CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Last Room

In a lightning-fast movement, which bespoke his dexterity as a human before he had become a werewolf, Lord Maccon shifted around Miss Tarabotti so that his back was to the intruder and he was shielding her with his body. In the same motion, Alexia saw he had managed to grab the shard of mirror off the floor next to them. He held it between them, protected from Mr. Siemons’s view.

“Well, Miss Tarabotti,” said the scientist, “you certainly do excellent work. I never thought to see a were-wolf Alpha in human form on full-moon night.”

Alexia moved to sit, lifting the bodice of her dress over her shoulders as subtly as possible. The back had entirely come undone. She glared at Lord Maccon, who looked back at her in an utterly unapologetic way.

“Mr. Siemons,” she said flatly.

As the scientist moved into the room, she saw that behind him stood at least six other men of varying sizes, mostly on the larger end of the spectrum. He was clearly taking no chances should her preternatural abilities be simply a superstitious hoax. But, having found no were-wolf in residence, he stared at Lord Maccon’s back with a decidedly clinical expression.

“Does his brain return to human reason as well as his body to human form, or is he still essentially a wolf inside?” the scientist asked.

Alexia saw the earl’s intent in the narrowing of his eyes and the way he shifted his grip on the shard. With his back to the door, Lord Maccon had not seen Mr. Siemons’s large retinue. Miss Tarabotti shook her head almost imperceptibly at him. Taking the hint, he subsided slightly.

Mr. Siemons came closer. Bending over their prone forms, he made to grab the earl’s head so he could tilt it up and look into his face. With a spark of malicious humor, Lord Maccon growled loudly and snapped at him as though he were still a wolf. Mr. Siemons hurriedly backed away.

He looked at Alexia. “Really,” he said, “quite remarkable. We are going to have to study your abilities extensively, and there are several tests…” He trailed off. “Are you certain I cannot persuade you to our cause—that of justice and security? Now that you have experienced the true terror of a werewolf attack, you must admit to how incontrovertibly hazardous these creatures are! They are nothing more than a plague on the human race. Our research will lead to empire-wide prevention and protection against this threat. With your capabilities, we could determine new neutralization tactics. Don’t you see how valuable you could be to us? We would simply want to do a few physical assessments now and again.”

Alexia was not quite sure what to say. She was both repulsed and frightened by the eminently reasonable way in which the man spoke. For there she sat, flush against a werewolf, a man whom this kidnapper, this torturer, thought of as an abomination. Yet a man whom, she realized with no surprise whatsoever, she loved.

“Thank you for the kind offer—” she began.

The scientist interrupted her. “Your cooperation would be invaluable, but it is not necessary, Miss Tarabotti. Understand, we will do what we must.”

“Then I would act in accordance with my conscience, not yours,” she said firmly. “Your perception of me must logically be as warped as your perception of him.” She dipped her chin at Lord Maccon. He was glaring at her intently, as though trying to get her to stay silent. But Miss Tarabotti’s tongue had always gotten the better of her—hinged in the middle as it undoubtedly was. “I would as soon not be a willing participant in your fiendish experiments.”

Mr. Siemons smiled a tight little psychopathic smile. Then he turned away and yelled something in Latin.

A brief silence descended.

There was a rustle among the scientists and thugs gathered in the doorway, and the automaton pushed them aside to enter the cell.

Lord Maccon could see the revulsion on Miss Tarabotti’s face, but he still did not turn around to find out what had caused it. He remained resolutely facing away from the scientist and those who stood behind him, keeping his naked back to the events. He had grown tenser and tenser as Alexia and Mr. Siemons exchanged barbs.

Miss Tarabotti could feel his vibrating aggravation at every point of contact between their bodies. She could see it in the hard muscles under his bare skin. He practically quivered, like a dog straining at its lead.

Alexia knew he was going to break a moment before he did.

In one smooth movement, Lord Maccon turned and lashed out with the mirror shard. Mr. Siemons, seeing a certain apprehension enter Alexia’s face, stepped out of range.

At the same time, the automaton came forward and to one side, lunging for Miss Tarabotti.

