“Oh dear,” said Percy, sounding disturbingly cheerful. “Pity you feel that way. I’m about to gift it to your lioness.” He extracted it from Footnote’s abrasive affection and placed it safely in a drawer.
“What?”
“Miss Sekhmet is a great admirer of my Turkish lounging cap. Something about the tassel, I believe.”
“Oh my heavens.”
“Speaking of which, you know I don’t follow women’s fashions, but I think you should commission a gown with fringe, or tassels, or both. Then that woman would never let you out of her sight.”
Primrose blushed beet red. “You don’t mind?”
“Fringe? Not on principle, no.”
“Not fringe, Tasherit…”
“Mind that you’ve taken up with a werecat? Why should I? I’m not a species snob, you know that. We were raised in a vampire hive.”
“Not her undead state, her unmale state.”
“I prefer women myself, who am I to criticise? Does she make you happy?”
“Ridiculously.”
“So, there it is. Think no more upon it. Sorry to have to burst your bubble with the fez, but I made a promise on the strength of her commitment to you. If that ridiculous smile you’re trying to hide is anything to go by, she’s proved herself worthy of being fezzed.”
Primrose waved a hand in the air. It was of no matter. Percy may look a right chump in that fez, but Tasherit would look positively adorable. “You really don’t mind about us, do you?”
“Oh, Tiddles, no one minded except you.”
They looked at each other and said simultaneously, “Mother will mind.”
Percy added, “Mother always minds. Just don’t tell her. Or if you insist on honesty, I’ll back you up, and we can both be disowned together.”
“I love you, Percy,” said Primrose, meaning it. Her brother was endlessly frustrating, but he had his good days. Never did she think she would like the part of him that didn’t give a fig what anyone else thought. Except now it meant that he didn’t give a fig what anyone else thought of her either. Turns out she needed that.
“I know you do,” said Percy, immeasurably smug.
And there he went, right back to being a premier pompous prat.
Virgil returned at that juncture with a perfectly serviceable top hat. He popped it onto Percy’s head. It was a little big but would have to do.
Prim looked over her brother critically.
Virgil had made him wear collar points, and thus Percy’s gold cravat was nice and high, completely covering his neck. Of course, there was no way to know if pishtacos went for the neck. Not a particularly fatty area, so Prim thought it unlikely. Still, it was best they observe the dress forms of their vampire training. Percy’s suit was cut tight and worn over a velvet waistcoat of gold and cream. He had enamel cuff links depicting gold birds.
Primrose considered. “Gloves, I think, Percy.”
“Must I?”
“Yes, everything but the face ought to be covered. We don’t want to give them any ideas or unwitting offers.”
“I see your point. Virgil, I have a pair somewhere, don’t I?”
Virgil rummaged about and produced some leather drivers for the park-side dirigible roaming about town. They didn’t quite work with the outfit but were good enough. And since they had him dressed in record time, Prim didn’t want to press her luck.
“You look thin and inedible,” she complimented with a nod.
“As do you, dear sister.” Percy offered her his arm, quite like he was actually a proper gentleman. “Shall we show them how it’s done?”
“By all means, let’s go pacify some pishtacos with courtesy.”
“I am in your very capable hands, Tiddles.” Percy smiled at her. And it actually seemed to be genuine.
Primrose found, for once, she didn’t mind the childhood nickname.
Percy hadn’t lied. If anyone was going to lead him into a hive of alien creatures with only manners to save them, he’d place all his chips on Primrose Tunstell.
“You greased the squeaky beasts?” he asked. “To ensure our welcome?”
“Of course. I had Spoo drop the initial calling card along with a Christmas pudding. Thank goodness, Cook made one several months ago and then we all forgot our dates. Apparently, Cook was the only one aboard who accounted for Christmas.”
“What has pudding to do with it?”
“Cook crams his pud full of fruit and brandy and, of course, a great deal of only the very best lard.”
“Oh, a commendably fatty choice, sister. But how did he feel about losing his pud in the interest of diplomacy?”
Primrose chuckled. “Cook was both offended by its loss and thrilled to see it utilised as an ambassador of good taste and goodwill.”
“A Christmas pudding olive branch.” Percy nodded. He had no firm feeling on Christmas pudding himself, but it seemed to generate great affection in others.
Primrose raised up a bulging reticule. “Two bricks of sweet butter - the very last of our reserves - a tin of my best face cream made with rose water and lanolin, and a gold filigree cuff bracelet.”
Percy frowned. “The bracelet isn’t made of fat, is it?”
“I am of the opinion that every woman likes pretty things, even pishtaco queens.”
Percy let this go. The only thing his sister knew more about than he did was women. Clearly more than ever these days, if her general aura of relaxed smugness was anything to go by.
By this point they’d made it up on deck, where the decklings were doing over the Porcini as a visiting conveyance. There was no way for Primrose to climb down a rope ladder in that dress, and arriving by float simply felt more formal, even if they had to do it in an improvised sling suspended from a stolen mushroom-shaped dropsy.
“It seems like a slightly more dignified and regal means of paying a call,” Primrose said, sounding only a little nervous about the lack of gondola.
