The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (78 page)

And they had all vanished.

Professor Lyall couldn't identify most of them by face or name, but as he made the rounds of London's various routs, card
parties, and gentleman's clubs that evening, he became painfully aware of their collective absence. He himself was welcome
at most establishments but was not expected, for he was thought to be rather shy. Yet he was familiar enough with high society
to mark the difference
one vampire's disappearance had wrought. His carefully polite inquiries yielded up neither destination nor explanation. So
it was that, in the end, he left the drawing rooms of the wealthy and headed down toward dockside and the blood brothels.

“You new, gov'na? Like a li'le sip, would ya? Only cost ya a penny.” The young man propping up the shadows of a scummy brick
wall was pale and drawn. The dirty scarf wrapped around his neck no doubt already covered a goodly number of bite marks.

“Looks like you've given enough already.”

“Not a chance of it.” The blood-whore's dirty face split with a sudden smile, brown with rotting teeth. He was of the type
vampires rather crudely referred to as snacky-bites.

Professor Lyall bared his own teeth at the youngster, showing the boy that he did not, in fact, have the requisite fangs for
the job.

“Ah, right you are, gov. No offense meant.”

“None taken. There is a penny for you, however, if you provide me with some information.”

The young man's pale face became still and drawn. “I don't grass, gov.”

“I do not require the names of your clientele. I am looking for a man, a vampire. Name of Akeldama.”

The blood-whore straightened away from the wall. “Won't find 'im 'ere, gov; 'e's got enough of 'is own ta slurp from.”

“Yes, I am well aware of that fact. But I am wondering if you might know his current whereabouts.”

The man bit his lip.

Professor Lyall handed him a penny. There weren't a
lot of vampires in London, and blood-whores, who made it their livelihood to service them, tended to know a good deal about
the local hives and loners as a matter of survival.

The lip was nibbled on slightly more.

Professor Lyall handed him another penny.

“Word on the street is 'e's left town.”

“Go on.”

“An' how. Didn't suss a master could be mobile like that.”

Professor Lyall frowned. “Any idea as to where?”

A shake of the head was all Lyall got in answer.

“Or why?”

Another shake.

“One more penny if you can direct me to someone who does.”

“Ya ain't gunna like me answer, gov.”

Professor Lyall handed him another copper.

The blood-whore shrugged. “You'd be wantin' the other queen, then.”

Professor Lyall groaned inwardly. Of course it would turn out to be a matter of internal vampire politics. “Countess Nadasdy?”

The young man nodded.

Professor Lyall thanked the blood-whore for his help and flagged down a seedy-looking hansom, directing the driver toward
Westminster. About halfway there, he changed his mind. It wouldn't do for the vampires to know so soon that Lord Akeldama's
absence was of interest to either BUR or the Woolsey Pack. Banging on the box with his fist, he redirected the driver toward
Soho, intending to call upon a certain redhead.

*     *     *

Professor Lyall alighted from the hansom at Piccadilly Circus, paid the driver, and walked a block north. Even at midnight,
it was a pleasant little corner of the city, swimming in young people of artistic propensities, if perhaps a bit dingy and
lowbrow. Professor Lyall had a good memory, and he recalled the cholera outbreak of twenty years earlier as though it had
happened only yesterday. Sometimes he thought he could still smell the sickness in the air. As a result, Soho always caused
him to sneeze.

The apartment, when he knocked and was duly admitted by a very young maid, proved to be neat and tidy if a tad gleefully decorated.
Ivy Tunstell bustled forward to greet him in the hallway, her dark curls bobbing out from under a large lace cap. The cap
had blue silk roses clustered above her left ear, which gave her an oddly rakish appearance. She was wearing a pink walking
dress, and Lyall was pleased to see he had not disturbed her at rest.

“Mrs. Tunstell, how do you do? I do apologize for calling at such a late hour.”

