The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set

by Gail Carriger

  “Ah, how are you feeling, Mr. Templar?”

  Not bothering to answer, the preceptor came over, crossed his arms, and looked down at her as well. Eventually he spoke to her as though she were a recalcitrant child. “I am confused, My Soulless One.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Yes. Why is it you chose not to inform us of your delicate condition? We would have taken far greater care of your person had we known of it.”

  Oh, mercy me. Alexia shifted, wary. She put down the snuffbox and grabbed her parasol. “Would you, indeed? Do you imply that you would not have, for example, used me as bait in a vampire trap?”

  The preceptor ignored her barb. “Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf informs us that not only are you with child, but that the child’s father is a werewolf. Is this—”

  Alexia held up a commanding hand. “Do not even begin that line of questioning with me. My husband is a werewolf, and despite any and all accusations to the contrary, he is undoubtedly the father. I will neither argue nor tolerate any insinuations against my integrity. I may be soulless, gentlemen, but I assure you I am faithful. Even Conall, blast him, has finally admitted that.”

  The Templar snapped his mouth shut and nodded. She wasn’t convinced that he believed her, but frankly she didn’t care.

  Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf rubbed his hands together. “Indeed, in conjunction with your insistence, I have devised a new theory as to the nature of soul that I believe not only supports but indeed relies upon your avowal that the child has a supernatural father.”

  “Are you saying the only way I could still be pregnant is if I were telling the truth?” Alexia felt her breath quicken in anticipation. Vindication at last!

  “Well, ya, Female Specimen, precisely.”

  “Would you care to elaborate?”

  The little German seemed a tad taken aback by her calm acceptance. He did not notice how one of Alexia’s hands was now delicately fiddling with the handle of her parasol. She was also watching the Templar almost as closely as she watched him.

  “You are not angry with me for the telling to the Templars of your little secret?”

  Alexia was, but she pretended to be blasé. “Well, it was all over the London papers. I suppose they would have found out eventually. Still, you are a bit of a repulsive weasel, aren’t you?”

  “Perhaps. But if this theory is correct, I will also be a most famous weasel.”

  The Templar had taken a fascinated interest in Alexia’s snuffbox full of tea and was examining it. Alexia gave him a narrow look, daring him to comment on her idiosyncratic solution to the fact that none of the temple staff would respond to any of her requests. He said nothing.

  “Very well, tell me of this theory of yours. And would you mind, terribly, removing your dog from my chair?”

  Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf swooped down and scooped up his energetic little animal. The creature immediately relaxed into a floppy, partly comatose state in his master’s arms. Draping the dog over one arm as a footman would a dishtowel, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf proceeded to use the beastie as a teaching tool for his explanation.

  “Let us assume that there are certain particles in the human body that bond to ambient aether.” He prodded at the dog with one finger unhelpfully. “I shall call these particles ‘pneuma.’” He raised his poking finger into the air dramatically. “Supernaturals have broken this bond, losing most of their pneuma. They become immortal by reconfiguring what trace amounts of pneuma they have left into a flexible bond with ambient aetheric particles.”

  “You are saying that the soul is not a measurable substance after all, but is in fact the type and rigidity of this bond?” Alexia was intrigued despite herself, and she switched the bulk of her attention to the German.

  Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf shook Poche at Alexia in his enthusiasm. “Ya! It is a brilliant theory, ya? It explains why we had no luck over the years measuring soul. There is nothing to measure—there is instead only type and strength of bond.” He swooped the dog about the room as though flying. “You, Female Specimen, as a preternatural, are born with the pneuma but no bonded aether at all, thus you are always sucking the aetheric particles out of the air. What you do when you touch the supernatural creature is break their flexible bond and suck all the aether out of them, turning them mortal.” He made a grasping motion with his hand over the dog’s head, as though scooping out the little beast’s brains.

  “So, when the vampires called me a soul-sucker, they were not so far from the truth of it. But how does this explain the child?” Alexia attempted to refocus the little man on the most important part of his explanation.

