Blameless pp-3

by Gail Carriger

  Madame Lefoux and Monsieur Trouvé joined Alexia and Floote at the bottom of the stairs, facing off against the vampires, who had slowed their hectic charge and were moving forward in a menacing manner, as cats will stalk string.

  “How did they find me so quickly?” Alexia took aim.

  “So they are after you, are they? Well, I suppose that is hardly a surprise.” The clockmaker glanced in Alexia’s direction.

  “Yes. Terribly inconvenient of them.”

  Monsieur Trouvé let out a rolling bark of deep laughter. “I did say you always brought me charming surprises, and trouble with them, didn’t I, Genevieve? What have you gotten me into this time?”

  Madame Lefoux explained. “I am sorry, Gustave. We should have told you sooner. The London vampires want Alexia dead, and they appear to have passed the desire on to the Parisian hives.”

  “Well, fancy that. How jolly.” The clockmaker did not seem upset, behaving more like a man on the brink of some grand lark.

  The vampires pressed closer.

  “Now, see here, couldn’t we discuss this like civilized beings?” Alexia, ever one for form and courtesy, was in favor of negotiations whenever possible.

  None of the vampires responded to her request.

  Madame Lefoux tried the same question in French.

  Still nothing.

  Alexia thought this dreadfully boorish. The least they could do was answer with a “No, killing is all we are interested in at the moment, but thank you kindly for the offer all the same.” Alexia had, in part, compensated for a lack of soul through the liberal application of manners. This was rather like donning an outfit consisting entirely of accessories, but Alexia maintained that proper conduct was never a bad thing. These vampires were behaving most improperly.

  There were plenty of tables and display cabinets in the little shop that currently stood between the vampires and Alexia’s small band of defenders. Most of the surfaces of these were covered in disassembled clocks of one style or another. It was, therefore, not unexpected that one of the vampires, probably intentionally—given the general grace and elegance of the species—knocked a pile of mechanicals to the floor.

  What was unexpected was Monsieur Trouvé’s reaction to this event.

  He growled in anger and threw the cuckoo clock he was holding at the vampire.

  “Quoo?” questioned the clock as it flew.

  Then the clockmaker began to yell. “That was a prototype atmos clock with a dual regulatory aether conductor! A groundbreaking invention and utterly irreplaceable.”

  The cuckoo clock hit the vampire broadside, startling him considerably. It did minimal damage, landing with a sad little “Quooooo?”

  Alexia decided it was probably a good time to start shooting. So she shot.

  The poisoned dart hissed slightly as it flew, struck one of the vampires dead center to the chest, and stuck there. He looked down at it, up at Alexia with an expression of deep offense, and then crumpled limply to the floor like an overcooked noodle.

  “Nicely shot, but it won’t hold him for long,” said Madame Lefoux, who should know. “Supernaturals can process the numbing agent faster than daylight folk.”

  Alexia armed her parasol and shot a second dart. Another vampire collapsed, but the first was already beginning to struggle groggily to his feet.

  Then the remaining two were upon them.

  Madame Lefoux shot at one with a wooden dart from her wristwatch, missing his chest and hitting the meaty part of his left arm. Hah, thought Alexia. I knew it wasn’t an ordinary watch! The Frenchwoman then slashed at that same vampire with her wooden cravat pin. The vampire began to bleed from two spots, arm and cheek, and backed away warily.

  “We are not interested in you, little scientist. Give us the soul-sucker and we’ll be away.”

  “Now you want to engage in conversation?” Alexia was annoyed.

  The last of the vampires lunged for her, clearly planning to drag her off. He had one hand wrapped around her wrist when he realized his miscalculation.

  Upon contact with her, his fangs disappeared, as did all of his extraordinary strength. His pale, smooth skin turned fleshy peach with freckles—freckles! He was no longer capable of dragging her off, yet no matter how hard Alexia pulled, she could not break his grip. He must have been a strong man before he changed. She began bashing at the no-longer-supernatural creature with her parasol, but he did not let go, even as she inflicted real injury upon him. He seemed to be recovering his powers of deduction and realized he would have to fall back on leverage for this task. So he shifted about, preparing to haul Alexia up and over one shoulder.

