A disheveled manservant entered the room.
The dog awoke and, despite a clearly extensive association with the domestic staff, launched himself at the boy as though he posed a grave threat to the safety of the world.
“Mignon, we have the guests. Bring up a pot of Earl Grey and some croissants at once. Earl Grey, mind you, and that basket of kumquats. Thank God for the kumquats.” He narrowed his eyes at Floote once more, in an “I’m not finished with you, young man” kind of way.
Floote, who was a good deal older than the German gentleman, remained utterly impassive.
“Well, this is delightful, ya, delightful. Alexia Tarabotti, here in my home.” He took off his nightcap to enact a twitchy little bow in Alexia’s direction. The action revealed a set of precariously large ears, which looked as though they rightly belonged to someone else.
“Never met your father, but I have studied much over his stock. First to breed a female soulless in seven generations, ya. It is a miracle, some have claimed, the Female Specimen.” He nodded to himself. “I have the theory, of course, to do with brood female mixing outside of Italy. Brilliant choice of your father’s, ya? A little of the fresh blood of English.”
Alexia could hardly believe the statement. As though she were the result of some kind of horse-breeding program. “Now, I say—!”
Madame Lefoux interjected at this juncture, “Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf here has been studying the preternatural state for many years now.”
“It has been difficult, most difficult, indeed, ya, to find a live specimen. My little trouble with the church, you understand.”
“Come again?” Alexia checked her rage in favor of curiosity. Here was a scientist who might really know something.
The German blushed and worried his sleeping cap about with both hands. “A little—how do you say?—spot of bother. Had to move to France and leave much of my research behind. A travesty.”
Alexia looked to Madame Lefoux for an explanation.
“He was excommunicated,” said the inventor in a grave, hushed voice.
The little man blushed even redder. “Ah, you heard of it?”
Madame Lefoux shrugged. “You know how the Order gossips.”
A sigh met this statement. “Well, regardless, you have brought me this fine visitor. A living, breathing female preternatural. You will allow me to ask you questions, young lady, ya? Perhaps, a test or two?”
A tap came at the door, and the manservant entered bearing a tea tray.
Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf accepted the tray and then waved the man away. He poured the tea, strong and redolent of the scent of bergamot. Alexia didn’t much like Earl Grey; it was well out of fashion in London and was never served in any of the establishments she frequented. Vampires were not fond of citrus. Which, she realized, must be why the little man was now pressing the tea and a small pile of kumquats on the austere Floote.
“The snuff!”
Everyone looked at her.
“Ah, you decided you wanted to try some, ya, Female Specimen?”
“Oh, no. I simply realized. You made Floote take snuff as a werewolf check. They hate snuff. And now you’re using the Earl Grey and the kumquats to see if he’s a vampire.”
Floote arched one eyebrow, took a kumquat, and popped it whole into his mouth, chewing methodically.
“You do realize, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, that vampires are perfectly capable of consuming citrus? They just don’t like it.”
“Yes, of course, I’m well aware. But it is a good—how do you say?—initial check, until sun comes up.”
Floote sighed. “I assure you, sir, I am not of a supernatural inclination.”
Alexia snickered. Poor Floote looked extremely put-upon.
The little German did not seem convinced by mere verbal guarantees. He kept a jaundiced eye on Floote and maintained proprietary control of the bowl of kumquats. For future use as projectile weaponry, perhaps?
“Of course, you could still be a claviger or drone-type person.”
Floote huffed out a small puff of annoyed breath.
“You already checked him for bite marks,” pointed out Alexia.
“Absence of the marks is not absolute proof, especially as he may be a claviger. You did marry a werewolf, after all.”
Floote looked as though he had never been more insulted in his life. Alexia, still smarting over the “Female Specimen” moniker, sympathized.
