But the creature that bounded into view was pure white, and his lupine face was humorless. He launched himself upon the young Templar, without apparent care for the naked blade, which was, Alexia had no doubt, silver. He was a beautiful specimen of Homo lupis, or would have been beautiful had he not been bent on mauling and mayhem. Alexia knew those eyes were icy blue without having to look. She couldn’t real y fol ow, anyway, as man and wolf met in the hal way. With a vociferous battle cry, the preceptor charged out of the cel and joined the fray.
Never one to sit back and dither, Alexia grabbed the stool more firmly, and when the younger Templar fel back toward her, she clouted him with the stool on top of the head as hard as she possibly could. Real y, she was getting terribly good at bashing skul s in her old age—rather unseemly of her.
The boy col apsed.
Now it was just the werewolf against the preceptor.
Alexia figured that Channing could take care of himself and that she’d better break for freedom while the preceptor was preoccupied. So she dropped the stool, hiked her skirts, and took off pel -mel down what looked to be the most promising passageway.
She ran smack-dab into Madame Lefoux, Floote, and Monsieur Trouvé.
Ah, right passageway! “Wel , hel o, you lot. How are you?”
“No time for pleasantries, Alexia, my dear. Isn’t it just like you, to be already escaped before we had the opportunity to rescue you?” Madame Lefoux flashed her dimples.
“Ah, yes. well , I am resourceful.”
Madame Lefoux tossed something at her, and Alexia caught it with the hand not holding up her skirts. “My parasol! How marvelous.”
Floote, she noticed, was carrying her dispatch case in one hand, and he had one of those tiny guns in his other.
Monsieur Trouvé offered Alexia his arm.
“My lady?”
“Why, thank you, monsieur, very kind.” Alexia managed to grasp it and her parasol and her skirts without too much difficulty. “I am rather grateful for the ladybugs, by the way; very nice of you to send them on.”
The clockmaker began hustling her down the hal way. It wasn’t until that moment that Alexia realized how large the catacombs were, and how far she had been stashed underground.
“Ah, yes, I borrowed the adaptation from the vampires. I put a doping agent in the antennae instead of poison. It proved an effective alternative.”
“Very. Until the swords came out, of course. I am afraid your three minions are no more.”
“Ah. Poor little things. They aren’t exactly battle-hardy.”
They ascended a steep flight of stairs and then dashed down another long hal way, one that seemed to go backward above the one they’d just run up.
“If you don’t find it impertinent of me to ask,” Alexia panted, “what are you doing here, monsieur?”
The Frenchman answered between puffs. “Ah, I came with your luggage. Left a marker so Genevieve would know I was here. I didn’t want to miss al the fun.”
“You and I clearly do not share a definition of the word.”
The Frenchman looked her up and down, his eyes positively twinkling. “Oh, come now, my lady, I think we may.”
Alexia grinned, it must be admitted, a tad more ferociously than genteel y.
“Watch out!” came Floote’s shout. He was leading the charge, closely fol owed by Madame Lefoux, but he had stopped suddenly ahead of them and, after taking aim, fired one of his tiny guns.
A group of about a dozen or so Templars was coming down the passageway toward them, preceded by the tweed-covered, dwarflike form of a certain German scientist.
Adding to the general y threatening overtones of the party, Poche led the charge, yapping and prancing about like an overly excited bit of dandelion fluff wearing a yel ow bow.
Floote reached for his second gun and fired again, but there was no time to get the first reloaded before the Templars were upon them. Floote seemed to have missed, anyway, for the enemy advanced undaunted. The only member troubled by the shot was the dog, who went into highly vocalized histrionics.
“I would surrender now, ya, if I were you, Female Specimen.”
Alexia gave Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf an innocent look from behind her little group of protectors; after al , it hadn’t been her idea to be rescued. She also hefted her parasol.
Alexia had faced down vampires. A handful of highly trained mortals would be easy by comparison. Or so she hoped.
The little German looked pointedly at Madame Lefoux and Monsieur Trouvé. “I am surprised at you both. Members in good standing with the Order of the Brass Octopus reduced to this, running and fighting. And for what? Protection of a soul ess? You do not even intend to properly study her.”
“And that is, of course, al you wish to do?”
“Of course.”
Madame Lefoux was not to be outmaneuvered by a German. “You forget, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, that I have read your research. Al of your research—even the vivisections. You were always inclined toward questionable methodology.”
“And you have no ulterior motive, Madame Lefoux? I heard you had received instructions from within the highest levels of the Order to fol ow and learn as much as possible about Lady Maccon and her child.”
“I am attracted to Alexia for many reasons,” replied the Frenchwoman.
Alexia felt a token protest was cal ed for at this juncture. “I mean to say, real y, I am near to developing a neurosis—is there anyone around who doesn’t want to study or kil me?”
Floote raised a tentative hand.
“Ah, yes, thank you, Floote.”
“There is also Mrs. Tunstel , madam,” he offered hopeful y, as if Ivy were some kind of consolation prize.
“I notice you don’t mention my fair-weather husband.”
“I suspect, at this moment, madam, he probably wants to kil you.”
Alexia couldn’t help smiling. “Good point.”
The Templars had been standing in stil and, unsurprisingly, silent vigil over this conversation. Quite unexpectedly, one of those at the back gave a little cry. This was fol owed by the unmistakable sound of fighting. Poche began barking his head off even more loudly and vigorously than before. Apparently less eager to attack when faced with real violence, the dog also cowered behind his master’s tweed-covered legs.
At a signal from the Templar who appeared to be the leader—the cross on his nightgown being bigger than the others—most of the rest whirled about to confront this new threat from the rear. This left only three Templars and the German scientist facing Alexia and her smal party—much better odds.
