Blameless

CHAPTER FIFTEEN Ladybugs to the Rescue

Alexia fought hard. It took some substantial negotiating to convince the German scientist, but in the end all she needed was the right kind of logic.

“I am bored.”

“This does not trouble me, Female Specimen.”

“This is my heritage we are dealing with, you realize?”

“Ya, so?”

“I believe it may be possible for me to uncover something you and the Templars have missed.”

No response.

“I can read Latin.”

He pressed down on her stomach.

“Can you? My, my, you are well educated.”

“For a female?”

“For a soulless. Templar records hold that the devil spawn are not men of philosophy.”

“You see, I am different. I might spot something.”

The little German pulled out an ear tube from his case and listened to her belly attentively.

“I am telling you, I have excellent research skills.”

“Will it keep you quiet?”

Alexia nodded enthusiastically.

“I shall see what I can do, ya?”

Later that day, two nervous young Templars came in carrying some ancient-looking scrolls and a bucket of lead tablets. They must have been under orders to oversee the security of these items, for instead of leaving, they locked the cell door and then sat—on the floor, much to Alexia’s shock—crossed their legs, and proceeded to embroider red crosses onto handkerchiefs while she read. Alexia wondered if this were some kind of punishment, or if embroidery was what the Templars did for fun. It would explain the general prevalence of embroidered red crosses everywhere. Lord Akeldama, of course, had warned her. Silly to realize it now that it was far too late.

She bypassed the scrolls in favor of the more intriguing lead squares. They had Latin incised into them and were, she believed, curse tablets. Her Latin was rather rusty, and she could have used a vocabulary reference book of some kind, but she managed to decipher the first tablet after some time and the others came much easier after that. Most of them concerned ghosts and were designed to either curse someone into suffering after death as a ghost or exorcize a poltergeist that was already haunting a house. Alexia surmised that the tablets, in either case, would be entirely ineffective, but there certainly were a large number of them.

She looked up when Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf entered her cell with a new battery of tests. “Ah,” she said, “Good afternoon. Thank you for arranging for me to look at this remarkable collection. I did not realize curse tablets were so focused on the supernatural. I had read that they called upon the wrath of imaginary daemons and gods, but not the real supernatural. Very interesting, indeed.”

“Anything useful, Female Specimen?”

“Ow!” He poked at her arm with a syringe. “So far, they all have to do with hauntings. Very concerned with ghosts, the Romans.”

“Mmm. Ya. I had read of this in my own research.”

Alexia went back to translating the next tablet.

Having collected a sample of her blood, the German abandoned her once more to the tender mercies of the embroidering Templars.

The moment she started reading the next tablet, Alexia knew she wasn’t going to tell Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf about it. It was a small one, and the boxy Latin letters were exceptionally tiny and painfully neat, covering both sides. Where all the previous tablets had been dedicated to daemons or to the spirits of the netherworld, this one was markedly different.

“I call upon you, Stalker of Skins and Stealer of Souls, child of a Breaker of Curses, whoever you are, and ask that from this hour, from this night, from this moment, you steal from and weaken the vampire Primulus of Carisius. I hand over to you, if you have any power, this Sucker of Blood, for only you may take what he values most. Stealer of Souls, I consecrate to you his complexion, his strength, his healing, his speed, his breath, his fangs, his grip, his power, his soul. Stealer of Souls, if I see him mortal, sleeping when he should wake, wasting away in his human skin, I swear I will offer a sacrifice to you every year.”

Alexia surmised that the term “Breaker of Curses” must correlate to the werewolf moniker for a preternatural, “curse-breaker,” which meant that the curse tablet was calling upon the child of a preternatural for aid. It was the first mention she had yet run across, however minor, of either soulless or a child of a soulless. She placed a hand upon her stomach and looked down at it. “Well, hello there, little Stalker of Skins.” She felt a brief fluttering inside her womb. “Ah, would we prefer Stealer of Souls?” The fluttering stilled. “I see, more dignified, is it?”

