Having to keep Biffy mortal made for a pretty incommodious several hours. Ordinarily, Lady Maccon, even pregnant, could manage a meal and a carriage ride with aplomb, but when one must stay attached in some manner to a dandy, even the most mundane tasks become an exercise in complexity.
“It’s a good thing I enjoy your company, Biffy. I can’t imagine having to handle daily tasks with someone less agreeable affixed. Like my husband, for example.” Alexia shuddered at the very idea. She enjoyed having Conall affixed to her, but only for a limited amount of time.
The husband in question looked up at his lady with a grumbled, “Oh, thank you verra much, wife.”
They were sitting in the carriage together. Woolsey Castle loomed on the horizon—a sizable blob in the moonlight. Lady Maccon, being a woman of little artistic preference, regarded her domain with an eye toward its practicality as an abode for werewolves rather than an architectural endeavor. Which was good, as it was rather more of an architectural tragedy. Those unfortunate enough to happen upon it during daylight could tender only one compliment—that it was pleasingly situated. And it was, atop rising ground in extensive, if slightly unkempt, grounds with a cobbled courtyard and decent stables.
“Oh, you know perfectly well what I mean, husband. We’ve had to stay attached before, but customarily only when violence was imminent.”
“And sometimes for other reasons.” He gave her his version of a seductive look.
She smiled. “Yes, dear, exactly.”
Biffy said, being on his best behavior, “Thank you for the compliment, my lady, and I do apologize for the inconvenience.”
“So long as there are no more zombie porcupines, we should do very well.”
“Shouldn’t be,” said her husband. “Seems the hives have officially declared a cease-fire. Hard to tell truth with vampires but they appear to be pleased with the idea of Lord Akeldama adopting our child.”
“Well, at least someone is.”
Woolsey Castle was no castle at all but a large Georgian manor house augmented by mismatched Gothic-style flying buttresses. On her most recent trip to Italy, Lady Maccon had encountered a bug—a creature larger than her thumb that flew upright, like an angel, with a nose like an elephant, horns like a bull, and multiple wings. It stayed aloft in an erratic up-and-down manner as though it were remembering, occasionally, that a bug of its size and shape ought not to be able to fly. Woolsey Castle was built, in principle, upon much the same lines as that bug: improbably constructed, exceedingly ugly, and impossible to determine how it continued to stay upright or, indeed, why it bothered to do so.
Since Lord and Lady Maccon had set forth to their country seat with no warning, their unanticipated arrival at Woolsey threw the residents into a tizzy. Lord Maccon swept into the bevy of sprightly young men who’d congregated in the courtyard, taller than most by a head, and carved a path before him, scythelike.
Major Channing, Woolsey’s Gamma, strode down from his sanctum and out the front door to greet them, still knotting his cravat and looking as though he had only just arisen, despite the lateness of the hour. “My lord, you were not expected until full moon.”
“Emergency trip. Have to stick certain persons down the dungeon sooner than anticipated.” There were rumors as to the original owner’s use of Woolsey’s dungeon, but regardless of initial intent it had proved ideal for a werewolf pack. In fact, the whole house was well suited. In addition to a well-fortified holding area and brick walls, there were no less than fourteen bedrooms, a goodly number of receiving parlors, and several precarious-looking but fully functional towers, one of which Lord and Lady Maccon utilized as their boudoir.
Channing waved a hand at a gaggle of clavigers, directing them to help with luggage and assist in extracting Lady Maccon from the carriage. The earl was already cocking an ear to a murmured report from one of his pack. He left his wife to see to Biffy, secure in the knowledge that if nothing else, Alexia was good at setting a gentleman in his proper place, even if that place be a dungeon.
Lady Maccon, happy to lean upon Biffy, for exhaustion was beginning to take its toll once more, made her way down into the dungeon and saw the young dandy safely into one of the smaller cells. Two clavigers accompanied them, carrying the requisite amount of silver-tipped and silver-edged weaponry, just in case Lady Maccon lost her grip.
Alexia did not want to let go, for Biffy’s face was pale with the imminent terror of transformation. It was an agonizing process for all werewolves to endure, but the new ones had it the worst, for they were not yet accustomed to the sensation, and they were forced into it more frequently by their own lack of control.
Biffy clearly did not care to leave contact with the safe haven of her preternatural skin, but he was too much the gentleman to say. He would be more mortified to impose upon her for the duration of an entire night than to transform into a rampaging monster.
Alexia averted her eyes and kept her hand to the back of his head, her fingers buried in his thick chocolate brown hair, while the clavigers stripped him and clapped silver manacles about his elegant wrists. Conscious of his fading dignity, she kept a stream of irreverent chatter mostly concerning matters fashionable and decorative.
“We are ready, my lady,” said one of the clavigers, arms full of clothing, as he exited the prison cell. The other stood outside the silver-plated bars, ready to slam the door as soon as Lady Maccon came through.