  A gunshot rattled throughout the shop, and before he could do anything further, the vampire collapsed backward, letting go of Alexia in order to clutch at his own side. Alexia glanced to her left, astounded to see the unflappable Floote pocketing a still-smoking, single-shot derringer with an ivory handle. It was undoubtedly the tiniest pistol Alexia had ever seen. From the same pocket, he pulled a second slightly bigger gun. Both were horribly antiquated, thirty years or more out of date, but still effective. The vampire Floote had shot stayed down, writhing in agony on the floor. Unless Alexia missed her guess, that bullet was made of a reinforced wood of some kind, for it seemed to continue to cause him harm. There was a good chance, Alexia realized with a sick kind of dread, that a vampire could actually die from a shot like that. She could hardly countenance it, the very idea of killing an immortal. All that knowledge, gone just like that.

  Monsieur Trouvé seemed momentarily captivated. “That’s a sundowner’s weapon you have there, isn’t it, Mr. Floote?”

  Floote did not respond. There was accusation inherent in the term, for “sundowner” implied official sanction from Her Majesty’s government to terminate the supernatural. No British gentleman without such authorization ought to carry such a weapon.

  “Since when would you know anything about munitions, Gustave?” Madame Lefoux issued her friend an imperiously quirked brow.

  “I’ve developed a keen interest in gunpowder recently. Terribly messy stuff, but awfully useful for a directed mechanical force.”

  “I should say so,” said Alexia, readjusting her parasol and shooting her last dart.

  “Now you’ve wasted them all,” accused Madame Lefoux, letting fly with her own, more effective wooden dart at the groggy vampire just after Alexia’s projectile struck home. It hit him in the eye. Sluggish black blood oozed out from around it. Alexia felt ill.

  “Really, Genevieve, must you go for the eye? It’s so unsightly.” Monsieur Trouvé appeared to agree with Alexia’s disgust.

  “Only if you promise never to use a pun like that again.”

  Thus two of the vampires were now incapacitated. The other two had retreated out of range to regroup, clearly not having anticipated such resistance.

  Madame Lefoux glared at Alexia. “Stop stalling and use the lapis solaris.”

  “Are you certain that is strictly necessary, Genevieve? It seems so discourteous. I could accidentally kill one of them with such a substance. We’ve already had a little too much of that kind of tomfoolery.” She nodded with her chin at the vampire Floote had shot, who now lay ominously still. Vampires were scarce, and generally rather old. Murdering one even in self-defense was like thoughtlessly destroying a rare aged cheese. True, a fanged and murderous rare aged cheese, but…

  The lady inventor gave the preternatural woman an incredulous look. “Yes, final death was the idea when I designed it.”

  One of the vampires lurched forward again, intent on Alexia. He held a wicked-looking knife. Clearly he was adapting better to her preternatural ability than his now-inert cohorts.

  Floote shot his other gun.

  This time the bullet hit the man’s chest. The vampire fell backward, crashed into a loaded display cabinet, and landed on the floor, making exactly the same sound a carpet makes when whacked to get the dust out.

  The remaining vampire was looking both a
nnoyed and confused. He had brought no projectile weapons. The vampire Madame Lefoux had spiked in the eye yanked out the offending optical impairment and lurched to his feet, the socket oozing blackened, sluggish blood. The two joined forces to charge once more.

  Madame Lefoux slashed, and Monsieur Trouvé, finally understanding the gravity of the situation, reached around and pulled a long, wicked-looking spring-adjuster from its cradle on the wall. It was brass, so it was unlikely to do any serious damage, but it might slow even a vampire if applied properly. A sharp wooden knife had now appeared in Floote’s hand—both guns being of the single-shot variety and thus out of ammunition. Such a competent man, Floote, thought Alexia with pride.

  “Well, if I must, fine. I’ll guard the retreat,” said Alexia. “Buy us some time.”

  “What, in a clock shop?” Madame Lefoux clearly couldn’t resist.

