The drone clapped her hands and once more dozens of servants appeared. With their assistance, the actors managed to set up one half of the room as a stage, screening off the doorway in the middle. They had the servants move all of the many torches and lamps to that side of the room, throwing the other, where drones and vampires sat in perfect silence, into eerie darkness.
The Death Rains of Swansea was not a performance that improved markedly upon a second viewing. Still there was something appealing if not entertaining about Ivy and Tunstell’s antics. Mr. Tumtrinkle pranced his evil prance, and twirled his dastardly fake mustache, and swirled his massive cloak most voraciously. Werewolf hero Tunstell strode back and forth, trousers ever in great danger of ripping over his muscled thighs, coming to the rescue as needed and barking a lot. Ivy fainted whenever there was cause to faint, and swanned about in hats of such proportions it was a wonder her head didn’t collapse like a griddle cake under the weight. The supporting cast was, of course, much diminished in size, playing both vampires and werewolves as script demanded. In order to save time, but causing no little confusion as to the plot—no matter what their character at the moment—they wore both the fake fangs and the large shaggy ears tied about their heads with pink tulle bows.
The bumblebee dance went off a treat, the watching vampires and drones almost hypnotized by the spectacle. Alexia wondered if the allegory was wasted on them, or if they, like her, had an appreciation for the ridiculous. Of course, Alexia had only heard Chancellor Neshi and the beautiful drone speak, so it was also possible none of the others understood a word of English.
At the end, vampire queen Ivy returned to werewolf Tunstell’s arms after much separation and anxiety, and all was sweetness and light. The torches were dimmed and then raised, and the servants brought in extras to fill the room with an orange glow.
Alexia and the actors waited with bated breath. And then, oh, and then, the assembled vampires and drones rose to their feet crying out in adoration, trilling their tongues in a great cacophony of vibratory sound that could only be utter appreciation. Alexia even observed one or two of the vampires wipe away sentiment, and the beautiful drone with the amazing dark eyes was weeping openly.
The lady drone stood and rushed forward to congratulate Ivy and Tunstell with open arms. “That was wonderful! Wonderful! We have never seen such a performance. So complex, so brilliant. That dance with the yellow and black stripes, so perfectly articulating the emotion of immortality. How can words even begin to describe… so moving. We have been honored. Truly honored.”
Tunstell and Ivy and the entire troupe looked quite overwhelmed by such an enthusiastic reception. Both Tunstells blushed deeply and Mr. Tumtrinkle began to blubber in an excess of emotion.
The drone wafted over to Ivy and embraced her warmly. Then she linked one arm with Ivy’s and the other with Tunstell’s and guided them gently from the room. “You simply must tell me the meaning of that interpretive piece in the middle? Was that an illustration of the soul’s perpetual struggle with infinity, or a social commentary on the supernatural state in continuing conflict with the natural world as both host and food supply?”
Tunstell replied jovially, “A bit of both, of course. And did you notice the series of tiny leaps I performed stage right? Each one a hop in the face of eternity.”
“I did, I did, I did indeed.”
Thus agreeably conversing, they wandered down the hallway. There was a brief rustle of activity, and Ivy came bustling back, having extracted herself from her escort. She hurried into the room and made for Lady Maccon.
“Alexia,” she said in a significantly hushed tone. “Have you your ruffled parasol?”
Alexia, did, in fact, have her parasol with her. She had found over the years it was always better to be on the safe side when visiting a hive. She gestured to her hip where it dangled off of a chatelaine at her waist.
Ivy tilted her head and winked significantly.
“Oh,” said Alexia, making the connection. “Pray do not concern yourself, Ivy. Do go enjoy a well-earned repast. The parasol is fine.”
Ivy nodded in a slow, suggestive way. Feeling that her secret society duties had been satisfactorily discharged, she went bustling after her husband.
After a moment’s hesitation, the rest of the drones moved forward and introduced themselves, those who spoke English at least, to the acting troupe. After an exchange of pleasantries, mention of coffee was made, and they, too, were guided expertly from the room. This left Lord and Lady Maccon behind with Prudence and the six vampires.