“I am sorry,” was all Alexia could think to say to the young man.
Biffy shook his head. “Oh, no, my lady, you have given me unexpected peace.”
They stretched apart, fingertips just touching.
“Now,” said Lady Maccon, and she broke contact, moving as fast as she could in her condition through the door and into the viewing hall.
Biffy, mindful of any damage he might do before she could touch him again, threw himself away in that same instant, using all his regained supernatural strength and speed, before the change descended upon him.
Alexia found the werewolf transformation an intellectually fascinating occurrence and enjoyed watching it, as one might enjoy dissecting a frog, but not in the younger werewolves. Her husband, Professor Lyall, and even Major Channing could manage shifting form with very little indication as to the pain accompanying the experience. Biffy could not. The moment they broke contact, he began to scream. Lady Maccon had learned over the past several months that there is no worse noise in the universe than a proud, kind young man suffering. His scream evolved into a howl as bones and organs broke and re-formed.
Swallowing down bile and wishing she had wax to stopper her ears, Alexia firmly took the arm of one of the clavigers and ushered him toward the stairs and up into the comforting hullabaloo of the pack, leaving the other to stand solitary vigil over a broken man.
“You really want that?” she asked her escort.
The claviger did not try to hedge. Everyone knew Lady Maccon to be direct in her conversation and intolerant of shilly-shallying. “Immortality, my lady, is nothing to treat lightly, no matter the package or the price.”
“But at such a cost as that?”
“I would be choosing it, my lady. He did not.”
“And you wouldn’t prefer trying for vampire instead?”
“To suck blood for survival and never see the sun again? No, thank you, my lady. I’ll take my chances with the pain and the curse, should I be so lucky as to have the choice.”
“Brave lad.” She patted his arm as they attained the top of the stair.
The hubbub resulting from the sudden arrival of Alphas in their midst had settled down into the pleasant boisterous hum of pack in full play. There was some discussion of going hunting, others thought a game of dice was in order, and a few were advocating a light wrestling match. “Outside,” grumbled Lady Maccon mildly upon hearing that.
At first, Alexia had thought she would never acclimatize to living with over a dozen grown men—she, who had been reared with only sisters. But she rather enjoyed it. At least with men, one always knew where they were located, great yelling, galumphing creatures that they were.
She flagged down Rumpet, the pack butler. “Tea in the library when you have a moment, please, Rumpet? I have some research to undertake. And, would you be so kind as to ask my husband to attend me when he has the time? No hurry.”
“Right away, my lady.”
The library was Alexia’s favorite room and personal sanctuary. However, this evening she intended to use it for its actual purpose—research. She headed toward the far corner, where behind a massive armchair she had carved out some space on the shelves for her father’s collection. He had favored tiny leather-covered journals of the type used by schoolboys to keep accounts—navy blue with plain covers dated in the upper left corner.
From what his daughter had gleaned, Alessandro Tarabotti had not been a very nice person. Practical, as all preternaturals are, but without the ethical grounding Alexia had managed to cultivate. Perhaps this was because he was male, or perhaps it was the result of a childhood spent in the wilds of Italy far from the progressive posturing of England. His journals began the autumn of his sixteenth year, during his first term at Oxford, and ended shortly after his marriage to Alexia’s mother. They were sporadic at best, constant for weeks and then absent of a single word for months or years. They were mainly concerned with sexual exploits, violent encounters, and long descriptions of new jackets and top hats. Nevertheless, Alexia turned toward them hopefully, hunting out any possible mention of an assassination attempt. Sadly, the journals stopped some ten years before the Kingair plot. She allowed herself only a brief time to get lost in her father’s tidy handwriting—amazed, as always, to note how similar that writing was to her own—before pulling herself back and turning her attention to other books. She whiled away the rest of the night thus occupied. Her reverie was disturbed only by Rumpet bringing in an endless supply of fresh tea and, at one point, by Channing, of all people.
“Why, Lady Maccon,” he said, unconvincingly. “I was simply looking for—”
“A book?”
Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings and Lady Alexia Maccon had gotten off on the wrong foot and never managed to stabilize their relationship—despite the fact that he had, on more than one occasion, saved her life. As far as Alexia was concerned, Major Channing was uncomfortably good-looking—a strapping blond with icy-blue eyes, marked cheekbones, and imperiously arched brows. He was a true soldier to the bone, which might not have been so bad a thing had not his nobility of profession been augmented by an arrogance of manner and toothiness of accent so extreme only the bluest of the blue-blooded individuals ought to foist such upon others. As to Channing’s opinion of his mistress, the less said on the subject the better, and even he was wise enough to understand that.
“What are you researching, my lady?”
Alexia saw no reason to hide. “The old Kingair assassination attempt on Queen Victoria. Do you remember any of it?” Her tone was sharp.
The Gamma could not quite disguise the look of concern that suffused his face. Or was that guilt? “No. Why?”