Caught midswing and hampered by having to stay in physical contact with her, Lord Maccon could not switch to strike against the automaton quickly enough.

Alexia was not so restricted. As soon as the evil thing closed in on her, she screamed and lashed out, certain she would die if that repulsive imitation of a man touched her.

Notwithstanding her aversion, the automaton grabbed Miss Tarabotti under the armpits with its cold fingernailless hands and picked her up bodily. The monster was amazingly strong. Alexia kicked out, and though she made definitive contact with the heel of her boot, it did not seem to affect the creature. It threw her, still kicking and screeching like a banshee, over one waxy shoulder.

Lord Maccon whirled back toward her, but the combination of his lunge and the automaton’s attack had broken contact between them. Alexia, draped facedown, caught his panicked expression through the tangle of her hair and then the flash of something sharp. With his last conscious thought, Lord Maccon had thrown the shard of mirror into the automaton’s lower back, just under where she hung suspended.

“He is changing back!” yelled Mr. Siemons, retreating rapidly from the room. The automaton, carrying the squirming Miss Tarabotti, followed.

“Neutralize him! Quickly!” Mr. Siemons ordered the men waiting in the doorway. They rushed into the chamber.

Miss Tarabotti felt a little sorry, realizing they had no idea how fast the change would occur. She had claimed it would take her an hour to change a werewolf back into human form. They must have thought it took equally long to change back. She hoped this gave Lord Maccon some kind of advantage. It would be a mixed blessing in any event, his animal instincts now taking over completely, placing everyone, even her, at risk.

As they moved rapidly down the corridor, Miss Tarabotti heard a portentous snarl, a sad wet crunching sound, and then terrified screams. Those cries being so much more impressively bloodcurdling than her own, she stopped her bansheelike screeching and turned her attention to trying to get the automaton to drop her. She kicked and writhed with animalistic vigor. Unfortunately, the construct’s grip was like iron about her waist. Since she had no idea exactly what the monstrosity was made of, she figured its grip could actually be iron.

Whatever the skeletal superstructure of the homunculus simulacrum, it was coated in a layer of fleshy substance. Miss Tarabotti eventually stopped struggling, a waste of energy, and stared morosely down at the shard of mirror sticking out of its back. A small amount of dark viscous liquid was leaking from where it stuck. In fascinated horror, she realized Lord Maccon was right. The being was filled with blood—old, black, dirty blood. Was everything, she wondered, about blood with these scientists? And then: Why had Lord Maccon been so intent on wounding the automaton? It came to her. He needs a trail to follow. This will never do, she thought. It’s not bleeding enough to leave drops behind.

Trying not to think about it too closely, she reached for the piece of mirror embedded in the automaton’s oozing flesh. She slashed the soft underside of her arm against an exposed corner of the sharp shard. Her own blood, a healthy bright red, welled fast and clean and dripped in perfect droplets onto the carpeted floor. She wondered if even her blood smelled of cinnamon and vanilla to Lord Maccon.

No one noticed. The automaton, following its master, carried her back through the receiving room of the club and toward the machinery chambers. They passed by those rooms Miss Tarabotti had visited on her tour of the Hypocras facilities and on toward parts she had not been allowed to see. This was the area from which she had heard those terrible screams.

They reached the last room at the very end of the corridor. Alexia managed to twist about enough to read a small slip of paper tacked to the side of the door. It said, in neat black calligraphy, framed on either side by an etched octopus, exsanguination chamber.

Miss Tarabotti could see nothing of the interior from where she hung, until Mr. Siemons issued instructions in that undecipherable Latin of his, and the automaton put her down. Alexia bounced away from the creature like a not-very-agile gazelle. Undeterred, the automaton grabbed both her arms and wrenched her back to itself, holding her immobilized.

She stiffened in revulsion. No matter that it had just carried her the length of the club, her skin still shivered away in horror whenever the monster touched her.

Swallowing down bile, she took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. Reaching some kind of equilibrium, she shook her hair out of her face and looked about.

