Alexia’s legs were stiff from the cold, but at least they were decently covered by her skirts once more, even if those skirts were now coated in mud as well as burned by acid. She sighed. She must look like a veritable gypsy with her spattered dispatch case and wild hair. Madame Lefoux also looked the worse for wear, speckled with mud, her goggles dangling about her neck. Her top hat was still secured to her head by the long scarf, but her mustache was decidedly askew. Only Floote somehow managed to look entirely unruffled as they skulked—there really was no other word for it—through the side alleys of Nice in the wee hours of the morning.
Nice proved itself smaller than Paris, characterized by a casual seaside attitude. Madame Lefoux, however, hinted darkly that the city’s “Italian troubles” of ten years ago remained, hidden but unabated, and that this upsetting situation gave Nice a restless undertone not always sensed by strangers.
“Imagine! Trying to contend that Nice is really Italian. Pah.” Madame Lefoux flicked one hand dismissively and glared at Alexia, as though Alexia might side with the Italians in this matter.
Alexia tried to think of something reassuring to say. “I am certain there is hardly any pasta in the whole city,” was the best rejoinder she could come up with on such short notice.
Madame Lefoux only increased the pace of their skulking, leading them around a pile of discarded rags into a dingy little alleyway.
“I do hope the ornithopter will be safe where we left it.” Alexia tried to change the subject as she followed her friend, lifting her skirts away from the rags. There was hardly any point in the effort at this juncture, but instinct dictated one’s skirts be lifted.
“Should be. It’s out of gunpowder charges, and very few, apart from Gustave and myself, know how to fly it. I shall send him a note as to its location. I do apologize for that unfortunate landing.”
“You mean that unfortunate crash?”
“At least I chose a soft bit of ground.”
“Duck ponds usually are soft. You do realize, ornithopter only means bird? You don’t actually have to treat it as such.”
“At least it didn’t explode.”
Alexia paused in her skulking. “Oh, do you believe it ought to have done so?”
Madame Lefoux gave one of her annoying little French shrugs.
“Well I think your ornithopter has earned its name.”
“Oh, yes?” The inventor looked resigned.
“Le Canard Boueux? Very funny.”
Floote gave a tiny snort of amusement. Alexia glared at him. How had he managed to entirely avoid the mud?
Madame Lefoux led them to a small door that once might have been colored blue, and then yellow, and then green, a history it displayed proudly in crumbling strips of paint all down the front. The Frenchwoman knocked softly at first, and then more and more loudly until she was banging quite violently on the poor door.
The only reaction the racket caused was the immediate commencement of an unending bout of hysterical barking from some species of diminutive canine in possession of the other side of the door.
Floote gestured with his head at the doorknob. Alexia looked closely at it under the flickering torchlight; Nice apparently was not sophisticated enough for gas streetlamps. It was brass, and mostly unassuming, except that there was a very faint etched symbol on its surface, almost smoothed away by hundreds of hands—a chubby little octopus.
After a good deal more banging and barking, the door cautiously opened a crack to reveal a mercurial little man wearing a red and white striped nightshirt and cap, and a half-frightened, half-sleepy expression. A dirty feather duster on four legs bounced feverishly about his bare ankles. Much to Alexia’s surprise, given her recent experience with Frenchmen, the man had no mustache. The feather duster did. Perhaps in Nice mustaches were more common on canines?
Her surprise was abated, however, when the little man spoke, not in French, but in German.
When his staccato sentence was met only by three blank expressions, he evaluated their manners and dress and switched to heavily accented English.
“Ya?”
The duster ejected itself through the partly opened door and attacked Madame Lefoux, gnawing at the hem of her trouser leg. What Madame Lefoux’s excellent woolen trousers had done to insult the creature, Alexia could not begin to fathom.
“Monsieur Lange-Wilsdorf?” Madame Lefoux tried tactfully to shake off the animal with her foot.
“Who would be wishing to know?”
“I am Lefoux. We have been in correspondence these last few months. Mr. Algonquin Shrimpdittle recommended the introduction.”
“I thought you were of the, uh, persuasion of the feminine.” The gentleman squinted at Madame Lefoux suspiciously.
Madame Lefoux winked at him and doffed her top hat. “I am.”
“Leave off, Poche!” barked the German at the tiny dog. “Monsieur Lange-Wilsdorf,” Madame Lefoux explained to Alexia and Floote, “is a biological analytical technician of some note. He has a particular expertise that you may find rather interesting, Alexia.”
The German opened his door farther and craned his neck to see around Madame Lefoux to where Alexia stood shivering.
“Alexia?” He scanned her face in the faint light of the street torch. “Not the Alexia Tarabotti, the Female Specimen?”
“Would it be good or bad if I were?” The lady in question was a little distressed to be engaging in a protracted doorstep conversation in the nighttime cold with a man garbed in red and white striped flannel.
