The Curious Case of the Werewolf (4 page)

Mr. Tarabotti lunged for the fallen weapon at the same time as the un-werewolf, and the two of them scrabbled through the ancient offerings. Alessandro struck out viciously at his opponent, connecting where the shoulder wound seeped old blood, groping for the fallen gun with his other hand.

The un-werewolf backhanded Mr. Tarabotti, handicapped with only one working arm, and that odd British distaste for kicking in a fight.

Mr. Tarabotti had no such compunctions. Crawling as they both were after the fallen weapon, Alessandro kicked out with one foot and managed to shove the man over. Grabbing the gun, he came up triumphant, pointing the weapon at the un-werewolf, who now crouched amongst the wreckage looking as savage as he might have in his lupine state.

Mr. Tarabotti shot the last bullet. But the man was fast, even without supernatural speed, and managed to dodge. Frustrated, Alessandro threw the gun petulantly aside and pulled the flask of turpentine from his jacket.

He scattered it liberally about, making sure to coat the mummy in particular.

The un-werewolf lunged for him, seizing him by the waist and hurling him back to the floor. Mr. Tarabotti pushed against the man's chin, trying to wrench his neck. His opponent howled, an animalistic sound coming from such a human face.

"That was you howling earlier this evening?" Mr. Tarabotti panted out the question, clawing at the creature's eyes.

"Staying in practice, even if I can't change," came the hissed reply, as the non-werewolf struggled to hold Alessandro in a one-armed grip.

"That's rather perverse, you know that?" Mr. Tarabotti uppercut sharply with the palm of one hand, achieving just enough leverage to break the un-werewolf's nose.

Alessandro squirmed away. Coming panting to his feet, he brushed off his burgundy coat with fierce disgusted movements. "Is such dusty combat strictly necessary?"

The un-werewolf only bled at him.

Feeling deeply put upon, Mr. Tarabotti reached once more inside his jacket, pulling out the tin of phosphorus matches. He backed away until he was at the doorway. There, he struck a match and threw it at the turpentine-covered mummy.

Seeing this action, the un-werewolf decided on self-preservation and charged past him up the steps.

The flammable liquid caught easily, the fire quickly spreading to burn away happily at the wooden furniture and textiles scattered about. From the amount of smoke and flames flaring up from within the sarcophagus, Alessandro had no doubt the mummy was ablaze as well. He whirled and ran up the stairs and out of the tomb, coughing delicately.

Outside, things were not as they should be. The un-werewolf was getting away, dangling precariously off the edge of the gondola of a hot-air balloon, floating upwards. A tubby sort of personage was manning the balloon's thermotransmitter and cranking up the hydrodine engine to get a steering propeller moving – a familiar tubby sort of personage, wearing a long scarf wrapped about his throat.

"Why, Baronet Phinkerlington. I see you
do
own more than one item of neck wear."

"What ho, Mr. Tarabotti? Sad business, this. I did so hope it wasn't you."

"Working for the Crown, are we, Baronet? How menial."

"For the Glory of the Empire, Mr. Tarabotti. Can't expect a Templar's toady to understand. Now can I?" As he spoke, the baronet succeeded in getting the propeller in motion, and then waddled over to assist the un-werewolf in flopping, fishlike, into the safety of the gondola.

The balloon began to rise upwards, its propeller whirling mighty gusts of steam. Soon it would be at sufficient height to set a steady course back to Luxor.

Alessandro flicked the air with the back of his hand, gesturing the men away as if they were mere irritations that had been bothering his evening's stroll.

No record and no witnesses.

He searched around his feet for a sharp fragment of limestone. The blaze from the lower part of the tomb had extended into the open room at the top. It lit the ridge-side on which he stood with flickering orange. It seemed the dust, itself, was flammable, and fresh air only encouraged the conflagration. He could hear the faint "poof" sound of limestone spalling in the heat.

He found a rock of adequate size. There was enough room on the hillside for him to run up his speed. Not exactly the perfect cricket pitch, but, then, one couldn't be too picky about such things. Mr. Tarabotti may have been born Italian, but he
had
bowled for New College, and been widely regarded as one of the fastest on record. The stone hit the balloon perfectly, tearing through the oiled canvas right above the engine feed, with immediate and catastrophic results.

The hot gas leaked out, deflating the balloon from one side and causing the whole contraption to list dramatically. The un-werewolf let out a howl of mixed anger and distress and Mr. Phinkerlington swore, but there was nothing either man could do to salvage the situation. Moments later the balloon burst into flames, falling to the ground with a thudding crash.

Mr. Tarabotti paused to light a cheroot with one of his remaining phosphorus matches and then walked towards the wreckage.

