The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (76 page)

The loner charged at Professor Lyall, snapping. Lyall dodged. The challenger skidded slightly on the smooth paving stones,
his claws making an awful scraping noise
as he scrabbled for purchase. Taking advantage of the skid, Lyall dove at him, hitting him broadside with enough force to
knock him onto his side. The two wolves rolled over and over together, bumping into the shins of those who goaded them on.
Professor Lyall could feel the claws of the other wolf tearing against his soft underbelly as he bit viciously into the creature's
neck.

This was what he disliked most about fighting. It was so embarrassingly untidy. He didn't mind the pain; he would heal fast
enough. But he was bleeding all over his own pristine coat, and blood from the challenger was dripping down over his muzzle,
matting the fur of his white ruff. Even as a wolf, Professor Lyall did not like to be unkempt.

Still the blood flowed, bits of fur flew about the challenger's scrabbling back legs in white puffs, and the sound of growling
rent the air. The wet, rich smell of flowing blood caused the noses of the other pack members to wrinkle with interest. Professor
Lyall wasn't one to play dirty, but things being as they were, he thought he might have to go in for an eyeball. Then he realized
something was disturbing the crowd.

The tight circle of bodies began rippling, and then two pack members were thrust violently aside and Lord Maccon entered the
ring.

He was naked, had been all day, but under the moonlight, he was once more looking scruffy and feral. From his mild weaving
back and forth, either a day in dry dock hadn't sufficiently eliminated the formaldehyde from his system or he'd managed to
acquire more. Professor Lyall would have to have words with the claviger who'd been persuaded to let Lord Maccon out of the
dungeon.

Despite the presence of his lord and master, Lyall was in the middle of a fight and did not allow himself to be distracted.

“Randolph!” roared his Alpha. “What are you about? You hate fighting. Stop it immediately.”

Professor Lyall ignored him.

Until Lord Maccon changed.

The earl was a big man, and in wolf form, he was large even for a werewolf, and he changed loudly. Not with any vocal indication
of pain—he was too proud for that—it was simply that his bones were so massive that when they broke, they did so with a real
will to crunch. He emerged from the transformation a huge brindled wolf, dark brown with gold, black, and cream markings and
pale yellow eyes. He bounced over to where Lyall still scrabbled with the challenger, wrapped his massive jaws about his Beta's
neck, and hauled him off, tossing him aside with a contemptuous flick.

Professor Lyall knew what was good for him and stepped away into the crowd, flopping down onto his bloody stomach, tongue
lolling out as he panted for breath. If his Alpha wanted to make a fool of himself, there came a point when even the best
Beta couldn't stop him. But he did stay in wolf form, just in case. Surreptitiously, he licked at his white ruff like a cat
to get the blood off.

Lord Maccon barreled into the loner, massive jaws snapping down.

The challenger dodged to one side, a glint of panic in his yellow gaze. He had banked on not having to fight the earl; this
was not in his plan.

Lyall could smell the wolf's fear.

Lord Maccon swiveled about and went after the
challenger again, but then tripped over his own feet, lurched to the side, and came down hard on one shoulder.

Definitely still drunk,
thought Professor Lyall, resigned.

The challenger seized the opportunity and dove for Lord Maccon's neck. At the same moment, the earl shook his head violently
as though to clear it. Two large wolf skulls cracked together.

The challenger fell back, dazed.

Lord Maccon, already in a state of confusion, did not register the encounter, instead lurching after his enemy with single-minded
focus. Normally a quick and efficient fighter, he ambled after his bemused opponent and took one long second to look down
at him, as if trying to remember what, exactly, was going on. Then he surged forward and bit down on the other wolf's muzzle.

The fallen wolf squealed in pain.

Lord Maccon let go in befuddled surprise, as if shocked that his meal should yell back. The challenger stumbled to his feet.

The earl wove his head back and forth, an action his opponent found disconcerting. The loner crouched back onto his haunches,
forelegs splayed out before him. Lyall wasn't certain if he was bowing or preparing to spring. He had no chance to do either,
for Lord Maccon, much to his own astonishment, stumbled again, and in an effort to regain his balance, jumped forward, coming
down solidly on top of the loner with a loud thud.

