The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (132 page)

The clavigers, grim-faced, armed themselves and took up the nets. Each put a whistle over his head. They were so high-pitched
that no human ear could possibly make out the sound, but wolves and dogs were violently affected by the noise.

Alexia thought of something. “Try to bring in Biffy first. Remember he's still susceptible to pup-stage sun damage. Take care—he'll
be the most vicious. Oh, my goodness, what will I say if he accidentally eats somebody?”

Six of the biggest and best clavigers ran to the stables, and Alexia heard the roaring sound of the steam-powered penny-farthing
wagons starting. Two clavigers per wagon—one
to steer and one to cast the net—they roared out and down the hillside, steam trailing in a white cloud behind them. The other
clavigers ran after.

Lady Maccon witnessed very little of the battle after that. She leaned against Rumpet and tried to watch, but contractions
kept distracting her, and the fighting below was nothing more to her unfocused mind than a puddinglike mass of clavigers,
wolves, and steam from penny-farthings and an octomaton. Occasionally, a spurt of fire jetted into the air or a glittering
waterfall of silver net was cast upward.

Eventually she gave up. “Rumpet, help me to the bottom of the stair.” The butler did so, and Alexia sank gratefully down onto
the steps of the grand staircase. “Now, please go down and ensure that the vampires are locked in. The last thing we need
is them on the loose.”

“At once, my lady.”

Rumpet disappeared and returned later, grim-faced.

“That bad?”

“They are complaining about the accommodations and demanding feather pillows, my lady.”

“Of course they are.” Alexia doubled over in pain as another contraction ripped through her. Dimly, she saw Lord Akeldama's
dirigible float in to a graceful landing in the front courtyard of Woolsey. Boots and the airship company leaped agilely out
of the basket and lashed the craft to a hitching post.

The first set of clavigers returned at that point, dragging a netted wolf with the aid of a penny-farthing wagon. It took
four of them to get him up the steps and into the castle, even with the silver net burning him into submission. It wasn't
Biffy, but it looked to be one of the other youngsters, Rafe.

Alexia's attention was refocused into moaning as her pains became, if possible, worse. She looked for Rumpet, but he was busy
supervising the unloading, seeing to it that the young wolf was dragged down into the dungeon and locked away. Alexia spared
a moment to hope that all the vampires had gone into one of the cells together, or things were about to get very complicated,
indeed.

“Conall!” she yelled through the pain, even knowing he was in wolf form and that he would be the hardest to catch and the
last to return home. “Where is he?” She was irrationally convinced that he should be with her right that very moment.

At which juncture, a wide, cool cloth was placed across her brow and a soft reliable voice said exactly the right thing. “Here,
madam, drink this.”

A cup was pressed against her lips and Alexia sipped. Strong, milky, and restorative, exactly how she liked it best. Tea.

She opened her eyes, previously screwed closed in anguish, to see the fine lined face of an elderly gentleman, nondescript
and familiar. “Floote.”

“Good evening, madam.”

“Where did you come from?”

Floote gestured behind him where the dirigible was still visible through the open front door. Tizzy and Boots hovered in the
doorway, looking at Alexia in horror and with an air that suggested they would rather be anywhere else but there.

“I caught a lift, madam.”

“Eep!” squeaked Tizzy as he was pushed aside by another group of clavigers dragging another netted wolf home.
Hemming,
thought Alexia.
Had to be.
Only Hemming
whined like that. They muscled their captive through the hallway and toward the dungeon stairs without need of an order from
the panting and writhing Lady Maccon.

The previous group came back up, passing them on the stairs.

“Back out,” ordered their Alpha female, “and concentrate on finding Biffy. The others can take the sun.”

“I thought werewolves could withstand sunlight?” asked Boots.

Alexia moaned long and low before answering. “Yes. But not when still learning control.”

“What'll happen to him if he doesn't make it in?”

Rumpet reappeared at that juncture. “Ah, Mr. Floote.” He acknowledged his butler peer with a slight bow.

“Mr. Rumpet,” replied Floote. And then, turning his attention back to Lady Maccon, “Now, madam, do concentrate and try to
inhale deeply. Breathe through the pain.”

