Gail Carriger

chapter FOURTEEN

In Which the Infant-Inconvenience Becomes Considerably More Inconvenient

Eventually Biffy slept and Professor Lyall could afford to do the same. They were safe under the watchful eye of Tunstell, and then Mrs. Tunstell, if such a thing was to be imagined. The two werewolves dozed throughout the day and well into early evening. Eventually, Ivy went off to check on the hat shop, and Tunstell, who had rehearsals to attend, felt it safe enough to wake Lyall.

“I went to the butcher for more meat,” he explained as the Beta sawed off a chunk of raw steak and popped it into his mouth.

Professor Lyall chewed. “So I taste. What’s the word on the street, then?”

“It’s very simple and baldly put, and everyone is talking about it. And I do mean everyone.”

“Go on.”

“The potentate is dead. You and the old wolf had a busy night last night, didn’t you, Professor?”

Lyall put down his utensils and rubbed at his eyes. “Oh, my giddy aunt. What a mess he has left me with.”

“One of Lord Maccon’s defining characteristics, as I recall—messiness.”

“Are the vampires very upset?”

“Why, Professor, are you trying to be sarcastic? That’s sweet.”

“Answer the question, Tunstell.”

“None of them are out yet. Nor their drones. But the rumor is they find the situation not ideal, sir. Not ideal at all.”

Professor Lyall stretched his neck to each side. “Well, I have been hiding out here long enough, I suppose. Time to face the fangs.”

Tunstell struck a Shakespearean pose. “The fangs and canines of outrageous fortune!”

Professor Lyall gave him a dour look. “Something like.”

The Beta stood and stretched, looking down at Biffy. The rest was doing him good. He looked if not healthier, at least less emaciated. His hair was matted with muck from the Thames, and his face was streaked with dirt and tears, but he still managed an air of dandified gentility. Lyall respected that in a man. Lord Akeldama had done his work well. Lyall respected that, too.

Without further ado, he swung the blanket-wrapped Biffy up into his arms and headed out into the busy London streets.



Floote was still out when Alexia pulled her panting horses to a stop at the door of the temple. Madame Lefoux was immediately whisked away to the infirmary, which left Alexia to make her way alone through the luxurious building. And, because she was Alexia, she made her way to the calm sanity of the library. Only in a library did she feel completely capable of collecting her finer feelings and recuperating from such a wearying day. It was also the only room she could remember how to get to.

In a desperate bid to cope with the violence of the attack, her discovery of Channing’s presence in Italy, and her own unanticipated affection for the infant-inconvenience, Alexia extracted some of Ivy’s precious tea. Quite resourcefully, she felt, she managed to boil water over the hearth fire using an empty metal snuffbox. She had to do without milk, but it was a small price to pay under the circumstances. She had no idea if the preceptor had yet returned, or even if he had survived, for as usual, no one spoke to her. With nothing else to do for the moment, Alexia sat in the library and sipped.

It was foolish of her not to realize that the all-pervading silence was not one of prayer but one of impending disaster. Her first warning came in the form of a volatile four-legged duster that hurtled into the library, breaking the calm quiet with a bout of such crazed yipping that a lesser dog would have become ill at the effort.

“Poche? What are you doing here, you vile animal?” Alexia fiddled with her snuffbox of tea.

Apparently, Poche’s current and sole desire in life was to launch a vicious attack on Alexia’s chair leg, which he got his little teeth around and was gnawing on passionately.

Alexia contemplated whether she should attempt to shake him off, kick him with her foot, or simply disregard him entirely.

“Good evening, Female Specimen.”

“Why, Mr. German Specimen, what an unexpected surprise. I thought you had been excommunicated. They let you back into Italy?”

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf walked into the room, stroking his chin with the air of one who has suddenly acquired the upper hand and was reveling in the state of affairs. “I found myself in the possession of some, shall we call it, negotiating power, ya?”

“Ya?” Alexia was irritated enough to mimic him.

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf came to stand near her, looking down. Which must be a particularly unusual experience for him given his diminutive stature, Alexia thought nastily.

“The Templars will, with the information I provided, convince His Holiness Pope Blessed Pius IX to repeal my excommunication and accept me back into the fold.”

“Will they, indeed? I had no notion they possessed such influence.”

“They possess many things, Female Specimen, many things.”

“Well”—Alexia was suddenly quite nervous—“felicitations on your reintegration.”

“I have my laboratory back,” he continued proudly.

“Good, perhaps you can figure out how—”

The preceptor came into the library. Alexia stopped midsentence and looked him over, noticing bandages about his limbs and scrapes across his face. He was clearly a little worse for his encounter with the vampire and subsequent fall from the carriage.

“Ah, how are you feeling, Mr. Templar?”

Not bothering to answer, the preceptor came over, crossed his arms, and looked down at her as well. Eventually he spoke to her as though she were a recalcitrant child. “I am confused, My Soulless One.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Yes. Why is it you chose not to inform us of your delicate condition? We would have taken far greater care of your person had we known of it.”

Oh, mercy me. Alexia shifted, wary. She put down the snuffbox and grabbed her parasol. “Would you, indeed? Do you imply that you would not have, for example, used me as bait in a vampire trap?”