In a lightning change of mood that seemed to characterize the little man’s paranoia, the German looked with sudden new suspicion at Alexia. “The verification.” He muttered to himself. “You understand, ya? Of course you do. Must verify you as well. Ah, if only I had my counter. Have this little poltergeist problem. Perhaps you could see your way to an exorcism? Should not be hard for the Female Specimen.” He glanced at a small window to one side of the room, curtains thrown wide to let in the rapidly brightening dawn. “Before sunrise?”
Alexia sighed. “This could not possibly wait until tomorrow evening? I have been traveling most of the night. I suppose you could call it traveling.”
The little man grimaced at her but did not take the hint, as any good host would have.
“Really, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, we have only just arrived,” Madame Lefoux protested.
“Oh, very well.” Alexia put down her tea, which wasn’t very good, anyway, and half a croissant, which was buttery and delicious. If it was necessary for this odd little man to trust them in order to get some answers out of him, she was equal to the task. Alexia sighed, angry once more at her husband’s rejection. She wasn’t entirely certain how just yet, but she intended to blame this latest nuisance on Lord Conall Maccon as well as everything else.
The dog, Poche, led the way down several flights of stairs and into a tiny cellar, barking with unwarranted enthusiasm the entire time. Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf apparently did not notice the racket. Alexia resigned herself to the fact that it was the creature’s normal mode of operation—when its eyes were open, so, too, was its mouth.
“You must think me the terrible host, ya.” The German said this with an air of one attending to the requirements of society rather than one experiencing actual remorse.
Alexia could think of nothing to say in response, as, so far as it went, it was perfectly true. Any host worth his blood would have seen them decently abed by now, supernatural or not. No gentleman would insist his guest perform an exorcism without providing accommodations first, let alone a decent meal. So Alexia simply clutched her parasol and followed the German and his frenzied canine down into the bowels of his cramped and dirty house. Madame Lefoux and Floote seemed to feel their presence was not required on this jaunt and remained upstairs in the parlor, sipping at the vile tea and consuming, very probably, all of the excellent croissants. Traitors.
The cellar was gloomy in all the ways cellars ought to be and included, just as the man had said, a ghost in the final throes of poltergeist phase.
Above the little dog’s barking came the intermittent keening wail of second-death. As if that were not bad enough, the poltergeist had gone to pieces. Alexia could not abide clutter, and, having lost almost all of its capacity for cohesion, this ghost was very messy, indeed. It was flitting about the dark musty interior as pale wisps of body parts, entirely dismembered—an elbow here, an eyebrow there. Alexia started and let out a little squeak upon encountering a single eyeball, all intelligence gone from its depths, staring at her from the top of a wine rack. The cellar also smelled badly of formaldehyde and rotten flesh.
“Really, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf.” Alexia’s voice was cold with disapproval. “You ought to have seen to the unfortunate soul weeks ago and never let it get this bad.”
The man rolled his eyes dismissively. “On the contrary, Female Specimen, I rented this house because of the ghost. I have long been interested in recording exact stages of homo animus disanimation. And since my trouble with the Vatican, I switched the focus of my studies onto ghosts. I have managed three papers on this one alone. N
ow, I must admit, she has become much less. The staff refuses to come down here. I keep having to fetch wine myself.”
Alexia narrowly avoided walking through a floating ear. “Which must be very vexing.”
“But it has been useful. I theorize that remnant animus is carried on aether eddies as weakening of tether commences. I believe my work here has proved this hypothesis.”
“You mean to say that the soul rides the aether air, and as the body decomposes, its hold on the soul disintegrates? Like a sugar lump in tea?”
“Ya. What else could explain random floating of noncorporeal body parts? I have excavated the corpse, just there.”
Sure enough, a hole had been dug into one corner of the cellar floor, inside of which lay the mostly decomposed skeleton of a dead girl.
“What happened to the poor thing?”