Alexia glared at her butler. “Easy for you to say. Have you ever done this?”

“Certainly not, madam.”

“Rumpet, did all the vampires get sorted?”

“Mostly, my lady.”

“What do you mean,
mostly
?”

The conversation paused at that while everyone waited courteously for Lady Maccon to let out another part scream part howl
of anger as the agony rippled through her body. They all pretended not to notice her thrashing. It was very polite of them.

“Well, a few of the vampires spread themselves about. So we'll have to put some of ours in with them.”

“What's the world coming to? Vampires and werewolves sleeping together,” quipped Alexia sarcastically.

One of the clavigers, a cheerful, freckled blighter who had performed Scottish ballads for the queen herself on more than
one occasion, said, “It's quite sweet, really. They've snuggled up with each other.”

“Snuggled? The wolf should be tearing the vampire apart.”

“Not anymore, my lady. Look.”

Alexia looked. The sun was up, its first rays cresting the horizon. It was going to be a bright, clear summer day. It was
all too much, even for the most sensible preternatural. Lady Maccon panicked. “Biffy! Biffy's not yet inside! Quickly!” She
gestured the clavigers. “Get me up. Get me out there. Get me to him! He could die!” Alexia was starting to cry, both from
the pain and from the thought of poor young Biffy lying out there, burning alive.

“But, my lady, you're about to, well, uh, give birth!” objected Rumpet.

“Oh, that's not important. That can wait.” Alexia turned. “Floote! Do something.”

Floote nodded. He pointed to one of the clavigers. “You, do as she asks. Boots, you take the other side.” He looked down at
his mistress. Of course, Alessandro Tarabotti's daughter would be difficult. “Madam, whatever you do, don't push!”

“Bring blankets,” yelled Lady Maccon at the remaining clavigers and Rumpet. “Rip those curtains down if you must. Most of
the pack is out there naked! Oh, this is all so embarrassing.”

Boots and the freckled claviger formed a kind of litter by linking their crossed arms and hoisted Lady Maccon up. She threw
an arm around each, and the two young men part ran and part stumbled their way back out the
door and down the seemingly endless hillside toward the carnage below.

The octomaton was down, the result of too many of its tentacles torn off during battle. As she neared, Alexia could see the
now-naked bodies of the pack lying fallen—bloodied, bruised, and burned. Scattered among them were the severed tentacles of
the octomaton plus some of its guts: bolts, pulleys, and engine parts. Here and there, a claviger or BUR member who hadn't
moved fast enough was limping or clutching at a wounded limb, but thankfully none of them seemed seriously injured. The werewolves,
on the other hand, lay floppy and nonsensical, like so much fried fish. Most of them looked like they were simply sound asleep,
the standard reaction to full-moon bone-benders. But none were healing under the direct rays of the sun. Even immortality
had its limits.

Clavigers were running around covering the ones they could with blankets and pulling others back toward the house.

“Where's Biffy?” Alexia couldn't see him anywhere.

Then she realized there was someone else she couldn't see, and her voice rose in terror to a near shriek. “Where's Conall?
Oh no, oh no, oh no.” Alexia's commanding tone turned into a chant of keening distress only offset by the need to scream as
another contraction hit her. She loved Biffy dearly, but all her worry was now transferred to an even more important love—her
husband.
Was he injured? Dead?

The two young men carried her, tripping and faltering, in and around the wreckage until, near the great metal bowler hat that
was the fallen head of the octomaton, an oasis of calm awaited them.

Professor Lyall, wearing an orange velvet curtain wrapped about him like a toga and still looking remarkably dignified, was
marshaling the troops and issuing orders.

Upon seeing the amazing vision of his Alpha female, carried by two young men, in clear distress—both the lady and the young
men—wending toward him, he said, “Lady Maccon?”

“Professor. Where is my husband? Where is Biffy?”

“Oh, of course, preternatural touch. Very good idea.”

“Professor!”

“Lady Maccon, are you all right?” Professor Lyall moved closer, inspecting her closely. “Have you
started
?” He looked at Boots, who raised both eyebrows expressively.