The room contained six iron platforms of equal size and shape, bolted to the floor and paired off into three groups of two. Each platform, the size of a large man, was equipped with a plethora of restraints made of various materials. Two young scientists in gray frock coats and glassicals bustled about. They clutched leather-bound notepads and were jotting observations in them using sticks of graphite wrapped in sheepskin. An older man, about Mr. Siemons’s age, was also in attendance. He wore a tweed suit, of all horrible things, and a cravat tied with such carelessness it was almost as much a sin as his actions. He also wore glassicals, but of a larger, more elaborate kind than Alexia had seen before. All three gentlemen paused to look at them when they entered the room, their eyes distorted to hugeness by the optical glass. Then they were back to moving between the lifeless figures of two men lying on one pair of platforms. One figure was tied down with sisal rope, and the other…

Alexia cried out in horror and distress. The other wore an extravagant plum-colored velvet evening coat stained with blood and a satin waistcoat of sea-foam green and mauve plaid torn in several places. He, too, was tied down with rope, but he had also been crucified through both hands and feet with wooden stakes. The stakes were bolted into the platform on which he lay, and Alexia could not tell if he lay still because of the pain they caused him or because he could no longer move at all.

Miss Tarabotti wrenched toward her friend convulsively, but the automaton held her fast. Finding reason only at the very last, Alexia figured this was probably a good thing. If she touched Lord Akeldama when he was in such a weakened state, her preternatural abilities might bring about his immediate demise. Only his supernatural strength was keeping him alive—that is, if he was still alive.

“You,” she sputtered at Mr. Siemons, searching for a word horrible enough to describe these so-called scientists, “you philistines! What have you done to him?”

Not only had Lord Akeldama been strapped and nailed down, but they had hooked him into one of their infernal machines. One sleeve of his beautiful coat had been cut away, as had the silk shirt underneath, and a long metal tube emerged from under the skin of his upper arm. The tube ran into a mechanical steam-driven contraption of some kind, from which came another tube, which hooked into the other man. This second man was clearly not supernatural; his skin was tan and his cheeks rosy. But he, too, lay as still as death.

“How far along are we, Cecil?” Mr. Siemons asked one of the gray-clad scientists, completely ignoring Miss Tarabotti.

“Nearly done, sir. We think you may be correct about the age. This seems to be going much more smoothly than our previous procedures.”

“And the application of the electrical current?” Mr. Siemons scratched his sideburns.

The man looked down at his notations, twiddling the side of his glassicals for focus. “Within the hour, sir, within the hour.”

Mr. Siemons rubbed his hands together delightedly. “Excellent, quite excellent. I shall not disturb Dr. Neebs; he looks to be concentrating deeply. I know how involved he gets in his work.”

“We are trying to moderate the intensity of the shock, sir. Dr. Neebs thinks this might extend survival time in the recipient,” explained the second young scientist, looking up from some large levers he was fiddling with on the side of the machine.

“Fascinating thought. Very interesting approach. Proceed, please, proceed. Do not mind me. Just bringing in a new specimen.” He turned and gestured at Miss Tarabotti.

“Very good, sir. I’ll just get on, then,” said the first scientist, who went back to what he had been doing before they entered the room with barely a glance in Miss Tarabotti’s direction.

Alexia looked Mr. Siemons full in the face. “I am beginning to understand,” she said in a quiet, deadly voice, “who is the monster. What you are doing is farther from natural than vampires or werewolves could ever get. You are profaning creation, not only with this”—she gestured rudely with her thumb at the automaton holding her tightly—“but with that.” She pointed to the machine with its suckerlike metal tubes reaching hungrily inside the body of her dear friend. The horrible contraption seemed to be drinking him dry, more hungry for blood than any vampire she had ever seen. “It is you, Mr. Siemons, who is the abomination.”

Mr. Siemons stepped forward and slapped her hard across the face. The sound, a sharp crack, caused Dr.

Neebs to look up from his work. No one said anything, though, and all three scientists immediately returned to their activities.

Alexia recoiled back against the cold stillness of the automaton. Instantly, she jerked forward away from it once more, blinking away tears of frustration. When her vision had cleared, she could see that Mr. Siemons was once more smiling his tight little psychopathic smile.