Madame Lefoux said, with a flourish, “Yes, the Alexia Tarabotti.”
“I cannot believe it! The Female Specimen, at my door? Really?” The little man thrust said door wide and nipped out and around Madame Lefoux to grab Alexia warmly by the hand, pumping it up and down enthusiastically in the American style of greeting. The dog, perceiving a new threat, let go of Madame Lefoux’s trouser and began yipping again, heading in Alexia’s direction.
Alexia wasn’t really sure she enjoyed being referred to as a specimen. And the way the German looked at her was almost hungry.
Alexia prepared her parasol with her free hand. “I would not, young sir, if I were you,” she said to the dog. “My skirts have been through quite enough for one evening.” The dog appeared to think better of his attack and began jumping up and down in place, all four legs oddly straight.
“Come in, come in! The greatest marvel of the age, here, on my very doorstep. This is—how do you say?—fantastic, ya, fantastic!” The little man paused in his enthusiasm upon noticing Floote for the first time, silent and still to one side of the stoop.
“And who is this?”
“Uh, this is Mr. Floote, my personal secretary.” Alexia stopped staring ominously down at the dog in time to answer so Floote didn’t have to.
Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf let go of Alexia and went to walk a slow turn around Floote. The German gentleman was still in his nightshirt, in the street, but he didn’t seem to notice the faux pas. Alexia figured that as she had just shown her bloomers to half of France, she didn’t have the right to be scandalized by this behavior.
“Is he, is he really? Nothing more evil than that? No? Are you certain?” Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf reached out a crooked finger and yanked down Floote’s cravat and shirt, checking the neck area for marks.
Growling, the dog glommed onto Floote’s boot.
“Do you mind, sir?” Floote looked decidedly put-upon. Alexia couldn’t tell if it was the man or his dog that irritated most; Floote could abide neither a wrinkled collar nor damp shoes.
Seeing nothing incriminating, the German left off torturing Floote with his vulgar behavior. Once again he grabbed Alexia by the hand and positively dragged her into his tiny house. He gestured for the other two to follow, giving Floote yet another dubious once-over. The dog escorted them inside.
“Well, you realize, under ordinary circumstances, I wouldn’t. Not a man, not so late at night. Never can tell with the English. But I suppose, just this once. Though, I did hear some of the terrible, terrible rumors about you, young miss.” The German raised his chin and attempted to look down on Alexia, as though he were some kind of disapproving maiden aunt. It was a particularly unsuccessful look, as, aside from not being her aunt, he was a good head shorter than Alexia.
“Heard you had married a werewolf. Ya? What a thing for a preternatural to go and be doing. A most unfortunate choice for the Female Specimen.”
“Is it?” Alexia managed to get just those two words in before Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf continued on without apparent pause or need for breath, shepherding them into a messy little parlor.
“Yes, well, we all make the mistakes.”
“You have no idea,” muttered Alexia, feeling a strange aching pain of loss.
Madame Lefoux began poking about the room with interest. Floote took up his customary station by the door.
The dog, exhausted by his own frenzy, went and curled in front of the cold fireplace, a posture that made him look, if possible, even more like a common household cleaning device.
There was a bell rope near the door, which the little man began to tug on, at first gently and then with such enthusiasm he was practically swinging from it. “You will be wanting tea, I am certain. English are always with the wanting of tea. Sit down, sit down.”
Madame Lefoux and Alexia sat. Floote did not.
Their host bustled over to a little side table and took a small box out of a drawer. “Snuff?” He flipped the lid and offered the leaf about.
Everyone declined. But the German seemed unwilling to accept Floote’s refusal. “No, no, I insist.”
“I do not partake, sir,” objected Floote.
“Really, I insist.” A sudden hardness entered Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf’s eyes.
Floote shrugged, took a small portion, and inhaled delicately.
The German watched him closely the entire time. When Floote showed no abnormal reaction, the little man nodded to himself and put the snuffbox away.
A disheveled manservant entered the room.
The dog awoke and, despite a clearly extensive association with the domestic staff, launched himself at the boy as though he posed a grave threat to the safety of the world.
“Mignon, we have the guests. Bring up a pot of Earl Grey and some croissants at once. Earl Grey, mind you, and that basket of kumquats. Thank God for the kumquats.” He narrowed his eyes at Floote once more, in an “I’m not finished with you, young man” kind of way.
Floote, who was a good deal older than the German gentleman, remained utterly impassive.
“Well, this is delightful, ya, delightful. Alexia Tarabotti, here in my home.” He took off his nightcap to enact a twitchy little bow in Alexia’s direction. The action revealed a set of precariously large ears, which looked as though they rightly belonged to someone else.