“Nothing significant. I got much needed information out of her before she went mad. The parents could not afford graveyard fees.” He tut-tutted and shook his head at the shame of it. “When she turned out to have excess soul and went ghost, the family enjoyed still having her around. Unfortunately, they all then died of cholera and left her here for the next occupants to enjoy. Been that way until I came along.”
Alexia looked about at the floating wisps. A toenail bobbed in her direction. In fact, all of the remnant body parts were floating softly toward her, as water will go down a drain. It was both eerie and unsettling. Still she hesitated. Her stomach, and its nearby problematic companion, objected to both the smell of death and the certain knowledge of what she must do next. Holding her breath, Alexia crouched down near the gravesite. The hole for the body had been dug directly into the dirt of the cellar floor with no attempt made to preserve the corpse for supernatural longevity until the German came along. The child would not have had long to be a proper ghost before the madness of decomposing flesh began taking her away. It was a cruel business.
What was left was a sad crumpled little skeleton, mostly defleshed by maggots and mold. Alexia carefully removed one glove and reached down. She chose what looked to be the least decomposed part of the child’s head and touched her there once. The flesh was incredibly squishy under her fingertip and compressed easily like wet sponge cake.
“Ugh.” Alexia drew her hand back with a jerk of disgust.
The faintly luminescent wisps of body parts floating around the cellar vanished instantly, dispersing into the musty air as preternatural touch severed the last of the soul’s tether to its body.
The German looked around, mouth slightly open. The little dog, for once, stopped barking. “Is that all?”
Alexia nodded, brushing her fingertip against her skirt several times. She stood.
“But I did not even have my notebook out yet! What a—how do you say?—wasted opportunity.”
“It is done.”
“Extraordinary. I have not observed a preternatural end a ghost before now. Quite extraordinary. Well, that confirms that you are in truth, what you say you are, Female Specimen. Congratulations.”
As if I have won some sort of prize. Alexia raised her eyebrows at that, but the little man didn’t seem to notice. So she made her way firmly back up the stairs.
The German trotted after. “Truly, truly extraordinary. Perfect exorcism. Only a preternatural can accomplish such a thing with one touch. I had read of it, certainly, but to see it, right there, in front of me. Do you find the effects more rapid for you, than for the males of your species?”
“I would not know, never having met one.”
“Of course, of course. Ya. Cannot share the same air, preternaturals.”
Alexia made her way back to the parlor, where Madame Lefoux and Floote had left her one of the croissants. Thank goodness.
“How was it?” asked the Frenchwoman politely, if a little coldly. The last ghost Alexia had exorcised had been a very dear friend of Madame Lefoux’s.
“Squishy.”
Madame Lefoux wrinkled her pert little nose. “One imagines it must be.”
The German went to look out the window, clearly awaiting full sunrise. The sun was beginning to show just over the rooftops, and Alexia was pleased to see that Nice might, just possibly, be slightly less dirty than Paris. The dog vibrated its way around the room yipping at each visitor in turn, as though it had not remembered their presence, which might be the case given its apparent lack of a brain, before collapsing in an exhausted pouf under the settee.
Alexia finished her croissant using only her untainted hand and then waited patiently, hoping against hope that sometime soon they might be offered beds. It felt like a very long time since she’d slept. She was beginning to feel numb with tiredness. Madame Lefoux seemed to feel much the same, for she had nodded off. Her chin dipped down into the bow of her cravat. Her top hat, still partially wrapped with Monsieur Trouvé’s scarf, tipped forward on her head. Even Floote’s shoulders were sagging ever so slightly.
The first rays of the sun crept in over the windowsill and speared into the room. Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf watched avidly as the light touched Floote’s trouser leg. When Floote did not immediately burst into flames or run screaming from the room, the little German relaxed for what Alexia suspected was the first time since they had knocked on his door.
With still no offer of a sleeping chamber forthcoming, Alexia took a deep breath and faced her host squarely. “Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, why all this bother and testing? Are you a true believer? I would have thought that odd in a member of the Order of the Brass Octopus.”
