“Would Lord Akeldama invite one into our midst?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t figured out why he’s doing any of this.” Sophronia was only mildly frustrated. She doubted anyone could fully understand their vampire host in the space of a human life-span, let alone during the course of a dinner party.
“A man of many motives,” suggested Agatha darkly.
“Or, worse, none at all,” replied Sophronia.
They made their way out into the hallway, precisely in time to hear a shrill whining nose and then a woof sound, which ended in an impossibly loud boom.
The door to the drawing room exploded outward. Several top hats were carried with the blast, flying through the opening on a cloud of smoke, falling to roll sadly on the plush carpet.
Sophronia could only think of one thing.
“Bumbersnoot!”
A PROBLEM OF MOTIVATION
Sophronia, Agatha, and Dimity ran toward the door now hanging by its bottom hinge. Drones came dashing from all parts of the house.
Sophronia’s mind was in a loop of worry. Is Bumbersnoot in there? Is the explosion his fault? Or has he exploded himself, without permission? And then, Petunia!
They clustered at the doorway, peering into chaos. The smoke cleared, exposing a remarkable tableau. Something large and mechanical had caused the blast. It had started out on a table in the center of the room, but now its parts were scattered everywhere and the table was cracked in half. It was hard to tell what it had been, but now it wasn’t anymore. There were shards of glass or possibly crystal, as well as gears, valves, coal, chains, and springs everywhere. But what really drew the eye was the guests.
The supernatural creatures had leapt to shield the mortals. Lord Akeldama had whisked Monique behind a couch. The sandy-haired werewolf had the inventor and the newspaperman down flat on their fronts with him partly on top. The dewan had taken Petunia under his wing. The deadly butler, who might or might not be supernatural, had two others shielded by an overturned table in the far corner. But they hadn’t been able to get to everyone. There was a good deal of blood, mostly on arms and backs, as those without guardians had turned away to shield their heads. No one seemed dead, but several were certainly prone and writhing. Both active members of the Staking Constabulary, the chief field operative for the Bureau of Unnatural Registry, the overseer of the Vault of England, and the Ghost Wrangler were down.
Petunia looked sobered but showed no inclination to faint, scream, or cry. Sophronia felt oddly proud.
“Your sister has unexpected fortitude.” Agatha voiced Sophronia’s thoughts. “I suppose you must get it from somewhere.” She sounded quite adult in her assessment of the Temminnick family character.
The rustle of a crinkling dinner dress and a small sigh next to them drew their attention.
Dimity had noticed not only the blood on the human victims but that the backs of many of the supernaturals had been torn to shreds by shrapnel and were leaking slow black blood in large dollops. She fainted into the willing arms of one of the drones.
Sophronia and Agatha left her to it.
Sophronia dutifully went to check on her sister, all the while covertly searching the room for Bumbersnoot. Agatha began to circulate with a dampened handkerchief and sympathetic expression. The drones ran to their master, and by proxy, Monique, helping them to stand, cooing and brushing them down. Lord Akeldama began issuing orders for hot water, bandages, dust removers, cleaning supplies, smelling salts, clothing, tea, and the like. The drones, having ascertained that he was both unhurt and unruffled, ran to do his bidding. He held a heavily perfumed handkerchief to his nose and passed the same on to the werewolves, so they would not be tempted by all the human blood.
Sophronia thought the vampire seemed more offended by the destruction of clothing than anything else. There was a hint of hauteur to his orders that was not ordinarily part of his public persona.
The victims began to slowly sit and take stock. The newspaperman, looking equal parts pleased and terrified, made hasty farewells. He retrieved his coat from the hallway, and throwing it over his now wrinkled evening suit, dashed off into the night. He had his headline for tomorrow’s paper.
The supernaturals milled around, assessing the damage. The drones tended to the wounded.
“Petunia, are you unhurt?” Sophronia took her sister’s hand in both of hers in a clasp she had read about in one of Dimity’s horrible Gothic novels.
“It appears that way, sister. I am most grateful to the dewan for his protection. I believe I owe him my life. Too kind, too kind. Although I must say this was more excitement than I was anticipating from a dinner party. Even among such august company.”