“Professor Lyall, welcome. Delighted to see you. Not at all. We keep to a sunset schedule. After he left your service, my
dear Tunny never could manage to break the habit, and it does suit his chosen profession.”

“Ah, yes. How is Tunstell?”

“Auditioning as we speak.” Ivy led her guest into an absolutely tiny receiving room, with barely enough space to house a settee,
two chairs, and a tea table. The decor seemed to have been chosen with only one theme in mind—pastel. It was a resplendent
collection of pink, pale yellow, sky blue, and lilac.

Professor Lyall hung his hat and coat on a spindly hat
stand crowded behind the door and took one of the chairs. It was like sitting inside a bowl of Easter candy. Ivy settled herself
onto the settee. The young maid, having followed them in, gave the mistress of the house a quizzical look.

“Tea, Professor Lyall, or would you prefer something, uh, bloodier?”

“Tea would be lovely, Mrs. Tunstell.”

“You are certain? I have some delightful kidney set aside for a pie tomorrow, and it
is
getting on to full moon.”

Professor Lyall smiled. “Your husband has been telling you things about living with werewolves, hasn't he?”

Ivy blushed slightly. “Perhaps a little. I am afraid I have been terribly nosy. I find your culture fascinating. I do hope
you do not think me impertinent.”

“Not at all. But, really, just tea would be perfectly fine.”

Ivy nodded to her maid, and the young girl scuttled off, clearly excited.

“We don't get many visitors of your caliber,” lamented Ivy.

Professor Lyall was too much a gentleman to remark that Miss Hisselpenny's elopement, and consequent loss of what little status
she'd had, made her a less than desirable acquaintance for most. Only a high-ranking original, as Lady Maccon had been, could
afford to continue such an association. Now that Alexia herself had fallen from grace, Ivy must be a veritable social pariah.

“How is the hat shop coming on?”

Mrs. Tunstell's big hazel eyes lit up with pleasure. “Well, I have only had it under my charge for the one day. Of course,
I kept it open this evening as well. I
know Madame Lefoux caters to the supernatural set, but you would not believe the things one overhears in a hat shop. Only
this afternoon, I learned Miss Wibbley was engaged.”

Prior to Ivy's marriage, Professor Lyall knew she had relied upon Alexia, who was at best disinterested and at worst obtuse,
for all her society gossip. As a result, Ivy had been in a constant state of frustration.

“So you are enjoying yourself?”

“Immeasurably. I never thought
trade
could be so very entertaining. Why, this evening, Miss Mabel Dair paid us a call. The actress, you've heard of her?” Ivy
looked to Professor Lyall inquiringly.

The werewolf nodded.

“Well, she came by to pick up a special order for Countess Nadasdy herself. I had no idea the countess even wore hats. I mean
to say”—Ivy looked to Lyall in confusion—“she does not actually leave her house, does she?”

Professor Lyall highly doubted that a special order from Madame Lefoux for a vampire queen bore any resemblance whatsoever
to a hat, aside from being transported inside a hatbox. But he perked up with interest. He had thought to ask Tunstell for
information as to Lord Akeldama's disappearance, given the vampire's affection for the theater and Tunstell's previous investigative
training under Lyall's tutelage, but perhaps Ivy might unwittingly have some information to impart. Mabel Dair, after all,
was Countess Nadasdy's favorite drone.

“And how did Miss Dair seem?” he asked carefully.

The maid returned and Ivy fussed with the tea trolley. “Oh, not
at all
the thing. Dear Miss Dair and I have become almost friendly since my marriage. She and
Tunny have appeared onstage together. She was clearly most upset about something. And I said to her, I did, I said, ‘My dear
Miss Dair,' I said, ‘you do not look
at all
the thing! Would you like to sit, take a little tea?' And I think she might have.” Ivy paused and studied Professor Lyall's
carefully impassive face. “You are aware, she is a bit of a, well, I hardly like to say it to a gentleman of your persuasion,
but a, um, vampire drone.” Ivy whispered this as if she could not quite believe her own daring at being even a nodding acquaintance
with such a person.

