NINE

Rakshasas

The vampire turned to face them. Rue expected him to look like any other vampire, only Indian in appearance. Mostly, he did. Mostly. But it was in the vein of how a broad bean looks like a runner bean–different, but both still beans. He had thick dark hair, a straight nose, high cheekbones, and a dark complexion combined with the clear smooth skin indicative of immortality. His facial topiary was questionable, being one of those large thick moustaches that curved down and around below the cheeks before connecting to the hair above the ears. An unflattering statement at best, but not one he could really be blamed for selecting. It was probably the height of fashion when he was metamorphosed. Poor vampires–so obsessed with style yet often cursed to look decades behind the times.

The crew of The Spotted Custard had, at least in part, been assembled by a vampire. One might expect them to be amenable to a visit from the supernatural. However, it was clear why they stood arrayed against this vampire, for he was too different a bean.

This was quite possibly the most unpleasant-looking creature Rue had ever had the misfortune to meet. His fangs were larger than those of British vampires and closer to the front of his mouth so that they protruded, and could not be tucked respectfully away under the lips. And those lips, while well-shaped, were red and moist and curled at the edges. His eyes appeared sunken into his skull with circles so dark that the skin looked black. His fingernails were long and wickedly sharp and shone with some oily substance in the moonlight. He smelled of carrion.

All vampires smell of rotten meat to werewolves. Rue was not in wolf form, yet her inferior human nose wrinkled in disgust at the powerful odour. Vampires at home were not as obvious about what they were and how they ate. Dama, for example, always smelled of lemon pomade. He also had no moustache to speak of. This creature showed outwardly that he was a bloodsucker, with no pretence at anything civilised. The lack of artifice was off-putting, not to say embarrassing, and explained the crew’s reaction.

The vampire had an unctuous way of moving. His eyes were so full of malevolence that Rue actually thought he might charge and bite without even the courtesy of a greeting, let alone an introduction.

Rue stepped to the front of her group and pulled off her gloves. She was repulsed by the very idea of touching this creature. She would not want to turn into such a being, even as a lark, but she had better be ready in case it became necessary.

Quesnel took position on her left, pushing back his coat and shirt sleeve to expose the dart emitter strapped to his wrist. She knew without having to check that Percy had extracted the long sharp wooden cravat pin he always wore and that Prim had pulled out the tiny little crossbow she carried in her reticule and armed it with a wooden dart. All four of them had parents who saw no harm in training children to protect themselves. And all of those parents–whether supernatural or not–knew what form that protection should take when faced with a vampire.

The creature drew back his lips further and actually hissed at them like a rat.

“Pardon you,” said Rue. If one already looked as ugly as he did, there was absolutely no call for hissing.

He darted at her. Rue raised her bare hands. Her best threat to any supernatural was her metanatural state. Few immortals could face the idea of being mortal, even for a short space of time. It was what made Rue’s preternatural mother so universally despised. The idea that not only would he lose his form, but someone else would have access to it, was adding insult to injury. Where a soulless was merely the enemy, a soul-stealer was dishonourable, a defiler of the supernatural state. Rue was not just despised, she was vilified.

It was pure instinct which caused Rue to raise her hands in defence. And it was that very instinct which gave her away.

The vampire turned all his attention on her and spoke in broken English. “Soul-stealer. Go home. The Rakshasas do not welcome you here.”

It was so reminiscent of Sekhmet’s first approach that Rue wondered if this was the contact she was supposed to have met at the garden party. “Quite the unoriginal sentiment, I’m afraid,” she said.

“You are not invited to India.”

Rue sucked her teeth in exasperation. “I do not have to be invited. I am not a vampire.”

“Go home to your tiny island. Or we will consider this a breach of our agreement with your queen.”

Percy said, “There’s no mention of metanaturals in that treaty.”

Of course. Rue was pleased. Percy read it before we arrived.

“No, but she is like soulless. Like muhjah. And muhjah is forbidden.”

“I must say, like most daughters, I resent being accused of emulating my mother.” Rue jerked forward, pleased when the vampire lurched away. “Come a little closer, bloodsucker, and you’ll see how unlike her I am.”

The vampire only repeated, “Go home, soul-stealer.”

Percy said, taking a risk, “Actually, you yourself are currently in breach of the agreement. Local vampires are empowered by the crown as tax collectors, are you not? And we recently learnt those taxes have gone missing.”

The vampire hissed again. “Soon. We will find the thief and return your taxes.”

“Very well,” said Rue primly. “After you have done that, I will go home. That seems a fair bargain.”

The vampire growled something in his own language and slid off, moving as if he were skating on the promenade. He wore garments very like those of Sekhmet earlier that day, but dark in colour. As he slithered away, supernaturally fast, he seemed to fade into the night.

“What a pestilential gentleman,” said Prim, putting her little crossbow back into her reticule. “Not at all like Queen Mum’s vampires, I must say.”

“Although equally responsive to threats of paperwork and legal action, thank you, Percy.” Rue was grateful for Percy’s keen interest in local bureaucracy.

“The Rakshasas,” said Percy pedantically, “are a different breed altogether from our vampires. Much in the way that poodles and dachshunds are different breeds of dog. Rakshasas are reviled in India. Their position as tax collectors is an attempt by the crown to integrate them in a more progressive and mundane manner.”

Rue said, “Oh, how logical. Because we all know ordaining someone as a tax collector is the surest way to get them accepted by society.”

Prim said philosophically, “That’s the government for you.”

Quesnel seemed drawn out of his dislike of Percy into the science of the business. “Like Mr Darwin suggests? Vampires, like other creatures, evolved differently in different parts of the world?”

Percy was only too happy to elaborate. “That’s one theory. They are, after all, the terminal predator. Perhaps in this part of the world, to feed on humans vampires needed more fang and darkening around the eyes. Who’s to know for certain?”

“Very attractive,” said Prim.

“Some reports claim the Rakshasas eat living flesh as opposed to merely sucking the blood,” Percy continued.

“Like a moon-mad werewolf?” suggested Rue.

Noticing his sister’s repulsed expression, Percy added, “There are also stories of Rakshasas desecrating the dead and feasting on rotten corpses, but these may be more like our own early legends of vampires as monsters, before we got progressive and learnt the truth.”

Rue considered the way the Rakshasa had smelled. “Or maybe not.”

