The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (77 page)

Monsieur Trouvé seemed momentarily captivated. “That's a sundowner's weapon you have there, isn't it, Mr. Floote?”

Floote did not respond. There was accusation inherent in the term, for “sundowner” implied official sanction from Her Majesty's
government to terminate the supernatural. No British gentleman without such authorization ought to carry such a weapon.

“Since when would you know anything about munitions, Gustave?” Madame Lefoux issued her friend an imperiously quirked brow.

“I've developed a keen interest in gunpowder recently. Terribly messy stuff, but awfully useful for a directed mechanical
force.”

“I should say so,” said Alexia, readjusting her parasol and shooting her last dart.

“Now you've wasted them all,” accused Madame Lefoux, letting fly with her own, more effective wooden dart at the groggy vampire
just after Alexia's projectile struck home. It hit him in the eye. Sluggish black blood oozed out from around it. Alexia felt
ill.

“Really, Genevieve, must you go for the eye? It's so unsightly.” Monsieur Trouvé appeared to agree with Alexia's disgust.

“Only if you promise never to use a pun like that again.”

Thus two of the vampires were now incapacitated. The other two had retreated out of range to regroup, clearly not having anticipated
such resistance.

Madame Lefoux glared at Alexia. “Stop stalling and use the lapis solaris.”

“Are you certain that is strictly necessary, Genevieve? It seems so discourteous. I could accidentally kill one of them with
such a substance. We've already had a little too much of that kind of tomfoolery.” She nodded with her chin at the vampire
Floote had shot, who now lay ominously still. Vampires were scarce, and generally rather old. Murdering one even in self-defense
was like thoughtlessly destroying a rare aged cheese. True, a fanged and murderous rare aged cheese, but…

The lady inventor gave the preternatural woman an incredulous look. “Yes, final death was the idea when I designed it.”

One of the vampires lurched forward again, intent on Alexia. He held a wicked-looking knife. Clearly he was adapting better
to her preternatural ability than his now-inert cohorts.

Floote shot his other gun.

This time the bullet hit the man's chest. The vampire
fell backward, crashed into a loaded display cabinet, and landed on the floor, making exactly the same sound a carpet makes
when whacked to get the dust out.

The remaining vampire was looking both annoyed and confused. He had brought no projectile weapons. The vampire Madame Lefoux
had spiked in the eye yanked out the offending optical impairment and lurched to his feet, the socket oozing blackened, sluggish
blood. The two joined forces to charge once more.

Madame Lefoux slashed, and Monsieur Trouvé, finally understanding the gravity of the situation, reached around and pulled
a long, wicked-looking spring-adjuster from its cradle on the wall. It was brass, so it was unlikely to do any serious damage,
but it might slow even a vampire if applied properly. A sharp wooden knife had now appeared in Floote's hand—both guns being
of the single-shot variety and thus out of ammunition.
Such a competent man, Floote,
thought Alexia with pride.

“Well, if I must, fine. I'll guard the retreat,” said Alexia. “Buy us some time.”

“What, in a clock shop?” Madame Lefoux clearly couldn't resist.

Alexia gave her a withering look. Then she opened and flipped her parasol over in a practiced motion so that she held it backward
by the tip instead of the handle. There was a tiny dial just above the magnetic disruption emitter, set into a nodule. She
stepped slightly forward, mindful that she could harm her friends as well as the vampires with this particular weapon. Then
she clicked the dial round two times, and three ribs of the parasol began to spew forth a fine mist of lapis solaris diluted
in sulfuric acid.

At first the stampeding vampires didn't quite understand
what was happening, but when the mixture began to burn them severely, they backed out of range.

“Up the stairs, now!” yelled Alexia.

They all began to retreat up the tiny staircase, Alexia bringing up the rear, brandishing the misting parasol. The smell of
acid burning through carpet and wood permeated the air. A few drops landed on Alexia's claret-colored skirts.
Well,
she thought, resigned,
there is one gown I won't ever be able to wear again.

The vampires stayed just far enough out of range. By the time Alexia had reached the top of the stairs—going backward and
up with both hands occupied was no mean feat in long skirts and a bustle—the others had gathered together a quantity of large,
heavy objects with which to barricade the top. Alexia's parasol sputtered once, then emitted a sad little hissing noise and
stopped misting, having used up its store of the lapis solaris.

