The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (68 page)

Maybe Lord Akeldama would know something that would explain the presence of a child parasiting about inside her. He was a
very old vampire; perhaps he could help prove to Conall her upstanding virtue. The ludicrousness of that thought—Lord Akeldama
and virtue in the same sentence—made her smile.

Her luggage packed and her hat and cape in place, Alexia was preparing to quit her family's house, probably for the last time,
when yet more mail arrived addressed to her. It was in the form of a suspicious package accompanied by a message. This time
she intercepted it before Swilkins could get his mitts on it.

The package contained a hat of such unparalleled biliousness that Alexia had no doubt as to its origin. It was a felt toque,
bright yellow in color and trimmed with fake black currants, velvet ribbon, and a pair of green feathers that looked like
the feelers from some unfortunate sea creature.
The accompanying note boasted remarkably exclamatory grammar and, if possible, attained new heights of flowery penmanship
above and beyond that of Lord Akeldama. It was, admittedly, a tad harrowing to read.

“Alexia Tarabotti Maccon, how could you behave so
wickedly
! I just read the morning paper. You had my heart in my chest, you really did! Of course, I should never have believed such
a thing in all my born days! Never! In fact, I do not believe a word of it now. You understand that we—Tunny and I—would
love
to have you to stay, but circumstances being, as they say, indefensible—or it is indefatigable?—we cannot possibly tender
the offer. You understand? I'm certain you do. Don't you? But I thought you might require some consoling, and I remembered
how much attention you paid this adorable hat last time we were out shopping together—ah, these many months ago, in our careless
youth, or do I mean carefree youth?—so I picked this out for you at Chapeau de Poupe. I had intended it to be a Christmas
gift, but such an emotional crisis as you must be suffering clearly indicates that now is obviously a far more
important time for hats.
Wouldn't you say? Love, love, love, Ivy.”

Alexia perfectly understood all the things Ivy hadn't written, if such a thing was to be believed possible given the length
of the missive. Ivy and her new husband were committed theatricals and, quite frankly, could not afford to lose patronage
through association with the now-besmirched Lady Maccon. Alexia was relieved she would not have to turn them down. The couple
lived in the most horrible little set of apartments imaginable, down in the West End. They had, for example, only one parlor.
Lady Maccon shuddered delicately.

Tucking the repulsive hat under her arm and grabbing her trusty parasol, Alexia made her way down to the waiting carriage.
She gave Swilkins a haughty sniff as he handed her up and directed the driver on to Lord Akeldama's town house.

               

L
ord Akeldama's house was located in one of the most fashionable parts of London. A part that had probably become fashionable
because it was fortunate enough to host said town house. Lord Akeldama did
everything
fashionably, sometimes to the exclusion of all else, including common sense. If Lord Akeldama were to take up wrestling in
vats of jellied eels, it would probably become fashionable within a fortnight. The exterior of his house had been recently
redecorated to the height of modern taste and the worshipful approval of the ton. It was painted pale lavender with gold trim
swirling and flouncing around every window and aperture. An herbaceous border of lilac bushes, sunflowers, and pansies had
been planted as a complement, forming a pleasing three-level effect as visitors wandered up to the front steps, even in winter.
The house stood as a solo bastion of cheer, battling valiantly against the London sky, which had undertaken
its customary stance halfway between an indifferent gray and a malnourished drizzle.

No one responded to Lady Maccon's knock, nor to her tug on the bell rope, but the gilded front door had been left unlocked.
Waving at the driver to wait, Alexia made her way cautiously inside, parasol up and at the ready. The rooms lay in unabashed
splendor—fluffy carpets depicting romantically inclined shepherds, paired with arched ceilings playing host to equally amorous
cherubs painted
a la Roma.

“Halloo. Anybody home?”

The place was completely and utterly deserted, obviously in exceptional haste. Not only was there no Lord Akeldama, but there
was no Biffy, nor any other drone. Lord Akeldama's abode was normally a carnival of delights: discarded top hats and piles
of playbills, the scent of expensive cigars and French cologne, and it boasted a background hum of chatter and hilarity. The
silence and stillness were all the more noticeable by comparison.

Alexia made her way slowly through the empty rooms, as though she were an archaeologist visiting an abandoned tomb. All she
found was evidence of departure, certain items of importance taken down from places of honor. The gold pipe was missing, the
one that normally sat atop the mantelpiece in the drawing room like some revered item of plumbing but that—Alexia knew from
personal experience—hid two curved blades. The fact that Lord Akeldama saw fit to take
that
particular item with him did not bode well for the reason behind his departure.

The only living thing on the premises, aside from Alexia, appeared to be the resident cat. The feline in question was a fat
calico that possessed the disposition of
a placid narcoleptic and that roused only periodically to enact potent and vicious revenge upon the nearest tasseled throw
pillow. Currently, the animal lay sprawled across a puffy hassock, the remains of three decapitated tassels nestled near her
chin. Cats, as a general rule, were the only creatures that tolerated vampires. Most other animals had what the scientists
termed a well-developed prey response behavior pattern. Felines, apparently, didn't consider themselves vampire prey. This
one, however, was so utterly indifferent to any non-tassel-related creature, she could probably have tolerated residency among
a pack of werewolves.