Madame Lefoux cracked her eyelids at her friend’s direct speech and tipped her top hat back on her head with one elegant finger. She regarded the little German with interest.
“Perhaps, perhaps. My research is delicate, dangerous, even. If I am to trust you, or help you, it is important, vital, that none of you are—how do I put this?—undead.”
Alexia winced. Madame Lefoux straightened out of her slouch, abruptly much less drowsy. “Undead” was not a word one used openly in polite society. The werewolves, vampires, and even newly minted ghosts found it understandably distasteful to be referred to as such. Much in the same way that Alexia objected when the vampires called her a soul-sucker. It was, simply put, vulgar.
“That is a rather crude word, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, wouldn’t you say?”
“Is it? Ah, you English and your semantics.”
“But ‘undead,’ certainly, is not apt.”
The man’s eyes went hard and flinty. “I suspect that depends on what you define as living. Ya? Given my current studies, ‘undead’ suits very well.”
The French inventor grinned. Her dimples showed. Alexia wasn’t certain how they did it, but those dimples managed to look quite crafty. “Not for long it won’t.”
Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf tilted his head, intrigued. “You know something of relevance to my research, do you, Madame Lefoux?”
“You are aware that Lady Maccon here married a werewolf?”
A nod.
“I think you should tell him what has happened, Alexia.”
Alexia grimaced. “He might be helpful?”
“He is the closest thing to an expert on the preternatural the Order of the Brass Octopus has. Templars might know more, but it’s difficult to say.”
Alexia nodded. She weighed her options and finally decided the risk was worth it. “I am pregnant, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf.”
The German looked at Alexia with a distinct air of covetousness. “Felicitations and condolences. You will not, of course, be able to—how do you say?—carry to term. No preternatural female has in recorded history. A great sadness to the Templars and their breeding program, of course, but…” He trailed off at Madame Lefoux’s continued grin.
“You are implying? No, it cannot be. She is pregnant by the werewolf?”
Alexia and Madame Lefoux both nodded.
The German turned away from the window and came to sit close to Alexia. Too close. His eyes were hard and greedy on her face.
“You would no
t be covering up for, how you English might say, a little indiscretion?”
Alexia was tired of all the games. She gave him a look that suggested the next person to even hint she was unfaithful would be receiving the worst her parasol had to offer. She had hoped he would know something that might result in a different reaction.
“How about,” she suggested in clipped tones, “you assume I am telling the truth in this matter and we leave you to theorize on the subject while we attend to some much-needed rest?”
“Of course, of course! You are with child; you must sleep. Imagine such a thing, a preternatural pregnant by a supernatural. I must do research. Has it ever been tried before? The Templars would not think to breed the werewolf with soulless. The very idea. Ya, amazing. You are, after all, scientific opposites, each other’s end. With rarity of females of either species, I can see a basis for absence of proper documentation. But if you speak truth, why, what a miracle, what a fabulous abomination!”
Alexia cleared her throat loudly, placing one hand to her stomach and the other on her parasol. She might think of this baby as inconvenient, even hate it sometimes, but far be it for some diminutive German with bad taste in pets to describe it as an abomination. “I do beg your pardon!”
Madame Lefoux recognized that tone in Alexia’s voice and jumped to her feet. Grabbing Alexia by the hand, she attempted to pull her friend up and out of the room.
Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf had whipped out a notepad and, oblivious to Alexia’s anger, began scribbling away, all the while muttering to himself.
“We shall find guest rooms on our own, shall we?” suggested the Frenchwoman over Alexia’s angry sputtering.
Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf made a dismissive movement with his stylographic pen, not looking up from his ruminations.
Alexia found her voice. “Couldn’t I just whack him once? Just a little one, over the head? He would hardly notice.”
Floote raised one eyebrow and took hold of Alexia’s elbow, helping Madame Lefoux to remove her bodily from the room. “Bed, I think, madam.”
The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set Page 73