The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (79 page)

“Yes, of course, I'm well aware. But it is a good—how do you say?—initial check, until sun comes up.”

Floote sighed. “I assure you, sir, I am not of a supernatural inclination.”

Alexia snickered. Poor Floote looked extremely put-upon.

The little German did not seem convinced by mere verbal guarantees. He kept a jaundiced eye on Floote and maintained proprietary
control of the bowl of kumquats. For future use as projectile weaponry, perhaps?

“Of course, you could still be a claviger or drone-type person.”

Floote huffed out a small puff of annoyed breath.

“You already checked him for bite marks,” pointed out Alexia.

“Absence of the marks is not absolute proof, especially as he may be a claviger. You
did
marry a werewolf, after all.”

Floote looked as though he had never been more insulted in his life. Alexia, still smarting over the “Female Specimen” moniker,
sympathized.

In a lightning change of mood that seemed to characterize the little man's paranoia, the German looked with sudden new suspicion
at Alexia. “The verification.” He muttered to himself. “You understand, ya? Of course you do. Must verify you as well. Ah,
if only I had my counter.
Have this little poltergeist problem. Perhaps you could see your way to an exorcism? Should not be hard for the Female Specimen.”
He glanced at a small window to one side of the room, curtains thrown wide to let in the rapidly brightening dawn. “Before
sunrise?”

Alexia sighed. “This could not possibly wait until tomorrow evening? I have been traveling most of the night. I suppose you
could call it traveling.”

The little man grimaced at her but did not take the hint, as any good host would have.

“Really, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, we have only just arrived,” Madame Lefoux protested.

“Oh, very well.” Alexia put down her tea, which wasn't very good, anyway, and half a croissant, which was buttery and delicious.
If it was necessary for this odd little man to trust them in order to get some answers out of him, she was equal to the task.
Alexia sighed, angry once more at her husband's rejection. She wasn't entirely certain how just yet, but she intended to blame
this latest nuisance on Lord Conall Maccon as well as everything else.

The dog, Poche, led the way down several flights of stairs and into a tiny cellar, barking with unwarranted enthusiasm the
entire time. Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf apparently did not notice the racket. Alexia resigned herself to the fact that it was the
creature's normal mode of operation—when its eyes were open, so, too, was its mouth.

“You must think me the terrible host, ya.” The German said this with an air of one attending to the requirements of society
rather than one experiencing actual remorse.

Alexia could think of nothing to say in response, as, so far as it went, it was perfectly true. Any host worth
his blood would have seen them decently abed by now, supernatural or not. No gentleman would insist his guest perform an exorcism
without providing accommodations first, let alone a decent meal. So Alexia simply clutched her parasol and followed the German
and his frenzied canine down into the bowels of his cramped and dirty house. Madame Lefoux and Floote seemed to feel their
presence was not required on this jaunt and remained upstairs in the parlor, sipping at the vile tea and consuming, very probably,
all of the excellent croissants.
Traitors.

The cellar was gloomy in all the ways cellars ought to be and included, just as the man had said, a ghost in the final throes
of poltergeist phase.

Above the little dog's barking came the intermittent keening wail of second-death. As if that were not bad enough, the poltergeist
had gone to pieces. Alexia could not abide clutter, and, having lost almost all of its capacity for cohesion, this ghost was
very messy, indeed. It was flitting about the dark musty interior as pale wisps of body parts, entirely dismembered—an elbow
here, an eyebrow there. Alexia started and let out a little squeak upon encountering a single eyeball, all intelligence gone
from its depths, staring at her from the top of a wine rack. The cellar also smelled badly of formaldehyde and rotten flesh.

“Really, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf.” Alexia's voice was cold with disapproval. “You ought to have seen to the unfortunate soul weeks
ago and never let it get this bad.”

