“Hello, princess,” said Lord Maccon to the vampire. “Got yourself into quite a pickle this time, didn't you?”
Lord Akeldama looked him up and down. “My sweet young naked boy, you are hardly one to talk. Not that I mind, of course.”
Lord Maccon blushed so profoundly it extended all the way down his neck to his upper torso. Alexia thought it entirely adorable.
Without another word, the earl untied Lord Akeldama and, as gently as possible, slid his hands and feet off the wooden stakes. The vampire lay still and silent for a long time after he had finished.
Miss Tarabotti worried. His wounds should be healing themselves. But, instead, they remained large, gaping holes. There wasn't even any blood dripping from them.
“My dearest girl,” said the vampire finally, examining Lord Maccon with an exhausted but appreciative eye, “such a banquet. Never been one to favor werewolves myself, but he is very well equipped, now, is he not?”
Miss Tarabotti gave him an arch look.
“My goodies,” she warned.
“Humans,” chuckled the vampire, “so possessive.” He shifted weakly.
“You are not well,” commented Lord Maccon.
“Quite right, Lord Obvious.”
Miss Tarabotti looked at the vampire's wounds more closely, still careful not to touch him. She wanted desperately to hug her friend and offer some consolation, but any contact with her and he was certain to die. He was near enough to it already, and returning to human form would end him undoubtedly.
“You are dry,” she remarked.
“Yes,” agreed the vampire. “It all went into him.” He gestured with his chin toward where the new vampire lay under Mr. MacDougall's ministrations.
“I suppose you might take a donation from me?” suggested Lord Maccon dubiously. “Would that work? I mean to say, how fully human does preternatural touch make me?”
Lord Akeldama shook his head weakly. “Not enough for me to feed from you, I suspect. It might work, but it also might kill you.”
Lord Maccon unexpectedly jerked backward, pulling Alexia with him. Two hands were wrapped around his throat, squeezing tightly. The fingers on those hands had no fingernails.
The automaton had crawled all the way across the floor, slowly but surely, and was trying to fulfill the last order given to it: to kill Lord Maccon. This time, with the earl in human form, it stood a fairly good chance of succeeding.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Royal Interference
Lord Maccon sputtered and gasped for breath, trying to fight off the repulsive creature with only one hand. Miss Tarabotti beat at the automaton with her free arm. But nothing they did seemed capable of wresting the construct from around the earl's neck. Alexia was about to let go of Lord Maccon's hand and back away, knowing he could free himself in werewolf form, when Lord Akeldama stood shakily up from the platform on which he rested.
The vampire produced a still miraculously immaculate white lace handkerchief from a waistcoat pocket, stumbled over, and wiped the rest of the smudged word off the automaton's forehead.
The monstrosity let go of Lord Maccon and collapsed onto the floor.
The most remarkable thing then occurred. Its skin began melting away in slow rivulets, like warm honey. Slow black blood, mixed with some black particulate matter, leaked out and intermingled with the skin substance. Both slid off a mechanical skeletal structure. Soon, all that was left of the automaton was a metal frame wearing shabby clothing and lying in a gooey puddle of old blood, wax, and small black particles. Its internal organs appeared to be all gears and clockwork mechanisms.
Miss Tarabotti's attention was drawn away from the fascinating mess by Lord Maccon saying, “Oops, whoa there,” and reaching for Lord Akeldama with his free arm.
The vampire was toppling over as well, having utterly exhausted what few resources of energy he had left in administering the deadly handkerchief. Lord Maccon, attached to Alexia with one hand, managed only to slow his fall with the other but not catch him completely. The vampire crumpled to the floor in a sad little heap of plum-colored velvet.
Miss Tarabotti bent over him, still desperately careful not to touch him in any way. He was still, miraculously, alive.
“Why?” she stuttered, glancing over at the automaton, or what had been the automaton. “Why did that work?”
“You only wiped off the P.” asked Lord Maccon, looking thoughtfully at the puddle of homunculus simulacrum residue. Alexia nodded.
“So you turned VIXI—to be alive—into VIX, with difficulty. Thus, the automaton could still move, but only barely. In order to destroy it entirely, you needed to remove the word and the activation particulate completely, breaking the aetheromagnetic connection.”
“Well,” huffed Miss Tarabotti, “how was I supposed to know that? That was my first automaton.”
“And a very good job you made of it, too, my pearl, on such short acquaintance,” complimented Lord Akeldama tenderly from his prone position without opening his eyes. He had yet to succumb to the Grand Collapse, but he looked in imminent danger of doing so.
They heard a great clattering and a quantity of yelling from the hallway behind them.
“Arse over apex, what now?” wondered Lord Maccon, standing up and dragging Miss Tarabotti with him.
A conglomeration of impeccably well-dressed young men bustled into the room, carrying with them the trussed and bound form of Mr. Siemons. They let out a collective shriek upon seeing Lord Akeldama crumpled on the floor. Several rushed over and began billing and cooing about him in an excess of emotional concern.