CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A Clot of Vampires
The Woolsey Pack was a large collective, a good dozen strong. And a dozen werewolves is like two dozen regular wolves in size alone. Normally, they were also one of the better-behaved packs. When other packs were feeling snide, they called Woolsey tame. But no werewolf behaves himself on full moon.
Lady Maccon knew very well that she was taking a grave risk. She also knew her smell would attract her husband. Even in the throes of full-moon’s curse, he would run to her. He might try to kill her, but he would come. He was Woolsey’s Alpha for a reason, with enough charisma to hold his pack and drag them with him, no matter how strong the need to break away and trail blood and raw meat across the countryside. They would all follow him, which meant he would bring them all to her.
So it proved to be.
They poured out the lower doors and windows of the castle, howling to the skies. They evolved into a kind of cohesive moving liquid, flowing down the hillside as one silvered blob, like mercury on a scientist’s palm. The howling became deafening as they neared, and they were swifter than Alexia remembered, full of eternal rage at a world that forced such a cost of immortality upon them. Any human would flee, and Alexia could see that even the vampires were tempted to run away from the massive supernatural force charging toward them.
At the front ran the biggest of the lot, a brindled wolf with yellow eyes, intent on but one thing—a smell on the evening breeze. It was the scent of mate, and lover, and partner, and fear, and something new coming. Near to that, twining with it, was the scent of young boy, fresh meat to be consumed. Underneath was the smell of rotten flesh and old bloodlines—other predators invading his territory. Dominating it all was the odor of industry, a monstrous machine, another enemy.
Lady Maccon stepped out of the carriage and slammed the door behind her, placing herself before the boy and the queen, knowing that she would be the last possible defense, that if nothing else, she had her bare hands.
Her legs, however, refused to obey her. She found herself leaning against the door, wishing she had her parasol for leverage.
The pack was there. The blur of fur and teeth and tail turned into individual wolves. Lord Conall Maccon came to a sliding halt before his wife.
Alexia never quite knew how to handle her husband when he was in such a state. There was nothing of the man she loved in those yellow eyes, not during full moon. Her only hope was that he would perceive the octomaton as more of a threat than the vampires. That his driving instinct would be to defend territory first and eat later, thus ignoring her and Quesnel, who represented fresh meat.
Her hope proved to be the case, for Conall’s yellow eyes flashed once, almost human, and he lolled his tongue out at her. Then the pack turned in a body and launched itself at the octomaton. One wolf per tentacle, the remaining four at the neck. Supernatural teeth were guided by instinct toward joints and arteries, even if those joints were made of ball bearings and pulleys and those arteries hydraulic steam-powered cables.
Alexia could only watch, admiring the grace in their amazingly high leaps. She held Ethel in one hand, but the gun dangled uselessly. She was nowhere near good enough to hit even something the size of the octomaton without also risking a wolf. The vampires made no move to help. This might have been because they were afraid a werewolf would take this ill and start attacking them, or it might be because they were vampires.
Lady Maccon could make out some of the pack by their markings. There was Channing, easiest to spot because of his pure white coat; and Lyall, smaller than the rest and more nimble, almost vampirelike in his speed and dexterity; and Biffy, darkest of all the pack with his oxblood stomach fur, abandoned and utterly vicious in his movements. But Alexia’s eye was ever drawn, again and again, to the brindled coat of the largest wolf as he leaped up and savaged some portion of the octomaton, landed, and then leaped again.
To have had any real effect, the wolves should have all concentrated on one tentacle together, or all gone for the neck, but they were moonstruck. Even under the best of circumstances, only a few werewolves fully retain their capacity for human intelligence while in wolf form. Full moon was not the best of circumstances.
The octomaton was built for many things but not, apparently, for a full-pack assault. True, it was well armored and mostly metal, but Madame Lefoux had not used any silver, so it was vulnerable, especially in such numbers. But the Frenchwoman was not remaining idle. Oh, no. Madame Lefoux had those vicious tentacles in play, spraying fire and shooting wooden stakes. Alexia knew it was only a matter of time before the inventor became desperate enough to once more bring out the tentacle that shot lapis solaris.
Then Lady Maccon caught sight of a white floating blob behind the top of the octomaton, sailing the aether breezes swiftly in her direction—a small private dirigible.