  Alexia gave her a withering look. Then she opened and flipped her parasol over in a practiced motion so that she held it backward by the tip instead of the handle. There was a tiny dial just above the magnetic disruption emitter, set into a nodule. She stepped slightly forward, mindful that she could harm her friends as well as the vampires with this particular weapon. Then she clicked the dial round two times, and three ribs of the parasol began to spew forth a fine mist of lapis solaris diluted in sulfuric acid.

  At first the stampeding vampires didn’t quite understand what was happening, but when the mixture began to burn them severely, they backed out of range.

  “Up the stairs, now!” yelled Alexia.

  They all began to retreat up the tiny staircase, Alexia bringing up the rear, brandishing the misting parasol. The smell of acid burning through carpet and wood permeated the air. A few drops landed on Alexia’s claret-colored skirts. Well, she thought, resigned, there is one gown I won’t ever be able to wear again.

  The vampires stayed just far enough out of range. By the time Alexia had reached the top of the stairs—going backward and up with both hands occupied was no mean feat in long skirts and a bustle—the others had gathered together a quantity of large, heavy objects with which to barricade the top. Alexia’s parasol sputtered once, then emitted a sad little hissing noise and stopped misting, having used up its store of the lapis solaris.

  The vampires renewed their attack. Alexia was alone at the top of the stairs. But Madame Lefoux was ready for them and began hurling various interesting-looking gadgets down, until, at the last possible minute, Alexia managed to sneak behind the rapidly growing pile of furniture and trunks that Floote and Monsieur Trouvé had piled at the head of the staircase.

  While Alexia recovered her breath and equanimity, they built up the improvised rampart, wedging and tilting a mountain of furniture downward, relying on gravity and weight as assistants.

  “Anyone have a plan?” Alexia looked around hopefully.

  The Frenchwoman gave her a fierce grin. “Gustave and I were talking earlier. He says he still has the ornithopter we designed at university.”

  Monsieur Trouvé frowned. “Well, yes, but it isn’t certified by the Ministry of Aethernautics to fly within Parisian aetherspace. I did not think you actually intended to use it. I’m not sure if the stabilizers are working properly.”

  “Never you mind that. Is it on the roof?”

  “Of course, but—”

  Madame Lefoux grabbed Alexia by the arm and began dragging her down the hall toward the back of the apartment.

  Alexia made a face but allowed herself to be tugged along. “Well, then, to the roof with us! Ooof, wait, my dispatch case.”

  Floote dove to one side to retrieve her precious luggage.

  “No time, no time!” insisted Madame Lefoux as the vampires, having attained the top of the stairway, were apparently engaged in trying to bash their way through to the landing by application of pure physical force. How vulgar!

  “It has tea in it,” Alexia explained gratefully when Floote reappeared with her case.

  Then they heard a horrible noise, a rumbling, growling sound and the crunch of flesh between large, unforgiving jaws. The banging on the barricade stopped as something sharp-toothed and vicious distracted the vampires. A new sound of fighting commenced as the vampires engaged whatever it was that was hunting them.

  The little group of refugees reached the end of the hallway. Madame Lefoux leaped up, grabbing at what looked to be a gas lamp fixture but what turned out to be a pull lever that activated a small hydraulic pump. A section of the ceiling flipped down at them, and a rickety ladder, clearly spring loaded, shot down, hitting the hallway floor with an audible thump.

  Madame Lefoux scampered up. With considerable difficulty, hampered by dress and parasol, Alexia climbed after her, emerging into a crowded attic richly carpeted in dust and dead spiders. The gentlemen followed and Floote helped Monsieur Trouvé winch the ladder back up, disguising their retreat. With any luck, the vampires would be stalled trying to determine where and how their quarry had attained roof access.

  Alexia wondered what had attacked the vampires on the stair: a savior, a protector, or some new form of monster that wanted her for itself? She didn’t have time to contemplate for long. The two inventors were fussing about a machine of some kind, running around loosening tether ropes, checking safety features, tightening screws, and lubricating cogs. This seemed to involve a phenomenal quantity of banging and cursing.

