The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (75 page)

“Oh, for goodness' sake, how preposterous.” Alexia was not impressed. The infant-inconvenience appeared to feel equally unimpressed
by raw vegetables. Alexia stopped eating and put a hand to her stomach. Damn and blast the annoying thing. Couldn't it leave
her in peace for one meal?

Floote, previously occupied with his own comestibles, immediately moved toward her in concern.

Alexia shook her head at him.

“Ah, you are a reader of scientific literature, Madame Tarabotti?”

Alexia inclined her head.

“Well it may seem absurd to you, but I believe their ideas have merit. Not the least of which being the fact that this particular
theory has temporarily halted Templar-sanctioned vivisections of supernatural test subjects.”

“You are a progressive?” Alexia was surprised.

“I try to stay out of politics. However, England seems to be doing rather well having openly accepted the supernatural. That
is not to say I approve. Making them hide, however, has its disadvantages. I should love to have access to some of the vampires'
scientific investigations for one; the things they know about clocks! I also do not believe the supernatural should be hunted
down and treated like animals as in the Italian mode.”

The little room in which they sat turned a pretty shade of gold as the sun began to set over the Parisian rooftops.

The clockmaker paused upon noticing the change. “Well, well, we have chatted long enough, I suspect. You must be exhausted.
You will be staying the night with me, of course?”

“If you don't mind the imposition, cousin.”

“It's no trouble at all. So long as you forgive the arrangements, for they will be quite cramped. I am afraid you ladies will
have to bunk down together.”

Alexia gave Madame Lefoux an assessing look. The Frenchwoman had made her preferences, and her interest, clear. “I suspect
my virtue is safe.”

Floote looked as though he would like to object.

Alexia gave him a funny look. There was no possible way her father's ex-valet could be a prude in matters of the flesh. Was
there? Floote had terribly rigid ideas about sensible dress and public behavior, but he had never batted a single eye at the
entirely untoward private doings of Woolsey Castle's rambunctious werewolf pack. On the other hand, he had never particularly
liked Lord Akeldama, either. Alexia twitched a small frown in his direction.

Floote gave her a blank stare.

Perhaps he still mistrusted Madame Lefoux for some other reason?

Since puzzling over the matter would certainly yield no results, and talking to Floote—or, more precisely,
at
Floote—never did any good, Alexia swept by him and followed Monsieur Trouvé up the hallway to a tiny bedroom.

Alexia had changed into a claret-colored taffeta visiting dress and was just enjoying a little nap before supper when the
most amazing racket awakened her. It seemed to be emanating from the downstairs clock shop.

“Oh, for the love of treacle, what now?”

Grabbing her parasol in one hand and her dispatch case in the other, she charged out into the hallway. It was
very dark, as the lights in the apartment were not yet lit. A warm glow emanated up from the shop below.

Alexia bumped into Floote at the top of the stairs.

“Madame Lefoux and Monsieur Trouvé have been consulting on matters clock-related while you rested,” he informed her softly.

“
That
cannot possibly account for such a hullabaloo.”

Something crashed into the front door. Unlike London, the Paris shops did not stay open late in order to cater to werewolves
and vampires. They shut down before sunset, locked firmly against any possible supernatural clientele.

Alexia and Floote bounded down the stairs—as much as a dignified butler-type personage and a pregnant woman of substance can
be said to
bound.
There Alexia thought Paris's closed-door policy might well have its merits. For just as she entered the clock shop, four
large vampires did the same by way of the now-broken front door. Their fangs were extended, and they did not look in favor
of formal introductions.

               

T
he trouble with vampires, thought Professor Lyall as he cleaned his glassicals with a handkerchief, was that they got hung
up on the details. Vampires liked to manipulate things, but when things did not turn out as planned, they lost all capacity
for refinement in the resulting chaos. The upshot was that they panicked and resorted to a course of action that never ended
as elegantly as they had originally hoped.

“Where is our illustrious Alpha?” asked Hemming, sitting down at the table and helping himself to several slices of ham and
a kipper. It was dinnertime for most, but for the werewolves this was breakfast. And since gentlemen were never served at
breakfast, the staff merely provided mounds of meat and let the pack and clavigers see to themselves.

“He is in the clink and has been all day, sobering up. He was so drunk last night he went wolf. The dungeon seemed like the
best place to stash him.”

“Golly.”

“Women will do that to a soul. Best avoided, if you ask me.” Adelphus Bluebutton wandered in, followed shortly thereafter
by Rafe and Phelan, two of the younger pack members.

Ulric, silently chomping on a chop at the other end of the table, glanced up. “No one did ask you. No one has ever been in
any doubt as to your preferences.”

“Some of us are less narrow-minded than others.”

“More opportunistic, you mean to say.”

“I get bored easily.”

Everyone was grumpy—it was that time of the month.

Professor Lyall, with great deliberation, finished cleaning his glassicals and put them on. He looked around at the pack through
the magnified lens. “Gentlemen, might I suggest that a discussion of preference is better suited to your club? It is certainly
not the reason I have called a meeting this evening.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will note that the clavigers have not been invited?”

