Blameless

This only served to cause her foot to smart most egregiously.

“Oh, brother,” said Lady Maccon into the dark silence.

Alexia’s isolation did not last long, for a certain German scientist came to visit her.

“I have been relocated, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf.” Alexia was so distressed by her change in circumstances that she was moved to state the obvious.

“Ya, Female Specimen, I am well aware of the fact. It is most inconvenient, ya? I have had to move my laboratory as well, and Poche will not follow me down here. He does not like Roman architecture.”

“No? Well, who does? But, I say, couldn’t you persuade them to move me back? If one must be imprisoned, a nice room with a view is far preferable.”

The little man shook his head. “No longer possible. Give me your arm.”

Alexia narrowed her eyes suspiciously and then, curious, acquiesced to his request.

He wrapped a tube of oiled cloth about her arm and then proceeded to pump it full of air using a set of bellows via a mini spigot. The tube expanded and became quite tight. Pinching these bellows off, the scientist transferred a glass ball filled with little bits of paper to the spigot and let go. The air escaped with a whoosh, causing all the bits of paper to flutter about wildly inside the ball.

“What are you doing?”

“I am to determine what kind of the child you may produce, ya. There is much speculation.”

“I fail to see how those little bits of paper can reveal anything of import.” They seemed about as useful as tea leaves in the bottom of a cup. Which made her think yearningly of tea.

“Well, you had better hope they do. There has been some talk of handling this child… differently.”

“What?”

“Ya. And using you for—how to say?—spare parts.”

Bile, sour and unwelcome, rose in Alexia’s throat.

“What?”

“Hush now, Female Specimen, let me work.”

The German watched with frowning attention as the papers finally settled completely at the base of the ball, which, Alexia now realized, was marked with lines. Then he began making notes and diagrams of their location. She tried to think calming thoughts but was beginning to get angry as well as scared. She was finished with being thought of as a specimen.

“You know, they gave to me complete access to the records of their preternatural breeding program? They tried for nearly a hundred years to determine how to successfully breed your species.”

“Humans? Well that couldn’t have been too difficult. I am still human, remember?”

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf ignored this and continued his previous line of reasoning. “You always breed true, but low birth rate and rare female specimens were never explained. Also the program was plagued with the difficulty of the space allotment. Templars could not, for example, keep the babies in the same room or even the same house.”

“So what happened?” Alexia couldn’t help her curiosity.

“The program was stopped, ya. Your father was one of the last, you know?”

Alexia’s eyebrows made an inadvertent bid for the sky. “He was?” Hear that, infant- inconvenience, your grandfather was bred by religious zealots as a kind of biological experiment. So much for your family tree.

“Did the Templars raise him?”

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf gave her a peculiar look. “I am not familiar with the specifics.”

Alexia knew absolutely nothing about her father’s childhood; his journals didn’t commence until his university years in Britain and were, she suspected, originally intended as a vehicle for practicing English grammar.

The little scientist appeared to decide that he ought to say no more. Turning back to his bellows and sphere device, he finished his notations and then began a complex series of calculations. When he had finished, he set down his stylographic pen with a pronounced movement.

“Remarkable, ya.”

“What is?”

“There is only one explanation for such results. That you have trace intrinsic aether affixed to the—how to say?—middle zone, but it is behaving wrong, as though it were bonded but also not, as if it were in the state of flux.”

“Well, good for me.” Then Alexia frowned, remembering their previous discussion. “But, according to your theory, I should have no intrinsic aether at all.”

“Exactly.”

“So your theory is wrong.”

“Or the flux reaction is coming from the embryo.” Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf was quite triumphant in this proclamation, as though he was near to explaining everything.

“Are you implying that you understand the nature of my child?” Alexia was prepared to get equally excited. Finally!

“No, but I can say with the absolute confidence that I am very, very close.”

“Funny, but I do not find that at all reassuring.”

Lord Akeldama stood in the doorway of Professor Lyall’s office, dressed for riding. It was hard to read his face at the best of times and, under such circumstances as these, nigh on impossible.

“How do you do this evening, my lord?”

“La, my dear, tolerably well. Tolerably well. And you?”

They had, of course, met on more than one occasion in the past. Lyall had spent centuries nibbling about the great layer cake that was polite society while Lord Akeldama acted the part of the frosting on its top. Lyall knew a man was smart who kept a weather eye on the state of the frosting, even if most of his time was spent cleaning up crumbs. The supernatural set was small enough to keep track of most members, whether they skulked about BUR offices and the soldier’s barracks or the best drawing rooms the ton had to offer.

“I must admit to having had better evenings. Welcome to BUR headquarters, Lord Akeldama. Do come in.”

The vampire paused for a moment on the threshold, catching sight of Biffy’s sleeping form. He made a slight gesture with one hand. “May I?”

Professor Lyall nodded. The question was a veiled insult, reminding them both of what had been taken from the vampire unjustly. That he must now ask to look upon what had once been his. Lyall let him get away with it. Currently the vampire held all the cards, but Professor Lyall was reasonably convinced that if he just gave Lord Akeldama enough cravat material, he might be able to fashion it into a bow pleasing enough for all parties. Of course, the vampire might also turn it into a noose; it depended entirely on the outcome of this conversation.

Professor Lyall knew that vampires had a limited sense of smell and no clear method of sensing right away that Biffy was now a werewolf. But Lord Akeldama seemed to realize it, anyway. He did not try to touch the young man.

“That is quite the quantity of facial hair. I didn’t know he had it in him. I suppose that fuzzy is more appropriate given the current situation.” Lord Akeldama raised one long, slim white hand to the base of his own throat, pinching at the skin there. He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them and looking down on his former drone once more. “He looks so young when he is sleeping. I have always thought so.” He swallowed audibly. Then he turned and came back to stand in front of Lyall.

“You have been riding, my lord?”

Lord Akeldama looked down at his clothing and winced. “Necessity sometimes demands a sacrifice, young Randolph. Can I call you Randy? Or would you prefer, Dolphy? Dolly, perhaps?” Professor Lyall flinched noticeably. “Anyway, as I was saying, Dolly, I cannot abide riding—the horses are never happy to seat a vampire, and it plays havoc with one’s hair. The only thing more vulgar is an open carriage.”

Professor Lyall decided on a more direct approach. “Where have you been this past week, my lord?”

Lord Akeldama looked once more down at himself. “Chasing ghosts while pursued by daemons, as it were, Dolly darling. I am convinced you must be aware of how it