“Where has your master disappeared to, Fatty?” Alexia inquired of the creature.

The cat had no definitive answer but graciously allowed herself to be scratched under the chin. She was sporting a most peculiar
metal collar, and Lady Maccon was just bending down to examine it closer when she heard muffled footsteps in the hallway behind
her.

Lord Conall Maccon was drunk.

He was not drunk in the halfhearted manner of most supernatural creatures, wherein twelve pints of bitter had finally turned
the world slightly fuzzy. No, Lord Maccon was rip-roaring, tumble down, without a doubt, pickled beyond the gherkin.

It took an enormous quantity of alcohol to get a werewolf that inebriated. And, reflected Professor Lyall as he steered his
Alpha around the side of an inconvenient potshed, it was almost as miraculous a feat to attain such quantities as it was to
ingest them. How had Lord Maccon finagled such an arrangement? Not only that, how had he
managed to acquire said booze so consistently over the past three days without visiting London or tapping into Woolsey Castle's
well-stocked cellar?
Really,
thought the Beta in annoyance,
such powers of alcoholism could almost be thought supernatural.

Lord Maccon lurched heavily into the side of the potshed. The meat of his left shoulder and upper arm crashed against the
oak siding. The entire building swayed on its foundation.

“Pardon,” apologized the earl with a small hiccough, “didna see ya there.”

“For Pete's sake, Conall,” said his Beta in tones of the deeply put-upon, “how did you manage to get so corned?” He tugged
his Alpha away from the abused shed.

“Na drunk,” insisted his lordship, throwing one substantial arm across his Beta's shoulders and leaning heavily upon it. “Jush
a tiny little slightly small bit'a squiffy.” His lordship's accent got distinctly more Scottish in times of great stress,
strong emotion, or, apparently, under the influence of vast amounts of liquid intoxicants.

They left the safety of the potshed.

The earl pitched forward suddenly, his grip on his Beta the only thing that managed to keep him upright. “Whoa! Watch that
bit'o ground there, would ya? Tricky, tricky, jumps right up at a man.”

“Where did you acquire the alcohol?” Professor Lyall asked again as he tried valiantly to get his Alpha back on track across
the wide lawn of Woolsey's extensive grounds, toward the castle proper. It was like trying to steer a steamboat through a
tub of turbulent molasses. A normal human would have buckled under the strain, but Lyall was lucky enough to have supernatural
strength to
call upon at times of great difficulty. Lord Maccon wasn't simply big; he was also tremendously solid, like a walking, talking
Roman fortification.

“And how did you get all the way out here? I distinctly remember tucking you into bed before leaving your room last night.”
Professor Lyall spoke very clearly and precisely, not entirely sure how much was seeping into his Alpha's thick skull.

Lord Maccon's head bobbed slightly as he attempted to follow Professor Lyall's words.

“Went for a wee nightly run. Needed peace and quiet. Needed air in my fur. Needed fields under my paws. Needed, oh I canna—
hic
—explain… needed the company of hedgehogs.”

“And did you find it?”

“Find what? No hedgehogs. Stupid hedgehogs.” Lord Maccon tripped over a daphne bush, one of the many that lined the pathway
leading up to a side entrance of the house. “Who bloody well put that there?”

“Peace, did you find peace?”

Lord Maccon stopped and drew himself upright, straightening his spine and throwing his shoulders back. It was an action driven
by memory of military service. It caused him to positively tower over his second. Despite his ramrod-straight back, the Alpha
managed to sway side to side, as if the aforementioned molasses-bound steamboat was now weathering a violent storm.

“Do I,” he enunciated very carefully, “
look
like I have found peace?”

Professor Lyall had nothing to say in response to that.

“Exactly!” Lord Maccon made a wide and flailing gesture. “She is wedged”—he pointed two thick fingers at
his head as though they formed a pistol—“here.” Then rammed them at his chest. “And here. Canna shake her. Stickier than”—his
powers of metaphor failed him—“stickier than… cold porridge getting all gloopy on the side of a bowl,” he finally came up
with triumphantly.

Professor Lyall wondered what Lady Alexia Maccon would say to being compared to such a pedestrian foodstuff. She would probably
compare her husband to something even less agreeable, like haggis.

Lord Maccon looked at his Beta with wide, soulful eyes, the color of which changed with his mood. Currently they were a watered-down
caramel and highly unfocused. “Why'd she have ta go an do a thing like that?”

“I don't think she did.” Professor Lyall had been meaning to have this out with his Alpha for some time. He had simply hoped
the discussion would occur during one of Lord Maccon's rare moments of sobriety.

“Well, then, why'd she lie about it?”