“Never met your father, but I have studied much over his stock. First to breed a female soulless in seven generations, ya. It is a miracle, some have claimed, the Female Specimen.” He nodded to himself. “I have the theory, of course, to do with brood female mixing outside of Italy. Brilliant choice of your father’s, ya? A little of the fresh blood of English.”
Alexia could hardly believe the statement. As though she were the result of some kind of horse-breeding program. “Now, I say—!”
Madame Lefoux interjected at this juncture, “Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf here has been studying the preternatural state for many years now.”
“It has been difficult, most difficult, indeed, ya, to find a live specimen. My little trouble with the church, you understand.”
“Come again?” Alexia checked her rage in favor of curiosity. Here was a scientist who might really know something.
The German blushed and worried his sleeping cap about with both hands. “A little—how do you say?—spot of bother. Had to move to France and leave much of my research behind. A travesty.”
Alexia looked to Madame Lefoux for an explanation.
“He was excommunicated,” said the inventor in a grave, hushed voice.
The little man blushed even redder. “Ah, you heard of it?”
Madame Lefoux shrugged. “You know how the Order gossips.”
A sigh met this statement. “Well, regardless, you have brought me this fine visitor. A living, breathing female preternatural. You will allow me to ask you questions, young lady, ya? Perhaps, a test or two?”
A tap came at the door, and the manservant entered bearing a tea tray.
Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf accepted the tray and then waved the man away. He poured the tea, strong and redolent of the scent of bergamot. Alexia didn’t much like Earl Grey; it was well out of fashion in London and was never served in any of the establishments she frequented. Vampires were not fond of citrus. Which, she realized, must be why the little man was now pressing the tea and a small pile of kumquats on the austere Floote.
“The snuff!”
Everyone looked at her.
“Ah, you decided you wanted to try some, ya, Female Specimen?”
“Oh, no. I simply realized. You made Floote take snuff as a werewolf check. They hate snuff. And now you’re using the Earl Grey and the kumquats to see if he’s a vampire.”
Floote arched one eyebrow, took a kumquat, and popped it whole into his mouth, chewing methodically.
“You do realize, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, that vampires are perfectly capable of consuming citrus? They just don’t like it.”
“Yes, of course, I’m well aware. But it is a good—how do you say?—initial check, until sun comes up.”
Floote sighed. “I assure you, sir, I am not of a supernatural inclination.”
Alexia snickered. Poor Floote looked extremely put-upon.
The little German did not seem convinced by mere verbal guarantees. He kept a jaundiced eye on Floote and maintained proprietary control of the bowl of kumquats. For future use as projectile weaponry, perhaps?
“Of course, you could still be a claviger or drone-type person.”
Floote huffed out a small puff of annoyed breath.
“You already checked him for bite marks,” pointed out Alexia.
“Absence of the marks is not absolute proof, especially as he may be a claviger. You did marry a werewolf, after all.”
Floote looked as though he had never been more insulted in his life. Alexia, still smarting over the “Female Specimen” moniker, sympathized.
In a lightning change of mood that seemed to characterize the little man’s paranoia, the German looked with sudden new suspicion at Alexia. “The verification.” He muttered to himself. “You understand, ya? Of course you do. Must verify you as well. Ah, if only I had my counter. Have this little poltergeist problem. Perhaps you could see your way to an exorcism? Should not be hard for the Female Specimen.” He glanced at a small window to one side of the room, curtains thrown wide to let in the rapidly brightening dawn. “Before sunrise?”
Alexia sighed. “This could not possibly wait until tomorrow evening? I have been traveling most of the night. I suppose you could call it traveling.”
The little man grimaced at her but did not take the hint, as any good host would have.
“Really, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, we have only just arrived,” Madame Lefoux protested.
“Oh, very well.” Alexia put down her tea, which wasn’t very good, anyway, and half a croissant, which was buttery and delicious. If it was necessary for this odd little man to trust them in order to get some answers out of him, she was equal to the task. Alexia sighed, angry once more at her husband’s rejection. She wasn’t entirely certain how just yet, but she intended to blame this latest nuisance on Lord Conall Maccon as well as everything else.
The dog, Poche, led the way down several flights of stairs and into a tiny cellar, barking with unwarranted enthusiasm the entire time. Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf apparently did not notice the racket. Alexia resigned herself to the fact that it was the creature’s normal mode of operation—when its eyes were open, so, too, was its mouth.
“You must think me the terrible host, ya.” The German said this with an air of one attending to the requirements of society rather than one experiencing actual remorse.
Alexia could think of nothing to say in response, as, so far as it went, it was perfectly true. Any host worth his blood would have seen them decently abed by now, supernatural or not. No gentleman would insist his guest perform an exorcism without providing accommodations first, let alone a decent meal. So Alexia simply clutched her parasol and followed the German and his frenzied canine down into the bowels of his cramped and dirty house. Madame Lefoux and Floote seemed to feel their presence was not required on this jaunt and remained upstairs in the parlor, sipping at the vile tea and consuming, very probably, all of the excellent croissants. Traitors.
