The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (91 page)

“Well, my dear Mr. Templar, I fail to see how I could possibly be of assistance. I am no trained antiquarian. The only thing
I can identify with any consistency is my own kind. I—” It was Alexia's turn to leave a thought unfinished, as she realized
the implications of his statement. “You believe there might be a preternatural focus to this culture? How remarkable.”

The Templar only shrugged. “We have seen the rise and fall of many great empires in the past, some run by vampires, others
by werewolves.”

“And some that have been founded upon the persecution of both.” Alexia was thinking of the Catholic Inquisition, an expurgation
movement the Templars were rumored to have taken a keen and active interest in promoting.

“But never yet have we found evidence of a civilization built to incorporate your kind.”

“As difficult as that kind of proximity might be?” Alexia was puzzled.

“Why do you think the Etruscans might be the exception?” Madame Lefoux asked.

The coach stopped and the preceptor stepped down. He did not offer Alexia a hand, allowing Madame Lefoux to jump out and take
over that dubious honor. Some distance away, the Templar cavalry dismounted as well and stood about as though waiting for
orders. The preceptor gave them one of those hand signals, and the men relaxed into a casual milling group. The silent efficiency
was unsettling, to say the least.

“Don't say much, do they?”

The preceptor turned his emotionless eyes on Alexia. “Would you ladies prefer to explore or eat first?”

“Explore,” said Alexia promptly. She was wildly curious to see the inside of the strange round tombs.

The preceptor led them down into the dry, dim interior of the already cracked tomb. The underground walls were lined with
limestone. Steps led into a single chamber, not much bigger than Alexia's drawing room back at Woolsey Castle. The limestone
was elaborately carved to look like the inside of a house, with nooks, stone columns, and even ceiling beams picked out in
the sandy, porous rock. It was the interior of a home, frozen in stone. Alexia was reminded of the elaborate jelly sculptures
she had eaten at fancy dinner parties, made of aspic and formed with the aid of a mold.

There was no furniture, nor any other artifacts inside the tomb, the sole object being an extremely large sarcophagus in the
center of the room. On the top lay two full-sized clay figures: a man lounging on his side and leaning up on one elbow behind
a woman doing the same, his free arm draped affectionately over her shoulder.

It was a lovely sculpture, but despite what the preceptor had said, Alexia experienced no sense of repulsion, no feeling about
the place that she would have expected when in the presence of a preserved preternatural body. Either there was none present,
or the remains had long since decomposed beyond effectiveness. The Templar was staring at her, monitoring her reactions closely.
Face impassive, she walked about, self-conscious under his dead-eyed scrutiny, examining some painted images on the walls.

The place smelled musty, in the same way that old books do, only with an overlay of dirt and cold stone. But there was nothing
there that engendered any adverse reaction in Alexia. In fact, she found the ancient abode quite comforting and restful. She
was glad of this. She would hate to have to hide her instinct to run if there
had
been some kind of preternatural mummy in residence.

“I am sorry to say, Mr. Templar, I do not think I can be of any help. I do not even see why one might associate this culture
with my kind.”

The preceptor looked disappointed.

Madame Lefoux, who had been watching him while he watched her friend, turned sharply to stare down at the sarcophagus.

“What were they holding?” she asked.

Alexia wandered over to see what Madame Lefoux was on about. She was struck by the pleasantness in the almond-shaped eyes
of the statues, but upon looking closer, she realized what it was that had drawn Madame Lefoux's attention. The man was leaning
on the elbow of one arm, the hand of which was up and flat as though offering a carrot to a horse. His other hand, behind
the woman's neck, had thumb and forefinger curved in the act of holding some small object. The woman had both hands curved
in such a way as one might pour libations or offer up a flask of wine.

“Good question.”

Both ladies turned to look at the preceptor inquiringly.

“The woman held an empty ceramic flask, its contents long since dried and evaporated into aether. The man was offering a piece
of meat on his open palm. The
archaeologists found an animal bone resting there. He was holding something very strange in his other hand.”

“What was that?”