She went back to the tablet, reading it over again, wishing it might give her more of a clue as to what such a creature could do and how it came into existence. She supposed it was possible that this being was just as nonexistent as the gods of the netherworld that the other tablets called upon. Then again, it could be as real as the ghosts or vampires they were asked to fight against. It must have been such an odd age to have lived in, so full of superstition and mythology, to be ruled by the Caesar’s empire hives and a bickering line of incestuous vampires.

Alexia glanced under her eyelashes at the two embroidering men and, in a not-very-subtle movement, tucked the tablet down the front of her dress. Luckily for her, the Templars seemed to find their embroidery most absorbing.

She went on, scanning for the two key Latin phrases “Stalker of Skins” and “Stealer of Souls,” but there seemed to be no further mention of either. She weighed her options, wondering if she should mention the phrase to Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf. As it turned out, the preceptor brought her meal that evening, so she figured she might as well go straight to the source.

She took her time working around to the subject. First she asked him politely about his day and listened to the recitation of his routine—really, who would want to attend matins six times?—as she ate her pasta in its obligatory bright green sauce. The preceptor had called the long skinny pasta “spa-giggle-tee” or some such silliness. Alexia didn’t rightly care, so long as there was pesto on top of it.

Finally, she said, “I found an interesting tidbit in your records today.”

“Oh, yes? I had heard Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf brought them to you. Which one?”

She gestured airily. “Oh, you know, one of the scrolls. It said something about a soul-stealer.”

That got a reaction. The preceptor stood so fast that he knocked over the little stool he had been sitting on.

“What did you say?”

“I believe the other term used in the document was ‘skin-stalker.’ I see you have heard of these creatures before. Perhaps you would care to tell me where?”

Clearly in shock, the preceptor spoke as though his mouth were moving while his mind still coped with the revelation. “Soul-stealers are known to us only as legendary creatures, more dangerous than you soulless. They are greatly feared by the supernatural for their ability to be both mortal and immortal at the same time. The brotherhood has been warned to watch for them, although we have not yet encountered one in our recorded history. You believe that is what your child is?”

“What would you do with one if you caught it?”

“That would depend on whether or not we could control it. They cannot be allowed to roam free, not with that kind of power.”

“What kind of power?” Alexia tried to sound innocent as she inched her free hand down the side of her small stool, preparing to grab it out from under her to use as a weapon if need be.

“I only know what is written into our Amended Rule.”

“Oh, yes?”

He began to quote, “‘Above all this, whosoever would be a brother, you and your profession and faith must deal out death in the name of holy justice against those creatures that stand against God and lead a man unto hellfire, the vampire and the werewolf. For those that walk not under the sun and those that crawl under the moon have sold their souls for the taste of blood and flesh. Moreover, let no brother relax in his holy duty of pure watchfulness and firm perseverance against those unfortunates born to sin and damnation, the devil spawn in soulless state. And finally, the brothers are hereby commanded to fraternize only with the untainted and hunt down the sickness of spirit within those that can both walk and crawl, and who ride the soul as a knight will ride his steed.’ ”

As he spoke, the preceptor backed away from Alexia and toward the prison door. She was taken by his expression, almost hypnotized by it. As had happened during the battle in the carriage, his eyes were no longer dead.

Alexia Tarabotti, Lady Maccon, had engendered many emotions in people over the years—mostly, she admitted ruefully to herself, exasperation—but never before had she been the cause of such abject revulsion. She looked down, embarrassed. Guess it is not such a good thing, infant, to be a soul-stealer. Well, never you mind. Templars don’t seem to like anyone.

As she glanced away, her eye was caught by a flash of red coming along the passageway toward her cell—low to the ground. The two young Templars seemed to have noticed whatever it was as well and were looking in fascination at the object trundling toward them.

Then she heard the ticking noise and the tinny sound of multiple tiny metal legs on stone.