The cellar was gloomy in all the ways cellars ought to be and included, just as the man had said, a ghost in the final throes of poltergeist phase.
Above the little dog’s barking came the intermittent keening wail of second-death. As if that were not bad enough, the poltergeist had gone to pieces. Alexia could not abide clutter, and, having lost almost all of its capacity for cohesion, this ghost was very messy, indeed. It was flitting about the dark musty interior as pale wisps of body parts, entirely dismembered—an elbow here, an eyebrow there. Alexia started and let out a little squeak upon encountering a single eyeball, all intelligence gone from its depths, staring at her from the top of a wine rack. The cellar also smelled badly of formaldehyde and rotten flesh.
“Really, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf.” Alexia’s voice was cold with disapproval. “You ought to have seen to the unfortunate soul weeks ago and never let it get this bad.”
The man rolled his eyes dismissively. “On the contrary, Female Specimen, I rented this house because of the ghost. I have long been interested in recording exact stages of homo animus disanimation. And since my trouble with the Vatican, I switched the focus of my studies onto ghosts. I have managed three papers on this one alone. Now, I must admit, she has become much less. The staff refuses to come down here. I keep having to fetch wine myself.”
Alexia narrowly avoided walking through a floating ear. “Which must be very vexing.”
“But it has been useful. I theorize that remnant animus is carried on aether eddies as weakening of tether commences. I believe my work here has proved this hypothesis.”
“You mean to say that the soul rides the aether air, and as the body decomposes, its hold on the soul disintegrates? Like a sugar lump in tea?”
“Ya. What else could explain random floating of noncorporeal body parts? I have excavated the corpse, just there.”
Sure enough, a hole had been dug into one corner of the cellar floor, inside of which lay the mostly decomposed skeleton of a dead girl.
“What happened to the poor thing?”
“Nothing significant. I got much needed information out of her before she went mad. The parents could not afford graveyard fees.” He tut-tutted and shook his head at the shame of it. “When she turned out to have excess soul and went ghost, the family enjoyed still having her around. Unfortunately, they all then died of cholera and left her here for the next occupants to enjoy. Been that way until I came along.”
Alexia looked about at the floating wisps. A toenail bobbed in her direction. In fact, all of the remnant body parts were floating softly toward her, as water will go down a drain. It was both eerie and unsettling. Still she hesitated. Her stomach, and its nearby problematic companion, objected to both the smell of death and the certain knowledge of what she must do next. Holding her breath, Alexia crouched down near the gravesite. The hole for the body had been dug directly into the dirt of the cellar floor with no attempt made to preserve the corpse for supernatural longevity until the German came along. The child would not have had long to be a proper ghost before the madness of decomposing flesh began taking her away. It was a cruel business.
What was left was a sad crumpled little skeleton, mostly defleshed by maggots and mold. Alexia carefully removed one glove and reached down. She chose what looked to be the least decomposed part of the child’s head and touched her there once. The flesh was incredibly squishy under her fingertip and compressed easily like wet sponge cake.
“Ugh.” Alexia drew her hand back with a jerk of disgust.
The faintly luminescent wisps of body parts floating around the cellar vanished instantly, dispersing into the musty air as preternatural touch severed the last of the soul’s tether to its body.
The German looked around, mouth slightly open. The little dog, for once, stopped barking. “Is that all?”
Alexia nodded, brushing her fingertip against her skirt several times. She stood.
“But I did not even have my notebook out yet! What a—how do you say?—wasted opportunity.”
“It is done.”
“Extraordinary. I have not observed a preternatural end a ghost before now. Quite extraordinary. Well, that confirms that you are in truth, what you say you are, Female Specimen. Congratulations.”
As if I have won some sort of prize. Alexia raised her eyebrows at that, but the little man didn’t seem to notice. So she made her way firmly back up the stairs.
The German trotted after. “Truly, truly extraordinary. Perfect exorcism. Only a preternatural can accomplish such a thing with one touch. I had read of it, certainly, but to see it, right there, in front of me. Do you find the effects more rapid for you, than for the males of your species?”
“I would not know, never having met one.”
“Of course, of course. Ya. Cannot share the same air, preternaturals.”
Alexia made her way back to the parlor, where Madame Lefoux and Floote had left her one of the croissants. Thank goodness.
“How was it?” asked the Frenchwoman politely, if a little coldly. The last ghost Alexia had exorcised had been a very dear friend of Madame Lefoux’s.
“Squishy.”
Madame Lefoux wrinkled her pert little nose. “One imagines it must be.”
