The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (97 page)

“But you cannot possibly leave, Female Specimen! I have not completed my tests. I did so want to cut the child out for dissection.
I could have determined its nature. I could—” He left off speaking, for he was interrupted by a loud growling noise.

Channing came dashing up. The werewolf was looking
a tad worse for wear. His beautiful white fur was streaked with blood, many of his wounds still bleeding, for they were slower
to heal when administered by a silver blade. Luckily, none of the injuries appeared to be fatal. Alexia didn't want to think
about how the preceptor might look right about now. It was a safe bet that one or more of his injuries
were
fatal.

Channing lolled a tongue out and then tilted his head in the direction of the pitched battle going on just ahead of them.

“I know,” said Alexia, “you brought the cavalry with you. Really, you shouldn't have.”

The werewolf barked at her, as if to say,
This is no time for levity.

“Very well, then, after you.”

Channing trotted purposefully toward the broiling mass of vampires and Templars.

The German scientist, cowering away from the werewolf, yelled at them from his position, flattened against the side wall of
the passageway, “No, Female Specimen, you cannot go! I will not allow it.” Alexia glanced over at him, only to find he had
pulled out an extraordinary weapon. It looked like a set of studded leather bagpipes melded to a blunderbuss. It was pointed
in her direction, but Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf's hand was by no means steady on the trigger. Before anyone had a chance to react
to the weapon, Poche, seized with a sudden bout of unwarranted bravery, charged at Channing.

Without breaking stride, the werewolf swiveled his head down and around, opened his prodigious jaws, and swallowed the little
dog whole.

“No!” cried the scientist, instantly switching targets and
firing the bagpipe blunderbuss at the werewolf instead of Alexia. It made a loud splattering pop sound and ejected a fist-sized
ball of some kind of jellied red organic matter that hit the werewolf with a splat. Whatever it was must not have been designed
to damage werewolves, for Channing merely shook it off like a wet dog and gave the little man a disgusted look.

Floote fired in the same instant, hitting the German in one shoulder and then pocketing his gun, once more out of ammunition.
Alexia thought she would have to get Floote a better, more modern gun, a revolver, perhaps.

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf cried out in pain, clutched at his shoulder, and fell back.

Madame Lefoux marched over to him and grabbed the peculiar weapon out of his limp hand. “You know the truth of the matter,
sir? Your ideas may be sound, but your research methods and your moral code are both highly questionable. You, sir, are a
bad scientist
!” With that, she clocked him in the temple with the muzzle of his own bagpipe gun. He fell like a stone.

“Really, Channing,” remonstrated Alexia, “did you have to eat the man's dog? I am convinced you will experience terrible indigestion.”

The werewolf ignored them all and continued on toward the pitched hallway battle, which showed no signs of being firmly decided
in either direction. Two to one were clearly good odds when the two were highly trained warrior monks and the one was a vampire.

Alexia ran after Channing to stir things up a bit.

While the werewolf proceeded to clear them a path via the simple expedient of eating his way through the fighters, Alexia,
gloves off, tried to touch any and all that she
could. The vampires were changed by her touch and the Templars repulsed; either way, she had the advantage.

Vampires dropped their opponents as they suddenly lost supernatural strength or found themselves viciously nibbling someone's
neck, having entirely lost their fangs. The Templars were quick to follow up any advantage, but they were distracted by the
presence of a new and equally feared enemy—a werewolf. They were also startled to find their quarry, supposedly a complacent
Englishwoman of somber means and minimal intelligence, busily plying her art and touching them. Instinct took over, for they
had been trained for generations to avoid a preternatural as they would avoid the devil himself, as a grave risk to their
sacred souls. They flinched and stumbled away from her.

Following Alexia came Monsieur Trouvé, who, having utilized some of the parasol's armament, had reverted to swinging the heavy
bronze accessory about like a club, bludgeoning all who got in his way. Alexia could understand his approach; it was her preferred
method as well. Could that technique, she wondered, be legitimately referred to as a “parassault”? Following him was Madame
Lefoux, bagpipe blunderbuss in one hand, cravat pin in the other, slashing and bashing away merrily. After her came Floote,
bringing up the rear in dignified elegance, using the dispatch case as a kind of shield and poking at people with Madame Lefoux's
other cravat pin, borrowed for the occasion.

Thus, undercover of an uncommon amount of pandemonium and bedlam, Alexia and her little band of gallant rescuers made their
way through the battle and out the other side. Then there was nothing for it but to run, bruised and bloody as they were.
Channing led them
first through the Roman catacombs, then through a long modern tunnel that housed, if the steel tracks were any indication,
a rail trolley of some kind. Finally, they found themselves clambering up damp wooden stairs and tumbling out onto the wide
soft bank of the Arno. The town obviously observed a supernatural curfew after nightfall, for there was absolutely no one
to witness their panting exit.

