Blameless

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 still 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 lolled 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. Really, 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 purposefully toward the broiling mass of vampires and Templars.

The German scientist, cowering away from the werewolf, yelled at them from his position, flattened against the side wall of the passageway, “No, Female Specimen, you cannot go! I will not allow it.” Alexia glanced over at him, only to find he had pulled 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 swallowed 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 ball of some kind of jellied 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 fell 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 fell like a stone.

“Really, Channing,” remonstrated Alexia, “did you have to eat the man’s dog? I am convinced you will experience terrible indigestion.”

The werewolf ignored them all and continued on toward the pitched hallway 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 all 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 follow up any advantage, but they were distracted by the presence of a new and equally feared enemy—a werewolf. They were also startled to find their quarry, supposedly a complacent Englishwoman of somber means and minimal intelligence, 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.

Following Alexia came Monsieur Trouvé, who, having utilized some of the parasol’s armament, had reverted to swinging the heavy bronze accessory about like a club, bludgeoning all who got in his way. Alexia could understand his approach; it was her preferred method as well. Could that technique, she wondered, be legitimately referred to as a “parassault”? Following him was Madame Lefoux, bagpipe blunderbuss in one hand, cravat pin in the other, slashing and bashing away merrily. After her came Floote, bringing up the rear in dignified elegance, using the dispatch case as a kind of shield and poking at people with Madame Lefoux’s other cravat pin, borrowed for the occasion.

Thus, undercover of an uncommon amount of pandemonium and bedlam, Alexia and her little band of gallant rescuers made their way through the battle and out the other side. Then there was nothing for it but to run, bruised and bloody as they were. Channing led them first through the Roman catacombs, then through a long modern tunnel that housed, if the steel tracks were any indication, a rail trolley of some kind. Finally, they found themselves clambering up damp wooden stairs and tumbling out onto the wide soft bank of the Arno. The town obviously observed a supernatural curfew after nightfall, for there was absolutely no one to witness their panting exit.

They climbed up to street level and dashed a good long way through the city. Alexia developed a stitch in her side and a feeling that, should her future permit it, she would spend the rest of her days relaxed in an armchair in a library somewhere. Adventuring was highly overrated.

Having reached one of the bridges over the Arno, she called a stop halfway across. It was a good defensible position; they could afford a short rest. “Are they following us?”

Channing raised his muzzle to the sky and sniffed. Then he shook his shaggy head.

“I cannot believe we escaped so easily.” Alexia looked about at her companions, taking stock of their condition. Channing had sustained only a few additional injuries, but all were healing even as she watched. Of the others, Madame Lefoux was sporting a nasty gash on one wrist, which Floote was bandaging with a handkerchief, and Monsieur Trouvé was rubbing at a lump on his forehead. She herself ached terribly in one shoulder but would rather not look just yet. Otherwise, they all were in sufficient form and spirits. Channing appeared to have reached the same conclusion and decided to shift form.

His body began that strange, uncomfortable-looking writhing, and the sound of flesh and bone re-forming itself rent the air for a few moments, and then he rose to stand before them. Alexia gave a squeak and turned her back hurriedly on his endowments, which were ample and well proportioned.

Monsieur Trouvé took off his frock coat. It was far too wide for the werewolf, but he handed it over for modesty’s sake. With a nod of thanks, Channing put it on. It covered the necessaries, but was far too short and, coupled with his long, loose hair, made him look disturbingly like an oversized French schoolgirl.

Alexia was perfectly well aware of what she was required to do at this juncture. Courtesy demanded gratitude, but she could wish it was someone other than Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings who was to receive it. “Well, Major Channing, I suppose I must thank you for the timely intervention. I am confused, however. Shouldn’t you be off somewhere killing things?”

“My lady, I rather thought that was what I just did.”

“I mean officially, for queen and country, with the regiment and everything.”

“Ah, no, deployment was delayed after you left. Technical difficulties.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, it was technically difficult to leave a heartbroken Alpha. And it is a good thing for you I wasn’t overseas. Someone had to extract you from the Templars.” He entirely ignored the rest of Alexia’s rescue party.

“I should have managed perfectly well on my own. But thank you, anyway. You are always terribly impressed with yourself, aren’t you?”

He leered. “Aren’t you?”

“So why have you been tracking me this entire time?”

“Ah, you knew it was me?”

“There aren’t a great number of white wolves roaming around safeguarding my interests. I figured it had to be you after the vampire and the carriage incident. So, why were you?”

A new voice, deep and gravelly, came from behind them. “Because I sent him.”

Floote stopped attending to Madame Lefoux and whirled to face this new threat, the Frenchwoman was