The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (6 page)

Alexia nodded. It had taken Lord Akeldama four meetings to deduce she was preternatural. Estranged from the hives as he was,
he had never been officially informed of her existence. He considered this an embarrassing blight on his long career as a
snoop. His only possible excuse for the blunder was the fact that, while preternatural men were rare, preternatural woman
were practically nonexistent. He simply had not expected to find one in the form of an overly assertive spinster, enmeshed
in the thick of London society, companioned by two silly sisters and a sillier mama. As a result, he took any opportunity
to remind himself of what she was, grabbing her hand or arm on the merest whim.

In this particular instance, he stroked her hand fondly. There was no attraction in the movement. “
Sweetling
,” he had once said, “you are at no more risk with me in
that
regard than you are in danger of me unexpectedly biting you—both being equal impossibilities. In the one case, I do not possess
the necessary equipment upon contact, in the other case you do not.” Her father's library had provided Alexia with any further
explanation she might require. Alessandro Tarabotti had engaged in quite an adventurous life before marriage and collected
books from all around the Empire, some of them with very fascinating pictures, indeed. He had an apparent passion for explanatory
studies on primitive peoples, which resulted in the kind of documentation that might encourage even Evylin to enter a library—had
she been made aware of their existence. Luckily, the entirety of Alexia's family felt that if it did not originate in the
gossip section of the
Morning Post,
it was probably not worth reading. Alexia, as a result, knew considerably more on the ways of the flesh than any English
spinster ought to know, and certainly enough not to mind Lord Akeldama's little gestures of affection.

“You have no idea how deliciously
restful
I find the miracle of your company,” he had remarked the first time he touched her. “It's like swimming in too-warm bath-water
most of one's life and suddenly plunging into an icy mountain stream. Shocking but, I believe, good for the soul.” He had
shrugged delicately. “I enjoy feeling mortal again, if only for one moment and only in
your glorious
presence.” Miss Tarabotti had granted him very unspinster-like permission to grasp her hand whenever he wished—so long as
it was always done in complete privacy.

Alexia sipped her champagne. “That vampire in the library last night did not know what I was,” she said. “He came charging
right at me, went straight for my neck, and then lost his fangs. I thought most of your lot knew by now. BUR undoubtedly keeps
close enough track of me. Lord Maccon certainly appeared last night more quickly than was to be expected. Even for him.”

Lord Akeldama nodded. His hair glinted in the flickering flame from a nearby candle. The Loontwills had installed the latest
in gas lighting, but Alexia preferred beeswax, unless she was reading. In the candlelight, Lord Akeldama's hair was as gold
as the buckles on his shoes. One always expected vampires to be dark and slightly doomy. Lord Akeldama was the antithesis
of all such expectations. He wore his blonde hair long and queued back in a manner stylish hundreds of years ago. He looked
up at her, and his face was suddenly old and serious, seeming not at all as ridiculous as his attire should make him. “They
do
mostly know of you, my pearl. All four of the official hives tell their larvae directly after metamorphosis that there is
a soul-sucker living in London.”

Miss Tarabotti winced. Usually Lord Akeldama was sensitive to her dislike of the term. He had been the first to use it in
her presence, on the night he had finally realized what she was. For once in his long life, he had lost his perfectly donned
charisma in shock at discovering a preternatural in the guise of a forthright spinster. Miss Tarabotti, understandably, had
not taken to the notion of being called a soul-sucker. Lord Akeldama was careful never to use it again, except to make a point.
Now he had a point to make.

Floote arrived with the soup, a creamy cucumber and watercress. Lord Akeldama received no nourishment from the consumption
of food, but he appreciated the taste. Unlike some of the more repulsive members of his set, he did not engage in that tradition
established by ancient Roman vampires. There was no need for Alexia to call for a purge bucket. He merely sampled each dish
politely and then left the rest for the servants to partake of later. No sense in wasting good soup. And it was quite good.
One could say a number of impolite things about the Loontwills, but no one had ever accused them of frugality. Even Alexia,
spinster that she was, was given an allowance large enough to dress her to the height of fashion—although she did tend to
stick to trends a little too precisely. The poor thing could not help it. Her choice of clothing simply lacked soul. Regardless,
the Loontwills' extravagance extended to the keeping of a very fine cook.

Floote slid away softly to retrieve the next course.