The preceptor ignored her barb. “Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf informs us that not only are you with child, but that the child’s father is a werewolf. Is this—”

Alexia held up a commanding hand. “Do not even begin that line of questioning with me. My husband is a werewolf, and despite any and all accusations to the contrary, he is undoubtedly the father. I will neither argue nor tolerate any insinuations against my integrity. I may be soulless, gentlemen, but I assure you I am faithful. Even Conall, blast him, has finally admitted that.”

The Templar snapped his mouth shut and nodded. She wasn’t convinced that he believed her, but frankly she didn’t care.

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf rubbed his hands together. “Indeed, in conjunction with your insistence, I have devised a new theory as to the nature of soul that I believe not only supports but indeed relies upon your avowal that the child has a supernatural father.”

“Are you saying the only way I could still be pregnant is if I were telling the truth?” Alexia felt her breath quicken in anticipation. Vindication at last!

“Well, ya, Female Specimen, precisely.”

“Would you care to elaborate?”

The little German seemed a tad taken aback by her calm acceptance. He did not notice how one of Alexia’s hands was now delicately fiddling with the handle of her parasol. She was also watching the Templar almost as closely as she watched him.

“You are not angry with me for the telling to the Templars of your little secret?”

Alexia was, but she pretended to be blasé. “Well, it was all over the London papers. I suppose they would have found out eventually. Still, you are a bit of a repulsive weasel, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps. But if this theory is correct, I will also be a most famous weasel.”

The Templar had taken a fascinated interest in Alexia’s snuffbox full of tea and was examining it. Alexia gave him a narrow look, daring him to comment on her idiosyncratic solution to the fact that none of the temple staff would respond to any of her requests. He said nothing.

“Very well, tell me of this theory of yours. And would you mind, terribly, removing your dog from my chair?”

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf swooped down and scooped up his energetic little animal. The creature immediately relaxed into a floppy, partly comatose state in his master’s arms. Draping the dog over one arm as a footman would a dishtowel, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf proceeded to use the beastie as a teaching tool for his explanation.

“Let us assume that there are certain particles in the human body that bond to ambient aether.” He prodded at the dog with one finger unhelpfully. “I shall call these particles ‘pneuma.’ ” He raised his poking finger into the air dramatically. “Supernaturals have broken this bond, losing most of their pneuma. They become immortal by reconfiguring what trace amounts of pneuma they have left into a flexible bond with ambient aetheric particles.”

“You are saying that the soul is not a measurable substance after all, but is in fact the type and rigidity of this bond?” Alexia was intrigued despite herself, and she switched the bulk of her attention to the German.

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf shook Poche at Alexia in his enthusiasm. “Ya! It is a brilliant theory, ya? It explains why we had no luck over the years measuring soul. There is nothing to measure—there is instead only type and strength of bond.” He swooped the dog about the room as though flying. “You, Female Specimen, as a preternatural, are born with the pneuma but no bonded aether at all, thus you are always sucking the aetheric particles out of the air. What you do when you touch the supernatural creature is break their flexible bond and suck all the aether out of them, turning them mortal.” He made a grasping motion with his hand over the dog’s head, as though scooping out the little beast’s brains.

“So, when the vampires called me a soul-sucker, they were not so far from the truth of it. But how does this explain the child?” Alexia attempted to refocus the little man on the most important part of his explanation.

“Well, the problem with two preternaturals is that they are both trying to suck aetheric particles at the same time. Thus they cannot share the same air space. But”—and in a triumphant crescendo, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf held his little white dog over his head in victory—“if the other parent is a supernatural, the child can inherit the flexible bond, or as we might think of it, a bit of the leftover excess soul.”

Poche gave a funny little howl as though to punctuate his owner’s final statement. Realizing he was waving about his pet in a most indiscriminate manner, the German put his dog back down on the floor. Immediately, Poche began barking and bouncing about, eventually deciding to launch a full-blown attack on a small golden throw pillow that was now not long for this world.

Alexia hated to admit it, but Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf’s theory was a sound one. It explained many things, not the least of which was why such children as the infant-inconvenience might be so very rare. Firstly, they required a supernatural to preternatural pairing, and the two species had hunted each other for most of recorded history. Secondly, they required either a female soulless, a female vampire, or a female werewolf. Preternaturals were rarely allowed near hive queens, and female werewolves were almost as rare as female preternaturals. There simply wouldn’t have been much of an opportunity for interbreeding.

“So, the question is, what kind of child am I going to produce, given Conall’s, uh, flexible bond?” Said in conjunction with her husband’s name, and considering his carnal preferences, Alexia found the terminology salacious. She cleared her throat, embarrassed. “I mean to say, will it be born preternatural or supernatural?”

“Ah, ya, well, difficult to predict. But I am thinking, perhaps, in my theory, that is to say, neither. The child, it could be simply normal. Perhaps possessing less soul than most.”

“But I will not lose it as you had previously thought?”

“No, no, you will not. If you are sensible with your own well-being.”

Alexia smiled. True, she was still not quite settled into the idea of being a mother, but she and the infant-inconvenience did seem to be arriving at some kind of arrangement.