Floote went about busily reloading his two little pistols with new bul ets.
“What—?” Alexia was mystified into inarticulateness.
“Vampires,” explained Madame Lefoux. “We knew they’d come. They have been on our tail these last few days.”
“Which was why you waited until nightfal to rescue me?”
“Precisely.” Monsieur Trouvé twinkled at her.
“We wouldn’t want to be so boorish,” added Madame Lefoux, “as to arrive unexpectedly for a visit without a gift. So we brought plenty to go around.”
“Very courteous of you.”
Alexia craned her neck to try and make out what was going on. It was appropriately dark and gloomy in the catacombs, and hard to see around the men standing before her, but she thought she might just be able to see six vampires. Goodness, six is practically an entire local hive! They real y and truly must want her dead.
Despite being armed with wicked-looking wooden knives, the Templars seemed to be getting the worst of the encounter. Supernatural strength and speed came in rather handy during close-quarters fighting. The three Templars stil facing them turned away, eager to join the fight. That helped even the odds a bit, putting them in a two-to-one ratio.
The battle was proving to be peculiarly silent. The Templars made little noise beyond the occasional grunt of pain or smal cry of surprise. The vampires were much the same, silent, swift, and lethal.
Unfortunately, the broiling mess of fangs and fists was stil blocking Alexia’s only means of escape. “What do you say—think we can worm our way through?”
Madame Lefoux tilted her head to one side thoughtful y.
Alexia dropped her skirts and lifted her free hand suggestively. “With my particular skil set, such an endeavor could be quite entertaining. Monsieur Trouvé, let me just show you how this parasol works. I think I may need both my hands free.”
Alexia gave the clockmaker some quick tips on those armaments that might be used under their present circumstances.
“Beautiful work, Cousin Genevieve.” Monsieur Trouvé looked genuinely impressed.
Madame Lefoux blushed and then busied herself with her cravat pins, pul ing out both of them: the wooden one for the vampires, and the silver, for lack of anything better, for the Templars. Floote cocked his pistol. Alexia took off her gloves.
They had al forgotten about Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf—an amazing achievement considering that his absurd excuse for a dog was stil yapping away at the top of its lungs.
“But you cannot possibly leave, Female Specimen! I have not completed my tests. I did so want to cut the child out for dissection. I could have determined its nature. I could—” He left off speaking, for he was interrupted by a loud growling noise.
Channing came dashing up. The werewolf was looking a tad worse for wear. His beautiful white fur was streaked with blood, many of his wounds stil bleeding, for they were slower to heal when administered by a silver blade. Luckily, none of the injuries appeared to be fatal. Alexia didn’t want to think about how the preceptor might look right about now. It was a safe bet that one or more of his injuries were fatal.
Channing lol ed a tongue out and then tilted his head in the direction of the pitched battle going on just ahead of them.
“I know,” said Alexia, “you brought the cavalry with you. Real y, you shouldn’t have.”
The werewolf barked at her, as if to say, This is no time for levity.
“Very well , then, after you.”
Channing trotted purposeful y toward the broiling mass of vampires and Templars.
The German scientist, cowering away from the werewolf, yel ed at them from his position, flattened against the side wal of the passageway, “No, Female Specimen, you cannot go! I wil not al ow it.” Alexia glanced over at him, only to find he had pul ed out an extraordinary weapon. It looked like a set of studded leather bagpipes melded to a blunderbuss. It was pointed in her direction, but Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf’s hand was by no means steady on the trigger. Before anyone had a chance to react to the weapon, Poche, seized with a sudden bout of unwarranted bravery, charged at Channing.
Without breaking stride, the werewolf swiveled his head down and around, opened his prodigious jaws, and swal owed the little dog whole.
“No!” cried the scientist, instantly switching targets and firing the bagpipe blunderbuss at the werewolf instead of Alexia. It made a loud splattering pop sound and ejected a fist-sized bal of some kind of jel ied red organic matter that hit the werewolf with a splat. Whatever it was must not have been designed to damage werewolves, for Channing merely shook it off like a wet dog and gave the little man a disgusted look.
Floote fired in the same instant, hitting the German in one shoulder and then pocketing his gun, once more out of ammunition. Alexia thought she would have to get Floote a better, more modern gun, a revolver, perhaps.
Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf cried out in pain, clutched at his shoulder, and fel back.
Madame Lefoux marched over to him and grabbed the peculiar weapon out of his limp hand. “You know the truth of the matter, sir? Your ideas may be sound, but your research methods and your moral code are both highly questionable. You, sir, are a bad scientist!” With that, she clocked him in the temple with the muzzle of his own bagpipe gun. He fel like a stone.
“Real y, Channing,” remonstrated Alexia, “did you have to eat the man’s dog? I am convinced you wil experience terrible indigestion.”
The werewolf ignored them al and continued on toward the pitched hal way battle, which showed no signs of being firmly decided in either direction. Two to one were clearly good odds when the two were highly trained warrior monks and the one was a vampire.
Alexia ran after Channing to stir things up a bit.
While the werewolf proceeded to clear them a path via the simple expedient of eating his way through the fighters, Alexia, gloves off, tried to touch any and al that she could. The vampires were changed by her touch and the Templars repulsed; either way, she had the advantage.
Vampires dropped their opponents as they suddenly lost supernatural strength or found themselves viciously nibbling someone’s neck, having entirely lost their fangs. The Templars were quick to fol ow up any advantage, but they were distracted by the presence of a new and equal y feared enemy—a werewolf. They were also startled to find their quarry, supposedly a complacent Englishwoman of somber means and minimal intel igence, busily plying her art and touching them. Instinct took over, for they had been trained for generations to avoid a preternatural as they would avoid the devil himself, as a grave risk to their sacred souls. They flinched and stumbled away from her.