Alexia removed her hand from her friend's grasp and, never one for dissembling, got straight to the point. “Lord Akeldama,
please tell me, what is going on? Who was the vampire who attacked me last night? How could he not know who I was? He did
not even know
what
I was, as if no one had told him preternaturals existed at all. I am well aware that BUR keeps us secret from the general
public, but packs and hives are well informed as a rule.”

Lord Akeldama reached forward and flicked the two tuning forks on the resonator again. “My
dearest
young friend. There, I believe, you have the
very
issue in hand. Unfortunately for you, since you eliminated the individual in question, every interested supernatural party
is beginning to believe
you
are the one who knows the answers to those very questions. Speculation abounds, and vampires are a suspicious lot. Some already
hold that the hives are being kept
purposefully
in ignorance by either you, or BUR, or
most likely
both.” He smiled, all fangs, and sipped his champagne.

Alexia sat back and let out a whoosh of air. “Well, that explains her rather forceful invitation.”

Lord Akeldama did not move from his relaxed position, but he seemed to be sitting up straighter. “Her? Her
who
? Whose invitation, my
dearest
petunia blossom?”

“Countess Nadasdy's.”

Lord Akeldama actually did sit up straight at that. His waterfall of a cravat quivered in agitation. “Queen of the Westminster
hive,” he hissed, his fangs showing. “There
are
words to describe her, my
dear,
but
one
does
not
repeat them in polite company.”

Floote came in with the fish course, a simple fillet of sole with thyme and lemon. He glanced with raised eyebrows at the
humming auditory device and then at the agitated Lord Akeldama. Alexia shook her head slightly when he would have remained
protectively in the room.

Miss Tarabotti studied Lord Akeldama's face closely. He was a rove—a hiveless vampire. Roves were rare among the bloodsucking
set. It took a lot of political, psychological, and supernatural strength for a vampire to separate from his hive. And once
autonomous units, roves tended to go a bit funny about the noggin and slide toward the eccentric end of societal acceptability.
In deference to this status, Lord Akeldama kept all his papers in impeccable order and was fully registered with BUR. However,
it did mean he was a mite prejudiced against the hives.

The vampire sampled the fish, but the delicious taste did not seem to improve his temper. He pushed the dish away peevishly
and sat back, tapping one expensive shoe against the other.

“Don't you like the Westminster hive queen?” asked Alexia with wide dark eyes and a great show of assumed innocence.

Lord Akeldama seemed to remember himself. The foppishness reappeared in spades. His wrists went limp and wiggly. “La,
my dear daffodil,
the hive queen and I, we… have our differences. I am under the distressing impression she finds me a
tad
”—he paused as though searching for the right word—“flamboyant.”

Miss Tarabotti looked at him, evaluating both his words and the meaning behind them. “And here I thought it was you who did
not like Countess Nadasdy.”

“Now,
sweetheart,
who has been telling you
little
stories like that?”

Alexia tucked into her fish, a clear indication that she declined to reveal her source. After she had finished, there was
a moment of silence while Floote removed the plates and placed the main course before them: a delicious arrangement of braised
pork chop, apple compote, and slow roasted baby potatoes. Once the butler had gone again, Miss Tarabotti decided to ask her
guest the more important question she had invited him over to answer.

“What do you think she wants of me, my lord?”

Lord Akeldama's eyes narrowed. He ignored the chop and fiddled idly with his massive ruby cravat pin. “As I see it, there
are two reasons. Either she knows exactly what happened last night at the ball and she wants to bribe you into silence, or
she has no idea who that vampire was and what he was doing in her territory, and she thinks you do.”

“In either case, it would behoove me to be better informed than I currently am,” Miss Tarabotti said, eating a buttery little
potato.

He nodded empathetically.

“Are you positive you do not know anything more?” she asked.

“My dearest
girl, who
do you think I am? Lord Maccon, perhaps?” He picked up his champagne glass and twirled it by the stem, gazing thoughtfully
at the tiny bubbles. “Now there
is
an idea, my treasure.
Why not
go to the werewolves? They may know more of the
relevant
facts. Lord Maccon, of course, being BUR will know
most
of all.”

Alexia tried to look nonchalant. “But as a minister of BUR's secrets, he is also the least likely to relay any cogent details,”
she countered.