Mushroom filled with helium and air, Percy took a cautious seat in the sling and then tried to assist his sister. She tipped backwards and somersaulted out of it on the first try, losing her hat and squeaking like an excited chipmunk. On the second go they managed it, and after much shifting and squirming, and then a sort of synchronised hopping, they scooted together over the deck and then sort of flopped over the railing.
Percy used basic balloon technology via cords and flaps to depuff them, pulling in air to sink them rather than letting any helium out - this so that they might get back up, of course, later. They also kept a long rope lead between the Porcini and the Spotted Custard. Rue had the larger dirigible in position above the hacienda, well out of firing distance for either party, for the sake of diplomacy.
Percy and Primrose slid out of the sling once they reached the ground. Fortunately, his sister was better on the dismount. Percy took on more air to compensate for the loss of body weight, leaving the mushroom to bob gently only a foot above the path to the front door.
Leaving the dropsy behind felt rather more isolating than it ought. The Porcini was their only connection to their airship, a tenuous thing indeed to be entirely reliant on a mushroom for one’s escape.
He tilted his head at his sister. “This had better work.”
“Yes, it had.” Primrose managed to look confident, nervous, and annoyed all at the same time. But her jaw was firm and her face was carefully blank in that way that meant she was about to resort to the height of propriety. Lives might be lost with the mere twitch of a disapproving eyebrow.
“Right, my dearest brother, just be polite and let me lead. This is what I’m best at.”
Primrose hoped that by separating all their current actions as much as possible from the previous more violent approach, they might appear more aristocratic and diplomatic by comparison. Certainly less interested in fighting or killing anyone.
Something seemed to have worked (the card, or the mushroom, or the pudding) because no
mass of enemy pishtacos met the twins with angry red eyes and silver claws.
Instead, a slender dark-eyed maid opened the hacienda door for them, and with trembling voice, invited them to enter. In Spanish, of course.
Primrose hoped Percy’s linguistic skills were up to the task before them.
As per a lifetime of training, Percy actually removed his hat upon entering the pishtaco domicile.
All six of the pishtacos who had attacked earlier that evening were waiting in the main room. The room appeared to serve as a sitting room meets parlour, only bigger. It was whitewashed and plaster walled and bare of hangings or decoration, totally uncluttered as if it were a hospital or a tomb. The chairs and furniture all boasted those colourful patterned weavings in the form of cushions, blankets, runners, and throws. There was a fire in the hearth, which Primrose found most cheerful, but there was a definite air of musty damp shabbiness despite the crackling flames. Quite unfortunately, the mantel above the nice fire was decorated with a row of human skulls, each trepanated in the same place.
Interesting choice of mantel adornment.
The pishtacos were all seated, but they rose upon the Tunstells’ arrival and made bows of greeting in an old-fashioned but polite way.
Primrose was careful to keep her back straight and her chin up as she dropped an equally old-fashioned curtsey. Percy was Percy about the whole thing. He never considered posture important and his bow was barely sufficient.
After a long awkward moment, everyone straightened and cleared throats and shuffled about, attempting to determine what precedent dictated under such circumstances.
Primrose took a quick assessment of the situation. There were drones lurking in the shadows, still and observant. Or she assumed they were drones. She decided they seemed to be undertaking the role of staff and should, therefore, not be directly acknowledged.
In an attempt to get them off on the correct footing, she fell back on the protocols she’d always used when visiting Countess Nadasdy’s hive on her mother’s behalf.
Primrose spoke first, and Percy translated. “Good evening. Thank you for accepting our call. Especially after such an unfortunate misunderstanding. I tender you the greetings of our mother, Vampire Queen Ivy Tunstell of Wimbledon Hive in England.”
One of the pishtacos interrupted at that. So Percy interrupted her to translate. “But you are human.”
Primrose inclined her head. “Yes. My brother and I are both mortal, born to her before her immortality took effect.”
“That is permitted in your country?”
“No, but there were extenuating circumstances around her metamorphosis.”
“So you act as her ambassadors? Mortal children to move around the globe when she cannot?” The pishtaco swirled his hands, a confused gesture made menacing by those silver claws, which were, Primrose realised, actually long silvery nails. Primrose ruthlessly suppressed the inclination to shudder.
“In a way.” She inclined her head.
“We are honoured to meet cousins from the far reaches. It has been centuries since word was brought to us of the sanguinus.”
Percy interrupted his own translation to say, “I’m thinking that’s from the Latin for blood, so sanguinus would be blood people. Probably the pishtacos’ word for our kind of vampires.”
Primrose nodded and continued with the formalities. She concentrated mainly on the male who had interrupted them. He seemed to be in charge, or at least the spokesman for the group.
“We apologise for any inadvertent neglect. I’m ashamed to report that our vampires had no record of your existence. Although my mother is a young queen, perhaps another…” She purposely let the thought trail off. She did not want them to think pishtacos had been wholly forgotten.
The man shrugged. “We did not anticipate even this much. You have your own problems, or so we must surmise. The Inquisition is everywhere.”
