“Now would be a very good time to figure out a drop,” suggested Alexia.
Madame Lefoux looked frantically underneath the control board.
Alexia thought of a different tactic. She ran over to the other end of the cabin.
“How do I cut the cargo free?” she spoke in French and leaned close in to the frightened young stoker boy. “Quickly!”
The boy pointed in silent fear at a lever off to one side of the steam engine, separated from both sets of steering controls.
“I think I have it!” Alexia dove for the knob.
At the same time, Madame Lefoux began an even more frantic dance about the steering area, employing a complex series of dial-cycling and handle-pulling that Alexia could only assume would allow their cabin to climb over the other heading toward them.
They were close enough now that they could see the frightened gesticulations of the driver through the window of the other cable cabin.
Alexia pulled down on the freight-release lever with all her might.
The overrides screamed in protest.
Floote came over to help her, and together they managed to muscle it down.
Their rail car shuddered once, and seconds later they heard a loud crash and multiple thuds as the load of lumber fell down to the mountain below. Mere moments after that, there was a lurch as their cabin climbed its buglike way over the oncoming coach, swaying in a most alarming fashion from side to side, ending with one additional shudder as it settled back onto the rails on the other side.
They did not have much time to appreciate their victory, for the pinging sound of bullets on metal heralded the return of their pursuers.
Floote ran to look out a side window. “Revolvers, madam. They’re pacing us by foot.”
“Doesn’t this thing go any faster?” Alexia asked Madame Lefoux.
“Not that I can make it.” The Frenchwoman issued Alexia a demonic dimpled grin. “We shall just have to take the cable as far as it goes and then run for the border.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
The grin only widened. Alexia was beginning to suspect Madame Lefoux of being a rather reckless young woman.
“Italy makes for a strange refuge, madam.” Floote sounded almost philosophical. He began a stately tour of the interior of the carrier, looking for any loose objects that might serve as projectile weaponry.
“You do not like Italy, do you, Floote?”
“Beautiful country, madam.”
“Oh?”
“It took Mr. Tarabotti quite a bit of bother to extract himself. He had to marry an Englishwoman in the end.”
“My mother? I can’t think of a worse fate.”
“Precisely, madam.” Floote used a large wrench to break one of the side windows and stuck his head out. He received a near miss from a bullet for his pains.
“What exactly was he extracting himself from, Floote?”
“The past.” Hoisting some kind of large metal tool, Floote chucked it hopefully out the window. There was a cry of alarm from below, and the young men drew slightly back, out of detritus range.
“Shame we did not eliminate any of them when we dropped the lumber.”
“Indeed, madam.”
“What past, Floote?” Alexia pressed.
“A not very nice one, madam.”
Alexia huffed in frustration. “Did anyone ever tell you, you are entirely insufferable?” Alexia went to shove more coal into the stoke hole.
“Frequently, madam.” Floote waited for the men to gain courage and catch up again, and then threw a few more items out the window. Floote and the drones proceeded in this vein for about a half hour while the sun set slowly, turning the trees to long shadows and the snow to gray. A full moon rose up above the mountaintops.
“End of the cable just ahead.” Madame Lefoux gestured briefly with one hand before returning it to the controls.
Alexia left off stoking and went to the front to see what their dismount looked like.
The ending area was a wide U of platforms atop multiple poles, with cables running down to the ground, presumably used for the lumber. There was also some kind of passenger-unloading arrangement, built to accommodate the anticipated tourists. It was a basic pulley system with a couple of windlass machines.
“Think those will work to get us down?”
Madame Lefoux glanced over. “We had better hope so.”
Alexia nodded and went to devise a means of strapping her dispatch case and her parasol on to her body; she’d need both hands free.
The rail cabin came to a bumpy halt, and Alexia, Floote, and Madame Lefoux climbed out the broken window as fast as possible. Madame Lefoux went first, grabbing one of the pulley straps and dropping with it over to the edge of the platform without a second thought. Definitely reckless.
The pulley emitted a loud ticking noise but carried her down the cable at a pace only mildly dangerous. The inventor landed at the bottom in a graceful forward roll, bouncing out of it onto her stockinged feet with a shout of well-being.
With a deep breath of resignation, Alexia followed. She clutched the heavy leather strap in both hands and eased off the edge of the platform, zipping down the line far faster than the lean Frenchwoman. She landed at the bottom with a terrific jolt, ankles screaming, and collapsed into a graceless heap, taking a wicked hit to the shoulder from the corner of her dispatch case. She rolled to her side and looked down; the parasol seemed to have survived better than she.
Madame Lefoux helped her up and out of the way just as Floote let go of a strap and landed gracefully, stopping his own forward momentum by bending one knee, managing to make his dismount look like a bow. Show-off.
They heard shouts behind them from the oncoming drones.
It was getting dark but they could still make out a track heading farther up the mountain toward what they could only hope was a customhouse and the Italian border.
They took off running again.
Alexia figured she might be getting enough exercise to last a lifetime in the space of one afternoon. She was actually sweating—so very improper.
Something whizzed by her shoulder. The drones were firing their guns once more. Their aim was, of course, affected detrimentally by their pace and the rough terrain, but they were gaining ground.