Professor Lyall smiled slightly. “Mrs. Tunstell, do you forget I work for the Bureau of Unnatural Registry? I am well aware
of her status.”

“Oh, of course you are. How silly of me.” Ivy covered her embarrassment by pouring the tea. “Milk?”

“Please. And do go on. Did Miss Dair relay the nature of her distress?”

“Well, I do not think she intended me to overhear. She was discussing something with her companion. That tall, good-looking
gentleman I met at Alexia's wedding—Lord Ambrittle, I believe it was.”

“Lord Ambrose?”

“Yes, that! Such a nice man.”

Professor Lyall forbore to mention that Lord Ambrose was, in fact, a not very nice vampire.

“Well, apparently, dear Miss Dair caught the countess and some gentleman or another arguing. A potent gentleman, she kept
saying, whatever that means. And she said she thought the countess was accusing this gentleman of having taken something from
Lord Akeldama. Quite astonishing. Why would a potent man want to steal from Lord Akeldama?”

“Mrs. Tunstell,” Professor Lyall said very precisely and unhurriedly, “did Lord Ambrose notice that you had overheard this?”

“Why? Is it a matter of significance?” Ivy popped a sugared rose petal into her mouth and blinked at her guest.

“It is certainly intriguing.” Lyall took a cautious drink of his tea. It was excellent.

“I hate to speak ill of such a nice man, but I believe he did not recognize me. He may even have thought I was a genuine
shopgirl.
Shocking, I know, but I
was
standing behind a sales counter at the time.” She paused and sipped her tea. “I thought you might find the information useful.”

At that, Professor Lyall gave Mrs. Tunstell a sharp look. He wondered for the first time how much of Ivy was, in fact, comprised
of dark curls and big eyes and ridiculous hats and how much of that was for show.

Ivy returned his direct gaze with a particularly innocent smile. “The great advantage,” she said, “of being thought silly,
is that people forget and begin to think one might also be foolish. I may, Professor Lyall, be a trifle enthusiastic in my
manner and dress, but I am no fool.”

“No, Mrs. Tunstell, I can see that.”
And Lady Maccon,
thought Lyall,
would not be so friendly with you if you were.

“I believe Miss Dair was overset, or she would not have been so indiscreet in public.”

“Ah, and what is your excuse?”

Ivy laughed. “I am well aware, Professor, that my dearest Alexia does not tell me much about certain aspects of her life.
Her friendship with Lord Akeldama, for example,
has always remained a mystery to me. I mean really, he is
too
outrageous. But her judgment is sound. I should have told her what I heard, were she still in town. As it stands, I judge
you will make an adequate substitute. You stand very high in my husband's regard. Besides which, I simply do not believe it
is right. Potent gentlemen should not go around stealing things from Lord Akeldama.”

Professor Lyall knew perfectly well the identity of Ivy's “potent gentleman.” It meant that this was rapidly becoming an ever
more serious and ever more vampire-riddled conundrum. The potentate was the premier rove in all of England, Queen Victoria's
chief strategist and her most treasured supernatural advisor. He sat on the Shadow Council with the dewan, werewolf loner
and commander in chief of the Royal Lupine Guard. Until recently, Alexia had been their third. The potentate was one of the
oldest vampires on the island. And he had stolen something from Lord Akeldama. Professor Lyall would wager good money on the
fact that it was in pursuit of that very object that had caused Lord Akeldama, and all of his drones, to leave London.

What a fine kettle of fangs this is becoming,
he thought.

Mostly unaware of the exploding steam engine she had just landed her guest in, Ivy Tunstell bobbed her curls at Professor
Lyall and offered him another cup of tea. Lyall decided that his best possible course of action was to head home to Woolsey
Castle and go to sleep. Often vampires were better understood after a good day's rest.

Consequently, he declined the tea.