Another contraction hit her hard. Alexia doubled over and slid down the side of the carriage, slumping to the ground, leaving the door vulnerable to attack. It was the first time the wave sensation had actually hurt. Curling against the involuntary movements of her own body, she looked up and over to the east.
She couldn’t help but cry out—not from the pain but from what she saw. There was a distinct pinking to the cold silvery blue of the night sky.
She had to get them all to the safety of the castle.
She looked to Lord Ambrose, now standing over her barring the door, defending his queen. “We must bring the creature down somehow, buy us enough time to get to Woolsey. The sun is rising.”
The vampire’s eyes went black with fear. The sun would stop werewolves in their tracks, turning them back to human shape. It would slow some of the younger members, making them vulnerable, and it would do permanent damage to Biffy, who lacked the necessary control. But it would kill the vampires, every last one of them, even the queen.
Alexia thought of something. “Find me a litter, my lord.”
“What, Lady Maccon?”
“Tear off the roof of the carriage or remove part of the driving box. With one vampire at either end, you could use it to carry me to Woolsey. No one would have to touch me, there would be no loss of strength. We could make a break for it.”
“Strategic retreat. Excellent notion.” He leaped atop the driver’s box.
Lady Maccon heard a loud ripping noise.
Above, she saw a bright flash of orange light emanate from the side of the dirigible and a loud clang as a massive bullet hit and tore through the mantle of the octomaton. The creature lurched at the impact but did not fall.
Lord Akeldama had sent air support. Alexia had no idea what kind of weapon the drones had, possibly a tiny cannon, or an elephant gun, or an aethero-modified blunderbuss, but she didn’t care. It fired again.
By the time the second projectile hit its mark, Lord Ambrose was back, as was the duke. They rested a wide board on the ground next to Alexia. She managed to slide and squirm her way onto it.
They lifted her up. The queen and Dr. Caedes, carrying Quesnel, leaped out of the top of the torn and burned carriage, jack-in-the-box-like, and took off toward Woolsey, jumping the felled tree. The countess looked particularly odd performing this maneuver with her flowered receiving gown and dumpy figure. Lady Maccon’s vampire litter bearers followed. Alexia could do nothing more than grip the sides of the board, desperate not to tumble off. The leap over the fallen tree was pure torture, and she was convinced she would fall when they bumped down, but she managed to hold on.
The wolves were providing enough of a distraction so that Madame Lefoux in the octomaton did not at first see them break for the castle. By the time she did, sending flames blasting after them, they were well out of range.
There was no need to bang on Woolsey’s main door; it was wide open, with many of the clavigers and household staff assembled on the front stoop, mouths agape. They had binoculars or glassicals pressed to their faces and were riveted by the battle below. At Lady Maccon’s imperious wave, they made a corridor for the vampires to run through, right up to the entrance, at which point everyone stopped abruptly. They waited with a ritual solemnity uncalled for in such dire circumstances.
“What is it now?” Alexia was annoyed beyond all reason. She was carried right to the door, like a dressed pig on a dinner platter. Any moment now, she thought in a flight of fantasy, Cook will appear with an apple to stuff into my mouth.
Lord Ambrose rested the bottom of the board down and the duke tilted it up so that Lady Maccon had merely to slide gently to her feet, finding herself standing.
A quick gesture had her supported on both sides by two of Woolsey’s largest clavigers. Thus she managed to hobble inside the entrance of her home.
Still the vampires waited on the front stoop, like some bizarre parody of orphaned puppies—soulful eyed, pathetically scruffy, deadly fanged, immortal orphaned puppies.
Lady Maccon turned ponderously. “Well?”
“Invite us in to stay, Alexia Maccon, Lady of Woolsey, mistress of this domicile.” The countess’s words were singsong and hymnlike. She clutched a wide-eyed, blubbering Quesnel tightly to her breast—no trace of the scamp left, just terrified boy.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, come in, come in.” Alexia frowned, trying to think. They had a goodly number of rooms, but where would it be best to put a whole hive of vampires? She pursed her lips. “Best to get you lot down to the dungeon. It’s the only place I can guarantee that there are absolutely no windows, and the sun is about to rise.”
Rumpet came forward. “Lady Maccon, what have you done?”
The vampires traipsed solemnly into the house. Alexia pointed out the appropriate staircase and they filed wordlessly down.