Up ahead, Alexia could make out a square structure among the dark trees to one side of the road—a shed, really—but there was a large sign on the other side of the road that appeared to have something threatening written on it in Italian. There was no other gate or barrier, nothing on the track to mark that they were about to go from one country to another, just a little mounded hillock of dirt.
So it was that they crossed the border into Italy.
The drones were still following them.
“Wonderful. Now what do we do?” panted Alexia. Somehow she had thought once they entered Italy, everything would change.
“Keep running,” advised Madame Lefoux unhelpfully.
As if in answer to her question, the deserted pass, now heading down the other side of the mountain, suddenly was not quite so deserted after all.
Out of the shadows of the trees to either side materialized a whole host of men. Alexia only had time to register the utter absurdity of their dress before she, Madame Lefoux, and Floote found themselves surrounded. A single, rapidly lyrical utterance revealed that these were, in fact, Italians.
Each man wore what appeared to be entirely pedestrian country dress—bowler, jacket, and knickerbockers—but over this, each had also donned what looked like female sleeping attire with a massive red cross embroidered across the front. It greatly resembled an expensive silk nightgown Conall had purchased for Alexia shortly after their marriage. The comedic effect of this outfit was moderated by the fact that each man also wore a belt that housed a large sword with medieval inclinations and carried a chubby revolver. Alexia had seen that type of gun before—a Galand Tue Tue—probably the sundowner model. It is a strange world, she ru
minated, wherein one finds oneself surrounded by Italians in nightgowns carrying French guns modified by the English to kill supernaturals.
The outlandishly garbed group seemed unflustered by Alexia’s party, closing in around them in a manner that managed to be both protective and threatening. They then turned to face down the panting gaggle of drones who drew to a surprised stop just on the other side of the border.
One of the white-clad men spoke in French. “I would not cross into our territory if I were you. In Italy, drones are considered vampires by choice and are treated as such.”
“And how would you prove we are drones?” yelled one of the young men.
“Did I say we needed proof?” Several of the swords shinked out of their sheaths.
Alexia peeked around the side of the Italian hulking in front of her. The drones, silhouetted against the rising moon, were stalled in confusion. Finally they turned, perhaps calculating the better part of valor, shoulders hunched in disappointment, and began walking away back down the French side of the mountain.
The lead nightgowner turned inward to face the three refugees. Dismissing Madame Lefoux and Floote with a contemptuous glance, he turned his hook-nosed gaze onto Alexia. Who could see quite unsatisfactorily far up his nostrils.
Alexia spared a small frown for Floote. He was pinch-faced and white-lipped, looking more upset by their current stationary position than he had been when they were running around under gunfire.
“What is it, Floote?” she hissed at him.
Floote shook his head slightly.
Alexia sighed and turned big bland innocent eyes on the Italians.
The leader spoke, his English impossibly perfect. “Alexia Maccon, daughter of Alessandro Tarabotti, how wonderful. We have been waiting a very long time for you to return to us.” With that, he gave a little nod and Alexia felt a prick on the side of her neck.
Return?
She heard Floote shout something, but he was yelling from a very long way away, and then the moon and the shadowed trees all swirled together and she collapsed backward into the waiting arms of the Pope’s holiest of holy antisupernatural elite, the Knights Templars.
Professor Randolph Lyall generally kept to a nighttime schedule, but he had spent the afternoon prior to full moon awake in order to conduct some last-minute research. Unfortunately, Ivy Tunstell’s revelation had served only to complicate matters. The preponderance of mysteries was beginning to aggravate. Despite a day spent tapping all his various sources and investigating every possible related document BUR might have, Lord Akeldama and his drones were still missing, Alexia’s pregnancy remained theoretically impossible, and Lord Conall Maccon was still out of commission. The Alpha was, most likely, no longer drunk, but, given the impending full moon, Professor Lyall had seen him safely back behind bars with strict instructions that this time no one was to let him out or there would be uncomfortable consequences.
He himself was so involved in his inquiries as to be quite behind schedule for his own lunar confinement. His personal clavigers—his valet and one of the footmen—awaited him in the Woolsey vestibule wearing expressions of mild panic. They were accustomed to Woolsey’s Beta, tamest and most cultured of all the pack, arriving several hours ahead of moonrise.
“I do apologize, boys.”
“Very good, sir, but you understand we must take the proper precautions.”
Professor Lyall, who could already feel the strain of the moon even though it had not yet peeked above the horizon, held out his wrists obediently.
His valet clapped silver manacles about them with an air of embarrassment. Never during all his years of service had he had to bind Professor Lyall.
The Beta gave him a little half smile. “Not to worry, dear boy. It happens to the best of us.” Then he followed both young men docilely down the staircase and into the pack dungeon, where the others were already behind bars. He gave absolutely no hint of the discipline it took for him to remain calm. Simply out of obstinacy and pride, he fought the change as long as possible. Long after his two clavigers had reached through the bars and unlocked his manacles, and he had stripped himself of all his carefully tailored clothing, he continued to fight it. He did it for their sake, as they went to stand with the first shift of watchers against the far wall. Poor young things, compelled to witness powerful men become slaves to bestial urges, forced to understand what their desire for immortality would require them to become. Lyall was never entirely certain whom he pitied more at this time of the month, them or him. It was the age-old question: who suffers more, the gentleman in the badly tied cravat or those who must look upon him?
