Timeless

ankles, and toes.

“Welcome,” she said in perfect Queen’s English, making a graceful gesture with her arms, like a dancer, “to the Alexandria Hive.” Her large, dark eyes, lined heavily in black, swept over the crowd of actors before her.

“Lord and Lady Maccon?”

Alexia wanted desperately to take her husband’s hand, but she thought he might need his supernatural abilities at any moment. So she shifted Prudence more firmly on her hip, taking strange comfort from the presence of her child, and stepped forward. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Conall also segregate himself from the group.

The dark-eyed drone came closer. She looked to Conall first. “Lord Maccon, you are welcome to Alexandria. It has been many centuries since a werewolf visited this hive. We hope it will not be so long before the next one graces us with his presence.”

Lord Maccon bowed. “I suspect,” he said, because he had no tact, “that will rather depend on the course of this evening’s events.”

The drone inclined her head and turned dark eyes to Alexia. “Lady Maccon, soul-sucker. You, too, are welcome. We do not judge the daughter by the father’s actions.”

“Well, thank you I’m sure. Especially as I never knew him.”

“No, of course you didn’t. And is this the child?”

Prudence was quite riveted by the beautiful lady. Perhaps it was all the gold sparkles and jewelry, or the liquid way the drone moved. Alexia hoped it wasn’t all the face paint; the last thing she needed was a daughter with a keen interest in feminine wiles. She would have to cede all such training to Lord Akeldama.

“Welcome to the Alexandria Hive, stealer of souls. Your kind we have never had the pleasure of entertaining before.”

“Remember your manners, dear,” said Alexia to her daughter without much hope.

Prudence proved unexpectedly equal to the challenge. “How do you do?” she said, enunciating very clearly and looking quite directly at the lady drone.

Alexia and Conall exchanged raised eyebrow looks. Very good, thought Alexia, we got ourselves a peppery one.

The drone stepped aside and waved one graceful hand, offering the two empty spots on the divan next to Chancellor Neshi. “Please, be seated. The queen desires the performance to begin directly.”

“Oh,” protested Ivy, “but she is not here! She will miss the opening act!”

Tunstell put an arm about his wife’s waist and hustled her to one corner of the room to prepare.

The drone clapped her hands and once more dozens of servants appeared. With their assistance, the actors managed to set up one half of the room as a stage, screening off the doorway in the middle. They had the servants move all of the many torches and lamps to that side of the room, throwing the other, where drones and vampires sat in perfect silence, into eerie darkness.

The Death Rains of Swansea was not a performance that improved markedly upon a second viewing. Still there was something appealing if not entertaining about Ivy and Tunstell’s antics. Mr. Tumtrinkle pranced his evil prance, and twirled his dastardly fake mustache, and swirled his massive cloak most voraciously. Werewolf hero Tunstell strode back and forth, trousers ever in great danger of ripping over his muscled thighs, coming to the rescue as needed and barking a lot. Ivy fainted whenever there was cause to faint, and swanned about in hats of such proportions it was a wonder her head didn’t collapse like a griddle cake under the weight. The supporting cast was, of course, much diminished in size, playing both vampires and werewolves as script demanded. In order to save time, but causing no little confusion as to the plot—no matter what their character at the moment—they wore both the fake fangs and the large shaggy ears tied about their heads with pink tulle bows.

The bumblebee dance went off a treat, the watching vampires and drones almost hypnotized by the spectacle. Alexia wondered if the allegory was wasted on them, or if they, like her, had an appreciation for the ridiculous. Of course, Alexia had only heard Chancellor Neshi and the beautiful drone speak, so it was also possible none of the others understood a word of English.

At the end, vampire queen Ivy returned to werewolf Tunstell’s arms after much separation and anxiety, and all was sweetness and light. The torches were dimmed and then raised, and the servants brought in extras to fill the room with an orange glow.

Alexia and the actors waited with bated breath. And then, oh, and then, the assembled vampires and drones rose to their feet crying out in adoration, trilling their tongues in a great cacophony of vibratory sound that could only be utter appreciation. Alexia even observed one or two of the vampires wipe away sentiment, and the beautiful drone with the amazing dark eyes was weeping openly.

The lady drone stood and rushed forward to congratulate Ivy and Tunstell with open arms. “That was wonderful! Wonderful! We have never seen such a performance. So complex, so brilliant. That dance with the yellow and black stripes, so perfectly articulating the emotion of immortality. How can words even begin to describe… so moving. We have been honored. Truly honored.”

Tunstell and Ivy and the entire troupe looked quite overwhelmed by such an enthusiastic reception. Both Tunstells blushed deeply and Mr. Tumtrinkle began to blubber in an excess of emotion.

The drone wafted over to Ivy and embraced her warmly. Then she linked one arm with Ivy’s and the other with Tunstell’s and guided them gently from the room. “You simply must tell me the meaning of that interpretive piece in the middle? Was that an illustration of the soul’s perpetual struggle with infinity, or a social commentary on the supernatural state in continuing conflict with the natural world as both host and food supply?”

Tunstell replied jovially, “A bit of both, of course. And did you notice the series of tiny leaps I performed stage right? Each one a hop in the face of eternity.”

“I did, I did, I did indeed.”

Thus agreeably conversing, they wandered down the hallway. There was a brief rustle of activity, and Ivy came bustling back, having extracted herself from her escort. She hurried into the room and made for Lady Maccon.

“Alexia,” she said in a significantly hushed tone. “Have you your ruffled parasol?”

Alexia, did, in fact, have her parasol with her. She had found over the years it was always better to be on the safe side when visiting a hive. She gestured to her hip where it dangled off of a chatelaine at her waist.

Ivy tilted her head and winked significantly.

“Oh,” said Alexia, making the connection. “Pray do not concern yourself, Ivy. Do go enjoy a well-earned repast. The parasol is fine.”

Ivy nodded in a slow, suggestive way. Feeling that her secret society duties had been satisfactorily discharged, she went bustling after her husband.

After a moment’s hesitation, the rest of the drones moved forward and introduced themselves, those who spoke English at least, to the acting troupe. After an exchange of pleasantries, mention of coffee was made, and they, too, were guided expertly from the room. This left Lord and Lady Maccon behind with Prudence and the six vampires.

Chancellor Neshi stood. “Are you ready now, My Queen?” he asked of the curtained off area.

No verbal response emanated from within, but the draped cloth twitched slightly.

Chancellor Neshi said, “Of course, my queen.” He gestured for Lord and Lady Maccon to stand and come to face the front of the draped parasol. Then he pulled aside the curtains, tying them back with gold cords to each side.

Had Alexia not spent a good deal of time in Madame Lefoux’s contrivance chamber prior to it being repurposed as a werewolf dungeon, she might have been startled by the contraption revealed. But she had seen an octomaton rampage through London. She had been attacked and then rescued by mechanical ladybugs. She had flown in an ornithopter from Paris to Nice. This was nothing by comparison. And yet, it was probably the most grotesque invention of the modern age. Worse than the disembodied hand in a jar under that temple in Florence. Worse than a dead body in an afterlife extension tank. Worse even than the wax-face horror of the Hypocras automaton. Because those creatures had all been dead or manufactured. What sat in the raised dais behind that curtain was still alive or still undead—at least in part.

She, for Alexia assumed it must be a she, sat atop what could only be called a throne. It was mostly made of