Lord Akeldama laughed in a tinkling manner that indicated more artifice than real amusement. “Then there is nothing for it,
sweetest
of Alexias, but to use your plethora of feminine
wiles
upon him. Werewolves have been susceptible to the
gentler
sex for as long as I can remember, and that is a
very
long time, indeed.” He wiggled his eyebrows, knowing he did not look a day over twenty-three, his original age at metamorphosis.
He continued. “Favorable toward women, those
darling
beasties, even if they are a tad brutish.” He shivered lasciviously. “Particularly Lord Maccon. So big and
rough.
” He made a little growling noise.

Miss Tarabotti giggled. Nothing was funnier than watching a vampire try to emulate a werewolf.

“I advise you
most
strongly to visit him tomorrow
before
you see the Westminster queen.” Lord Akeldama reached forward and grasped her wrist. His fangs vanished, and his eyes suddenly
looked as old as he really was. He had never told Alexia quite how old. “
La,
darling,” he always said, “a vampire, like a lady,
never
reveals his true age.” But he had described to her in detail the dark days before the supernatural was revealed to daylight
folk. Before the hives and packs made themselves known on the British Isle. Before that prestigious revolution in philosophy
and science that their emergence triggered, known to some as the Renaissance but to vampires as the Age of Enlightenment.
Supernatural folk called the time before the Dark Ages, for obvious reasons. For them it had been an age spent skulking through
the night. Several bottles of champagne were usually required to get Lord Akeldama to talk of it at all. Still, it meant,
by Alexia's calculations, that he was at least over four hundred years old.

She looked more closely at her friend. Was that fear?

His face was honestly serious, and he said, “My dove,
I
do not know what is transpiring here.
Me,
ignorant! Please take the gravest of care in this matter.”

Miss Tarabotti now knew the real source of her friend's trepidation. Lord Akeldama had no idea what was going on. For years,
he had held the trump card in every major London political situation. He was accustomed to having possession of all pertinent
facts before anybody else. Yet at this moment, he was as mystified as she.

“
Promise me,
” he said earnestly, “you will see what information you can extract from Lord Maccon on this matter
before
you go into that hive.”

Alexia smiled. “To better your understanding?”

He shook his blond head. “No, sweetheart, to better
yours
.”

B
ollocks,” said Lord Maccon upon seeing who stood before him. “Miss Tarabotti. What did I do to merit a visit from you first
thing in the morning? I have not even had my second cup of tea yet.” He loomed at the entrance to his office.

Alexia ignored his unfortunate choice of greeting and swept past him into the room. The act of sweeping, and the fact that
the doorway was quite narrow while Alexia's bosoms (even corseted) were not, brought her into intimate contact with the earl.
Alexia was embarrassed to note she tingled a little bit, clearly a reaction to the repulsive state of the man's office.

There were papers everywhere, piled in corners and spread out over what might have been a desk—it was difficult to tell underneath
all the muddle. There were also rolls of etched metal and stacks of tubes she suspected contained more of the same. Alexia
wondered why he needed metal record-keeping; from the sheer quantity, she suspected it must be a cogent one. She counted at
least six used cups and saucers and a platter covered in the remains of a large joint of raw meat. Miss Tarabotti had been
in Lord Maccon's office once or twice before. It had always appeared a tad masculine for her taste but never so unsightly
as this.

“Good gracious me!” she said, shaking off the tingles. Then she asked the obvious question. “Where is Professor Lyall, then?”

Lord Maccon scrubbed his face with his hand, reached desperately for a nearby teapot, and drained it through the spout.

Miss Tarabotti looked away from the horrible sight.
Who was it that had said “only just civilized”?
She closed her eyes and considered, realizing it must have been she. She fluttered one hand to her throat. “Please, Lord
Maccon, use one of the cups. My delicate sensibilities.”

The earl actually snorted. “My dear Miss Tarabotti, if you possessed any such things, you certainly have never shown them
to me.” But he did put down the teapot.

Alexia looked more closely at Lord Maccon. He did not seem entirely well. Her heart moved with a funny little flipping motion
in her chest. His mahogany-colored hair was standing up at the front, as though he had been running his hands through it repeatedly.
Everything about his appearance seemed even more unkempt than usual. In the dim light, it also looked as though his canines
were showing—a certain sign of distress. Alexia squinted to make certain. She wondered how close they were to full moon. The
worry in her dark eyes, expressive even in their soullessness, softened her teapot-inspired disapproving expression.

“BUR business.” Lord Maccon endeavored to explain away Professor's Lyall's absence and the state of his office in one curt
phrase. He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

Alexia nodded. “I did not really expect to find you here, my lord, in the daytime. Shouldn't you be sleeping at this hour?”

