Both men laughed.
“Those fanatics,” said the pipe man. “Certainly not. Although some of their tactics have proved moderately useful in our collection expeditions. And, of course, we have recently realized that Templars have in the past employed preternaturals as covert agents. We had thought those rumors mere religious embellishment, the power of faith to cancel the devil's abilities. Now we see there were scientific underpinnings. Some of their information, should we manage to get possession of it, will pave the way toward better understanding of your physiology, if nothing else. But, to answer your question, no, we of the Hypocras Club are of a purely scientific bent.”
“Though advocating a political agenda,” accused Miss Tarabotti, forgetting her ploy to lull them into a false sense of her stupidity in her amazement at such flagrant disregard for the tenets of scientific objectivity.
“Say instead, Miss Tarabotti, that we have nobility of purpose,” said Mr. Siemons. But his smile was not unlike that of a religious fanatic. “We are preserving the freedom of those who matter.”
Alexia was confused. “Then why are you creating more of them? Why the experiments?”
Mr. Siemons said, “Know thy enemy, Miss Tarabotti. To eliminate the supernatural, we must first understand the supernatural. Of course, now that we have you, further supernatural vivisections may be unnecessary. We can turn all our attention to deducing the nature and reproducibility of the preternatural instead.”
The two men escorted her proudly through the seemingly endless labyrinthine white laboratories of that nightmarish club. Each contained complex machinery of some kind. Most appeared to be steam-powered. There were great pumping bellows with enormous gears and coils to facilitate up-and-down motion. There were shiny engines, smaller than hatboxes, with overly organic curves that were, in their way, more terrifying than the larger contraptions. They all, regardless of size, boasted a brass octopus, riveted somewhere about their casings. The contrast of engine and invertebrate was oddly sinister.
The steam produced by the mechanicals discolored the walls and ceilings of the laboratories, causing the white wallpaper to buckle and pimple outward in yellowed boils. Oil from the gears leaked across the floors in dark viscous rivulets. There were other stains there, too, rust-colored ones that Alexia did not care to think about.
Mr. Siemons proudly detailed the function of each machine, as though relating the accomplishments of his favorite children.
Though Miss Tarabotti heard wheezing gasps and clunks in nearby rooms, she was never shown any machine in action.
She also heard the screams.
At first the keening was so high in pitch she thought it might be sourced in one of the machines. She was not certain when she realized it came from a human throat, but the absolute knowledge of its origin hit her so hard she stumbled under the weight of it. No machine could make such a noise as that high, agonized moaning squeal, like an animal being butchered. Alexia leaned heavily against one wall of the hallway, her skin clammy, swallowing down the sour bile her writhing stomach produced in sympathy. She thought she had never before heard so pure a sound of pain.
The machines she had been seeing took on new and horrific meanings as she realized what they might do to a physical body.
Mr. MacDougall was concerned by her sudden pallor. “Miss Tarabotti, you are unwell?”
Alexia looked at him with wide dark eyes. “This place is all madness. Do you realize that?”
Mr. Siemons's jowls swam into her field of view. “I take it you will not cooperate willingly with our research?”
Another high keening scream rent the air. Inside that cry, Alexia could hear Lord Akeldama's voice. Mr. Siemons cocked his head at the sound and licked his lips, as though savoring a pleasant taste. Miss Tarabotti shuddered. There was something almost lustful in his gaze. Only then did she finally come to a realization of the truth.
“What does it matter, if that is to be my fate either way?” Miss Tarabotti asked.
“Well, it would be easier all around if you were a willing participant.”
And why, Alexia wondered, should I make this easier for you? She grimaced and said, “What do you want me to do?”
Mr. Siemons smiled like he had just won some competition. “We need to observe and verify the extent of your preternatural abilities. There is no point in us undertaking extensive experimentation if we cannot determine if your purported soul-sucking curse-canceling powers are, in fact, genuine.”
Miss Tarabotti shrugged. “So, bring me a vampire. All it takes is one touch.”
“Really? Remarkable. Skin to skin, or does it work through clothing?”
“Through clothing most of the time. After all, I wear gloves like any respectable person. But I have not explored the particulars.”
Mr. Siemons shook his head as though to clear it. “We will explore further, later. I was thinking of a little more definitive testing. After all, it is full moon night. As it happens, we have just received a substantial delivery of new werewolf specimens in full change. I should like to see if you can counteract such a substantial change.”
Mr. MacDougall looked alarmed. “That could be dangerous, if her abilities are false or over exaggerated.”
Mr. Siemons grinned wider. “That would be part of the test, would it not?” He turned to Miss Tarabotti. “How long does it usually take for you to neutralize the supernatural?”
Alexia lied instantly and without hesitation. “Oh, generally not much more than an hour.”
The scientist, with no prior knowledge of the rapidity of her abilities, was forced to believe her. He looked at the goons, two of whom had been shadowing them throughout the tour. “Bring her.”
Mr. MacDougall protested, but to no avail.
Once more prisoner instead of guest, Miss Tarabotti was dragged unceremoniously back toward the confinement area on the other side of the club grounds.
They took her to the other hallway, the one in which she and Lord Akeldama had not been ensconced. Previously silent, it now resounded with snarling cries and howls. Periodically, some door or another would vibrate violently as though a large body had hurled itself against it.
“Ah,” said Mr. Siemons, “I see they have awoken.”
“Chloroform works better initially on werewolves than on vampires but does not seem to last as long,” reported a young man in a gray jacket who appeared seemingly out of thin air, clutching a leather notepad. He wore a pair of those monocular cross-whatsit lens things, the glassicals, which somehow looked less ridiculous on him than they had on Professor Lyall.
“And which room is he in?”
The man pointed with his notebook at one of the doors. One of the few that was not vibrating but stood ominously still and quiet. “Number five.”
Mr. Siemons nodded. “He should be the strongest and thus the hardest to change back. Toss her in with him. I will check back in an hour.” With that, he left them.
Mr. MacDougall protested vociferously. He even struggled against the two goons, attempting to stop the inevitable. Miss Tarabotti's valuation of his moral fiber rose substantially. But it was all to no avail. The two lackeys were of the overly muscled variety. They tossed the pudgy scientist aside with barely any effort whatsoever.
“But she'll never survive. Not with one in full change! Not if she takes so long to counteract them!” Mr. MacDougall continued to protest.