The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (8 page)

“Aren't you a mite scrawny to be Beta to someone as substantial as Lord Maccon?” The BUR agent ran a hand distractedly down
his large sideburns, as if checking to ensure they were still affixed to his face.

Lyall sighed. His slender physique engendered this reaction all too often. Lord Maccon was so large and impressive that people
expected his second to be of a similar stature and nature. Few understood how much it was to a pack's advantage having one
who always stood in the limelight and one who never did. Lyall preferred not to illuminate the ignorant on this subject.

So he said, “Fortunately for me, I have not yet been called upon to physically fulfill my role. Few challenge Lord Maccon,
and those who do, lose. However, I did attain Beta rank by fully following all aspects of pack protocol. I may not look like
much for brawn, but I have other germane qualities.”

Greemes sighed. “What do you need to know? We've no local pack, so you must be here on BUR business.”

Lyall nodded. “Canterbury has one official hive, correct?” He did not wait for an answer. “Has the queen reported any new
additions recently? Any blood-metamorphosis parties?”

“I should say not! The Canterbury hive is old and very dignified, not given to crass displays of any kind.” He actually seemed
a little offended.

“Has there been anything else out of the ordinary? Vampires turning up unexpectedly without metamorphosis reports or proper
registration? Anything along those lines?” Professor Lyall kept his expression mild, but those hazel eyes of his were startlingly
direct.

Greemes looked annoyed. “Our local hive is very well behaved, I will have you know; no aberrations in recorded history. Vampires
tend to be fairly cautious in these parts. It is not comfortable to be supernatural in a port town—too fast-paced and changeable.
Our local hive tends to produce
very
careful vampires. Not to mention the fact that all those sailors in and out means a ready supply of
willing
blood-whores down dockside. The hive is very little bother so far as BUR is concerned. It is an easy job I have here, thank
heavens.”

“What about new unregistered roves?” Lyall refused to let the subject drop.

Greemes stood and went to crouch over a wooden wine crate filled with documents. He rifled through them, pausing periodically
to read an entry. “Had one in about five years ago. The hive queen forced him to register; no problems since.”

Lyall nodded. Clapping his borrowed top hat to his head, he turned to leave. He had a stagecoach to catch for Brighton.

Greemes, sorting the parchment sheaves back into the crate, continued muttering. “'Course, I have not heard from any of the
registered roves in a while.”

Professor Lyall stopped in the doorway. “What did you say?”

“They have been disappearing.”

Lyall took his hat back off. “You made this fact clear in this year's census?”

Greemes shook his head. “I submitted a report on the matter to London last spring. Didn't you read it?”

Professor Lyall glared at the man. “Obviously not. Tell me, what does the local hive queen have to say on this particular
topic?”

Greemes raised both eyebrows. “What does she care for roves in her feeding ground except that, when they are gone, things
are easier for her household brood?”

The professor frowned. “How many have gone missing?”

Greemes looked up, his eyebrows arched. “Why, all of them.”

Lyall gritted his teeth. Vampires were too tied to their territory to roam away from home for long. Greemes and Lyall both
knew that missing roves most likely meant dead roves. It took all of his social acumen not to show his profound irritation.
This might not interest the local hive, but it certainly was significant information, and BUR should have been told immediately.
Most of their vampire problems involved roves. As most of their were-wolf problems involved loners. Professor Lyall decided
he had better push for Greemes's reassignment. The man's behavior smacked of drone thrall, those initial stages of over-fascination
with the ancient mysteries of the supernatural. It did no one any good to have someone firmly in the vampire camp in charge
of vampire relations.

Despite his anger, the Beta managed to nod a neutral good-bye to the repulsive man and headed out into the hallway, thinking
hard.

A strange gentleman was waiting for him in the cloakroom. A man Professor Lyall had never met before but who smelled of fur
and wet nights.

The stranger held a brown bowler hat in front of his chest with both hands, like a shield. When he saw Lyall, he nodded in
a way that was less greeting and more an excuse to bare the side of his neck in obeisance.

Lyall spoke first.

Pack dominance games might seem complicated to an outsider, but very few wolves in England outranked Professor Lyall, and
he knew all of them by face and smell. This man was not one of them; therefore, he, Professor Lyall, was in control.

“This office has no werewolves on staff,” he said harshly.

“No, sir. I am not BUR, sir. There is no pack in this city as I am certain your eminence is well aware. We are under your
lord's jurisdiction.”

Lyall nodded, crossing his arms. “Yet, you are not one of the Woolsey Castle pups. I would know.”

“No, sir. No pack, sir.”

