Alexia shut her mouth on her next question with a snap. She was surprised she hadn’t been physically repulsed by the hand as she had been by the mummy. Then she remembered the daemon detector. She and the disembodied hand hadn’t been sharing the same air. She supposed that was why the jar had to be broken in case of emergency.
They proceeded the rest of the way to their rooms in silence, Alexia mulling over the implications of that hand and becoming more and more worried as a result.
Floote stopped Alexia before she retired. “Your father, madam, was fully cremated. I made absolutely certain.”
Alexia swallowed silently and then said fervently, “Thank you, Floote.”
He nodded once his face, as always, impassive.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Great Scotch Egg Under the Thames Much to Lord Maccon’s annoyance, the acquisition operation, as Professor Lyall had termed it, was taking far longer than intended. Impatient to be off after his errant wife, the Alpha was instead stalking back and forth in the drawing room of Buckingham Palace awaiting an audience with Queen Victoria.
He was still unsure as to how Lyall had, in fact, managed to keep him in London all these days. Betas, in the end, were mysterious creatures with strange powers. Powers that, when all was said and done, seemed to involve nothing more than a continued battery of civilized behavior and an excess of manners. Effective, blast him.
Professor Lyall sat on an uncomfortable couch, one stylishly clad leg crossed over the other, and watched his Alpha pace.
“I still don’t see why we had to come here, of all places.”
The Beta pushed at his spectacles. It was nearing the afternoon of his third day awake in a row, and he was beginning to experience the effects of prolonged daylight exposure. He felt drawn and tired, and all he wanted to do in the world was return to his tiny bed at Woolsey Castle and sleep the afternoon away. Instead, he was stuck dealing with an increasingly edgy Alpha. “I have said it before, and I shall say it again you will need sundowner authorization for this, my lord.”
“Yes, but couldn’t you have come and gotten it for me afterward?”
“No, I couldn’t, and you know it. This is too complicated. Stop complaining.”
Lord Maccon stopped for the simple reason that, as usual, Lyall was correct. It had gotten very complicated. Once they’d discovered the location of the stolen object, they’d sent a river rat in to assess the place. The poor lad had come back soaking wet and in an absolute panic, justly earned, as it turned out. Their quick theft and retrieval operation had turned into something far more problematic.
Professor Lyall was a wolf who liked to look on the practical side of any given situation. “At least now we know why Lord Akeldama went into such a tizzy, pulled in all his drones, and ran.”
“I didn’t realize roves could swarm, but I suppose they have the same protective instincts as hives.”
“And Lord Akeldama is a particularly old vampire with a peculiarly large number of drones. He is liable to be overprotective when one is stolen.”
“I cannot believe I’m stuck here involving myself in vampiric tomfoolery. I should be hunting my wife, not one of Lord Akeldama’s drones.”
“The potentate wanted Lord Akeldama panicked for a reason. Your wife is that reason. So, essentially, this is your problem, and you have to deal with it before you leave.”
“Vampires.”
“Exactly so, my lord, exactly so.” Professor Lyall’s calmness covered his genuine worry. He had met Biffy only once or twice, but he liked the lad. Generally acknowledged as Lord Akeldama’s favorite, Biffy was a pretty young thing, calm and capable. He genuinely loved and was loved by his outrageous master. For the potentate to drone nap him was the height of bad taste. The greatest unwritten law of the supernatural set was that one simply didn’t steal someone else’s human. Werewolves did not poach clavigers, for the key keepers were vital to the safety of the greater population. And vampires did not take each other’s drones, because, quite frankly, one doesn’t interfere with another’s food source. The very idea! And yet, they were now in possession of eyewitness testimony to the fact that this was exactly what the potentate had done to Lord Akeldama. Poor Biffy.
“Her Majesty will see you now, Lord Maccon.”
The earl straightened his spine. “Righty’o.”
Professor Lyall checked his Alpha’s appearance. “Now be polite.”
Lord Maccon gave him a dour look. “I have met the queen before, you know.”
“Oh, I know. That is why I am reminding you.”
Lord Maccon ignored his Beta and followed the footman into Queen Victoria’s illustrious presence.
In the end, Queen Victoria granted Lord Maccon sanction in his attempt to rescue Biffy. She refused to believe the potentate was involved, but if, in fact, a drone had been kidnapped, she thought it only right that the earl, in his capacity as head of the London BUR offices and chief sundowner, rectify the situation. It was untenable, she claimed, given her experience with vampire loyalty and trust, even among roves, that any vampire would steal another’s drone.
“But supposing, Your Majesty, just this once, it has accidentally occurred? And that Lord Akeldama has swarmed as a result.”
“Why, then you should carry on, Lord Maccon, carry on.”
“I always forget how short she is,” the earl commented to Professor Lyall as they readied themselves to “carry on” later that evening. Lord Maccon took the queen’s tacit permission to mean he could use his Galand Tue Tue, which he was busy cleaning and loading. It was a graceless little revolver, portly with a square grip and hardwood bullets caged and capped with silver the Sundowner model designed to kill mortals, vampires, or werewolves. Lord Maccon had designed a watertight, oiled leather case for the gun, which he wore about his neck so that it might be with him whether he was in wolf or human form. Since they would be traveling fast, wolf seemed the most sensible way to get through London.
Biffy, they had learned, was imprisoned inside a rather fantastic contraption. Lord Maccon was still upset that the installation of this device had escaped BUR’s notice. It was, according to the trusty river rat, a man sized sphere made of glass and brass with one large tube coming out its top. The tube was to conduct breathable air, because the sphere had been sunk into the middle of the Thames just under the Charing Cross Rail Bridge near Buckingham Palace. Not unsurprisingly, it had sunk not just into the water, but some way down into the thick mud and garbage at the bottom of the river as well.
When they arrived at the spot, Lord Maccon dove with alacrity off the newly completed Victoria Embankment and into the filthy water. Professor Lyall was more fastidious and thus more reticent. Nothing the Thames could throw at him could damage him permanently, but that didn’t prevent his shuddering at the inevitability of the smell he was destined to produce: wet dog mixed with Thames river water.
Lord Maccon’s brindled head appeared, fur slicked back like a seal, and he barked at his Beta imperiously. Professor Lyall locked his jaw and leapt stiffly into the water, all four legs extended in disgust. Together, looking like nothing so much as two stray dogs after a stick, the two made their way under the bridge.
Since they knew what they were looking for, they managed to find the breathing tube affixed to one of the piers. It was stretched upward well out of the high tide mark. It looked as though it could have also been used as a drop for food and water bags. At least the potentate had no intention of actually killing poor Biffy. Still, it was carelessly done. Should the tube fall, some misguided boat crash into it, or one curious animal climb up and stopper it over, Biffy would suffocate to death.
Lord Maccon dove down to investigate the contraption. This was hard to do in wolf form, and it was hard to see much in the blackness of the river. But he had supernatural strength and wolf night vision helping him. He surfaced looking pleased with himself, tongue lolling.