“Why, that is superb news! I must go tell Genevieve immediately.” She stood, with every intention of dashing off to the infirmary, regardless of how this might upset any Templars she barreled into along the way.

The preceptor stood up from his crouch, where he had been trying, unsuccessfully, to wrestle the pillow away from Poche, and spoke. Alexia had almost forgotten his presence. “I am afraid that will not be possible, My Soulless One.”

“Why not?”

“The French female was treated for her injuries and released into the care of the Florentine Hospitallers.”

“Were her injuries that serious?” Alexia felt a sudden pang of guilt. Had she been enjoying snuffbox-scented tea and good news while her friend lay dying?

“Oh, no, quite superficial. We simply found we could no longer offer her our hospitality. Mr. Floote as well was not invited to return and stay with us.”

Alexia felt her heart sink low into her chest, where it commenced a particular variety of rapid thumping. The sudden reversal from what, seconds before, might have been elation caused her to come over almost dizzy. She breathed in sharply through her nose.

Almost without thought, she opened her parasol, prepared to use even the sulfuric acid, undoubtedly the vilest of its armaments, if need be. Madame Lefoux had managed to find some replacement fluids. But before she had a chance to flip it around to the appropriate position, the library door opened.

Summoned by some unseen signal, a ridiculously large number of Templars clattered into the room. And they were clattering, for they were fully armored like the knights of the crusades they had been hundreds of years ago—heads covered in helms and bodies in silver-washed chain mail and plate under the obligatory nightgowns. Each had on a pair of heavy leather gloves, no doubt so they could touch Alexia without fear for their heavenly souls. Poche went absolutely crazy, barking at the top of his lungs and gyrating about the room in a succession of crazed leaps. Alexia thought it the most intelligent thing the creature had done in all its useless little life. The Templars, showing great reserves of dignity, entirely ignored him.

Alexia’s parasol was good, but it wasn’t good enough to take out that many people all at once. She closed it with a snap. “Why, Mr. Templar,” she said to the preceptor, “I am honored. All this for me? So very thoughtful. You really shouldn’t have.”

The preceptor gave Alexia one hard, long look and then, taking Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf firmly by the arm, left the library without responding to her sarcasm. Poche circled the room twice more and then bounced out after them like a fierce feather duster ejected at high pressure from a steam engine. My last defender, gone, thought Alexia grimly.

She looked to her opponents. “Very well, then. Take me to your dungeon!” Might as well give a command she was reasonably confident would be obeyed.

Professor Lyall set his precious cargo down upon the sofa in his office at BUR headquarters. Still unconscious, Biffy was as limp as overcooked broccoli. The couch was already covered in various piles of paperwork, aethographor slates, a stack of books, and several newspapers and scientific pamphlets, but Biffy didn’t seem to mind overly much. He curled onto one side like a little child, hugging an exceptionally uncomfortable-looking metal scroll affectionately to his chest.

Professor Lyall got to work preparing formal statements for the press, calling in various operatives and agents and then sending them back out again on important information-gathering missions, diplomatic interventions, and secret biscuit-acquisition operations (BUR’s kitchen was running low). He also sent a runner to the remaining members of the Woolsey Pack, instructing them to stay alert and stay armed. Who knew how the vampires might choose to retaliate? Usually, they were refined in their reactions, but killing one of them was, as a rule, not considered polite, and they might behave unfavorably. After that, Lyall managed one productive hour of activity before he was interrupted by the first in what he had no doubt would be a long line of offended dignitaries. It was not, however, a member of one of the hives come to complain about the potentate’s death. Rather unexpectedly, his first caller was a werewolf.

“Good evening, Lord Slaughter.”

The dewan hadn’t bothered with a cloak this time. With no disguise and no attempt made to hide his displeasure, either, Lyall had no doubt the dewan was officially representing Queen Victoria’s interests.

“Well, you made a dog’s bollocks of that, didn’t you, little Beta? Couldn’t have done worse with it when all’s said and done.”

“How do you do, my lord? Please, sit down.”

The dewan gave a disgusted look at the slumbering Biffy. “Looks like you already have company. What is he—drunk?” He sniffed the air. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, have you both been swimming in the Thames?”

“I assure you it was entirely involuntary.”

The dewan looked as though he was about to continue his reprimanding tone, but then he sniffed the air again and stopped in his tracks. Twirling about, he lumbered over to the couch and bent over the comatose young dandy.

“Now, that is an unfamiliar face. I know most of the Woolsey Pack has been overseas with the regiment, but I think I remember them all. I am not that old.”

“Ah, yes.” Professor Lyall sat up straight and cleared his throat. “We are to be congratulated. Woolsey has a new pack member.”

The dewan grunted, half pleased but trying to hide it with annoyance. “I thought he stank of Lord Maccon. Well, well, well, a metamorphosis and a dead vampire all in one night. My, my, Woolsey has been busy.”

Professor Lyall put down his quill and took off his spectacles. “The one is, in fact, tied intimately to the other.”

“Since when has killing vampires resulted in new werewolves?”

“Since vampires stole other vampire’s drones, imprisoned them under the Thames, and then shot at them.”