Primrose nodded, face sympathetic. Although, to be fair, in Europe the Inquisition had died down to a shadow of its former self - the Templars being that shadow. “In our country, Britain, vampires live openly and are accepted. But it is true that in the rest of Europe they continue to be persecuted.”
“Your mother is safe?”
“She is.”
“A queen without danger, what joy is yours.”
There was real envy in his voice, and an awkward silence descended.
Finally, Primrose said, “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Miss Primrose Tunstell, and this is my brother, Professor Percival Tunstell. May we know your names, or the correct form of address?”
The one who had been talking said, “It is most generous of you to ask and to offer. I am Cauac, the guardian of this nest. And these are Paucar, Yurac, Suhay, Mullu, and Auqui. We all take for our second name that of our queen, as we are sons of her making - Acebo.”
Primrose said, attempting a compliment, “You have a large hive, your queen must be strong.”
Cauac looked sad rather than flattered. “We did not all start out as Acebo.”
Percy added, “I think he means they were metamorphosed by different queens but have all ended up together now.”
Cauac added, “We have collected from all over because we are the last pishtacos.”
Primrose was genuinely shocked. “Oh, how sad! The last pishtacos here in the Andes?”
“The last pishtacos anywhere,” said Cauac.
Primrose allowed her pity to show. She did not find them appealing to look upon, nor were their dietary habits pleasant to contemplate. Where, for example, did they suck fat from? The thigh? The fundament? She flinched inwardly. But no species deserved to utterly die out.
“I understand then, how you might fight first and talk later. We must apologise for our clumsy initial approach. Our captain is enthusiastic by nature and was eager to meet you, directly and without warning. To us you are amazing, a new species, a discovery. We are honoured merely to make your acquaintance.”
“Your captain is the delicious one? The one who walked away in my skin when I touched her?” Cauac looked less upset than intrigued. Rue had that effect on people.
“Yes, Lady Prudence Akeldama. She meant no offence. Her father is a vampire so she should know better. She forgot her manners.” Primrose decided not to go into details on Prudence’s birth.
“And her mother?”
Percy did not know the word for soulless. He explained that Rue’s mother was like Rodrigo, whom they had also fought earlier. The man who took away immortality with his touch.
Cauac nodded. “History would call him Pachacutec, he who changes the world. We have records of such hunters from before the Wari claimed these mountains, but we have never met one before. And the captain, what is she?”
Percy struggled again, finally resorting to a clumsy string of words. He explained what he’d said to Primrose. “I told him she was a borrower of the soul and skin. Metanatural doesn’t translate.”
Cauac’s long white face frowned. “Puric, perhaps, a walker? We have no records of her kind at all, but there was once a legend.”
“Nor do we. There are only one or two rumours of them throughout history. They are scary,” said Prim with a smile. “But ours is friendly. Well, she is if you do not try to bite her.”
At this Cauac hung his head. “That was my fault, I thought she was an offering from your ship. Or that she herself was offering to join us as a companion.”
Percy interrupted his translation to say, “I would think companero is their word for drone. It would appear they use nest instead of hive, and my temptation is to say that is an allusion to a wasp’s nest, not a bird’s, because they do still have a queen.”
“Percy, you’re getting distracted by details again.”
“Oh, yes, well I do like details. Where was I?”
“Companions.”
“Righto. So it seems they misunderstood and thought Rue was a gift of food or a petition to join the h
ive. He was going to have a taste as a kind of test of acceptability, and then we attacked.”
Primrose said, “Then please explain that this was not our intention. That we came to talk, only to talk, and not to feed or be food.”
Percy did so.
Cauac’s response was a frantic nod. “We understand that now, for you have sent us the gift of food as a separate item, and a formal written request for a meeting.”
Primrose said, “Our cultures are different. We did not know the right approach.”
Cauac gestured, silver nails flashing. “This is better.”
The other five pishtacos nodded as well. They had remained silent throughout, but closely observing both Primrose and Percy. It was difficult to tell the difference between the six. They all looked so similar with their white skin, white hair, and long sharp features. Primrose wished the others would speak, perhaps their voices might help her to distinguish between them.
Primrose wondered if one of them spoke English and was keeping tabs on Percy’s translations. That’s what she would do if she could, given their circumstances were reversed. Also, they could then track if she and her brother were communicating elsewise. Prim decided to act at all times as though one of them might understand her, just in case.
Cauac continued, “You brought a nahual too. We had thought that they, like us, were exterminated by the Inquisition. Although we have never seen one quite that shape or golden colour.”
Percy frowned. “I apologise, Tiddles, but I don’t know what nahual means.”
“Well, Anitra is mortal, and he likely knew that, we’ve already addressed Rue and Rodrigo, so process of elimination would suggest that nahual refers to Tasherit. Perhaps that is their word for shifters.”
“Nahual?” Percy asked. Cauac said something quickly and Percy nodded. “Yes, cat shifters. Although he says jaguar or puma. I am assuming there are no lionesses in this part of the world.”
“Explain that she is a cat from Africa, or Egypt. Would they have heard of those places?”
Apparently yes, because Cauac nodded his understanding. “An ancient one. We are honoured.”
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