The werewolf shook his head. “I can take the full sun for a few days running, especially when there's such a mystery as this.
Alpha's not simply a meaningless title, you know? We can
do
things regular werewolves cannot. Besides which, Queen Victoria is curious.” In addition to being BUR's supernatural liaison
and Alpha of the Woolsey Castle pack, Lord Maccon was an agent of Queen Victoria's Shadow Parliament.

“Well, never mind that; you look positively ghastly,” said Alexia baldly.

“Gee, thank you very much for your concern, Miss Tarabotti,” replied the earl, straightening up and widening his eyes in an
attempt to look more alert.

“What
have
you been doing to yourself?” asked his lady guest with all her customary bluntness.

“I have not slept since you were attacked,” said Lord Maccon.

Alexia blushed slightly. “Concerned for my well-being? Why, Lord Maccon, now it is I who am touched.”

“Hardly,” he replied ungallantly. “Overseeing investigations, for the most part. Any concern you may note is over the idea
that someone else may be attacked. You can obviously see to yourself.”

Miss Tarabotti was torn between being crushed that he did not care one fig for her safety and pleased that he trusted in her
competence.

She gathered up a small pile of metal slates from a side chair and sat down. Lifting one roll of thin metal, she held it open
to examine with interest. She had to tilt it away from the shadows in order to make out the etched notations. “Rove vampire
registration permits,” she remarked. “You think the man who attacked me last night might have had a permit?”

Lord Maccon looked exasperated, marched over and snatched the stack of rolls away. They fell to the floor with a clatter and
he cursed his sun-born clumsiness. But for all his sham annoyance at her presence, the earl was secretly pleased to have someone
with whom to talk out his theories. Usually he used his Beta in that capacity, but with Lyall out of town, he'd been pacing
about muttering to himself. “If he does have a permit, it is not in the London registry.”

“Could he have come from outside the capital?” suggested Alexia.

Lord Maccon shrugged. “You know how territorial vampires are. Even without any hive ties, they tend to stay in the area of
original blood metamorphosis. It is possible he traveled, but from where and why? What grave purpose would drive a vampire
from his natural habitat? That is the information I've sent Lyall to hunt down.”

Miss Tarabotti understood. BUR headquarters were stationed in central London, but they had offices all over England that kept
tabs on the supernatural set in other parts of the country. During the Age of Enlightenment, when the supernatural became
accepted instead of persecuted, what had been born out of a need to control turned into a means of understanding. BUR, a creature
of that understanding, now employed werewolves and vampires, as well as mortals and even a ghost or two. Alexia also suspected
there were a few sundowners still left among the ranks, though not used much anymore.

Lord Maccon continued. “He will travel by stagecoach during the day and in wolf form at night. He should be back before the
full moon with a report from all six nearby cities. That is what I am hoping for, at any roads.”

“Professor Lyall started in Canterbury?” Miss Tarabotti guessed.

Lord Maccon spun to stare at her intently. His eyes were more yellow than tawny gold, and particularly sharp in the dimly
lit room. “I hate it when you do that,” he growled.

“What, guess correctly?” Alexia's dark eyes crinkled in amusement.

“No, make me feel predictable.”

Alexia smiled. “Canterbury is a port city and a center for travel. If our mystery vampire came from anywhere, it was most
likely there. But you do not think he came from outside London, do you?”

Lord Maccon shook his head. “No, that does not feel right. He smelled local. All vampires get some indicative scent from their
maker, particularly when they have been recently changed. Our little friend had the death odor of the Westminster hive about
him.”

Miss Tarabotti blinked, startled. Her father's books said nothing on this subject.
Werewolves could smell vampire bloodlines? Could vampires tell the difference between werewolf packs as well?

“Have you spoken with the local queen?” she said.

