The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (131 page)

Dr. Caedes, who wasn't a real doctor, was nevertheless perceptive enough to see that the tenor of Lady Maccon's distress had
changed.

“Lady Maccon, have you commenced? That would be most unfortunate timing.”

Alexia frowned. “No, I absolutely forbid it. I will not—Oooh.” She ended on a groan.

“I believe you have.”

Quesnel perked up at this. “Bully! I've never seen a birth before.” He turned big lavender eyes onto the now-sweating Lady
Maccon.

“You're not going to tonight, either, young man,” Alexia reprimanded between puffs of breath.

The countess, who was still twitchy as all get out and only partly paying attention to any conversation, looked with bright
suspicious eyes at Alexia. “You can't. Not while I am here with you. What if
it
comes out and we have to touch it? Dr. Caedes, throw her out of the carriage at once.”

Even with the strange wave sensation and a burgeoning pain, Alexia was quick enough to reach into her reticule and pull out
Ethel before Dr. Caedes could stop her.

Not that he tried. Instead, he attempted to reason with the countess. “We can't, my queen. We need her to get us inside the
house. She is our invitation.”

Lady Maccon felt compelled to add, “And this is
my
carriage! If anyone is getting out, it's you!” She felt an additional downward pressure from the child inside her. “No, not
you
!” Then she looked wildly around. “This is not allowed,” she said in a blanket kind of way, including both the imminent baby,
the vampires, Quesnel, and the octomaton. She looked down at her belly. “I will not begin our relationship with disobedience.
I get enough of
that
from your father.”

The countess looked like she had eaten something foul, like a piece of fresh fruit. “I cannot be in proximity to an abomination!
Do you know what might transpire?”

Now, this form of panic could be useful. “No, why don't you enlighten me?”

Too late. A crushing, grinding noise came from behind them. Alexia had no idea what the octomaton was up to, but when she
stuck her head out of the window, she saw it was no longer following them. The carriage had turned
off the main track, into the long weaving roadway that wended through Woolsey's grounds.

They were almost home.

Mere moments later, a tremendous crash came in front of them and the carriage slewed to one side and came to a rocking halt.
Out of the window Alexia could see Woolsey just ahead atop its rise of ground, silvered under the moonlight, looking as though
it had its own form of stone tentacles embodied in multiple flying buttresses.

It might as well have been a thousand leagues away, for the octomaton had felled a tree across the road before them. Lord
Ambrose could not turn the carriage around, even if the high hedges permitted such a thing, for behind them the massive metal
creature barred the way. The vampire escort, panting from their long run, instinctively formed a barrier before the coach,
as though they could stop any attack by physically imposing themselves between the octomaton and their queen.

Alexia glanced around in desperation. She was among enemies, exhausted, and about to give birth. She was running out of options
and would have to trust one of the vampires. Opening the carriage door, she yelled at the vanguard, “Your Grace, I have a
proposition for you.”

The Duke of Hematol turned to face her.

“We need some help, and we need a distraction if we are to make our destination.”

“What do you suggest, Lady Maccon?”

“That we call out the hounds.”

“And how do we do that? You definitely can't run to the castle from here, none of us can carry you to Woolsey, and no claviger
will take the word of a vampire messenger.”

“Listen to me. You tell them that Lady Maccon says it is
a matter of urgency.
The Alpha female requires her pack to attend her, regardless of their current state.”
I will have to change the secret phrase now.

“But—”

“It will work. You must trust me.” She wasn't certain, of course.
A matter of urgency
was pack code for Lady Maccon acting as muhjah. She had rarely had to use the summons, and then only with a perfectly sane
husband or Beta, never with only clavigers. Would the message even be understood?

The duke gave her one hard, long look. Then he whirled and ran, leaping the fallen tree with almost as much ease as a werewolf,
heading directly for the castle, supernatural speed in full effect.

With one of their oldest and wisest gone and the great metal octopus looming above their unprotected queen, the vampires around
Lady Maccon went ever so slightly insane themselves. Not as mad as the countess, but definitely wild. One of them charged
the octomaton, only to be swept easily aside.