“Regardless, darling,” said Prim to Rue, “you are clearly most unwelcome.”

“Evidently. Shall we stay a while?” The two exchanged mischievous grins.

Quesnel rolled his eyes. “Lord save us all from beautiful young ladies too accustomed to the supernatural for good sense. You are pigeons in front of a hawk.”

“Poppycock,” said Rue. “I’m not beautiful.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Prim at the same time. “Pigeons have no natural predator except Rue.”

Rue added, “And hopefully Footnote. And, frankly, I resent being compared to a pigeon. Nasty, dirty, chubby creatures. Are you saying I’m nasty, dirty, and chubby?”

Quesnel smiled. “Nope, I’m saying you are delicious and fluffy and squawk all the time. Perhaps I should call you ma petite pigeonneau.”

Rue refused to dignify that with an answer. Instead, she called up to her crew, who had been watching the entire interchange with interest and were still fully armed. “Permission to come aboard?”

Aggie Phinkerlington, much as if the ship where her personal property, said, “Permission granted.” The redheaded greaser shouldered her crossbow. Hers was larger and more deadly-looking than Prim’s and it was interesting to note that she owned one. Rue would wager on Greaser Phinkerlington being an excellent shot. Rue had no concrete reason. Aggie simply seemed the type of female mean enough to be good with a crossbow. Aggie disappeared belowdecks, presumably before anyone could engage her in civilised conversation or attempt to be nice to her or anything revolting like that. The sooties followed. Rue had intended to commend them for managing the Rakshasa situation. Too late now.

“Lower the gangplank, please,” requested Rue politely of the decklings.

Spoo’s voice called out, “Aye aye, Lady Captain.”

The gangplank cranked down in a massive puff of steam, the decklings chattering and groaning with collective effort.

Rue’s party climbed on board. Rue ensured the gangplank was pulled in and locked closed, and that the ship was belayed to float as high out as possible, beyond the leaping distance of even the most powerful werewolf. Primrose settled the rattled nerves of the youngsters with soothing talk and profiteroles. Percy slouched uncomfortably, and Quesnel took a moment to ensure everything was in working order.

Rue felt utterly exhausted. It seemed to have been an overly long evening. The others looked much the same, but when they would have dispersed to their beds, Rue insisted that Quesnel, Primrose, and Percy join her in the stateroom for a consultation.

“Prim dear, would you make a note, please? I think we should stock additional crossbows, and darts both silver-tipped and wooden. Perhaps we should put some thought into a defensive training program for decklings and deckhands?”

Primrose nodded.

“Oh, wonderful,” said Quesnel. “You anticipate more such encounters?”

Rue said, “I come from a long line of people who attract trouble. It’s best to be prepared, don’t you feel?”

“When you put it like that, perhaps we should hire militia when we return to London?”

Quesnel was joking but Rue felt the suggestion was worth considering. “Prim, make a note of that too, please? I could ask Paw. He might know some candidates. Now, so we can get off to bed, the reason I asked you for a quick conference.” Rue fished about in her cleavage.

Quesnel looked away.

Percy said, deadpan and brotherly, “Rue, please spare us. We have already had sufficient appreciation of your assets for one evening.”

Rue gave him a quelling look and produced the slip of paper Lieutenant Broadwattle had given her. “As it turns out, the good lieutenant was Dama’s contact in the matter of the tea. You remember the reason we are in Bombay? This is what he gave me.”

The three passed the slip of paper between them. It ended up in front of Percy.

“It’s a code of some kind.”

“Yes, it is. Brilliant deduction, Percy. Now, you’re the don of this operation–what does it say?”

Percy stood to retrieve a roll of parchment and a stylus from a nearby sideboard. He began making notes and doing sums, while Prudence explained about Lieutenant Broadwattle being Dama’s redundancy agent and the fact that her real contact was the recently kidnapped brigadier’s wife, Mrs Featherstonehaugh. She also explained that she felt there was another interested party, also after the tea, represented by Miss Sekhmet and possibly the Rakshasas. While she had expected to be approached at the party, that element had never appeared.

Eventually, Percy looked up from the bit of paper. “Nothing basic. Nor is it algorithmic. It may be something I’m not quite able… That is… the numbers don’t translate to letters of the alphabet nor is it any variation or foreign language with which I am familiar. My guess is that it is based on a book of some kind. See here? The first is always a number between one and about two hundred, the second between one and thirty, then the third between one and ten. It follows that the first is a page number, the second a line number, and the last the word in. So each set of three numbers represents a word in a text, thus constructing a complete correspondence. Without knowing the book, it’s meaningless.”

Rue and Prim looked at one another.

Rue said, “I think we know the book. Prim, if you would be so kind?”

Prim scurried off to Percy’s library, returning a short while later clutching Sand and Shadows on a Sapphire Sea: My Adventures Abroad by Honeysuckle Isinglass.

Quesnel picked it up and read a few lines. He sputtered laughter.

Percy looked utterly mortified. “Why on earth would you think anyone would choose that as a cypher? And what are you doing with it, Tiddles? I thought we swore an oath never to grace it with—”

Prim said, “It’s not my copy. It’s Rue’s.”

“Rue, how could you?” Percy looked genuinely betrayed.

Rue held up a hand. “Before you accuse me of trading in family secrets, it was given to me by an agent of Dama’s at the Maltese Tower. I had no idea why or what for, and I didn’t know it had any bearing on your family. Now I suspect it is the means by which Dama transmits messages.”

“Isn’t it just like that vampire to use something so domestically embarrassing?” grumbled Percy.

Rue gestured encouragingly. “Go on. Test it and see if it works.”

Percy did so, paging through swiftly and jotting down words until he had a full message written out on his parchment.

While he worked, Quesnel asked, confused, “Why domestically embarrassing?”

“Oh, it’s nothing much, simply that Aunt Ivy wrote that book,” answered Rue.

Quesnel chuckled. “The Wimbledon Hive Queen? Fantastic. Wait until I tell Maman.”

“Don’t you dare,” instructed Rue. “It’s a family secret. You are now sworn to safeguard it to the grave as a potentially damaging moral hazard. Not to mention our communication cypher.”

Quesnel arched an eyebrow. “Am I, mon petit chou? I don’t remember any swearing.”

Rue narrowed her eyes at him.

Percy put down his stylus. “Well, there it is. The message makes perfect sense, so this book must be the code-breaker. Unfortunate indeed, but such is life.”

