The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (89 page)

A tactful little cough sounded behind her, just soft enough not to startle.

Alexia still jumped practically out of her frilly orange dress in surprise. Upon landing, she whirled around.

“Floote!”

“Good evening, madam.”

“Come look at this, Floote. They have a human hand in
a jar in the middle of an empty room. Aren't the Italians strange?”

“Yes, madam.” Floote didn't come over, only nodded as though every house in Italy had such a thing. Alexia supposed this might
be possible. Gruesome, but possible.

“But don't you think, madam, it may be time for bed? It would not do for anyone to find us in the Inner Sanctum.”

“Oh, is that where we are?”

Floote nodded and extended a gracious arm for Alexia to precede him back up the tiny staircase.

Alexia took his advice, as there was apparently nothing else to see besides the random human body part. “Is it very common,
in Italy, to keep a jar full of hand, just lying about?”

“For the Templars, madam.”

“Uh, why?”

“It is a relic, madam. Should the temple come under serious threat from the supernatural, the preceptor will break the jar
and use the relic to defend the brotherhood.”

Alexia thought she might understand. She had heard of holy relics in connection with some Catholic cults. “Is it the body
part of some saint?”

“They have those, too, of course, but in this case, it is an
unholy
relic, a weapon. The body part of a preternatural.”

Alexia shut her mouth on her next question with a snap. She was surprised she hadn't been physically repulsed by the hand
as she had been by the mummy. Then she remembered the daemon detector. She and the disembodied hand hadn't been sharing the
same air. She supposed that was why the jar had to be broken in case of emergency.

They proceeded the rest of the way to their rooms in silence, Alexia mulling over the implications of that hand and becoming
more and more worried as a result.

Floote stopped Alexia before she retired. “Your father, madam, was fully cremated. I made absolutely certain.”

Alexia swallowed silently and then said fervently, “Thank you, Floote.”

He nodded once—his face, as always, impassive.

               

M
uch to Lord Maccon's annoyance, the acquisition operation, as Professor Lyall had termed it, was taking far longer than intended.
Impatient to be off after his errant wife, the Alpha was instead stalking back and forth in the drawing room of Buckingham
Palace awaiting an audience with Queen Victoria.

He was still unsure as to how Lyall had, in fact, managed to keep him in London all these days. Betas, in the end, were mysterious
creatures with strange powers. Powers that, when all was said and done, seemed to involve nothing more than a continued battery
of civilized behavior and an excess of manners. Effective, blast him.

Professor Lyall sat on an uncomfortable couch, one stylishly clad leg crossed over the other, and watched his Alpha pace.

“I still don't see why we had to come here, of all places.”

The Beta pushed at his spectacles. It was nearing the
afternoon of his third day awake in a row, and he was beginning to experience the effects of prolonged daylight exposure.
He felt drawn and tired, and all he wanted to do in the world was return to his tiny bed at Woolsey Castle and sleep the afternoon
away. Instead, he was stuck dealing with an increasingly edgy Alpha. “I have said it before, and I shall say it again—you
will need sundowner authorization for this, my lord.”

“Yes, but couldn't you have come and gotten it for me afterward?”

“No, I couldn't, and you know it. This is too complicated. Stop complaining.”

Lord Maccon stopped for the simple reason that, as usual, Lyall was correct. It
had
gotten very complicated. Once they'd discovered the location of the stolen object, they'd sent a river rat in to assess the
place. The poor lad had come back soaking wet and in an absolute panic, justly earned, as it turned out. Their quick theft
and retrieval operation had turned into something far more problematic.

Professor Lyall was a wolf who liked to look on the practical side of any given situation. “At least now we know why Lord
Akeldama went into such a tizzy, pulled in all his drones, and ran.”

“I didn't realize roves could swarm, but I suppose they have the same protective instincts as hives.”

“And Lord Akeldama is a particularly old vampire with a peculiarly large number of drones. He is liable to be overprotective
when one is stolen.”

“I cannot believe I'm stuck here involving myself in vampiric tomfoolery. I should be hunting my wife, not one of Lord Akeldama's
drones.”

“The potentate wanted Lord Akeldama panicked for a reason. Your wife is that reason. So, essentially, this
is
your problem, and you have to deal with it before you leave.”

“Vampires.”

