The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (81 page)

Alexia blanched.

“I am sorry to say there is no way around that fact. If the Templar preternatural breeding program proved nothing else, it
proved that preternaturals always breed true. And similarly that they cannot occupy the same air space. Essentially, Female
Specimen, you have an intolerance for your own child.”

Alexia had shared a room with a preternatural mummy once; she knew the feeling of discomfort and repulsion that would be her
fate should she ever encounter another preternatural. But she had not yet felt that feeling from the embryo inside her.

“The child and I are not sharing any air,” she objected.

“We are aware that preternatural abilities are a matter of physical contact. In this, the Templar records are clear, and I
recall them well. All Female Specimens experimented upon over the centuries were barren or unable to carry a child. It is
not a matter of
if
you will lose this embryo—it is a matter of
when.
”

Alexia sucked in her breath. Unexpectedly, it hurt. Quite apart from the loss of the child, this would mean
that Conall's rejection and abuse had all been for naught. It was stupid, and hopeless, and…

Madame Lefoux came to her rescue. “Except that this may not be an ordinary preternatural child. You said it yourself—they
are usually the result of daylight and preternatural crossings. Alexia's baby has a werewolf father, and as mortal as her
touch would have made him at the time of conception, he was still not human. Not entirely, for he had already lost much of
his soul. This child is something
different.
It must be.” She turned to look at her friend. “It is a safe bet that the vampires aren't trying to kill you simply because
you are about to miscarry a soulless. Particularly not the English vampires.”

Alexia sighed. “It is at times like this I wish I could talk to my mother.”

“Good gracious, what good would that do, madam?” Floote was moved to speak by the outrageousness of Alexia's statement.

“Well, whatever she said, I could simply take the opposite point of view.”

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf was not to be distracted by family history. “You have felt no queasiness or revulsion for the specimen
inside?”

Alexia shook her head.

The German began muttering to himself. “Something must be off in my calculations. Perhaps the aetheric exchange conduction
between mother and child is limited by partial soul retention. But why, then, wouldn't a child retain part of the soul of
a daylight father? Different kind of soul, perhaps?” He scratched out his careful notes with a sweeping motion of the stylographic
pen, flipped to a new page, and began scribbling again.

They all watched him in silence, Alexia having mostly lost her appetite, until he stopped midnotation.

He looked up, his eyes popping wide as the second half of Madame Lefoux's statement finally worked its way into his brain.
“Vampires trying to kill her? Did you say they were trying to kill her? That
thing,
sitting there at
my
table, in
my
house!”

Madame Lefoux shrugged. “Well, yes. Who else would they want to kill?”

“But that means they will be coming. They will be following her.
Here
! Vampires. I
hate
vampires!” Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf spat noisily on the floor. “Nasty, bloodsucking tools of the devil. You must get out. You must
all leave, now! I am terribly sorry, but I cannot have you here under such circumstances. Not even for the sake of scientific
research.”

“But, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, what a way to treat a fellow member of the Order of the Brass Octopus. Be reasonable; it is the
middle of the day!”

“Not even for the Order!” The little man stood, looking as though he were about to get just as hysterical as his dog. “You
must leave! I shall give you provisions, money, contacts in Italy, but you must quit my house now. Get to the Templars. They
will take care of you, if only because the vampires want you dead. I am not equipped. I am not able to handle this.”

Alexia stood to find that Floote, being Floote, had at some point during the conversation sensed impending doom and vanished
to their rooms. There he had obviously packed up her dispatch case, retrieved her parasol and their outerwear, and was waiting
patiently in the doorway. He, at least, did not seem at all reluctant to leave.

               

U
pon reflection, Alexia decided it was perhaps safer to press on toward Italy during daylight, anyway. It was becoming painfully
obvious that should she expect any answers as to her current condition and situation, she would have to extract said answers
from either the Templars or the vampires. And of the two, only one was likely to talk to her
before
they tried to kill her.