They climbed up to street level and dashed a good long way through the city. Alexia developed a stitch in her side and a feeling
that, should her future permit it, she would spend the rest of her days relaxed in an armchair in a library somewhere. Adventuring
was highly overrated.

Having reached one of the bridges over the Arno, she called a stop halfway across. It was a good defensible position; they
could afford a short rest. “Are they following us?”

Channing raised his muzzle to the sky and sniffed. Then he shook his shaggy head.

“I cannot believe we escaped so easily.” Alexia looked about at her companions, taking stock of their condition. Channing
had sustained only a few additional injuries, but all were healing even as she watched. Of the others, Madame Lefoux was sporting
a nasty gash on one wrist, which Floote was bandaging with a handkerchief, and Monsieur Trouvé was rubbing at a lump on his
forehead. She herself ached terribly in one shoulder but would rather not look just yet. Otherwise, they all were in sufficient
form and spirits. Channing appeared to have reached the same conclusion and decided to shift form.

His body began that strange, uncomfortable-looking writhing, and the sound of flesh and bone re-forming
itself rent the air for a few moments, and then he rose to stand before them. Alexia gave a squeak and turned her back hurriedly
on his endowments, which were ample and well proportioned.

Monsieur Trouvé took off his frock coat. It was far too wide for the werewolf, but he handed it over for modesty's sake. With
a nod of thanks, Channing put it on. It covered the necessaries, but was far too short and, coupled with his long, loose hair,
made him look disturbingly like an oversized French schoolgirl.

Alexia was perfectly well aware of what she was required to do at this juncture. Courtesy demanded gratitude, but she could
wish it was someone other than Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings who was to receive it. “Well, Major Channing,
I suppose I must thank you for the timely intervention. I am confused, however. Shouldn't you be off somewhere killing things?”

“My lady, I rather thought that was what I just did.”

“I mean officially, for queen and country, with the regiment and everything.”

“Ah, no, deployment was delayed after you left. Technical difficulties.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, it was technically difficult to leave a heartbroken Alpha. And it is a good thing for you I wasn't overseas. Someone
had to extract you from the Templars.” He entirely ignored the rest of Alexia's rescue party.

“I should have managed perfectly well on my own. But thank you, anyway. You are always terribly impressed with yourself, aren't
you?”

He leered. “Aren't you?”

“So why
have
you been tracking me this entire time?”

“Ah, you knew it was me?”

“There aren't a great number of white wolves roaming around safeguarding my interests. I figured it had to be you after the
vampire and the carriage incident. So, why were you?”

A new voice, deep and gravelly, came from behind them. “Because I sent him.”

Floote stopped attending to Madame Lefoux and whirled to face this new threat, the Frenchwoman was already reaching once more
for her trusty cravat pins, and Monsieur Trouvé raised the bagpipe blunderbuss, which he'd been examining with scientific
interest. Only Major Channing remained unperturbed.

Lord Conall Maccon, Earl of Woolsey, stepped out of the shadows of the bridge tower.

“You! You are
late,
” pointed out his errant wife with every sign of extreme annoyance.

               

L
ate! Of course I'm late. You do realize, wife, I've been hunting all over Italy for you? You havna been exactly easy to find.”

“Well, of course you wouldn't find me if you took that tactic. I haven't
been
all over Italy. I have been stuck in Florence the entire time. I was even trapped in some horrible Roman catacombs, thanks
to you.”

“Thanks to me? How could that possibly have been my fault, woman?” Lord Maccon came forward and loomed over his wife, both
of them having entirely forgotten about their companions, who formed a semicircle of rapt interest about them. Their voices
carried far over the water and through the vacant streets of Florence—no doubt providing entertainment for many.

“You rejected me!” Even as she said it, Alexia experienced once more that glorious sense of profound relief. Although this
time, thankfully, it was not coupled with
the need to break down and cry. Conall had come after her! Of course, she was still mad at him.

Floote bravely interjected at this juncture. “Please, madam, lower your voice. We are not yet out of danger.”

“You sent me away!” Alexia hissed, low and fierce.

“No, I didna—that is, not really. I didna intend it that way. You should have known I didna mean it. You should have realized
I needed time to recover from being an idiot.”

“Oh, really? How was I to know idiocy was only a temporary condition, especially in your case? It never has been before! Besides
which, vampires were trying to kill me.”

“And they didna try to kill you here as well as back home? 'Tis a good thing I had enough sobriety left to send Channing after
you.”

“Oh, I like that… Wait, what did you say? Sobriety? You mean while I've been running across Europe pregnant, escaping ladybugs,
flying in ornithopters, landing in mud, and drinking
coffee,
you have been
inebriated
?”

“I was depressed.”

