Changeless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Second (19 page)

R
andolph Lyall was old, for a werewolf. Something on the order of three hundred or so. He had long since stopped counting.
And through all that time, he had played this little game of chess with local vampires: they moved their pawns and he moved
his. He’d been changed shortly before King Henry absorbed supernaturals legally into the British government, so he’d never
known the Dark Ages, not personally. But he, like every other supernatural on the British Isles, worked hard to keep them
from returning. Funny how such a simple objective could so easily become adulterated by politics and new technology. Of course,
he could simply march up to the Westminster Hive and
ask
them what they were about. But they would no more tell him than he would tell them Lord Maccon had BUR agents watching the
hive twenty-four hours a day.

Lyall reached his destination in far less time than it would have taken by carriage. He changed into human form in a dark
alley, throwing the cloak he’d carried in his mouth about his naked body. Not precisely dress appropriate for paying a social
visit, but he was confident his host would understand. This
was
business. Then again, one never could tell with vampires. They had, after all, dominated the fashion world for decades as
a kind of indirect campaign against werewolves and the uncivilized state shifting shape required.

He reached forward and pulled the bell rope on the door in front of him.

A handsome young footman opened it.

“Professor Lyall,” said Professor Lyall, “to see Lord Akeldama.”

The young man gave the werewolf a very long look. “Well, well. You will not mind, sir, if I ask you to wait on the stoop while
I inform the master of your presence?”

Vampires were odd about invitations. Professor Lyall shook his head.

The footman disappeared, and a moment later, Lord Akeldama opened the door in his stead.

They had met before, of course, but Lyall had never yet had occasion to visit the vampire at home. The decoration was—he discerned
as he peered into the glittering interior—very loud.

“Professor Lyall.” Lord Akeldama gave him an appraising look through a beautiful gold monocle. He was dressed for the theater,
and one pinky pointed out as he lowered the viewing device. “And
alone.
To what do I owe this honor?”

“I have a proposition for you.”

Lord Akeldama looked the werewolf up and down once more; his blond eyebrows, darkened by artificial means, rose in surprise.
“Why, Professor Lyall, how
charming.
I think you had best come inside.”

Without looking up at Madame Lefoux, Alexia asked, “Is there anything built into my parasol to counteract poison?”

The inventor shook her head. “The parasol was designed as an offensive device. Had I known we would need an apothecary’s kit,
I would have added that feature.”

Lady Maccon crouched down over Tunstell’s supine form. “Run to the steward and see if he has an emetic on board, syrup of
ipecac or white vitriol.”

“At once,” said the inventor, and dashed off.

Lady Maccon envied Madame Lefoux the masculine attire. Her own skirts were getting caught about her legs as she tried to tend
to the afflicted claviger. His face was paper white, freckles stark against it, and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead
dampening his red hair.

“Oh no, he is suffering so. Will he recover soon?” Miss Hisselpenny had defied Alexia’s order and tracked them down to the
observation deck. She, too, crouched over Tunstell, her skirts spilling about her like a great over-iced meringue. She patted
uselessly at one of Tunstell’s hands, which were clenched over his stomach.

Alexia ignored her. “Tunstell, you must try to purge yourself.” She made her voice as authoritative as possible, disguising
her worry and fear with gruffness.

“Alexia!” Miss Hisselpenny was appalled. “Imagine suggesting such a thing. How undignified! Poor Mr. Tunstell.”

“He must eject the contents of his stomach before the toxin enters his system any further.”

“Do not be a ninnyhammer, Alexia,” replied Ivy with a forced laugh. “It is just a bit of food poisoning.”

Tunstell groaned but did not move.

“Ivy, and I mean this with the kindest and best of intentions, bugger off.”

Miss Hisselpenny gasped and stood up, scandalized. But at least she was out of the way.

Alexia helped Tunstell to turn over so he was on his knees. She pointed a finger over the side of the dirigible autocratically.
She made her voice as low and as tough as possible. “Tunstell, this is your Alpha speaking. Do as I tell you. You must regurgitate
now.” Never in all her time had Alexia supposed she would someday be ordering someone to throw up their supper.