The German went to look out the window, clearly awaiting full sunrise. The sun was beginning to show just over the rooftops, and Alexia was pleased to see that Nice might, just possibly, be slightly less dirty than Paris. The dog vibrated its way around the room yipping at each visitor in turn, as though it had not remembered their presence, which might be the case given its apparent lack of a brain, before collapsing in an exhausted pouf under the settee.
Alexia finished her croissant using only her untainted hand and then waited patiently, hoping against hope that sometime soon they might be offered beds. It felt like a very long time since she’d slept. She was beginning to feel numb with tiredness. Madame Lefoux seemed to feel much the same, for she had nodded off. Her chin dipped down into the bow of her cravat. Her top hat, still partially wrapped with Monsieur Trouvé’s scarf, tipped forward on her head. Even Floote’s shoulders were sagging ever so slightly.
The first rays of the sun crept in over the windowsill and speared into the room. Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf watched avidly as the light touched Floote’s trouser leg. When Floote did not immediately burst into flames or run screaming from the room, the little German relaxed for what Alexia suspected was the first time since they had knocked on his door.
With still no offer of a sleeping chamber forthcoming, Alexia took a deep breath and faced her host squarely. “Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, why all this bother and testing? Are you a true believer? I would have thought that odd in a member of the Order of the Brass Octopus.”
Madame Lefoux cracked her eyelids at her friend’s direct speech and tipped her top hat back on her head with one elegant finger. She regarded the little German with interest.
“Perhaps, perhaps. My research is delicate, dangerous, even. If I am to trust you, or help you, it is important, vital, that none of you are—how do I put this?—undead.”
Alexia winced. Madame Lefoux straightened out of her slouch, abruptly much less drowsy. “Undead” was not a word one used openly in polite society. The werewolves, vampires, and even newly minted ghosts found it understandably distasteful to be referred to as such. Much in the same way that Alexia objected when the vampires called her a soul-sucker. It was, simply put, vulgar.
“That is a rather crude word, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, wouldn’t you say?”
“Is it? Ah, you English and your semantics.”
“But ‘undead,’ certainly, is not apt.”
The man’s eyes went hard and flinty. “I suspect that depends on what you define as living. Ya? Given my current studies, ‘undead’ suits very well.”
The French inventor grinned. Her dimples showed. Alexia wasn’t certain how they did it, but those dimples managed to look quite crafty. “Not for long it won’t.”
Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf tilted his head, intrigued. “You know something of relevance to my research, do you, Madame Lefoux?”
“You are aware that Lady Maccon here married a werewolf?”
A nod.
“I think you should tell him what has happened, Alexia.”
Alexia grimaced. “He might be helpful?”
“He is the closest thing to an expert on the preternatural the Order of the Brass Octopus has. Templars might know more, but it’s difficult to say.”
Alexia nodded. She weighed her options and finally decided the risk was worth it. “I am pregnant, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf.”
The German looked at Alexia with a distinct air of covetousness. “Felicitations and condolences. You will not, of course, be able to—how do you say?—carry to term. No preternatural female has in recorded history. A great sadness to the Templars and their breeding program, of course, but…” He trailed off at Madame Lefoux’s continued grin.
“You are implying? No, it cannot be. She is pregnant by the werewolf?”
Alexia and Madame Lefoux both nodded.
The German turned away from the window and came to sit close to Alexia. Too close. His eyes were hard and greedy on her face.
“You would not be covering up for, how you English might say, a little indiscretion?”
Alexia was tired of all the games. She gave him a look that suggested the next person to even hint she was unfaithful would be receiving the worst her parasol had to offer. She had hoped he would know something that might result in a different reaction.
“How about,” she suggested in clipped tones, “you assume I am telling the truth in this matter and we leave you to theorize on the subject while we attend to some much-needed rest?”
“Of course, of course! You are with child; you must sleep. Imagine such a thing, a preternatural pregnant by a supernatural. I must do research. Has it ever been tried before? The Templars would not think to breed the werewolf with soulless. The very idea. Ya, amazing. You are, after all, scientific opposites, each other’s end. With rarity of females of either species, I can see a basis for absence of proper documentation. But if you speak truth, why, what a miracle, what a fabulous abomination!”
Alexia cleared her throat loudly, placing one hand to her stomach and the other on her parasol. She might think of this baby as inconvenient, even hate it sometimes, but far be it for some diminutive German with bad taste in pets to describe it as an abomination. “I do beg your pardon!”
Madame Lefoux recognized that tone in Alexia’s voice and jumped to her feet. Grabbing Alexia by the hand, she attempted to pull her friend up and out of the room.
Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf had whipped out a notepad and, oblivious to Alexia’s anger, began scribbling away, all the while muttering to himself.
“We shall find guest rooms on our own, shall we?” suggested the Frenchwoman over Alexia’s angry sputtering.
Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf made a dismissive movement with his stylographic pen, not looking up from his ruminations.
Alexia found her voice. “Couldn’t I just whack him once? Just a little one, over the head? He would hardly notice.”