Both men were lying face down in the sand. Mr. Tarabotti turned the un-werewolf over with his foot, puffing softly. Definitely dead. Then he heard a small moan.

"Still alive, Mr. Phinkerlington?" He pulled out his garrote and tossed the end of the cheroot away.

No record and no witnesses.

The fallen baronet turned his head weakly and looked at Mr. Tarabotti.

"Looking less and less likely, Sandy my man," he croaked. "Nice bowl, by-the-by, perfectly aimed and you even got a bit of spin on it."

"I do what I can." Alessandro crouched over the fallen man and reached forward with the garrote.

The baronet coughed, blood leaked out the side of his mouth. "No need, Sandy old chap, no need. Do me a bit of a turn would you? For old Eustace's sake, if not mine."

Mr. Tarabotti sat back on his heels, surprised.

"See Leticia safe home to England, would you? Doesn't know a thing about this business, I assure you. She's only a slip of a thing, good chit, really, can't have her wandering about Egypt on her lonesome. You understand?"

Mr. Tarabotti considered. He'd have had to investigate the girl anyway. This gave him a good excuse to find out what she knew. He'd be terribly, terribly understanding and sympathetic. Tragic accident in the desert. What were they thinking, floating at night? He'd been out for a stroll and saw the balloon fall from afar. Dashed to the rescue but wasn't in time to save anyone. Old friend of the family, of course he'd be happy to escort her home.

Phinkerlington's watery eyes bored into him. Alessandro pursed his lips and nodded curtly. The baronet sighed, closing his eyes. The sigh turned into a wet rattling gurgle, and then silence.

Alessandro Tarabotti lit another small cheroot off burning balloon basket. What
would
he put in his report to the Templars? Such an incommodious bit of business. A dead un-werewolf was one thing, but a dead British aristocrat? He sighed, puffing out smoke. They'd not be pleased. Not pleased at all.
And the mummy.
Did his superiors need to know the truth of the mummy? For the truth was, that was no wolf's head at all. Alessandro Tarabotti had killed enough werewolves to know the difference, emaciated or fully fleshed. No, it had been far more dog-like, small, pointed.
A jackal, perhaps?

He smoked his cigar. On the walls of that burning tomb, the jackal-headed god, Anubis, had been depicted assisting a jackal-headed man into the afterlife.

Werejackals? Surely not.

Alessandro snorted. But some twinge of fancy reminded him of the un-werewolf's words.
They worshipped us as gods.
And Ancient Egyptian gods had
other
animal heads. Lots of other animal heads. No wonder the Templars wanted to keep such information out of British hands.

Mr. Tarabotti turned to commence his long walk back to Luxor. Baronet Phinkerlington may be dead, but Alessandro had to escort Miss Phinkerlington back to England and deal with a mess of paperwork as a result. He wondered which one of them had gotten the better deal out of the arrangement. Probably Phinkerlington.

Thank you so much for reading
The Curious Case
. I hope you enjoyed it. This book takes place in the universe of the Parasol Protectorate books, chronologically first, a decade before the events of the Finishing Scool series. If you would like to know when my next book is available, I have a newsletter called
The Monthly Chirrup
, or feel free to follow me on Twitter at @gailcarriger, or
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. I am grateful for any time you may take to review my books ~ for time is almost as precious as treacle tart.

The Parasol Protectorate

Soulless (The Parasol Protectorate Book 1)
Changeless (The Parasol Protectorate Book 2)
Blameless (The Parasol Protectorate Book 3)
Heartless (The Parasol Protectorate Book 4)
Timeless (The Parasol Protectorate Book 5)

The Finishing School

Etiquette & Espionage (Finishing School Book 1)
Curtsies & Conspiracies (Finishing School Book 2)
Waistcoats & Weaponry
Manners & Mutiny  (Winter 2015)

The Custard Protocol

Prudence (Spring 2015)

Imprudence (Spring 2016)

Short Stories

Marine Biology
Fairy Debt
My Sister's Song
The Curious Case of the Werewolf That Wasn't, the Mummy That Was, and the Cat in the Jar (A Parasol Protectorate Short Story)

New York Times Bestselling
author Gail Carriger writes to cope with being raised in obscurity by an expatriate Brit and an incurable curmudgeon. She escaped small town life and inadvertently acquired several degrees in Higher Learning. Ms. Carriger then traveled the historic cities of Europe, subsisting entirely on biscuits secreted in her handbag. She resides in the Colonies, surrounded by fantastic shoes, where she insists on tea imported from London.

Find Gail's blog and news about upcoming books at 
www.gailcarriger.com