  “Well, the problem with two preternaturals is that they are both trying to suck aetheric particles at the same time. Thus they cannot share the same air space. But”—and in a triumphant crescendo, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf held his little white dog over his head in victory—“if the other parent is a supernatural, the child can inherit the flexible bond, or as we might think of it, a bit of the leftover excess soul.”

  Poche gave a funny little howl as though to punctuate his owner’s final statement. Realizing he was waving about his pet in a most indiscriminate manner, the German put his dog back down on the floor. Immediately, Poche began barking and bouncing about, eventually deciding to launch a full-blown attack on a small golden throw pillow that was now not long for this world.

  Alexia hated to admit it, but Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf’s theory was a sound one. It explained many things, not the least of which was why such children as the infant-inconvenience might be so very rare. Firstly, they required a supernatural to preternatural pairing, and the two species had hunted each other for most of recorded history. Secondly, they required either a female soulless, a female vampire, or a female werewolf. Preternaturals were rarely allowed near hive queens, and female werewolves were almost as rare as female preternaturals. There simply wouldn’t have been much of an opportunity for interbreeding.

  “So, the question is, what kind of child am I going to produce, given Conall’s, uh, flexible bond?” Said in conjunction with her husband’s name, and considering his carnal preferences, Alexia found the terminology salacious. She cleared her throat, embarrassed. “I mean to say, will it be born preternatural or supernatural?”

  “Ah, ya, well, difficult to predict. But I am thinking, perhaps, in my theory, that is to say, neither. The child, it could be simply normal. Perhaps possessing less soul than most.”

  “But I will not lose it as you had previously thought?”

  “No, no, you will not. If you are sensible with your own well-being.”

  Alexia smiled. True, she was still not quite settled into the idea of being a mother, but she and the infant-inconvenience did seem to be arriving at some kind of arrangement.

  “Why, that is superb news! I must go tell Genevieve immediately.” She stood, with every intention of dashing off to the infirmary, regardless of how this might upset any Templars she barreled into along the way.

  The preceptor stood up from his crouch, where he had been trying, unsuccessfully, to wrestle the pillow away from Poche, and spoke. Alexia had almost forgotten his presence. “I am afraid that will not be possible, My Soulless One.”

  “Why not?”

  “The French female was treated for her injuries and released into the care of the Florentine Hospitallers.”

  “Were her injuries that serious?” Alexia felt a sudden pang of guilt. Had she been enjoying snuffbox-scented tea and good news while her friend lay dying?

  “Oh, no, quite superficial. We simply found we could no longer offer her our hospitality. Mr. Floote as well was not invited to return and stay with us.”

  Alexia felt her heart sink low into her chest, where it commenced a particular variety of rapid thumping. The sudden reversal from what, seconds before, might have been elation caused her to come over almost dizzy. She breathed in sharply through her nose.

  Almost without thought, she opened her parasol, prepared to use even the sulfuric acid, undoubtedly the vilest of its ar
maments, if need be. Madame Lefoux had managed to find some replacement fluids. But before she had a chance to flip it around to the appropriate position, the library door opened.

  Summoned by some unseen signal, a ridiculously large number of Templars clattered into the room. And they were clattering, for they were fully armored like the knights of the crusades they had been hundreds of years ago—heads covered in helms and bodies in silver-washed chain mail and plate under the obligatory nightgowns. Each had on a pair of heavy leather gloves, no doubt so they could touch Alexia without fear for their heavenly souls. Poche went absolutely crazy, barking at the top of his lungs and gyrating about the room in a succession of crazed leaps. Alexia thought it the most intelligent thing the creature had done in all its useless little life. The Templars, showing great reserves of dignity, entirely ignored him.

  Alexia’s parasol was good, but it wasn’t good enough to take out that many people all at once. She closed it with a snap. “Why, Mr. Templar,” she said to the preceptor, “I am honored. All this for me? So very thoughtful. You really shouldn’t have.”