“Exactly so, my lord, exactly so.” Professor Lyall's calmness covered his genuine worry. He had met Biffy only once or twice,
but he liked the lad. Generally acknowledged as Lord Akeldama's favorite, Biffy was a pretty young thing, calm and capable.
He genuinely loved and was loved by his outrageous master. For the potentate to drone-nap him was the height of bad taste.
The greatest unwritten law of the supernatural set was that one simply didn't steal someone else's human. Werewolves did not
poach clavigers, for the key-keepers were vital to the safety of the greater population. And vampires did not take each other's
drones, because, quite frankly, one doesn't interfere with another's food source. The very idea! And yet, they were now in
possession of eyewitness testimony to the fact that this was exactly what the potentate had done to Lord Akeldama. Poor Biffy.

“Her Majesty will see you now, Lord Maccon.”

The earl straightened his spine. “Righty'o.”

Professor Lyall checked his Alpha's appearance. “Now
be polite.
”

Lord Maccon gave him a dour look. “I have met the queen before, you know.”

“Oh,
I know.
That is why I am reminding you.”

Lord Maccon ignored his Beta and followed the footman into Queen Victoria's illustrious presence.

In the end, Queen Victoria granted Lord Maccon sanction in his attempt to rescue Biffy. She refused to believe
the potentate was involved, but if, in fact, a drone
had
been kidnapped, she thought it only right that the earl, in his capacity as head of the London BUR offices and chief sundowner,
rectify the situation. It was untenable, she claimed, given her experience with vampire loyalty and trust, even among roves,
that any vampire would steal another's drone.

“But supposing, Your Majesty, just this once, it has accidentally occurred? And that Lord Akeldama has swarmed as a result.”

“Why, then you should carry on, Lord Maccon, carry on.”

“I always forget how short she is,” the earl commented to Professor Lyall as they readied themselves to “carry on” later that
evening. Lord Maccon took the queen's tacit permission to mean he could use his Galand Tue Tue, which he was busy cleaning
and loading. It was a graceless little revolver, portly with a square grip and hardwood bullets caged and capped with silver—the
Sundowner model designed to kill mortals, vampires, or werewolves. Lord Maccon had designed a watertight, oiled leather case
for the gun, which he wore about his neck so that it might be with him whether he was in wolf or human form. Since they would
be traveling fast, wolf seemed the most sensible way to get through London.

Biffy, they had learned, was imprisoned inside a rather fantastic contraption. Lord Maccon was still upset that the installation
of this device had escaped BUR's notice. It was, according to the trusty river rat, a man-sized sphere made of glass and brass
with one large tube coming out its top. The tube was to conduct breathable air, because the sphere had been sunk into the
middle of the Thames
just under the Charing Cross Rail Bridge near Buckingham Palace. Not unsurprisingly, it had sunk not just into the water,
but some way down into the thick mud and garbage at the bottom of the river as well.

When they arrived at the spot, Lord Maccon dove with alacrity off the newly completed Victoria Embankment and into the filthy
water. Professor Lyall was more fastidious and thus more reticent. Nothing the Thames could throw at him could damage him
permanently, but that didn't prevent his shuddering at the inevitability of the smell he was destined to produce: wet dog
mixed with Thames river water.

Lord Maccon's brindled head appeared, fur slicked back like a seal, and he barked at his Beta imperiously. Professor Lyall
locked his jaw and leapt stiffly into the water, all four legs extended in disgust. Together, looking like nothing so much
as two stray dogs after a stick, the two made their way under the bridge.

Since they knew what they were looking for, they managed to find the breathing tube affixed to one of the piers. It was stretched
upward well out of the high-tide mark. It looked as though it could have also been used as a drop for food and water bags.
At least the potentate had no intention of actually killing poor Biffy. Still, it was carelessly done. Should the tube fall,
some misguided boat crash into it, or one curious animal climb up and stopper it over, Biffy would suffocate to death.

Lord Maccon dove down to investigate the contraption. This was hard to do in wolf form, and it was hard to see much in the
blackness of the river. But he had supernatural strength and wolf night vision helping him. He surfaced looking pleased with
himself, tongue lolling.

Professor Lyall winced at the very idea of tongue having any proximity to the Thames.

Lord Maccon, being Lord Maccon and good at such things, then changed, right there in the Thames, from dog-paddling wolf to
large man treading water. He did so flawlessly, so that his head never went under the water. Professor Lyall suspected him
of practicing such maneuvers in the bathtub.

“That is one interesting little contraption he has down there, like some species of mechanical Scotch egg. Biffy's still alive,
but I have absolutely no idea how to get him out, short of simply muscling the blasted thing open and dragging him up through
the water. Do you think a human could survive such an experience? There seems to be no means of attaching a crank or pulley
to the sphere, nor of getting a net underneath, even if we had ready access to such things.”

Professor Lyall sacrificed his meticulousness to the winds and changed form. He was not so good as Lord Maccon, sinking down
slowly in the process so that he bobbled up, sputtering and disgruntled, to his Alpha's amused gaze.