Lyall's lip curled. “Loner.” Instinctively, his hackles raised. Loners were dangerous: community-oriented animals cut off
from the very social structure that kept them sane and controlled. Alpha challenges invariably came from within the pack,
following official lines, with Conall Maccon's unexpected ascension to power the most recent exception to that rule. But brawling,
violence, feasting on human flesh, and other such illogical carnage—that was the loner's game. They were more common than
vampire roves, and far more dangerous.

The loner clutched his hat tighter at Lyall's sneer, hunching down. If he had been in wolf shape, his tail would be tucked
tight between his back legs.

“Yes, sir. I set a watch to this office waiting for the Woolsey Alpha to send someone to investigate. My claviger told me
you had arrived. I thought I had best come myself and ascertain if you wanted an official report, sir. I am old enough to
stand daylight for a little while.”

“I am here on hive, not pack, business,” Lyall admitted, impatient to get to the point.

The man looked genuinely surprised. “Sir?”

Lyall did not like being confused. He did not know what was going on, and he did not appreciate being put at a disadvantage,
especially not in front of a loner. “Report!” he barked.

The man straightened, trying not to cower at the irate tone in the Beta's voice. Unlike George Greemes, he had no doubt of
Professor Lyall's fighting capabilities. “They have stopped, sir.”

“What has stopped?” Lyall's voice took on a soft deadly timbre.

The man swallowed, twisting his hat about further. Professor Lyall began to suspect the bowler might not survive this interview.
“The disappearances, sir.”

Lyall was exasperated. “I know that! I just found out from Greemes.”

The man looked confused. “But he is on vampires.”

“Yes, and…?”

“It is werewolves who have gone missing, sir. You know, the Alpha had most of us loners stashed along the coast round these
parts; keeps us well out of London's way. Also ensures we stay busy fighting pirates rather than each other.”

“So?”

The man cringed back. “Thought you knew, sir. Thought the Alpha had started and then stopped it. It has been going several
months now.”

“You thought it might be Lord Maccon doing a culling, did you?”

“Packs never take to loners, sir. He is a new Alpha, needs to establish his authority.”

Professor Lyall could not argue with that reasoning. “I have got to get moving,” he said. “If these disappearances start up
again, you will let us know immediately.”

The man cleared his throat subserviently. “Cannot do that, sir. All apologies, sir.”

Lyall gave him a hard look.

The man hooked a finger in his cravat to pull it down and expose his neck defensively. “Sorry, sir, but I am the only one
left.”

A cold shiver caused all the hairs on Professor Lyall's body to stick up on end.

Instead of going on to Brighton, he caught the next stagecoach back to London.

A
lexia was embarrassed to find that she was reduced to shamefully sneaking out of her own home. It simply would not do to tell
her mama she was paying a late-night call on a vampire hive. Floote, though disapproving, proved an able ally in her transgression.
Floote had been Alessandro Tarabotti's valet before Alexia was even a twinkle in that outrageous gentleman's eye. As such,
he knew a lot more than just how to butler, and that included a thing or two on the organization of misdemeanors. He hustled
his “young miss” out of the servants' entrance at the back of the house. He had her carefully shrouded in the scullery maid's
old cloak and managed to stuff her into a hired cab maintaining a stiff but capable silence all the while.

The hackney rattled through the darkened streets. Miss Tarabotti, mindful of her hat and hair, nevertheless drew down the
widow sash and stuck her head out into the night. The moon, three-quarters and gaining, had not yet risen above the building
tops. Above, Alexia thought she could make out a lone dirigible, taking advantage of the darkness to parade stars and city
lights before one last load of passengers. For once, she did not envy them their flight. The air was cool and probably unbearably
chilly so high up; this was no surprise, as London was generally a city not celebrated for its balmy evenings. She shivered
and closed the window.

The carriage finally stopped at a good-enough address in one of the more fashionable ends of town, although not an end Miss
Tarabotti's particular collection of acquaintances tended to frequent. Anticipating a brief engagement, she paid the hackney
to wait and hurried up the front steps, holding high the skirts of her best green and gray check visiting dress.

A young maid opened the door at her approach and curtsied. She was almost too pretty, with dark blond hair and enormous violet
eyes, and neat as a new penny in a black dress and white apron.

“Miz Tarabotti?” she asked in a heavy French accent.

Alexia nodded, pulling at her dress to rid it of travel wrinkles.

“Zi comtesse, she iz expecting you. Right diz way.” The maid led her down a long hallway. She seemed to sway as she moved
with a dancer's grace and liquid movements. Alexia felt large, dark, and clumsy next to her.

