Soulless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the First

by Gail Carriger

  Lyall looked at her—hands on hips, full-figured, assertive. He smiled. “There are not many female werewolves, Miss Tarabotti. The Bitch’s Dance refers to liaisons among the pack: the female’s choice.”

  Miss Hisselpenny maintained an appalled silence. The very idea was utterly alien to her upbringing.

  Miss Tarabotti mulled it over. She found she liked the idea. She had always secretly admired the vampire queens their superior position in hive structure. She did not know werewolves had something similar. Did Alpha females, she wondered, trump males outside the romantic arena as well? “Why?” she asked.

  Lyall explained. “It has to be up to the female, with so few of them and so many of us. There is no battling over a female allowed. Werewolves rarely live more than a century or two because of all the in-fighting. The laws are strict and enforced by the dewan himself. It is entirely the bitch’s choice every step of the dance.”

  “So, Lord Maccon was waiting for me to go to him.” Miss Tarabotti realized for the first time how strange it must be for the older supernatural folk to adjust to the changing social norms of Queen Victoria’s daylight world. Lord Maccon always seemed to have such things well in hand. It had not even occurred to Alexia that he had made a mistake in his behavior toward her. “Then what of his conduct today?”

  Miss Hisselpenny sucked in a gasp. “What did he do?” She shivered in delighted horror.

  Miss Tarabotti promised to tell her the particulars later. Although this time, she suspected, she would not be able to reveal every detail. Things had progressed a little too far for someone of Ivy’s delicate sensibilities. If merely looking at that wingback chair could make Alexia blush, it would certainly be too much for her dear friend.

  Professor Lyall coughed. Miss Tarabotti believed he was doing so to hide amusement. “That may have been my fault. I spoke to him most severely, reminding him to treat you as a modern British lady, not a werewolf.”

  “Mmm,” said Miss Tarabotti, still contemplating the wingback chair, “perhaps a little too modern?”

  Professor Lyall’s eyebrows went all the way up, and he leaned a little out of the shadows toward her.

  “Alexia,” said Miss Hisselpenny most severely, “you must force him to make his intentions clear. Persisting in this kind of behavior could cause quite the scandal.”

  Miss Tarabotti thought of her preternatural state and her father, who was reputed to have been quite the philanderer before his marriage. You have no idea, she almost said.

  Miss Hisselpenny continued. “I mean to say, not that one could bear to think such a thing, but it must be said, it really must…” She looked most distressed. “What if he only intends to offer you carte blanche?” Her eyes were big and sympathetic. Ivy was intelligent enough to know, whether she liked to acknowledge it or not, what Alexia’s prospects really were. Practically speaking, they could not include marriage to someone of Lord Maccon’s standing, no matter how romantic her imagination.

  Alexia knew Ivy did not intend to be cruel, but she was hurt nonetheless. She nodded glumly.

  Professor Lyall, whose sensitivities were touched by Miss Tarabotti’s suddenly sad eyes, said, “I cannot believe my lord’s intentions are anything less than honorable.”

  Miss Tarabotti smiled, wobbly. “That is kind of you to say, Professor. Still, it seems as though I am faced with a dilemma. Respond as your pack protocol dictates”— she paused seeing Ivy’s eyes widen—“risking my reputation with ruination and ostracism. Or deny everything and maintain as I have always done.”

  Miss Hisselpenny took Miss Tarabotti’s hand and squeezed it sympathetically. Alexia squeezed back and then spoke as though trying to convince herself. She was, after all, soulless and practical. “Mine is not precisely a bad life. I have material wealth and good health. Perhaps I am not useful nor beloved by my family, but I have never suffered unduly. And I have my books.” She paused, finding herself perilously close to self-pity.

  Professor Lyall and Miss Hisselpenny exchanged glances. Something passed between them. Some silent pact of purpose to do… Ivy knew not what. But, whatever the future, Miss Hisselpenny was certainly glad to have Professor Lyall on her side.

  Floote appeared in the doorway. “A Mr. Haverbink to see you, Miss Tarabotti.”

  Mr. Haverbink entered the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Professor Lyall said, “Forgive me not standing, Haverbink. Too many days running.”