The metal creature raised up a tentacle to its eye slit, once more opening the tip and flipping out the bullhorn that allowed
Madame Lefoux to speak.

“Give me Quesnel. You are out of options.” There came a short pause. “I can hardly believe it of you, Alexia, helping vampires.
They tried to kill you!”

Alexia stuck her head out of the door-side window of the carriage and yelled back, “So? Recently, you also tried to kill me.
In my experience, murder could almost be an expression of affection.” It took an enormous effort to yell, and she fell back
into the carriage, moaning and
clutching at her stomach. She hated to admit it, even to herself, but Alexia Maccon was afraid.

Then came the noise, an eerie blessing of a sound, one that Alexia had grown to love very much over the past year or so.

Wolves. Howling.

T
he Woolsey Pack was a large collective, a good dozen strong. And a dozen werewolves is like two dozen regular wolves in size
alone. Normally, they were also one of the better-behaved packs. When other packs were feeling snide, they called Woolsey
tame.
But no werewolf behaves himself on full moon.

Lady Maccon knew very well that she was taking a grave risk. She also knew her smell would attract her husband. Even in the
throes of full-moon's curse, he would run to her. He might try to kill her, but he would come. He was Woolsey's Alpha for
a reason, with enough charisma to hold his pack and drag them with him, no matter how strong the need to break away and trail
blood and raw meat across the countryside. They would all follow him, which meant he would bring them all to her.

So it proved to be.

They poured out the lower doors and windows of the castle, howling to the skies. They evolved into a kind of
cohesive moving liquid, flowing down the hillside as one silvered blob, like mercury on a scientist's palm. The howling became
deafening as they neared, and they were swifter than Alexia remembered, full of eternal rage at a world that forced such a
cost of immortality upon them. Any human would flee, and Alexia could see that even the vampires were tempted to run away
from the massive supernatural force charging toward them.

At the front ran the biggest of the lot, a brindled wolf with yellow eyes, intent on but one thing—a smell on the evening
breeze. It was the scent of mate, and lover, and partner, and fear, and something new coming. Near to that, twining with it,
was the scent of young boy, fresh meat to be consumed. Underneath was the smell of rotten flesh and old bloodlines—other predators
invading his territory. Dominating it all was the odor of industry, a monstrous machine, another enemy.

Lady Maccon stepped out of the carriage and slammed the door behind her, placing herself before the boy and the queen, knowing
that she would be the last possible defense, that if nothing else, she had her bare hands.

Her legs, however, refused to obey her. She found herself leaning against the door, wishing she had her parasol for leverage.

The pack was there. The blur of fur and teeth and tail turned into individual wolves. Lord Conall Maccon came to a sliding
halt before his wife.

Alexia never quite knew how to handle her husband when he was in such a state. There was nothing of the man she loved in those
yellow eyes, not during full moon. Her only hope was that he would perceive the octomaton as more of a threat than the vampires.
That his driving
instinct would be to defend territory first and eat later, thus ignoring her and Quesnel, who represented fresh meat.

Her hope proved to be the case, for Conall's yellow eyes flashed once, almost human, and he lolled his tongue out at her.
Then the pack turned in a body and launched itself at the octomaton. One wolf per tentacle, the remaining four at the neck.
Supernatural teeth were guided by instinct toward joints and arteries, even if those joints were made of ball bearings and
pulleys and those arteries hydraulic steam-powered cables.

Alexia could only watch, admiring the grace in their amazingly high leaps. She held Ethel in one hand, but the gun dangled
uselessly. She was nowhere near good enough to hit even something the size of the octomaton without also risking a wolf. The
vampires made no move to help. This might have been because they were afraid a werewolf would take this ill and start attacking
them, or it might be because they were vampires.

Lady Maccon could make out some of the pack by their markings. There was Channing, easiest to spot because of his pure white
coat; and Lyall, smaller than the rest and more nimble, almost vampirelike in his speed and dexterity; and Biffy, darkest
of all the pack with his oxblood stomach fur, abandoned and utterly vicious in his movements. But Alexia's eye was ever drawn,
again and again, to the brindled coat of the largest wolf as he leaped up and savaged some portion of the octomaton, landed,
and then leaped again.