“Ever full of our mother’s embarrassments?” suggested Prim.

“What does it say?” Rue was dying of curiosity. She may have squirmed a bit in her seat. This was all so deliciously espionage-ish.

Percy passed it over so she could read it, at the same time offering up his own interpretation. “Essentially, he’s changing our mission. He found out about his agent being kidnapped while we were in transit.”

Rue examined it and then continued with her interpretation of the message. “It appears he wants me to go after Mrs Featherstonehaugh. He thinks she may have betrayed him in the matter of the tea and that’s why she was taken. The tea is in danger.”

Percy crossed his arms and glared at Rue. “Tell them the rest of it.”

Rue stuck her tongue out at him. She didn’t want the others to know the remainder of their new instructions. Quesnel would make a joke of it and Primrose would worry.

Percy said, because it looked like she wouldn’t, “Rue has been given sundowner dispensation.”

“Oh, just lovely.” Instead of teasing her, Quesnel lost all merriment and looked annoyed.

“That’s me, licensed to kill supernaturals,” said Rue blithely, feeling the strain at the back of her eyes, but making light of the matter for the sake of Prim, who looked like she might cry. “Ain’t it topping?”

“I think Lord Akeldama is worried about the Rakshasas. Doesn’t trust them. Thinks they may have stolen the taxes themselves,” Percy added.

Rue shook her head. “I think it’s most likely Paw overreacting. I bet he heard about the kidnapping, fears the worst, and pressured the Shadow Council into granting me permission to exterminate supernaturals. Or Mother thinks I’m going to accidentally kill an immortal and wants to reduce her paperwork.”

“How did we go from tea to death so quickly?” wondered Quesnel.

“Sometimes,” said Prim darkly, “there is a very fine line between the two.”

“There’s no we!” insisted Rue. “This is my responsibility. I’ve been given the role. Dama obviously doesn’t trust any other agents here in India.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” said Prim firmly. “Of course there’s a we. Now, shall we do some collective cogitation? What did everyone learn at the party about this kidnapping?”

It was a great deal later on in the evening before they retired.

Rue was surprised to find, when she went to open the door to her captain’s quarters, that Quesnel had followed her from the stateroom. She hoped the other two hadn’t seen.

“You aren’t going to take this sundowner burden to heart, are you, chérie?”

Rue looked into his violet eyes, her own yellow ones twinkling. “It is a sacred duty.”

“Are you this flippant about everything?”

“That’s rich coming from you.” Rue only then realised he was being serious, or trying to be. Quesnel didn’t wear serious very well. It looked ill-fitting on him–his mercurial face was pinched and his eyes sombre.

He said, “Dealing out death changes a person. I should not wish to see you so very altered and…” He trailed off.

Rue wondered what he might have said. “How would you know what death does?” she asked, not unkindly.

“I’ve been around it all my life. You know I was partly raised by my great-aunt when I was younger?”

“Yes?” Rue encouraged. She knew very little about Quesnel’s childhood. When they’d first met, he was already at university.

“A ghost.”

“Oh. So you watched her fade to poltergeist?”

“I did.”

“But you have not killed anyone yourself?”

A quick flash of his old charming grin. “Not as far as I know. Perhaps in matters of the heart.”

Rue made the only promise she could. “I will do my best not to use this power, but if we are going after this kidnapped woman and the Rakshasas do have her…”

“You would do it?”

Rue tried to be serious. She wasn’t all that good at it either. It probably looked worse on her than it did on Quesnel. “I believe I could kill one of them, if I had to. He was very rude.”

“Yet they are vampires, and you were raised by a vampire. You would have more trouble than most, I think.” Still so serious.

Rue wanted to tell him to stop. This conversation was making her uncomfortable. “Perhaps that’s why the Shadow Council decided to grant me sundowner status. They knew I would struggle with death dealing–morally as well as physically.”

“I cannot believe your mother would allow such a burden.”

Rue stiffened. She may not always get along with her mother but she would not have her maligned. “My mother knows her responsibility to queen and country. She would not have permitted the conference of sundowner status if she didn’t think I could handle the repercussions.” Perhaps that was part of Rue’s own ready acceptance: Mother is actually treating me like an adult.

“Indeed? And has she ever been a sundowner?”

“No, only a licensed exorcist. But Paw’s held the title since he became head of BUR.”

“And how has your father handled the repercussions?” Quesnel wondered.

Rue considered this question. Really considered it for the first time in her life. She had always known that her adored Paw was one of the few men in Britain authorised to hunt and kill vampires and werewolves as needed. But she’d never thought much about how he felt about that, nor indeed how the rest of the supernatural community might regard him as a result. It must be lonely. That Rue could understand. Her three parents had tried hard to bring her up without spoiling her overmuch, but Rue knew she was unique in the world. There weren’t even historical records of metanaturals, only rumour and hearsay. It was an odd kind of loneliness, like being the last of a dying race. Would she be further ostracised if she killed as well?

“Paw is Paw–things mostly roll off him. How else could he survive marriage to my mother?” she answered at last.

Quesnel cradled her face in his hands. “Don’t accept sundowner status, chérie. You can say no.”

Rue shook her head against his touch. “All three of my parents serve the crown with grace and integrity. If the Shadow Council trusts me with this, I will accept the responsibility. It is an odd birthright, but it’s mine. Besides, why do you care?”

Quesnel lowered his hands. “You are amazingly frustrating. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Frequently. It’s part of my charm.”

Quesnel turned all French on her in an instant. His eyes back to twinkling. “Very well, mon petit chou, I think I should kiss you now, before you are corrupted by circumstances beyond our control.”

“Very melodramatic of you. And yet here I find it is you who is bent on my corruption.” Rue tilted her head, as if considering an offer of new gloves. Inside she was properly thrilled. They shouldn’t, of course, but Rue had never had a real kiss from someone she actually liked. And she suspected Quesnel might be pretty good at it.

She closed her eyes. “Very well then, do your damnedest.”

Quesnel, as it transpired, was a good kisser. All those fancy ladies, Rue supposed. Not that she had much fodder with which to build comparisons. But she certainly enjoyed it. His lips were warm and firm, but not too firm. Halfway through she could feel him smile in the creasing of his cheek against hers. Only Quesnel, she thought, would have the temerity to smile during an embrace.

