The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (96 page)

“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.