Another thing had also become apparent. As driven as she might be to prove Conall wrong, the fate of the infant-inconvenience
was now at stake. Alexia might be frustrated with the tiny parasite, but she decided, after contemplation, that she did not,
exactly, wish it dead. They'd been through a lot together so far.
Just you allow me to eat regularly,
she told it silently,
and I'll think about trying to grow a mothering instinct. Won't be easy, mind you. I wasn't ever expecting to have one. But
I'll try.

On the run from the murderous hordes, cashiered by an eccentric German, Alexia was nonplussed to find they
did what anyone might have done under more mundane circumstances—they caught a cab. Hired transport, as it turned out, was
much the same in France as it was in England, only more limited. Madame Lefoux had a brief but intense conversation with the
driver of a fly, after which a good deal of money exchanged hands. Then the inventor sat down next to Floote, and the handsom
took off at a terrific pace, heading for the coast through the streets of Nice, which were crowded with invalids and wet-weather
refugees. Alexia supposed it was a sensible mode of transport when one was on the run, but the fly was a tight fit for three
passengers.

The driver, up high and behind them, encouraged the horse into a fast trot with a long whip. The creature surged forward,
taking turns and racketing down alleyways at quite the breakneck velocity.

In no time whatsoever, they had left Nice behind and were headed along the dirt road that wound along the cliffs and beaches
of the Riviera. It was a drive Alexia might ordinarily have enjoyed. It was a crisp winter day, the Mediterranean a sparkling
turquoise blue to their right. There was very little traffic, and their driver cut loose along the long slow turns and straight
stretches, allowing his horse a distance-covering canter.

“He said he would take us all the way to the border,” Madame Lefoux spoke into the rushing wind. “Standing me up a pretty
penny for the favor, but he
is
making very good time.”

“I should say so! Will we reach Italy before dark, do you think?” Alexia tucked her dispatch case more firmly beneath her
legs and skirts, and placed her parasol across her lap, trying to get comfortable while wedged tightly
between Madame Lefoux and Floote. The seat really was only meant for two, and while none of them was overly large, Alexia
had cause to be grateful she was currently without her ubiquitous bustle. It was by no means an ideal arrangement.

The driver slowed.

Taking advantage of the more relaxed pace, Alexia stood, turning precariously backward so she could look over the roof and
the driver's box to the road behind them. When she sat back down again, she was frowning.

“What is it?” Madame Lefoux demanded.

“I do not mean to concern you, but I do believe we are being followed.”

Madame Lefoux stood in her turn, holding her top hat firmly to her head with one hand and grasping the edge of the hansom's
roof with the other. When she sat back down, she, too, sported a crease between her perfectly arched eyebrows.

Alexia looked to her valet. “Floote, how are you fixed for projectiles?”

Floote reached into his inner jacket pocket and presented the two tiny guns. He cracked each open in turn. They were both
loaded. He'd obviously taken the time to reload the single shots after their spot of vampire bother. He fished about further
in his coat and produced a small quantity of gunpowder in a twist of paper and eight more bullets.

Madame Lefoux reached across Alexia and picked up one of the bullets, examining it with interest. Alexia looked on as well.
They were made of some kind of hard wood, tipped in silver and filled with lead.

“Old-style sundowner bullets. Not that we will need
such as these at this time of day. Any followers would have to be drones. Still, Mr. Floote, what are you doing with such
things? You cannot possibly be certified to terminate supernaturals.”

“Ah.” Floote put the bullets back in his jacket pocket. “Let us say I inherited them, madam.”

“Mr. Tarabotti?” Madame Lefoux nodded. “That explains the age of the guns. You want to get yourself one of those newfangled
Colt revolvers, Mr. Floote, much more efficient.”

Floote looked with a certain degree of fondness down at the two tiny guns before tucking them back out of sight. “Perhaps.”

Alexia was intrigued. “Father was an official sundowner, was he?”

