“Madame.” Angelique’s eyes were wide and her cheeks pink. “Your room, what haz ’appened?”

“Not again!”

Lady Maccon dashed to her bedchamber, but it looked the same as when she had last left it. “Oh, this is nothing, Angelique. I simply forgot to tell you about it. Please see it is tidied.”

Angelique stood forlornly among the carnage and watched her mistress rush back downstairs. Lady Kingair followed sedately after.

“Mr. Lachlan,” Alexia called, and that earnest gentleman appeared in the vestibule, a look of concern on his pleasant face. “A private word if you would be so kind.”

She led the Gamma and Lady Kingair across the hall into a tight huddle away from the other pack members.

“This may come as a strange question, but please answer to the best of your knowledge.”

“Of course, Lady Maccon. Your wish is my command.”

“I am muhjah.” She grinned. “My command is your command.”

“Just so.” He inclined his head.

“What happens to us when we die?”

“A philosophical conversation, Lady Maccon? Is now the time?”

She shook her head, impatient. “No, not us here. I mean to say we as in preternaturals. What happens to preternaturals when we die?”

Lachlan frowned. “I have not known very many of your kind, rare as they fortunately are.”

Alexia bit her lip. Lord Akeldama’s message said preternaturals were cremated. What would happen if one was not? What would happen if the body was never allowed to decompose? Ghosts displayed, in their very nature, the fact that excess soul was tethered to the body. As long as the body could be preserved, the ghost would stick around—undead and progressively more insane, but around. Surely the ancient Egyptians would have discovered this for themselves through the process of mummification? It might even be the reason they mummified. Was there something about not having a soul that was also connected to the body? Perhaps soul-sucking abilities were coupled to a preternatural’s skin. After all, it was through her touch that Alexia managed to negate supernatural power.

She gasped and, for the first time in her stalwart life, actually felt near to fainting. The implications were endless and terrifying. The dead bodies of preternaturals could be turned into weapons against the supernatural. Preternatural mummies, like the one below, could be divided up and transported about the empire, or even turned into a powder and made into a poison! A humanity poison. She frowned. Such a drug might pass through the body after digestive processing, but still, for a time, a werewolf or vampire would be mortal.

Lachlan and Lady Kingair remained silent, staring at Alexia. It was almost as though they could see the gears and cogs in her head moving. Only one question remained to be answered: why was she repelled by the mummy? She asked Lachlan, “What happens when two preternaturals meet?”

“Oh, they dinna. Not even their own bairns. You never met your father?” Lachlan paused. “Course, he wouldna been the type. But, regardless, they simply dinna. Preternaturals canna stand to share the same air as one another. ’Tis naught personal, simply unbearable, so they tend to avoid the same social circles.” He paused. “Are you saying somehow yon dead mummy is doing all this?”

“Maybe death expands our soulless abilities so they no longer require touch. Just as a ghost’s excess soul can move outward from its body to the limits of its tether.” Alexia looked at them both. “It would explain the mass exorcism within a specific radius.”

“And the fact that this pack cannot change.” Lady Kingair was nodding.

“Mass curse-breaking.” Lachlan frowned.

Just then they heard the murmur of voices from behind the locked door near them. The parlor door clicked open, and Tunstell stuck his red head out. He started back upon seeing the three of them standing so close.

“Mistress,” he said, “Madame Lefoux has awakened.”

Alexia followed him inside, turning to Lady Kingair and Lachlan before shutting the door. “I need hardly tell you how dangerous the information we just discussed.”

Both looked appropriately grave. Behind them, the rest of the pack emerged from the artifact room, curious at Tunstell’s appearance.

“Please do not tell the rest of your pack,” Alexia asked, but it sounded like a command.

They nodded and she shut the door.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Latest Fashion from France

Tunstell was bent over the inventor, helping her to sit upright on the small settee, when Alexia entered. Madame Lefoux was looking groggy, but her eyes were open. They focused on Alexia as she walked into the room, and the Frenchwoman gave a slow smile—there were the dimples.

“My husband,” asked Lady Maccon, issuing forth her own brief upturn of the lips, “has his condition changed also?” She went to Conall’s side, a mountain of a man on the tiny little couch. Its bowed, claw-foot legs looked like they were buckling under his weight. She reached down to touch his face: slightly scruffy. She had told him he needed a shave. But his eyelids remained closed, ridiculously long eyelashes flat against his cheek. Such a waste of good eyelashes. She’d said only last month how much she resented him for them. He’d laughed and tickled her neck with them.

Her reminiscences were interrupted, not by Tunstell’s voice answering her question, but by Madame Lefoux’s slightly accented musical one. It was a little dry and croaky from lack of water.

“He will not regain his senses for some time, I am afraid. Not if he was disabled by one of the new sleeping darts.”

Lady Maccon went over to her. “What was it, Madame Lefoux? What happened? What were you trying to tell us this morning? Who shot at you?” Her voice became very cold. “Who shot my husband?” She was confident she knew the answer, but she wanted Madame Lefoux to be the one to tell her. It was time the inventor chose a side.

The inventor swallowed. “Please do not be angry with her, Lady Maccon. She does not do it intentionally, you understand? I am convinced she doesn’t. She is simply a little thoughtless—that is all. She has a good heart, under it all. I know she has.

“I found the aethographor, all those beautiful valves smashed to bits. How could she do such a thing? How could anyone?” There were tears now leaking out of those green eyes. “She went too far with that, and then when I came to tell you, instead I found her searching your room. That was when I knew it had gotten out of hand. She must have been looking for your crystalline valve, the one she knew you had, the one for Lord Akeldama’s transmitter. To destroy it as well. Such destruction. I never knew she was capable. To push someone off a ship is one thing, but to destroy such perfectly functional beauty as a crystalline valve frequensor—what kind of monster does that?”