Which was Professor Lyall’s last thought before the pain and noise and madness of full moon took him away.
He awoke to the sound of Lord Maccon yelling. For Professor Lyall, this was so commonplace as to be almost restful. It had the pleasant singsong of regularity and custom about it.
“And who, might I ask, is Alpha of this bloody pack?” The roar carried even through the thick stone of the dungeon walls.
“You, sir,” said a timid voice.
“And who is currently giving you a direct order to be released from this damned prison?”
“That would be you, sir.”
“And yet, who is still locked away?”
“That would still be you, sir.”
“Yet somehow you do not see my difficulty.”
“Professor Lyall said—”
“Professor Lyall, my ruddy arse!”
“Very good, sir.”
Lyall yawned and stretched. Full moon always left a man slightly stiff, all that running about the cell and crashing into things and howling. No permanent damage, of course, but there was a certain muscle memory of deeds done and humiliating acts performed that even a full day of sleep could not erase. It was not unlike waking after a long night of being very, very drunk.
His clavigers noticed he was awake and immediately unlocked his cell and came inside. The footman carried a nice cup of hot tea with milk and a dish of raw fish with chopped mint on top. Professor Lyall was unusual in his preference for fish, but the staff had quickly learned to accommodate this eccentricity. The mint, of course, was to help deal with recalcitrant wolf breath. He snacked while his valet dressed him: nice soft tweed trousers, sip of tea, crisp white shirt, nibble of fish, chocolate brocade waistcoat, more tea, and so on.
By the time Lyall had finished his ablutions, Lord Maccon had almost, but not quite, convinced his own clavigers to let him out. The young men were looking harassed, and had, apparently, deemed it safe to pass some clothing through to Lord Maccon, if nothing else. What the Alpha had done with said clothing only faintly resembled dressing, but at least he wasn’t striding around hollering at them naked anymore.
Professor Lyall wandered over to his lordship’s cell, fixing the cuffs of his shirt and looking unruffled.
“Randolph,” barked the earl, “let me out this instant.”
Professor Lyall ignored him. He took the key and sent the clavigers off to see to the rest of the pack, who were all now starting to awaken.
“Do you remember, my lord, what the Woolsey Pack was like when you first came to challenge for it?”
Lord Maccon paused in his yelling and his pacing to look up in surprise. “Of course I do. It was not so long ago as all that.”
“Not a nice piece of work, the previous Earl of Woolsey, was he? Excellent fighter, of course, but he had gone a little funny about the head—one too many live snacks. ‘Crackers’ some called him.” Professor Lyall shook his head. He loathed talking about his previous Alpha. “An embarrassing thing for a carnivore to be compared to a biscuit, wouldn’t you say, my lord?”
“Your point, Randolph.” Lord Maccon could only be surprised out of his impatience for a brief length of time.
“You are becoming, shall we say, of the biscuit inclination, my lord.”
Lord Maccon took a deep breath and then sucked on his teeth. “Gone loopy, have I?”
<
br /> “Perhaps just a little bit noodled.”
Lord Maccon looked shamefacedly down at the floor of his cell.
“It is time for you to face up to your responsibilities, my lord. Three weeks is enough time to wallow in your own colossal mistake.”
“Pardon me?”
Professor Lyall had had more than enough of his Alpha’s nonsensical behavior, and he was a master of perfect timing. Unless he was wrong, and Professor Lyall was rarely wrong about an Alpha, Lord Maccon was ready to admit the truth. And even if Lyall was, by some stretch of the imagination, incorrect in his assessment, the earl could not be allowed to continue to be ridiculous out of mere stubbornness.
“You aren’t fooling any of us.”
Lord Maccon resisted admission of guilt even as he crumbled like the metaphorical cracker. “But I turned her out.”
“Yes, you did, and wasn’t that an idiotic thing to do?”
“Possibly.”
“Because?” Professor Lyall crossed his arms and dangled the key to his Alpha’s cell temptingly from one fingertip.
“Because there is no way she would have canoodled with another man, not my Alexia.”
“And?”
“And the child must be mine.” The earl paused. “Good gracious me, can you imagine that, becoming a father at my age?” This was followed by another much longer pause. “She is never going to forgive me for this, is she?”
Professor Lyall had no mercy. “I wouldn’t. But then I have never precisely been in her situation before.”
“I should hope not, or there’s a prodigious deal regarding your personage about which I was previously unaware.”
“Now is not the time for jocularity, my lord.”
Lord Maccon sobered. “Insufferable woman. Couldn’t she have at least stayed around and argued with me more on the subject? Did she have to cut and run like that?”
“You do recall what you said to her? What you called her?”
Lord Maccon’s wide, pleasant face became painfully white and drawn as he went mentally back to a certain castle in Scotland. “I’d just as soon not remember, thank you.”
The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set Page 76