Floote raised one eyebrow and took hold of Alexia’s elbow, helping Madame Lefoux to remove her bodily from the room. “Bed, I think, madam.”
“Oh, very well,” conceded Alexia, “if you insist.” She glared at Madame Lefoux. “But you had better be right about this character’s character.”
“Oh”—the dimples were back—“I believe he may surprise you.”
“Like being served wet toad on toast?”
“He could prove you’re right. That Lord Maccon fathered your child.”
“That’s the only possible way this could be worth it. ‘Female Specimen,’ indeed! Sounds like he plans to dissect me with a clinkering-spud.”
When Alexia finally came down to breakfast the next morning, it was, in fact, no longer morning at all, but early afternoon. Madame Lefoux and Floote were already seated at the small dining table, as was the little German scientist. He was entirely absorbed in some research while eating—deplorable behavior! He was positively vibrating in excitement, almost as much as his feather duster of a dog.
As it was now daytime, both the German and his dog were a tad more formally attired. Alexia was a little surprised. She’d half expected Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf to still be wearing his striped nightshirt. Instead, he looked perfectly respectable in a tweed coat and brown trousers. He wore no cravat, to Floote’s obvious dismay. Alexia was, perhaps, less shocked by the missing cravat than she should have been. After all, eccentricity of dress was to be expected in foreigners for whom neckwear and cravats were regarded with suspicion, as they made it difficult to identify drones. Poche also wore tweed; a length of it was tied in a waterfall knot about the dog’s neck. Aha, thought Alexia, the missing cravat! The creature greeted Alexia’s arrival with the expected volley of frenzied barking.
Alexia arranged herself at the table without direction from her host and, as he did not appear to care one way or the other, she began helping herself to the repast. Today the infant-inconvenience wasn’t objecting to food. Buggery thing couldn’t make up its mind. Madame Lefoux greeted her with a fond smile and Floote with a little nod.
“Sir,” said Alexia to their host.
“Good afternoon, Female Specimen.” Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf did not look up from the open book and companion notepad upon which he was scribbling some complex formula.
Alexia scowled.
Whatever else might be said about Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf—and after his use of the term “abomination,” Alexia could certainly think of a good deal that she might say about him—he provided a decent spread. The food laid out for luncheon was light but tasty: roasted winter vegetables, cold poultry, bread that managed to be both crispy and fluffy, and a selection of flaky pastries. Alexia had extracted from the depths of her dispatch case some of the precious tea that Ivy had given her. It had survived the journey far better than anything else. She had also, after a moment’s consideration, transferred a small emergency amount into one of the pockets of her parasol, just in case. Fortunately, milk remained a cross-cultural universal, and the tea managed to taste just as delicious as it might have back in England. This resulted in a pang of homesickness so acute that Alexia actually did not speak for a good few minutes after the initial sip.
Madame Lefoux noticed her uncharacteristic silence.
“Are you feeling well, my dear?” The inventor placed a soft hand on Alexia’s upper arm.
Alexia started slightly and experienced an unacceptable welling of tears. Really, at her age! It seemed to have been a very long while since anyone touched her with genuine fondness. Air kisses and three-fingered pats on the head comprised the bulk of affectionate action in the Loontwill household, and had done since she was a child. It wasn’t until Conall had come into her life that Alexia became accustomed to physical intimacy. He enjoyed it immensely and had engaged in it with her at every possible opportunity. Madame Lefoux was not quite so aggressive, but she was French, and seemed to feel that verbal comfort ought to be companioned by a soothing caress. Alexia leaned into the embrace. The hand around her shoulder was not large and calloused, and Madame Lefoux smelled of vanilla and engine oil, not open fields, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“Oh, it is nothing. I was reminded of home there for one moment.” Alexia took another sip of the tea.
The German looked up at her curiously. “He did not treat you well? The werewolf husband?”
“Not as such in the end,” Alexia prevaricated, never one to talk about personal matters with strange little Germans.
“Werewolves, ya. Difficult creatures. What is left of the soul is all violence and emotion. It is a wonder you English have managed to integrate them into society.”
Alexia shrugged. “I am under the impression the vampires are more difficult to handle.”
“Really?”
Alexia, feeling she may have been traitorously indiscreet, grappled for the right way of phrasing it. “You know how vampires get, all high-up-mucky-mucky and I’m-older-than-thou.” She paused. “No, I suppose you do not know how they get, do you?”
“Mmm. I should have thought werewolves more an issue. With the running about in armies and the marrying of normal humans.”
“Well my particular werewolf did turn out a bit difficult. But, to be fair, he was perfectly suitable right up until the end.” Alexia was painfully conscious that “perfectly suitable” was a rather understated way of putting it. Conall had been a model husband in his massive grumpy way: tender, except when it wasn’t necessary, and then rough until gentleness was called for once more. She shivered slightly at the memories. He had also been loud and gruff and overprotective, but he had adored her. It had taken her a good deal of time before she believed that she was worth all that fierce affection he lavished upon her. To have it stolen away unjustly was that much more cruel.