His arms were gentle around her, strong enough to know she was supported, but not so tight as to feel confining. His hands curled about her waist, warm and strong. He took his time, exploring her lips with his, and eventually her body with those hands. He’s rather wicked, thought Rue happily.

Rue was a believer in experts. She felt it was always best to identify the expert and trust their abilities in the matters of shoe leather or embroidery work or opera singing. Quesnel had the reputation as an expert in the matter of seduction, so Rue committed herself utterly to his expertise. She supposed that made him a rake, but a good one.

She tried tentatively to imitate some of his actions. She was worried about being thought inferior in the matter of intimate relations. Or worse, prudish. Rue took seriously a statement Primrose once made in admiration when they were ten that Rue was “always game for a lark”.

Rue found she was battling Quesnel’s lips for dominance and was not sure about that. But she did enjoy running her own hands over his warm back, exploring the indented line of his spine and even–greatly daring–trailing her fingertips down to his posterior.

At which juncture Quesnel stopped kissing her.

Rue was disappointed.

“That’s more than enough of that,” he said. His voice was a little raspy and his accent stronger than normal.

“Oh, is it? Just when I thought I might be grasping the way of things. Did I bungle it? I haven’t had much practice.”

“Oh, chérie, I assure you you did very well indeed.”

“I did?”

“Hidden talents.” His violet eyes positively sparkled.

Rue was chuffed. “Marvellous. I always wanted to be good at something.”

“Well, don’t go practising with just anyone now, please?” Quesnel looked faintly serious again but only in a flirty way, which was reassuring. They were back on familiar ground. Or as familiar as just having kissed could get.

Rue paused, pretending to consider the suggestion. As if there were anyone else around suitable to further experimentation. “Oh, very well, if you insist.”

Quesnel grinned, showing dimples. “I do.”

Very daringly, Rue said, “I could take you on in a trial position, as a kind of tutor? You are, after all, years older than me and very experienced.”

Quesnel looked a little shocked.

Look at me go, thought Rue. More daring than the rake himself!

“Can I think about it?” he quavered.

Rue stuck her nose in the air, hurt that he hadn’t leapt at the chance. “Well, if you feel you can’t be discreet with my reputation…”

Quesnel’s eyebrows arched. “I think it is more that you had better be clear with me on the perimeters of the position on offer.”

Rue frowned. “Well, you know, courting and romance and stuff. I’d like to learn, personally, in a low-risk, scientifically experimental situation.”

Quesnel made a funny eep noise. “Low risk? Should I be insulted?”

Rue laughed at him. “Don’t be silly. You and I both know you have a reputation to maintain.”

“Oh, do I?”

Rue continued blithely on. “The reputation of not playing for real stakes and keeping your wagers small and, mostly, circumspect.”

“Ouch, mon petit chou. You wound me.”

“The truth, she hurts sometimes. So I think we could play this as a private game, don’t you?” Rue thought she should pucker up her lips seductively to get him to kiss her again. Then she thought she’d look fish-like. Or would she? This was why she needed his help!

Coincidentally, Quesnel looked not unlike one who had swallowed said fish. Apparently, his suave manners in the arena of romance paled before Rue’s bluntness. “I think it would be best if I headed to bed at this juncture. Alone. Good night, chérie.”

“Good night, Quesnel.” Rue was amazed to think she had actually scared him off.

She noticed that he walked a little funnily as he wended his way down the hallway to his own room.

Of course, later on, Rue could not help running back over the experience in her head, staring into the darkness despite her exhaustion and the lateness of the hour. Perhaps she shouldn’t go around attempting to arrange a liaison with her chief engineer. Then again, how else was she supposed to learn anything useful about romance? Quesnel had always flirted but never for one moment had she supposed him serious in his interest. He couldn’t fear for his bachelorhood, could he? She shuddered at the very idea she would set out to trap anyone in to matrimony. However, the only other explanation for his reluctance was worse. Surely he couldn’t be so very not serious that he wasn’t attracted to her at all? Had he been faking everything? Perhaps she was too respectable? Rue was tolerably certain she did not want to be accused of being another one in a long succession of Quesnel’s fancy ladies. On the other hand, she also didn’t want to be Mrs Lefoux anytime soon. She’d thought that she’d come up with a good solution. Why had he reacted so badly? Had she not made her feelings clear?

For the first time in her life, Prudence Alessandra Maccon Akeldama actually wished for the advice of her mother. Unfortunately, said mother was thousands of leagues away, and probably wouldn’t be much help. She’d simply suggest hitting Quesnel over the head with a parasol. Her on-board confidants would be equally useless. Primrose was too respectable and Percy too disinterested.

I’m on my own with this one.

Early next morning Spoo roused them with the information that Lieutenant Broadwattle’s promised guide was waiting onshore. The guide turned out to be female. She looked terribly familiar, an inordinately tall and beautiful woman swathed in white robes.

Rue was beginning to understand the difference between masculine and feminine garb, and these were the drapes worn by men. Did Miss Sekhmet wish to be mistaken for a man? She supposed the woman was tall and thin enough to carry it off, with her face covered. While her movements were smooth and sensual, they were not precisely feminine.

Rue could see that such apparel might be cooler than her own red-check walking dress with the cream pleated shirtwaist, high neck, and puffed sleeves. She wondered what might be said if she wore a loose tunic and trousers. Since she’d started down the path towards doom by canoodling with a mechanically minded Frenchman only last night, the possibilities seemed endless. Why stop there? Dress reform!

All unaware of Rue’s revolutionary thoughts, Quesnel and Primrose joined her, and they all made their way down the gangplank.

Quesnel seemed actually tongue-tied in the face of Miss Sekhmet’s beauty. A state no doubt entirely unfamiliar to him.

She seemed to have little or no interest in the engineer.

She showed, however, good grace when meeting Primrose.

“You’re our guide?” Prim whispered, her vaunted composure shaken.

Rue, who liked stirring the pot, said, “Miss Sekhmet here represents the counter-interests I was telling you about. Speaking of which, what happened to your negotiator last night? I wore purple and everything.”

Sekhmet’s lip curled. “Hence the reason I am here now and not your scheduled guide.” She looked awfully tired. “Rakshasas got him. Glad you weathered the encounter last night.”

“Not very nice, are they?”

“I did warn you. You knew we were not the only players in India.”

“Of course, but I didn’t think the others would be so very supernatural.”