The dewan looked less like a gruff loner wolf and more like a politician at that statement. He drew up a chair on the other side of the desk from Lyall. “I think you had better start explaining what happened, little Beta.”

When Lyall finished his account, the dewan was left looking a mite stunned.

“Of course, such a story will have to be corroborated. With the potentate’s illegal kill order out on Lady Maccon’s head, you must see that Lord Maccon’s motives for killing the man are highly suspicious. Still, if all you say is true, he was within his rights as chief sundowner. Such shenanigans cannot be allowed. Imagine, stealing someone else’s drone! So rude.”

“You must understand I have other difficulties to deal with?”

“Went off hunting that stray wife of his, did he?”

Professor Lyall curled his lip and nodded.

“Alphas are so very difficult.”

“My feeling exactly.”

“Well, I shall leave you to it.” The dewan stood but walked once more over to look down at Biffy before he left.

“Two successful metamorphoses in as many months. Woolsey may be in political trouble, but you are to be congratulated on the potency of your Alpha’s Anubis Form. Pretty young pup, isn’t he? He is going to bring down a whole mess of trouble on your head. How much worse will it be to have the vampires think werewolves stole a drone away?”

Professor Lyall sighed. “Lord Akeldama’s favorite, no less.”

The dewan shook his head. “Mess of trouble, mark my words. Best of luck, little Beta. You are going to need it.”

Just as the dewan was leaving, one of Lord Maccon’s best BUR agents appeared.

The agent bowed to the dewan in the doorway before coming in to stand in front of Professor Lyall, with his hands laced behind his back.

“Report, Mr. Haverbink.”

“’S’not pretty out there, sir. The Teeth are a’stirring up all kinds of toss about you Tails. Them’s saying Lord M had a grudge against the potentate. Saying he took him down out’a anger, not duty.”

Haverbink was a good solid chap in both looks and spirit. And no one would bet a ha’penny on his having excess soul, but he listened well and got around to places more aristocratic types couldn’t. He looked a bit like a farmhand, and people didn’t give a man of his brawn much credit in the way of brain. It was a mistake.

“How unsettled?”

“Couple of pub brawls so far, mostly just clavigers giving fist to drones with big mouths. Could get ugly if the conservatives weigh in. You’re knowing how they can get: ‘none of this would’ve happened if we hadn’t integrated. England deserves it for acting unnatural. Against God’s law.’ Whine, whine.”

“Any word on the vampires themselves?”

“Westminster queen’s been dead silent—’scuse the pun—since word on the potentate’s death broke. You better believe if she thought she were in the right, she’d be squawking official statements to the press like a hen laying eggs.”

“Yes, I would tend to agree with you. Her silence is a good thing for us werewolves. How about BUR’s reputation?”

“We’re taking the fallout. Lord M was working, not werewolfing, or that’s the claim. He should’ve had more self-restraint.” Haverbink turned his wide, friendly face on his commander questioningly.

Lyall nodded.

Haverbink continued. “Those that like BUR are claiming he was within his rights as sundowner. Those that don’t like it, don’t like him, and don’t like wolves—they’re going to complain regardless. Not a whole lot would change that.”

Lyall rubbed at his neck. “Well, that’s about what I thought. Keep talking the truth as much as possible while you are out there. Let people know the potentate stole Lord Akeldama’s drone. We cannot allow the vampires or the Crown to cover that up, and we have got to hope both Biffy and Lord Akeldama corroborate the official story or we really will be in the thick of it.”

Haverbink looked skeptically over at Biffy’s sleeping form. “Does he remember any of it?”

“Probably not.”

“Is Lord Akeldama likely to be amenable?”

“Probably not.”

“Right’o, sir. I wouldn’t want to be in your spats right now.”

“Don’t get personal, Haverbink.”

“’Course not, sir.”

“Speaking of which, still no word on Lord Akeldama’s return or whereabouts?”

“Not a single sausage, sir.”

“Well, that’s something. Very well, carry on, Mr. Haverbink.”

“Jolly good, sir.”

Haverbink went out, and the next agent, waiting patiently in the hallway, came in.

“Message for you, sir.”

“Ah, Mr. Phinkerlington.”

Phinkerlington, a round, bespectacled metal burner, managed a slight bow before continuing hesitatingly into the room. He had the manners of a clerk, the demeanor of a constipated mole, and some minor aristocratic connection that temperament compelled him to regard as an embarrassing character flaw. “Something finally came through on that Italian channel you had me monitoring sunset these past few days.” He was also very, very good at his job, which consisted mainly of sitting and listening, and then writing down what he heard without thought or comment.

Professor Lyall sat up. “Took you long enough to get it to me.”

“Sorry, sir. You’ve been so busy this evening; I didn’t want to disturb.”

“Yes, well.” Professor Lyall made an impatient gesture with his left hand.

Phinkerlington handed Professor Lyall a scrap of parchment paper, on which had been inked a message. It was not, as Lyall had hoped, from Alexia but was from, of all people, Floote.

It was also so entirely off topic and unhelpful to the situation in hand as to give Lyall a brief but intense feeling of exasperation with Lady Maccon. This was a feeling that had, heretofore, been reserved solely for his Alpha.

