The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (88 page)

Around them, waiting dirigible passengers gasped in shock, but no one did anything to either help or hinder. Italians were
reputed to be a people of violent emotions; perhaps they thought this was a lover's spat of some multifaceted variety. Or
perhaps they thought the battle was over a ball sport. Alexia seemed to recall hearing one matron complain that the Italians
were very passionate in their support of balls.

They could have used some assistance, for Alexia was no formally trained fighter, and Madame Lefoux, whether she was or not,
was considerably hampered by her floofy dress. Quicker than Alexia would have thought possible, the drones had her disarmed,
parasol rolling away across the stone floor of the gazebo. Madame Lefoux was thrust to the ground. Alexia thought she heard
the Frenchwoman's head hit the side of the cart on the way down. She certainly didn't look to be moving anytime soon. Floote
struggled on, but he was not quite so young as he once was, and certainly a good deal older than his opponent.

Two of the drones held Alexia fast between them, while the third, having determined Madame Lefoux was no longer a threat,
brandished his knife with the clear intention of slitting Alexia's throat. This time they were brooking no delay. They would
simply eliminate the preternatural right there in broad daylight and in front of witnesses.

Alexia writhed in the grip of her two captors, kicking out and wiggling as much as possible, making it difficult
for them to steady her for the knife. Floote, seeing her imminent peril, fought all the harder, but death seemed embarrassingly
inevitable.

And then a very odd thing happened.

A tall masked man, hooded like some parody of a religious pilgrim, leapt into the fray, and he appeared to be on
their
side.

The unexpected champion was a big man—not so big as Conall, Alexia noticed, but then few were—and clearly quite strong. He
carried a long sword in one hand, British military issue, and had a mean left punch, which was also, Alexia guessed, British
military issue. The masked man certainly was liberal and enthusiastic with his use of both sword and fist.

Finding her captors distracted, Alexia jerked a knee into one in the vicinity of one's nether regions at the same time twisting
violently, trying to shake off the others' grip. The one she'd kneed backhanded her across the mouth, and Alexia felt a starburst
of pain before tasting blood.

The masked man reacted swiftly at that, slicing out with his sword and catching the offender behind one knee. The drone crumpled.

The drones regrouped, leaving only one still holding Alexia while two went back on the defensive, facing off against the new
threat. Alexia liked these odds considerably better and did what any proper young lady ought to do: she pretended to faint,
collapsing in a sudden dead weight against her captor. The man shifted to hold her with one hand, no doubt reaching for his
own knife to slit her throat with the other. Sensing the opportunity, Alexia braced both feet and thrust sharply backward
with all her might, knocking both herself and the drone to the floor.
Once there, they proceeded to roll about gracelessly on the stone. Alexia had reason to be grateful for her husband's fondness
for rolling among the bedsheets, for it had given her some practice wrestling with a man twice this drone's size.

Then, like the knights they had once been of old, the Templars were upon them.
White nightgowns to the rescue,
thought Alexia happily. The drones were forced, once more, to flee from the papal enforcers. Alexia had to admit Templar
attire looked much less silly behind flashing, naked blades.

Alexia struggled to her feet in time to see their masked defender, clutching his bloody sword and dashing across the dirigible
green in the opposite direction from the drones. In a whirl of dark cloak, he leapt over a row of topiary deer and disappeared
into the gardens beyond. Clearly he liked being mysterious, or disliked the Templars, or both.

Alexia checked on Floote, who had not a hair out of place. He, in turn, wanted reassurances that neither she nor the infant-inconvenience
had suffered any ill effects from the ordeal. Alexia did a quick internal assessment and discovered that they were both hungry,
of which she informed Floote, and then bent to examine Madame Lefoux. The back of the inventor's head was bloody, but her
eyes were already blinking open.

“What happened?”

“We were saved by a masked gentleman.”

“Pull the other one.” Sometimes Madame Lefoux could be surprisingly British in her verbal mannerisms.