But the command in her voice seemed to get through to the claviger. Tunstell stuck his head under the rail and over the side
of the dirigible and tried to retch.

“I can’t,” he said finally.

“You must try harder.”

“Regurgitation is an involuntary action. You cannot simply order me to do it,” replied Tunstell in a small voice.

“I most certainly can. Besides which, you are an actor.”

Tunstell grimaced. “I’ve never had cause to vomit onstage.”

“Well, if you do this, you shall know how if you need to in the future.”

Tunstell tried again. Nothing.

Madame Lefoux returned clutching a bottle of ipecac.

Alexia made Tunstell take a large gulp.

“Ivy, run and fetch a glass of water,” she ordered her friend, mostly to get her out of the way.

In moments, the emetic took effect. As unsavory as the supper had been to eat, it was even less pleasant going the other direction.
Lady Maccon tried not to look or listen.

By the time Ivy returned with a goblet of water, the worst was over.

Alexia made Tunstell drink the entirety of the glass. They waited a full quarter of an hour more while his color returned,
and he was finally able to attain an upright position.

Ivy was in a flutter over the whole incident, agitating about the recovering man with such vigor that Madame Lefoux was driven
to desperate measures. She extracted a small flask from her waistcoat pocket.

“Have a little nip of this, my dear. Calm your nerves.” She handed it to Ivy.

Ivy nipped, blinked a couple times, nipped again, and then graduated from frantic to loopy. “Why, that
burns
all the way down!”

“Let’s get Tunstell to his room.” Alexia hoisted the redhead to his feet.

With Ivy walking backward before them and weaving side to side like an iced tea cake with delusions of shepherding, Lady Maccon
and Madame Lefoux managed to get Tunstell to his rooms and onto bed.

By the time all the excitement had ended, Lady Maccon found she had lost her appetite entirely. Nevertheless, appearances
must be kept up, so she returned to the dining cabin with Ivy and Madame Lefoux. She was in a mental quandary: why on earth,
or in aether for that matter, would someone try to kill Tunstell?

Ivy walked into one or two walls on their way back.

“What did you give her?” Alexia hissed to the inventor.

“Just a bit of cognac.” Madame Lefoux’s dimples flashed.

“Very effective stuff.”

The rest of the meal passed without incident, if one ignored Ivy’s evident inebriation, which occasioned two spills and one
bout of hysterical giggling. Alexia was about to rise and excuse herself when Madame Lefoux, who had been silent throughout
most of the postpurge meal, spoke to her.

“Do you think you might take a little turn with me about the ship before bed, Lady Maccon? I should like a private word,”
she asked politely, dimples safely stored away.

Not entirely surprised, Alexia acquiesced, and the two left Felicity to sort out after-dinner activities on her own.

As soon as they were alone, the inventor got straight to the point. “I do not think the poison was meant for Tunstell.”

“No?”

“No. I believe it was meant for you, secreted in the first dish that you turned away and Tunstell consumed in your stead.”

“Ah, yes, I recall. You may be right.”

“What a strange temperament you have, Lady Maccon, to accept near-death so easily as that.” Madame Lefoux tilted her head
to one side.

“Well, the whole episode does make far more sense that way.”

“It does?”

“Why, yes. I cannot imagine Tunstell has many enemies, but people are always trying to exterminate me.” Lady Maccon was relieved
and strangely comfortable with this revelation, as though things were not right with the universe unless someone was actively
trying to kill her.

“Do you have a suspect?” the inventor wanted to know.

“Aside from you?” Lady Maccon shot back.

“Ah.”

The Frenchwoman turned away, but not before Alexia spotted a little tinge of hurt in her eyes. Either she was a good actress
or she was not guilty.

“I am sorry to offend,” said Lady Maccon, not sorry in the least. She followed the inventor over to the rail, leaning on it
next to her. The two women stared out into the evening aether.

“I am not upset that you think me capable of poison, Lady Maccon. I am offended you should think I would be so ham-handed
with it. Had I wished you dead, I have had ample opportunity and access to numerous techniques far less clumsy than the one
employed this evening.” She pulled a gold watch out of the pocket of her vest and pressed a little catch on the back. A small
injection needle sprang out of the bottom.