The Templar shrugged and fished about his high collar with one finger, finally pulling out a chain that was around his neck.
Carefully he lifted it out from underneath nightgown, jacket, waistcoat, and shirt. All three of them moved toward the light
streaming down from the entrance. A small gold charm dangled from the end of the chain. Alexia and Madame Lefoux bent to examine
it.

“An ankh?” Alexia blinked in amusement.

“From Ancient Egypt?” Madame Lefoux arched one perfect black eyebrow.

“Were the two cultures chronologically comparable?” Alexia scrabbled to remember the dates of Egyptian expansion.

“It is possible they had some form of contact, but it is more likely that this little object came into Etruscan hands through
trade with the Greeks.”

Alexia studied the small piece of gold closely but, uncharacteristically, pursed her lips and said nothing. She found it odd
that an Etruscan statue would offer up the Egyptian symbol for eternal life, and while, to be sure, she had many theories
on the subject, she was unwilling to share them with a Templar.

The preceptor tucked his charm away when neither lady had anything further to say and led the way back up the limestone stairs
and out onto the sun-dappled hillside. The other tombs were much the same, only in not quite such good repair.

The picnic that followed was an uncomfortably silent affair. Alexia, Madame Lefoux, and the preceptor were
seated on a square of quilted gingham spread atop the tomb while the other Templars enjoyed their own meal a short distance
away. One of the Templars did not eat, but instead read from the Bible in lugubrious tones. The preceptor seemed to feel this
was an excuse not to engage in any conversation with his two companions.

Alexia ate an apple, two rolls of crunchy bread spread with some kind of tomato sauce, and three hard-boiled eggs dipped in
more of the green stuff that had so delighted her the day before.

With meal finished and Bible put away, the party prepared to leave. There was one benefit to picnicking, Alexia realized.
As she had used no utensils, nothing needed to be destroyed because of contamination.

“It is not a bad life we lead here, is it, My Soulless One?” The preceptor spoke to her at last.

Alexia was forced to admit that it didn't appear so. “Italy
is
a lovely country. And I cannot fault your cuisine or climate.”

“You are—how do I say this politely—unwelcome back in England?”

Alexia was going to correct him and boast of Conall's public apology but then thought better of it. Instead she said, “That
is a very diplomatic way of putting it, Mr. Templar.”

The preceptor smiled his horrible cheerless grimace. “Perhaps, My Soulless One, you might consider staying here with us, then?
It has been a long time since we of the temple at Florence had a preternatural in residence, let alone a female of the species.
We would make sure of your every comfort while we studied you. Provide for you your own, more isolated quarters.”

Alexia's face soured as she thought back to her unfortunate encounter with Dr. Siemons and the Hypocras Club. “I have entertained
such an offer before.”

The Templar tilted his head, watching her.

Since he seemed, once more, to be in a chatty frame of mind, Alexia asked, “You would put up with devil spawn permanently
in your midst?”

“We have done so before. We of the brotherhood are God's best weapon against the supernatural threat. We were made to do what
needed to be done no matter what the cost or personal risk. You could be very useful to our cause.”

“Goodness gracious, I had no idea I was that appealing.” Alexia waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Madame Lefoux joined the conversation. “If that is the case, why are you not equally welcoming to werewolves and vampires?”

“Because they are not born daemons. To be born with the eternal sin is not much more than to be born with original sin. The
soulless suffer, as we all do, under the metaphorical cross, only for them there is no salvation. The vampires and werewolves,
on the other hand, have chosen their path voluntarily. It is a matter of
intention.
They have turned their backs on salvation in a way far more reprehensible, because they once had excess soul.
They
could have ascended into heaven had they only resisted Satan's temptation. Instead, they traded the bulk of their soul to
the devil and became monsters. They are offensive to God, for only he and his angels are allowed immortality.” He spoke calmly,
with no emotion, no inflection, and no doubt.

Alexia felt chilled. “Which is why you wish to see all supernatural folk dead?”

“It is our eternal crusade.”