“Get queen to stop Italians excavating in Egypt. Can’t find soulless mummies, bad things result. Lady Maccon with Florentine Templars. Not good. Send help. Floote.”

Professor Lyall, cursing his Alpha for departing so precipitously, balled up the piece of paper and, after minor consideration for the delicacy of the information it contained, ate it.

He dismissed Phinkerlington, stood, and went to check on Biffy, finding the young man still sleeping. Good, he thought, best and most sensible thing for him to be doing at the moment. Just as he was tucking the blanket a little more firmly about the new werewolf, yet another person entered his office.

He straightened up and turned to face the door. “Yes?”

He caught the man’s scent: very expensive French perfume coupled with a hint of Bond Street’s best hair pomade and under that the slow richness of the unpalatable—old blood.

“Ah. Welcome back to London, Lord Akeldama.”

Lady Alexia Maccon, sometimes called La Diva Tarabotti, was quite comfortable with being abducted. Or, as it might better be phrased, she was growing accustomed to the predicament. She had led, up until a little over a year ago, quite an exemplary spinsterish existence. Her world had been plagued only by the presence of two nonsensical sisters and one even sillier mama. Her concerns, it must be acknowledged, were a tad mundane, and her daily routine as banal as that of any other young lady of sufficient income and insufficient liberty. But she had managed to avoid abductions.

This, as matters would have it, was turning out to be one of the worst.

Alexia found the experience of being blindfolded and carried over someone’s armor-clad shoulder like a sack of potatoes unconscionably undignified. She was hauled down a seemingly endless series of stairs and passageways, musty as only the deep underground can be. She gave a few experimental kicks and a wiggle, only to have her legs clamped down by a metal-covered arm.

Eventually, they arrived at their final destination, which, she discovered once the blindfold had been removed, was some kind of Roman catacomb. She blinked, eyes adjusting to the dimness, and found herself in an underground ancient ruin dug into the bedrock, lit with oil lamps and candles. The small cell she now occupied was barred over on one side with modern-looking reinforcements.

“Well, this is a much inferior living situation,” she objected to no one in particular.

The preceptor appeared in the doorway, leaning up against the metal doorjamb, regarding her with lifeless eyes.

“We found we could no longer adequately ensure your safety in your other location.”

“I wasn’t safe in a temple surrounded by several hundred of the Knights Templars, the most powerful holy warriors ever to walk this earth?”

He made no answer to that. “We shall see to your every comfort here.”

Alexia looked around. The room was slightly smaller than her husband’s dressing chamber back at Woolsey Castle. There was a tiny bed in one corner covered in a faded quilt, a single side table with an oil lamp, a chamber pot, and a washstand. It looked neglected and sad.

“Who will? No one has so far.”

Wordlessly the Templar signaled and, out of nowhere, a bread bowl full of pasta appeared, and a carrot carved to resemble a spoon was handed over by some unseen companion. The preceptor gave them to Alexia.

Alexia tried not to be pleased by the presence of the ubiquitous green sauce. “Pesto will keep you in my good graces for only so long, you understand?”

“Oh, and then what will you do, devil spawn?”

“Ah, I am no longer your ‘Soulless One,’ am I?” Alexia pursed her lips in deep thought. She was without her parasol, and most of her best threats involved its application. “I shall be very discourteous, indeed.”

The preceptor did not look at all threatened. He closed the door firmly behind him and left her locked in the silent darkness.

“Could I at least get something to read?” she yelled after, but he ignored her.

Alexia began to think all those horrible stories she had heard about the Templars might actually be true, even the one with the rubber duck and the dead cat that Lord Akeldama had once relayed. She hoped fervently that Madame Lefoux and Floote were unharmed.

There was something eerie about being so utterly separated from them.

Giving in to her frustration, Alexia marched over and kicked at the bars of her prison.

This only served to cause her foot to smart most egregiously.

“Oh, brother,” said Lady Maccon into the dark silence.

Alexia’s isolation did not last long, for a certain German scientist came to visit her.

“I have been relocated, Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf.” Alexia was so distressed by her change in circumstances that she was moved to state the obvious.

“Ya, Female Specimen, I am well aware of the fact. It is most inconvenient, ya? I have had to move my laboratory as well, and Poche will not follow me down here. He does not like Roman architecture.”

“No? Well, who does? But, I say, couldn’t you persuade them to move me back? If one must be imprisoned, a nice room with a view is far preferable.”

The little man shook his head. “No longer possible. Give me your arm.”

Alexia narrowed her eyes suspiciously and then, curious, acquiesced to his request.

He wrapped a tube of oiled cloth about her arm and then proceeded to pump it full of air using a set of bellows via a mini spigot. The tube expanded and became quite tight. Pinching these bellows off, the scientist transferred a glass ball filled with little bits of paper to the spigot and let go. The air escaped with a whoosh, causing all the bits of paper to flutter about wildly inside the ball.

“What are you doing?”

“I am to determine what kind of the child you may produce, ya. There is much speculation.”

“I fail to see how those little bits of paper can reveal anything of import.” They seemed about as useful as tea leaves in the bottom of a cup. Which made her think yearningly of tea.

“Well, you had better hope they do. There has been some talk of handling this child… differently.”

