Blameless - By Gail Carriger Page 0,99
the way.
The preceptor stood up from his crouch, where he had been trying, unsuccessfully, to wrestle the pillow away from Poche, and spoke. Alexia had almost forgotten his presence. “I am afraid that will not be possible, My Soulless One.”
“Why not?”
“The French female was treated for her injuries and released into the care of the Florentine Hospitallers.”
“Were her injuries that serious?” Alexia felt a sudden pang of guilt. Had she been enjoying snuffbox-scented tea and good news while her friend lay dying?
“Oh, no, quite superficial. We simply found we could no longer offer her our hospitality. Mr. Floote as well was not invited to return and stay with us.”
Alexia felt her heart sink low into her chest, where it commenced a particular variety of rapid thumping. The sudden reversal from what, seconds before, might have been elation caused her to come over almost dizzy. She breathed in sharply through her nose.
Almost without thought, she opened her parasol, prepared to use even the sulfuric acid, undoubtedly the vilest of its armaments, if need be. Madame Lefoux had managed to find some replacement fluids. But before she had a chance to flip it around to the appropriate position, the library door opened.
Summoned by some unseen signal, a ridiculously large number of Templars clattered into the room. And they were clattering, for they were fully armored like the knights of the crusades they had been hundreds of years ago—heads covered in helms and bodies in silver-washed chain mail and plate under the obligatory nightgowns. Each had on a pair of heavy leather gloves, no doubt so they could touch Alexia without fear for their heavenly souls. Poche went absolutely crazy, barking at the top of his lungs and gyrating about the room in a succession of crazed leaps. Alexia thought it the most intelligent thing the creature had done in all its useless little life. The Templars, showing great reserves of dignity, entirely ignored him.
Alexia’s parasol was good, but it wasn’t good enough to take out that many people all at once. She closed it with a snap. “Why, Mr. Templar,” she said to the preceptor, “I am honored. All this for me? So very thoughtful. You really shouldn’t have.”
The preceptor gave Alexia one hard, long look and then, taking Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf firmly by the arm, left the library without responding to her sarcasm. Poche circled the room twice more and then bounced out after them like a fierce feather duster ejected at high pressure from a steam engine. My last defender, gone, thought Alexia grimly.
She looked to her opponents. “Very well, then. Take me to your dungeon!” Might as well give a command she was reasonably confident would be obeyed.
Professor Lyall set his precious cargo down upon the sofa in his office at BUR headquarters. Still unconscious, Biffy was as limp as overcooked broccoli. The couch was already covered in various piles of paperwork, aethographor slates, a stack of books, and several newspapers and scientific pamphlets, but Biffy didn’t seem to mind overly much. He curled onto one side like a little child, hugging an exceptionally uncomfortable-looking metal scroll affectionately to his chest.
Professor Lyall got to work preparing formal statements for the press, calling in various operatives and agents and then sending them back out again on important information-gathering missions, diplomatic interventions, and secret biscuit-acquisition operations (BUR’s kitchen was running low). He also sent a runner to the remaining members of the Woolsey Pack, instructing them to stay alert and stay armed. Who knew how the vampires might choose to retaliate? Usually, they were refined in their reactions, but killing one of them was, as a rule, not considered polite, and they might behave unfavorably. After that, Lyall managed one productive hour of activity before he was interrupted by the first in what he had no doubt would be a long line of offended dignitaries. It was not, however, a member of one of the hives come to complain about the potentate’s death. Rather unexpectedly, his first caller was a werewolf.
“Good evening, Lord Slaughter.”
The dewan hadn’t bothered with a cloak this time. With no disguise and no attempt made to hide his displeasure, either, Lyall had no doubt the dewan was officially representing Queen Victoria’s interests.
“Well, you made a dog’s bollocks of that, didn’t you, little Beta? Couldn’t have done worse with it when all’s said and done.”
“How do you do, my lord? Please, sit down.”
The dewan gave a disgusted look at the slumbering Biffy. “Looks like you already have company. What