Sekhmet gave her a funny look at that statement.

“How come you yourself are unable to conduct negotiations?” Rue asked.

Sekhmet gave her another funny look. “Do I seem like the type? Among other things, I’m a woman. I can’t speak for them.”

“Local custom? If you say so. You seem capable enough to me.”

“And now it’s daytime. So we must wait again.”

“What’s your interest then?” Rue wanted to know.

“Me? Balance, I suppose.” Miss Sekhmet got all philosophical. “And keeping you safe. You are our miracle.”

Rue was instantly suspicious. “Did Paw send you?”

“I know not of the Paw. But, Lady Akeldama, you are the only one of your kind.”

“You say that as if she were some rare exotic species and you a collector,” Primrose interjected softly. Prim was prone to getting protective of Rue when people saw only her friend’s metanatural state, and forgot she was also a person.

Miss Sekhmet made that funny little bow. “I apologise. No insult was intended. I understand your wish for freedom, I more than anyone.” It sounded like a vow. “But I also value your uniqueness. In this instance, however, my function is only to act as a liaison and, at the moment, a guide. Come, allow me to show you this amazing city.”

Rue didn’t know why but she trusted the austere beauty.

Primrose was more cautious. Under cover of getting Rue to help secure her sun hat, she said very quietly, “She’s too beautiful for words, but she’s more than that.”

Rue giggled. “Very astute observation.” Her friend seemed to have been thrown for a loop by their new acquaintance, which never happened to Primrose.

“Oh, stop it!” said Prim, blushing. “Give me time to assess her character further. I’ll be more articulate then.”

Rue stopped grinning with an effort. “Come on–looks like we must rescue Quesnel. He’s trying to flirt and she is having none of it.”

Rue warmed to Sekhmet even more. Not only had she discombobulated Prim, but Quesnel was red-faced and stuttering. None of his charm had any effect on the goddess-like female. Miss Sekhmet was merely glaring at him as if he were some unpleasant bug, and rewrapping her head with the white cloth to hide her face.

“It’s best if I’m not recognised and easiest if the locals think me a man,” she explained when Primrose gave her an inquisitive look.

“Oh,” ventured Prim, surprised by her tone. “Then you aren’t a local yourself?”

“Somewhat further west,” was their guide’s reply. Odd thing to say, since west of Bombay was nothing but water.

Prim would have pressed but Miss Sekhmet began striding off at quite a masculine speed, expecting them to follow. Quesnel offered the ladies his arms and they scuttled after. They caught up about halfway down the promenade, only to be hailed by one additional member to their party.

Percy came panting up behind them.

Introductions completed, Primrose regarded her twin, twirling her yellow parasol suspiciously. “You realise, brother dear, we are walking into a city full of people, not books?”

Percy stuck his nose in the air. “Yet there must be some reading material available to purchase or it wouldn’t be a proper city. And how am I to learn the breeding habits of chilli peppers if I remain behind?”

“Very broadminded of you,” commended Rue. “We certainly cannot be trusted to obtain the correct book without you.” With which she raised her parasol and trotted after their guide, who seemed eager to get to the busy hubbub that was Bombay.

“Exactly,” said Percy, running to catch up. Then, in a disquieting display of gentlemanly etiquette, he offered Rue his arm.

Rue took it. Prim took Quesnel’s. Rue pretended not to feel a very slight twinge of envy that she would not get the benefit of Quesnel’s teasing. Although the Frenchman seemed more sombre than usual. Is he regretting our kiss? Rue was saddened by the idea. Or is it awe in the face of Miss Sekhmet? Rue couldn’t blame him for that.

The woman in question led them purposefully towards an open-topped steam carriage, arranged, she explained, because it was some distance to the nearest market. They climbed in and Prim lamented that she had chosen a walking dress instead of a carriage dress. The driver cranked up the engine, the stoker fed it anthracite, and they were off.

They drove north, away from the governmental structures and military areas, into the city proper. Immediately it became a great deal more what Rue had expected of India. Miss Sekhmet proved an excellent guide. She seemed genuinely to like the area and pointed out landmarks, from the Black Bay Baths to the Aetherographic Office of the Controller to the Scottish Cemetery. They loosely followed the path of the railway lines to their right and the elephant trolley skylines above.

Eventually, they rounded a corner onto Princess Street and their steam carriage was forced to stop by the sheer number of people assembled there. Miss Sekhmet explained that the famous Cloth Market was to their right. She instructed the driver to wait and they climbed down. Rue knew her eyes must be as big as saucers. Prim’s perfect rosebud mouth was slightly open in amazement. Percy looked to be taking copious mental notes. Even Quesnel was awed. Fortunately, it seemed local custom was not opposed to staring. Even among such a crowd, Rue’s group was a novelty and much as they stared others stared back.

The Cloth Market was a hubbub of colourful fabrics and chattering humanity. Mostly people walked but some pushed massive baskets on wheels, others guided donkeys or camels loaded with goods. The occasional horse and carriage bobbed through the throng as well as bicycles, mono-wheels, human-drawn carts, and other more peculiar means of transport. The sky rail above their heads rumbled back and forth in seemingly endless rounds of transportation from dock to industry and from military to government, loaded down with massive swaying vats of cloth, or lumber, or pottery, or furniture, or whatever else was important at the time. Unlike London’s transports, this sky rail seemed less of an ugly imposition on the landscape with its cheerful elephant visage. The wreaths of lanterns and flowers draped about its colossal head tilted at a jaunty angle.

Prim, enchanted, asked Miss Sekhmet about the elephant’s appearance.

“As far as I know, he has always been that shape. But the flowers and the others, that is for the celebration of Ganesha. Worshippers extol the elephant god this time of year. There is a particularly beautiful festival soon.”

“How interesting.” Prim sparkled at Miss Sekhmet, almost as if she were flirting, both her hands clutching the handle of her parasol in excitement. “And is the elephant a very revered god in local mythology?”

“Indeed he is. Most benign and helpful. One prays to him when one has a burden or an obstacle.”

“And this festival?”

It was hard to tell when only her eyes were visible, but Rue thought Miss Sekhmet was smiling. “Among other things, they carry the god to the beach where he is put into the sea.”

“Likes to bathe, does Ganesha?” wondered Percy.

Miss Sekhmet gave him a dirty look. “All elephants like water, Fire-hair.”

