Blameless

upper hand and was reveling in the state of affairs. “I found myself in the possession of some, shall we call it, negotiating power, ya?”

“Ya?” Alexia was irritated enough to mimic him.

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf came to stand near her, looking down. Which must be a particularly unusual experience for him given his diminutive stature, Alexia thought nastily.

“The Templars will, with the information I provided, convince His Holiness Pope Blessed Pius IX to repeal my excommunication and accept me back into the fold.”

“Will they, indeed? I had no notion they possessed such influence.”

“They possess many things, Female Specimen, many things.”

“Well”—Alexia was suddenly quite nervous—“felicitations on your reintegration.”

“I have my laboratory back,” he continued proudly.

“Good, perhaps you can figure out how—”

The preceptor came into the library. Alexia stopped midsentence and looked him over, noticing bandages about his limbs and scrapes across his face. He was clearly a little worse for his encounter with the vampire and subsequent fall from the carriage.

“Ah, how are you feeling, Mr. Templar?”

Not bothering to answer, the preceptor came over, crossed his arms, and looked down at her as well. Eventually he spoke to her as though she were a recalcitrant child. “I am confused, My Soulless One.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Yes. Why is it you chose not to inform us of your delicate condition? We would have taken far greater care of your person had we known of it.”

Oh, mercy me. Alexia shifted, wary. She put down the snuffbox and grabbed her parasol. “Would you, indeed? Do you imply that you would not have, for example, used me as bait in a vampire trap?”

The preceptor ignored her barb. “Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf informs us that not only are you with child, but that the child’s father is a werewolf. Is this—”

Alexia held up a commanding hand. “Do not even begin that line of questioning with me. My husband is a werewolf, and despite any and all accusations to the contrary, he is undoubtedly the father. I will neither argue nor tolerate any insinuations against my integrity. I may be soulless, gentlemen, but I assure you I am faithful. Even Conall, blast him, has finally admitted that.”

The Templar snapped his mouth shut and nodded. She wasn’t convinced that he believed her, but frankly she didn’t care.

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf rubbed his hands together. “Indeed, in conjunction with your insistence, I have devised a new theory as to the nature of soul that I believe not only supports but indeed relies upon your avowal that the child has a supernatural father.”

“Are you saying the only way I could still be pregnant is if I were telling the truth?” Alexia felt her breath quicken in anticipation. Vindication at last!

“Well, ya, Female Specimen, precisely.”

“Would you care to elaborate?”

The little German seemed a tad taken aback by her calm acceptance. He did not notice how one of Alexia’s hands was now delicately fiddling with the handle of her parasol. She was also watching the Templar almost as closely as she watched him.

“You are not angry with me for the telling to the Templars of your little secret?”

Alexia was, but she pretended to be blasé. “Well, it was all over the London papers. I suppose they would have found out eventually. Still, you are a bit of a repulsive weasel, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps. But if this theory is correct, I will also be a most famous weasel.”

The Templar had taken a fascinated interest in Alexia’s snuffbox full of tea and was examining it. Alexia gave him a narrow look, daring him to comment on her idiosyncratic solution to the fact that none of the temple staff would respond to any of her requests. He said nothing.

“Very well, tell me of this theory of yours. And would you mind, terribly, removing your dog from my chair?”

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf swooped down and scooped up his energetic little animal. The creature immediately relaxed into a floppy, partly comatose state in his master’s arms. Draping the dog over one arm as a footman would a dishtowel, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf proceeded to use the beastie as a teaching tool for his explanation.

“Let us assume that there are certain particles in the human body that bond to ambient aether.” He prodded at the dog with one finger unhelpfully. “I shall call these particles ‘pneuma.’ ” He raised his poking finger into the air dramatically. “Supernaturals have broken this bond, losing most of their pneuma. They become immortal by reconfiguring what trace amounts of pneuma they have left into a flexible bond with ambient aetheric particles.”

“You are saying that the soul is not a measurable substance after all, but is in fact the type and rigidity of this bond?” Alexia was intrigued despite herself, and she switched the bulk of her attention to the German.

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf shook Poche at Alexia in his enthusiasm. “Ya! It is a brilliant theory, ya? It explains why we had no luck over the years measuring soul. There is nothing to measure—there is instead only type and strength of bond.” He swooped the dog about the room as though flying. “You, Female Specimen, as a preternatural, are born with the pneuma but no bonded aether at all, thus you are always sucking the aetheric particles out of the air. What you do when you touch the supernatural creature is break their flexible bond and suck all the aether out of them, turning them mortal.” He made a grasping motion with his hand over the dog’s head, as though scooping out the little beast’s brains.

“So, when the vampires called me a soul-sucker, they were not so far from the truth of it. But how does this explain the child?” Alexia attempted to refocus the little man on the most important part of his explanation.

“Well, the problem with two preternaturals is that they are both trying to suck aetheric particles at the same time. Thus they cannot share the same air space. But”—and in a triumphant crescendo, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf held his little white dog over his head in victory—“if the other parent is a supernatural, the child can inherit the flexible bond, or as we might think of it, a bit of the leftover excess soul.”

Poche gave a funny little howl as though to punctuate his owner’s final statement. Realizing he was waving about his pet in a most indiscriminate manner, the German put his dog back down on the floor. Immediately, Poche began barking and bouncing about, eventually deciding to launch a full-blown attack on a small golden throw pillow that was now not long for this world.

Alexia hated to admit it, but Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf’s theory was a sound one. It explained many things, not the least of which was why such children as the infant-inconvenience might be so very rare. Firstly, they required a supernatural to preternatural pairing, and the two species had hunted each other for most of recorded history. Secondly, they required either a female soulless, a female vampire, or a female werewolf. Preternaturals were rarely allowed near hive queens, and female werewolves were almost as rare as female preternaturals. There simply wouldn’t have been much of an opportunity for interbreeding.

“So, the question is, what kind of child am I going to produce, given Conall’s, uh, flexible bond?” Said in conjunction with her husband’s name, and considering his carnal preferences, Alexia found the terminology salacious. She cleared her throat, embarrassed. “I mean to say, will it be born preternatural or supernatural?”

“Ah, ya, well, difficult to predict. But I am thinking, perhaps, in my theory, that is to say, neither. The child, it could be simply normal. Perhaps possessing less soul than most.”

“But I will not lose it as you had previously thought?”

“No, no, you will not. If you are sensible with your own well-being.”

Alexia smiled. True, she was still not quite settled into the idea of being a mother, but she and the infant- inconvenience did seem to be arriving at some kind of arrangement.

“Why, that is superb news! I must go tell Genevieve immediately.” She stood, with every intention of dashing off to the infirmary, regardless of how this might upset any Templars she barreled into along 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.”