“Isn’t the end result what counts?” Madame Lefoux cocked her head. She had taken against Conall most decidedly when he kicked Alexia out.
Alexia grimaced. “Spoken like a true scientist.”
“You cannot possibly forgive him for what he did?” Madame Lefoux seemed ready to reprimand Alexia.
Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf glanced up from his meal. “Cast you out, did he? Does he not think the child is his?”
“Howlers have never sung of a werewolf child.” Alexia couldn’t believe it, but she was actually defending her husband. “And loving me apparently wasn’t enough to get him over that fact. He didn’t even give me a chance.”
The German shook his head. “Werewolves. Emotion and violence, ya?” Then he put down his stylographic pen decidedly and leaned forward over book and notepad. “I spent all morning with research. My records would seem to substantiate his assessment. Although, lack of corroborative cases or other information does not make for real evidence. There are older records.”
“Records kept by vampires?” Alexia theorized, thinking of the Vampire Edicts.
“Records kept by Templars.”
Floote gave a little wince. Alexia glanced at him. He chewed his food impassively.
“So you think the Templars might have some hint as to how this is possible?” Alexia gestured delicately at her midsection.
“Ya. If this has happened before, they will have records of it.”
Alexia had grand romantic visions of marching into Conall’s office and slamming down proof of her innocence—of making him eat his words.
“And what of your theories, Monsieur Lange-Wilsdorf?” asked Madame Lefoux.
“I believe, if I abandon the concept of undead but maintain my aetheric analysis of the composition of the soul, I might be able to explain this pregnancy.”
“Will you be able to maintain the principles of epidermal contact?”
The German looked impressed. “You are indeed familiar with my work, madame. I thought you were an engineer by training?”
Madame Lefoux flashed her dimples. “My aunt is a ghost and so was my grandmother. I have a keen interest in understanding excess soul.”
The horrible little dog came over to yap at Alexia’s ankle, and then, to add insult to injury, began to chew on one of her bootlaces. Alexia picked the serviette up off of her lap and surreptitiously dropped it on Poche’s head. The animal attempted to back out from under it, with little success.
“You believe you may have excess soul?” The German was apparently unaware of his dog’s predicament.
The Frenchwoman nodded. “It seems likely.”
Alexia wondered what that might feel like, knowing one was likely to end life as a poltergeist. She herself would die with no possibility of salvation or immortality. Preternaturals had no soul to save for either God or ghost.
“Then why not seek immortality, now that you live in England where such atrocities are openly encouraged?” Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf curled his lip.
Madame Lefoux shrugged. “Despite my preferred mode of dress, I am still a woman, and I know my chances of surviving a werewolf bite, not to mention vampire blooding, are extremely slim. Besides, I do not wish to lose what little skill I have as an inventor alongside the bulk of my soul. To become entirely dependent upon the goodwill of a pack or a hive? No thank you. And simply because my relatives were ghosts does not necessarily mean I, too, have excess soul. In the end, I am not that much of a risk taker.”
The little dog had managed to circumnavigate the entire table without shaking off the offending serviette. Alexia coughed and rattled her dinnerware to disguise the sound of the animal bumping into various objects about the room. Floote, now within reach, bent down and removed the cloth from the dog’s head, issuing Alexia a reproving look.
Alexia had never thought to ask, but come to think of it, it was indeed odd that an inventor of Madame Lefoux’s particularly high creative skill level should have no supernatural patron. The Frenchwoman maintained good working relationships with the Westminster Hive and the Woolsey Pack, but she also dealt with loners, roves, and daylight folk. Alexia had thought the inventor’s avoidance of metamorphosis and supernatural patronage stemmed from personal objections, not practical ones. Now she was forced to consider, had she herself been born with Madame Lefoux’s options, would she choose the same path?
The German was not impressed. “I should prefer if you were a religious protester rather than an ethical objector, Madame Lefoux.”
“It is better, then, Monsieur Lange-Wilsdorf, that I act to suit myself and not you. Is it not?”
“So long as the end result is one less supernatural.”
“Oh, really. Must we talk politics while eating?” Alexia interjected at this juncture.
“By all means, Female Specimen, let us turn the conversation back to you.” The little man’s eyes were quite hard as he focused them upon her, and Alexia had a sudden sense of alarm.
“It is quite remarkable, you understand, your pregnancy. Until last night, I would have sworn that vampires and werewolves could only breed through metamorphosis. Ya? Your preternatural touch, it does not cancel out the fact that the supernatural person has, already, mostly died. It turns them mortal, ya, but not human, certainly not sufficient to procreate naturally.”
