Lady Maccon unhooked and flipped her parasol about and turned to face the gastropod.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A Gastropod Among Us
Whoever they were, they were less interested in guns and hurling fire than in scrapping hand to hand with the big man who stood alone before them. They’d stopped their snail in front of Lord Maccon and were leaping off it to attack him. Alexia’s husband stood, waiting for them, arms akimbo.
I married an idiot, thought his loving wife, and she rushed down the hillside.
The idiot glowered at the gastropod enemy. His hair was a shaggy mess, his face covered in a full beard, his expression ferocious. He looked like a mountain man come to raise hell among the desert folk.
The first of the white-clad men charged him.
Conall lashed out. He might be mortal but he still knew how to fight. What Alexia worried about was his remembering he wasn’t nearly so strong nor so durable in his nonsupernatural state.
She came dashing up just as he engaged two more robed men in combat. She drew back her parasol, took aim, and fired a numbing dart at one of the opponents.
At this action, the attackers paused and fell back to regroup behind the snail, nattering at each other excitedly in Arabic.
“Guess they weren’t expecting projectiles,” said Lady Maccon smugly.
“I told you to leave!” The earl was not pleased to see his lady wife.
“Be fair, my love. When have I ever done as ordered?”
He snorted. “Where’s Prudence?”
“With Madame Lefoux, getting the balloon up, I hope.” Alexia braced herself next to him, reaching into one of the secret pockets of her parasol. She pulled out Ethel and handed the small gun to him.
“Just in case.” Even as she said it, they heard the sound of a gunshot, and sand near Conall’s foot spat up sharp pellets at them.
Alexia and her husband both dove forward. They had the advantage of higher ground, but they also had no shelter.
Alexia opened her parasol defensively in front of them, trying to remember if this new one had armor.
Lord Maccon took careful aim and fired the gun.
A loud ping indicated the bullet had hit the metal of the gastropod’s shell harmlessly.
“This is very decidedly not good,” said Alexia.
Conall looked at her, his expression ferocious. “We are stuck on a hill, outmanned and outgunned.”
Another barrage of shots came at them, this time narrowly missing Conall’s head. Alexia and her husband began to squirm backward, up the hill. Alexia’s bustle wiggled back and forth suggestively as she squirmed. Her skirts began to ride up scandalously high, but she had other things to worry about.
Lady Maccon was not happy about the situation. Not happy at all. She was also drying out, the sun beating relentlessly down, and all her water carriers had run off at the first sign of the gastropod. The pressure of the mummies around her was beginning to leak in and distract. Her entire being felt as though it were being pushed. All she could think was that she wasn’t meant to be there. The dead didn’t want her there. And neither did the living, if the white-clad snail men were anything to go by.
Another barrage of bullets came at them. Conall let out a sharp cry as one lucky shot hit the meat of his upper arm.
“See, what did I warn you of?” Alexia was concerned. In Alexia, concern, nine times out of ten, came out of her mouth as annoyance.
“Not now, wife!” Lord Maccon yanked off his cravat, and Alexia wrapped it quickly about his arm while he transferred Ethel to his other, working, hand.
“Should I?” she asked, offering to take the gun back.
“Even with the wrong hand I can still shoot better than you.”
“Oh, thank you very much.” Alexia glanced back up the hill and saw the purple rise of Zayed’s balloon peek up behind it.
“He won’t come get us,” she said. “Not with bullets flying. The balloon would be at risk.”
“Then I suppose we had better get to it.”
Alexia was peeved enough to reply, “Well, yes. Couldn’t you have done that in the first place?”
“I was trying to buy you ladies some time to escape. Precious little good it’s done you.”
“Oh, very gallant. As if I would let you take on a gastropod alone without any kind of weaponry.”
“Must we argue right now?” Another round of gunfire spit the sand up around them.
They continued squirming up the hill and exchanging fire with the snail. Or Conall did; Alexia was out of the numbing darts.
Alexia closed the parasol so she could see where she was aiming. She reached for the first nodule on the handle and twisted it, activating the magnetic disruption emitter. Some of the gastropod must have been comprised of iron components, for the engine seized up, much to the bewilderment of the shouting driver.
Taking advantage of the confusion, Alexia and Conall jumped to their feet and dashed up the hill toward the balloon, the earl pushing his wife before him.
They almost reached the top. The balloon was higher now, and Alexia could make out the long rope ladder dangling down and trailing toward them in the sand. She ran to it, faster than she had ever thought possible. The repulsion pressure was bearing down on her hard, there being far more mummies at the top of the hill. She could feel the blackness closing in—too many dead preternaturals pressing against her skull.
I can’t faint again. Now is not a good time, even if I were the fainting type, she remonstrated with herself.
Conall paused, turned, and fired. The snail was in motion again, the disruption worn off, but some of the men had given up waiting for it and had taken off after them on foot up the hill. When Conall paused to shoot, so did they.
Alexia heard her husband cry out and he jerked backward against her. The bottom fell out of her world as she turned frantically, half supporting his massive weight, desperately looking to this new injury. A bloom of red appeared over his ribs, staining the shirt. He wasn’t wearing a waistcoat.
“Conall Maccon,” she cried, shaking off the blackness, “I forbid you to die.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, woman. I’m perfectly fine,” he replied, dropping Ethel to clutch at his side, gasping and terribly pale under the beard.
Alexia bent to scoop up her gun.
“Leave it. We’re out of ammunition anyway.”
“But!”
Conall began climbing up the hill, bent almost double against the pain.
Alexia turned to follow, only to find herself seized about the waist by one of the white-clad enemy. She screamed in rage and swung her parasol up and back hard, hitting the man squarely atop the head.