“Protocol, Miss Tarabotti,” he said. Then he said something in Latin.

The automaton hauled Alexia over to one of the other sets of platforms. One of the young scientists stopped what he was doing and came to strap her down while the creature held her immobile. Mr. Siemons helped to secure her ankles and wrists with rope tied so tight Miss Tarabotti was certain she would lose all circulation to her extremities. The platform was decked out with massive manacles made of solid metal that looked to be iron coated in silver, and there were more of those awful wooden stakes, but the scientists clearly did not think she needed such extreme measures.

“Bring in a new test recipient,” Mr. Siemons ordered once she was secure. The gray-coated young man nodded, put his leather notebook on a small shelf, took off the glassicals, and left the room.

The automaton took up residence in front of the closed door, a silent wax-faced sentry.

Alexia twisted her head to one side. She could see Lord Akeldama to her left, still lying silent and unmoving on his platform. The older scientist, Dr. Neebs, seemed to have completed his task. He was now hooking another machine into the one with all the tubes. This new apparatus was a small engine of some kind, all gears and cogs. At its heart was a glass jar with metal plates at each end.

The remaining gray-clad young scientist came around and began to rigorously turn a crank attached to this device.

Eventually there issued a sharp crackling sound, and a vibrating beam of extraordinarily white light ran up the tube attached to Lord Akeldama’s arm and penetrated his body. The vampire jerked and writhed, pulling involuntarily on the wooden stakes impaling his hands and feet. His eyes shot open, and he let out a keening scream of pain.

The young scientist, still cranking with one hand, pulled a small lever down with his other, and the beam of light shifted through the exsanguination machine to run up the tube attached to the seemingly comatose human subject on the platform next to Lord Akeldama.

This man’s eyes also opened. He, too, jerked and screamed. The scientist stopped cranking, and the electrical current, for Alexia surmised that must be what it was, dissipated. Ignoring Lord Akeldama, who slumped with eyes closed, looking small and sunken and very old, Mr. Siemons, Dr. Neebs, and the young scientist rushed over to the other man. Dr. Neebs checked his pulse and then lifted his now-closed eyelids to check his pupils, staring hard through the glassicals. The man lay perfectly still.

Then, suddenly, he began to whimper, like a child at the end of a tantrum—out of tears, with only small dry heaving sobs left. All the muscles in his body seemed to lock up, his bones stiffened, and his eyes practically bulged right out of his head. The three scientists backed away but continued to watch him intently.

“Ah, there he goes,” said Mr. Siemons with satisfaction.

“Yes, yes.” Dr. Neebs nodded, slapping his hands together and rubbing. “Perfect!”

The gray-clad youngster busily scratched notes into his leather pad.

“A much more rapid and efficient result, Dr. Neebs. This is commendable progress. I shall write a most favorable report,” said Mr. Siemons, smiling widely and licking his lips.

Dr. Neebs beamed with pride. “Much obliged, Mr. Siemons. However, I am still concerned by the charge current intensity. I should like to be able to direct soul transfer with even greater accuracy.”

Mr. Siemons looked over at Lord Akeldama. “Do you think you left any behind?”

“Difficult to tell with such an ancient subject,” Dr. Neebs prevaricated, “but perhaps—”

He was cut off by a loud knock on the door.

“Me, sir!” said a voice.

“Expositus,” said Mr. Siemons.

The automaton turned stiffly and opened the door.

In came the other young scientist accompanied by Mr. MacDougall. They carried between them the body of a man, wrapped tightly in a long length of linen, looking like nothing so much as an ancient Egyptian mummy.

Upon seeing Miss Tarabotti, strapped to her own platform, Mr. MacDougall dropped his end of the body and rushed over to her.

“Good evening, Mr. MacDougall,” said Alexia politely. “I must say, I do not think very highly of your friends here. Their behavior is”—she paused delicately—“immodest.”

“Miss Tarabotti, I am so very sorry.” The American worried his hands together in a little ball and fluttered about her anxiously. “If I had only known what you were at the commencement of our acquaintance, I might have prevented this. I would have taken proper precautions. I would have…” He covered his mouth with both pudgy hands, shaking his head in an excess of troubled emotion.