“What is going on?” demanded the preceptor, turning away from Alexia.

Alexia seized the opportunity, stood up, and in one smooth movement, yanked the stool out from under herself and struck the back of the preceptor’s head with it.

There was a dreadful crunching noise and Alexia grimaced.

“I do beg your pardon,” she said perfunctorily, leaping over his fallen form. “Needs must and all that.”

The two embroidering guards leapt to their feet, but before they had a chance to lock the door to Alexia’s cell, a large shiny bug, lacquered red with black spots, scuttled directly at them.

Alexia, still brandishing the stool, charged out into the hall.

Queen Victoria had been neither as impressed nor as shocked as she should have been upon hearing the term “soul-stealer” spoken in Lord Akeldama’s most salubrious tones. “Oh, is that all?” seemed to be her reaction. Her solution fit the standards of all monarchs everywhere. She made up her mind and then made it someone else’s problem. In this case, however, Professor Lyall was pleased to find she had not made it his problem.

No, instead, the queen had pursed her lips and delivered an unsavory verbal package into the elegant alabaster hands of Lord Akeldama. “A soul-stealer you say, Lord Akeldama? That sounds most unpleasant. Not to say inconvenient, considering Lady Maccon will be returned to active service as my muhjah as soon as she can be fetched home. We expect Lord Maccon to have that particular task well under way. It goes without saying, the Crown simply will not tolerate vampires trying to kill its muhjah, however pregnant she may be and whatever she may be pregnant with. You must put a stop to it.”

“I, Your Majesty?” Lord Akeldama was clearly flustered by this direct instruction.

“Of course, we require a new potentate. You are hereby granted the position. You possess the necessary qualifications, for you are a vampire and you are a rove.”

“I beg to differ, Your Majesty. It must be put to the hive vote, any new candidate to the potentate position.”

“You think they will not approve your appointment?”

“I have many enemies, Your Majesty, even among my own kind.”

“Then you will be in good company, potentate: so does Lady Maccon and so did Walsingham. We shall expect you at Thursday’s meeting of the Shadow Council.”

With that, Queen Victoria sailed out of the room, adrift on a sea of self-righteousness.

Lord Akeldama raised himself out of his bow, looking flabbergasted.

“Congratulations, my lord,” said Biffy timidly, attempting to stand shakily from the couch and approach his former master.

Professor Lyall hurried over to him. “Not yet, pup. You won’t have your legs back for a while longer.” He spoke the truth for, despite the fact that Biffy obviously wanted to walk on two legs, his brain seemed set on four, and he pitched forward with a surprised little cry.

Lyall caught him up and deposited him back on the couch. “It will take some time for your mind to catch up to your metamorphosis.”

“Ah.” Biffy’s voice caught in his throat. “How silly of me not to realize.”

Lord Akeldama came over as well, watching with hooded eyes as Lyall smoothed the blanket over the young man. “She has placed me in a most insufferable position.”

“Now you know how I feel most of the time,” said Professor Lyall under his breath.

“You are more than equal to the task, my lord.” Biffy’s eyes were shining and full of faith as they looked upon his former master.

Wonderful, thought Lyall, a newly made werewolf in love with a vampire, and more apt to do his bidding than the pack’s. Would even Lord Maccon be able to break such a connection?

“I rather think the queen is getting the better end of the deal,” added Professor Lyall, intimating, but not actually mentioning, Lord Akeldama’s fashionable yet efficient espionage regime.

Poor Lord Akeldama was not having a good night. He had lost his lover and his comparative anonymity in one fell swoop. “The pathetic reality is, my darlings, I am not even convinced the child of a preternatural and a werewolf will be a soul-stealer. And if it is, will it be the same kind of soul-stealer as it was when the sire was a vampire?”

“Is that why you remain unafraid of this creature?”

