The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (28 page)

“All the more reason to grasp the opportunity,” he insisted, leaning in and pressing his lower body against her.

Miss Tarabotti pressed against his torso defensively with both hands, trying to stop him from kissing her again. She cursed
fate that had set life up so that when she finally did get to touch Lord Maccon's bare chest, there was no time to appreciate
it.

He nibbled her earlobe. “Just think of this as a sort of wedding-night prelude.”

Alexia was not certain which part of that particular statement gave the most offense—the fact that he assumed there would
be a wedding night or the fact that he assumed it would take place on the hard floor of a barren room.

“Really, Lord Maccon!” she said, pushing harder.

“Oh dear, back to that, are we?”

“Where do you keep getting this idea that we should marry?”

Lord Maccon rolled his tawny eyes and gestured expressively to his naked flesh. “I assure you, Miss Tarabotti, I do not do
these kinds of things with a woman of your caliber without contemplating marriage in the very near future. I may be a werewolf
and Scottish, but despite what you may have read about both, we are not cads!”

“I do not want to force you into anything,” Alexia insisted.

Keeping hold of her with one hand, the Alpha rolled off her prone body and sat back. Although he kept in contact to keep himself
from changing, most of him was now separated from Alexia.

Miss Tarabotti's eyes, having entirely adjusted to the dim interior of the room, received a full-frontal view. Those sketches
in her papa's books had been far more restrained than she realized.

“Really, we must discuss this silly notion of yours,” he said with a sigh.

“What?” she croaked, goggling at him.

“That you will not marry me.”

“Must we discuss it here and now?” she said, not realizing what she was saying. “And why is it silly?”

“Well, at least we have some privacy.” He shrugged. The movement shifted all the muscles of his chest and stomach.

“Uh… uh…,” stuttered Miss Tarabotti, “couldn't it wait until I am home and you are, uh, clothed?”

Lord Maccon realized he had the advantage over Alexia; he was not about to sacrifice it. “Why, you think your family will
allow us some privacy? My pack certainly will not. They have been eager to meet you ever since I came home covered in your
scent. Not to mention Lyall and his gossiping.”

“Professor Lyall gossips?” Alexia tore her eyes away from his body to look up into his face.

“Like an old churchyard biddy.”

“And what exactly has he told them?”

“That the pack is getting an Alpha female. I am not giving up, you realize?” He said it with deadly calm.

“But I thought it was my move? Isn't that the way this works?” Miss Tarabotti was confused.

Lord Maccon's grin was all wolf. “Up to a certain point. Let us simply say you have made your preferences known.”

“I thought you found me utterly impossible.”

He grinned cheerfully. “Most assuredly.”

Alexia's stomach flipped over, and she was seized with the sudden impulse to tackle him and rub up against him. Lord Maccon
naked was one thing; naked and smiling that gently crooked smile of his—devastating.

“I thought I was too bossy,” she said.

“And I shall provide you with an entire pack to boss around. They could use the discipline. I have been getting lax in my
old age.”

Miss Tarabotti highly doubted that. “I thought you found my family impossible.”

“I shall not be marrying them,” he began, inching back in toward her, sensing a weakness in her resolve.

Miss Tarabotti was not certain his return was a good thing. True, that most disturbing view was blurring as he moved toward
her, but he had that look on his face that said the kissing would start up again presently. She wondered exactly how she had
managed to get herself into such an untenable position.

“But I am tall, and brown, and have a large nose, and large everything else.” She gestured ineffectually at her hips and chest.

“Mmm,” said the earl, agreeing with her entirely, “you most certainly do.” He found it interesting she did not mention those
things that had worried him from the start: his age (advanced) and her state (preternatural). But he was not about to assist
in her protestations by giving her more ammunition in objecting to his suit. They could talk about his own concerns later—preferably
after they were married; that is, he grimaced mentally, if they managed to survive their current predicament and make it to
the altar.

Finally, Alexia came round and about to the thing that really troubled her. She looked down at her free hand as though finding
its palm fascinating. “You do not love me.”