Alexia helped her to sit up. “No, really. We were.” While she explained what had occurred, she helped the
inventor into the cart, and then they both watched with interest as the Templars dealt with the results of the altercation.
It was almost like watching BUR at work cleaning up one of Alexia's messes, only faster and with less paperwork. And, of course,
there was no Conall marching around waving his massive hands in exasperation and growling at her.

Alexia found herself grinning foolishly.
Conall had apologized!

The dirigible passengers were clearly uncomfortable with having to deal directly with the Templars and were willing to do
anything they were told so long as the men in white left quickly.

Floote disappeared mysteriously and then returned only to offer Alexia a sandwich of what appeared to be some kind of ham
on what appeared to be some kind of roll and that turned out to be quite delicious. Alexia had no earthly idea where he had
acquired the foodstuff but would not put it past him to have managed to make it during the fight. Having delivered the expected
daily miracle, Floote stood in his usual stance and warily watched the Templars work.

“The locals, they are terrified of them, aren't they?” Alexia spoke softly, but she was reasonably certain that no one was
paying them any mind. “And they must wield a considerable amount of clout for things to go so smoothly. No one has summoned
the local constabulary, even though our little battle occurred in a public arena, in front of witnesses.”

“One country under God, madam.”

“It happens.” Alexia wrinkled her nose and looked about for a scrap of fabric for Madame Lefoux to press
against the back of her head. Finding nothing of use, she shrugged and ripped one of the ruffles off her orange dress. The
inventor took it gratefully.

“One cannot be too careful with a head wound. Are you certain you are quite the thing?” Alexia watched her with concern.

“Everything is fine, I assure you. Except, of course, for my pride. I tripped, you know. He didn't overpower me. Really, I
do not know how you ladies do it, run around dressed in long skirts all day every day.”

“Generally, not a whole lot of running is involved. Is that why you dress as a man, then, pure practicality?”

Madame Lefoux looked as though she would like to twirl her fake mustache in thought, although, of course, she wasn't wearing
it at the moment. “Partly.”

“You like to shock people—admit it.”

Madame Lefoux gave her an arch look. “As if you do not.”

“Touché. Although we approach the endeavor differently.”

The Templars, having concluded their activities, disappeared back into the foliage of Boboli Gardens with an air of hauteur.
Even though violent action had been undertaken on Alexia's behalf, they had neither addressed her, nor looked in her direction.
Alexia was disgusted to find, once the Templars had gone, that the ordinary Italian folk, including the once affable clerk,
now regarded her with suspicion and disdain.

“Persona non grata once more.” Alexia sighed. “Beautiful country, as you say, Floote, but the locals. The locals.” She climbed
into the cart.

“Exactly so, madam.” With that, Floote took the
driver's seat and, with a steady hand to the reins, guided the pony and trap through Boboli Gardens and out into the city
streets. He took the bumpy course slow and gentle in deference to Madame Lefoux's head.

Floote stopped along the way at a small public eatery where, despite the presence of even more of the vile coffee and far
too much tobacco, Alexia's opinion of the Italians was greatly improved through the application of the best victuals she had
ever eaten in her entire life.

“These little chubby puddings with the green sauce,” she declaimed, “must represent the food of the gods. I declare, the Templars
may do what they like; I love this country.”

Madame Lefoux grinned. “So easily swayed?”

“Did you taste that green sauce? How did they refer to it? Pets-something-or-other. Sheer culinary genius.”

“Pesto, madam.”

“Yes, Floote, that! Brilliant. Full of garlic.” To illustrate her point, she took another mouthful before continuing. “Seems
they put garlic in positively everything here. Absolutely fantastic.”

Floote shook his head faintly. “I beg to differ, madam. It is, in fact, the result of practicality. Vampires are allergic
to garlic.”

“No wonder it is so rare back home.”

“Terrible sneezing fits, madam. Much in the manner that young Miss Evylin used to come over when faced with a feline.”