“Not as such, my lady.” Floote was always cagey, but he seemed to reach new heights of tight-lippedness whenever the subject
of Alessandro Tarabotti came up. Half the time Alexia felt he did it out of obstinacy; the other half of the time she felt
he might be trying to shield her from something. Although with vampire drones on their tail, she could hardly imagine what
she might still need protection from.

Madame Lefoux pushed back the sleeve of her jacket and checked her own little wrist-emitter device. “I have only three shots
left. Alexia?”

Alexia shook her head. “I used up all my darts in the clock shop, remember? And I haven't anything else left in the parasol
but the lapis lunearis mist for werewolves and the magnetic disruption emitter.”

Madam Lefoux sucked her teeth in frustration. “I knew I should have given it a greater carrying capacity.”

“You cannot very well have done much more,” consoled Alexia. “The darn thing already weighs twice as much as any ordinary
parasol.”

Floote stood and checked behind them.

“Will they catch us before we cross the border?” Alexia had no clear grasp on the distance from Nice to the Italian frontier.

“Most likely.” Madame Lefoux, however, did.

Floote sat back down, looking quite worried.

They clattered through a small fishing town and out the other side, improved paving on the road allowing them a fresh burst
of speed.

“We will have to try to lose them in Monaco.” Madame Lefoux stood, leaned across the roof, and engaged in a protracted conversation
with the driver. Rapid-fire French scattered on the wind.

Guessing the gist of it, Alexia unclipped the ruby and gold brooch from the neck of her traveling gown and pressed it into
the inventor's small hand. “See if that will encourage him.”

The brooch vanished across the roof of the hansom. The whip flashed. The horse surged forward. Bribery, apparently, worked
no matter what the language.

They kept a good pace and steady distance from their pursuers right up and into the town of Monaco, a decent-sized vacation
destination of some questionable repute.

The driver undertook the most impressive series of twists and turns, breaking off from the main road and dodging through some
truly tiny alleys. They ran pell-mell into a line of laundry stretched across the street, taking a pair of trousers and a
gentleman's shirtfront with them, in addition to a string of French curses. They ended
their obstacle run, clattering out of an upper section of the town away from the ocean, heading toward the Alpine Mountains.
The horse tossed off the pair of scarlet bloomers he had been wearing about his ears with a snort of disgust.

“Will we be able to cross through the mountains at this time of year?” Alexia was dubious. It was winter, and while the Italian
Alps hadn't the reputation of their larger, more inland brethren, they were still respectably mountainous, with white-capped
peaks.

“I think so. Regardless, it is better to stay off the main road.”

The road narrowed as they began to climb upward. The horse slowed to a walk, his sides heaving. It was a good thing, too,
for soon enough the track became lined with trees and a steep embankment to one side and a treacherous drop to the other.
They clattered through a herd of unimpressed brown goats, complete with large bells and irate goat girl, and seemed to have
shaken off pursuit.

Out the left side window of the hansom, Alexia caught sight of a peculiar-looking contraption above the embankment and trees.
She tugged Madame Lefoux's arm. “What's that, Genevieve?”

The inventor cocked her head. “Ah, good. The sky-rail system. I had hoped it was operational.”

“Well?”

“Oh, yes. It is a novelty freight and passenger transport. I had a small hand in designing the control mechanisms. We should
be able to see it in full presently, just there.”

They rounded a bend in the road and began climbing ever more steeply. Before and above them stood the contraption in all its
glory. To Alexia it looked like two
massive laundry lines strung parallel across the tops of pylons. It became clear, however, that the lines were more like sky-high
train tracks. Straddled atop them, crawling along in a rhythmic, lurching, buglike manner on large wheels threaded with moving
treads, marched a series of cabins, similar in size and shape to stagecoaches. Each cabin emitted billowing gouts of white
steam from underneath. Hanging from the cabin, down below the cables, each supported a swaying metal net on long cords, loaded
with lumber. Like a spider with an egg sac or a trapeze train trolley.

