Parasol Protectorate 01 - Soulless Page 5

  So Alexia had the house to herself, and Lord Akeldama's entrance was appreciated by no one more important than Floote, the Loontwills' long-suffering butler. This caused Lord Akeldama distress, for he sat so dramatically and posed with such grace, that he clearly anticipated a much larger audience. The vampire took out a scented handkerchief and bopped Miss Tarabotti playfully on the shoulder with it. “I hear, my little sugarplum, that you were a naughty, naughty girl at the duchess's ball last night.”

  Lord Akeldama might look and act like a supercilious buffoon of the highest order, but he had one of the sharpest minds in the whole of London. The Morning Post would pay half its weekly income for the kind of information he seemed to have access to at any time of night. Alexia privately suspected him of having drones among the servants in every major household, not to mention ghost spies tethered to key public institutions.

  Miss Tarabotti refused to give her guest the satisfaction of asking how he knew of the previous evening's episode. Instead she smiled in what she hoped was an enigmatic manner and poured the champagne.

  Lord Akeldama never drank anything but champagne. Well, that is to say, except when he was drinking blood. He was reputed to have once said that the best drink in existence was a blending of the two, a mix he referred to fondly as a Pink Slurp.

  “You know why I invited you over, then?” Alexia asked instead, offering him a cheese swizzle.

  Lord Akeldama waved a limp wrist about dismissively before taking the swizzle and nibbling its tip. “La, my dearest girl, you invited me because you could not bear to be without my company a single moment longer. And I shall be cut to the very quick of my extensive soul if your reason is anything else.”

  Miss Tarabotti waved a hand at the butler. Floote issued her a look of mild disapproval and vanished in search of the first course.

  “That is, naturally, exactly why I invited you. Besides which I am certain you missed me just as much, as we have not seen each other in an age. I am convinced that your visit has absolutely nothing to do with an avid curiosity as to how I managed to kill a vampire yesterday evening,” she said mildly.

  Lord Akeldama held up a hand. “A moment please, my dear.” Then he reached into a waistcoat pocket and produced a small spiky device. It looked like two tuning forks sunk into a faceted crystal. He flicked the first fork with his thumbnail, waited a moment, and then flicked the second. The two made a dissonant, low-pitched strumming sound, like the hum of two different kinds of bee arguing, that seemed to be amplified by the crystal. He placed the device carefully in the center of the table, where it continued to hum away discordantly. It was not entirely irritating but seemed like it might grow to be.

  “One gets accustomed to it after a while,” explained Lord Akeldama apologetically.

  “What is it?” wondered Alexia.

  “That little gem is a harmonic auditory resonance disruptor. One of my boys picked it up in gay Paris recently. Charming, isn't it?”

  “Yes, but what does it do?” Alexia wanted to know.

  “Not much in this room, but if anyone is trying to listen in from a distance with, say, an ear trumpet or other eavesdropping device, it creates a kind of screaming sound that results in the most tremendous headache. I tested it.”

  “Remarkable,” said Alexia, impressed despite herself. “Are we likely to be saying things people might want to overhear?”

  “Well, we were discussing how you managed to kill a vampire, were we not? And while I know exactly how you did it, petal, you may not want the rest of the world to know as well.” Alexia was affronted. “Oh really, and how did I do it?”

  Lord Akeldama laughed, showing off a set of particularly white and particularly sharp fangs. “Oh, princess.” In one of those lightning-fast movements that only the best athletes or a supernatural person could execute, he grabbed her free hand. His deadly fangs vanished. The ethereal beauty in his face became ever so slightly too effeminate, and his strength dissipated. “This is how.”

  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 vampiresto 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 beaslies, 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.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Our Heroine Heeds Some Good Advice

  Bollocks,” said Lord Maccon upon seeing who stood before him. “Miss Tarabotti. What did I do to me
rit 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.