Alexia decided he was playing with her and gave him a nasty look.
He explained further. “A synthetic creature formed by science, an alchemical artificial man...”
Miss Tarabotti wracked her brain and finally came up with a word from some long-ago religious text in her father's library. “An automaton?”
“Exactly! They have existed before.”
Miss Tarabotti's generous mouth fell open. She had thought them mere creatures of legend, like unicorns: freaks of a purely mythical nature. The scientific side of her intellect was intrigued. “But, what is it made of? How does it work? It seems so very much alive!”
Lord Akeldama took exception to her word choice once again. “It is moving, animated, and active, yes. But, my dear bluebell, alive it most certainly is not.”
“Yes, but how?”
“Who knows what dastardly science went into its creation—a metal skeleton perhaps, a small aetheromagnetic or steam engine of some kind. Perhaps it has clockwork parts. I am no engineer to know the truth of it.”
“But why should anyone wish to build such a creature?”
“You are asking me to explain the actions of a scientist? I hardly know how to put it, petunia petal. Your friend there would appear to be the perfect servant: unflagging and loyal to the last. Of course, one would suppose all orders must be very precise.” He would have continued, but Miss Tarabotti interrupted him.
“Yes, yes, but what about killing them?” Alexia went straight for the heart of the matter. Really, she quite adored Lord Akeldama, but he did tend to blather on.
Lord Akeldama looked at her reprovingly. “Now, do not be too hasty, my darling. All in good time.”
“That is easy for you to say,” grumbled Miss Tarabotti. “You are a vampire; all you have is time.”
“Apparently not. I need hardly remind you, sweetheart, that those men are coming back for me. Shortly. Or so they implied.”
“You were awake the entire time.” Miss Tarabotti was somehow unsurprised.
“I awoke in the carriage on the way here. I feigned sleep, as there seemed nothing advantageous in alerting them to my consciousness. Pretending afforded me an opportunity to overhear interesting information. Unfortunately, I heard nothing of any consequence. Those”— he paused as though searching for the right way to describe the men who had abducted them—”degenerates are mere minions. They know only what they have been told to do, not why they were told to do it. Just as bad as the automaton. They were not interested in discussing this business, whatever it is, among themselves. But, marigold—”
Miss Tarabotti interrupted him again. “Please, Lord Akeldama, I do not mean to be rude, but the homunculus simulacrum?”
“Quite right, my dear. If I am to be taken off presently, you should have as much information as I can relay. In my limited experience, automatons cannot be killed. Because how does one kill something that is not alive? The homunculus simulacrum can be disanimated, though.”
Miss Tarabotti, who had developed rather unladylike homicidal tendencies toward the repulsive wax-faced thing, asked eagerly, “How?”
“Well,” said Lord Akeldama, “activation and control is usually in the form of a word or phrase. If one can find a way to undo that phrase, one can, in effect, turn the homunculus simulacrum off, like a mechanical doll.”
“A word like VIXI?” suggested Alexia.
“Very like. You have seen it?”
“Written across its forehead, in some kind of black powder,” Miss Tarabotti confirmed. “Magnetized iron dust, I would hazard a guess, aligned to the domain of the automaton's internal engine, possibly through an aetheric connection. You must find a way to undo it.”
“Undo what?” she asked. “The VIXI.”
“Ah.” Miss Tarabotti pretended to understand. “That simple, is it?”
In the darkness of their lonely cell, Lord Akeldama grinned at her. “Now you are playing me for a lark, my sweet. I am sorry I do not know any more. I have never had to deal with a homunculus simulacrum personally. Alchemic sciences have never been my forte.”
Alexia wondered what was his forte but asked, “What else do you think they are doing at this club? Aside from building an automaton.”
The vampire shrugged as much as his handcuffs would allow. “Whatever they do must, perforce, involve experimentation on vampires, possibly a forcing of metamorphosis. I am beginning to suspect that rove you killed—when was it, a week or so ago?—was not actually made supernatural at all but was manufactured as a counterfeit of some kind.”
“They have been abducting loner werewolves too. Professor Lyall found out about it,” Alexia told him.
“Really? I did not know that.” Lord Akeldama sounded more disappointed in his own abilities than surprised at the news. “Stands to reason, I suppose; might as well work with both sides of the supernatural living. I assure you, even these scientists cannot figure out a way to cut open or replicate a ghost. The real question is, what are they doing with all of us in the end?”
Miss Tarabotti shuddered, remembering that Countess Nadasdy had said the new vampires rarely lived beyond a few days. “It cannot be pleasant, whatever it is.”
“No,” Lord Akeldama agreed quietly. “No, it cannot.” He was silent for a long moment, and then he said soberly, “My dear child, may I ask you something, in all seriousness?”
Alexia raised her eyebrows. “I do not know. Can you? I did not think you actually possessed the capacity for seriousness, my lord.”
“Ah, yes, it is an assumption I have taken great care to cultivate.” The vampire cleared his throat. “But, let me give it my best attempt this once. It seems unlikely that I will survive this little misadventure of ours. But if I do, I should like to ask a favor of you.”
Miss Tarabotti did not know what to say at that. She was struck by how bleak her life suddenly looked without Lord Akeldama to color it. She was also amazed by his calm acceptance of his impending demise. She supposed that after so many centuries, death was no longer a fearsome thing.
He continued. “It has been a very, very long time since I have experienced the sun. Do you think you might wake me early one evening, with contact, so that I could see it set?”
Miss Tarabotti was touched by such a request. It would be a very dangerous endeavor for him, for he would have to trust her implicitly not to let go. If they broke contact for even a moment, he would immolate instantly.
“Are you certain?”
He breathed out acknowledgment as though it were a benediction. “Absolutely positive.” Just then, the door to the cell banged open. One of the flunkies came in and unceremoniously lifted Lord Akeldama over one bulky shoulder.
“Promise?” said the vampire, hanging limply upside down.
Miss Tarabotti said, “I promise,” hoping she would have the chance to live up to her vow.
With that, Lord Akeldama was carried from the room. The door was closed and bolted behind him. Miss Tarabotti, with nothing but her own thoughts for company, was left alone in the dark. She was particularly annoyed with herself; she had meant to ask about the brass octopuses appearing everywhere.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Among the Machines