Alexia attempted a little smile. Poor thing, she thought. It must be hard to be so weak all the time.

“Now, Mr. MacDougall,” Mr. Siemons interrupted their little tête-à-tête. “You know what is at stake here. The young lady refuses to cooperate willingly. So this is how it must be. You may stay to observe, but you must behave yourself and not interfere with the procedure.”

“But, sir,” the American protested, “shouldn’t you test the extent of her abilities first? Make some notations, formulate a hypothesis, take a more scientific approach? We know so little about this so-called preternatural state. Shouldn’t you utilize caution? If she is as unique as you say, you can hardly afford to take unnecessary risks with her well-being.”

Mr. Siemons raised an autocratic hand. “We are only performing a preliminary transfer procedure. The vampires call her kind ‘soulless.’ If our predictions are correct, she will not require any kind of electroshock treatment for revival. No soul, you see?”

“But what if it is my theory that is correct and not yours?” Mr. MacDougall looked worried beyond all endurance. His hands were shaking, and a sheen of sweat had appeared across his brow.

Mr. Siemons smiled maliciously. “We had better hope, for her sake, that it is not.” He turned away and issued instructions to his compatriots. “Prepare her for exsanguination. Let us analyze the true extent of this woman’s capabilities. Dr. Neebs, if you are finished with that subject?”

Dr. Neebs nodded. “For the time being. Cecil, please continue to monitor his progress. I want immediate notification of dental protuberance.” He began rummaging about, unhooking the two machines from each other and then from Lord Akeldama and his companion sufferer. He pulled the tubes out of their respective arms roughly. Alexia was disturbed to see that the gaping hole in Lord Akeldama’s flesh did not immediately begin to close and heal itself.

Then there was no more time for her to worry about Lord Akeldama, for they were moving the machine in her direction. Dr. Neebs approached her arm with a very sharp-looking knife. He ripped away the sleeve of her gown and poked about with his fingers at the underside of her elbow, looking for a vein. Mr. MacDougall made nonsensical murmurs of distress the entire time but did nothing to help her. In fact, he backed timidly away and turned his head as though afraid to watch. Alexia struggled futilely against her restraints.

Dr. Neebs focused his glassicals and placed the knife into position.

A great crash reverberated through the room.

Something large, heavy, and very angry hit the outside of the door hard enough to jar the automaton that stood in front of it.

“What the hell’s that?” Dr. Neebs asked, pausing with the knife resting against her skin.

The door reverberated again.

“It will hold,” said Mr. Siemons confidently.

But with the third great crash, the door began to split.

Dr. Neebs lifted the knife he had been about to use on Alexia and took up a defensive position with it instead. One of the younger scientists began to scream. The other ran about looking for a weapon of some kind among the scientific paraphernalia littering the room.

“Cecil, calm yourself!” yelled Mr. Siemons. “It will hold!” Clearly, he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

“Mr. MacDougall,” Alexia hissed under the hubbub, “could you, perhaps, see yourself toward untying me?”

Mr. MacDougall, trembling, looked at her as though he could not understand what she was saying.

The door cracked and caved inward, and through the splintered mess charged a massive wolf. The fur about his face was matted and clotted with blood. Pink-tinged saliva dribbled from around long sharp white teeth. The rest of his pelt was brindled black and gold and brown. His eyes, when they turned toward Miss Tarabotti, were hot yellow, with no humanity in them at all.

Lord Maccon probably weighed a good fourteen stone. Alexia now possessed intimate knowledge supporting the fact that a good deal of that weight of his was muscle. This made for a very large, very strong wolf. And all of it was angry, hungry, and driven by full-moon madness.

The werewolf hit the exsanguination chamber in a vicious storm of fang and claw and began unceremoniously tearing everything apart. Including the scientists. Suddenly, there was noise and blood and panic everywhere.

Miss Tarabotti turned her head away as much as possible, flinching from the horror of it. She tried Mr. MacDougall again. “Mr. MacDougall, please untie me. I can stop him.” But the American had pressed himself back into a far corner of the room, trembling with fear, eyes riveted on the rampaging wolf.