  “Not a worry, sir, not a bit of it.” Mr. Haverbink was an extraordinarily large and thuglike man of working-class extraction. What origins his cultivated speech left in doubt, his physical appearance demonstrated. He was the type of good farming stock that, when the oxen collapsed from exhaustion, picked up the plow, strapped himself to it, and finished tilling the fields by hand.

  Miss Tarabotti and Miss Hisselpenny had never before seen so many muscles on one individual. His neck was the size of a tree. Both ladies were suitably impressed.

  Professor Lyall made introductions. “Ladies, Mr. Haver bink. Mr. Haverbink, this is Miss Hisselpenny, and this is Miss Tarabotti, your charge.”

  “Oh!” said Ivy. “You are from BUR?”

  Mr. Haverbink nodded affably. “Aye, miss.”

  “But you are not…?” Miss Tarabotti could not tell how she knew. Perhaps it was because he seemed so relaxed in the bright sunlight or because how grounded and earthy he seemed. He showed none of the dramatic flair one expects with excess soul.

  “A werewolf? No, miss. Not interested in being a claviger either, so I shan’t ever become one. Gone up against a couple in the boxing ring once or twice, so do not worry yourself on that account. Besides, the boss does not seem to think we will have trouble from that quarter, leastways not during the daytime.”

  Professor Lyall stood slowly. He looked bent and old, his mercurial face thin and drawn.

  Mr. Haverbink turned to him solicitously. “Begging your pardon, sir, but his lordship gave me strict instructions to see you into the carriage and off to the castle. He has got the situation well in hand back at the office.”

  Professor Lyall, nearly to the point of utter exhaustion, made his way haltingly to the door.

  The hugely muscled young man looked like he would prefer to simply pick the Beta up and carry him out to the street, relieving the werewolf of his obvious distress. But, showing that he did indeed have experience working with the supernatural set, he respected his superior’s pride and did not even try to assist him with an arm.

  Polite to the last, Professor Lyall collected his hat and coat, donned both, and bowed his farewell from the parlor doorway. Alexia and Ivy were afraid he might topple right over, but he righted himself and made it out the front door and into the Woolsey Castle carriage with only a few stumbles here and there.

  Mr. Haverbink saw him safely on his way and then came back into the parlor. “I’ll be just out the front by yon lamp-post if you need me, miss,” he said to Miss Tarabotti. “I’m on duty until sundown, and then there’ll be three vampires in rotation all night long. His lordship is not taking any chances. Not after what just happened.”

  Though dying of curiosity, Ivy and Alexia knew better than to hound the young man with questions. If Professor Lyall would not tell them anything about what had taken the earl away so suddenly, this man would be equally unforthcoming.

  Mr. Haverbink bowed deeply, muscles rippling all up and down his back, and lumbered from the room.

  Miss Hisselpenny sighed and fluttered her fan. “Ah, for the countryside, what scenery there abides…,” quoth she.

  Miss Tarabotti giggled. “Ivy, what a positively wicked thing to say. Bravo.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Backyard Shenanigans

  The Loontwills returned from their shopping expedition flushed with success. Except for Squire Loontwill, who was now less flush than he had been and wore an expression more often seen on men returning from battle— one that had been badly lost with many casualties. Floote appeared at his
elbow with a large glass of cognac. The squire muttered something about Floote-liness being next to godliness and downed the liquor in one gulp.

  No one was surprised to find Miss Tarabotti entertaining Miss Hisselpenny in the front parlor. The squire muttered a greeting only just long enough to satisfy politeness and then retreated to his office with a second glass of cognac and the mandate that he was not to be disturbed for any reason.

  The ladies Loontwill greeted Miss Hisselpenny in a far more verbose manner and insisted on showing off all of their purchases.

  Miss Tarabotti had the presence of mind to send Floote for more tea. It was clearly going to be a long afternoon.

  Felicity pulled out a leather box and lifted the lid. “Look at these. Are they not utterly divine? Do you not wish you had some just like?” Lying in scrumptious grandeur on a bed of black velvet was a pair of lace elbow-length evening gloves in pale moss green with tiny mother-of-pearl buttons up the sides.

