Blameless - By Gail Carriger Page 0,39

the teeth struck home, the challenger, whimpering in agony, wriggled onto his back, presenting his belly to Lord Maccon in surrender. The earl, still lying half on top of the unfortunate fellow, lurched off of him, spitting and sneezing over the flavor of eye goo and ear wax. Werewolves enjoyed fresh meat—they needed it, in fact, to survive—but other werewolves did not taste fresh. They tasted perhaps not quite so putrefied as vampires, but still old and slightly spoiled.

Professor Lyall stood and stretched—tail tip quivering. Perhaps, he thought as he trotted back to the cloakroom, this battle might be a good thing: to have it publicly known that Lord Maccon could still defeat a challenger, even when drunk. The rest of the pack could take care of cleaning up the mess. Now that the matter was settled, Professor Lyall had business to attend to. He paused in the cloakroom. He might as well run to London in wolf form, as he was already wearing his fur and his evening attire was now hopelessly wrinkled. He really must get his Alpha back on the straight and narrow—the man’s behavior was affecting his clothing. Lyall understood a broken heart, but it could not be allowed to rumple perfectly good shirtwaists.

The trouble with vampires, thought Alexia Tarabotti, was that they were quick as well as strong. Not as strong as werewolves, but in this particular instance Alexia didn’t have any werewolves fighting on her side—blast Conall to all three atmospheres—so the vampires had a distinct advantage.

“Because,” she grumbled, “my husband is a first-rate git. I wouldn’t even be in this situation if it weren’t for him.”

Floote gave her a look of annoyance that suggested he felt that now was not the time for connubial recriminations.

Alexia took his meaning perfectly.

Monsieur Trouvé and Madame Lefoux, having been disturbed from some detailed consultation on the nature of spring-loaded cuckoo clocks, were making their way around from behind a little workman’s table. Madame Lefoux pulled out a sharp-looking wooden pin from her cravat with one hand and pointed her other wrist at the intruders. Upon that wrist she wore a large wristwatch that was probably no wristwatch at all. The clockmaker, for lack of any better weapon, grasped the mahogany and pearl case of a cuckoo clock and brandished it in a threatening manner.

“Quoo?” said the clock. Alexia was amazed that even a tiny mechanical device could sound inexplicably French in this country.

Alexia pressed the appropriate lotus leaf, and the tip of her parasol opened to reveal a dart emitter. Unfortunately, Madame Lefoux had designed the emitter to fire only three shots, and there were four vampires. In addition, Alexia could not recall if the inventor had told her whether or not the numbing agent even worked on the supernatural. But it was the only projectile in her armament, and she figured all great battles began with an airborne offensive.

Madame Lefoux and Monsieur Trouvé joined Alexia and Floote at the bottom of the stairs, facing off against the vampires, who had slowed their hectic charge and were moving forward in a menacing manner, as cats will stalk string.

“How did they find me so quickly?” Alexia took aim.

“So they are after you, are they? Well, I suppose that is hardly a surprise.” The clockmaker glanced in Alexia’s direction.

“Yes. Terribly inconvenient of them.”

Monsieur Trouvé let out a rolling bark of deep laughter. “I did say you always brought me charming surprises, and trouble with them, didn’t I, Genevieve? What have you gotten me into this time?”

Madame Lefoux explained. “I am sorry, Gustave. We should have told you sooner. The London vampires want Alexia dead, and they appear to have passed the desire on to the Parisian hives.”

“Well, fancy that. How jolly.” The clockmaker did not seem upset, behaving more like a man on the brink of some grand lark.

The vampires pressed closer.

“Now, see here, couldn’t we discuss this like civilized beings?” Alexia, ever one for form and courtesy, was in favor of negotiations whenever possible.

None of the vampires responded to her request.

Madame Lefoux tried the same question in French.

Still nothing.

Alexia thought this dreadfully boorish. The least they could do was answer with a “No, killing is all we are interested in at the moment, but thank you kindly for the offer all the same.” Alexia had, in part, compensated for a lack of soul through the liberal application of manners. This was rather like donning an outfit consisting entirely of accessories, but Alexia maintained that proper conduct was never