“You have invited in a queen?” The butler, normally quite a florid man, was ashen.
“I have.”
The Duke of Hematol gave her a tired smile as he passed, showing fang, acknowledging the butler’s fear as his due. “We can never go back now, you realize, Lady Maccon? Once a queen swarms and relocates, it is forever.”
Lady Maccon finally understood Lord Akeldama’s smile and why he refused to invite the hive in for tea. Alexia had managed to get his greatest rival out of London, for good. Not only was he potentate, and in charge of his own ring of very specially trained young men, but also he would now be the sole leader of fashion left in central London.
And Lady Maccon was stuck with vampires in her basement. “Curses, I have been rather neatly played.”
Another contraction hit her, and she had no more thought for her present domestic predicament. She suspected this was somewhat akin to the pain her husband felt upon changing shape.
Rumpet put out a hand to steady her. “My lady?”
“Rumpet, there is an octomaton on our doorstep.”
“So I noticed, my lady. And half of BUR has just arrived as well.”
Alexia looked. It was true. Several of BUR’s human members, on the octomaton’s trail out of London, had finally caught up. She thought she could see Haverbink’s tall, strapping form. “Oh, God. The pack will turn on them, they’re food.” And even as she watched, one of the werewolves left off fighting Madame Lefoux’s creature and charged one of the BUR agents. “We must protect them. Get the pack members back inside!”
“Indeed, madam.”
“Call up the clavigers. Tell them to bring the necessary equipment and open the silver cabinet.”
“Immediately, madam.” The butler moved toward a nested triangular alcove formed by the staircase. Next to the large cowbell that he rang at mealtimes there dangled a silver chain. At the end of that chain was a silver key. Next to it was a special glass box containing a large horn. Rumpet broke the glass with one swift punch of his gloved hand. He placed the horn to his lips and blew.
Not the most dignified of sounds emanated forth, a kind of farting noise. But it rattled through the castle in a way that suggested the sound had been manufactured specifically to permeate rock. The clavigers instantly assembled around Rumpet in the hallway. Pack policy dictated that every pack member have at least two clavigers. Lord Maccon had six these days, and there were a few extras loitering about as well.
Rumpet used the key to open the silver cabinet, an old mahogany monstrosity that gave no clue as to its true contents. Inside, instead of the usual household valuables—candlesticks, baby spoons, and the like—was the claviger kit. Displayed in neat rows and on special hooks were silver manacles, enough pairs for every member of the pack; silver knives; a few precious bottles of lapis lunearis; and, most importantly, the fishing nets. These were spun of silver cord, weighted at the corners, and used to capture and weaken a wolf without damage. Dangling from little hooks in each door were fifty fine silver chains with fifty fine silver whistles.
The clavigers, grim-faced, armed themselves and took up the nets. Each put a whistle over his head. They were so high-pitched that no human ear could possibly make out the sound, but wolves and dogs were violently affected by the noise.
Alexia thought of something. “Try to bring in Biffy first. Remember he’s still susceptible to pup-stage sun damage. Take care—he’ll be the most vicious. Oh, my goodness, what will I say if he accidentally eats somebody?”
Six of the biggest and best clavigers ran to the stables, and Alexia heard the roaring sound of the steam-powered penny-farthing wagons starting. Two clavigers per wagon—one to steer and one to cast the net—they roared out and down the hillside, steam trailing in a white cloud behind them. The other clavigers ran after.
Lady Maccon witnessed very little of the battle after that. She leaned against Rumpet and tried to watch, but contractions kept distracting her, and the fighting below was nothing more to her unfocused mind than a puddinglike mass of clavigers, wolves, and steam from penny-farthings and an octomaton. Occasionally, a spurt of fire jetted into the air or a glittering waterfall of silver net was cast upward.
Eventually she gave up. “Rumpet, help me to the bottom of the stair.” The butler did so, and Alexia sank gratefully down onto the steps of the grand staircase. “Now, please go down and ensure that the vampires are locked in. The last thing we need is them on the loose.”
“At once, my lady.”
Rumpet disappeared and returned later, grim-faced.
“That bad?”
“They are complaining about the accommodations and demanding feather pillows, my lady.”