The man rolled his eyes dismissively. “On the contrary, Female Specimen, I rented this house because of the ghost. I have
long been interested in recording exact stages of
homo animus
disanimation. And since my trouble with the Vatican, I switched the focus of my studies onto ghosts.
I have managed three papers on this one alone. Now, I must admit, she has become much less. The staff refuses to come down
here. I keep having to fetch wine myself.”

Alexia narrowly avoided walking through a floating ear. “Which must be very vexing.”

“But it has been useful. I theorize that remnant animus is carried on aether eddies as weakening of tether commences. I believe
my work here has proved this hypothesis.”

“You mean to say that the soul rides the aether air, and as the body decomposes, its hold on the soul disintegrates? Like
a sugar lump in tea?”

“Ya. What else could explain random floating of noncorporeal body parts? I have excavated the corpse, just there.”

Sure enough, a hole had been dug into one corner of the cellar floor, inside of which lay the mostly decomposed skeleton of
a dead girl.

“What happened to the poor thing?”

“Nothing significant. I got much needed information out of her before she went mad. The parents could not afford graveyard
fees.” He tut-tutted and shook his head at the shame of it. “When she turned out to have excess soul and went ghost, the family
enjoyed still having her around. Unfortunately, they all then died of cholera and left her here for the next occupants to
enjoy. Been that way until I came along.”

Alexia looked about at the floating wisps. A toenail bobbed in her direction. In fact, all of the remnant body parts were
floating softly toward her, as water will go down a drain. It was both eerie and unsettling. Still she hesitated. Her stomach,
and its nearby problematic companion, objected to both the smell of death and the certain
knowledge of what she must do next. Holding her breath, Alexia crouched down near the gravesite. The hole for the body had
been dug directly into the dirt of the cellar floor with no attempt made to preserve the corpse for supernatural longevity
until the German came along. The child would not have had long to be a proper ghost before the madness of decomposing flesh
began taking her away. It was a cruel business.

What was left was a sad crumpled little skeleton, mostly defleshed by maggots and mold. Alexia carefully removed one glove
and reached down. She chose what looked to be the least decomposed part of the child's head and touched her there once. The
flesh was incredibly squishy under her fingertip and compressed easily like wet sponge cake.

“Ugh.” Alexia drew her hand back with a jerk of disgust.

The faintly luminescent wisps of body parts floating around the cellar vanished instantly, dispersing into the musty air as
preternatural touch severed the last of the soul's tether to its body.

The German looked around, mouth slightly open. The little dog, for once, stopped barking. “Is that all?”

Alexia nodded, brushing her fingertip against her skirt several times. She stood.

“But I did not even have my notebook out yet! What a—how do you say?—wasted opportunity.”

“It is done.”

“Extraordinary. I have not observed a preternatural end a ghost before now. Quite extraordinary. Well, that confirms that
you are in truth, what you say you are, Female Specimen. Congratulations.”

As if I have won some sort of prize.
Alexia raised her
eyebrows at that, but the little man didn't seem to notice. So she made her way firmly back up the stairs.

The German trotted after. “Truly, truly extraordinary. Perfect exorcism. Only a preternatural can accomplish such a thing
with one touch. I had read of it, certainly, but to see it, right there, in front of me. Do you find the effects more rapid
for you, than for the males of your species?”

“I would not know, never having met one.”

“Of course, of course. Ya. Cannot share the same air, preternaturals.”

Alexia made her way back to the parlor, where Madame Lefoux and Floote had left her one of the croissants.
Thank goodness.

“How was it?” asked the Frenchwoman politely, if a little coldly. The last ghost Alexia had exorcised had been a very dear
friend of Madame Lefoux's.

“Squishy.”

Madame Lefoux wrinkled her pert little nose. “One imagines it must be.”

The German went to look out the window, clearly awaiting full sunrise. The sun was beginning to show just over the rooftops,
and Alexia was pleased to see that Nice might, just possibly, be slightly less dirty than Paris. The dog vibrated its way
around the room yipping at each visitor in turn, as though it had not remembered their presence, which might be the case given
its apparent lack of a brain, before collapsing in an exhausted pouf under the settee.