“You were depressed?
You
!” Alexia actually started to sputter, she was so angry. She looked up at her husband, which was always a strange experience,
for she was a tall woman used to looking down on people. Lord Maccon could loom all he liked; so far as she was concerned,
she was not impressed.

She poked him in the center of his chest with two fingers to punctuate her words. “
You
are an unfeeling”—poke—“traitorous”—poke—“mistrusting”—poke—“rude”—poke—“
booby
!” Every poke turned him mortal, but Lord Maccon didn't seem to mind it in the least.

Instead he grabbed the hand that poked him and brought it to his lips. “You put it very well, my love.”

“Oh, don't get smarmy with me, husband. I am nowhere near finished with you yet.” She started poking him with the other hand.
Lord Maccon grinned hugely, probably, Alexia realized, because she had slipped up and called him “husband.”

“You kicked me out without a fair trial. Do stop kissing me. And you didn't even consider that the child might be yours. Stop
that! Oh, no, you had to leap to the worst possible assumption. You know my character. I could never betray you like that.
Just because history says it is not possible doesn't mean there aren't exceptions. There are always exceptions. Look at Lord
Akeldama—he is practically an exception to everything. Why, it took only a little research in the Templar records and I figured
it out. Stop kissing my neck, Conall, I mean it. Templars should have practiced more of the scholarly arts and stopped whacking
about at everything willy-nilly.” She reached into her cleavage and produced the small, now-garlic-scented Roman curse tablet,
which she waved at her husband. “Look right here!
Evidence.
But not you, oh no. You had to act first. And I was stuck running around without a pack.”

Lord Maccon managed to get a word in at this point, but only because Lady Maccon had run out of breath. “It looks like you
managed to build your own pack, anyway, my dear. A parasol protectorate, perhaps one might say.”

“Oh, ha-ha, very funny.”

Lord Maccon leaned forward and, before she could
resume her tirade, kissed her full on the mouth. It was one of his deep, possessive kisses. It was the kind of embrace that
made Alexia feel that somewhere in there, even though her touch had stolen all the werewolf out of him, he might still want
to gobble her right up. She continued poking him absently even as she curled into his embrace.

Just as swiftly as he had started, he stopped. “
Ew!
”

“Ew?
You kiss me when I haven't even finished yelling at you and then you say
‘ew'!”
Alexia jerked out of her husband's grasp.

Conall stopped her with a question. “Alexia, darling, have you been eating
pesto
recently?” He started rubbing at his nose as though it were itching. His eyes began to water.

Alexia laughed. “That's right—werewolves are allergic to basil. You see the full force of my revenge?” She could touch him
and the allergic reaction would probably stop immediately, but she stood back and watched him suffer. Funny that even as a
mortal, he had reacted badly to the taste of her supper. She resigned herself to a life without pesto, and with that thought
realized she was going to forgive her husband.

Eventually.

The werewolf in question approached her cautiously once more, as if he was afraid if he moved too fast she would panic and
bolt. “It's been a long time since I tasted that flavor, and I never liked it, even as a human. I'll put up with it, though,
if you really like it.”

“Will you put up with the child, too?”

He pulled her into his arms again. “If you really like it.”

“Don't be difficult. You are going to have to like it, too, you realize.”

Nuzzling against her neck, he let out a sigh of satisfaction. “Mine,” he said happily.

Alexia was resigned to her fate. “Unfortunately, both of us are.”

“Well, that's all right, then.”

“So you think.” She pulled away, punching him in the arm, just to make her position perfectly clear. “The fact remains that
you also belong to me! And you had the temerity to behave as though you didn't.”

Lord Maccon nodded. It was true. “I shall make it up to you.” Adding unguardedly, “What can I do?”

Alexia thought. “I want my own aethographic transmitter. One of the new ones that doesn't require crystalline valves.”

He nodded.

“And a set of ladybugs from Monsieur Trouvé.”

“A what?”

She glared at him.

He nodded again. Meekly.

“And a new gun for Floote. A good-quality revolver or some such that shoots more than one bullet.”

“For Floote? Why?”

His wife crossed her arms.

“Whatever you say, dear.”

Alexia considered asking for a Nordenfelt but thought that might be pushing it a bit, so she downgraded. “And I want you to
teach me how to shoot.”

“Now, Alexia, do you think that's quite the best thing for a woman in your condition?”

Another glare.

He sighed. “Verra well. Anything else?”

Alexia frowned in thought. “That will do for now, but I might still come up with something.”

He tucked her in close against him once more, running his hands over her back in wide circular motions and burying his nose
in her hair.

“So, what do you think, my dear, will it be a girl or a boy?”

“It will be a soul-stealer, apparently.”

“What!”
The earl reared away from his wife and looked down at her suspiciously.

Channing interrupted them. “Best be getting a move on, I'm afraid.” He head was cocked to one side, as though he were still
in wolf form, ears alert for signs of pursuit.