“Oh!” said Miss Tarabotti in frustration. “Untie me this instant, you ridiculous man!”

Where requests had failed, orders seemed to work well enough. Her sharp words broke through his terror. Trancelike, the American began fumbling at her bonds, eventually freeing her hands enough for her to bend down and untie her ankles herself. She swung to the edge of the platform.

A stream of Latin sang out above the sounds of carnage, and the automaton slid into action.

By the time Alexia could stand—it took a few moments for the blood to return to her feet—the automaton and the werewolf were grappling in the doorway. What was left of Dr. Neebs and the two young scientists lay crumpled on the floor, swimming in small pools of blood, glassical parts, and entrails.

Miss Tarabotti tried very hard not to be sick or faint. The smell of carnage was truly appalling—fresh meat and molten copper.

Mr. Siemons remained unscathed, and while his construct fought the supernatural creature, he turned to seek out Alexia.

He picked up Dr. Neebs’s long sharp surgical knife and moved at her unexpectedly fast for such a well-fed man. Before Alexia had time to react, he was upon her, knife pressed to her throat.

“Do not move, Miss Tarabotti. You neither, Mr. Mac-Dougall. Stay where you are.”

The werewolf had its massive jaw about the throat of the automaton and appeared to be putting concerted effort into decapitating it. It was to no avail, however, because the construct’s bones were made of a substance too strong even for a werewolf’s jaw. The head remained attached. Wobbly, but attached. The automaton’s sluggish blackened blood spilled out of massive neck gashes over the wolf’s muzzle. The supernatural creature sneezed and let go.

Mr. Siemons began inching toward the door, which was mostly blocked by the battling monsters. He pushed Miss Tarabotti in front of him, knife to her throat, trying for a side approach behind the wolf.

The werewolf’s massive head swung toward them, and his lips pulled back in a snarl of warning.

Mr. Siemons jerked back, slicing through the first few layers of skin on Alexia’s neck. She squeaked in alarm.

The wolf sniffed at the air, and its bright yellow eyes narrowed. It turned its attention completely onto Alexia and Mr. Siemons.

The automaton charged from behind and grabbed for the wolf’s throat, trying to choke it to death.

“Godth’s truth, I am hungry!” someone lisped. All forgotten, the human half of the Lord Akeldama experiment stood up from his platform. He had long, well-developed fangs and was looking around the room with single-minded interest. His eyes flitted about, dismissing Lord Akeldama, the werewolf, and the automaton but lingering with interest on Miss Tarabotti and Mr. Siemons before zeroing in on the most accessible meal in the chamber: Mr. MacDougall.

The American, huddled in his corner, shrieked as the newly created vampire vaulted over Lord Akeldama and across the intervening space with supernatural agility and speed.

Miss Tarabotti did not have time to watch further, as her attention was drawn back to the entranceway. She heard Mr. MacDougall scream again and then the thumping sounds of fighting.

The werewolf was trying to shake the automaton off his back. But the construct had established a death grip around his furry neck and would not budge. With the wolf momentarily distracted, the broken door was partly freed up, and Mr. Siemons began forcing Alexia once more toward it.

Miss Tarabotti wished, for about the hundredth time that evening, for her trusty parasol. Not having it, she did the next best thing. She elbowed Mr. Siemons hard in the gut while stomping down onto his insole with the heel of her boot.

Mr. Siemons cried out in pain and surprise and let her go.

Miss Tarabotti twisted away with a yell of triumph, and the werewolf’s attention switched back toward them at the sound.

Choosing his own safety above all else, Mr. Siemons gave Miss Tarabotti up for a bad risk and fled the chamber, calling for his fellow scientists at the top of his lungs as he ran pell-mell down the hallway outside.

The automaton continued to fight, its hands tightening ever more surely around the wolf’s brindled throat.

Alexia did not know what to do. Lord Maccon undoubtedly stood a better chance against the automaton in werewolf form. But, wheezing from restricted air flow, he was coming toward her and ignoring the automaton attempting to strangle him. She could not allow him to touch her if she wanted him to survive.