Chancellor Neshi stood. “Are you ready now, My Queen?” he asked of the curtained off area.
No verbal response emanated from within, but the draped cloth twitched slightly.
Chancellor Neshi said, “Of course, my queen.” He gestured for Lord and Lady Maccon to stand and come to face the front of the draped parasol. Then he pulled aside the curtains, tying them back with gold cords to each side.
Had Alexia not spent a good deal of time in Madame Lefoux’s contrivance chamber prior to it being repurposed as a werewolf dungeon, she might have been startled by the contraption revealed. But she had seen an octomaton rampage through London. She had been attacked and then rescued by mechanical ladybugs. She had flown in an ornithopter from Paris to Nice. This was nothing by comparison. And yet, it was probably the most grotesque invention of the modern age. Worse than the disembodied hand in a jar under that temple in Florence. Worse than a dead body in an afterlife extension tank. Worse even than the wax-face horror of the Hypocras automaton. Because those creatures had all been dead or manufactured. What sat in the raised dais behind that curtain was still alive or still undead—at least in part.
She, for Alexia assumed it must be a she, sat atop what could only be called a throne. It was mostly made of brass. Its base was some kind of tank housing two levels of liquid, the bottom a bubbling mess of yellow that heated the upper composed entirely of a viscous red fluid that could only be blood. The arms of the throne were fitted with levers, nozzles, and tubes, some under the emaciated hands of the occupant, others going into or coming out of her arms. It was as though the woman and the chair had become one and not been separated for generations. Some parts of the chair were bolted directly into her flesh, and there was a bronze half mask covering the lower part of her face from nose to throat, presumably providing a constant supply of blood.
Only Lady Maccon’s good breeding kept her from committing the vile act of involuntary purging right then and there on the reed mat. There was something particularly horrific about knowing that, because the queen was immortal, all those places where the chair speared into her flesh must be constantly trying to heal themselves.
Chancellor Neshi did a most humiliating thing. He knelt upon the floor and bowed forward all the way to the ground, touching his forehead to the reed mat. Then he stood and waved Alexia and Conall farther forward. “My Queen, may I present Lady Maccon, Lord Maccon, and Lady Prudence. Maccons, may I present Queen Matakara Kenemetamen of Alexandria, Ruler of the Ptolemy Hive ad Infinitum, Lady Horus of Fine Gold in Perpetuity, Daughter of Nut, Oldest of the Vampires.”
With the lower half of her head concealed, it was difficult to determine Matakara’s exact appearance. Her eyes were large and very brown, too large in that emaciated face. She had the dark complexion of most native Egyptians, grown darker as it shrunk in against the bone, like that of a mummy. She had a blue wig atop her head and a snake coronet made of gold set with turquoise eyes on top of that. Over the parts of her body not attached to the throne, she wore simple white cotton draped and pleated stiffly and a quantity of gold and lapis jewelry.
Despite the grotesqueness of the contraption and the pathetic appearance of the woman confined within it, Alexia was hypnotized by those huge eyes. Rimmed in black kohl, they stared fixedly at her. Alexia was convinced the queen was trying to communicate with her a message of great import. And she, Alexia Maccon, was too thick to comprehend it. The expression
in those eyes was one of immeasurable desperation and eternal misery.
Lord Maccon made his bow, removing his hat in a wide, sweeping gesture and doing a creditable job of it. He did not look as surprised by the queen’s appearance as Alexia felt, which made her wonder if BUR had received some kind of prior warning. She believed that she made a decent effort at disguising her own shock as she curtsied. Prudence, standing quietly by her side, hand firmly gripped in Alexia’s, glanced back and forth from monstrosity to mother before performing her own version of a half bow, half curtsy.
A sound of disgust emanated from the queen and her contraption.
“She wants you to bow,” hissed the chancellor.
“We just did.”
“No, Lady Maccon, all the way.”
Alexia was quite shocked. “Like an Oriental?” Her gown would barely permit kneeling and her corset certainly would not permit her to bow forward.