They began to try moving through the street, clumped together because the crowds were so thick. Off to one side, a group of stunning dark-eyed dancers twirled, arms waving noodle-like in the air, gyrating to music so odd Rue actually wondered if it ought to be called music at all. It had a whining, haunting, angular quality.

It appeared that all daily business was conducted in the middle of the road. Men moved around in gossiping turbaned groups. The higher ranking women, in colourful shrouds, were followed by groups of servants and showed a marked preference for large brightly coloured fringed parasols which Primrose called “most respectable.” Fruit and meats were exchanged, pottery and fabric haggled over. Rue even spotted a live snake.

“Everything is so bright and cheerful.” She spun in delight. “And everyone smiles so much!”

Sekhmet asked Prim, “Is she always this excitable?”

Primrose, looking extremely dignified, answered, “I’m afraid so.”

“How exhausting,” replied their guide.

“You’re telling us,” grumbled Percy.

“It’s one of her charms,” defended Quesnel.

But it was so bright and cheerful.

Rue was particularly fascinated by the consumption of a specific hot beverage, the earthenware mugs of which were then cast aside into the street to crumble to dust under the many feet walking by. Everyone seemed to be drinking it. Where was the vendor?

A Cederholm Condenser muscled its way through, obstructing Rue’s view and blasting hot steam from its carapace. The people around scampered away to avoid being burned. The smoke from its small antennae stacks was somehow dyed bright pink, which coloured the unwary with speckles of pigment, to no one’s surprise or avoidance. Prim shrieked, parasol up in defence of her yellow walking gown, although the smoke was nowhere near her.

Rue was seized with a mad desire to dance through it–it looked like fun.

Eventually, they made their way to the Cloth Market proper, which was, as advertised, mainly cloth with a few other vendors. Tethered at corners of the square were hot-air balloons, the primitive floating technology of yore still alive and well in parts of the empire. Rue’s mother had once told her a story of the Balloon Nomads of the Sahara, how they floated their patchwork giants above the desert. Anitra, remembered Rue suddenly. Hadn’t she said something about floating? Perhaps that was the connection. Here the balloons were also patchwork, and Rue wondered if these were distantly related tribes, or if it were merely the nature of ballooning that lent itself to patchwork.

Despite being early morning, it was not a sleepy gathering. The locals were enamoured of singing and yelling and laughter. Grey and black monkeys scampered through the crowd, hands in everyone’s baskets and business. Miss Sekhmet picked up a stick which she applied adeptly to any monkey, curious child, or beggar that approached Rue’s party with overly familiar intent. The monkeys, she explained, were considered reincarnated politicians, which made Rue laugh and the stick entirely understandable.

Quesnel had to restrain Primrose forcefully since she was intent on diving towards a display of colourful fabric. “Oh, but Queen Mums would so love that colour,” she kept saying. And then, “I’m delighted I wore my brightest dress today. Yellow seems in keeping with the spirit of the festivities, wouldn’t you say? Only look at that shawl.”

“Later, Prim,” Rue would reply, and then, “Yes, excellent choice. My peach feels quite drab. No, not the shawl! We are attempting to get the lie of the land, not shop.”

Inevitably, they found themselves in an area where the amalgam of goods saw Rue’s party spontaneously split apart despite her best efforts. Primrose spotted a sari shop full of such stunning embroidered cloth as to be utterly impossible to resist. Quesnel saw that the massive steam Ganesha had come to a stop overhead and went to look for a way to climb aboard and examine the machine up close. Finally, Percy noticed a combined chilli vendor and books stall and all was lost.

“So much for the group tour.” Rue found herself alone with Miss Sekhmet in the centre of a busy marketplace.

The guide seemed pleased with this. “A chance to speak privately.”

Rue gave a pointed head waggle at the craziness around them–anything but private.

Miss Sekhmet continued. “I must confess to an ulterior motive, Lady Akeldama. As you may have guessed they will not meet you here, not when one of their own has already been eliminated. We are at an impasse and I would like to prevent conflict. Have you had an opportunity to contact the muhjah? Has she changed her mind concerning involvement?”

Rue nibbled her lip. “Last night, at the garden party, I did receive some unexpected instructions. It was a busy evening. I must look into another matter now. Your interests will have to wait.”

The guide looked disappointed. “They will not be pleased. They expected at least an amendment to the agreement.”

Rue raised a hand. “Wait a moment–what agreement? Look, are we discussing the missing tea or the missing taxes? I know I should be all secretive and talk in code and all that rot, but there are a lot of threads loose right now. My concern is the tea.”

“You disguise your negotiating with bluntness? Very shrewd, Lady Akeldama. Very shrewd indeed.” Even only seeing her eyes, Miss Sekhmet looked frustrated and exhausted. She signalled and a man came over, a carafe of steaming beverage strapped to his back, dispenser tubes down one arm with thumb-activated nozzle, and mugs dangling from his waist. So that’s how they did it. Miss Sekhmet purchased two cups of the hot drink and led Rue over to one side of the marketplace where they could sit atop a low wall in relative privacy.

The beverage proved to be a tea unlike any Rue had sampled before. Someone had actually thought it necessary to spice the sacred drink with ginger, cardamom, cinnamon and a few other things that had absolutely no place in tea. It was sweetened as well. Rue grimaced but sipped it for the sake of politeness. She found if she imagined it were a liquid pudding instead of tea it went down easier.

Rue took a deep breath. She liked this odd woman. She wanted to be liked in return. “Your pardon but I believe we may be at cross-purposes. I mean no artifice at all, I swear it. You see, I had understood our earlier conversation to be on the subject of some very valuable tea.”

“Tea?”

“Yes, tea.”

The guide’s eyes crinkled in confusion. “But it was not.”

Rue nodded. “I am realising that now. So what have we been discussing? I’m afraid you must think me very thick, but I cannot seem to get a straight word out of anyone since I was jumped by a lioness in a tower teahouse.”

Miss Sekhmet seemed to sink into depression at that. She muttered, “Then the muhjah is not aware of the nature of our activities?”

Rue sighed, frustrated. “I am not privy to the workings of my dear mother’s brain, thank goodness. She knows more than most, but she told me nothing significant about my travels here to India before I left. Did you send her a message hoping for a response from me? Or perhaps you represent a local political body?”

Miss Sekhmet seemed only more inclined to obtuseness by Rue’s revelation of ignorance. “Why are the British always so against locals?”