“What?”

“Ya. And using you for—how to say?—spare parts.”

Bile, sour and unwelcome, rose in Alexia’s throat.

“What?”

“Hush now, Female Specimen, let me work.”

The German watched with frowning attention as the papers finally settled completely at the base of the ball, which, Alexia now realized, was marked with lines. Then he began making notes and diagrams of their location. She tried to think calming thoughts but was beginning to get angry as well as scared. She was finished with being thought of as a specimen.

“You know, they gave to me complete access to the records of their preternatural breeding program? They tried for nearly a hundred years to determine how to successfully breed your species.”

“Humans? Well that couldn’t have been too difficult. I am still human, remember?”

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf ignored this and continued his previous line of reasoning. “You always breed true, but low birth rate and rare female specimens were never explained. Also the program was plagued with the difficulty of the space allotment. Templars could not, for example, keep the babies in the same room or even the same house.”

“So what happened?” Alexia couldn’t help her curiosity.

“The program was stopped, ya. Your father was one of the last, you know?”

Alexia’s eyebrows made an inadvertent bid for the sky. “He was?” Hear that, infant-inconvenience, your grandfather was bred by religious zealots as a kind of biological experiment. So much for your family tree.

“Did the Templars raise him?”

Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf gave her a peculiar look. “I am not familiar with the specifics.”

Alexia knew absolutely nothing about her father’s childhood; his journals didn’t commence until his university years in Britain and were, she suspected, originally intended as a vehicle for practicing English grammar.

The little scientist appeared to decide that he ought to say no more. Turning back to his bellows and sphere device, he finished his notations and then began a complex series of calculations. When he had finished, he set down his stylographic pen with a pronounced movement.

“Remarkable, ya.”

“What is?”

“There is only one explanation for such results. That you have trace intrinsic aether affixed to the—how to say?—middle zone, but it is behaving wrong, as though it were bonded but also not, as if it were in the state of flux.”

“Well, good for me.” Then Alexia frowned, remembering their previous discussion. “But, according to your theory, I should have no intrinsic aether at all.”

“Exactly.”

“So your theory is wrong.”

“Or the flux reaction is coming from the embryo.” Mr. Lange-Wilsdorf was quite triumphant in this proclamation, as though he was near to explaining everything.

“Are you implying that you understand the nature of my child?” Alexia was prepared to get equally excited. Finally!

“No, but I can say with the absolute confidence that I am very, very close.”

“Funny, but I do not find that at all reassuring.”

Lord Akeldama stood in the doorway of Professor Lyall’s office, dressed for riding. It was hard to read his face at the best of times and, under such circumstances as these, nigh on impossible.

“How do you do this evening, my lord?”

“La, my dear, tolerably well. Tolerably well. And you?”

They had, of course, met on more than one occasion in the past. Lyall had spent centuries nibbling about the great layer cake that was polite society while Lord Akeldama acted the part of the frosting on its top. Lyall knew a man was smart who kept a weather eye on the state of the frosting, even if most of his time was spent cleaning up crumbs. The supernatural set was small enough to keep track of most members, whether they skulked about BUR offices and the soldier’s barracks or the best drawing rooms the ton had to offer.

“I must admit to having had better evenings. Welcome to BUR headquarters, Lord Akeldama. Do come in.”

The vampire paused for a moment on the threshold, catching sight of Biffy’s sleeping form. He made a slight gesture with one hand. “May I?”

Professor Lyall nodded. The question was a veiled insult, reminding them both of what had been taken from the vampire unjustly. That he must now ask to look upon what had once been his. Lyall let him get away with it. Currently the vampire held all the cards, but Professor Lyall was reasonably convinced that if he just gave Lord Akeldama enough cravat material, he might be able to fashion it into a bow pleasing enough for all parties. Of course, the vampire might also turn it into a noose; it depended entirely on the outcome of this conversation.

Professor Lyall knew that vampires had a limited sense of smell and no clear method of sensing right away that Biffy was now a werewolf. But Lord Akeldama seemed to realize it, anyway. He did not try to touch the young man.

“That is quite the quantity of facial hair. I didn’t know he had it in him. I suppose that fuzzy is more appropriate given the current situation.” Lord Akeldama raised one long, slim white hand to the base of his own throat, pinching at the skin there. He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them and looking down on his former drone once more. “He looks so young when he is sleeping. I have always thought so.” He swallowed audibly. Then he turned and came back to stand in front of Lyall.

“You have been riding, my lord?”

Lord Akeldama looked down at his clothing and winced. “Necessity sometimes demands a sacrifice, young Randolph. Can I call you Randy? Or would you prefer, Dolphy? Dolly, perhaps?” Professor Lyall flinched noticeably. “Anyway, as I was saying, Dolly, I cannot abide riding—the horses are never happy to seat a vampire, and it plays havoc with one’s hair. The only thing more vulgar is an open carriage.”

Professor Lyall decided on a more direct approach. “Where have you been this past week, my lord?”

Lord Akeldama looked once more down at himself. “Chasing ghosts while pursued by daemons, as it were, Dolly darling. I am convinced you must be aware of how it goes.”