The house was typical of its kind, though perhaps a touch more luxurious than most, and outfitted with every possible modern
convenience. Miss Tarabotti could not help but compare it to the Duchess of Snodgrove's palatial residence. Here there was
more real affluence and grandeur, the kind that did not need to display itself openly—it simply
was.
The carpets were thick and soft, in coordinating shades of deep red, probably imported directly from the Ottoman Empire three
hundred years ago. There were beautiful works of art hanging on the walls. Some were very old; some were more contemporary
canvases signed with names Alexia knew from newspaper gallery announcements. Luxuriant mahogany furniture showcased beautiful
statues: Roman busts in creamy marble, lapis-encrusted Egyptian gods, and modern pieces in granite and onyx. Rounding a corner,
Miss Tarabotti was treated to an entire hallway of polished machinery, displayed much as the statuary had been and with the
same studied care. There was the first steam engine ever built, and, after it, a silver and gold monowheel; and, Alexia gasped,
was that a model of the Babbage engine?
Everything was perfectly clean and chosen with utter precision, each object occupying the space it had been given with immense
dignity. It was more impressive than any museum Alexia had ever visited—and she was fond of museums. There were drones everywhere,
all attractive and perfectly dressed, efficiently going about the business of running daylight interference and nighttime
entertainment for the hive. They, too, were works of art, dressed in subdued elegance to match the tenor of the house, and
collected with care.

Alexia did not have the soul to truly appreciate any of it. However, she understood style well enough to know that it surrounded
her. It made her very nervous. She smoothed down her dress self-consciously, worried it might be considered too simple. Then
she straightened her spine. A plain tan spinster like her could never compete with such grandeur; best take advantage of what
assets she did have. She puffed up her chest slightly and took a calming breath.

The French maid opened a door to a large drawing room and curtsied her inside before gliding off, her feet silent on the red
carpet, her hips swaying back and forth.

“Ah, Miss Tarabotti! Welcome to the Westminster hive.”

The woman who came forward to greet Alexia was not at all what she had expected. The lady was short, plump, and comfortable-looking,
her cheeks rosy and her cornflower-blue eyes sparkling. She looked like a country shepherdess stepped out of a Renaissance
painting. Alexia glanced about for her flock. They were there, of a kind.

“Countess Nadasdy?” she asked tentatively.

“Yes, my dear! And this is Lord Ambrose. That is Dr. Caedes. That gentlemen there is His Grace the Duke of Hematol, and you
know Miss Dair.” She gestured as she spoke. Her movements were simultaneously too graceful and too contrived. They looked
as though they had been well studied, as carefully articulated as a linguist speaking a foreign tongue.

Aside from Miss Dair, who smiled kindly from her place on the settee, no one seemed particularly pleased to see her. Miss
Dair was also the only drone present. Alexia was certain the other three were vampires. Though she knew none of them socially,
she had read some of Dr. Caedes's research during her more adventurous academic pursuits.

“How do you do?” said Miss Tarabotti politely.

The party all made the requisite social murmurings.

Lord Ambrose was a large, exceedingly comely man, looking the way romantic schoolroom girls expect vampires to look—dark and
broodingly arrogant with aquiline features and deep meaningful eyes. Dr. Caedes was also tall but skinny as a walking stick,
with thinning hair stopped mid-retreat by metamorphosis. He had with him a doctor's bag, though Alexia knew from her readings
that his Royal Society membership rested on his extensive engineering work, not a physician's license. The last hive member,
the Duke of Hematol, was nondescript in a premeditated way that reminded Alexia of Professor Lyall. Consequently, she regarded
him with great wariness and respect.

“If you do not mind, my dear, might I shake your hand?” The Westminster queen moved toward her with that abrupt and smooth
supernatural suddenness.

Alexia was taken aback.

Up close, Countess Nadasdy looked less jolly, and it was clear her rosy cheeks were the product of artifice, not sunlight.
Under layers of cream and powder, her skin was ashen white. Her eyes did not sparkle. They glittered as hard as the dark glass
used by astronomers to examine the sun.

Miss Tarabotti backed away.

“We need to confirm your state,” the hive queen explained, still coming at her.

She grabbed Alexia's wrist firmly. The countess's tiny hand was impossibly strong. The moment they touched, much of the hive
queen's hardness vanished, and Miss Tarabotti was left wondering if once, long, long ago, Countess Nadasdy had actually
been
a shepherdess.

The vampire smiled at her. No fangs.

“I object most strenuously to this action, my queen. I want it known before the hive that I disagree with this approach to
our situation,” Lord Ambrose spoke curtly.

Alexia was not certain if he was angry at her preternatural state or at her physical effect on his queen.

Countess Nadasdy let go of her wrist. Her fangs reappeared. They were long and thin, almost biologically spiny, with what
looked like barbed tips. Then, with a lightning-fast movement, she lashed out to the side with sharp clawlike fingernails.
A long line of red appeared on Lord Ambrose's face. “You overstep your bond duties, child of my blood.”