“I don’t follow. Have I offended in some way?”

The woman merely sipped her funny tea, deep in some moral quandary. “I thought you might be supportive. Or at least scientifically interested. But if they are once again denied? What point is there in my urging them to try? Everything is in confusion.”

“You’re telling me,” said Rue with feeling.

“It’s too sunny and I have a headache,” Sekhmet complained.

“You do look knackered. Should you even be out playing our guide?” Rue resisted pressing Miss Sekhmet’s hand in sympathy. “If you could articulate what is happening? The nature of the trade? The specifics of your demands? I might be able to help, even without my mother. I do have my own particular set of talents.” She tried to be modest.

It was all lost on Miss Sekhmet, who was working herself up into an exhausted frenzy. “You know that your relationship is with the wrong ones, don’t you?”

Rue was exhausted by the continued mystery and was starting to get a headache too. Finally she took a stab. “Do you represent the dissidents? The ones who stole the taxes and the brigadier’s wife?”

“Is that what they are claiming has occurred?”

“Isn’t it?”

Miss Sekhmet’s beautiful eyes narrowed. “I assure you, Mrs Featherstonehaugh came of her own free will.”

Aha, at last we are getting somewhere. “Oh, did she indeed?” Dama’s agent is a traitor! So what about the tea? Did she take it with her?

Instead Rue said, “And the taxes, did they come of their own free will as well?”

Miss Sekhmet gave her an exasperated look. “Money attracts attention.”

“You have my attention. What are your demands?”

She shook her head. “Oh, no. Not for me to say. I must tell them that you have not been contacted, challenged, or authorised. We will see what happens next. This is a grave setback.”

Rue smiled. “I have been authorised, just not as you might assume.”

“Yes?” she perked up at that.

“Oh no, if you can be cagy, so can I.” If they don’t have the tea, no point in telling them about it. Whoever they are.

They finished their repast, at an impasse. Betraying no little annoyance, Miss Sekhmet tossed her rough earthen cup to the packed dirt of the square where it shattered. Greatly daring, Rue followed her example. It was quite satisfying.

The marketplace was only getting more crowded and hot and stifling. Rue would not have thought this possible a mere ten minutes ago.

“Perhaps,” she suggested, “we should round up my companions and you can guide us back to our craft? Then you can contact your friends for the next move in this little game?”

“Very well.” Miss Sekhmet looked unhappy about it, but there was no other course of action.

So it might have happened, except that a roving flower stall, heavily laden and pulled by a steam locomotive of antiquated design, rolled to a stop in front of them, neatly trapping them in their small corner of the square.

“Ho there!” said Rue, banging on the top of the engine with her parasol.

Miss Sekhmet leaned over to talk to the driver, a discussion that escalated rapidly into a virulent argument in the local dialect, punctuated by copious hand gestures.

Then the flower stall exploded.

Rue acted on instinct. Growing up with parents like hers, she’d become accustomed to spontaneous explosions–of beauty products, parasols, or tempers, depending on the parent. She threw herself back and over the low stone wall she’d so recently been sitting atop. She rolled and landed, surprisingly gracefully, on the other side, crouched down, parasol raised up over her head to shield herself from the rain of flowers, leaves, and stalks.

She peeked over the wall in time to see Miss Sekhmet, insensate, being loaded into the now empty flower stall. A team of suspicious-looking black-clad men scuttled about as nefariously as anything. They were arguing with one another. Rue stared, and then flinched when they pointed in her direction.

One moved towards her.

Rue stood, parasol at the ready. She would not crouch behind a stone wall like a coward.

The man was clearly reluctant to follow his orders, as frightened of Rue as she was of him. If he knew that she had metanatural abilities he clearly did not understand that they functioned only at night. Why else be wary of an Englishwoman alone and abroad?

Rue braced herself. He was but one man. She had a parasol.

He lurched in her direction as if he intended to leap over the wall. Rue prodded at him with the parasol tip as if she were a lion tamer. “Back, you ruffian! Back!”

Surprisingly, he backed away bewildered.

One of his fellows joined him. This appeared a source of courage, for they moved in, less frightened as a group.

There came a shout of anger and then a whizzing hiss sound. One of the men looked profoundly surprised for a split-second and then pitched forward, a dart sticking out of his neck. Rue did not risk a turn to see whose dart. She could very well guess. The second one shouted to his fellows before grabbing his fallen comrade and backing away from Rue.

Rue hopped over the wall–or, more precisely, clambered–and brandished her parasol at him threateningly.

The men loaded their fellow in on top of Miss Sekhmet, slammed the flower cart shut and, in a blast of pink steam, chugged off into the busy marketplace.

The steam cleared enough for Rue to see Quesnel standing, arm out, wrist following the departure of the stall, a look of such anger on his face as to strike fear into even Rue’s questionable soul.

He said something quite rude in French.

“We must follow them!” insisted Rue. “I was almost getting answers.” She pulled up her skirts, prepared, if necessary, to run the engine down on her own two feet.

Quesnel gave her a look that said he thought her unhinged. He was, perhaps, not wrong. For the flower cart had disappeared into the milling throng of a foreign city, with too many other steam engines and too much activity already hiding it.

Rue sighed. “Oh, very well.” She crouched down and looked about the area where the explosion had occurred. She did not quite crawl among the fallen flowers, but that was only because she had not entirely forgotten her upbringing. She used her parasol to poke among the heads of decapitated blossoms and fallen leaves. She wasn’t certain what exactly she was looking for but any clue was better than the nothing that currently befuddled her.

Quesnel came over and bent down. “What are we looking for?”

“Clues. Miss Sekhmet knew about the kidnapping and the dissidents. Someone didn’t want her to tell us what she knew. I should not have engaged in such a public conversation with her. She kept trying to involve my mother. I think there is something seriously political going on. And we do not have nearly enough information. Curse Dama, he could have said something.”

“Perhaps he didn’t know?” suggested Quesnel.

“That would be highly unlike him but possible, I suppose. Too focused on tea.”

Quesnel looked a little worried. “Are you in any further danger?”

“I don’t think so. Hard to tell. You know, she said Mrs Featherstonehaugh went with the dissidents voluntarily. Then she said it had something to do with an agreement.”

“The agreement that makes the Rakshasas the tax collectors?”