               

A
lexia's legs were stiff from the cold, but at least they were decently covered by her skirts once more, even if those skirts
were now coated in mud as well as burned by acid. She sighed. She must look like a veritable gypsy with her spattered dispatch
case and wild hair. Madame Lefoux also looked the worse for wear, speckled with mud, her goggles dangling about her neck.
Her top hat was still secured to her head by the long scarf, but her mustache was decidedly askew. Only Floote somehow managed
to look entirely unruffled as they skulked—there really was no other word for it—through the side alleys of Nice in the wee
hours of the morning.

Nice proved itself smaller than Paris, characterized by a casual seaside attitude. Madame Lefoux, however, hinted darkly that
the city's “Italian troubles” of ten years ago remained, hidden but unabated, and that this upsetting situation gave Nice
a restless undertone not always sensed by strangers.

“Imagine! Trying to contend that Nice is really Italian. Pah.” Madame Lefoux flicked one hand dismissively and glared at Alexia,
as though Alexia might side with the Italians in this matter.

Alexia tried to think of something reassuring to say. “I am certain there is hardly any pasta in the whole city,” was the
best rejoinder she could come up with on such short notice.

Madame Lefoux only increased the pace of their skulking, leading them around a pile of discarded rags into a dingy little
alleyway.

“I do hope the ornithopter will be safe where we left it.” Alexia tried to change the subject as she followed her friend,
lifting her skirts away from the rags. There was hardly any point in the effort at this juncture, but instinct dictated one's
skirts be lifted.

“Should be. It's out of gunpowder charges, and very few, apart from Gustave and myself, know how to fly it. I shall send him
a note as to its location. I do apologize for that unfortunate landing.”

“You mean that unfortunate
crash
?”

“At least I chose a soft bit of ground.”

“Duck ponds usually are soft. You do realize, ornithopter only
means
bird? You don't actually have to treat it as such.”

“At least it didn't explode.”

Alexia paused in her skulking. “Oh, do you believe it ought to have done so?”

Madame Lefoux gave one of her annoying little French shrugs.

“Well I think your ornithopter has earned its name.”

“Oh, yes?” The inventor looked resigned.

“Yes. The Muddy Duck.”

“
Le Canard Boueux
? Very funny.”

Floote gave a tiny snort of amusement. Alexia glared at him. How had he managed to entirely avoid the mud?

Madame Lefoux led them to a small door that once might have been colored blue, and then yellow, and then green, a history
it displayed proudly in crumbling strips of paint all down the front. The Frenchwoman knocked softly at first, and then more
and more loudly until she was banging quite violently on the poor door.

The only reaction the racket caused was the immediate commencement of an unending bout of hysterical barking from some species
of diminutive canine in possession of the other side of the door.

Floote gestured with his head at the doorknob. Alexia looked closely at it under the flickering torchlight; Nice apparently
was not sophisticated enough for gas streetlamps. It was brass, and mostly unassuming, except that there was a very faint
etched symbol on its surface, almost smoothed away by hundreds of hands—a chubby little octopus.

After a good deal more banging and barking, the door cautiously opened a crack to reveal a mercurial little man wearing a
red and white striped nightshirt and cap, and a half-frightened, half-sleepy expression. A dirty feather duster on four legs
bounced feverishly about his bare ankles. Much to Alexia's surprise, given her recent experience with Frenchmen, the man had
no mustache. The feather duster did. Perhaps in Nice mustaches were more common on canines?

Her surprise was abated, however, when the little man spoke, not in French, but in German.

When his staccato sentence was met only by three
blank expressions, he evaluated their manners and dress and switched to heavily accented English.

“Ya?”

The duster ejected itself through the partly opened door and attacked Madame Lefoux, gnawing at the hem of her trouser leg.
What Madame Lefoux's excellent woolen trousers had done to insult the creature, Alexia could not begin to fathom.

“Monsieur Lange-Wilsdorf?” Madame Lefoux tried tactfully to shake off the animal with her foot.

“Who would be wishing to know?”

