Madame Lefoux had not designed the parasol to emit anything particularly toxic to preternaturals, if there existed such a substance, but Alexia was confident sufficient application of acid could destroy most anything.
She opened the parasol and flipped it so she was holding the spike. Just to be on the safe side, she turned the tiny dial above the magnetic disruption emitter all the way to the third click. The parasol’s six ribs opened, and a fine mist clouded over the mummy, drenching dehydrated skin and old bone. She swayed the parasol back and forth, to be sure the liquid covered the entire body, and then propped it over the mummy’s torso and backed away, leaving mummy and parasol alone together. The pungent aroma of burning acid permeated the air, and Alexia moved even farther away. Then came an odor like nothing she had ever smelled before: the final death of ancient bones, a mix of musty attic, and coppery blood.
The repelling sensation emitted by the mummy began to decrease. The creature itself was gradually disintegrating, turning into a lumpy puddle of brown mush, irregular bits of bone and skin sticking out. It was no longer recognizable as human.
The parasol kept spraying, the stone steps becoming pitted.
Behind Alexia, inside Kingair Castle, at the top of the grand staircase, Ivy Hisselpenny screamed.
On the other side of the British isle, in a hired, unmarked cab outside what looked to be a quite innocent, if expensive, town house in a discreetly fashionable neighborhood near Regent’s Park, Professor Randolph Lyall and Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings sat and waited. It was a dangerous place for two werewolves to be, just outside the Westminster Hive. Doubly dangerous in that they were not there in any official capacity. If this got back to BUR, Lyall was tolerably certain he would be out of a job and the major cashiered.
They both practically jumped out of their skins, a true skill for a werewolf, when the cab door crashed open and a body tumbled inside.
“Drive!”
Major Channing banged on the roof of the cab with his pistol and the hack jumped forward. The horse’s hooves emitted a shockingly loud clatter in the London night air.
“Well?” questioned Channing, impatient.
Lyall reached down to help the young man regain his feet and his dignity.
Biffy tossed back the black velvet cape that had fallen askew during his mad dash to safety. Lyall was at a loss to know how a cape could be of assistance when breaking and entering, but Biffy had insisted. “Dressing the part,” he had said, “is never optional.”
Professor Lyall grinned at the youngster. He really was a rather good-looking gentleman. Whatever else one might say about Lord Akeldama, and one might say a lot, he had excellent taste in drones. “So, how did it go?”
“Oh, they have one, all right. Right up near the roof. A slightly older model than my master’s, but it looked to be in good working order.”
A good-looking and effective gentleman.
“And?” Professor Lyall quirked an eyebrow.
“Let us simply say, for the time being, that it is most likely not as useful as it was a little while ago.”
Major Channing looked at Biffy suspiciously. “What did you do?”
“Well, you see, there was this pot of tea, simply sitting there…” He trailed off.
“Useful thing, tea,” commented Lyall thoughtfully.
Biffy grinned at him.
It was not one of Ivy’s normal breathy, about-to-faint sort of screams. It was a scream of real terror, and it caused Lady Maccon to abandon her parasol to its acidic work and rush back inside, alone.
The scream’s assertiveness had attracted the attention of others as well. Tunstell and a wobbly-looking Madame Lefoux both emerged from the downstairs parlor, despite Alexia’s orders to the contrary.
“What are you doing?” she yelled at them. “Get back in there this instant!”
But their collective attention was entirely held elsewhere. It was fixed on the landing above, where Angelique stood close behind Miss Hisselpenny, a deadly looking knife held to that young lady’s throat.
“Miss Hisselpenny!” yelled Tunstell, his face suffused with horror. And then, abandoning all decency and decorum, “Ivy!”
At the same time Madame Lefoux yelled, “Angelique, no!”
Everyone charged toward the stairs. Angelique dragged Ivy back with her toward the room that had once housed the mummy.
“Stay back or she will die,” said the maid in her native tongue, hand steady and eyes hard.
Tunstell, not understanding, drew the Tue Tue and pointed it at the maid. Madame Lefoux pulled down on his arm. She proved surprisingly strong for one so recently injured. “You’ll hit the hostage.”
“Angelique, this is madness,” said Lady Maccon, trying to be reasonable. “I have destroyed the evidence. Soon the pack will be awake and recovered. Whatever drug you gave them will not last once they reclaim their supernatural state. It cannot possibly be long now. You simply will not be able to escape.”
Angelique continued to move backward, dragging the hapless Miss Hisselpenny with her. “Zen I have nothing to lose, non?” She continued into the room.
As soon as she was out of sight, Lady Maccon and Tunstell both dashed up the stairs after her. Madame Lefoux tried to follow, but her progress was much slower. She was clutching at her wounded shoulder and breathing with difficulty.
“I need her alive,” Alexia panted at Tunstell. “I have questions.”
Tunstell tucked the Tue Tue into his breeches and nodded.
They attained the room at about the same time. They found Angelique, still armed, directing Ivy to open the shutters to the far window. Alexia bitterly regretted her lack of parasol. Really, she would have to chain the bloody thing to her side. Every time she did not have it, she found herself in grave need of its services. Before Angelique caught sight of them, Tunstell ducked down and to one side, using the various furnishings about the room to shield himself from the maid’s view.
While he approached in secret, making his way cautiously about the room, Lady Maccon took it upon herself to distract the spy. It was not easy; Tunstell was not what one could describe as subtle. His flaming red hair bobbed up with each pointed and articulated footstep, as though he were some cloaked Gothic villain creeping across a stage. Melodramatic fat-head. It was a good thing the room was darkened, lit by only one gas lamp in the far corner.
“Angelique,” Lady Maccon called.
Angelique turned, jerking roughly at Miss Hisselpenny with her free hand, the other still clutching the wicked-looking knife at Ivy’s neck. “Hurry up,” she growled at Miss Hisselpenny. “You”—she jerked her chin at Alexia—“stay back and let me see your hands.”
Lady Maccon waved her empty hands about, and Angelique nodded, clearly pleased by the lack of weaponry. Alexia privately urged Ivy to faint. It would make matters much easier. Ivy remained stubbornly conscious and distraught. She never did faint when it was actually warranted.
“Why, Angelique?” Lady Maccon asked, genuinely curious, not to mention eager to keep the maid’s attention off of the blatantly skulking Tunstell.
The French girl smiled, her face even more beautiful. Her large eyes shone in the light of the gas lamp. “Because she asked me to. Because she promised she would try.”
“She. She who?”
“Who do you think?” Angelique practically snapped back.
Lady Maccon caught a whiff of vanilla scent, and then a soft voice spoke from her side. Madame Lefoux leaned weakly against the doorjamb next to her. “Countess Nadasdy.”
Lady Maccon frowned and bit at her lip, confused. She continued to speak to Angelique, only half acknowledging the inventor’s presence. “But I thought your former master was a rove. I thought you were at the Westminster Hive under sufferance.”