“Of course they are.” Alexia doubled over in pain as another contraction ripped through her. Dimly, she saw Lord Akeldama’s dirigible float in to a graceful landing in the front courtyard of Woolsey. Boots and the airship company leaped agilely out of the basket and lashed the craft to a hitching post.
The first set of clavigers returned at that point, dragging a netted wolf with the aid of a penny-farthing wagon. It took four of them to get him up the steps and into the castle, even with the silver net burning him into submission. It wasn’t Biffy, but it looked to be one of the other youngsters, Rafe.
Alexia’s attention was refocused into moaning as her pains became, if possible, worse. She looked for Rumpet, but he was busy supervising the unloading, seeing to it that the young wolf was dragged down into the dungeon and locked away. Alexia spared a moment to hope that all the vampires had gone into one of the cells together, or things were about to get very complicated, indeed.
“Conall!” she yelled through the pain, even knowing he was in wolf form and that he would be the hardest to catch and the last to return home. “Where is he?” She was irrationally convinced that he should be with her right that very moment.
At which juncture, a wide, cool cloth was placed across her brow and a soft reliable voice said exactly the right thing. “Here, madam, drink this.”
A cup was pressed against her lips and Alexia sipped. Strong, milky, and restorative, exactly how she liked it best. Tea.
She opened her eyes, previously screwed closed in anguish, to see the fine lined face of an elderly gentleman, nondescript and familiar. “Floote.”
“Good evening, madam.”
“Where did you come from?”
Floote gestured behind him where the dirigible was still visible through the open front door. Tizzy and Boots hovered in the doorway, looking at Alexia in horror and with an air that suggested they would rather be anywhere else but there.
“I caught a lift, madam.”
“Eep!” squeaked Tizzy as he was pushed aside by another group of clavigers dragging another netted wolf home. Hemming, thought Alexia. Had to be. Only Hemming whined like that. They muscled their captive through the hallway and toward the dungeon stairs without need of an order from the panting and writhing Lady Maccon.
The previous group came back up, passing them on the stairs.
“Back out,” ordered their Alpha female, “and concentrate on finding Biffy. The others can take the sun.”
“I thought werewolves could withstand sunlight?” asked Boots.
Alexia moaned long and low before answering. “Yes. But not when still learning control.”
“What’ll happen to him if he doesn’t make it in?”
Rumpet reappeared at that juncture. “Ah, Mr. Floote.” He acknowledged his butler peer with a slight bow.
“Mr. Rumpet,” replied Floote. And then, turning his attention back to Lady Maccon, “Now, madam, do concentrate and try to inhale deeply. Breathe through the pain.”
Alexia glared at her butler. “Easy for you to say. Have you ever done this?”
“Certainly not, madam.”
“Rumpet, did all the vampires get sorted?”
“Mostly, my lady.”
“What do you mean, mostly?”
The conversation paused at that while everyone waited courteously for Lady Maccon to let out another part scream part howl of anger as the agony rippled through her body. They all pretended not to notice her thrashing. It was very polite of them.
“Well, a few of the vampires spread themselves about. So we’ll have to put some of ours in with them.”
“What’s the world coming to? Vampires and werewolves sleeping together,” quipped Alexia sarcastically.
One of the clavigers, a cheerful, freckled blighter who had performed Scottish ballads for the queen herself on more than one occasion, said, “It’s quite sweet, really. They’ve snuggled up with each other.”
“Snuggled? The wolf should be tearing the vampire apart.”
“Not anymore, my lady. Look.”
Alexia looked. The sun was up, its first rays cresting the horizon. It was going to be a bright, clear summer day. It was all too much, even for the most sensible preternatural. Lady Maccon panicked. “Biffy! Biffy’s not yet inside! Quickly!” She gestured the clavigers. “Get me up. Get me out there. Get me to him! He could die!” Alexia was starting to cry, both from the pain and from the thought of poor young Biffy lying out there, burning alive.
“But, my lady, you’re about to, well, uh, give birth!” objected Rumpet.
“Oh, that’s not important. That can wait.” Alexia turned. “Floote! Do something.”
Floote nodded. He pointed to one of the clavigers. “You, do as she asks. Boots, you take the other side.” He looked down at his mistress. Of course, Alessandro Tarabotti’s daughter would be difficult. “Madam, whatever you do, don’t push!”
