Biffy placed his top hat on his head, nodded once, and left the room.
Lord Akeldama closed the door behind him softly and returned to sit next to Miss Tarabotti.
Greatly daring, she put a hand on his arm. His fangs retracted. The human in him, buried by time, surfaced at her touch. Soul-sucker, the vampires called her, yet Alexia always felt it was only in these moments that she actually got close to seeing the true nature of Lord Akeldama's soul.
“They will be fine,” Miss Tarabotti said, trying to sound reassuring.
“I suspect that state would tend to depend on what my boys find out, and whether anyone thinks they have found out anything of import.” He sounded very paternal.
“So far, no drones have gone missing,” said Alexia, thinking about the French maid taking refuge at the Westminster hive, her rove master gone.
“Is that the official word? Or information from the source itself?” asked Lord Akeldama, patting the top of her hand with one of his appreciatively.
Alexia knew he was asking about BUR records. Since she did not know, she explained. “Lord Maccon and I are currently not on speaking terms.”
“Good gracious me, why ever not? It is so much more fun when you are.” Lord Akeldama had seen Miss Tarabotti and the earl through many an argument, but neither had ever resorted to silence before. That would defeat the purpose of their association.
“My mother wants him to marry me. And he agreed!” said Miss Tarabotti, as though that explained everything.
Lord Akeldama clapped a hand over his mouth in startlement, looking once more like his old frivolous self. He stared down into Alexia's upturned face to determine the veracity of her words. Upon realization that she was in earnest, he threw his head back and let out a quite unvampirelike bark of laughter.
“Showing his hand at last, is he?” He chuckled further, extracting a large perfumed mauve handkerchief from one waistcoat pocket to dab at his streaming eyes. “Lordy, what will the dewan have to say about such a union? Preternatural and supernatural! That has not happened in my lifetime. And Lord Maccon already so powerful. The hives will be outraged. And the potentate! Ha.”
“Now, hold just a moment,” insisted Alexia. “I refused him.”
“You did what?” Now Lord Akeldama really was startled. “After leading him on for so many years! That is just plain cruel, my rosebud. How could you? He is only a werewolf, and they can be terribly emotional creatures, you understand? Quite sensitive about these things. You could do permanent damage!”
Miss Tarabotti frowned at this unexpected diatribe. Wasn't her friend supposed to be on her side? It did not occur to her how confoundingly odd it was for a vampire to be lauding a werewolf.
The vampire in question continued his admonition. “What is wrong with him? A little crude, I grant you, but a robust young beastie? And, rumor has it, he is endowed most generously with copious other... attributes.” i«
Miss Tarabotti let go of his hand and crossed her arms. “I would not have him coerced into matrimony, simply because we were caught in flagrante delicto.”
“You were caught... what? This simply gets better and better! I demand all the particulars!” Lord Akeldama looked like he anticipated a deliciously vicarious experience.
Outside in the hallway came another of those hubbubs that frequented the Akeldama household. For the moment, both were so involved in Alexia's gossip, neither remembered the house was supposed to be empty of such activity.
The door to the drawing room burst open.
“Here!” said the man at the entrance. A man who was not well dressed and clearly did not belong in Lord Akeldama's splendid house.
Lord Akeldama and Alexia both stood. Alexia grabbed her brass parasol, gripping it firmly in both hands. Lord Akeldama reached for the gold pipe art piece from the mantel. He pressed hard at a hidden button in the midpoint, and a curved, hooklike blade sprang out each end of the pipe and clicked into place. One was sharpened ironwood, the other solid silver. Not art, as it turned out.
“Where are my on-premises drones?” wondered Lord Akeldama.
“Never mind that,” said Alexia. “Where are my vampire guards?”
The man in the doorway had no answer for either of them. He did not even appear to hear. He did not approach but merely stood, blocking their sole avenue of escape.
“He has got a female with him,” he shouted back to someone in the hallway.
“Well, bring them both,” came the sharp reply. Then some kind of complex Latin phrases were issued. The terms used were outside of Miss Tarabotti's limited education and spoken in such a strange old-fashioned accent as to make them particularly difficult to decode.