“Goodness!” Alexia was impressed. “Are they unidirectional?”

“Well, most are going downhill with freight, but they are designed to go up as well. Unlike trains, those cable rails require
no switchbacks. One car can simply climb over the other, so long as it is not carrying a net, of course. See the way the cabling
goes over each side of the cabin roof?”

Alexia was enough impressed by the invention to be distracted from her current predicament. She'd never seen or heard of anything
like it—a railway in the sky!

Floote kept popping up and looking back over the cab roof like a jack-in-the-box. Alexia became quite sensitive to the pattern
of his movements and so noticed when his legs became suddenly tense and he spent longer than usual standing. Madame Lefoux
did as well and bounced up to lean next to him, much to the driver's annoyance. Scared of further upsetting the fly's center
of balance, Alexia stayed seated, her view filled with trouser-clad legs.

She heard a faint yelling behind them and could only imagine that there were drones following. On the next
switchback, she caught sight of their enemy. Out the right side window of the cab, she could see a four-in-hand coach loaded
down with intense-looking young men in hot pursuit. There was some kind of firearm equipage mounted atop the carriage roof.

Just wonderful,
thought Alexia.
They have a ruddy great gun.

She heard the pop of Floote firing off one of the tiny derringers and the sharp hiss of Madame Lefoux doing the same with
one of her darts.

Floote popped back down to change guns and reload. “Madam, I regret to inform you, they have a Nordenfelt.”

“A what?”

Madame Lefoux sat down to reload while Floote stood back up and fired again.

“I have no doubt we shall witness it in action shortly.”

They reached the snow line.

A whole fleet of bullets of ridiculously large size hissed by the cab and embedded themselves in an unsuspecting tree. A gun
that could fire multiple bullets at once, imagine that!

Floote hurriedly sat back down.

“The Nordenfelt, madam.”

The horse squealed in fear, the driver swore, and they came to an abrupt halt.

Madame Lefoux didn't even try to argue their case. She jumped down from the fly, followed by Floote and Alexia. Floote grabbed
Alexia's dispatch case. Alexia grabbed her parasol. Without waiting to see if they would follow, Alexia charged up the embankment,
stabilizing herself with the parasol, and began slogging through the snow toward the cable lines.

Another burst of bullets churned up the snow just behind them. Alexia let out a most undignified squeak of alarm. What would
Conall do? This kind of gunfire action was not exactly her cup of tea. Her husband was the trained soldier, not she. Nevertheless,
she recovered enough to yell, “Perhaps we should spread out and make for that support pole.”

“Agreed,” said Madame Lefoux.

The next round of fire was not nearly so close.

Soon they were too high up to be seen from the road below, even by that deadly swiveling gun. Also, the four-in-hand was even
less able than the fly to handle off-road terrain. There came a good deal of shouting, probably the drones and the cab driver
yelling at each other, but Alexia knew it was only a matter of time before the young men left their precious Nordenfelt behind
and took to the ground in pursuit. At which point, she was at a distinct disadvantage with her heavy unbustled skirts dragging
through the snow.

As they neared the cable rail, one of the laden cars came heading downward toward them. Of course the darn thing was going
in the wrong direction, back into France, but it still might provide some limited refuge. The three made it, finally, to the
support pole. It was furnished with flimsy-looking metal rungs, intended to be used for emergency evacuation or repair.

Floote seemed to be taking stock of their situation like some extremely dapper Roman general. “Madame Lefoux's dart emitter
is the fastest weapon we have, madam.”

“Good point, Floote. Genevieve, please guard the base while Floote and I climb.”

The Frenchwoman nodded, looking fierce.

Alexia hated to leave her alone, but there was no other option. She hoisted her muddy skirts over one arm. Well, Paris had
already seen them; she might as well show the rest of France her bloomers.