Well, that certainly told Alexia where Madame Lefoux’s priorities lay.

“Who is Angelique working for? The vampires?”

Madame Lefoux, having talked herself out, nodded.

Lady Maccon swore, using words her husband would have been proud of.

Tunstell was shocked. He blushed.

“I suspected she was a spy, of course, but I did not think she would become an active agent. She did such lovely things with my hair.”

Madame Lefoux tilted her head as though she could understand perfectly.

“What is she after? Why has she been doing this?”

The Frenchwoman shook her head. With her top hat off and her cravat untied, she looked almost feminine, most unlike herself. Softer. Alexia was not certain she liked it. “I can only suggest—the same thing you are after, muhjah. The humanization weapon.”

Lady Maccon swore again. “And, of course, Angelique was standing just there. Right behind me in the hallway when I figured out what it was.”

Madame Lefoux’s eyes widened.

But it was Tunstell who said, voice full of awe, “You figured it out?”

“Of course I did. Where have you been?” Lady Maccon immediately headed toward the door. “Tunstell, my orders stand.”

“But, mistress, you need—”

“They stand!”

“I do not think she wants to kill anyone but me,” Madame Lefoux called after her. “I really do not. Please, my lady, do not do anything… terminal.”

Lady Maccon whirled back at the door and bared her teeth, looking for all the world like a bit of a werewolf herself.

“She shot my husband, madame,” she said.

Outside, where the Kingair Pack should have still stood, was only silence. Silence and a whole mess of plaid-skirted, large, sleeping bodies—quite the grand collapse.

Lady Maccon closed her eyes and took a long, annoyed breath. Really, must she do everything herself?

Gripping her parasol firmly, she armed the numbing spike, her finger hovering over the dart-ejection button, and charged up the stairs toward the mummy room. Unless she missed her guess, Angelique would try to get the creature out and on the road, probably by carriage, and back to her masters.

She missed her guess. The moment she opened the door to the room, it became patently clear the mummy was still in residence and Angelique was not.

Lady Maccon frowned. “What?”

She tapped the tip of her parasol on the floor in annoyance. Of course! A vampire spy’s priority would be the transfer of information. It was the thing vampires valued most. Alexia changed her grip on the parasol and hurtled up too many staircases for her corset-clad self, arriving, panting, at the aethographic transmitter room.

Without even bothering to see if it was in use, she aimed her parasol and pulled down on the appropriate lotus leaf in the handle, activating the magnetic disruptor emitter. For just one moment everything stopped.

Then Alexia rushed forward and into the transmitting room of the apparatus.

Angelique was already standing up from the station. The little arms of the spark emitters were stopped midmessage. The French maid looked directly at Lady Maccon and, without pause, dashed toward her.

Alexia deflected the charge, but the girl’s intention obviously had not been to attack, for she simply shoved Alexia to one side and leaped from the room. Lady Maccon fell back against a tangle of gadgetry on one wall of the chamber, lost her balance, and hit the floor hard, landing on her side.

She floundered among skirts, bustle, and petticoats, trying to regain her footing. As soon as she had, she raced to the transmitter cradle and grabbed out the metal scroll. Only three-quarters had burned through. Was it enough? Had her blast stopped the transmission, or did the vampires now have access to possibly the most dangerous information both about and to preternaturals?

With no time to check, Lady Maccon thrust the slate to one side, whirled about, and dashed after Angelique, convinced that now the young woman would be after the mummy.

This time she was correct.

“Angelique, stop!”

Alexia saw her from the landing above, struggling with the corpse of the long-dead preternatural, half carrying, half dragging the gruesome thing down the first set of stairs toward the front door of the castle.

“Alexia? What is going on?” Ivy Hisselpenny emerged from her room, cheeks blotchy and tearstained.

Lady Maccon took aim with her parasol, through the mahogany railing of the banister, and fired a numbing dart at her maid.

The French girl twisted, holding the mummy up as a shield. The dart hit and hung half inside of wrinkled brown skin thousands of years old. Alexia pounded down the next set of stairs.

Angelique pulled the mummy across her back so that it could protect her as she ran, but her progress was hampered by the awkwardness of having to carry the creature.

Lady Maccon paused on the staircase and took aim once more.

Miss Hisselpenny appeared in Alexia’s line of view, standing on the landing above the first staircase, looking down at Angelique, entirely blocking Alexia’s chance at a second shot.

“Ivy, move!”

“Goodness, Alexia, what is your maid up to? Is she wearing a mummy?”

“Yes, it is the latest Paris fashion, didn’t you know?” replied Lady Maccon before, quite rudely, shoving her friend out of the way.

Miss Hisselpenny squeaked in outrage.

Alexia took aim and shot again. This time the dart missed entirely. She swore. She would have to get in some target practice if she were to continue this line of work. The parasol carried only a two-dart armament, so she increased her speed and went for the old-fashioned option.

“Really, Alexia, language. You sound like a fishmonger’s wife!” said Miss Hisselpenny. “What is going on? Did your parasol just emit something? How untoward of it. I must be seeing things. It must be my deep love for Mr. Tunstell clouding my vision.”

Lady Maccon entirely ignored her dear friend. The power of the mummy to repel her notwithstanding, she charged down the staircase, parasol at the ready. “Stay out of the way, Ivy,” she ordered.

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