Timeless (45 page)

London was ill prepared for such an invasion. It was also not quite the same London as when they had departed.

Lord Maccon, for one, returned to his pack to find that his previous Beta had emigrated to Scotland for an unspecified indenture and that a young dandy of an Alpha waited tentatively in his place.

Biffy handed him a letter from Professor Lyall, tears in his eyes. Alexia, unabashed, read it over her husband’s arm.

“My dear sir. I have no means of making amends.
Even an apology would be more an insult, of that I am well aware. I have trained young Biffy to the best of my abilities. He will make a fine Beta, even though, as you may now already have smelled, he has manifested Anubis form. I thought, perhaps, you might take over training him for his next role—your replacement—contingent upon such a time as you leave us for Egypt and a well-earned retirement.”

Upon reading that, Alexia asked, “How did he know your plans? You didn’t discuss it with him ahead of time, did you?”

“No, but that’s Randolph for you.”

They continued with the letter.

“Our Biffy is part of this modern age. Shifting times require a London dandy for a London Pack. Try not, my dear lord, to see him in light of your own abilities as Alpha. He will never be that kind of wolf. I believe he is what our pack will need in the future, regardless.”

Alexia looked up at Biffy. The young werewolf seemed to be feeling a more intense emotion over Professor Lyall’s abandonment than she might have predicted. What had happened while they were in Egypt?

“Biffy,” asked Alexia, because she had no subtlety, “did something significant occur between you and Lyall while we were away?”

Biffy hung his head. “He promised he would come back to me eventually. When we were all ready. Ten, twenty years, he said. Not so long for an immortal. Shifting times, he said.”

Alexia nodded, feeling old. “But it feels like a very long time?”
Ah, young love
.

Biffy nodded sadly.

The earl, sensitive to his pack member’s feelings, drew Alexia’s attention back to Lyall’s letter before she could continue interrogating the young dandy.

The letter continued.

“Don’t tell Biffy yet. He isn’t ready to know his future. Not the one that I envision for him. But he is ready to learn how to lead a pack, and you, my lord, will be an excellent teacher. Despite everything, I remain faithfully your friend, Professor Randolph Lyall.”

“Ah, so,” said Alexia, looking back and forth between the two gentlemen, their eyes down-turned. “It is an elegant solution,” she said at last.

“He was always verra good at elegant solutions,” said Lord Maccon softly. Then he bucked up. “Well, young Biffy, I suspect with you as my Beta, I’ll never again be allowed out without a cravat.”

Biffy was aghast. “Certainly not, my lord!”

“Good to know where I stand from the start.” Conall grinned amiably at the boy.

Rumpet stuck his head in. Rumpet had been brought out of retirement to take over for Floote as pack butler. He’d set up as an innkeeper in Pickering after the vampires took over Woolsey but jumped at the chance to return to his old position. Pickering and innkeeping, as it turned out, were not all he had hoped.

“Lady Maccon, there’s a gentleman to see you.” The butler had a certain curl to his lip that in Alexia’s experience could only mean one man.

“Ah, show him into the front parlor. If you will excuse me, husband, Biffy, I’m certain you have much to discuss. There is Channing to consider, if nothing else.”

“Oh, blast it. Channing,” muttered Lord Maccon.

Alexia let herself out.

Lord Akeldama sat waiting for her in the front parlor, one silken leg crossed over the other, blue eyes bright and slightly accusatory. He was wearing pea green and salmon this evening, a pleasant swirl of spring colors to counteract the gray weather they’d been experiencing of late.

“Alexia, my
darling
toggle button!”

“My lord, how are you?”

“I am here to reclaim my dearest little daughter.”

“Of course, of course. Rumpet, fetch Prudence for his lordship, would you? She’s sleeping in the back parlor. Did you miss her, my lord?”

“Like a hat misses a feather, darling! The droney poos and I have been bereft, quite bereft I tell you!”

“Well, she was very useful, in her way.”

“Of course she was. And Matakara—are the rumors true?”

“Where do you think Ivy acquired her new hive?”

“Yes, Alexia, pigeon, I mean to discuss that little incident with you. Did you have to bring them
all
?”

“A new queen, plus five Egyptian vampires and assorted drones? You object to my bringing souvenirs back from Egypt? Everyone brings back souvenirs from their travels abroad, my lord. It is the
done thing
.”

“Well, dewdrop, I don’t object
as such
, but…”

Alexia smiled craftily. “Ivy has chosen somewhere in Wimbledon for her hive’s location. A little too close for comfort, my lord?”

The vampire arched a blond eyebrow at her haughtily. “Countess Nadasdy is
not
amused.”

“She wouldn’t be. Someone is essentially taking on her old role in society.”

“
Ivy Tunstell
, no less.” Lord Akeldama frowned, one perfect crease marring the white smoothness of his forehead. “She is terribly interested in fashion, isn’t she?”

“Oh, dear.” Alexia hid a smile. “That, too, is your territory. I see.”

“An
actress
, my little blueberry. I mean, really. Have you
seen
her hats?”

“You paid a call?”

“Of course I paid a call! She is a new queen, after all. Etiquette
must
be observed. But really”—he shuddered delicately—“those hats.”