“I am Lefoux. We have been in correspondence these last few months. Mr. Algonquin Shrimpdittle recommended the introduction.”

“I thought you were of the, uh, persuasion of the feminine.” The gentleman squinted at Madame Lefoux suspiciously.

Madame Lefoux winked at him and doffed her top hat. “I am.”

“Leave off, Poche!” barked the German at the tiny dog. “Monsieur Lange-Wilsdorf,” Madame Lefoux explained to Alexia and Floote,
“is a biological analytical technician of some note. He has a particular expertise that you may find rather interesting, Alexia.”

The German opened his door farther and craned his neck to see around Madame Lefoux to where Alexia stood shivering.

“Alexia?” He scanned her face in the faint light of the street torch. “Not
the
Alexia Tarabotti, the Female Specimen?”

“Would it be good or bad if I were?” The lady in question was a little distressed to be engaging in a protracted
doorstep conversation in the nighttime cold with a man garbed in red and white striped flannel.

Madame Lefoux said, with a flourish, “Yes,
the
Alexia Tarabotti.”

“I cannot believe it! The Female Specimen, at
my
door? Really?” The little man thrust said door wide and nipped out and around Madame Lefoux to grab Alexia warmly by the
hand, pumping it up and down enthusiastically in the American style of greeting. The dog, perceiving a new threat, let go
of Madame Lefoux's trouser and began yipping again, heading in Alexia's direction.

Alexia wasn't really sure she enjoyed being referred to as a specimen. And the way the German looked at her was almost hungry.

Alexia prepared her parasol with her free hand. “I would not, young sir, if I were you,” she said to the dog. “My skirts have
been through quite enough for one evening.” The dog appeared to think better of his attack and began jumping up and down in
place, all four legs oddly straight.

“Come in, come in! The greatest marvel of the age, here, on my very doorstep. This is—how do you say?—fantastic, ya, fantastic!”
The little man paused in his enthusiasm upon noticing Floote for the first time, silent and still to one side of the stoop.

“And who is this?”

“Uh, this is Mr. Floote, my personal secretary.” Alexia stopped staring ominously down at the dog in time to answer so Floote
didn't have to.

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf let go of Alexia and went to walk a slow turn around Floote. The German gentleman was still in his nightshirt,
in the street, but he didn't seem to
notice the faux pas. Alexia figured that as she had just shown her bloomers to half of France, she didn't have the right to
be scandalized by this behavior.

“Is he, is he
really
? Nothing more evil than that? No? Are you certain?” Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf reached out a crooked finger and yanked down Floote's
cravat and shirt, checking the neck area for marks.

Growling, the dog glommed onto Floote's boot.

“Do you
mind
, sir?” Floote looked decidedly put-upon. Alexia couldn't tell if it was the man or his dog that irritated most; Floote could
abide neither a wrinkled collar nor damp shoes.

Seeing nothing incriminating, the German left off torturing Floote with his vulgar behavior. Once again he grabbed Alexia
by the hand and positively dragged her into his tiny house. He gestured for the other two to follow, giving Floote yet another
dubious once-over. The dog escorted them inside.

“Well, you realize, under ordinary circumstances, I wouldn't. Not a man, not so late at night. Never can tell with the English.
But I suppose, just this once. Though, I did hear some of the terrible, terrible rumors about
you,
young miss.” The German raised his chin and attempted to look down on Alexia, as though he were some kind of disapproving
maiden aunt. It was a particularly unsuccessful look, as, aside from not being her aunt, he was a good head shorter than Alexia.

“Heard you had married a
werewolf.
Ya? What a thing for a preternatural to go and be doing. A most unfortunate choice for the Female Specimen.”

“Is it?” Alexia managed to get just those two words in before Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf continued on without apparent
pause or need for breath, shepherding them into a messy little parlor.

“Yes, well, we all make the mistakes.”

“You have no idea,” muttered Alexia, feeling a strange aching pain of loss.