He let go of her.
She was out of numbing darts but there was more than that in her accessory’s arsenal. She twisted the nodule closest to the shade, hoping she had the correct direction for the correct liquid. Either the acid for vampires or the silver nitrite for werewolves would work on humans, but the acid was nastier. She couldn’t remember which was which, so she simply hoped.
Alexia met the man’s eyes over the top of the parasol and felt a brief flash of recognition. She had seen him before, on the train to Woolsey back in England.
“What?” she said, pausing in her action. Then remembering her husband’s wounds, she let loose the spray.
The man, as shocked as she, leaped backward out of harm’s way, tripped on his long robe, and tumbled down the hill before regaining his feet. Instead of continuing his pursuit, he whirled about, running back toward the gastropod waving his arms wildly in the air.
Alexia couldn’t understand a word he said except one. He kept repeating something that sounded Italian, not Arabic: “Panattone.”
The peace brought about by this startling reversal didn’t last long for, despite his gesticulations, the other white-clad men continued to fire. One or two ran past their erstwhile companion and continued after her.
Conall, who had reached the ladder and was holding on to it, had turned back at Alexia’s yell. He was looking even whiter, and there was a good deal more blood running down his side than Alexia had ever seen spilling out of anyone.
Her world was closing in. It was like being inside a black tunnel, the repulsion pressing against the corners of her eyes. Pushing herself, slogging that last short distance to her husband took herculean effort. But then she was there, and Conall was pressing the rope into her hands.
“Go on!” he yelled, pushing up on her bustle as though he might hoist her into the air. He was nowhere near strong enough for that in his current state.
Alexia stuffed the cloth of her parasol into her mouth, holding it with her teeth, and began to climb. She paused halfway up to glance back, making certain her husband was following her.
He was, but he did not look well. His grip must be very weak, particularly with that injured arm.
The moment they latched on to the ladder, Zayed, blessed man, gave the balloon some heat, and it floated up.
Below them they could hear more guns firing. Alexia felt one whiz past her ear and heard a thunk as it lodged itself in the wicker of the basket.
Madame Lefoux and Prudence’s heads poked over the edge. They both looked terrified. There was nothing they could do to help.
“Genevieve, take Prudence to cover!” Conall yelled.
The heads disappeared for a moment and then only the inventor’s reappeared.
Madame Lefoux had one of her deadly little wrist darts out and was aiming it down. Startled, Alexia thought she was pointing it at her or Conall. In that moment, she wondered, yet again, if she had misjudged the Frenchwoman’s loyalty.
Genevieve fired. The dart hurtled past Alexia’s ear. There came a cry, and it hit the man Alexia hadn’t even realized was there. A man in white robes dangling off the very bottom of the ladder let go and fell, screaming.
The balloon lifted again, and Alexia felt a lightening of that horrible sensation of repulsion, the black tunnel receding from around her vision. She wished the balloon would go faster, but they were at the mercy of the sky now.
Finally, after what felt like an age, bullets whizzing by all the while, Alexia attained the basket lip and tumbled in. She spat out her parasol and instantly turned to see to her husband.
Conall was still some ways behind her, slowed by his wounds. Below him she could see the gastropod, tracking them across the sands, still close enough to be a danger. Alexia went for her parasol, prepared to use the grapple attachment.
The firing continued but the balloon was out of range.
Then, one of the enemy pulled out a different kind of gun, a huge fat rifle that looked like it was designed for large game. He fired. Whether he was aiming to bring down the balloon or not, he hit Lord Conall Maccon.
Alexia wasn’t certain where he was hit exactly, but she could see her husband’s face, already ashen under the beard, turned up toward her. A ghastly expression of profound surprise suffused his handsome visage and he let go and fell. Desperate, Alexia shot the parasol grapple at her husband and missed. Conall fell for what seemed leagues, silent, not screaming, not uttering a sound, to land in a broken heap in the desert far below.
Biffy was worried. He wasn’t a man to let slide his training—the many years under Lord Akeldama, the few under Professor Lyall. His training taught him to be practical, to look to the evidence, to watch and observe, never to assume, and always to be stylish about it. But he was still worried, for something was wrong. He had received no message from Lady Maccon in three sunsets. He had faithfully, every evening, climbed to the attic aethographic chamber and waited, at first only for a quarter of an hour or so, but as the days passed, he waited longer and longer.
He mentioned his concerns to Professor Lyall and the Beta made sympathetic murmurs, but what could they do? Their orders were to remain in London, keep things in check. That was difficult enough with Lady Kingair convinced they should send someone after Floote and Channing convinced they were lying about Biffy’s new state.
“Prove it!” Major Channing said the moment Lyall made the announcement to the pack. “Go on. Show me Anubis form!”
“It’s not like that. I can’t control it yet.” Biffy spoke calmly.
The Gamma was unconvinced. “There’s no way you’re an Alpha. You’re a ruddy dandy!”
“Now, now, Channing. I saw it. So did Lady Kingair.” Professor Lyall’s voice was mellow and calm.
“I dinna ken what I saw,” said that lady most unhelpfully.
“See? Do you see?” Channing turned back to Biffy, his shapely lip curled in disgust. His face, though handsome, was disagreeably set and his blue eyes icy. “Go on, then. Can’t show me the head? Fight me for dominance.” The Gamma really looked as though he might strip right there in the dining room and change to a wolf, simply to prove Biffy was lying.
“You think I desired this state?” Biffy was outraged at being accused of making such a thing up. “Do I look like the kind of man who wants to be Alpha?”