The earl looked equally taken aback.
“You are in the presence of royalty!”
“Yes,” Alexia agreed in principle, “but to kneel on the ground?”
“Do you know how many strangers the queen has allowed into her presence over the last few centuries?”
Lady Maccon could hazard a guess. After all, if she looked as bad as Matakara did… “Not a lot?”
“None at all. It is a great honor. And you should bow, properly. She is a great woman, an ancient lady, and she deserves your respect.”
“She does?”
Conall sighed. “When in Rome.”
“That’s just it, dear, we aren’t. We are in Alexandria.”
But it was too late; her husband had already swept off his hat a second time, knelt, and bowed forward.
“Oh, Conall, the knees of your trousers! Don’t put your head all the way down. We don’t know where that floor has been! Oh, now, Prudence, you don’t have to follow Daddy’s example. Oop, there she goes.”
Prudence had nothing like her mother’s reticence. Frilly yellow frock notwithstanding, she pitched forward and put her head to the ground with alacrity.
Feeling she was the last holdout, Alexia glared at her husband. “You’ll have to help me back up. I can’t possibly manage on my own without ripping my dress.” So saying, she knelt slowly down and tilted herself forward as much as her foundation garments would allow, which wasn’t very much. She nearly overbalanced to her left. Her corset creaked under the strain. Conall hoisted her back up, turning human for that one moment.
Chancellor Neshi went to stand next to his queen, on a pedestal of just the right height to bring his ear to her mouth area but ensuring he was no higher than she. The vampire queen spoke to him in a whisper. Alexia looked at her husband inquiringly, wondering if his supernatural hearing picked up anything.
“No language I know,” he said unhelpfully.
“The queen says that Europeans do everything wrong, writing from left to right, uncovering the head to enter a room yet leaving the feet confined.” Chancellor Neshi stood stiff-backed to state this, like a town crier, acting the mouthpiece for his queen. Then, without waiting for an answer to these accusations of backward behavior, he turned to listen once more.
“My queen wishes to know why all foreign children look the same.”
Alexia gestured with her free hand at her daughter, who was standing in unusual docility by her side. “Well, this particular child is Prudence Alessandra Maccon Akeldama.”
“No,” said Prudence. No one listened. Prudence was to find this all too common in her young life.
Chancellor Neshi continued to speak for his queen. “Daughter of a hellhound, named for a soul-sucker and a bloodsucker. The queen wishes to know if she works.”
“Pardon?” Alexia was confused.
“Is she a Follower of Set? A Stealer of Souls?”
Lady Maccon considered. It was a fair question, of course, but Alexia was too much a scientist to answer in the affirmative. Instead she said carefully, “She manifests the abilities of a supernatural creature after having touched him, if that is what you are asking.”
“A simple yes would have sufficed, soul-sucker,” said the chancellor.
Lady Maccon looked hard into Queen Matakara’s sad eyes. “Yes, but it would not be true. Your names for her are not my names for her. Have you called my daughter and me here, Venerable One, simply to insult us?”
Chancellor Neshi bent to listen and then seemed to engage in a brief argument. Finally he said, “My queen wishes to be shown the truth.”
“What truth, exactly?”
“Your daughter’s gifts.”
“Oh, now wait a moment there!” interjected Conall.
“It can be tricky,” hedged Alexia.
Queen Matakara’s finger twitched on the arm of the chair, lighting a small spark of flame for a brief moment. This seemed to be a signal, for one of her hive darted forward and, in a flash of smooth movement, scooped Prudence up. Prudence let go of her mother’s hand and was otherwise untroubled. Alexia let out a cry of anger. The vampire in question, however, instantly dropped the toddler because he had unexpectedly lost the strength he had no doubt enjoyed for centuries. He probably possessed the ability to maintain his grip, but the surprise was overwhelming. His fangs vanished. Prudence hit the ground with a thud but, being now immortal, sustained no injury. She leaped up, little fangs bared, grubby hands reaching. She was intrigued by the bronze chair with all of its switches and levers. Prudence was one to manhandle first, ask questions later. Much later, perhaps when she was grown up and could formulate a complete study. Most of the time this was mere childish enthusiasm and no more disconcerting than Baby Primrose’s constant groping for trim and feathers, but now Prudence was a vampire, and she had more than enough strength to do some serious damage to that chair.