“Bring blankets,” yelled Lady Maccon at the remaining clavigers and Rumpet. “Rip those curtains down if you must. Most of the pack is out there naked! Oh, this is all so embarrassing.”
Boots and the freckled claviger formed a kind of litter by linking their crossed arms and hoisted Lady Maccon up. She threw an arm around each, and the two young men part ran and part stumbled their way back out the door and down the seemingly endless hillside toward the carnage below.
The octomaton was down, the result of too many of its tentacles torn off during battle. As she neared, Alexia could see the now-naked bodies of the pack lying fallen—bloodied, bruised, and burned. Scattered among them were the severed tentacles of the octomaton plus some of its guts: bolts, pulleys, and engine parts. Here and there, a claviger or BUR member who hadn’t moved fast enough was limping or clutching at a wounded limb, but thankfully none of them seemed seriously injured. The werewolves, on the other hand, lay floppy and nonsensical, like so much fried fish. Most of them looked like they were simply sound asleep, the standard reaction to full-moon bone-benders. But none were healing under the direct rays of the sun. Even immortality had its limits.
Clavigers were running around covering the ones they could with blankets and pulling others back toward the house.
“Where’s Biffy?” Alexia couldn’t see him anywhere.
Then she realized there was someone else she couldn’t see, and her voice rose in terror to a near shriek. “Where’s Conall? Oh no, oh no, oh no.” Alexia’s commanding tone turned into a chant of keening distress only offset by the need to scream as another contraction hit her. She loved Biffy dearly, but all her worry was now transferred to an even more important love—her husband. Was he injured? Dead?
The two young men carried her, tripping and faltering, in and around the wreckage until, near the great metal bowler hat that was the fallen head of the octomaton, an oasis of calm awaited them.
Professor Lyall, wearing an orange velvet curtain wrapped about him like a toga and still looking remarkably dignified, was marshaling the troops and issuing orders.
Upon seeing the amazing vision of his Alpha female, carried by two young men, in clear distress—both the lady and the young men—wending toward him, he said, “Lady Maccon?”
“Professor. Where is my husband? Where is Biffy?”
“Oh, of course, preternatural touch. Very good idea.”
“Professor!”
“Lady Maccon, are you all right?” Professor Lyall moved closer, inspecting her closely. “Have you started?” He looked at Boots, who raised both eyebrows expressively.
“Where is Conall?” Alexia practically shrieked.
“He’s fine, my lady. Perfectly fine. He took Biffy inside, out of the sun.”
“Inside?”
“Inside the octomaton. With Madame Lefoux. Once she realized, she opened the hatch and let them in.”
Lady Maccon swallowed down her fear, almost sick with relief. “Show me.”
Professor Lyall led them to the octomaton’s head, around one side, and then rat-tat-tatted on it diffidently. A door, previously invisible it was so seamlessly integrated into the octomaton’s armor plating, popped open and Genevieve Lefoux looked out.
Lady Maccon wished fervently at that moment that she had her parasol with her. She would have greeted the Frenchwoman with one very hard whack to the head, friend or no, for getting them all into such a pickle. Justified or not, the inventor had caused everybody a good deal of unnecessary bother.
“Lady Maccon, to see her husband.” The Beta stepped aside to allow the Frenchwoman to catch sight of the sweating and clearly distressed Alexia and her improvised transport.
“Alexia? Are you unwell?”
Alexia was quite definitely at her limit. “No, no, I am not. I have been gallivanting all over London chasing you or being chased by you. I have watched the city burn and the hive house collapse and have fallen out of a dirigible—twice! I am in imminent danger of giving birth. And I have lost my parasol!” This last was said on a rather childish wail.
A different voice came from inside—deep, commanding, and tinged with a Scottish accent. “That my wife? Capital. She’s just the thing to get the pup his legs back.”
Genevieve’s head disappeared with an “oof” as though she had been dragged forcibly backward, and Lord Maccon’s head emerged instead.
The earl was looking perfectly fine, if a little sleepy. Werewolves usually slept the full day through after a full moon. It was testament to both Conall’s and Lyall’s strength that they were up and moving, although both were rather clumsy about it. Conall described being awake the night after as akin to playing tiddlywinks, drunk, with a penguin—confusing and slightly dreamlike. His hair was wild and unkempt, and his tawny eyes were soft and buttery, mellowed by battle and victory.