Almost as an afterthought, he craned his neck around and sank all of his very long and very deadly teeth into the upper portion
of the other wolf's head—conveniently spearing one eye and both ears.

Because werewolves were immortal and very hard to
kill, challenge fights could go on for days. But a bite to the eyes was generally considered a no-contest win. It would take
a good forty-eight hours to heal properly, and a blind wolf, immortal or no,
could
be killed during the interim merely because he was at such a grave disadvantage.

As soon as the teeth struck home, the challenger, whimpering in agony, wriggled onto his back, presenting his belly to Lord
Maccon in surrender. The earl, still lying half on top of the unfortunate fellow, lurched off of him, spitting and sneezing
over the flavor of eye goo and ear wax. Werewolves enjoyed fresh meat—they needed it, in fact, to survive—but other werewolves
did not taste fresh. They tasted perhaps not quite so putrefied as vampires, but still old and slightly spoiled.

Professor Lyall stood and stretched—tail tip quivering. Perhaps, he thought as he trotted back to the cloakroom, this battle
might be a good thing: to have it publicly known that Lord Maccon could still defeat a challenger, even when drunk. The rest
of the pack could take care of cleaning up the mess. Now that the matter was settled, Professor Lyall had business to attend
to. He paused in the cloakroom. He might as well run to London in wolf form, as he was already wearing his fur and his evening
attire was now hopelessly wrinkled. He really
must
get his Alpha back on the straight and narrow—the man's behavior was affecting his clothing. Lyall understood a broken heart,
but it could not be allowed to rumple perfectly good shirtwaists.

The trouble with vampires, thought Alexia Tarabotti, was that they were quick as well as strong. Not as strong as werewolves,
but in this particular instance Alexia didn't have any werewolves fighting on her side—
blast Conall
to all three atmospheres
—so the vampires had a distinct advantage.

“Because,” she grumbled, “my husband is a first-rate git. I wouldn't even be in this situation if it weren't for him.”

Floote gave her a look of annoyance that suggested he felt that now was not the time for connubial recriminations.

Alexia took his meaning perfectly.

Monsieur Trouvé and Madame Lefoux, having been disturbed from some detailed consultation on the nature of spring-loaded cuckoo
clocks, were making their way around from behind a little workman's table. Madame Lefoux pulled out a sharp-looking wooden
pin from her cravat with one hand and pointed her other wrist at the intruders. Upon that wrist she wore a large wristwatch
that was probably no wristwatch at all. The clockmaker, for lack of any better weapon, grasped the mahogany and pearl case
of a cuckoo clock and brandished it in a threatening manner.

“Quoo?” said the clock. Alexia was amazed that even a tiny mechanical device could sound inexplicably French in this country.

Alexia pressed the appropriate lotus leaf, and the tip of her parasol opened to reveal a dart emitter. Unfortunately, Madame
Lefoux had designed the emitter to fire only three shots, and there were four vampires. In addition, Alexia could not recall
if the inventor had told her whether or not the numbing agent even worked on the supernatural. But it was the only projectile
in her armament, and she figured all great battles began with an airborne offensive.

Madame Lefoux and Monsieur Trouvé joined Alexia and Floote at the bottom of the stairs, facing off against the vampires, who
had slowed their hectic charge and were moving forward in a menacing manner, as cats will stalk string.

“How did they find me so quickly?” Alexia took aim.

“So they are after
you,
are they? Well, I suppose that is hardly a surprise.” The clockmaker glanced in Alexia's direction.

“Yes. Terribly inconvenient of them.”

Monsieur Trouvé let out a rolling bark of deep laughter. “I did say you always brought me charming surprises, and trouble
with them, didn't I, Genevieve?
What
have you gotten me into this time?”

Madame Lefoux explained. “I am sorry, Gustave. We should have told you sooner. The London vampires want Alexia dead, and they
appear to have passed the desire on to the Parisian hives.”

“Well, fancy that. How jolly.” The clockmaker did not seem upset, behaving more like a man on the brink of some grand lark.