  The ornithopter, for that is what it must be, looked like a most incommodious mode of transport. Passengers—there was room for three in addition to the pilot—were suspended in nappylike leather seats the top of which strapped about the waist.

  Alexia dashed over, stumbling against an inappropriately placed gargoyle.

  Monsieur Trouvé ignited a small steam engine. The craft lurched upward and then tilted to one side, sputtering and coughing.

  “I told you: stabilizers!” he said to Madame Lefoux.

  “I cannot believe you don’t have strapping wire on hand, Gustave. What kind of inventor are you?”

  “Did you miss the sign above the shop door, my dear? Clocks! Clocks are my specialty. No stabilizers needed!”

  Alexia intervened. “Wire, is that all you require?”

  Madame Lefoux held her fingers a short width apart. “Yes, about so thick.”

  Alexia, before she could be shocked by her own audacity, lifted her overskirts and undid the tapes to her bustle. The undergarment dropped to the ground, and she kicked it in Madame Lefoux’s direction. “That do?”

  “Perfect!” the Frenchwoman crowed, attacking the canvas and extracting the metal boning, which she passed to Monsieur Trouvé.

  While the clockmaker went to work threading the wire through some kind of piping about the contraption’s nose, Alexia climbed inside. Only to discover, to her abject embarrassment, that the nappy-seat design caused one’s skirts to hike up into one’s armpits and one’s legs to dangle below the enormous wings of the aircraft with bloomers exposed for all the world to see. They were her best bloomers, thank goodness, red flannel with three layers of lace at the hem, but still not a garment a lady ought to show to anyone except her maid or her husband, a pox on him, anyway.

  Floote settled comfortably in behind her, and Madame Lefoux slid into the pilot’s nappy. Monsieur Trouvé returned to the engine, situated behind Floote and under the tail of the craft, and cranked it up once more. The ornithopter wiggled, but then held steady and stabilized. Victory to the bustle, thought Alexia.

  The clockmaker stepped back, looking pleased with himself.

  “Are you not coming with us?” Alexia felt a strange kind of panic.

  Gustave Trouvé shook his head. “Glide as much as you can, Genevieve, and you should be able to make it to Nice.” He had to yell in order to be heard over the grumbling engine. He passed Madame Lefoux a pair of magnification goggles and a long scarf, which she used to wrap about her face, neck, and top hat.

  Alexia, clutching parasol and dispatch case firmly to her ample chest, prepared for th
e worst.

  “That far?” Madame Lefoux did not raise her head, busy checking on an array of dials and bobbing valves. “You have made modifications, Gustave.”

  The clockmaker winked.

  Madame Lefoux looked at him suspiciously and then gave a curt nod.

  Monsieur Trouvé marched back around to the rear of the ornithopter and spun up a guidance propeller attached to the steam engine.

  Madame Lefoux pressed some kind of button and, with a massive whoosh, the wings of the craft began flapping up and down with amazing strength. “You have made modifications!”

  The ornithopter jerked into the air with a burst of power.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Monsieur Trouvé was grinning like a little boy. He had a good pair of lungs in that wide chest of his, so he continued to yell after them. “I replaced our original model with one of Eugène’s bourdon tubes, activated by gunpowder charges. I did say I had taken a keen interest recently.”

  “What? Gunpowder!”

  The clockmaker waved at them cheerfully as they flapped upward and forward, now a good few yards above the rooftop. Alexia could see much of Paris laid out below her wildly waving kid-boots.

  Monsieur Trouvé bracketed his mouth with his hands. “I’ll send your things on to the Florence dirigible station.”

  A great crash sounded, and two of the vampires burst out onto the roof.

  Monsieur Trouvé’s grin vanished into the depths of his impressive beard, and he turned to face the supernatural threat.

  One of the vampires leapt up after them, hands stretched to grab. He got close enough for Alexia to see that he had an impressive collection of jagged bite marks now about his head and neck. His hand just missed Alexia’s ankle. A huge white beast appeared behind him. Limping and bleeding, the creature charged the airborne vampire, hamstringing him and bringing him back to the rooftop with a crash.

  The clockmaker yelled in fear.