Soulless(98)

The wolf sniffed at the air, and its bright yellow eyes narrowed. It turned its attention completely onto Alexia and Mr. Siemons.

The automaton charged from behind and grabbed for the wolf's throat, trying to choke it to death.

“Godth's truth, I am hungry!” someone lisped. All forgotten, the human half of the Lord Akeldama experiment stood up from his platform. He had long, well-developed fangs and was looking around the room with single-minded interest. His eyes flitted about, dismissing Lord Akeldama, the werewolf, and the automaton but lingering with interest on Miss Tarabotti and Mr. Siemons before zeroing in on the most accessible meal in the chamber: Mr. MacDougall.

The American, huddled in his corner, shrieked as the newly created vampire vaulted over Lord Akeldama and across the intervening space with supernatural agility and speed.

Miss Tarabotti did not have time to watch further, as her attention was drawn back to the entranceway. She heard Mr. MacDougall scream again and then the thumping sounds of fighting.

The werewolf was trying to shake the automaton off his back. But the construct had established a death grip around his furry neck and would not budge. With the wolf momentarily distracted, the broken door was partly freed up, and Mr. Siemons began forcing Alexia once more toward it.

Miss Tarabotti wished, for about the hundredth time that evening, for her trusty parasol. Not having it, she did the next best thing. She elbowed Mr. Siemons hard in the gut while stomping down onto his insole with the heel of her boot.

Mr. Siemons cried out in pain and surprise and let her go.

Miss Tarabotti twisted away with a yell of triumph, and the werewolf's attention switched back toward them at the sound.

Choosing his own safety above all else, Mr. Siemons gave Miss Tarabotti up for a bad risk and fled the chamber, calling for his fellow scientists at the top of his lungs as he ran pell-mell down the hallway outside.

The automaton continued to fight, its hands tightening ever more surely around the wolf's brindled throat.

Alexia did not know what to do. Lord Maccon undoubtedly stood a better chance against the automaton in werewolf form. But, wheezing from restricted air flow, he was coming toward her and ignoring the automaton attempting to strangle him. She could not allow him to touch her if she wanted him to survive. A hoarse voice said, “Rub out the word, my darling tulip.”

Alexia glanced over. Lord Akeldama, still pale and clearly in unmitigated pain, had tilted his head up from where he lay. He was watching the brutal proceedings with glazed eyes.

Miss Tarabotti gave a cry of relief. He was alive! But she did not understand what he wanted her to do.

“The word,” he said again, his voice wrecked by his suffering, “on the homunculus simulacrum's forehead. Rub it out.” He collapsed back, exhausted.

Miss Tarabotti dodged sideways, positioning herself. Then, shuddering in revulsion, she reached forward and brushed her hand over the automaton's waxy face. She missed all but the very end of the word so that VIXI became VIX.

It seemed sufficient to do some good. The automaton stiffened and let go enough for the werewolf to shake him off. The creature was still moving but now did so with apparent difficulty. The werewolf turned all his concentrated yellow attention on Miss Tarabotti.

Before he could even begin to spring at her, Alexia moved forward, unafraid, and wrapped both arms about his furry neck.

The change was a little less horrible the second time around. Or, perhaps, she was simply getting used to the feel of it. Fur retreated from where she touched him, bone and skin and flesh re-formed, and she held, once again, the naked body of Lord Maccon in her arms.

He was coughing and spitting.

“That automaton thing tastes awful,” he announced, wiping his face with the back of one hand. It did nothing more effective than smudge the red over his chin and cheek.

Miss Tarabotti refrained from pointing out he had also been snacking on scientists and wiped his face with the skirt of her dress. It was already beyond salvation anyway.

Tawny brown eyes turned to her face. Alexia noted with relief that they were full of intelligence and entirely lacking in ferocity or hunger.

“You are unharmed?” he asked. One big hand came up, stroking over her face and down. He paused upon reaching the cut on her neck.

His eyes, even though he was touching her, went slightly back to feral yellow. “I'll butcher the bastard,” he said softly, all the more anger in his voice for its quiet tone. “I'll pull his bones out through his nostrils one by one.”

Alexia shushed him impatiently. “It is not that deep.” But she did lean into his touch and let out a shaky breath she had not even known she was holding.

His hand, now trembling in fury, kept up its gentle assessment of her injuries. It smoothed softly over the bruises appearing on her exposed upper torso and down her shoulder to the slice on her arm.