The earl nodded. “I went straight to the hive house after leaving you that night. She completely denies any association with
your attacker. If it was possible for Countess Nadasdy to be surprised, I would have said she looked shocked at my news. Of
course, she would have to pretend such an appearance if she had metamorphosed a new vampire without proper paperwork. But
usually the hive is proud to have made larvae. They host a ball, demand turnday presents, call in all the field drones, that
kind of extravagance. BUR registry is customarily part of the ceremony. Local werewolves are even invited.” His lip curled,
showing several pointed teeth. “It is a sort of ‘stick it in your face' to the packs. We have not gained any new members in
over a decade.” It was no secret how hard it was to make new supernaturals. Since it was impossible to tell beforehand how
much soul a normal human had, it was a deadly gamble for humans to try and turn. Since many drones and clavigers made the
attempt early on in life so their immortality might be blessed with youth, the deaths were all the more keenly felt. Of course
BUR knew, and so did Miss Tarabotti, that low population numbers were part of what kept the supernatural set safe from public
outcry. When they had first presented themselves to the modern world, daylight humans had overcome age-old terrors only upon
realization of how few supernatural folk there really were in existence. Lord Maccon's pack numbered eleven in all, and the
Westminster hive was slightly smaller—both were considered impressively large.

Miss Tarabotti cocked her head to one side. “Where does that leave you, my lord?”

“Suspecting that there is a rove queen making vampires illegally and outside of hive and BUR authority.”

Alexia swallowed. “Inside Westminster territory?”

The earl nodded. “And of Countess Nadasdy's blood-line.”

“The countess must be biting mad.”

“You put it mildly, my dear Miss Tarabotti. As queen, of course, she insists your homicidal friend was from outside London.
She has no understanding of how bloodlines smell. But Lyall identified the body as her get without doubt. He has generations
of experience with the Westminster Hive and the best nose of any of us. You know Lyall's been with the Woolsey Pack far longer
than I?”

Alexia nodded. Everyone knew how recently Lord Maccon had risen to the earldom. She was given to wonder idly why Professor
Lyall had not tried for Alpha himself. Then she assessed Lord Maccon's undoubtedly muscular form and imposing appearance and
deduced the reason. Professor Lyall was no coward, but he was also no idiot.

The Alpha continued. “He could have been a direct metamorphic from one of Countess Nadasdy's bite-daughters. But then again,
Lyall also noted that the countess has not managed to change over a female drone in his lifetime. She is understandably bitter
over this fact.”

Miss Tarabotti frowned. “So you have a genuine mystery on your plate. Only a female vampire, a queen, can metamorphose a new
vampire. Yet here we find ourselves with a new vampire and no maker. Either Professor Lyall's nose or Countess Nadasdy's tongue
is lying.” Which explained more than anything else Lord Maccon's haggard appearance. Nothing was worse than werewolf and vampire
at cross purposes, especially in this kind of investigation. “Let us hope Professor Lyall finds you some answers to these
questions,” she said with feeling.

Lord Maccon rang the bell for fresh tea. “Indeed. And, now, enough of my problems. Perhaps we might press on to what brought
you to my doorstep at this ungodly hour.”

Alexia, who was poking through another pile of rove paperwork she had scooped off the floor, waved one of the metal sheets
at him. “
He
did.”

Lord Maccon grabbed the metal she had gesticulated with out of her hand, looked at it, and huffed in annoyance. “Why do you
persist in associating with that creature?”

Miss Tarabotti straightened her skirts, draping the pleated hem more carefully over her kid boots. She demurred. “I
like
Lord Akeldama.”

The earl abruptly looked more livid than tired. “Do you, by George! What has he been luring you in with? Little pip-squeak,
I shall wallop his scrawny hide to ribbons.”

“I suspect he might enjoy that,” murmured Alexia, thinking of what little she knew of her vampire friend's proclivities. The
werewolf did not hear her. Or perhaps he simply chose not to use his supernatural auditory abilities. He paced about, looking
vaguely magnificent. His teeth were now definitely showing.

Miss Tarabotti stood, marched over, and grabbed Lord Maccon's wrist. His teeth retracted instantly. The earl's yellow eyes
went back to amber-brown. It was the color they must have been years ago before he yielded to the bite that made him supernatural.
He also appeared slightly less shaggy, although no less large and angry. Remembering Lord Akeldama's comment on the subject
of using feminine wiles, Alexia placed a second hand pleadingly above the first on his upper arm.

What she wanted to say was,
Do not be an idiot.
What she actually said was, “I needed Lord Akeldama's advice on supernatural matters. I did not want to disturb you for anything
trivial.” As if she would ever willingly go to Lord Maccon for help. She was only in his office now under duress. She widened
her large brown eyes, tilted her head in a way she hoped might minimize her nose, and lowered her eyelashes beseechingly.
Alexia had very long eyelashes. She also had very fierce eyebrows, but Lord Maccon seemed more interested in the former than
repelled by the latter. He covered her small brown hand with his massive one.