  The preceptor gave Alexia one hard, long look and then, taking Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf firmly by the arm, left the library without responding to her sarcasm. Poche circled the room twice more and then bounced out after them like a fierce feather duster ejected at high pressure from a steam engine. My last defender, gone, thought Alexia grimly.

  She looked to her opponents. “Very well, then. Take me to your dungeon!” Might as well give a command she was reasonably confident would be obeyed.

  Professor Lyall set his precious cargo down upon the sofa in his office at BUR headquarters. Still unconscious, Biffy was as limp as overcooked broccoli. The couch was already covered in various piles of paperwork, aethographor slates, a stack of books, and several newspapers and scientific pamphlets, but Biffy didn’t seem to mind overly much. He curled onto one side like a little child, hugging an exceptionally uncomfortable-looking metal scroll affectionately to his chest.

  Professor Lyall got to work preparing formal statements for the press, calling in various operatives and agents and then sending them back out again on important information-gathering missions, diplomatic interventions, and secret biscuit-acquisition operations (BUR’s kitchen was running low). He also sent a runner to the remaining members of the Woolsey Pack, instructing them to stay alert and stay armed. Who knew how the vampires might choose to retaliate? Usually, they were refined in their reactions, but killing one of them was, as a rule, not considered polite, and they might behave unfavorably. After that, Lyall managed one productive hour of activity before he was interrupted by the first in what he had no doubt would be a long line of offended dignitaries. It was not, however, a member of one of the hives come to complain about the potentate’s death. Rather unexpectedly, his first caller was a werewolf.

  “Good evening, Lord Slaughter.”

  The dewan hadn’t bothered with a cloak this time. With no disguise and no attempt made to hide his displeasure, either, Lyall had no doubt the dewan was officially representing Queen Victoria’s interests.

  “Well, you made a dog’s bollocks of that, didn’t you, little Beta? Couldn’t have done worse with it when all’s said and done.”

  “How do you do, my lord? Please, sit down.”

  The dewan gave a disgusted look at the slumbering Biffy. “Looks like you already have company. What is he—drunk?” He sniffed the air. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, have you both been swimming in the Thames?”

  “I assure you it was entirely involuntary.”

  The dewan looked as though he was about to continue his reprimanding tone, but then he sniffed the air again and stopped in his tracks. Twirling about, he lumbered over to the couch and bent over the comatose young dandy.

  “Now, that is an unfamiliar face. I know most of the Woolsey Pack has been overseas with the regiment, but I think I remember them all. I am not that old.”

  “Ah, yes.” Professor Lyall sat up straight and cleared his throat. “We are to be congratulated. Woolsey has a new pack member.”

  The dewan grunted, half pleased but trying to hide it with annoyance. “I thought he stank of Lord Maccon. Well, well, well, a metamorphosis and a dead vampire all in one night. My, my, Woolsey has been busy.”

  Professor Lyall put down his quill and took off his spectacles. “The one is, in fact, tied intimately to the other.”

  “Since when has killing vampires resulted in new werewolves?”

  “Since vampires stole other vampire’s drones, imprisoned them under the Thames, and then shot at them.”

  The dewan looked less like a gruff loner wolf and more like a politician at that statement. He drew up a chair on the other side of the desk from Lyall. “I think you had better start explaining what happened, little Beta.”

  When Lyall finished his account, the dewan was left looking a mite stunned.

  “Of course, such a story will have to be corroborated. With the potentate’s illegal kill order out on Lady Maccon’s head, you must see that Lord Maccon’s motives for killing the man are highly suspicious. Still, if all you say is true, he was within his rights as chief sundowner. Such shenanigans cannot be allowed. Imagine, stealing someone else’s drone! So rude.”

  “You must understand I have other difficulties to deal with?”

  “Went off hunting that stray wife of his, did he?”

  Professor Lyall curled his lip and nodded.