  “Yes,” agreed Alexia, because they were. “But you do not own an evening gown to match, do you?”

  Felicity waggled her eyebrows excitedly. “Very perceptive, my dear sister, but I do now.” She grinned in a most indecorous manner.

  Miss Tarabotti thought she could understand her step-father’s deathly pallor. An evening gown to match such gloves would cost a small fortune, and whatever Felicity purchased, Evylin must have in equal value. Evylin proved this universal law by proudly displaying her own new evening gloves in silvery blue satin with rose-colored flowers embroidered about the edge.

  Miss Hisselpenny was considerably impressed by such largesse. Her family’s means did not extend into the realm of embroidered gloves and new evening gowns on a whim.

  “The dresses are due next week,” said Mrs. Loontwill proudly, as though her two daughters had accomplished something marvelous. “Just in time for Almack’s, we hope.” She looked down her nose at Ivy. “Will you be attending, Miss Hisselpenny?”

  Alexia bridled at her mother, who was perfectly well aware that the Hisselpennys were not of a quality suitable to such an illustrious event. “And what new dress will you be wearing, Mama?” she asked sharply. “Something appropriate, or your customary style—a gown better suited to a lady half your age?”

  “Alexia!” hissed Ivy, truly shocked.

  Mrs. Loontwill turned flinty eyes on her eldest daughter. “Regardless of what I am wearing, it is clear you will not be there to see it.” She stood. “Nor, I think, will you be permitted to attend the duchess’s rout tomorrow evening.” With that punishment, she swept from the room.

  Felicity’s eyes were dancing with merriment. “You are perfectly correct, of course. The gown she picked out is daringly low-cut, frilly, and pale pink.”

  “But really, Alexia, you should not say such things to your own mother,” insisted Ivy.

  “Who else should I say them to?” Alexia grumbled under her breath.

  “Exactly, and why not?” Evylin wanted to know. “No one else will. Soon Mama’s behavior will affect our chances.” She gestured to Felicity and herself. “And we do not intend to end up old maids. No offense meant, my dear sister.”

  Alexia smiled. “None taken.”

  Floote appeared with fresh tea, and Miss Tarabotti gestured him over. “Floote, send my card round to Auntie Augustina, would you please? For tomorrow night.”

  Evylin and Felicity looked only mildly interested at this. They had no aunt named Augustina, but a meeting organized for a full-moon night with a personage of such a name must be a fortune-telling of some kind. Clearly, Alexia, unexpectedly and cruelly confined to the house by their mother’s anger, must organize some kind of entertainment for herself.

  Ivy was not so foolish as that. She gave Alexia a what-are-you-up-to? look.

  Alexia only smiled enigmatically.

  Floote nodded grimly and went off to do as he was bid.

  Felicity changed the subject. “Have you heard? They are making jewelry out of this fantastic new lightweight metal—allum-ninny-um or something. It does not tarnish like silver. Of course, it is very dear at the moment, and Papa would not allow for the purchase of any.” She pouted.

  Miss Tarabotti perked up. Her scientific papers had been all agog over new ways of processing this metal, discovered twenty or so years ago. “Aluminum,” she said. “I have read about it in several Royal Society publications. It has finally debuted in the London shops, has it? How splendid! You know, it is nonmagnetic, nonaetheric, and anticorrosive.”

  “It is what and what?” Felicity bit her bottom lip in confusion.

  “Oh dear,” said Evylin, “there she goes, no stopping her now. Oh, why did I have to have a bluestocking for a sister?”

  Miss Hisselpenny stood. “Ladies,” she said, “you really must excuse me. I should be getting on.”

  The Miss Loontwills nodded.

  “Quite right. That is how we feel when she goes all scientificish as well,” said Evylin with feeling.

  “Only we have to live with her, so we cannot escape,” added Felicity.

  Ivy looked embarrassed. “No, really, it is simply that I must get home. My mother was expecting me a half hour ago.”

  Miss Tarabotti accompanied her friend to the door. Floote appeared with the offensive shepherdess hat, all white striped, red trim, and yellow ostrich glory. Alexia disgustedly tied it under Ivy’s chin.

