and removed, and she was given a small private dressing room in which to wash and compose herself. Her ivory taffeta dress was a little worse for the experience; one of the puffed sleeves and some of the gold lace had ripped, and it was stained beyond redemption in several places. Alexia was annoyed. True, it was out of fashion, but she had liked the gown. She sighed and did her best to smooth out the wrinkles while looking with interest around the dressing room.

  There was no means of escape, but there was a bit of ribbon for her to tie back her unruly hair and a looking glass in which she could check up on the generally disreputable state of her appearance. The mirror was ornate, framed but carved gilded wood, more suited to Lord Akeldama’s house than a modern setting. The frame seemed to be made up of a long chain of octopuses, arms linked. Alexia was beginning to find the whole octopus prevalence slightly sinister.