Professor Lyall decided on a push, just to see if he might elicit a more genuine reaction. “How could you disappear like that, just when Lady Maccon needed you most?”

Lord Akeldama’s lip curled slightly, and then he gave a humorless little laugh. “Interesting query, coming from Lord Maccon’s Beta. You will forgive me if I am inclined to see it as my right to ask the questions under such circumstances.” He gestured with his head in Biffy’s direction, just a little jerk of controlled displeasure.

Lord Akeldama was a man who hid his real feelings, not with an absence of emotions but with an excess of false ones. However, Professor Lyall was pretty certain that there, lurking under the clipped civility, was real, deeply rooted, and undeniably justified anger.

Lord Akeldama took a seat, lounging back into it, for all the world as relaxed and untroubled as a man at his club. “So, I take it, Lord Maccon has gone after my dear Alexia?”

Lyall nodded.

“Then he knows?”

“That she is in grave danger and the potentate responsible? Yes.”

“Ah, was that Wally’s game? No wonder he wanted me swarming out of London. No, I mean to ask, Dolly dear, if the estimable earl knows what kind of child he has sired.”

“No. But he has accepted that it is his. I think he always knew Lady Maccon would not play him false. He was just being ridiculous about it.”

“Normally, I am all in favor of the ridiculous, but under such circumstances, you must understand, I believe it quite a pity he could not have come to that realization sooner. Lady Maccon would never have lost the protection of the pack, and none of this would have happened.”

“You think not? Yet your kind tried to kill her on the way to Scotland when she was still very much under Woolsey’s protection. Admittedly, that was done more discreetly and, I now believe, without the support of the hives. But they would all still have wanted her dead the moment they knew of her condition. The interesting thing is that you, apparently, do not want her dead.”

“Alexia Maccon is my friend.”

“Are your friends so infrequent, my lord, that you betray the clearly unanimous wishes of your own kind?”

Lord Akeldama lost some slight element of his composure at that. “Listen to me carefully, Beta. I am a rove so that I might make my own decisions: who to love, who to watch, and, most importantly, what to wear.”

“So, Lord Akeldama, what is Lady Maccon’s child going to be?”

“No. You will explain this first.” The vampire gestured at Biffy. “I am forced to swarm because my most precious little drone-y-poo is ruthlessly stolen from me—betrayed, as it turns out, by my own kind—only to return and find him stolen by your kind instead. I believe even Lord Maccon would acknowledge I am entitled to an explanation.”

Professor Lyall fully agreed with him in this, so he told the vampire the whole truth, every detail of it.

“So it was death or the curse of a werewolf?”

Professor Lyall nodded. “It was something to see, my lord. No metamorphosis I have ever witnessed took so long, nor was conducted with so much gentleness. To do what Lord Maccon did and not savage the boy in the heat of the need for blood, it was extraordinary. There are not many werewolves who possess such self-control. Biffy was very lucky.”

“Lucky?” Lord Akeldama fairly spat the word, jumping to his feet. “Lucky! To be cursed by the moon into a slathering beast? You would have done better to let him die. My poor boy.” Lord Akeldama was not a big man, certainly not by werewolf standards, but he moved so quickly that he was around Professor Lyall’s desk, slim hands about the werewolf’s throat, faster than Lyall’s eyes could follow. There was the anger Professor Lyall had been waiting for and, with it, a degree of pain and hurt he would never have expected from a vampire. Perhaps he had pushed a little harder than was strictly necessary. Lyall sat still and passive under the choking hold. A vampire could probably rip a werewolf’s head clean off, but Lord Akeldama was not the kind of man to do such a thing, even in the heat of anger. He was too controlled by age and etiquette to make more than a show of it.

“Master, stop. Please. It was not their fault.”

Biffy sat up slightly on the couch, eyes fixed in horror at the sight before him.

Lord Akeldama immediately let go of Professor Lyall and dashed over to kneel by the young man’s side.

Biffy spoke in a jumble of words and guilt. “I should not have allowed myself to be captured. I was careless. I did not suspect the potentate of such extremes of action. I was not playing the game as you taught me. I did not think he would use me like that to get to you.”

“Ah, my little cherry blossom, we were all playing blind. This is not your fault.”

“Do you really find me cursed and disgusting now?” Biffy’s voice was very small.

Driven beyond his instincts, the vampire pulled the newly made werewolf against him—one predator consoling another, as unnatural as a snake attempting to comfort a house cat.

Biffy rested his dark head on Lord Akeldama’s shoulder. The vampire twisted his perfect lips together and looked up at the ceiling, blinked, and then looked away. Through the fall of the vampire’s blond hair, Professor Lyall caught a glimpse of his face.

Ah, oh dear, he really did love him. The Beta pressed two fingers against his own eyes as though he might stopper up the tears in theirs. Curses.

Love, of all eccentricities among the supernatural set, was the most embarrassing and the least talked about or expected. But Lord Akeldama’s face, for all its icy beauty, was drawn with genuine loss into a kind of carved marble agony.

Professor Lyall was an immortal; he knew what it was to lose a loved one. He could not leave the room, not with so many important BUR documents scattered about, but he did turn away and put on a show of busily organizing stacks of paperwork, attempting to provide the two men some modicum of privacy.