“As I said before, Lady Maccon is my friend. Any child of hers will be no more or less hostile to vampires than she is. Although the way we are currently behaving may sour her against us. Aside from that, it is not in my nature to anticipate trouble with violence; I prefer to be in possession of all the necessary facts first. I should like to meet this child once it has emerged and then render my judgment. So much better that way.”

“And your other reason?” The vampire was still hiding something; Lyall’s well-honed BUR senses told him so.

“Must you hound him, Professor Lyall?” Biffy looked worriedly from his former master to his new Beta.

“I think it best. It is, after all, in my nature.”

“Touché.” The vampire sat down once more next to Biffy on the settee and placed a passive hand casually on the young man’s leg, as if out of habit.

Lyall stood up and looked down at them both from over his spectacles; he’d had enough of mysteries for one evening. “Well?”

“That soul-stealer, the one the Edict Keepers warn us of? The reason for all this twaddle? Her name was Al-Zabba and she was a relative of sorts.” Lord Akeldama tipped his head from side to side casually.

Professor Lyall started. Of all the things, he had not expected that. “A relative of yours?”

“You might know her better as Zenobia.”

Professor Lyall knew about as much as any educated man on the Roman Empire, but he had never read that the Queen of the Palmyrene had anything more or less than the requisite amount of soul. Which led to another question.

“This soul-stealer condition, how exactly does it manifest?”

“I don’t know.”

“And that makes even you uneasy. Doesn’t it, Lord Akeldama?”

Biffy touched his former master’s hand where it rested on his blanket-covered thigh and squeezed as though offering reassurance.

Definitely going to be a problem.

“The daylight folk, back then, the ones who feared her, they called her a skin-thief.”

That name meant something to Professor Lyall, where soul-stealer had not. It tickled memories at the back of his head. Legends about a creature who could not only steal werewolf powers but become, for the space of one night, a werewolf in his stead. “Are you telling me we will have a flayer on our hands?”

“Exactly! So, you see how difficult it will be to keep everyone from killing Alexia?”

“As to that problem”—Professor Lyall gave a sudden grin—“I may have a solution. Lord and Lady Maccon will not like it, but I am thinking you, Lord Akeldama and young Biffy, might find it acceptable.”

Lord Akeldama smiled back, showing off his deadly fangs. Professor Lyall thought them just long enough to be threatening without being ostentatious, like the perfect dress sword. They were quite subtle fangs for a man of Lord Akeldama’s reputation.

“Why, Dolly darling, do speak further; you interest me most ardently.”

The Templars seemed, if possible, less prepared to battle ticking ladybugs than Alexia had been when accosted in a carriage not so very long ago. They were so surprised by their unexpected visitors and were torn between squashing them and handling the now-free Alexia. It wasn’t until one of the ladybugs stuck a sharp needlelike antennae into one of the young Templars, who then collapsed, that the brothers took violently against them. Once pricked into action, however, their retribution was swift and effective.

The remaining young Templar drew his sword and dispatched Alexia’s noble scuttling rescuers with remarkable efficiency. He then whirled to face Alexia.

She raised her stool.

Behind them, in the cell, the preceptor groaned. “What is going on?”

Since the ladybugs might have been sent either by the vampires to kill her or by Monsieur Trouvé to help her, Alexia could not rightly answer that question. “It would appear you are under attack by ladybugs, Mr. Templar. What else can I say?”

At which moment they all heard the growl. It was the kind of growl Alexia was definitely familiar with—low and loud and full of intention. It was the kind of growl that said, clearly as anything, “You are food.”

“Ah, and now, I suspect, werewolves.”

And so it proved to be the case.

Of course, Alexia’s traitorous little heart hoped for a certain brindled coat, chocolate brown with hints of black and gold. She craned her neck over her brandished stool to see if the growling, slavering beast charging down the stone hallway would have pale yellow eyes and a familiar humor crinkling them just so.