“We could raid Madame Lefoux's contrivance chamber, but I think time is of the essence. We are werewolves, my lord. Muscling
things is our specialty. If we can open it fast enough, we should be able to get him out with relatively little harm.”

“Good, because if I do damage him, my wife will never let me hear the end of it. Once she decides to speak to me again, that
is. She is awfully fond of Biffy.”

“Yes, I recall. He helped with the wedding.”

“Did he really? Well, what do you know? So, on the count of three? One, two, three.”

Both men inhaled deeply and dove down to crack open the sphere.

It was constructed in two halves, joined by means of large metal ribs, screwed tightly together. From these stretched a cagelike
lattice with glass in between, each square far too small for a man to squeeze through. Each werewolf grabbed at one bolt and
began to unscrew it as fast as possible. Soon enough, the pressure of the air within caused the upper half of the sphere to
separate from the bottom. Air began to escape and water rushed in to fill the vacancy.

Professor Lyall caught sight of Biffy's panicked expression, his blue eyes wide in a face bushy with weeks' worth of beard.
He could do nothing to help free himself. Instead he fought the inrushing water, trying to keep his head afloat and tilted
toward the air tube as long as possible.

With two bolts gone, the two werewolves wedged their bodies into the opening and began to physically push, muscles screaming,
tearing the sphere apart bodily. The metal buckled, glass broke, and water filled the small compartment.

Even in all the chaos, Professor Lyall heard several out-of-context noises and, moments later, saw from the corner of his
eye as the earl popped out of the sphere and began wildly thrashing about. But Lyall maintained his focus on Biffy. Pushing
forward with both legs off the edge of the sphere, he dove for the drone, grabbed him around the waist, and with another tremendous
push, shot upward toward the surface.

He emerged, panting, Biffy clutched against him. The young man was suspiciously limp, and Professor Lyall could think of nothing
but the need to get him to shore
as quickly as possible. Drawing on every last iota of his werewolf strength to give him the necessary speed, he plowed through
the water, reaching the Westminster side of the Thames in record time and dragging the drone out onto the bottom of a filthy
set of stone steps.

Professor Lyall was no medical doctor, but he could say with confidence that the best thing for Biffy at that moment would
be to get the water out and the air into his lungs. So the werewolf stood, lifting the young man up by his feet. Lyall had
to dangle him off the side of the steps; Biffy was taller than he. Then the Beta proceeded to shake the limp drone vigorously.

As he was shaking, Professor Lyall looked over at the midpoint of the river. The moon was only a few days past full, and it
had risen enough for his werewolf eyes to see everything clearly. His Alpha was engaged in a splashy battle with three assailants.
Much frothing of the water, yelling, and growling was involved. Lord Maccon was in his Anubis Form, his head that of a wolf
but his body still human. This allowed him to tread water but still apply the trademark werewolf savaging. It seemed to be
working. His opponents were human, and, while they were armed with silver knives, they were not so adept at striking and swimming
as Lord Maccon.

Professor Lyall returned to his task. As the shaking was proving to be ineffective, he positioned the young man carefully
on a higher step and bent over him.

He was at a loss. Werewolves breathed, but not so deeply, nor so frequently as mortals. He wasn't convinced his next idea
would even work. But, blushing furiously—after all, he and Biffy had only met casually a few times; they were hardly on terms
of any intimacy—he bent
forward and sealed the young man's mouth with his. Breathing out in a powerful blast, he attempted to physically force air
into the drone's lungs. Nothing happened. So he did it again. And again.

A loud cry caused him to look up, although not stop in his attentions to young Biffy's survival. The figure of a man, a gentleman
by his top hat and tails, ran along the rail bridge, faster than was humanly possible. The figure stopped and, in one impossibly
quick and smooth movement, drew a gun and fired down into the churning mass of combatants.

Professor Lyall's protective instincts reared up. He had no doubt that the vampire, for that is what the newcomer must be,
was firing silver bullets at
his
Alpha. Desperately, he breathed harder, hoping against hope that Biffy would revive so that he could go to his Alpha's aid.

Behind him, Lord Maccon behaved in an unexpectedly sensible manner. Abandoning his roughhousing, the Alpha dove under the
surface of the Thames and began swimming toward the steps and his Beta. He stuck his muzzle up for air only once and briefly.

Unfortunately, with his first target underwater, the vampire simply moved on to the second best option. He fired at Professor
Lyall and his charge as they hunched unprotected against the embankment. The bullet whizzed by perilously close to Lyall's
head and struck the stone wall, causing fragments of rock to pellet downward. Lyall curled himself over the drone's body,
shielding it with his own.