Alexia nodded and went to devise a means of strapping her dispatch case and her parasol on to her body; she’d need both hands free.
The rail cabin came to a bumpy halt, and Alexia, Floote, and Madame Lefoux climbed out the broken window as fast as possible. Madame Lefoux went first, grabbing one of the pulley straps and dropping with it over to the edge of the platform without a second thought. Definitely reckless.
The pulley emitted a loud ticking noise but carried her down the cable at a pace only mildly dangerous. The inventor landed at the bottom in a graceful forward roll, bouncing out of it onto her stockinged feet with a shout of well being.
With a deep breath of resignation, Alexia followed. She clutched the heavy leather strap in both hands and eased off the edge of the platform, zipping down the line far faster than the lean Frenchwoman. She landed at the bottom with a terrific jolt, ankles screaming, and collapsed into a graceless heap, taking a wicked hit to the shoulder from the corner of her dispatch case. She rolled to her side and looked down; the parasol seemed to have survived better than she.
Madame Lefoux helped her up and out of the way just as Floote let go of a strap and landed gracefully, stopping his own forward momentum by bending one knee, managing to make his dismount look like a bow. Show off.
They heard shouts behind them from the oncoming drones.
It was getting dark but they could still make out a track heading farther up the mountain toward what they could only hope was a customhouse and the Italian border.
They took off running again.
Alexia figured she might be getting enough exercise to last a lifetime in the space of one afternoon. She was actually sweating so very improper.
Something whizzed by her shoulder. The drones were firing their guns once more. Their aim was, of course, affected detrimentally by their pace and the rough terrain, but they were gaining ground.
Up ahead, Alexia could make out a square structure among the dark trees to one side of the road a shed, really but there was a large sign on the other side of the road that appeared to have something threatening written on it in Italian. There was no other gate or barrier, nothing on the track to mark that they were about to go from one country to another, just a little mounded hillock of dirt.
So it was that they crossed the border into Italy.
The drones were still following them.
“Wonderful. Now what do we do?” panted Alexia. Somehow she had thought once they entered Italy, everything would change.
“Keep running,” advised Madame Lefoux unhelpfully.
As if in answer to her question, the deserted pass, now heading down the other side of the mountain, suddenly was not quite so deserted after all.
Out of the shadows of the trees to either side materialized a whole host of men. Alexia only had time to register the utter absurdity of their dress before she, Madame Lefoux, and Floote found themselves surrounded. A single, rapidly lyrical utterance revealed that these were, in fact, Italians.
Each man wore what appeared to be entirely pedestrian country dress bowler, jacket, and knickerbockers but over this, each had also donned what looked like female sleeping attire with a massive red cross embroidered across the front. It greatly resembled an expensive silk nightgown Conall had purchased for Alexia shortly after their marriage. The comedic effect of this outfit was moderated by the fact that each man also wore a belt that housed a large sword with medieval inclinations and carried a chubby revolver. Alexia had seen that type of gun before a Galand Tue Tue probably the sundowner model. It is a strange world, she ruminated, wherein one finds oneself surrounded by Italians in nightgowns carrying French guns modified by the English to kill supernaturals.
The outlandishly garbed group seemed unflustered by Alexia’s party, closing in around them in a manner that managed to be both protective and threatening. They then turned to face down the panting gaggle of drones who drew to a surprised stop just on the other side of the border.
One of the white clad men spoke in French. “I would not cross into our territory if I were you. In Italy, drones are considered vampires by choice and are treated as such.”
“And how would you prove we are drones?” yelled one of the young men.
“Did I say we needed proof?” Several of the swords shinked out of their sheaths.
Alexia peeked around the side of the Italian hulking in front of her. The drones, silhouetted against the rising moon, were stalled in confusion. Finally they turned, perhaps calculating the better part of valor, shoulders hunched in disappointment, and began walking away back down the French side of the mountain.
The lead nightgowner turned inward to face the three refugees. Dismissing Madame Lefoux and Floote with a contemptuous glance, he turned his hook nosed gaze onto Alexia. Who could see quite unsatisfactorily far up his nostrils.
Alexia spared a small frown for Floote. He was pinch faced and white lipped, looking more upset by their current stationary position than he had been when they were running around under gunfire.
“What is it, Floote?” she hissed at him.
Floote shook his head slightly.
Alexia sighed and turned big bland innocent eyes on the Italians.
The leader spoke, his English impossibly perfect. “Alexia Maccon, daughter of Alessandro Tarabotti, how wonderful. We have been waiting a very long time for you to return to us.” With that, he gave a little nod and Alexia felt a prick on the side of her neck.
Return?
She heard Floote shout something, but he was yelling from a very long way away, and then the moon and the shadowed trees all swirled together and she collapsed backward into the waiting arms of the Pope’s holiest of holy antisupernatural elite, the Knights Templars.
Professor Randolph Lyall generally kept to a nighttime schedule, but he had spent the afternoon prior to full moon awake in order to conduct some last minute research. Unfortunately, Ivy Tunstell’s revelation had served only to complicate matters. The preponderance of mysteries was beginning to aggravate. Despite a day spent tapping all his various sources and investigating every possible related document BUR might have, Lord Akeldama and his drones were still missing, Alexia’s pregnancy remained theoretically impossible, and Lord Conall Maccon was still out of commission. The Alpha was, most likely, no longer drunk, but, given the impending full moon, Professor Lyall had seen him safely back behind bars with strict instructions that this time no one was to let him out or there would be uncomfortable consequences.
He himself was so involved in his inquiries as to be quite behind schedule for his own lunar confinement. His personal clavigers his valet and one of the footmen awaited him in the Woolsey vestibule wearing expressions of mild panic. They were accustomed to Woolsey’s Beta, tamest and most cultured of all the pack, arriving several hours ahead of moonrise.
“I do apologize, boys.”
“Very good, sir, but you understand we must take the proper precautions.”
Professor Lyall, who could already feel the strain of the moon even though it had not yet peeked above the horizon, held out his wrists obediently.