Lord Akeldama tensed. He clearly understood what was said, or at least what it implied. “No. That is impossible!” he whispered.
Miss Tarabotti felt that if he had not been vampire-white already, he would have blanched. His supernatural reflexes seemed stalled by some horrific realization.
The stranger in the doorway vanished to be replaced by an all-too-familiar figure: a man with a stagnant, wax-like face.
CHAPTER TEN
For the Good of the Commonwealth
Miss Tarabotti's nemesis held a brown glass bottle up high in one hand. She was momentarily hypnotized by the repulsive fact that he seemed to have no fingernails.
Closing the door firmly behind him, the wax-faced man advanced toward Miss Tarabotti and Lord Akeldama, un-stopping the bottle and spilling its contents about the room as he went. He did so with infinite care, as a conscientious flower girl scatters petals before an advancing bride.
Invisible fumes rose up from the drops of liquid, and an odd smell permeated the air. Alexia knew that odor well by now: sugary turpentine.
Miss Tarabotti held her breath, plugging her nose with one hand and raising her parasol into guard position with the other. She heard a dull thud as Lord Akeldama collapsed to the floor, his golden pipe weapon rolled away, unused. Clearly, all his plethora of information did not include the latest medical pamphlets on the application, use, and smell of chloroform. Either that, or vampires were more quickly affected by the drug than preternaturals.
Alexia felt light-headed, not certain how long she could hold her breath. She fought the sensation as much as possible and then broke toward the drawing room door and fresh air.
The wax-faced man, apparently unaffected by the fumes, shifted to prevent her egress. Miss Tarabotti remembered from the night before how fast he could move. Supernatural? Perhaps not if the chloroform had no effect. But assuredly faster than she was. Miss Tarabotti cursed herself briefly for not bringing her conversation with Lord Akeldama more rapidly around to the topic of this man. She had meant to ask. It was just, now... too late.
She swung her deleterious parasol. Brass haft and silver tip made satisfying contact with the man's skull, yet neither seemed to have any effect.
She hit him again just below the shoulder. He brushed her weapon aside with the flick of one arm.
Alexia could not help but gasp in astonishment. She had hit him very hard. But no sound of breaking bone came when buckshot-filled ferrule met arm.
The wax-faced man grinned his horrible not-teeth grin.
Too late. Miss Tarabotti realized that she had breathed inward in her surprise. She cursed herself roundly for a fool. But self-recriminations were to no benefit. The sweet chemical smell of the chloroform invaded her mouth, permeated her nose and throat, and then her lungs. Blast it, thought Alexia, borrowing one of Lord Maccon's favorite curses.
She hit the wax-faced man one last time, mostly out of orneriness. She knew it would result in nothing. Her lips began to tingle and her head spun. She swayed dangerously and reached forward with her nonparasol hand, groping for the wax man, preternatural her last resort. Her hand came to rest against his horrible smooth temple, just below the Von VIXI. His skin felt cold and hard. Nothing at all happened to him at the contact. No change back to normal human, no return to life, no sou
l-sucking. Definitely not supernatural. Here, Miss Tarabotti realized, was the real monster.
“But,” Alexia whispered, “I am the soulless one...” And with that, she dropped her parasol and pitched forward into darkness.
***
Lord Maccon arrived home in the nick of time. His carriage clattered up the long cobbled drive to Woolsey Castle just as the sun set behind the high trees planted along the western edge of its extensive grounds.
Woolsey Castle stood a respectable distance from town—far enough away for the pack to run and close enough for them to take advantage of all the amusements London afforded. Woolsey Castle was also not the impenetrable fortress its name implied but instead a sort of trumped-up family manor house with multiple stories and excessively excitable buttresses. Its most important feature, so far as the werewolves were concerned, was a very large and secure dungeon, designed to accommodate multiple guests. The original owner and designer was reputed to have had some rather indecent proclivities, outside of his fondness for flying buttresses. Whatever the cause, the dungeons were extensive. Also key, in the pack's
opinion, was the large number of private bedchambers above dungeon level. Woolsey Castle had to house a goodly number of residents: werewolves, clavigers, and servants.