Around him, all the immortal gentlemen nodded. They knew that this meant Lyall wanted to discuss a serious matter with the
pack alone. Normally, the clavigers were in on everyone's business. Living with several dozen mostly out-of-work actors will
do that to a man's private life—that is, make it considerably less private.

All the werewolves seated about the large dining table tilted their heads so that their necks were exposed to the Beta.

Professor Lyall, aware that he now had their full attention, began the meeting. “Given that our Alpha is pursuing a new and
glorious career as an imbecilic twit, we
must prepare for the worst. I require two of you to take leave of your military duties to help handle the extra BUR workload.”

No one questioned Professor Lyall's right to make changes to the status quo. At one point or another, each member of the Woolsey
Pack had tested himself against Randolph Lyall. All had discovered the damage inherent in such an undertaking. They had, as
a result, settled into the realization that a good Beta was as valuable as a good Alpha, and it was best to be happy that
they had both. Except, of course, that now their Alpha had gone quite decidedly off the rails. And their reputation and position
as England's premier pack was one that had to be defended constantly.

Professor Lyall continued. “Ulric and Phelan, it had best be you two. You have dealt with BUR paperwork and operational procedure
before. Adelphus, you will handle the military negotiations and make all accommodations needed to compensate for Channing's
absence.”

“Is he drunk, too?” one of the youngsters wanted to know.

“Mmm. No. Missing. I don't suppose he told any of
you
where he was going?”

Silence met that question, broken only by the sound of chewing.

Lyall pressed his glassicals up the bridge of his nose and looked down through them at his cup of tea. “No? I suspected as
much. Very well. Adelphus, you will have to liaise with the regiment and persuade them to assign Channing's majority temporarily
to the nearest eligible officer. It will probably have to be a mortal.” He looked at Adelphus, whose rank was lieutenant and
who thought rather too well of his own abilities and rather too meanly
of others'. In truth, he had fifty years more experience than most, but military protocol must be followed. “You will continue
to obey his orders as you would any supernatural superior officer. Is that clear? If there is any question of improper use
of pack abilities, or excess risk due to immortal prejudice, you are to come directly to me. No dueling, Adelphus, not even
under the most trying circumstances. That goes for the rest of you as well.”

Professor Lyall took off the glassicals and issued the table of large men a cutting glare.

They all hung their heads and focused on their food.

“Too much dueling gives a pack a reputation. Any questions?”

No one had any. Professor Lyall himself held the rank of lieutenant colonel with the Coldsteam Guards, but had, in the last
fifty years, rarely had cause to serve. He was beginning to regret not maintaining a more consistent presence within the regiment
by letting his BUR duties supersede his military obligations. But even he, a man of considerable forethought, had not planned
for a contingency wherein the regiment would be in residence
and
both Lord Maccon and Major Channing would, essentially,
not
be in residence.

He allowed the pack to continue the rest of their meal untroubled. They were nervous and a little restless. Merely through
his presence alone, Lord Maccon kept them tame. Professor Lyall could fight them each individually, but he hadn't the charisma
to control them en masse, and if Lord Maccon continued to remain sloshed, problems might well arise from within the pack as
easily as from without it. Either that, or England would run out of formaldehyde.

Just as the gentlemen were finishing their meal, a
timid knock sounded against the closed door. Professor Lyall frowned; he had left orders they were not to be disturbed.

“Yes?”

The door creaked open and a very nervous-looking Rumpet entered, carrying a brass tray with a single card resting atop it.

“Begging your pardon, Professor Lyall, sir,” said the butler. “I know you said only in cases of emergency, but the clavigers
don't know what to do, and the staff is in an uproar.”

Professor Lyall took the card and read it.

Sandalius Ulf, Barrister. Messrs. Ulf, Ulf, Wrendofflip, & Ulf. Topsham, Devonshire.
Underneath that in very small letters was one additional printed word:
Loner.

The Beta flipped over the card. On the back had been scrawled, in the appropriate medium—blood—the fated phrase,
Name your second.

“Oh, just wonderful.” Professor Lyall rolled his eyes. And he had taken such prodigious care with his dress for the evening.
“Bother.”

Lyall had spent a good deal of his existence as a werewolf avoiding becoming an Alpha. Not only was his temperament ill-suited
to the job, but he had no desire for that kind of physical responsibility, quite apart from the fact that he was unable to
affect Anubis Form. Alphas had, he observed over the centuries, remarkably short life spans for immortals. His circumspect
attitude toward brawling had served him in good stead. The devil in his current situation was that despite himself, Professor
Lyall was rather fond of his current Alpha and was, as yet, unwilling to acquiesce to a regime change. Which meant that
when upstart loners came to Woolsey to fight for the right to lead England's most powerful pack because the Alpha was rumored
to be incapacitated, there was only one thing poor Lyall could do—fight in Lord Maccon's stead.

“Lieutenant Bluebutton, if you would attend me?”

One of the stronger and more senior pack members objected to that. “Shouldn't
I
be Gamma in Channing's place?”

“Given that the regiment is still here, it had better be a ranking officer.”