“Ah,” said the Alpha, looking pleased at this, “says who? You never asked me. Should it not be
my
opinion you take into account?”

“Well,” sputtered Miss Tarabotti, at a loss for words. “Well, I never.”

“So?” He raised an eyebrow.

Alexia bit her lip, white teeth gnawing at the full swollen flesh. Finally, she lifted trembling lashes and cast a very worried
glance up at him, now too close to her once more.

Naturally, because fortune is a fickle beast, it was precisely at that moment that the door to their cell opened.

Standing in the doorway was a backlit figure, clapping slowly but with evident approval.

I
n a lightning-fast movement, which bespoke his dexterity as a human before he had become a werewolf, Lord Maccon shifted around
Miss Tarabotti so that his back was to the intruder and he was shielding her with his body. In the same motion, Alexia saw
he had managed to grab the shard of mirror off the floor next to them. He held it between them, protected from Mr. Siemons's
view.

“Well, Miss Tarabotti,” said the scientist, “you certainly do excellent work. I never thought to see a were-wolf Alpha in
human form on full-moon night.”

Alexia moved to sit, lifting the bodice of her dress over her shoulders as subtly as possible. The back had entirely come
undone. She glared at Lord Maccon, who looked back at her in an utterly unapologetic way.

“Mr. Siemons,” she said flatly.

As the scientist moved into the room, she saw that behind him stood at least six other men of varying sizes, mostly on the
larger end of the spectrum. He was clearly taking no chances should her preternatural abilities be simply a superstitious
hoax. But, having found no were-wolf in residence, he stared at Lord Maccon's back with a decidedly clinical expression.

“Does his brain return to human reason as well as his body to human form, or is he still essentially a wolf inside?” the scientist
asked.

Alexia saw the earl's intent in the narrowing of his eyes and the way he shifted his grip on the shard. With his back to the
door, Lord Maccon had not seen Mr. Siemons's large retinue. Miss Tarabotti shook her head almost imperceptibly at him. Taking
the hint, he subsided slightly.

Mr. Siemons came closer. Bending over their prone forms, he made to grab the earl's head so he could tilt it up and look into
his face. With a spark of malicious humor, Lord Maccon growled loudly and snapped at him as though he were still a wolf. Mr.
Siemons hurriedly backed away.

He looked at Alexia. “Really,” he said, “quite remarkable. We are going to have to study your abilities extensively, and there
are several tests…” He trailed off. “Are you certain I cannot persuade you to our cause—that of justice and security? Now
that you have experienced the true terror of a werewolf attack, you must admit to how incontrovertibly hazardous these creatures
are! They are nothing more than a plague on the human race. Our research will lead to empire-wide prevention and protection
against this threat. With your capabilities, we could determine new neutralization tactics. Don't you see how valuable you
could be to us? We would simply want to do a few physical assessments now and again.”

Alexia was not quite sure what to say. She was both repulsed and frightened by the eminently reasonable way in which the man
spoke. For there she sat, flush against a werewolf, a man whom this kidnapper, this torturer, thought of as an abomination.
Yet a man whom, she realized with no surprise whatsoever, she loved.

“Thank you for the kind offer—” she began.

The scientist interrupted her. “Your cooperation would be invaluable, but it is not necessary, Miss Tarabotti. Understand,
we will do what we must.”

“Then I would act in accordance with my conscience, not yours,” she said firmly. “Your perception of me must logically be
as warped as your perception of him.” She dipped her chin at Lord Maccon. He was glaring at her intently, as though trying
to get her to stay silent. But Miss Tarabotti's tongue had always gotten the better of her—hinged in the middle as it undoubtedly
was. “I would as soon not be a willing participant in your fiendish experiments.”

Mr. Siemons smiled a tight little psychopathic smile. Then he turned away and yelled something in Latin.

A brief silence descended.

There was a rustle among the scientists and thugs gathered in the doorway, and the automaton pushed them aside to enter the
cell.