Alexia thought of Professor Lyall’s letter. “It is the modern age, my dear Lord Akeldama. I think we must learn to accept such things as a consequence of shifting times.”

“
Shifting times
, indeed. What a very werewolf way of putting it.”

Rumpet opened the door and Prudence toddled sleepily into the room.

“Ah,
puggle precious
, how is my darling girl?”

Alexia grabbed her daughter’s arm before she could launch herself at the vampire. “Dama!”

At Lady Maccon’s nod, the vampire bent to embrace his adopted child, Alexia maintaining a firm grip the entire time.

“Welcome home,
poppet
!”

“Dama, Dama!”

Alexia looked on affectionately. “We’ve learned a few things about our girl here, haven’t we, Prudence dear?”

“No,” said Prudence.

“One of them is that she doesn’t like her name.”

“No?” Lord Akeldama looked very thoughtful. “Well,
there you have it. I couldn’t sympathize more, puggle. I don’t
approve
of most people’s names either.”

Alexia laughed.

Prudence took sudden interest in Alexia’s parasol, sitting next to her on the settee.

“Mine?” suggested Prudence.

“Perhaps someday,” said her mother.

Looking at his adopted daughter thoughtfully, Lord Akeldama said, “Shifting times, my dear
Ruffled Parasol
?”

Alexia did not bother to ask how he might know her secret code name. She only looked him straight on, forthright as always. “Shifting times,
Goldenrod
.”

Phrannish read this last book during the middle of production. Rach read it a week after giving birth. Iz did her rounds ill, having just returned from Israel and in the process of buying a house. So for all my girls, with lives more grown-up than mine, this writer beast is eternally grateful that you put said lives on hold… one final time. My personal parasol protectorate, thank you. We must do it again sometime.

M
S
. C
ARRIGER
began writing to cope with being raised in obscurity by an expatriate Brit and an incurable curmudgeon. She escaped small-town life and inadvertently acquired several degrees in higher learning. Ms. Carriger then traveled the historic cities of Europe, subsisting entirely on biscuits secreted in her handbag. She now resides in the Colonies, surrounded by fantastic shoes, where she insists on tea imported directly from London and cats that pee into toilets. She is fond of teeny-tiny hats and tropical fruit. Find out more about Ms. Carriger at
www.gailcarriger.com
.

If you enjoyed
TIMELESS,
look out for

BLOOD RIGHTS

Book 1 of The House of Comarré

by Kristen Painter

Born into a life of secrets and service, Chrysabelle’s body bears the telltale marks of a comarré—a special race of humans bred to feed vampire nobility. When her patron is murdered, she becomes the prime suspect, which sends her running into the mortal world… and into the arms of Malkolm, an outcast vampire cursed to kill every being from whom he drinks
.

Now, Chrysabelle and Malkolm must work together to stop a plot to merge the mortal and supernatural worlds. If they fail, a chaos unlike anything anyone has ever seen will threaten to reign
.

Paradise City, New Florida, 2067

T
he cheap lace and single-sewn seams pressed into Chrysabelle’s flesh, weighed down by the uncomfortable tapestry jacket that finished her disguise. Her training kept her from fidgeting with the shirt’s tag even as it bit into her skin. She studied those around her. How curious that the kine perceived her world this way. No,
this
was her world, not the one she’d left behind. And she had to stop thinking of humans as kine. She was one of them now. Free. Independent. Owned by no one.

She forced a weak smile as the club’s heavy electronic beat ricocheted through her bones. Lights flickered and strobed, casting shadows and angles that paid no compliments to the faces around her. She cringed as a few bodies collided with her in the surrounding crush. Nothing in her years of training had prepared her for immersion in a crowd of mortals. She recognized the warm, earthy smell of them from the human servants her patron and the other nobles had kept, but acclimating to their noise and their boisterous behavior was going to take time. Perhaps humans lived so hard because they had so little of that very thing.

Something she was coming to understand.

The names on the slip of paper in her pocket were memorized, but she pulled it out and read them again.
Jonas Sweets
, and beneath it,
Nyssa
, both written in her aunt’s flowery script. Just the sight of the handwriting calmed her a little. She folded the note and tucked it away. If Aunt Maris said Jonas could connect her with help, Chrysabelle would trust that he could, even though the idea of trusting a kine—no, a human—seemed untenable.

She pushed through to the bar, failing in her attempt to avoid more contact but happy at how little attention she attracted. The foundation Maris had applied to her hands, face and neck, the only skin left visible by her clothing, covered her signum perfectly. No longer did the multitude of gold markings she bore identify her as an object to be possessed. She was her own person now, passing easily as human.

The feat split her in two. While part of her thrilled to be free of the stifling propriety that governed her every move and rejoiced that she was no longer property, another part of her felt wholly unprepared for this existence. There was no denying life in Algernon’s manor had been one of shelter and privilege.

Enough wallowing. She hadn’t the time and there was no going back, even if she could. Which she wouldn’t. And it wasn’t as if Aunt Maris hadn’t provided for her and wouldn’t continue to do so, if Chrysabelle could just take care of this one small problem. Finding a space between two bodies, she squeezed in and waited for the bartender’s attention.

He nodded at her. “What can I get you?”