The vampires pressed closer.

“Now, see here, couldn't we discuss this like civilized beings?” Alexia, ever one for form and courtesy, was in favor of negotiations
whenever possible.

None of the vampires responded to her request.

Madame Lefoux tried the same question in French.

Still nothing.

Alexia thought this dreadfully boorish. The least they could do was answer with a “No, killing is all we are interested in
at the moment, but thank you kindly for the offer all the same.” Alexia had, in part, compensated for
a lack of soul through the liberal application of manners. This was rather like donning an outfit consisting entirely of accessories,
but Alexia maintained that proper conduct was never a bad thing. These vampires were behaving
most
improperly.

There were plenty of tables and display cabinets in the little shop that currently stood between the vampires and Alexia's
small band of defenders. Most of the surfaces of these were covered in disassembled clocks of one style or another. It was,
therefore, not unexpected that one of the vampires, probably intentionally—given the general grace and elegance of the species—knocked
a pile of mechanicals to the floor.

What was unexpected was Monsieur Trouvé's reaction to this event.

He growled in anger and threw the cuckoo clock he was holding at the vampire.

“Quoo?” questioned the clock as it flew.

Then the clockmaker began to yell. “
That
was a prototype atmos clock with a dual regulatory aether conductor! A groundbreaking invention and utterly irreplaceable.”

The cuckoo clock hit the vampire broadside, startling him considerably. It did minimal damage, landing with a sad little “Quooooo?”

Alexia decided it was probably a good time to start shooting. So she shot.

The poisoned dart hissed slightly as it flew, struck one of the vampires dead center to the chest, and stuck there. He looked
down at it, up at Alexia with an expression of deep offense, and then crumpled limply to the floor like an overcooked noodle.

“Nicely shot, but it won't hold him for long,” said
Madame Lefoux, who should know. “Supernaturals can process the numbing agent faster than daylight folk.”

Alexia armed her parasol and shot a second dart. Another vampire collapsed, but the first was already beginning to struggle
groggily to his feet.

Then the remaining two were upon them.

Madame Lefoux shot at one with a wooden dart from her wristwatch, missing his chest and hitting the meaty part of his left
arm.
Hah,
thought Alexia.
I knew it wasn't an ordinary watch!
The Frenchwoman then slashed at that same vampire with her wooden cravat pin. The vampire began to bleed from two spots,
arm and cheek, and backed away warily.

“We are not interested in you, little scientist. Give us the soul-sucker and we'll be away.”

“
Now
you want to engage in conversation?” Alexia was annoyed.

The last of the vampires lunged for her, clearly planning to drag her off. He had one hand wrapped around her wrist when he
realized his miscalculation.

Upon contact with her, his fangs disappeared, as did all of his extraordinary strength. His pale, smooth skin turned fleshy
peach with freckles—freckles! He was no longer capable of dragging her off, yet no matter how hard Alexia pulled, she could
not break his grip. He must have been a strong man before he changed. She began bashing at the no-longer-supernatural creature
with her parasol, but he did not let go, even as she inflicted real injury upon him. He seemed to be recovering his powers
of deduction and realized he would have to fall back on leverage for this task. So he shifted about, preparing to haul Alexia
up and over one shoulder.

A gunshot rattled throughout the shop, and before he
could do anything further, the vampire collapsed backward, letting go of Alexia in order to clutch at his own side. Alexia
glanced to her left, astounded to see the unflappable Floote pocketing a still-smoking, single-shot derringer with an ivory
handle. It was undoubtedly the tiniest pistol Alexia had ever seen. From the same pocket, he pulled a second slightly bigger
gun. Both were horribly antiquated, thirty years or more out of date, but still effective. The vampire Floote had shot stayed
down, writhing in agony on the floor. Unless Alexia missed her guess, that bullet was made of a reinforced wood of some kind,
for it seemed to continue to cause him harm. There was a good chance, Alexia realized with a sick kind of dread, that a vampire
could actually die from a shot like that. She could hardly countenance it, the very idea of killing an immortal. All that
knowledge, gone just like that.