He caught sight of his wife. “Ah, my love, get inside, would you? No way to get Biffy back to safety without your touch. Good of you to come. Interesting choice of transport.”
At which juncture, his wife threw back her head and screamed.
Lord Conall Maccon’s expression changed instantly to one of absolute panic and total ferocity. He charged out of the octomaton and bounded to his mate. He tossed poor Boots out of his way with a mere flick of the wrist and took Lady Maccon into his own arms.
“What’s wrong? Are you—You canna! Now isna a good time!”
“Oh, no?” panted his wife. “Well, tell that to the child. This is all your fault, you do realize?”
“My fault, how could it possibly…?”
He trailed off as a different howl of agony came from inside the octomaton’s head and Madame Lefoux looked back out. “Young Biffy could use your presence, my lord.”
The earl growled in annoyance and made his way over to the door. He shoved Alexia inside first, following after.
It was very cramped quarters. Madame Lefoux had designed the guidance chamber for only two occupants, herself and Quesnel. Lord Maccon accounted for about that number on his own, plus the pregnant Alexia, and Biffy sprawled on the floor.
It took a moment for Lady Maccon’s eyes to adjust to the inner gloom, but she saw soon enough that Biffy was burned badly down one leg. Much of the skin was gone—blistered and blackened most awfully.
“Should I touch him? He might never heal.”
Lord Maccon slammed the door closed against the wicked sun. “Blast it, woman, what possessed you to come down here in such a state?”
“How is Quesnel?” demanded Madame Lefoux. “Is he unharmed?”
“He’s safe.” Alexia did not mention he was currently locked in a dungeon with a vampire queen.
“Alexia”—Madame Lefoux clasped her hands together and opened her green eyes wide and looked pleading—“you know it was my only choice? You know I had to get him back. He’s all I have. She stole him from me.”
“And you couldn’t come to me for help? Really, Genevieve, what kind of feeble friend do you take me for?”
“She has the law on her side.”
Alexia clutched at her stomach and moaned. She was being flooded by the most overwhelming sensation—the need to push downward. “So?”
“You are muhjah.”
“I might have been able to come up with a solution.”
“I hate her more than anything. First she steals Angelique, and now Quesnel! What right has she to—”
“And your solution is to build a ruddy great octopus? Really, Genevieve, don’t you think you might have overreacted?”
“The OBO is on my side.”
“Oh, are they really? Now that is interesting. That plus taking in former Hypocras members?” Alexia was momentarily distracted by the need to give birth. “Oh, yes, husband, I meant to tell you this. It seems the OBO is developing an antisupernatural agenda. You might want to look into—“ She broke off to let out another scream. “My goodness, that is uncommonly painful.”
Lord Maccon turned ferocious yellow eyes on the inventor. “Enough. She has other things to attend to.”
Genevieve looked closely at Alexia. “True, that does seem to be the case. My lord, have you ever delivered a baby before?”
The earl paled as much as was possible, which was a good deal more than normal given he was holding on to his wife’s hand. “I delivered a litter of kittens once.”
The Frenchwoman nodded. “Not quite the same thing. What about Professor Lyall?”
Lord Maccon looked wild-eyed. “Mostly sheep, I think.”
Alexia looked up between contractions. “Were you there when Quesnel was born?”
The Frenchwoman nodded. “Yes, but so was the midwife. I think I remember the principles, and, of course, I’ve read a good deal on the subject.”
Alexia relaxed slightly. Books always made her feel better. Another wave washed through her and she cried out.
Lord Maccon looked sternly at Madame Lefoux. “Make it stop!”
Both women ignored him.
A polite tap came at the door. Madame Lefoux cracked it open.
Floote stood there, his back stiff, his expression one of studied indifference. “Clean cloth, bandages, hot water, and tea, madam.” He passed the necessities in.
“Oh, thank you, Floote.” The Frenchwoman took the items gratefully. After a moment’s thought, she rested them on top of the comatose Biffy, since he was the only vacant surface. “Any words of advice?”
“Madam, sometimes even I am out of options.”
“Very good, Floote. Keep the tea coming.”
Which was why, some six hours later, Alexia Maccon’s daughter was born inside the head of an octomaton in the presence of her husband, a comatose werewolf dandy, and a French inventor.