Lord Maccon could see the revulsion on Miss Tarabotti's face, but he still did not turn around to find out what had caused
it. He remained resolutely facing away from the scientist and those who stood behind him, keeping his naked back to the events.
He had grown tenser and tenser as Alexia and Mr. Siemons exchanged barbs.

Miss Tarabotti could feel his vibrating aggravation at every point of contact between their bodies. She could see it in the
hard muscles under his bare skin. He practically quivered, like a dog straining at its lead.

Alexia knew he was going to break a moment before he did.

In one smooth movement, Lord Maccon turned and lashed out with the mirror shard. Mr. Siemons, seeing a certain apprehension
enter Alexia's face, stepped out of range.

At the same time, the automaton came forward and to one side, lunging for Miss Tarabotti.

Caught midswing and hampered by having to stay in physical contact with her, Lord Maccon could not switch to strike against
the automaton quickly enough.

Alexia was not so restricted. As soon as the evil thing closed in on her, she screamed and lashed out, certain she would die
if that repulsive imitation of a man touched her.

Notwithstanding her aversion, the automaton grabbed Miss Tarabotti under the armpits with its cold fingernailless hands and
picked her up bodily. The monster was amazingly strong. Alexia kicked out, and though she made definitive contact with the
heel of her boot, it did not seem to affect the creature. It threw her, still kicking and screeching like a banshee, over
one waxy shoulder.

Lord Maccon whirled back toward her, but the combination of his lunge and the automaton's attack had broken contact between
them. Alexia, draped facedown, caught his panicked expression through the tangle of her hair and then the flash of something
sharp. With his last conscious thought, Lord Maccon had thrown the shard of mirror into the automaton's lower back, just under
where she hung suspended.

“He is changing back!” yelled Mr. Siemons, retreating rapidly from the room. The automaton, carrying the squirming Miss Tarabotti,
followed.

“Neutralize him! Quickly!” Mr. Siemons ordered the men waiting in the doorway. They rushed into the chamber.

Miss Tarabotti felt a little sorry, realizing they had no idea how fast the change would occur. She had claimed it would take
her an hour to change a werewolf back into human form. They must have thought it took equally long to change back. She hoped
this gave Lord Maccon some kind of advantage. It would be a mixed blessing in any event, his animal instincts now taking over
completely, placing everyone, even her, at risk.

As they moved rapidly down the corridor, Miss Tarabotti heard a portentous snarl, a sad wet crunching sound, and then terrified
screams. Those cries being so much more impressively bloodcurdling than her own, she stopped her bansheelike screeching and
turned her attention to trying to get the automaton to drop her. She kicked and writhed with animalistic vigor. Unfortunately,
the construct's grip was like iron about her waist. Since she had no idea exactly what the monstrosity was made of, she figured
its grip could actually
be
iron.

Whatever the skeletal superstructure of the
homunculus simulacrum,
it was coated in a layer of fleshy substance. Miss Tarabotti eventually stopped struggling, a waste of energy, and stared morosely down at the shard of mirror sticking out of its back. A small amount of dark viscous liquid was leaking from where it stuck. In fascinated horror, she realized Lord Maccon was right. The being was filled with blood—old, black, dirty blood.
Was everything,
she wondered,
about blood with these scientists?
And then:
Why had Lord Maccon been so intent on wounding the automaton?
It came to her.
He needs a trail to follow. This will never do,
she thought.
It's not bleeding enough to leave drops behind.

Trying not to think about it too closely, she reached for the piece of mirror embedded in the automaton's oozing flesh. She slashed the soft underside of her arm against an exposed corner of the sharp shard. Her own blood, a healthy bright red, welled fast and clean and dripped in perfect droplets onto the carpeted floor. She wondered if even her blood smelled of cinnamon and vanilla to Lord Maccon.

No one noticed. The automaton, following its master, carried her back through the receiving room of the club and toward the machinery chambers. They passed by those rooms Miss Tarabotti had visited on her tour of the Hypocras facilities and on toward parts she had not been allowed to see. This was the area from which she had heard those terrible screams.

