Floote slid away softly to retrieve the next course.
Alexia removed her hand from her friend's grasp and, never one for dissembling, got straight to the point. “Lord Akeldama, please tell me, what is going on? Who was the vampire who attacked me last night? How could he not know who I was? He did not even know what I was, as if no one had told him preternaturals existed at all. I am well aware that BUR keeps us secret from the general public, but packs and hives are well informed as a rule.”
Lord Akeldama reached forward and flicked the two tuning forks on the resonator again. “My dearest young friend. There, I believe, you have the very issue in hand. Unfortunately for you, since you eliminated the individual in question, every interested supernatural party is beginning to believe you are the one who knows the answers to those very questions. Speculation abounds, and vampires are a suspicious lot. Some already hold that the hives are being kept purposefully in ignorance by either you, or BUR, or most likely both.” He smiled, all fangs, and sipped his champagne.
Alexia sat back and let out a whoosh of air. “Well, that explains her rather forceful invitation.”
Lord Akeldama did not move from his relaxed position, but he seemed to be sitting up straighter. “Her? Her who? Whose invitation, my dearest petunia blossom?”
“Countess Nadasdy's.”
Lord Akeldama actually did sit up straight at that. His waterfall of a cravat quivered in agitation. “Queen of the Westminster hive,” he hissed, his fangs showing. “There are words to describe her, my dear, but one does not repeat them in polite company.”
Floote came in with the fish course, a simple fillet of sole with thyme and lemon. He glanced with raised eyebrows at the humming auditory device and then at the agitated Lord Akeldama. Alexia shook her head slightly when he would have remained protectively in the room.
Miss Tarabotti studied Lord Akeldama's face closely. He was a rove—a hiveless vampire. Roves were rare among the bloodsucking set. It took a lot of political, psychological, and supernatural strength for a vampire to separate from his hive. And once autonomous units, roves tended to go a bit funny about the noggin and slide toward the eccentric end of societal acceptability. In deference to this status, Lord Akeldama kept all his papers in impeccable order and was fully registered with BUR. However, it did mean he was a mite prejudiced against the hives.
The vampire sampled the fish, but the delicious taste did not seem to improve his temper. He pushed the dish away peevishly and sat back, tapping one expensive shoe against the other.
“Don't you like the Westminster hive queen?” asked Alexia with wide dark eyes and a great show of assumed innocence.
Lord Akeldama seemed to remember himself. The foppishness reappeared in spades. His wrists went limp and wiggly. “La, my dear daffodil, the hive queen and I, we... have our differences. I am under the distressing impression she finds me a tad”—he paused as though searching for the right word —“flamboyant.”
Miss Tarabotti looked at him, evaluating both his words and the meaning behind them. “And here I thought it was you who did not like Countess Nadasdy.”
“Now, sweetheart, who has been telling you little stories like that?”
Alexia tucked into her fish, a clear indication that she declined to reveal her source. After she had finished, there was a moment of silence while Floote removed the plates and placed the main course before them: a delicious arrangement of braised pork chop, apple compote, and slow roasted baby potatoes. Once the butler had gone again, Miss Tarabotti decided to ask her guest the more important question she had invited him over to answer.
“What do you think she wants of me, my lord?”
Lord Akeldama's eyes narrowed. He ignored the chop and fiddled idly with his massive ruby cravat pin. “As I see it, there are two reasons. Either she knows exactly what happened last night at the ball and she wants to bribe you into silence, or she has no idea who that vampire was and what he was doing in her territory, and she thinks you do.”
“In either case, it would behoove me to be better informed than I currently am,” Miss Tarabotti said, eating a buttery little potato.
He nodded empathetically.
“Are you positive you do not know anything more?” she asked.
“My dearest girl, who do you think I am? Lord Maccon, perhaps?” He picked up his champagne glass and twirled it by the stem, gazing thoughtfully at the tiny bubbles. “Now there is an idea, my treasure. Why not go to the werewolves? They may know more of the relevant facts. Lord Maccon, of course, being BUR will know most of all.”
Alexia tried to look nonchalant. “But as a minister of BUR's secrets, he is also the least likely to relay any cogent details,” she countered.
Lord Akeldama laughed in a tinkling manner that indicated more artifice than real amusement. “Then there is nothing for it, sweetest of Alexias, but to use your plethora of feminine wiles upon him. Werewolves have been susceptible to the gentler sex for as long as I can remember, and that is a very long time, indeed.” He wiggled his eyebrows, knowing he did not look a day over twenty-three, his original age at metamorphosis. He continued. “Favorable toward women, those darling beaslies, even if they are a tad brutish.” He shivered lasciviously. “Particularly Lord Maccon. So big and rough.” He made a little growling noise.
Miss Tarabotti giggled. Nothing was funnier than watching a vampire try to emulate a werewolf.
“I advise you most strongly to visit him tomorrow before you see the Westminster queen.” Lord Akeldama reached forward and grasped her wrist. His fangs vanished, and his eyes suddenly looked as old as he really was. He had never told Alexia quite how old. “La, darling,” he always said, “a vampire, like a lady, never reveals his true age.” But he had described to her in detail the dark days before the supernatural was revealed to daylight folk. Before the hives and packs made themselves known on the British Isle. Before that prestigious revolution in philosophy and science that their emergence triggered, known to some as the Renaissance but to vampires as the Age of Enlightenment. Supernatural folk called the time before the Dark Ages, for obvious reasons. For them it had been an age spent skulking through the night. Several bottles of champagne were usually required to get Lord Akeldama to talk of it at all. Still, it meant, by Alexia's calculations, that he was at least over four hundred years old.