But the creature that bounded into view was pure white, and his lupine face was humorless. He launched himself upon the young Templar, without apparent care for the naked blade, which was, Alexia had no doubt, silver. He was a beautiful specimen of Homo lupis, or would have been beautiful had he not been bent on mauling and mayhem. Alexia knew those eyes were icy blue without having to look. She couldn’t really follow, anyway, as man and wolf met in the hallway. With a vociferous battle cry, the preceptor charged out of the cell and joined the fray.

Never one to sit back and dither, Alexia grabbed the stool more firmly, and when the younger Templar fell back toward her, she clouted him with the stool on top of the head as hard as she possibly could. Really, she was getting terribly good at bashing skulls in her old age—rather unseemly of her.

The boy collapsed.

Now it was just the werewolf against the preceptor.

Alexia figured that Channing could take care of himself and that she’d better break for freedom while the preceptor was preoccupied. So she dropped the stool, hiked her skirts, and took off pell-mell down what looked to be the most promising passageway. She ran smack-dab into Madame Lefoux, Floote, and Monsieur Trouvé.

Ah, right passageway! “Well, hello, you lot. How are you?”

“No time for pleasantries, Alexia, my dear. Isn’t it just like you, to be already escaped before we had the opportunity to rescue you?” Madame Lefoux flashed her dimples.

“Ah, yes. Well, I am resourceful.”

Madame Lefoux tossed something at her, and Alexia caught it with the hand not holding up her skirts. “My parasol! How marvelous.”

Floote, she noticed, was carrying her dispatch case in one hand, and he had one of those tiny guns in his other.

Monsieur Trouvé offered Alexia his arm.

“My lady?”

“Why, thank you, monsieur, very kind.” Alexia managed to grasp it and her parasol and her skirts without too much difficulty. “I am rather grateful for the ladybugs, by the way; very nice of you to send them on.”

The clockmaker began hustling her down the hallway. It wasn’t until that moment that Alexia realized how large the catacombs were, and how far she had been stashed underground.

“Ah, yes, I borrowed the adaptation from the vampires. I put a doping agent in the antennae instead of poison. It proved an effective alternative.”

“Very. Until the swords came out, of course. I am afraid your three minions are no more.”

“Ah. Poor little things. They aren’t exactly battle-hardy.”

They ascended a steep flight of stairs and then dashed down another long hallway, one that seemed to go backward above the one they’d just run up.

“If you don’t find it impertinent of me to ask,” Alexia panted, “what are you doing here, monsieur?”

The Frenchman answered between puffs. “Ah, I came with your luggage. Left a marker so Genevieve would know I was here. I didn’t want to miss all the fun.”

“You and I clearly do not share a definition of the word.”

The Frenchman looked her up and down, his eyes positively twinkling. “Oh, come now, my lady, I think we may.”

Alexia grinned, it must be admitted, a tad more ferociously than genteelly.

“Watch out!” came Floote’s shout. He was leading the charge, closely followed by Madame Lefoux, but he had stopped suddenly ahead of them and, after taking aim, fired one of his tiny guns.

A group of about a dozen or so Templars was coming down the passageway toward them, preceded by the tweed-covered, dwarflike form of a certain German scientist. Adding to the generally threatening overtones of the party, Poche led the charge, yapping and prancing about like an overly excited bit of dandelion fluff wearing a yellow bow.

Floote reached for his second gun and fired again, but there was no time to get the first reloaded before the Templars were upon them. Floote seemed to have missed, anyway, for the enemy advanced undaunted. The only member troubled by the shot was the dog, who went into highly vocalized histrionics.

“I would surrender now, ya, if I were you, Female Specimen.”

Alexia gave Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf an innocent look from behind her little group of protectors; after all, it hadn’t been her idea to be rescued. She also hefted her parasol. Alexia had faced down vampires. A handful of highly trained mortals would be easy by comparison. Or so she hoped.