“No. I mean to say, I do not believe she was lying.” Lyall stood his ground. A Beta's main function within the werewolf pack
was to support his Alpha in all things—publicly, and to question him as much as possible—privately.

Lord Maccon cleared his throat and looked at his Beta in myopic seriousness from under fierce eyebrows. “Randolph, this may
come as a shock, but I
am
a werewolf.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Two hundred and one years of age.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Pregnancy, under such circumstances, you must understand, is not possible.”

“Certainly not for
you,
my lord.”

“Thank you, Randolph, that is verra helpful.”

Professor Lyall had thought it rather funny, but he'd never been much good at humor. “But, sir, we understand so very little
about the preternatural state. And the vampires never did like the idea of you marrying her. Could it be they knew something?”

“Vampires always know
something.
”

“About what might happen. About the possibility of a child, I mean.”

“Poppycock! The howlers would have said somewhat to me at the outset.”

“Howlers do not always remember everything, do they? They cannot remember what happened to Egypt, for one.”

“God-Breaker Plague? You saying Alexia is pregnant with the God-Breaker Plague?”

Lyall didn't even dignify that with an answer. The God-Breaker Plague was the werewolf moniker for the fact that in Egypt
supernatural abilities were rendered negligible. It could not, by any stretch of the imagination, act as a paternal agent.

They finally made it to the castle, and Lord Maccon was momentarily distracted by the Herculean task of trying to climb steps.

“You know,” continued the earl in outraged hurt once he'd attained the small landing, “I groveled for that woman. Me!” He
glared at Professor Lyall. “An'
you
told me to!”

Professor Lyall puffed out his cheeks in exasperation. It was like trying to have a conversation with a distracted and very
soggy scone. Every time he pushed in one direction the earl either oozed or crumbled. If he could simply
get Lord Maccon off the sauce he might be able to talk some sense into him. The Alpha was notoriously emotional and heavy-handed
in these matters, prone to flying off the cogs, but he could usually be brought around to reason eventually. He wasn't all
that
dim.

Professor Lyall knew Lady Maccon's character; she might be capable of betraying her husband, but if she had done so, she would
admit to it openly. Thus, logic dictated she was telling the truth. Lyall was enough of a scientist to conclude from this
that the currently accepted gospel truth, that supernatural creatures could not impregnate mortal women, was flawed. Even
Lord Maccon, pigheaded and hurt, could be convinced of this line of reasoning eventually. After all, the earl could not possibly
want
to believe Alexia capable of infidelity. At this point, he was simply wallowing.

“Don't you think it's about time you sobered up?”

“Wait, lemme ponder that.” Lord Maccon paused, as though giving the matter deep consideration. “Nope.”

They made their way inside Woolsey Castle, which was no castle at all but more a manor with delusions of dignity. There were
stories about the previous owner that no one entirely believed, but one thing was for certain: the man had an unhealthy passion
for flying buttresses.

Lyall was grateful to be out of the sun. He was old enough and strong enough not to be bothered by direct sunlight for short
lengths of time, but that didn't mean he enjoyed the sensation. It felt like a tingling buzz just underneath the skin, highly
unpleasant. Lord Maccon, of course, never seemed to notice sunlight at all, even when he was sober—
Alphas
!

“So where
are
you acquiring the alcohol, my lord?”

“Didna drink—
hic
—any alcohol.” Lord Maccon winked at his Beta and patted him on the shoulder affectionately, as though they were sharing some
great secret.

Lyall was having none of that. “Well, my lord, I think perhaps you would have had to.”

“Nope.”

A tall, striking blond, with a perennially curled lip and hair in a military queue, rounded a corner of the hall and halted
upon seeing them. “Is he soused again?”

“If you mean, ‘is he drunk
still
?' then, yes.”

“Where, in all that is holy, is he getting the plonk?”

“Do you think I haven't tried to figure that out? Don't just stand there gawping. Make yourself useful.”

Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings slouched reluctantly over to brace his pack leader from the other side.
Together the Beta and the Gamma steered their Alpha down the hall to the central staircase, up several floors, over, and up
the final steps to the earl's tower sleeping chamber. They managed this with only three casualties: Lord Maccon's dignity
(which hadn't very far to fall at that point), Major Channing's elbow (which met a mahogany finial), and an innocent Etruscan
vase (which died so that Lord Maccon could lurch with sufficient exaggeration).

During the course of the proceedings, Lord Maccon started to sing. It was some obscure Scottish ballad, or perhaps some newer,
more modern piece about cats dying—it was difficult to tell with Lord Maccon. Before his metamorphosis, he had been a rather
well-thought-of opera singer, or so the rumors went, but all remnants of pitch were shredded beyond hope of salvation during
his change to supernatural state. His skill as a singer had fled
along with the bulk of his soul, leaving behind a man who could inflict real pain with the slightest ditty.
Metamorphosis,
reflected Lyall, wincing,
was kinder to some than to others.