Alexia did some calculations. “Over four hundred years or so. Commendably committed of you all.”

“A God-sanctioned purpose, to hunt and kill.” Madame Lefoux's tone was full of censure, not unsurprising given her choices
in life—she was a creator, an engineer, and a builder.

The preceptor looked from the Frenchwoman to Alexia. “And what do you think
her
God-given purpose is, Scientist Lefoux—a soulless creature whose only skill is in neutralizing the supernatural? Do you think
she was not placed on this earth as a tool? We can give her purpose, even if she is only a female.”

“Now, wait just a minute there!” Alexia remembered once complaining to Conall, before their marriage, that she wanted something
useful to do with her life. Queen Victoria had made her muhjah, but even with that gone, killing vampires and werewolves for
a sect of religious fanatics was not precisely what she had been hoping for.

“Have you any idea how rare you are, a female of the species?”

“I am beginning to get the impression that I am more rare than I had thought.” Alexia looked about suddenly, feigning physical
discomfort. “Do you think I might visit a convenient bush, before we depart for the long drive back?”

The Templar looked equally discomforted. “If you insist.”

Alexia tugged at Madame Lefoux's sleeve and dragged her off behind the tomb and down the side of the hill a little ways to
a small copse of trees.

“It took Angelique this way,” commented Madame
Lefoux, referring to her former lover. “During her pregnancy, she always had to… well… you know.”

“Oh, no, that was merely a ruse. I wanted to discuss something with you. That ankh around his neck, did you notice that it
had been repaired?”

Madame Lefoux shook her head. “Is that significant, do you think?”

Alexia had never told Madame Lefoux about the mummy nor the broken ankh symbol. But in her experience, it was the hieroglyphic
sign of a preternatural.

So she quickly moved on. “I think the terra-cotta man in the tomb was a preternatural, and the woman was a vampire, and the
offering of meat was for the werewolves.”

“A harmonious culture? Is that possible?”

“It would be terribly arrogant of us British to think England was the first and only progressive society.” Alexia was worried.
If the Templars comprehended the significance of the ankh, she was in more danger than she had thought. They would find a
way to turn her into a tool, living or dead.

“I do hope Floote managed to send that message to BUR.”

“Love note to your werewolf?” Madame Lefoux sounded wistful. Then she looked about the empty hillside, suddenly nervous. “I
think, my dear Alexia, we should head back to the carriage.”

Alexia, enjoying the countryside and the intellectual advantages afforded by their ancient surroundings, had not registered
the lateness of the hour. “Ah, yes, you may be correct.”

It was, unfortunately, well into nighttime before they were even halfway back to Florence. Alexia felt awfully
exposed in the open-topped carriage. She kept her parasol close and began to wonder if this whole excursion was not an attempt
by the Templars to use her as some kind of bait. After all, they fancied themselves great supernatural hunters and might very
well risk her safety simply to draw local vampires out. Especially if the Templars had enough foolish pride in their own abilities
to believe there was little true peril. The moon was just rising, no longer entirely full but still quite bright. In its silvery
light, Alexia could make out a gleam of anticipation in the preceptor's normally emotionless eyes.
You rotten sod, this was all a setup,
she was about to say, but too late.

The vampire appeared out of nowhere, leaping with exceptional speed from the dirt road into the carriage. He was single-minded
in his attack, heading straight for Alexia, the only apparent female of the group. Madame Lefoux gave a yell of warning, but
Alexia had already thrown herself forward onto the open seat opposite her own, next to the preceptor. The vampire ended up
where she had just been sitting. Alexia fumbled with her parasol, twisting the handle so that the two sharp spikes, one wood
and one silver, sprang out from its tip.

The preceptor, suddenly brandishing a long, evil-looking wooden knife, gave a yell of pleasure and attacked. Madame Lefoux
had her trusty cravat pin already out and in play. Alexia swung her parasol, but all were merely normal humans pitted against
superhuman strength, and even fighting off multiple bodies in the awkwardly tiny venue of an open-topped carriage, the vampire
was holding his own.