The vampires renewed their attack. Alexia was alone at the top of the stairs. But Madame Lefoux was ready for them and began
hurling various interesting-looking gadgets down, until, at the last possible minute, Alexia managed to sneak behind the rapidly
growing pile of furniture and trunks that Floote and Monsieur Trouvé had piled at the head of the staircase.

While Alexia recovered her breath and equanimity, they built up the improvised rampart, wedging and tilting a mountain of
furniture downward, relying on gravity and weight as assistants.

“Anyone have a plan?” Alexia looked around hopefully.

The Frenchwoman gave her a fierce grin. “Gustave and I were talking earlier. He says he still has the ornithopter we designed
at university.”

Monsieur Trouvé frowned. “Well, yes, but it isn't certified by the Ministry of Aethernautics to fly within Parisian aetherspace.
I did not think you actually intended to use it. I'm not sure if the stabilizers are working properly.”

“Never you mind that. Is it on the roof?”

“Of course, but—”

Madame Lefoux grabbed Alexia by the arm and began dragging her down the hall toward the back of the apartment.

Alexia made a face but allowed herself to be tugged along. “Well, then, to the roof with us! Ooof, wait, my dispatch case.”

Floote dove to one side to retrieve her precious luggage.

“No time, no time!” insisted Madame Lefoux as the vampires, having attained the top of the stairway, were apparently engaged
in trying to bash their way through to the landing by application of pure physical force.
How vulgar!

“It has tea in it,” Alexia explained gratefully when Floote reappeared with her case.

Then they heard a horrible noise, a rumbling, growling sound and the crunch of flesh between large, unforgiving jaws. The
banging on the barricade stopped as something sharp-toothed and vicious distracted the vampires. A new sound of fighting commenced
as the vampires engaged whatever it was that was hunting
them.

The little group of refugees reached the end of the hallway. Madame Lefoux leaped up, grabbing at what looked to be a gas
lamp fixture but what turned out to be a pull lever that activated a small hydraulic pump. A section of the ceiling flipped
down at them, and a rickety ladder, clearly spring loaded, shot down, hitting the hallway floor with an audible thump.

Madame Lefoux scampered up. With considerable difficulty, hampered by dress and parasol, Alexia climbed after her, emerging
into a crowded attic richly carpeted in dust and dead spiders. The gentlemen followed and Floote helped Monsieur Trouvé winch
the ladder back up, disguising their retreat. With any luck, the vampires would be stalled trying to determine where and how
their quarry had attained roof access.

Alexia wondered what had attacked the vampires on the stair: a savior, a protector, or some new form of monster that wanted
her for itself? She didn't have time to contemplate for long. The two inventors were fussing about a machine of some kind,
running around loosening tether ropes, checking safety features, tightening screws, and lubricating cogs. This seemed to involve
a phenomenal quantity of banging and cursing.

The ornithopter, for that is what it must be, looked like a most incommodious mode of transport. Passengers—there was room
for three in addition to the pilot—were suspended in nappylike leather seats the top of which strapped about the waist.

Alexia dashed over, stumbling against an inappropriately placed gargoyle.

Monsieur Trouvé ignited a small steam engine. The craft lurched upward and then tilted to one side, sputtering and coughing.

“I told you: stabilizers!” he said to Madame Lefoux.

“I cannot believe you don't have strapping wire on hand, Gustave. What kind of inventor are you?”

“Did you miss the sign above the shop door, my dear? Clocks! Clocks are my specialty. No stabilizers needed!”

Alexia intervened. “Wire, is that all you require?”

Madame Lefoux held her fingers a short width apart. “Yes, about so thick.”

Alexia, before she could be shocked by her own audacity, lifted her overskirts and undid the tapes to her bustle. The undergarment
dropped to the ground, and she kicked it in Madame Lefoux's direction. “That do?”

“Perfect!” the Frenchwoman crowed, attacking the canvas and extracting the metal boning, which she passed to Monsieur Trouvé.

While the clockmaker went to work threading the wire through some kind of piping about the contraption's nose, Alexia climbed
inside. Only to discover, to her abject embarrassment, that the nappy-seat design caused one's skirts to hike up into one's
armpits and one's legs to dangle below the enormous wings of the aircraft with bloomers exposed for all the world to see.
They were her best bloomers, thank goodness, red flannel with three layers of lace at the hem, but still not a garment a lady
ought to show to anyone except her maid or her husband, a pox on him, anyway.

