Blameless(48)
A tap came at the door, and the manservant entered bearing a tea tray.
Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf accepted the tray and then waved the man away. He poured the tea, strong and redolent of the scent of bergamot. Alexia didn’t much like Earl Grey; it was well out of fashion in London and was never served in any of the establishments she frequented. Vampires were not fond of citrus. Which, she realized, must be why the little man was now pressing the tea and a small pile of kumquats on the austere Floote.
“The snuff!”
Everyone looked at her.
“Ah, you decided you wanted to try some, ya, Female Specimen?”
“Oh, no. I simply realized. You made Floote take snuff as a werewolf check. They hate snuff. And now you’re using the Earl Grey and the kumquats to see if he’s a vampire.”
Floote arched one eyebrow, took a kumquat, and popped it whole into his mouth, chewing methodically.
“You do realize, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, that vampires are perfectly capable of consuming citrus? They just don’t like it.”
“Yes, of course, I’m well aware. But it is a good—how do you say?—initial check, until sun comes up.”
Floote sighed. “I assure you, sir, I am not of a supernatural inclination.”
Alexia snickered. Poor Floote looked extremely put-upon.
The little German did not seem convinced by mere verbal guarantees. He kept a jaundiced eye on Floote and maintained proprietary control of the bowl of kumquats. For future use as projectile weaponry, perhaps?
“Of course, you could still be a claviger or drone-type person.”
Floote huffed out a small puff of annoyed breath.
“You already checked him for bite marks,” pointed out Alexia.
“Absence of the marks is not absolute proof, especially as he may be a claviger. You did marry a werewolf, after all.”
Floote looked as though he had never been more insulted in his life. Alexia, still smarting over the “Female Specimen” moniker, sympathized.
In a lightning change of mood that seemed to characterize the little man’s paranoia, the German looked with sudden new suspicion at Alexia. “The verification.” He muttered to himself. “You understand, ya? Of course you do. Must verify you as well. Ah, if only I had my counter. Have this little poltergeist problem. Perhaps you could see your way to an exorcism? Should not be hard for the Female Specimen.” He glanced at a small window to one side of the room, curtains thrown wide to let in the rapidly brightening dawn. “Before sunrise?”
Alexia sighed. “This could not possibly wait until tomorrow evening? I have been traveling most of the night. I suppose you could call it traveling.”
The little man grimaced at her but did not take the hint, as any good host would have.
“Really, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf, we have only just arrived,” Madame Lefoux protested.
“Oh, very well.” Alexia put down her tea, which wasn’t very good, anyway, and half a croissant, which was buttery and delicious. If it was necessary for this odd little man to trust them in order to get some answers out of him, she was equal to the task. Alexia sighed, angry once more at her husband’s rejection. She wasn’t entirely certain how just yet, but she intended to blame this latest nuisance on Lord Conall Maccon as well as everything else.
The dog, Poche, led the way down several flights of stairs and into a tiny cellar, barking with unwarranted enthusiasm the entire time. Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf apparently did not notice the racket. Alexia resigned herself to the fact that it was the creature’s normal mode of operation—when its eyes were open, so, too, was its mouth.
“You must think me the terrible host, ya.” The German said this with an air of one attending to the requirements of society rather than one experiencing actual remorse.
Alexia could think of nothing to say in response, as, so far as it went, it was perfectly true. Any host worth his blood would have seen them decently abed by now, supernatural or not. No gentleman would insist his guest perform an exorcism without providing accommodations first, let alone a decent meal. So Alexia simply clutched her parasol and followed the German and his frenzied canine down into the bowels of his cramped and dirty house. Madame Lefoux and Floote seemed to feel their presence was not required on this jaunt and remained upstairs in the parlor, sipping at the vile tea and consuming, very probably, all of the excellent croissants. Traitors.
The cellar was gloomy in all the ways cellars ought to be and included, just as the man had said, a ghost in the final throes of poltergeist phase.
Above the little dog’s barking came the intermittent keening wail of second-death. As if that were not bad enough, the poltergeist had gone to pieces. Alexia could not abide clutter, and, having lost almost all of its capacity for cohesion, this ghost was very messy, indeed. It was flitting about the dark musty interior as pale wisps of body parts, entirely dismembered—an elbow here, an eyebrow there. Alexia started and let out a little squeak upon encountering a single eyeball, all intelligence gone from its depths, staring at her from the top of a wine rack. The cellar also smelled badly of formaldehyde and rotten flesh.