They reached the last room at the very end of the corridor. Alexia managed to twist about enough to read a small slip of paper tacked to the side of the door. It said, in neat black calligraphy, framed on either side by an etched octopus, exsanguination chamber.

Miss Tarabotti could see nothing of the interior from where she hung, until Mr. Siemons issued instructions in that undecipherable Latin of his, and the automaton put her down. Alexia bounced away from the creature like a not-very-agile gazelle. Undeterred, the automaton grabbed both her arms and wrenched her back to itself, holding her immobilized.

She stiffened in revulsion. No matter that it had just carried her the length of the club, her skin still shivered away in horror whenever the monster touched her.

Swallowing down bile, she took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. Reaching some kind of equilibrium, she shook her hair out of her face and looked about.

The room contained six iron platforms of equal size and shape, bolted to the floor and paired off into three groups of two. Each platform, the size of a large man, was equipped with a plethora of restraints made of various materials. Two young scientists in gray frock coats and glassicals bustled about. They clutched leather-bound notepads and were jotting observations in them using sticks of graphite wrapped in sheepskin. An older man, about Mr. Siemons's age, was also in attendance. He wore a tweed suit, of all horrible things, and a cravat tied with such carelessness it was almost as much a sin as his actions. He also wore glassicals, but of a larger, more elaborate kind than Alexia had seen before. All three gentlemen paused to look at them when they entered the room, their eyes distorted to hugeness by the optical glass. Then they were back to moving between the lifeless figures of two men lying on one pair of platforms. One figure was tied down with sisal rope, and the other…

Alexia cried out in horror and distress. The other wore an extravagant plum-colored velvet evening coat stained with blood and a satin waistcoat of sea-foam green and mauve plaid torn in several places. He, too, was tied down with rope, but he had also been crucified through both hands and feet with wooden stakes. The stakes were bolted into the platform on which he lay, and Alexia could not tell if he lay still because of the pain they caused him or because he could no longer move at all.

Miss Tarabotti wrenched toward her friend convulsively, but the automaton held her fast. Finding reason only at the very last,
Alexia figured this was probably a good thing. If she touched Lord Akeldama when he was in such a weakened state, her preternatural
abilities might bring about his immediate demise. Only his supernatural strength was keeping him alive—that is, if he
was
still alive.

“You,” she sputtered at Mr. Siemons, searching for a word horrible enough to describe these so-called scientists, “you
philistines
! What have you done to him?”

Not only had Lord Akeldama been strapped and nailed down, but they had hooked him into one of their infernal machines. One
sleeve of his beautiful coat had been cut away, as had the silk shirt underneath, and a long metal tube emerged from under
the skin of his upper arm. The tube ran into a mechanical steam-driven contraption of some kind, from which came another tube,
which hooked into the other man. This second man was clearly not supernatural; his skin was tan and his cheeks rosy. But he,
too, lay as still as death.

“How far along are we, Cecil?” Mr. Siemons asked one of the gray-clad scientists, completely ignoring Miss Tarabotti.

“Nearly done, sir. We think you may be correct about the age. This seems to be going much more smoothly than our previous
procedures.”

“And the application of the electrical current?” Mr. Siemons scratched his sideburns.

The man looked down at his notations, twiddling the side of his glassicals for focus. “Within the hour, sir, within the hour.”

Mr. Siemons rubbed his hands together delightedly. “Excellent, quite excellent. I shall not disturb Dr. Neebs; he looks to
be concentrating deeply. I know how involved he gets in his work.”

“We are trying to moderate the intensity of the shock, sir. Dr. Neebs thinks this might extend survival time in the recipient,”
explained the second young scientist, looking up from some large levers he was fiddling with on the side of the machine.

“Fascinating thought. Very interesting approach. Proceed, please, proceed. Do not mind me. Just bringing in a new specimen.”
He turned and gestured at Miss Tarabotti.