Floote settled comfortably in behind her, and Madame Lefoux slid into the pilot's nappy. Monsieur Trouvé returned to the engine,
situated behind Floote and under the tail of the craft, and cranked it up once more. The ornithopter wiggled, but then held
steady and stabilized.
Victory to the bustle,
thought Alexia.

The clockmaker stepped back, looking pleased with himself.

“Are you not coming with us?” Alexia felt a strange kind of panic.

Gustave Trouvé shook his head. “Glide as much as you can, Genevieve, and you should be able to make it to Nice.” He had to
yell in order to be heard over the
grumbling engine. He passed Madame Lefoux a pair of magnification goggles and a long scarf, which she used to wrap about her
face, neck, and top hat.

Alexia, clutching parasol and dispatch case firmly to her ample chest, prepared for the worst.

“That far?” Madame Lefoux did not raise her head, busy checking on an array of dials and bobbing valves. “You have made modifications,
Gustave.”

The clockmaker winked.

Madame Lefoux looked at him suspiciously and then gave a curt nod.

Monsieur Trouvé marched back around to the rear of the ornithopter and spun up a guidance propeller attached to the steam
engine.

Madame Lefoux pressed some kind of button and, with a massive whoosh, the wings of the craft began flapping up and down with
amazing strength. “You
have
made modifications!”

The ornithopter jerked into the air with a burst of power.

“Didn't I tell you?” Monsieur Trouvé was grinning like a little boy. He had a good pair of lungs in that wide chest of his,
so he continued to yell after them. “I replaced our original model with one of Eugène's bourdon tubes, activated by gunpowder
charges. I did say I had taken a keen interest recently.”

“What? Gunpowder!”

The clockmaker waved at them cheerfully as they flapped upward and forward, now a good few yards above the rooftop. Alexia
could see much of Paris laid out below her wildly waving kid-boots.

Monsieur Trouvé bracketed his mouth with his hands. “I'll send your things on to the Florence dirigible station.”

A great crash sounded, and two of the vampires burst out onto the roof.

Monsieur Trouvé's grin vanished into the depths of his impressive beard, and he turned to face the supernatural threat.

One of the vampires leapt up after them, hands stretched to grab. He got close enough for Alexia to see that he had an impressive
collection of jagged bite marks now about his head and neck. His hand just missed Alexia's ankle. A huge white beast appeared
behind him. Limping and bleeding, the creature charged the airborne vampire, hamstringing him and bringing him back to the
rooftop with a crash.

The clockmaker yelled in fear.

Madame Lefoux did something to the controls, and the ornithopter flapped two mighty strokes and surged up. Then it shifted
suddenly sideways in a gust of wind, tilting precariously. Alexia lost sight of the action on the rooftop behind one massive
wing. It was presently to become irrelevant, for the ornithopter reached ever-greater heights, and Paris became lost under
a layer of cloud.

“Magnifique!”
yelled Madame Lefoux into the wind.

Sooner than Alexia would have believed possible, they attained the first of the aether atmospheres, the breezes there cool
and slightly tingly against Alexia's inexcusably indecent legs. The ornithopter caught one of the southeasterly currents and
began to ride it with, blessedly, a long smooth glide and much less flapping.

Professor Lyall had plenty he ought to be doing that night: BUR investigations, pack business, and Madame Lefoux's contrivance
chamber to check up on. Naturally, he ended
up doing none of those things. Because what he really wanted to find out was the current location of one Lord Akeldama—vampire,
fashion icon, and very stylish thorn in everyone's side.

The thing about Lord Akeldama was—and in Lyall's experience, there was always a
thing
—that where he himself was not a fixture, his drones were. Despite supernatural speed and flawless taste in neckwear, Lord
Akeldama could not, in fact, attend every social event of note every single evening. But he did seem to have a collection
of drones and associates of drones who could and did. The
thing
that was bothering Lyall at the moment was that they weren't. Not only was the vampire himself missing, but so were all of
his drones, assorted sycophants, and poodle-fakers. Usually, any major social event in London could be relied upon to temporarily
house some young dandy whose collar points were too high, mannerisms too elegant, and interest too keen to adequately complement
his otherwise frivolous appearance. These ubiquitous young men, regardless of how silly they might act, how much gambling
they might engage in, and how much fine champagne they might swill, reported back to their master with such an immense amount
of information as to put any of Her Majesty's espionage operations to shame.