Alexia finished her croissant using only her untainted hand and then waited patiently, hoping against hope that sometime soon
they might be offered beds. It felt like a very long time since she'd slept. She was beginning to feel numb with tiredness.
Madame Lefoux seemed to feel much the
same, for she had nodded off. Her chin dipped down into the bow of her cravat. Her top hat, still partially wrapped with Monsieur
Trouvé's scarf, tipped forward on her head. Even Floote's shoulders were sagging ever so slightly.

The first rays of the sun crept in over the windowsill and speared into the room. Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf watched avidly as the
light touched Floote's trouser leg. When Floote did not immediately burst into flames or run screaming from the room, the
little German relaxed for what Alexia suspected was the first time since they had knocked on his door.

With still no offer of a sleeping chamber forthcoming, Alexia took a deep breath and faced her host squarely. “Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf,
why all this bother and testing? Are you a true believer? I would have thought that odd in a member of the Order of the Brass
Octopus.”

Madame Lefoux cracked her eyelids at her friend's direct speech and tipped her top hat back on her head with one elegant finger.
She regarded the little German with interest.

“Perhaps, perhaps. My research is delicate, dangerous, even. If I am to trust you, or help you, it is important, vital, that
none of you are—how do I put this?—
undead.
”

Alexia winced. Madame Lefoux straightened out of her slouch, abruptly much less drowsy. “Undead” was not a word one used openly
in polite society. The werewolves, vampires, and even newly minted ghosts found it understandably distasteful to be referred
to as such. Much in the same way that Alexia objected when the vampires called her a soul-sucker. It was, simply put, vulgar.

“That is a rather crude word, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, wouldn't you say?”

“Is it? Ah, you English and your semantics.”

“But ‘undead,' certainly, is not apt.”

The man's eyes went hard and flinty. “I suspect that depends on what you define as living. Ya? Given my current studies, ‘undead'
suits very well.”

The French inventor grinned. Her dimples showed. Alexia wasn't certain how they did it, but those dimples managed to look
quite crafty. “Not for long it won't.”

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf tilted his head, intrigued. “You know something of relevance to my research, do you, Madame Lefoux?”

“You are aware that Lady Maccon here married a werewolf?”

A nod.

“I think you should tell him what has happened, Alexia.”

Alexia grimaced. “He might be helpful?”

“He is the closest thing to an expert on the preternatural the Order of the Brass Octopus has. Templars might know more, but
it's difficult to say.”

Alexia nodded. She weighed her options and finally decided the risk was worth it. “I am pregnant, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf.”

The German looked at Alexia with a distinct air of covetousness. “Felicitations and condolences. You will not, of course,
be able to—how do you say?—carry to term. No preternatural female has in recorded history. A great sadness to the Templars
and their breeding program, of course, but…” He trailed off at Madame Lefoux's continued grin.

“You are implying? No, it cannot be. She is pregnant
by
the werewolf?”

Alexia and Madame Lefoux both nodded.

The German turned away from the window and came to sit close to Alexia. Too close. His eyes were hard and greedy on her face.

“You would not be covering up for, how you English might say, a little indiscretion?”

Alexia was tired of all the games. She gave him a look that suggested the next person to even hint she was unfaithful would
be receiving the worst her parasol had to offer. She had hoped he would know something that might result in a different reaction.

“How about,” she suggested in clipped tones, “you assume I am telling the truth in this matter and we leave you to theorize
on the subject while we attend to some much-needed rest?”

“Of course, of course! You are with child; you must sleep. Imagine such a thing, a preternatural pregnant by a supernatural.
I must do research. Has it ever been tried before? The Templars would not think to breed the werewolf with soulless. The very
idea. Ya, amazing. You are, after all, scientific opposites, each other's end. With rarity of females of either species, I
can see a basis for absence of proper documentation. But if you speak truth, why, what a miracle, what a fabulous abomination!”