To have had any real effect, the wolves should have all concentrated on one tentacle together, or all gone for the neck, but
they were moonstruck. Even under the best of
circumstances, only a few werewolves fully retain their capacity for human intelligence while in wolf form. Full moon was
not the best of circumstances.

The octomaton was built for many things but not, apparently, for a full-pack assault. True, it was well armored and mostly
metal, but Madame Lefoux had not used any silver, so it was vulnerable, especially in such numbers. But the Frenchwoman was
not remaining idle. Oh, no. Madame Lefoux had those vicious tentacles in play, spraying fire and shooting wooden stakes. Alexia
knew it was only a matter of time before the inventor became desperate enough to once more bring out the tentacle that shot
lapis solaris.

Then Lady Maccon caught sight of a white floating blob behind the top of the octomaton, sailing the aether breezes swiftly
in her direction—a small private dirigible.

Another contraction hit her hard. Alexia doubled over and slid down the side of the carriage, slumping to the ground, leaving
the door vulnerable to attack. It was the first time the wave sensation had actually hurt. Curling against the involuntary
movements of her own body, she looked up and over to the east.

She couldn't help but cry out—not from the pain but from what she saw. There was a distinct pinking to the cold silvery blue
of the night sky.

She had to get them all to the safety of the castle.

She looked to Lord Ambrose, now standing over her barring the door, defending his queen. “We must bring the creature down
somehow, buy us enough time to get to Woolsey.
The sun is rising.
”

The vampire's eyes went black with fear. The sun would stop werewolves in their tracks, turning them back
to human shape. It would slow some of the younger members, making them vulnerable, and it would do permanent damage to Biffy,
who lacked the necessary control. But it would kill the vampires, every last one of them, even the queen.

Alexia thought of something. “Find me a litter, my lord.”

“What, Lady Maccon?”

“Tear off the roof of the carriage or remove part of the driving box. With one vampire at either end, you could use it to
carry me to Woolsey. No one would have to touch me, there would be no loss of strength. We could make a break for it.”

“Strategic retreat. Excellent notion.” He leaped atop the driver's box.

Lady Maccon heard a loud ripping noise.

Above, she saw a bright flash of orange light emanate from the side of the dirigible and a loud clang as a massive bullet
hit and tore through the mantle of the octomaton. The creature lurched at the impact but did not fall.

Lord Akeldama had sent air support. Alexia had no idea what kind of weapon the drones had, possibly a tiny cannon, or an elephant
gun, or an aethero-modified blunderbuss, but she didn't care. It fired again.

By the time the second projectile hit its mark, Lord Ambrose was back, as was the duke. They rested a wide board on the ground
next to Alexia. She managed to slide and squirm her way onto it.

They lifted her up. The queen and Dr. Caedes, carrying Quesnel, leaped out of the top of the torn and burned carriage, jack-in-the-box-like,
and took off toward Woolsey, jumping the felled tree. The countess looked particularly
odd performing this maneuver with her flowered receiving gown and dumpy figure. Lady Maccon's vampire litter bearers followed.
Alexia could do nothing more than grip the sides of the board, desperate not to tumble off. The leap over the fallen tree
was pure torture, and she was convinced she would fall when they bumped down, but she managed to hold on.

The wolves were providing enough of a distraction so that Madame Lefoux in the octomaton did not at first see them break for
the castle. By the time she did, sending flames blasting after them, they were well out of range.

There was no need to bang on Woolsey's main door; it was wide open, with many of the clavigers and household staff assembled
on the front stoop, mouths agape. They had binoculars or glassicals pressed to their faces and were riveted by the battle
below. At Lady Maccon's imperious wave, they made a corridor for the vampires to run through, right up to the entrance, at
which point everyone stopped abruptly. They waited with a ritual solemnity uncalled for in such dire circumstances.

“What is it
now?
” Alexia was annoyed beyond all reason. She was carried right to the door, like a dressed pig on a dinner platter.
Any moment now,
she thought in a flight of fantasy,
Cook will appear with an apple to stuff into my mouth.