The little German looked pointedly at Madame Lefoux and Monsieur Trouvé. “I am surprised at you both. Members in good standing with the Order of the Brass Octopus reduced to this, running and fighting. And for what? Protection of a soulless? You do not even intend to properly study her.”

“And that is, of course, all you wish to do?”

“Of course.”

Madame Lefoux was not to be outmaneuvered by a German. “You forget, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, that I have read your research. All of your research—even the vivisections. You were always inclined toward questionable methodology.”

“And you have no ulterior motive, Madame Lefoux? I heard you had received instructions from within the highest levels of the Order to follow and learn as much as possible about Lady Maccon and her child.”

“I am attracted to Alexia for many reasons,” replied the Frenchwoman.

Alexia felt a token protest was called for at this juncture. “I mean to say, really, I am near to developing a neurosis—is there anyone around who doesn’t want to study or kill me?”

Floote raised a tentative hand.

“Ah, yes, thank you, Floote.”

“There is also Mrs. Tunstell, madam,” he offered hopefully, as if Ivy were some kind of consolation prize.

“I notice you don’t mention my fair-weather husband.”

“I suspect, at this moment, madam, he probably wants to kill you.”

Alexia couldn’t help smiling. “Good point.”

The Templars had been standing in still and, unsurprisingly, silent vigil over this conversation. Quite unexpectedly, one of those at the back gave a little cry. This was followed by the unmistakable sound of fighting. Poche began barking his head off even more loudly and vigorously than before. Apparently less eager to attack when faced with real violence, the dog also cowered behind his master’s tweed-covered legs.

At a signal from the Templar who appeared to be the leader—the cross on his nightgown being bigger than the others—most of the rest whirled about to confront this new threat from the rear. This left only three Templars and the German scientist facing Alexia and her small party—much better odds.

Floote went about busily reloading his two little pistols with new bullets.

“What—?” Alexia was mystified into inarticulateness.

“Vampires,” explained Madame Lefoux. “We knew they’d come. They have been on our tail these last few days.”

“Which was why you waited until nightfall to rescue me?”

“Precisely.” Monsieur Trouvé twinkled at her.

“We wouldn’t want to be so boorish,” added Madame Lefoux, “as to arrive unexpectedly for a visit without a gift. So we brought plenty to go around.”

“Very courteous of you.”

Alexia craned her neck to try and make out what was going on. It was appropriately dark and gloomy in the catacombs, and hard to see around the men standing before her, but she thought she might just be able to see six vampires. Goodness, six is practically an entire local hive! They really and truly must want her dead.

Despite being armed with wicked-looking wooden knives, the Templars seemed to be getting the worst of the encounter. Supernatural strength and speed came in rather handy during close-quarters fighting. The three Templars still facing them turned away, eager to join the fight. That helped even the odds a bit, putting them in a two-to-one ratio. The battle was proving to be peculiarly silent. The Templars made little noise beyond the occasional grunt of pain or small cry of surprise. The vampires were much the same, silent, swift, and lethal.

Unfortunately, the broiling mess of fangs and fists was still blocking Alexia’s only means of escape. “What do you say—think we can worm our way through?”

Madame Lefoux tilted her head to one side thoughtfully.

Alexia dropped her skirts and lifted her free hand suggestively. “With my particular skill set, such an endeavor could be quite entertaining. Monsieur Trouvé, let me just show you how this parasol works. I think I may need both my hands free.”

Alexia gave the clockmaker some quick tips on those armaments that might be used under their present circumstances.

“Beautiful work, Cousin Genevieve.” Monsieur Trouvé looked genuinely impressed.

Madame Lefoux blushed and then busied herself with her cravat pins, pulling out both of them: the wooden one for the vampires, and the silver, for lack of anything better, for the Templars. Floote cocked his pistol. Alexia took off her gloves.

They had all forgotten about Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf—an amazing achievement considering that his absurd excuse for a dog was still yapping away at the top of its lungs.

