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.
“The Norse had it right—flay a man open from the back and eat out his heart,” he said.
“Do not be disgusting,” admonished the object of his interest. “Besides, I did that one to myself.”
“What?!”
She shrugged dismissively, “You needed a trail to follow.”
“You little fool,” he said affectionately.
“It worked, didn't it?”
His touch became insistent for just a moment. Pulling her in against his large naked form, he kissed her roughly, a deeply erotic and oddly desperate melding of tongue and teeth. He kissed as though he needed her to subsist. It was unbearably intimate. Worse than allowing one's ankles to be seen. Alexia leaned into him, opening her mouth eagerly.
“I do so hate to intrude, my little lovebirds, but if you could see your way clear to maybe releasing me?” came a soft voice, interrupting their embrace. “And your business here, it is not quite finished.”
Lord Maccon surfaced and looked about, blinking as though he had just woken from sleep: half nightmare, half erotic fantasy.
Miss Tarabotti shifted so that their only point of contact was her hand nested inside his big one. It was still enough contact to be comforting, not to mention preternaturally effective.
Lord Akeldama still lay on his platform. In the space between him and where Alexia had been strapped down, Mr. MacDougall still fought with the newly created vampire.
“Goodness me,” said Miss Tarabotti in surprise, “he is still alive!” No one was sure, even her, whether she meant Mr. MacDougall or the manufactured vampire. They seemed equally matched, the vampire unused to his new strength and abilities, and Mr. MacDougall stronger than expected in his desperation and panic.
“Well, my love,” said Alexia with prodigious daring to Lord Maccon, “shall we?” The earl started to move forward and then stopped abruptly and looked down at her, not moving at all. “Am I?”
“Are you what?” She peeked up at him through her tangled hair, pretending confusion. There was no possible way she was going to make this easy for him.
“Your love?”
“Well, you are a werewolf, Scottish, naked, and covered in blood, and I am still holding your hand.”
He sighed in evident relief. “Good. That is settled, then.”
They moved over to where Mr. MacDougall and the vampire fought. Alexia was not certain she could effectively change two supernatural persons at once, but she was willing to try.
“Pardon me,” she said, and grabbed the vampire by one shoulder. Surprised, the man turned toward this new threat. But his fangs were already retracting.
Miss Tarabotti smiled at him, and Lord Maccon had him by the ear like a naughty schoolboy before he could even make an aggressive move in her direction.
“Now, now,” said Lord Maccon, “even new vampires may choose only willing victims.” Releasing the ear, he punched the man extremely hard up under the chin. It was an expert boxer's move that laid the poor man out flat.
“Will it last?” Alexia asked of the fallen vampire. She was no longer touching him, so he should recuperate quickly.
“For a few minutes,” said Lord Maccon in his BUR voice.
Mr. MacDougall, bleeding only slightly from a row of punctures in one side of his neck, blinked at his saviors.
“Tie him up, would you? There is a good lad. I have only one working hand, you see?” said Lord Maccon to the American, handing him rope from one of the platforms.
“Who, sir, are you?” Mr. MacDougall asked, looking the earl up and down and then focusing in on his and Alexia's linked hands. Or Alexia assumed that is what he was focusing in on.
Miss Tarabotti said, “Mr. MacDougall, your questions will have to wait.”
Mr. MacDougall nodded submissively and began to tie the vampire.
“My love.” Alexia looked at Lord Maccon. It was much easier to say the words the second time around, but she still felt very daring. “Perhaps you might see to Lord Akeldama? I dare not touch him in such a weakened state.”
Lord Maccon refrained from commenting that when she called him “my love,” he was pretty much willing to do whatever she asked.
They walked together over to Lord Akeldama's platform.