“Oh!” said Miss Tarabotti in frustration. “Untie me this instant, you ridiculous man!”
Where requests had failed, orders seemed to work well enough. Her sharp words broke through his terror. Trancelike, the American began fumbling at her bonds, eventually freeing her hands enough for her to bend down and untie her ankles herself. She swung to the edge of the platform.
A stream of Latin sang out above the sounds of carnage, and the automaton slid into action.
By the time Alexia could stand—it took a few moments for the blood to return to her feet—the automaton and the werewolf were grappling in the doorway. What was left of Dr. Neebs and the two young scientists lay crumpled on the floor, swimming in small pools of blood, glassical parts, and entrails.
Miss Tarabotti tried very hard not to be sick or faint. The smell of carnage was truly appalling—fresh meat and molten copper.
Mr. Siemons remained unscathed, and while his construct fought the supernatural creature, he turned to seek out Alexia.
He picked up Dr. Neebs's long sharp surgical knife and moved at her unexpectedly fast for such a well-fed man. Before Alexia had time to react, he was upon her, knife pressed to her throat.
“Do not move, Miss Tarabotti. You neither, Mr. Mac-Dougall. Stay where you are.”
The werewolf had its massive jaw about the throat of the automaton and appeared to be putting concerted effort into decapitating it. It was to no avail, however, because the construct's bones were made of a substance too strong even for a werewolf's jaw. The head remained attached. Wobbly, but attached. The automaton's sluggish blackened blood spilled out of massive neck gashes over the wolf's muzzle. The supernatural creature sneezed and let go.
Mr. Siemons began inching toward the door, which was mostly blocked by the battling monsters. He pushed Miss Tarabotti in front of him, knife to her throat, trying for a side approach behind the wolf.
The werewolf's massive head swung toward them, and his lips pulled back in a snarl of warning.
Mr. Siemons jerked back, slicing through the first few layers of skin on Alexia's neck. She squeaked in alarm.
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 nak*d 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.
“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 nak*d 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, nak*d, 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.
“Hello, princess,” said Lord Maccon to the vampire. “Got yourself into quite a pickle this time, didn't you?”