“But you cannot possibly leave, Female Specimen! I have not completed my tests. I did so want to cut the child out for dissection. I could have determined its nature. I could—” He left off speaking, for he was interrupted by a loud growling noise.

Channing came dashing up. The werewolf was looking a tad worse for wear. His beautiful white fur was streaked with blood, many of his wounds still bleeding, for they were slower to heal when administered by a silver blade. Luckily, none of the injuries appeared to be fatal. Alexia didn’t want to think about how the preceptor might look right about now. It was a safe bet that one or more of his injuries were fatal.

Channing lolled a tongue out and then tilted his head in the direction of the pitched battle going on just ahead of them.

“I know,” said Alexia, “you brought the cavalry with you. Really, you shouldn’t have.”

The werewolf barked at her, as if to say, This is no time for levity.

“Very well, then, after you.”

Channing trotted purposefully toward the broiling mass of vampires and Templars.

The German scientist, cowering away from the werewolf, yelled at them from his position, flattened against the side wall of the passageway, “No, Female Specimen, you cannot go! I will not allow it.” Alexia glanced over at him, only to find he had pulled out an extraordinary weapon. It looked like a set of studded leather bagpipes melded to a blunderbuss. It was pointed in her direction, but Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf’s hand was by no means steady on the trigger. Before anyone had a chance to react to the weapon, Poche, seized with a sudden bout of unwarranted bravery, charged at Channing.

Without breaking stride, the werewolf swiveled his head down and around, opened his prodigious jaws, and swallowed the little dog whole.

“No!” cried the scientist, instantly switching targets and firing the bagpipe blunderbuss at the werewolf instead of Alexia. It made a loud splattering pop sound and ejected a fist-sized ball of some kind of jellied red organic matter that hit the werewolf with a splat. Whatever it was must not have been designed to damage werewolves, for Channing merely shook it off like a wet dog and gave the little man a disgusted look.

Floote fired in the same instant, hitting the German in one shoulder and then pocketing his gun, once more out of ammunition. Alexia thought she would have to get Floote a better, more modern gun, a revolver, perhaps.

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf cried out in pain, clutched at his shoulder, and fell back.

Madame Lefoux marched over to him and grabbed the peculiar weapon out of his limp hand. “You know the truth of the matter, sir? Your ideas may be sound, but your research methods and your moral code are both highly questionable. You, sir, are a bad scientist!” With that, she clocked him in the temple with the muzzle of his own bagpipe gun. He fell like a stone.

“Really, Channing,” remonstrated Alexia, “did you have to eat the man’s dog? I am convinced you will experience terrible indigestion.”

The werewolf ignored them all and continued on toward the pitched hallway battle, which showed no signs of being firmly decided in either direction. Two to one were clearly good odds when the two were highly trained warrior monks and the one was a vampire.

Alexia ran after Channing to stir things up a bit.

While the werewolf proceeded to clear them a path via the simple expedient of eating his way through the fighters, Alexia, gloves off, tried to touch any and all that she could. The vampires were changed by her touch and the Templars repulsed; either way, she had the advantage.

Vampires dropped their opponents as they suddenly lost supernatural strength or found themselves viciously nibbling someone’s neck, having entirely lost their fangs. The Templars were quick to follow up any advantage, but they were distracted by the presence of a new and equally feared enemy—a werewolf. They were also startled to find their quarry, supposedly a complacent Englishwoman of somber means and minimal intelligence, busily plying her art and touching them. Instinct took over, for they had been trained for generations to avoid a preternatural as they would avoid the devil himself, as a grave risk to their sacred souls. They flinched and stumbled away from her.