  Looking out into the street, the two ladies observed Mr. Haverbink hovering across the way. Alexia gave him a tiny wave. He nodded to them politely.

  Ivy flicked open her red parasol. “You never did intend to attend the duchess’s rout tomorrow night at all, did you?”

  Miss Tarabotti grinned. “You have caught me out.”

  “Alexia.” Ivy’s voice was deeply suspicious. “Who is Auntie Augustina?”

  Miss Tarabotti laughed. “I believe you once referred to the individual in question as ‘outrageous’ and disapproved of our association.”

  Ivy closed her eyes in horror for a long moment. She had been thrown off by the gender switch, but that was simply the kind of code Alexia and her butler used around the Loontwills. “Twice in one week!” she said, shocked. “People will begin to talk. They will think you are turning into a drone.” She looked thoughtfully at her friend. A practical, statuesque, stylish woman, not the type vampires usually went in for. But then, everyone knew: Lord Akeldama was no ordinary vampire. “You are not actually taking up as a drone, are you? That is a very big decision.”

  Not for the first time, Alexia wished she could tell Ivy about her true nature. It was not that she did not trust Miss Hisselpenny; it was simply that she did not trust Miss Hisselpenny’s tongue not to run away with her at an inopportune moment.

  In answer, she said only, “You have no idea how impossible that is, my dear. Do not worry. I will be perfectly fine.”

  Miss Hisselpenny did not look reassured. She pressed her friend’s hand briefly and then walked off down the street, shaking her head softly. The long curling yellow ostrich feather swished back and forth like the tail of an angry cat—the motion of her disapproval.

  Only Ivy, thought Alexia, could emit censure in such a sunny and fluffy manner.

  Miss Tarabotti returned to the tender mercies of her half sisters and prepared herself for an evening of familial bliss.

  Miss Tarabotti was awakened in the small hours of the night by the most phenomenal ruckus. It seemed to be emanating from just below her bedroom window. She crept out of bed, throwing a white muslin pelisse over her nightgown, and went to see what was occurring.

  Her window, as it belonged to one of the less prestigious rooms of the house, looked out over the servants’ kitchen entrance and into a back alley where tradesmen made their deliveries.

  The moon, only one night away from being full, illuminated the struggling forms of several men below her with a silvery sheen. They were apparently engaged in a bout of fisticuffs. Alexia was fascinated. They seemed evenly matched and fought mostly in silence, which
lent a decided aura of menace to the proceedings. The noise that had awakened her was apparently caused by a dustbin overturning; otherwise, only the sound of flesh hitting flesh and a few muffled grunts rent the air.

  Alexia saw one man strike out hard. His punch landed full in the face of one of the others. It was a palpable hit that ought to have set the second man flat. Instead, the opponent whipped around and hit back, using the momentum of his own spin. The sound of fist on skin echoed through the alleyway, an unpleasantly wet thudding.

  Only a supernatural could take a hit like that and remain unfazed. Miss Tarabotti remembered Professor Lyall saying there would be vampires guarding her tonight. Was she witnessing a vampire-on-vampire battle? Despite the danger, she was excited by this idea. Rarely was such a thing to be seen, for while werewolves often brawled, vampires generally preferred subtler methods of confrontation.

  She leaned out her window, trying to get a better look. One of the men broke free and headed toward her, looking up. His blank eyes met hers, and Alexia knew that he was no vampire.

  She bit back a scream of horror, no longer fascinated by the battle below. It was a visage she had seen before: the wax-faced man from her botched abduction. In the light of the moon, his skin had a dull metallic sheen like pewter, so smooth and lifeless she shuddered in abject revulsion. The letters still marked his forehead, sootlike, VIXI. He saw her, pale nightgown against the darkened interior of the slumbering house, and grinned. As before, it was like no grin she had ever seen, a slashed unnatural opening full of perfect square white teeth, splitting across his head as a tomato will split when it is dropped into boiling water.

  He ran toward her. A smooth three stories of brick lay between them, yet somehow Alexia knew there was no safety in that.

  One of the other men broke away from the fighting group and sprinted after her attacker. Alexia doubted he would arrive in time. The wax-faced man moved with utter efficiency and economy of motion, less a man running than a water snake slithering.