Professor Lyall had to maintain military support and, with the Gamma gone, this could prove difficult. Major Channing might
be a pain in the proverbial posterior as a pack mate, but he was an excellent officer with a reputation as a fire-eater, and
he had the respect of both soldiers and fellow officers. Without him standing as second, Lyall needed another officer to act
the part so that the pack was seen as united with the regiment, should he need to bring soldiers in to support Woolsey as
a last resort. It was a truly horrible idea, using Her Majesty's army to prevent an Alpha coup. Werewolves had served their
military contracts with dedication since Queen Elizabeth first integrated them, but they had always strived to keep pack protocol
separate. Nevertheless, Lyall was a man of ingenuity, and he would call up the Coldsteam Guards if he had to.

Hemming was no Beta, so he objected further. “Yes, but—”

“My decision is final.” Professor Lyall finished his tea in one gulp, stood, summoned Adelphus to follow him, and left for
the cloakroom.

There, both gentlemen stripped down to the skin and donned long wool cloaks before exiting through the front
door, where an excited milling mass of clavigers and Woolsey staff waited in the cold evening air.

Professor Lyall could smell the loner even before he saw him. His scent was not that of the Woolsey Pack, nor of any distant
association. The bloodline was off, making Lyall's nose twitch.

Professor Lyall went forward to greet him. “Mr. Ulf? How do you do?”

The werewolf looked at Lyall suspiciously. “Lord Maccon?”

“Professor Lyall,” said Professor Lyall. And then to make matters clear to this upstart, “And this is my second, Lieutenant
Bluebutton.”

The loner looked offended. Lyall could tell from the man's scent that this was for show. He was neither upset nor nervous
at seeing Lyall instead of Lord Maccon. He had not expected the earl to meet his challenge. He had heard the rumors.

Professor Lyall's lip curled. He loathed lawyers.

“The Alpha will not even acknowledge my challenge?” Mr. Ulf's question was a sly one. “I know of you by reputation, of course,
Professor, but why is Lord Maccon himself not meeting me?”

Professor Lyall did not dignify that with an answer. “Shall we proceed?”

He led the challenger around the back of the castle, to the wide stone porch where the pack fought most of its practice bouts.
Spread out and down the long sloping green of Woolsey's well-tended lawn, a vast number of military-issue white canvas tents
had sprouted, clearly visible under the almost full moon. The regiment usually camped around the front of Woolsey, but Alexia
had had kittens over their
presence and insisted they remove themselves to the back. They were scheduled to depart for winter quarters in a week or so,
having squatted at Woolsey merely for the sake of unity with the pack. Conventional niceties having been observed, pretty
much everyone was now ready to move on.

The rest of the Woolsey Pack came wandering after the three men, followed by a handful of clavigers. Rafe and Phelan were
looking rather haggard. Lyall suspected he would have to insist they confine themselves to the dungeon presently, before the
onslaught of moon madness. Curious, a few of the officers left their evening campfires, grabbed lanterns, and meandered over
to see what the pack was getting up to.

Lyall and Mr. Ulf both stripped and stood naked for all the world to see. No one commented beyond a hoot and a whistle or
two. Military men were used to werewolf changes and the indecency that preceded the affair.

Professor Lyall was older than he cared to admit and had grown, if not comfortable with shape change, at least enough in control
of his own finer feelings not to show how much it hurt. And it
always
hurt. The sound of shifting from man to wolf was that of breaking bones, tearing muscle, and oozing flesh, and, unfortunately,
that was also what it felt like. Werewolves called their particular brand of immortality a curse. Every time he shifted, Lyall
wondered if this weren't true and if the vampires might not have made a better choice. Certainly they could be killed by the
sunlight, and they had to run around drinking people's blood, but they could do both in comfort and style. At its root, being
a werewolf, what with the nudity and the tyranny of the moon, was essentially undignified. And Professor Lyall was rather
fond of his dignity.

If asked, the surrounding men would have admitted that if anyone could be said to change from man to wolf with dignity, it
was Professor Lyall. He did the regiment proud and they all knew it. They had seen their attachment of Woolsey werewolves
change both on and off the battlefield, but none were as fast and quiet about it as Lyall. Spontaneously, they gave him a
round of polite applause when he had finished.

The smallish, sandy, almost foxlike wolf now standing where Professor Lyall had been gave a little nod of embarrassed gratitude
at the clapping.

The challenger's change was not nearly so elegant. It was accomplished with much groaning and whimpers of pain, but when complete,
the black wolf that resulted was a good deal larger than Professor Lyall. The Woolsey Pack Beta was not perturbed by this
discrepancy in size.
Most
werewolves were a good deal larger than he.

The challenger attacked, but Lyall was already in motion, twisting out of the way and darting in for the other's throat. There
was so much to do back at BUR and he wanted to end the bout quickly.

But the loner was a crafty fighter, nimble and adept. He avoided Lyall's counterattack, and the two circled each other warily,
both coming to the realization that they might have underestimated their opponent.

The men around them closed in, forming a circle of bodies around the pair. The soldiers called insults at the challenger,
the officers catcalled, and the pack stood in silent wide-eyed attention.