Following Alexia came Monsieur Trouvé, who, having utilized some of the parasol’s armament, had reverted to swinging the heavy bronze accessory about like a club, bludgeoning all who got in his way. Alexia could understand his approach; it was her preferred method as well. Could that technique, she wondered, be legitimately referred to as a “parassault”? Following him was Madame Lefoux, bagpipe blunderbuss in one hand, cravat pin in the other, slashing and bashing away merrily. After her came Floote, bringing up the rear in dignified elegance, using the dispatch case as a kind of shield and poking at people with Madame Lefoux’s other cravat pin, borrowed for the occasion.

Thus, undercover of an uncommon amount of pandemonium and bedlam, Alexia and her little band of gallant rescuers made their way through the battle and out the other side. Then there was nothing for it but to run, bruised and bloody as they were. Channing led them first through the Roman catacombs, then through a long modern tunnel that housed, if the steel tracks were any indication, a rail trolley of some kind. Finally, they found themselves clambering up damp wooden stairs and tumbling out onto the wide soft bank of the Arno. The town obviously observed a supernatural curfew after nightfall, for there was absolutely no one to witness their panting exit.

They climbed up to street level and dashed a good long way through the city. Alexia developed a stitch in her side and a feeling that, should her future permit it, she would spend the rest of her days relaxed in an armchair in a library somewhere. Adventuring was highly overrated.

Having reached one of the bridges over the Arno, she called a stop halfway across. It was a good defensible position; they could afford a short rest. “Are they following us?”

Channing raised his muzzle to the sky and sniffed. Then he shook his shaggy head.

“I cannot believe we escaped so easily.” Alexia looked about at her companions, taking stock of their condition. Channing had sustained only a few additional injuries, but all were healing even as she watched. Of the others, Madame Lefoux was sporting a nasty gash on one wrist, which Floote was bandaging with a handkerchief, and Monsieur Trouvé was rubbing at a lump on his forehead. She herself ached terribly in one shoulder but would rather not look just yet. Otherwise, they all were in sufficient form and spirits. Channing appeared to have reached the same conclusion and decided to shift form.

His body began that strange, uncomfortable-looking writhing, and the sound of flesh and bone re-forming itself rent the air for a few moments, and then he rose to stand before them. Alexia gave a squeak and turned her back hurriedly on his endowments, which were ample and well proportioned.

Monsieur Trouvé took off his frock coat. It was far too wide for the werewolf, but he handed it over for modesty’s sake. With a nod of thanks, Channing put it on. It covered the necessaries, but was far too short and, coupled with his long, loose hair, made him look disturbingly like an oversized French schoolgirl.

Alexia was perfectly well aware of what she was required to do at this juncture. Courtesy demanded gratitude, but she could wish it was someone other than Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings who was to receive it. “Well, Major Channing, I suppose I must thank you for the timely intervention. I am confused, however. Shouldn’t you be off somewhere killing things?”

“My lady, I rather thought that was what I just did.”

“I mean officially, for queen and country, with the regiment and everything.”

“Ah, no, deployment was delayed after you left. Technical difficulties.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, it was technically difficult to leave a heartbroken Alpha. And it is a good thing for you I wasn’t overseas. Someone had to extract you from the Templars.” He entirely ignored the rest of Alexia’s rescue party.

“I should have managed perfectly well on my own. But thank you, anyway. You are always terribly impressed with yourself, aren’t you?”

He leered. “Aren’t you?”

“So why have you been tracking me this entire time?”

“Ah, you knew it was me?”

“There aren’t a great number of white wolves roaming around safeguarding my interests. I figured it had to be you after the vampire and the carriage incident. So, why were you?”

A new voice, deep and gravelly, came from behind them. “Because I sent him.”

Floote stopped attending to Madame Lefoux and whirled to face this new threat, the Frenchwoman was already reaching once more for her trusty cravat pins, and Monsieur Trouvé raised the bagpipe blunderbuss, which he’d been examining with scientific interest. Only Major Channing remained unperturbed.

Lord Conall Maccon, Earl of Woolsey, stepped out of the shadows of the bridge tower.

“You! You are late,” pointed out his errant wife with every sign of extreme annoyance.