He heard a rustle—Lord Akeldama sitting down upon the couch next to his former drone.

“My dearest boy, of course I do not find you disgusting—although, we must really have a serious discussion about this beard of yours. That was only a little turn of phrase, perhaps a bit of an exaggeration. You see, I did so look forward to the possibility of having you by my side as one of us. Joined to the old fang-and-swill club and all that.”

A sniff from Biffy.

“If anything, this is my fault. I should have kept a better watch. I should not have fallen for his tricks or sent you in against him. I should not have allowed your disappearance to cause me to panic and swarm. I ought to have recognized the signs of a game in play against me and mine. But who would have believed my own kind—another vampire, another rove—would steal from me? Me! My sweet citron, I did not see the pattern. I did not see how desperate he was. I forgot that sometimes the information I carry in my own head is more valuable than the daily wonders you lovely boys unearth for me.”

At which point, when Professor Lyall really felt things couldn’t possibly get any worse, a bang came on the office door, which then opened without his bidding.

“What—?”

It was Professor Lyall’s turn to look up at the ceiling in an excess of emotion.

“Her most Royal Majesty, Queen Victoria, to see Lord Maccon.”

Queen Victoria marched through the door and spoke to Professor Lyall without breaking stride. “He is not here, is he? Wretched man.”

“Your Majesty!” Professor Lyall hurried from behind his desk and performed his lowest and best bow.

The Queen of England, a deceptively squat and brown personage, swept the room with an autocratic eye as though Lord Maccon, sizable specimen that he was, might manage to hide in a corner somewhere or under the rug. What her eye rested upon was the tableau of a tear-stained Biffy, clearly naked under his blanket, caught up in the arms of a peer of the realm.

“What is this? Sentiment! Who is that there? Lord Akeldama? Really, this will not do at all. Compose yourself this instant.”

Lord Akeldama lifted his head from where it rested, cheek pressed against Biffy’s, and narrowed his eyes at the queen. He gently let his former drone go, stood, and bowed, exactly as deeply as he ought and not one jot more.

Biffy, for his part, was at a loss. He could not get up without exposing some part of himself, and he could not perform the appropriate obedience from a supine position. He looked with desperate eyes at the queen.

Professor Lyall came to his rescue. “You will have to forgive, uh,” he floundered, for he had never learned Biffy’s real name, “our young friend here. He has had a bit of a trying night.”

“So we have been given to understand. Is this, then, the drone in question?” The queen raised a quizzing glass and examined Biffy through it. “The dewan has said you were kidnapped, young man, and by our very own potentate. These are grave charges, indeed. Are they true?”

Biffy, mouth slightly open in awe, managed only a mute nod.

The queen’s face expressed both relief and chagrin in equal measure. “Well, at least Lord Maccon hasn’t bungled that.” She turned her sharp eye on Lord Akeldama.

The vampire, with a studied, casual air, fixed the cuffs of his shirtsleeves so they lay perfectly underneath his jacket. He did not meet her gaze.

“Would you say, Lord Akeldama, that death was an appropriate punishment for the theft of another vampire’s drone?” she inquired casually.

“I would say it is a bit extreme, Your Majesty, but in the heat of the moment, I am given to understand, accidents will happen. It was not intentional.”

Professor Lyall couldn’t believe his ears. Was Lord Akeldama defending Lord Maccon?

“Very well. No charges will be brought against the earl.”

Lord Akeldama started. “I did not say… that is, he also metamorphosed Biffy.”

“Yes, yes. Excellent, another werewolf is always welcome.” The queen bestowed a beneficent smile on the still-bemused Biffy.

“But he is mine!”

The queen frowned at the vampire’s tone. “We hardly see the need for such fuss, Lord Akeldama. You have plenty more just like him, do you not?”

Lord Akeldama stood for a moment, stunned, just long enough for the queen to continue on with her conversation, entirely ignoring his bemusement.

“We must suppose Lord Maccon has gone in pursuit of his wife?” A nod from Professor Lyall. “Good, good. We are reinstating her as muhjah, of course, in absentia. We were acting under the potentate’s advice when we dismissed her, and now we see he must have been furthering his own hidden agenda. For centuries, Walsingham has advised the Crown unerringly. What could have driven such a man to such lengths?”

All around her, silence descended.

“That, gentlemen, was not a rhetorical question.”

Professor Lyall cleared his throat. “I believe it may have to do with Lady Maccon’s forthcoming child.”

“Yes?”

Professor Lyall turned and looked pointedly at Lord Akeldama.

Following his lead, the Queen of England did the same.

No one would ever accuse Lord Akeldama of fidgeting, but under such direct scrutiny, he did appear slightly flustered.

“Well, Lord Akeldama? You do know, don’t you? Otherwise none of this would have happened.”

“You must understand, Your Majesty, that vampire records go back to Roman times, and there is mention of only one similar child.”

“Go on.”

“And, of course, in this case she was the child of a soul-sucker and a vampire—not a werewolf.”

Professor Lyall chewed his lip. How could the howlers not have known of this? They were the keepers of history; they were supposed to know about everything.

“Go on!”

“The kindest word we had for that creature was soul-stealer.”