Lord Maccon jumped out of his carriage, already feeling those heady tingles and carnivorous urges only the full moon whipped into rampancy. He could smell the blood of prey on the evening air, and the urge to hunt, and maim, and kill, was approaching with the moon.
His clavigers were waiting for him in a large tense group at the door to the castle.
“You are cutting it a bit close for comfort, my lord,” remonstrated Rumpet, head butler, taking the Alpha's cloak.
Lord Maccon grunted, shedding his hat and gloves onto a long hallway stand designed expressly for that purpose.
He squinted into the assembled masses, searching for Tunstell. Tunstell was his personal valet and default captain of the household clavigers. Spotting the gangly redhead, Lord Maccon barked, “Tunstell, you dreadful young blunt, report.”
Tunstell bounced up and flourished a bow. His customary smile dimpled his freckled face. “All the pack's accounted for and locked down, sir. Your cell is clean and waiting. Best we get you down there right quick, I'm thinking.”
“There you go with the thinking thing. What have I told you?”
Tunstell only grinned wider.
Lord Maccon held his wrists outward. “Precautionary measures, Tunstell.” Tunstell's chipper smile diminished. “Are you certain that is necessary, sir?”
The earl felt his bones beginning to self-fracture. “Drat it, Tunstell, are you questioning orders?” The small part of his logical brain still functioning was saddened by this lapse. He had great affection for the boy, but every time he thought Tunstell might be ready for the bite, he behaved like a fathead. He seemed to have plenty of soul, but did he have enough sense to become supernatural? Pack protocol was not to be taken lightly. If the redhead survived the change but continued with this cavalier attitude toward regulations, would anyone be secure?
Rumpet came to his rescue. Rumpet was no claviger. He had no intention of bidding for metamorphosis, but he did enjoy executing his job efficiently. He had been butler to the pack for a long time and was easily double the age of any of the clavigers present in that hallway. Usually he exhibited more aptitude than all of them combined.
Actors, thought Lord Maccon in exasperation. It was one of the downsides of fleecing that particular profession. Men of the stage were not always men of sagacity.
The butler proffered a copper tray with a set of iron manacles atop it. “Mr. Tunstell, if you would be so kind,” he said.
The redheaded claviger already carried his own set of handcuffs, as all clavigers did. He sighed resignedly, plucking them off the tray and snapping them firmly around his master's wrists.
Lord Maccon sighed in relief. “Quickly,” he insisted, already slurring his words as the change re-formed his jawbone away from any capacity for human speech. The pain was intensifying as well, the horrible bone-wrenching agony to which, in all his long life, Lord Maccon had never yet become accustomed.
The proto-pack of clavigers surrounded him and hustled him down the winding stone staircase and into the castle dungeon. Some, the earl noticed in relief, were sensibly armored and armed. All wore sharp silver cravat pins. A few carried silver knives sheathed at their waists. These stayed to the outskirts of the crowd, carefully distanced from him, until such a time when he might make it necessary for them to use those knives.
The Woolsey Castle dungeon was full of snarling, slathering occupants. The youngest pups of Lord Maccon's pack could not resist change for several nights leading up to the full moon, let alone the moon itself. These had been in residence for days. The rest went with the sun as soon as it set on the actual night. Only Lord Maccon was strong enough to still be outside of confinement so late in the evening.
Professor Lyall was sitting suavely on a small three-legged footstool in one corner of his cell, wearing only his ridiculous glassicals and reading the evening paper. He was struggling to slow the change. Most of the pack simply let themselves be taken, but Lyall always resisted as long as he could, testing his will against the inevitability of the moon. Through the heavy iron bars of his Beta's cell, Lord Maccon could see that Lyall's spine was curled forward inhumanly far, and he boasted considerably more hair than was acceptable for any more social occasion than reading the evening paper in the privacy of one's own... prison.