Alexia did not ask what was in the needle.

Madame Lefoux folded it back in and tucked the watch away once more.

Alexia took a long assessing look at the amount and type of jewelry the Frenchwoman wore. Her two cravat pins were in place,
one wood, one silver. And there was another chain leading to her other vest pocket. A different kind of watch, or some other
gadget, perhaps? The buttoner pin seemed suddenly suspicious, as did the metal cigar case tucked into the band of her top
hat. Come to think on it, Alexia had never seen the woman smoke a cigar.

“True,” said Alexia, “but the primitive nature of the attempt could be to throw me off the scent.”

“You are of a suspicious inclination, are you not, Lady Maccon?” The Frenchwoman still did not look at her but seemed to find
the cold night sky infinitely fascinating.

Lady Maccon came over philosophical. “Possibly that has something to do with having no soul. I prefer to think of it as pragmatism
rather than paranoia.”

Madame Lefoux laughed. She turned toward Alexia, dimples back.

And just like that, something solid hit Alexia hard across the back at exactly the correct angle to tilt her forward and over
the railing. She tumbled, ass over teakettle, right over the edge of the deck. She felt herself falling, and screaming, scrabbling
with both hands for purchase on the side of the dirigible. Why was the darn thing so smooth? The carrier body of the dirigible
was shaped like a huge duck, and the observation deck was at its fattest point. In falling down, she was also falling away.

There was a horrible long moment when Alexia
knew
all was lost. She knew that all her future held in store was the long cold rush of aether and then air followed by a sad,
wet thud. And then she was stopped with an abrupt jerk and flipped upside down, her head crashing hard into the side of the
ship. The reinforced metal hem of her dress, designed to keep her copious skirts from floating about in the aether breezes,
had wrapped fast around a spur that stuck out of the side of the ship two decks down, part of the docking mechanism.

She hung, suspended, her back against the ship’s side. Carefully, cautiously, she twisted, climbing her own body with her
hands, seeking out the spur of metal, until she could wrap her arms around it. She reflected that this was probably the first
and last time in her life she would have cause to value the ridiculous fashions society foisted upon her sex. She realized
she was still screaming and stopped, slightly embarrassed with herself. Her mind became a blur of worries. Could she trust
in the security of the little metal spur to which she now clung? Was Madame Lefoux safe? Had her parasol fallen over the edge
with her?

She took several calming breaths and assessed the situation:
not dead yet, but not precisely safe either.
“Halooo,” she called out. “Anyone? A little assistance if you would be so kind.”

The cold aether rushed past her, wrapping a loving chill about her legs, which were protected now only by her underdrawers
and were unused to such exposure. No one answered her call.

Only then did she realize that, despite the fact that she had stopped screaming, the screaming had not stopped. Above her,
she could see the figure of Madame Lefoux struggling against a cloaked opponent against the white backdrop of the blimp. Whoever
had pushed Alexia over the edge obviously intended Madame Lefoux to follow. But the inventor was putting up a good deal of
fight. She was struggling valiantly, arms pinwheeling, top hat tilting frantically from side to side.

“Help!” Alexia cried, hoping someone might hear her above the racket.

The struggling continued. First Madame Lefoux, then the covert enemy, leaned back over the railing, only to twist aside at
the last moment and fight on. Then Madame Lefoux jerked away, fumbling with something. There came the sound of a loud burst
of compressed air. The whole dirigible jerked suddenly to one side.

Alexia’s grip loosened. She was distracted from the battle above by her own, more pressing, danger as she tried to reestablish
her purchase on the helpful little spur.

The sound of forced air rang forth again, and the cloaked villain vanished from sight, leaving Madame Lefoux slumped back
against the railing above. The dirigible lurched again, and Alexia let out a little
eep
of distress.

“Halloo! Madame Lefoux, a little assistance if you please!” she yelled up at the top of her voice. She had cause to appreciate
her lung capacity and the vocal practice that living with a confrontational husband and a pack of unruly werewolves had given
her.