Lord Ambrose bowed his dark head, the shallow wound already closing and healing itself. “Forgive me, my queen; it is only
your safety that concerns me.”

“Which is why you are my
praetoriani.
” In an abrupt change of mood, Countess Nadasdy reached to caress the very part of Lord Ambrose's face she had just sliced
open.

“He speaks nothing but truth. You allow a soul-sucker to touch you, and once you are mortal, all it takes is one fatal injury.”
This time is was Dr. Caedes who spoke. His voice was slightly too high-pitched, with a fuzziness around the edges, a sound
wasps make before they swarm.

To Alexia's surprise, the countess did not claw his face open. Instead she smiled, showing off the full length of her sharp
barbed fangs. Alexia wondered if they had been filed into that extraordinary shape.

“And yet, this girl does nothing more threatening than stand before us. You are all too young to remember what real danger
is inherent in her kind.”

“We remember well enough,” said the Duke of Hematol. His voice was calmer than the other two but more malicious in cadence—soft
and hissing like steam escaping a boiling kettle.

The hive queen took Miss Tarabotti gently by the arm. She seemed to breathe in deeply, as though Alexia smelled of some scent
she loathed but was trying desperately to identify. “We were never in any direct danger from the female preternaturals; it
was only ever the males.” She spoke to Alexia in a conspiratorial whisper. “Men, they do so enjoy the hunt, do they not?”

“It is not the ability to kill that worries me. Quite the opposite,” said the duke softly.

“In which case it is you gentlemen who should avoid her and not I,” replied the countess slyly.

Lord Ambrose laughed snidely at that remark.

Miss Tarabotti narrowed her eyes. “
You
asked me to come here. I do not wish to be an imposition, and I will not be made to feel unwelcome.” She jerked her arm away,
sharp enough to break the countess's grip, and turned to leave.

“Wait!” The hive queen's voice was sharp.

Miss Tarabotti continued moving toward the door. Fear made her throat tight. She comprehended what it must be like to be some
trapped furry creature in a reptilian den. She stopped when she found her way barred. Lord Ambrose had moved with a vampire's
characteristic swiftness to prevent her departure. He sneered at her, tall and distressingly gorgeous. Alexia found she much
preferred Lord Maccon's brand of largeness: gruff and a little scruffy round the edges.

“Remove yourself from my path, sir!” hissed Miss Tarabotti, wishing she had brought her brass parasol. Why had she left it
behind? What this man seemed most in need of was a good sharp prod to the nether regions.

Miss Dair stood and came over to her, all blond ring-lets and troubled blue eyes. “Please, Miss Tarabotti. Do not leave just
yet. It is only that their memories are longer than their tempers.” She gave Lord Ambrose an evil look. Taking Alexia solicitously
by the elbow, she led her firmly toward a chair.

Miss Tarabotti acquiesced, sitting with a rustle of green and gray taffeta and feeling even more at a disadvantage until the
hive queen sat down across from her.

Miss Dair rang the bell rope. The pretty violet-eyed maid appeared in the doorway. “Tea, please, Angelique.”

The French maid vanished and moments later reappeared pushing a fully laden tea trolley, complete with cucumber sandwiches,
pickled gherkins, candied lemon peel, and Battenberg.

Countess Nadasdy served the tea. Miss Tarabotti took hers with milk, Miss Dair took hers with lemon, and the vampires took
theirs with a dollop of blood, still warm and poured out of a crystal pitcher. Alexia tried not to think too hard about its
origin. Then the scientific part of her wondered what would happen if that jug contained preternatural blood. Would it be
toxic or just convert them to human state for a certain length of time?

Alexia and Miss Dair helped themselves to food, but no one else in the room bothered to partake. Unlike Lord Akeldama, they
clearly did not appreciate the taste of food nor feel compelled by common courtesy to make a show of consuming it. Alexia
felt awkward eating while her hostess touched nothing, but she was not the type to ever be put off good food, and the tea,
like everything else in the hive house, was of the very highest quality. She refused to rush, sipping slowly from the exquisite
blue and white bone china cup and even asking for a second helping.

Countess Nadasdy waited until Miss Tarabotti was halfway through a cucumber sandwich to reopen their conversation. They talked
on safe and banal subjects: a new play down the West End, the latest art exhibit, the fact that full moon was just around
the corner. Full moon was a regular holiday for working vampires, since were-wolves
had
to absent themselves.

“I hear a new gentleman's club has opened near the Snodgrove town house,” Miss Tarabotti offered, getting into the spirit
of the small talk.