The professor gave his Alpha a long look from yellow eyes over the tops of his spectacles. Lord Maccon, holding his manacled hands stiffly in front of him, ignored his Beta in a very pronounced manner. He suspected Lyall would have said something embarrassing about Alexia if his Beta's jaw were not already changed well beyond human speech.
The earl continued down the passageway. His pack settled down as he passed. As each wolf caught sight and scent of the Alpha, he instinctively quieted. Several flattened down their forelegs in a kind of bow, and one or two rolled over, presenting their stomachs. Even in the thrall of full moon, they acknowledged his dominance. None wished to even hint at a challenge. He would brook no disobedience, on this of all nights, and they knew it.
The earl stepped inside his own waiting cell. It was the largest but also the most secure, empty except for chains and bolts. Nothing was safe when he changed. No foot-stool or periodical was in residence, just stone and iron and emptiness. He sighed heavily.
His clavigers slammed and triple bolted the iron door behind him. They stationed themselves outside it but across the passageway, so as to be entirely out of reach. In this, at least, they followed his orders impeccably.
The moon rose above the horizon. Several youngsters of the pack began to howl.
Lord Maccon felt his bones completely breaking and reforming, his skin stretching and shrinking, his tendons realigning, his hair shifting downward and becoming fur. His sense of smell sharpened. He caught a faint whiff of some familiar scent riding an air current down from the castle above.
Those few older members of the pack still partly human completed their final changes with him. The air was rent with growls and whines as the dregs of daylight disappeared. Bodies always resisted the cursed change, making the pain ever more excruciating. With flesh held together only by the threads of what remained of their souls, all sensibility converted to frenzy. The noise they made was the rampaging death-lust cry of the damned.
Any who heard those particular howls felt nothing but fear: vampire, ghost, human, or animal, it mattered not. Nor would it, in the end, for any werewolf freed of his fetters would kill indiscriminately. On full-moon night, the blood moon, it was not a matter of choice or necessity. It simply was.
However, when Lord Maccon raised his muzzle up to howl, his was not a mindless cry of wrath. The low tones of the Alpha's voice were immeasurably mournful. For he had finally recognized the smell wafting down into
the dungeon. Too late to say anything in human tongue. Too late to warn his clavigers.
Conall Maccon, Earl of Woolsey, crashed up against the bars of his cell, the last vestiges of his human side crying out: not to kill, not to be free, but to protect.
Too late.
For that little whiff bore the scent of sweet turpentine, and it was getting stronger.
***
The sign above the door to the Hypocras Club read PROTEGO RES PUBLICA, engraved into white Italian marble. Miss Alexia Tarabotti, gagged, trussed, bound, and carried by two men—one holding her shoulders, the other her feet—read the words upside down. She had a screaming headache, and it took her a moment to translate the phrase through the nauseating aftereffects of chloroform exposure.
Finally she deduced its meaning: to protect the commonwealth.
Huh, she thought. / do not buy it. I definitely do not feel protected.
There also appeared to be the emblem of some kind bracketing either side of the words. A symbol or some sort of excitable invertebrate? Was it a brass octopus?
Miss Tarabotti was strangely unsurprised to be brought to the Hypocras Club. She remembered Felicity reading out the Post's proclamation detailing the “inception of an innovative social establishment catering to gentlemen of a scientific inclination.” Of course, she realized, now that it made perfect sense. After all, it was at the duchess's ball, right next door to the new club, that she had killed that first mysterious vampire who started it all. This made for a rather tidy full circle. And, with all that chloroform, there would have to be scientists involved.
Had Lord Maccon discovered this as well? she wondered. Did he suspect just the club, or was the Royal Society itself implicated? Alexia doubted even the earl's suspicious nature would stretch as far as that.
Her captors carried her into a small boxlike room with a concertina-style grating for a door. She could turn her head just enough to see the violet-clad form of Lord Akeldama being treated with equal disrespect: slung over someone's shoulder like a side of beef and crammed into the tiny room with her.
Parasol Protectorate 01 - Soulless Page 20