“And werewolves?”

“The basil, madam.”

“No? How intriguing. Same sort of sneezing?”

“I believe it makes the insides of the mouth and nose itch, madam.”

“So this pesto I enjoy so much is really an infamous Italian antisupernatural weapon?” Alexia turned accusing dark eyes on
Madame Lefoux. “Yet there is no pesto in my parasol armament. I think we ought to rectify that immediately.”

Madame Lefoux did not point out that Alexia could hardly go traipsing around toting a parasol that smelled strongly of garlic
and basil. She did not have to, as Alexia was distracted by the arrival of some variety of orange fruit—of course it was
orange
—wrapped in a thinly cut piece of pig meat that was almost, but not quite, bacon. Alexia was transported.

“I don't suppose this is a weapon?”

“Not unless you have suddenly taken against the Jews, madam.”

It was fortunate that they ate, for no food awaited them upon their return. After a lengthy stop at the alchemist's, which
in Italy also stocked pharmaceuticals and fishing equipment, to purchase what Madame Lefoux referred to as “necessary supplies,”
they returned to the temple. There they found that, despite the early hour—it was not yet six—the Templars were already retired
for the evening, undertaking some form of extended silent prayer.

While Madame Lefoux fussed with refilling the parasol and Floote went to do mysterious butler-type duties, Alexia hunted down
the library. When no one stopped her, she began reading various books and records with interest. She had Ivy's little clipping
with her and paused to reread it now and again.
A printed admission of guilt, imagine that?
She found herself humming from time to time.
You see, infant-inconvenience, it's not so bad.

She did not find the information she was chiefly interested in: anything pertaining to the preternatural breeding program
or concerning Templar use of soulless agents. However, she did find enough entertaining reading matter to keep her occupied
well into the night. It was far later than she thought when she finally looked up to find the temple utterly silent around
her, and not in the way of an edifice filled with prayer and soft movements. No, this was the silence of sleeping brains that
only ghosts were comfortable experiencing.

Alexia padded toward her room, but then, sensing a presence she was not quite certain she could name, she shifted in her purposeful
tread and veered down a small hallway. It was undecorated: there were no crosses nor any other religious effigies, and it
ended in a tight stairwell that she might have thought only used by servants, except that it was arched and mossy and had
the feel of immense age about it.

Alexia decided to explore.

This was, it must be admitted, probably not the most intelligent decision of her life. But how often is one given the opportunity
to investigate an ancient passageway in a sacred temple in Italy?

The stairs down were indeed steep and slightly wet, as the back ends of caves will get no matter the climate. Alexia steadied
herself with one hand against the damp wall, trying not to think about whether said wall had been cleaned recently. The stairs
seemed to go down a very, very long way, ejecting her at the end into another undecorated hallway that in turn ended in what
was possibly the most disappointing little room imaginable.

She could see that it was a room because, and this was
peculiar, the door to the room was glass. She walked up and peeked through.

A small chamber lay before her, walls and floors of dingy limestone, with no paint nor other form of decoration. The only
piece of furniture was a small pedestal in the center of the room, on top of which stood a jar.

The door was locked, and Alexia, resourceful as she was, had not yet learned to pick locks, though she mentally added it to
her list of useful skills she needed to acquire, along with hand-to-hand combat and the recipe for pesto. If her life were
to continue on its present track, which, after twenty-six years of obscurity now seemed to mainly involve people trying to
kill her, it would appear that acquiring a less savory skill set might be necessary. Although, she supposed, pesto-making
ought to be termed
more savory
.

She squinted through the door. It was paned with small squares of old leaded glass that were warping and sagging in their
frames. This meant that the room within shifted and wiggled, and she squirmed around trying to see. She just couldn't quite
make out what was inside the jar, and then finally she got the correct angle and was abruptly rather queasy to her stomach.

The jar held a severed human hand. It was floating in some liquid, probably formaldehyde.