“That would be my guess. After all, the taxes were stolen too. Do you think we’ve stumbled into local economic hostility? How droll.”

“Perhaps those black-clad men were Rakshasa drones putting a stop to any information that might be relayed against them.”

“Or possibly these dissidents are setting the Rakshasas up to take the fall in an effort to keep the money themselves? From what Percy said, the locals are terrified by the very idea of vampires. Do they have the courage to undertake direct opposition? Who is Miss Sekhmet working with?”

The flowers yielded up nothing concrete. Rue did find a small necklace–a bit of stone strung on a length of cord. The stone was carved to look like a monkey. Rue popped it into her reticule, uncertain of its significance–if any–and whether it might be connected to Miss Sekhmet, her kidnappers, or merely dropped by one of the hundreds milling about the square.

Rue said, “We’d better find Percy and Primrose. We must get back to the Custard and we’ve no guide any more.”

They extracted Prim, laden down with bolts of cloth and packages full of embroidered shawls and scarves. “What happened? Where’s our lovely guide? A flower cart exploded? Oh, Rue, really.”

Quesnel said, deadpan, “Miss Tunstell, might I suggest in future that any time you hear an explosion, you check to see if our Prudence is involved?”

Rue objected. “It wasn’t my fault. Never you mind it now, Prim. I will explain once we collect Percy. No sense in telling the story twice.”

Percy was immersed in books and chillies. He was neither surprised nor worried to learn of the explosion, nor their lost guide. “I have a map of Bombay,” he said, as if that alone could safely get them through an alien city.

Rue said on a sudden realisation, “Percy, we need books that illuminate the nature of the Rakshasas, and anything to do with the Indian agreement to the Supernatural Acceptance Decree. Anything at all. That is the parliamentary act under which the agreement that made local vampires tax collections would fall, yes?”

Percy was easily distracted. “Nature of the Rakshasas? Analytical or mythological books?”

“Both.”

He dived back into the stacks all around him, emerging with various volumes and bound journals, a few rolled parchments, some looking quite old, and a string of dried red chillies draped about his neck. “It won’t be inexpensive.”

Rue said, “I shall put them on the ship’s account. You’re going to have a great deal of researching to do when we get back. None of the rest of us reads Hindustani.”

Percy gave her a look as much as to say tell me something I don’t know and could you please come up with something more challenging next time? He said none of this, however, only grunted.

They purchased the books and the chilli necklace because it was better to stay on Percy’s good side at the moment. Laden down with these, as well as Prim’s fabric, they had to move quite slowly through the crowded streets.

Quesnel refused to carry anything and insisted that Rue keep her parasol hand free in case of further attack. So the twins bore the brunt of the burden, with no little complaining. But their enemy, whomever they might be, seemed content having extracted Miss Sekhmet.

No small thing, as it turned out. Without her guidance, it took them over an hour to find their way back to the steam carriage. Even with Percy’s command of the language, it was another two hours to direct the driver back to the ship. All this despite, or perhaps because of, Percy’s map. They had to stop several times for more of the spiced tea, which Rue was growing to enjoy and find most restorative, even in the heat. Starvation necessitated a pause for luncheon at a street-side stand where chunks of some mysterious meat of a remarkably vibrant red colour were roasted on sticks over large clay pots. Rue, Quesnel, and Prim nibbled happily, finding the flavour delicious. Percy refused, for fear of chilli, and only ate some fruit.

To try to raise their spirits, Quesnel told them all about the working of the elephant head. Unfortunately, no one was quite as excited as he about engineering. Still, it was nice of him to try.

Tired, dusty, sore, and overly hot, they finally returned to The Spotted Custard.

Percy immediately made for his room to begin reading. “Percy,” instructed Rue, “do concentrate on the Rakshasas and how they relate to the agreement. This issue may become life-threatening by the time the sun sets. Please, don’t get distracted.”

Percy took offence. “Me? I never get distracted.”

No one dignified that with an answer.

Prim retreated to her chambers to soak her sore feet in rose water, repair her hair, and admire her newly acquired fabrics.

Quesnel paused before going to his rooms.

Rue was too sunburned and grumpy to hope for another kiss.

Apparently, he felt the same, for he only gave her a long look. Or possibly he still hadn’t decided if he wanted to be her tutor in matters of romance.

“You are unharmed from the incident with the flowers, chérie?”

“Only my pride. Thank you.”

“If you’re a true sundowner, where is your royal gun?” Quesnel asked, offended on her behalf.

Rue arched an eyebrow. “Good question. I shall bring it up with my family as soon as I get home.”

“In the meantime, would you consider some form of projectile weapon? For my peace of mind, mon petit chou?”

Rue said, “The difficulty is in how to keep it with me if I change shape.”

“Rue.” He almost growled her name.

“Fine,” said Rue. “I’ll consider it.”

“That’s all I ask.” With which he made to leave.

Rue forestalled him, “And have you been considering my offer? It’s nothing important, you do realise? It was only a thought.”

He actually winced at that, which hurt in a way she hadn’t anticipated. Rue had thought she had presented him with an opportunity, but perhaps he saw it as a burden. Perhaps he had always seen her as nothing more than a meaningless flirtation and now she had placed him in an awkward position, as her chief engineer.

But his charm returned in an instant. “It is a gift, mon petit chou, and it is important.”

Rue stumbled on, “But if it’s too much a bother, I could seek elsewhere.”

Quesnel’s face shuttered over. “You must do as you see fit, chérie.” Which, of course, was no answer at all. He gave her a small bow and retreated to his own quarters without even trying to touch her.

Rue thought she saw a flicker of movement in the doorway of Percy’s room but wasn’t certain. Percy would already be occupied with his research. Perhaps Virgil was being nosy? Hard to keep one’s business private on an airship. She and Quesnel would have to be more careful about assignations in future.

Rue caught herself out with that. Future assignations indeed! He hasn’t even considered my terms. He had taken Prim’s arm as they walked that morning. And he’d been very taken by Miss Sekhmet. Clearly, she had overblown his flirting, and her own appeal.

He must be regretting last night’s embrace. In which case, Rue was back to square one as far as romance was concerned. It was a lot more painful than she had anticipated, rejection.

Rue retired to her room to stare up at the ceiling and, in order to not dwell on a certain flirtatious French engineer, tried to think about who might have a grudge against Indian vampires. Which was the problem with vampires–almost everyone had a grudge against them.