Lord Ambrose rested the bottom of the board down and the duke tilted it up so that Lady Maccon had merely to slide gently
to her feet, finding herself standing.

A quick gesture had her supported on both sides by two of Woolsey's largest clavigers. Thus she managed to hobble inside the
entrance of her home.

Still the vampires waited on the front stoop, like
some bizarre parody of orphaned puppies—soulful eyed, pathetically scruffy, deadly fanged, immortal orphaned puppies.

Lady Maccon turned ponderously. “Well?”

“Invite us in to stay, Alexia Maccon, Lady of Woolsey, mistress of this domicile.” The countess's words were singsong and
hymnlike. She clutched a wide-eyed, blubbering Quesnel tightly to her breast—no trace of the scamp left, just terrified boy.

“Oh, for goodness' sake, come in, come in.” Alexia frowned, trying to think. They had a goodly number of rooms, but where
would it be best to put a whole hive of vampires? She pursed her lips. “Best to get you lot down to the dungeon. It's the
only place I can guarantee that there are absolutely no windows, and the sun
is
about to rise.”

Rumpet came forward. “Lady Maccon, what have you done?”

The vampires traipsed solemnly into the house. Alexia pointed out the appropriate staircase and they filed wordlessly down.

“You have invited in a queen?” The butler, normally quite a florid man, was ashen.

“I have.”

The Duke of Hematol gave her a tired smile as he passed, showing fang, acknowledging the butler's fear as his due. “We can
never go back now, you realize, Lady Maccon? Once a queen swarms and relocates, it is forever.”

Lady Maccon finally understood Lord Akeldama's smile and why he refused to invite the hive in for tea. Alexia had managed
to get his greatest rival out of London,
for good. Not only was he potentate, and in charge of his own ring of very specially trained young men, but also he would
now be the sole leader of fashion left in central London.

And Lady Maccon was stuck with vampires in her basement. “Curses, I have been rather neatly played.”

Another contraction hit her, and she had no more thought for her present domestic predicament. She suspected this was somewhat
akin to the pain her husband felt upon changing shape.

Rumpet put out a hand to steady her. “My lady?”

“Rumpet, there is an octomaton on our doorstep.”

“So I noticed, my lady. And half of BUR has just arrived as well.”

Alexia looked. It was true. Several of BUR's human members, on the octomaton's trail out of London, had finally caught up.
She thought she could see Haverbink's tall, strapping form. “Oh, God. The pack will turn on them, they're food.” And even
as she watched, one of the werewolves left off fighting Madame Lefoux's creature and charged one of the BUR agents. “We must
protect them. Get the pack members back inside!”

“Indeed, madam.”

“Call up the clavigers. Tell them to bring the necessary equipment and open the silver cabinet.”

“Immediately, madam.” The butler moved toward a nested triangular alcove formed by the staircase. Next to the large cowbell
that he rang at mealtimes there dangled a silver chain. At the end of that chain was a silver key. Next to it was a special
glass box containing a large horn. Rumpet broke the glass with one swift punch of his gloved hand. He placed the horn to his
lips and blew.

Not the most dignified of sounds emanated forth, a kind of farting noise. But it rattled through the castle in a way that
suggested the sound had been manufactured specifically to permeate rock. The clavigers instantly assembled around Rumpet in
the hallway. Pack policy dictated that every pack member have at least two clavigers. Lord Maccon had six these days, and
there were a few extras loitering about as well.

Rumpet used the key to open the silver cabinet, an old mahogany monstrosity that gave no clue as to its true contents. Inside,
instead of the usual household valuables—candlesticks, baby spoons, and the like—was the claviger kit. Displayed in neat rows
and on special hooks were silver manacles, enough pairs for every member of the pack; silver knives; a few precious bottles
of lapis lunearis; and, most importantly, the fishing nets. These were spun of silver cord, weighted at the corners, and used
to capture and weaken a wolf without damage. Dangling from little hooks in each door were fifty fine silver chains with fifty
fine silver whistles.