Alexia nibbled a piece of fruit. “Obviously this is an incorrect statement you make, sir.”
“Obviously, Female Specimen. So I have—how do you say?—rethought the situation. There is one line of scientific evidence to support your claim. That line is the fact that both vampires and werewolves still engage in”—the little man paused, a bright flush suffusing his pale features—“well, bedroom activities.”
“Of an extensive and rather experimental nature, if the rumors are to be believed.” Madame Lefoux waggled her eyebrows suggestively. Trust the only French person at the table to be at ease with this topic of conversation. Alexia, Floote, and Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf all looked painfully uncomfortable and shared a moment of awkward solidarity. Then the little German soldiered bravely on.
“There has to be a reason the procreative urges aren’t eliminated postmetamorphosis. Yet, none of my books could adequately address this concern. If they really were undead, werewolves should no longer have need of that particular biological function.”
“So how, exactly, does this pertain to my situation?” Alexia stopped eating to listen with renewed interest.
“It seems clear that your husband’s capacity to continue to, er, perform, even as a werewolf, must be linked to an instinctual need to produce offspring the old-fashioned way. Modern science tells us that, thus, offspring must be a possibility, however infinitesimal. You, it would appear, are that infinitesimal possibility. The problem is, of course, the inevitable miscarriage.”
Alexia blanched.
“I am sorry to say there is no way around that fact. If the Templar preternatural breeding program proved nothing else, it proved that preternaturals always breed true. And similarly that they cannot occupy the same air space. Essentially, Female Specimen, you have an intolerance for your own child.”
Alexia had shared a room with a preternatural mummy once; she knew the feeling of discomfort and repulsion that would be her fate should she ever encounter another preternatural. But she had not yet felt that feeling from the embryo inside her.
“The child and I are not sharing any air,” she objected.
“We are aware that preternatural abilities are a matter of physical contact. In this, the Templar records are clear, and I recall them well. All Female Specimens experimented upon over the centuries were barren or unable to carry a child. It is not a matter of if you will lose this embryo—it is a matter of when.”
Alexia sucked in her breath. Unexpectedly, it hurt. Quite apart from the loss of the child, this would mean that Conall’s rejection and abuse had all been for naught. It was stupid, and hopeless, and…
Madame Lefoux came to her rescue. “Except that this may not be an ordinary preternatural child. You said it yourself—they are usually the result of daylight and preternatural crossings. Alexia’s baby has a werewolf father, and as mortal as her touch would have made him at the time of conception, he was still not human. Not entirely, for he had already lost much of his soul. This child is something different. It must be.” She turned to look at her friend. “It is a safe bet that the vampires aren’t trying to kill you simply because you are about to miscarry a soulless. Particularly not the English vampires.”
Alexia sighed. “It is at times like this I wish I could talk to my mother.”
“Good gracious, what good would that do, madam?” Floote was moved to speak by the outrageousness of Alexia’s statement.
“Well, whatever she said, I could simply take the opposite point of view.”
Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf was not to be distracted by family history. “You have felt no queasiness or revulsion for the specimen inside?”
Alexia shook her head.
The German began muttering to himself. “Something must be off in my calculations. Perhaps the aetheric exchange conduction between mother and child is limited by partial soul retention. But why, then, wouldn’t a child retain part of the soul of a daylight father? Different kind of soul, perhaps?” He scratched out his careful notes with a sweeping motion of the stylographic pen, flipped to a new page, and began scribbling again.
They all watched him in silence, Alexia having mostly lost her appetite, until he stopped midnotation.
He looked up, his eyes popping wide as the second half of Madame Lefoux’s statement finally worked its way into his brain. “Vampires trying to kill her? Did you say they were trying to kill her? That thing, sitting there at my table, in my house!”
Madame Lefoux shrugged. “Well, yes. Who else would they want to kill?”
“But that means they will be coming. They will be following her. Here! Vampires. I hate vampires!” Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf spat noisily on the floor. “Nasty, bloodsucking tools of the devil. You must get out. You must all leave, now! I am terribly sorry, but I cannot have you here under such circumstances. Not even for the sake of scientific research.”
“But, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, what a way to treat a fellow member of the Order of the Brass Octopus. Be reasonable; it is the middle of the day!”
“Not even for the Order!” The little man stood, looking as though he were about to get just as hysterical as his dog. “You must leave! I shall give you provisions, money, contacts in Italy, but you must quit my house now. Get to the Templars. They will take care of you, if only because the vampires want you dead. I am not equipped. I am not able to handle this.”
Alexia stood to find that Floote, being Floote, had at some point during the conversation sensed impending doom and vanished to their rooms. There he had obviously packed up her dispatch case, retrieved her parasol and their outerwear, and was waiting patiently in the doorway. He, at least, did not seem at all reluctant to leave.