“Where is Conall?” Alexia practically shrieked.

“He's fine, my lady. Perfectly fine. He took Biffy inside, out of the sun.”

“Inside?”

“Inside the octomaton. With Madame Lefoux. Once she realized, she opened the hatch and let them in.”

Lady Maccon swallowed down her fear, almost sick with relief. “Show me.”

Professor Lyall led them to the octomaton's head, around one side, and then
rat-tat-tatted
on it diffidently. A door, previously invisible it was so seamlessly integrated into the octomaton's armor plating, popped
open and Genevieve Lefoux looked out.

Lady Maccon wished fervently at that moment that she had her parasol with her. She would have greeted the Frenchwoman with
one very hard whack to the head, friend or no, for getting them all into such a pickle. Justified or not, the inventor had
caused everybody a good deal of unnecessary bother.

“Professor Lyall. Yes?”

“Lady Maccon, to see her husband.” The Beta stepped aside to allow the Frenchwoman to catch sight of the sweating and clearly
distressed Alexia and her improvised transport.

“Alexia? Are you unwell?”

Alexia was quite definitely
at her limit.
“No, no, I am
not.
I have been gallivanting all over London chasing you or being chased by you. I have watched the city burn and the hive house
collapse and have fallen out of a dirigible—
twice
! I am in imminent danger of giving birth. And I have
lost my parasol
!” This last was said on a rather childish wail.

A different voice came from inside—deep, commanding, and tinged with a Scottish accent. “That my wife? Capital. She's just
the thing to get the pup his legs back.”

Genevieve's head disappeared with an “oof” as though she had been dragged forcibly backward, and Lord Maccon's head emerged
instead.

The earl was looking perfectly fine, if a little sleepy. Werewolves usually slept the full day through after a full moon.
It was testament to both Conall's and Lyall's strength that they were up and moving, although both were rather clumsy about
it. Conall described being awake the night after as akin to playing tiddlywinks, drunk, with a penguin—confusing and slightly
dreamlike. His hair was wild and unkempt, and his tawny eyes were soft and buttery, mellowed by battle and victory.

He caught sight of his wife. “Ah, my love, get inside, would you? No way to get Biffy back to safety without your touch. Good
of you to come. Interesting choice of transport.”

At which juncture, his wife threw back her head and screamed.

Lord Conall Maccon's expression changed instantly to one of absolute panic and total ferocity. He charged out of the octomaton
and bounded to his mate. He tossed poor Boots out of his way with a mere flick of the wrist and took Lady Maccon into his
own arms.

“What's wrong? Are you—You canna! Now isna a good time!”

“Oh, no?” panted his wife. “Well, tell that to the child. This is all
your
fault, you do realize?”

“My fault, how could it possibly…?”

He trailed off as a different howl of agony came from inside the octomaton's head and Madame Lefoux looked back out. “Young
Biffy could use your presence, my lord.”

The earl growled in annoyance and made his way over to the door. He shoved Alexia inside first, following after.

It was very cramped quarters. Madame Lefoux had designed the guidance chamber for only two occupants, herself and Quesnel.
Lord Maccon accounted for about that number on his own, plus the pregnant Alexia, and Biffy sprawled on the floor.

It took a moment for Lady Maccon's eyes to adjust to the inner gloom, but she saw soon enough that Biffy was burned badly
down one leg. Much of the skin was gone—blistered and blackened most awfully.

“Should I touch him? He might never heal.”

Lord Maccon slammed the door closed against the wicked sun. “Blast it, woman, what possessed you to come down here in such
a state?”

“How is Quesnel?” demanded Madame Lefoux. “Is he unharmed?”

“He's safe.” Alexia did not mention he was currently locked in a dungeon with a vampire queen.

“Alexia”—Madame Lefoux clasped her hands together and opened her green eyes wide and looked pleading—“you know it was my only
choice? You know I had to get him back. He's all I have. She stole him from me.”

“And you couldn't come to me for help? Really, Genevieve, what kind of feeble friend do you take me for?”