Madame Lefoux began poking about the room with interest. Floote took up his customary station by the door.

The dog, exhausted by his own frenzy, went and curled in front of the cold fireplace, a posture that made him look, if possible,
even more like a common household cleaning device.

There was a bell rope near the door, which the little man began to tug on, at first gently and then with such enthusiasm he
was practically swinging from it. “You will be wanting tea, I am certain. English are always with the wanting of tea. Sit
down, sit down.”

Madame Lefoux and Alexia sat. Floote did not.

Their host bustled over to a little side table and took a small box out of a drawer. “Snuff?” He flipped the lid and offered
the leaf about.

Everyone declined. But the German seemed unwilling to accept Floote's refusal. “No, no, I insist.”

“I do not partake, sir,” objected Floote.

“Really, I
insist.
” A sudden hardness entered Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf's eyes.

Floote shrugged, took a small portion, and inhaled delicately.

The German watched him closely the entire time. When Floote showed no abnormal reaction, the little man nodded to himself
and put the snuffbox away.

A disheveled manservant entered the room.

The dog awoke and, despite a clearly extensive
association with the domestic staff, launched himself at the boy as though he posed a grave threat to the safety of the world.

“Mignon, we have the guests. Bring up a pot of Earl Grey and some croissants at once.
Earl Grey,
mind you, and that basket of kumquats. Thank God for the kumquats.” He narrowed his eyes at Floote once more, in an “I'm
not finished with you, young man” kind of way.

Floote, who was a good deal older than the German gentleman, remained utterly impassive.

“Well, this is delightful, ya, delightful. Alexia Tarabotti, here in
my
home.” He took off his nightcap to enact a twitchy little bow in Alexia's direction. The action revealed a set of precariously
large ears, which looked as though they rightly belonged to someone else.

“Never met your father, but I have studied much over his stock. First to breed a female soulless in seven generations, ya.
It is a miracle, some have claimed, the Female Specimen.” He nodded to himself. “I have the theory, of course, to do with
brood female mixing outside of Italy. Brilliant choice of your father's, ya? A little of the fresh blood of English.”

Alexia could hardly believe the statement. As though she were the result of some kind of horse-breeding program. “Now, I say—!”

Madame Lefoux interjected at this juncture, “Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf here has been studying the preternatural state for many years
now.”

“It has been difficult, most difficult, indeed, ya, to find a live specimen. My little trouble with the church, you understand.”

“Come again?” Alexia checked her rage in favor of
curiosity. Here was a scientist who might really know something.

The German blushed and worried his sleeping cap about with both hands. “A little—how do you say?—spot of bother. Had to move
to France and leave much of my research behind. A travesty.”

Alexia looked to Madame Lefoux for an explanation.

“He was excommunicated,” said the inventor in a grave, hushed voice.

The little man blushed even redder. “Ah, you heard of it?”

Madame Lefoux shrugged. “You know how the Order gossips.”

A sigh met this statement. “Well, regardless, you have brought me this fine visitor. A living, breathing female preternatural.
You will allow me to ask you questions, young lady, ya? Perhaps, a test or two?”

A tap came at the door, and the manservant entered bearing a tea tray.

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf accepted the tray and then waved the man away. He poured the tea, strong and redolent of the scent of bergamot.
Alexia didn't much like Earl Grey; it was well out of fashion in London and was never served in any of the establishments
she frequented. Vampires were not fond of citrus. Which, she realized, must be why the little man was now pressing the tea
and a small pile of kumquats on the austere Floote.

“The snuff!”

Everyone looked at her.

“Ah, you decided you wanted to try some, ya, Female Specimen?”

“Oh, no. I simply realized. You made Floote take snuff
as a werewolf check. They hate snuff. And now you're using the Earl Grey and the kumquats to see if he's a vampire.”

Floote arched one eyebrow, took a kumquat, and popped it whole into his mouth, chewing methodically.

“You do realize, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, that vampires are perfectly capable of consuming citrus? They just don't like it.”