Lord Maccon turned instantly from indulgent husband to Alpha werewolf. “We'll split up. Channing, you, Madame Lefoux, and
Floote act as decoy. Madame, I'm afraid you may have to don female dress.”

“Sometimes these things are necessary.”

Alexia grinned, both at Madame Lefoux's discomfort and the very idea someone might confuse the two of them. “I recommend padding
as well,” she suggested, puffing out her chest slightly, “and a hair fall.”

The inventor gave her a dour look. “I am aware of our differences of appearance, I assure you.”

Alexia hid a grin and turned back to her husband. “You'll send them over land?”

Lord Maccon nodded. Then he looked to the clockmaker. “Monsieur?”

“Trouvé,” interjected his wife helpfully.

The clockmaker twinkled at them both. “I shall head
home, I think. Perhaps the others would care to accompany me in that general direction?”

Channing and Madame Lefoux nodded. Floote, as ever, had very little reaction to this turn of events. But Alexia thought she
detected a gleam of pleasure in his eyes.

Monsieur Trouvé turned back to Alexia, took her hand, and kissed the back of it gallantly. His whiskers tickled. “It has been
a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Maccon. Most enjoyable, indeed.”

Lord Maccon looked on in shock. “You are referring to my wife, are you not?”

The Frenchman ignored him, which only endeared him further to Alexia.

“And you as well, Monsieur Trouvé. We must continue our acquaintance sometime in the not too distant future.”

“I wholeheartedly agree.”

Alexia turned back to her faintly sputtering husband. “And we shall go by sea?”

He nodded again.

“Good.” His wife grinned. “I will have you all to myself. I still have a lot to yell at you about.”

“And here I thought we were due for a honeymoon.”

“Does that mean quite the same thing to werewolves?”

“Very droll, wife.”

It wasn't until much later that Lord and Lady Maccon returned to the topic of a certain infant-inconvenience. They had had
to make their formal good-byes and escape out of Florence first. Morning found them secluded in the
safety of an abandoned old barn of the large and drafty variety, at which point things had settled enough for them to undertake
what passed, for Lord and Lady Maccon, as serious conversation.

Conall, being supernatural and mostly inured against the cold, spread his cloak gallantly upon a mound of moldy straw and
lounged back upon it entirely bare and looking expectantly up at his wife.

“Very romantic, my dear,” was Alexia's unhelpful comment.

His face fell slightly at that, but Lady Maccon was not so immune to her husband's charms that she could resist the tempting
combination of big-muscled nudity and bashful expression.

She divested herself of her overdress and skirts.

He made the most delicious huffing noise when she cast herself, swanlike, on top of him. Well, perhaps more beached-sea-mammal-like
than swanlike, but it had the desirous upshot of plastering most of the length of her body against most of the length of his.
It took him a moment to recover from several stone of wife suddenly settled atop him, but only a moment, for then he began
a diligent quest to rid her of all her remaining layers of clothing in as little time as possible. He unlaced the back and
popped open the front of her corset, and stripped off her chemise with all the consummate skill of a lady's maid.

“Steady on there,” protested Alexia mildly, though she was flattered by his haste.

As though influenced by her comment, which she highly doubted, he suddenly switched tactics and jerked her against him tightly.
Burying his face in the side of her neck, he took a deep, shuddering breath. The movement
lifted her upward as his wide chest expanded. She felt almost as though she were floating.

Then he rolled her slightly off him and, incredibly gently, pulled off her bloomers and began stroking over her slightly rounded
belly.

“So, a soul-stealer, is that what we're getting?”

Alexia wriggled slightly, trying to get him back into his customary, rather more forceful handling. She would never admit
it out loud, of course, but she enjoyed it when he became enthusiastically rough. “One of the Roman tablets called it a Stalker
of Skins.”

He paused, glowering thoughtfully. “Na, still never heard of it. But, then, I'm na all that old.”

“It certainly has the vampires in a tizzy.”

“Following in its mother's footsteps already, the little pup. How verra charming.” His big hands began moving optimistically
in a northward direction.

“Now what are you about?” wondered his wife.

“I have some further reacquainting to do. Must evaluate size differentials,” he insisted.

“I hardly see how you could tell the difference,” pointed out his wife, “considering their oversubstantial nature to start
with.”

“Oh, I believe I am more than equal to the task.”

“We all must have goals in life,” agreed his wife, a slight tremor in her voice.

“And to determine all the new particulars, I must apply all the available tools in my repertoire.” This comment apparently
indicated Conall intended to switch and use his mouth rather than his hands.

Alexia, it must be admitted, was running out of both token protests and the ability to breathe regularly. And
since her husband's mouth was occupied, and even a werewolf shouldn't talk with his mouth full, she determined that was the
end of their conversation.

So it proved to be the case, for some time at least.