A hoarse voice said, “Rub out the word, my darling tulip.”

Alexia glanced over. Lord Akeldama, still pale and clearly in unmitigated pain, had tilted his head up from where he lay. He was watching the brutal proceedings with glazed eyes.

Miss Tarabotti gave a cry of relief. He was alive! But she did not understand what he wanted her to do.

“The word,” he said again, his voice wrecked by his suffering, “on the homunculus simulacrum’s forehead. Rub it out.” He collapsed back, exhausted.

Miss Tarabotti dodged sideways, positioning herself. Then, shuddering in revulsion, she reached forward and brushed her hand over the automaton’s waxy face. She missed all but the very end of the word so that VIXI became VIX.

It seemed sufficient to do some good. The automaton stiffened and let go enough for the werewolf to shake him off. The creature was still moving but now did so with apparent difficulty.

The werewolf turned all his concentrated yellow attention on Miss Tarabotti.

Before he could even begin to spring at her, Alexia moved forward, unafraid, and wrapped both arms about his furry neck.

The change was a little less horrible the second time around. Or, perhaps, she was simply getting used to the feel of it. Fur retreated from where she touched him, bone and skin and flesh re-formed, and she held, once again, the naked body of Lord Maccon in her arms.

He was coughing and spitting.

“That automaton thing tastes awful,” he announced, wiping his face with the back of one hand. It did nothing more effective than smudge the red over his chin and cheek.

Miss Tarabotti refrained from pointing out he had also been snacking on scientists and wiped his face with the skirt of her dress. It was already beyond salvation anyway.

Tawny brown eyes turned to her face. Alexia noted with relief that they were full of intelligence and entirely lacking in ferocity or hunger.

“You are unharmed?” he asked. One big hand came up, stroking over her face and down. He paused upon reaching the cut on her neck.

His eyes, even though he was touching her, went slightly back to feral yellow. “I’ll butcher the bastard,” he said softly, all the more anger in his voice for its quiet tone. “I’ll pull his bones out through his nostrils one by one.”

Alexia shushed him impatiently. “It is not that deep.” But she did lean into his touch and let out a shaky breath she had not even known she was holding.

His hand, now trembling in fury, kept up its gentle assessment of her injuries. It smoothed softly over the bruises appearing on her exposed upper torso and down her shoulder to the slice on her arm.

“The Norse had it right—flay a man open from the back and eat out his heart,” he said.

“Do not be disgusting,” admonished the object of his interest. “Besides, I did that one to myself.”

“What?!”

She shrugged dismissively, “You needed a trail to follow.”

“You little fool,” he said affectionately.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

His touch became insistent for just a moment. Pulling her in against his large naked form, he kissed her roughly, a deeply erotic and oddly desperate melding of tongue and teeth. He kissed as though he needed her to subsist. It was unbearably intimate. Worse than allowing one’s ankles to be seen. Alexia leaned into him, opening her mouth eagerly.

“I do so hate to intrude, my little lovebirds, but if you could see your way clear to maybe releasing me?” came a soft voice, interrupting their embrace. “And your business here, it is not quite finished.”

Lord Maccon surfaced and looked about, blinking as though he had just woken from sleep: half nightmare, half erotic fantasy.

Miss Tarabotti shifted so that their only point of contact was her hand nested inside his big one. It was still enough contact to be comforting, not to mention preternaturally effective.

Lord Akeldama still lay on his platform. In the space between him and where Alexia had been strapped down, Mr. MacDougall still fought with the newly created vampire.

“Goodness me,” said Miss Tarabotti in surprise, “he is still alive!” No one was sure, even her, whether she meant Mr. MacDougall or the manufactured vampire. They seemed equally matched, the vampire unused to his new strength and abilities, and Mr. MacDougall stronger than expected in his desperation and panic.

“Well, my love,” said Alexia with prodigious daring to Lord Maccon, “shall we?”

The earl started to move forward and then stopped abruptly and looked down at her, not moving at all. “Am I?”

“Are you what?” She peeked up at him through her tangled hair, pretending confusion. There was no possible way she was going to make this easy for him.