  “Alphas are so very difficult.”

  “My feeling exactly.”

  “Well, I shall leave you to it.” The dewan stood but walked once more over to look down at Biffy before he left.

  “Two successful metamorphoses in as many months. Woolsey may be in political trouble, but you are to be congratulated on the potency of your Alpha’s Anubis Form. Pretty young pup, isn’t he? He is going to bring down a whole mess of trouble on your head. How much worse will it be to have the vampires think werewolves stole a drone away?”

  Professor Lyall sighed. “Lord Akeldama’s favorite, no less.”

  The dewan shook his head. “Mess of trouble, mark my words. Best of luck, little Beta. You are going to need it.”

  Just as the dewan was leaving, one of Lord Maccon’s best BUR agents appeared.

  The agent bowed to the dewan in the doorway before coming in to stand in front of Professor Lyall, with his hands laced behind his back.

  “Report, Mr. Haverbink.”

  “’S’not pretty out there, sir. The Teeth are a’stirring up all kinds of toss about you Tails. Them’s saying Lord M had a grudge against the potentate. Saying he took him down out’a anger, not duty.”

  Haverbink was a good solid chap in both looks and spirit. And no one would bet a ha’penny on his having excess soul, but he listened well and got around to places more aristocratic types couldn’t. He looked a bit like a farmhand, and people didn’t give a man of his brawn much credit in the way of brain. It was a mistake.

  “How unsettled?”

  “Couple of pub brawls so far, mostly just clavigers giving fist to drones with big mouths. Could get ugly if the conservatives weigh in. You’re knowing how they can get: ‘none of this would’ve happened if we hadn’t integrated. England deserves it for acting unnatural. Against God’s law.’ Whine, whine.”

  “Any word on the vampires themselves?”

  “Westminster queen’s been dead silent—’scuse the pun—since word on the potentate’s death broke. You better believe if she thought she were in the right, she’d be squawking official statements to the press like a hen laying eggs.”

  “Yes, I would tend to agree with you. Her silence is a good thing for us werewolves. How about BUR’s reputation?”

  “We’re taking the fallout. Lord M was working, not werewolfing, or that’s the claim. He should’ve had more self-restraint.” Haverbink turned his wide, friendly face on his commander questioningly.

  Lyall nodded.

  Haverbink continued. “Those that like B
UR are claiming he was within his rights as sundowner. Those that don’t like it, don’t like him, and don’t like wolves—they’re going to complain regardless. Not a whole lot would change that.”

  Lyall rubbed at his neck. “Well, that’s about what I thought. Keep talking the truth as much as possible while you are out there. Let people know the potentate stole Lord Akeldama’s drone. We cannot allow the vampires or the Crown to cover that up, and we have got to hope both Biffy and Lord Akeldama corroborate the official story or we really will be in the thick of it.”

  Haverbink looked skeptically over at Biffy’s sleeping form. “Does he remember any of it?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Is Lord Akeldama likely to be amenable?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Right’o, sir. I wouldn’t want to be in your spats right now.”

  “Don’t get personal, Haverbink.”

  “’Course not, sir.”

  “Speaking of which, still no word on Lord Akeldama’s return or whereabouts?”

  “Not a single sausage, sir.”

  “Well, that’s something. Very well, carry on, Mr. Haverbink.”

  “Jolly good, sir.”

  Haverbink went out, and the next agent, waiting patiently in the hallway, came in.

  “Message for you, sir.”

  “Ah, Mr. Phinkerlington.”

  Phinkerlington, a round, bespectacled metal burner, managed a slight bow before continuing hesitatingly into the room. He had the manners of a clerk, the demeanor of a constipated mole, and some minor aristocratic connection that temperament compelled him to regard as an embarrassing character flaw. “Something finally came through on that Italian channel you had me monitoring sunset these past few days.” He was also very, very good at his job, which consisted mainly of sitting and listening, and then writing down what he heard without thought or comment.