Lady Maccon dove forward. Luckily, Prudence was so fascinated she did not bother to flee. Alexia got a hand around her arm in quick order, averting catastrophe.
The vampires, all frozen in startled horror for those brief, awful minutes, jumped to their collective feet and placed themselves between the Maccons and their queen. They were all shouting accusations at Alexia and Prudence in rapid, high-volume Arabic.
One of them nipped forward, hand back to strike Alexia full across the face.
Holding Prudence in both hands, Alexia could not go for her parasol, even had she been fast enough. She flinched away, curling protectively about her daughter, shielding Prudence from the blow.
Suddenly, standing between Alexia and the vampire was a very large, very angry brindled wolf. His hackles were raised, his huge white teeth were bared, and saliva dripped down from the pink of his gums.
It was a terrifying thing to confront for any creature, let alone those who had not seen a werewolf in hundreds of years.
Lord Maccon interposed himself between his wife and the hive and backed up until he was flush against the fabric of Alexia’s skirt.
Alexia took the opportunity, with the vampires’ attention now focused on this new threat, to switch Prudence firmly to one hip and release the parasol from the chatelaine with her free hand. She raised it up, arming the tip with a numbing dart. At the same time, understanding the meaning behind her husband’s consistent furry pressure against her legs, she began backing slowly toward the door.
One of the vampires feinted in the earl’s direction. At the same time, another made a lunge for Alexia. Without break for thought, the werewolf charged the first, grabbing him about the hamstring and hurling him hard into the other vampire. Both vampires crumpled to the floor for a short moment before bouncing back to their feet. Alexia, without pause, shot one of them with a numbing dart. He fell right back down again, and this time stayed there for a while before reeling groggily to his feet.
Alexia began backing with greater intent toward the doorway, not shifting her attention from the milling clot of angry vampires. Conall stuck close, maintaining a snarling, barking, growling ferocity that encouraged space between the vampires
and his wife and daughter.
Chancellor Neshi stepped forward, slowly and with empty hands held up in supplication. “Please, Lord Maccon, we are unused to such antics.”
Conall only growled, low and furious.
If Alexia had expected an apology at that juncture, she was sorely disappointed. The man, showing not insignificant bravery, only inched closer and gestured the wolf toward the door like a porter. “This way, my lord. We thank you for your visit.”
Taking that as a statement of permission, Alexia turned and strode from the room with all haste. No sense in dawdling where one was unwanted. After a moment’s hesitation, Conall followed.
Prudence struggled mightily in her mother’s arm, but Alexia had had enough of that for one night and gripped her tightly.
The infant cried out, “No! Mama, no. Poor Dama!” in her high treble and strained back to the room.
Feeling her daughter’s attention shift and possessed by the same compulsion, Alexia paused and turned to look back. The hive vampires stood in a huddle before their mistress, but the dais raised Queen Matakara high enough for Alexia’s eyes to meet those of the vampire queen above the crowd. Alexia was struck once again by the profound unhappiness there and by the belief that Matakara wanted something of her, wanted it enough to bring her all the way to Egypt. How can I help you with anything? Alexia felt a tug at her dress and saw Conall had his teeth firm about her hem and was tugging her into motion. She did as she was bid.
Chancellor Neshi had to jog to catch up. After a moment’s thoughtful regard, the vampire directed his conversation at Alexia, rather than her now-hairy husband. As if nothing unbecoming had happened, he inquired politely, “May we offer you some coffee before you leave?” They walked down the cold stone stairs to the entrance.
“No thank you,” responded Alexia politely. “I think we had better depart.”
“Mama, Mama!”
“Yes, my dear?”
Prudence took a deep breath and then said slowly and carefully, “Mama, get her out.”
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