Blameless

With that, Queen Victoria sailed out of the room, adrift on a sea of self-righteousness.

Lord Akeldama raised himself out of his bow, looking flabbergasted.

“Congratulations, my lord,” said Biffy timidly, attempting to stand shakily from the couch and approach his former master.

Professor Lyall hurried over to him. “Not yet, pup. You won’t have your legs back for a while longer.” He spoke the truth for, despite the fact that Biffy obviously wanted to walk on two legs, his brain seemed set on four, and he pitched forward with a surprised little cry.

Lyall caught him up and deposited him back on the couch. “It will take some time for your mind to catch up to your metamorphosis.”

“Ah.” Biffy’s voice caught in his throat. “How silly of me not to realize.”

Lord Akeldama came over as well, watching with hooded eyes as Lyall smoothed the blanket over the young man. “She has placed me in a most insufferable position.”

“Now you know how I feel most of the time,” said Professor Lyall under his breath.

“You are more than equal to the task, my lord.” Biffy’s eyes were shining and full of faith as they looked upon his former master.

Wonderful, thought Lyall, a newly made werewolf in love with a vampire, and more apt to do his bidding than the pack’s. Would even Lord Maccon be able to break such a connection?

“I rather think the queen is getting the better end of the deal,” added Professor Lyall, intimating, but not actually mentioning, Lord Akeldama’s fashionable yet efficient espionage regime.

Poor Lord Akeldama was not having a good night. He had lost his lover and his comparative anonymity in one fell swoop. “The pathetic reality is, my darlings, I am not even convinced the child of a preternatural and a werewolf will be a soul-stealer. And if it is, will it be the same kind of soul-stealer as it was when the sire was a vampire?”

“Is that why you remain unafraid of this creature?”

“As I said before, Lady Maccon is my friend. Any child of hers will be no more or less hostile to vampires than she is. Although the way we are currently behaving may sour her against us. Aside from that, it is not in my nature to anticipate trouble with violence; I prefer to be in possession of all the necessary facts first. I should like to meet this child once it has emerged and then render my judgment. So much better that way.”

“And your other reason?” The vampire was still hiding something; Lyall’s well-honed BUR senses told him so.

“Must you hound him, Professor Lyall?” Biffy looked worriedly from his former master to his new Beta.

“I think it best. It is, after all, in my nature.”

“Touché.” The vampire sat down once more next to Biffy on the settee and placed a passive hand casually on the young man’s leg, as if out of habit.

Lyall stood up and looked down at them both from over his spectacles; he’d had enough of mysteries for one evening. “Well?”

“That soul-stealer, the one the Edict Keepers warn us of? The reason for all this twaddle? Her name was Al- Zabba and she was a relative of sorts.” Lord Akeldama tipped his head from side to side casually.

Professor Lyall started. Of all the things, he had not expected that. “A relative of yours?”

“You might know her better as Zenobia.”

Professor Lyall knew about as much as any educated man on the Roman Empire, but he had never read that the Queen of the Palmyrene had anything more or less than the requisite amount of soul. Which led to another question.

“This soul-stealer condition, how exactly does it manifest?”

“I don’t know.”

“And that makes even you uneasy. Doesn’t it, Lord Akeldama?”

Biffy touched his former master’s hand where it rested on his blanket-covered thigh and squeezed as though offering reassurance.

Definitely going to be a problem.

“The daylight folk, back then, the ones who feared her, they called her a skin-thief.”

That name meant something to Professor Lyall, where soul-stealer had not. It tickled memories at the back of his head. Legends about a creature who could not only steal werewolf powers but become, for the space of one night, a werewolf in his stead. “Are you telling me we will have a flayer on our hands?”

“Exactly! So, you see how difficult it will be to keep everyone from killing Alexia?”

“As to that problem”—Professor Lyall gave a sudden grin—“I may have a solution. Lord and Lady Maccon will not like it, but I am thinking you, Lord Akeldama and young Biffy, might find it acceptable.”

Lord Akeldama smiled back, showing off his deadly fangs. Professor Lyall thought them just long enough to be threatening without being ostentatious, like the perfect dress sword. They were quite subtle fangs for a man of Lord Akeldama’s reputation.

“Why, Dolly darling, do speak further; you interest me most ardently.”

The Templars seemed, if possible, less prepared to battle ticking ladybugs than Alexia had been when accosted in a carriage not so very long ago. They were so surprised by their unexpected visitors and were torn between squashing them and handling the now-free Alexia. It wasn’t until one of the ladybugs stuck a sharp needlelike antennae into one of the young Templars, who then collapsed, that the brothers took violently against them. Once pricked into action, however, their retribution was swift and effective.

The remaining young Templar drew his sword and dispatched Alexia’s noble scuttling rescuers with remarkable efficiency. He then whirled to face Alexia.

She raised her stool.

Behind them, in the cell, the preceptor groaned. “What is going on?”

Since the ladybugs might have been sent either by the vampires to kill her or by Monsieur Trouvé to help her, Alexia could not rightly answer that question. “It would appear you are under attack by ladybugs, Mr. Templar. What else can I say?”

At which moment they all heard the growl. It was the kind of growl Alexia was definitely familiar with—low and loud and full of intention. It was the kind of growl that said, clearly as anything, “You are food.”

“Ah, and now, I suspect, werewolves.”

And so it proved to be the case.

Of course, Alexia’s traitorous little heart hoped for a certain brindled coat, chocolate brown with hints of black and gold. She craned her neck over her brandished stool to see if the growling, slavering beast charging down the stone hallway would have pale yellow eyes and a familiar humor crinkling them just so.

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 really follow, anyway, as man and wolf met in the hallway. With a vociferous battle cry, the preceptor charged out of the cell and joined the fray.

Never one to sit back and dither, Alexia grabbed the stool more firmly, and when the younger Templar fell back toward her, she clouted him with the stool on top of the head as hard as she possibly could. Really, she was getting terribly good at bashing skulls in her old age—rather unseemly of her.

The boy collapsed.

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 pell-mell down what looked to be the most promising passageway. She ran smack-dab into Madame Lefoux, Floote, and Monsieur Trouvé.

Ah, right passageway! “Well, hello, you lot. How are you?”