“Your love?”

“Well, you are a werewolf, Scottish, naked, and covered in blood, and I am still holding your hand.”

He sighed in evident relief. “Good. That is settled, then.”

They moved over to where Mr. MacDougall and the vampire fought. Alexia was not certain she could effectively change two supernatural persons at once, but she was willing to try.

“Pardon me,” she said, and grabbed the vampire by one shoulder. Surprised, the man turned toward this new threat. But his fangs were already retracting.

Miss Tarabotti smiled at him, and Lord Maccon had him by the ear like a naughty schoolboy before he could even make an aggressive move in her direction.

“Now, now,” said Lord Maccon, “even new vampires may choose only willing victims.” Releasing the ear, he punched the man extremely hard up under the chin. It was an expert boxer’s move that laid the poor man out flat.

“Will it last?” Alexia asked of the fallen vampire. She was no longer touching him, so he should recuperate quickly.

“For a few minutes,” said Lord Maccon in his BUR voice.

Mr. MacDougall, bleeding only slightly from a row of punctures in one side of his neck, blinked at his saviors.

“Tie him up, would you? There is a good lad. I have only one working hand, you see?” said Lord Maccon to the American, handing him rope from one of the platforms.

“Who, sir, are you?” Mr. MacDougall asked, looking the earl up and down and then focusing in on his and Alexia’s linked hands. Or Alexia assumed that is what he was focusing in on.

Miss Tarabotti said, “Mr. MacDougall, your questions will have to wait.”

Mr. MacDougall nodded submissively and began to tie the vampire.

“My love.” Alexia looked at Lord Maccon. It was much easier to say the words the second time around, but she still felt very daring. “Perhaps you might see to Lord Akeldama? I dare not touch him in such a weakened state.”

Lord Maccon refrained from commenting that when she called him “my love,” he was pretty much willing to do whatever she asked.

They walked together over to Lord Akeldama’s platform.

“Hello, princess,” said Lord Maccon to the vampire. “Got yourself into quite a pickle this time, didn’t you?”

Lord Akeldama looked him up and down. “My sweet young naked boy, you are hardly one to talk. Not that I mind, of course.”

Lord Maccon blushed so profoundly it extended all the way down his neck to his upper torso. Alexia thought it entirely adorable.

Without another word, the earl untied Lord Akeldama and, as gently as possible, slid his hands and feet off the wooden stakes. The vampire lay still and silent for a long time after he had finished.

Miss Tarabotti worried. His wounds should be healing themselves. But, instead, they remained large, gaping holes. There wasn’t even any blood dripping from them.

“My dearest girl,” said the vampire finally, examining Lord Maccon with an exhausted but appreciative eye, “such a banquet. Never been one to favor werewolves myself, but he is very well equipped, now, is he not?”

Miss Tarabotti gave him an arch look. “My goodies,” she warned.

“Humans,” chuckled the vampire, “so possessive.” He shifted weakly.

“You are not well,” commented Lord Maccon.

“Quite right, Lord Obvious.”

Miss Tarabotti looked at the vampire’s wounds more closely, still careful not to touch him. She wanted desperately to hug her friend and offer some consolation, but any contact with her and he was certain to die. He was near enough to it already, and returning to human form would end him undoubtedly.

“You are dry,” she remarked.

“Yes,” agreed the vampire. “It all went into him.” He gestured with his chin toward where the new vampire lay under Mr. MacDougall’s ministrations.

“I suppose you might take a donation from me?” suggested Lord Maccon dubiously. “Would that work? I mean to say, how fully human does preternatural touch make me?”

Lord Akeldama shook his head weakly. “Not enough for me to feed from you, I suspect. It might work, but it also might kill you.”

Lord Maccon unexpectedly jerked backward, pulling Alexia with him. Two hands were wrapped around his throat, squeezing tightly. The fingers on those hands had no fingernails.

The automaton had crawled all the way across the floor, slowly but surely, and was trying to fulfill the last order given to it: to kill Lord Maccon. This time, with the earl in human form, it stood a fairly good chance of succeeding.