Changeless

CHAPTER TEN Aether Transmissions

Using the information Lord Akeldama had provided, and with the assistance of a personable young man the vampire referred to only as Biffy, Professor Lyall set up an operation. “Ambrose has been meeting with various members of the incoming regiments,” Lord Akeldama had informed him over an aged scotch—a warm fire in the grate and a plump calico cat on his knee. “At first I thought it was simply opiates or some other form of illegal trade, but now I believe it to be something more sinister. The hive is not only employing its vampire contacts—it’s approaching any common soldier. Even the ill-dressed. It’s horrible.” The vampire gave a delicate little shudder. “I cannot discern what it is they are buying up so greedily. You want to find out what Westminster is up to? Tap into those werewolf military connections of yours, darling, and set up an offer. Biffy can take you to the preferred venue.”

And so it was, on the information provided by a rove vampire, that Professor Lyall now sat in a very seedy pub, the Pickled Crumpet, accompanied by a spectacularly well-dressed drone and Major Channing. A few wobbly tables away sat one of Major Channing’s most trusted soldiers, clutching several suspicious packages and looking nervous.

Professor Lyall slouched down and nursed his beer. He hated beer, a vile common beverage.

Major Channing was twitchy. He shifted long legs, jostling the table and sloshing their drinks.

“Stop that,” his Beta instructed. “No one’s come yet. Be patient.”

Major Channing only glared at him.

Biffy offered them a pinch of snuff. Both werewolves declined in thinly veiled horror. Imagine mucking about with one’s sense of smell! Such a vampiric kind of affectation.

Some while later, with Professor Lyall’s beer barely touched but Major Channing on his third pint, the vampire entered the pub.

He was a tall, exceedingly comely individual, who looked exactly as a novelist might describe a vampire—sinister and pensive with an aquiline nose and unfathomable eyes. Professor Lyall sipped his beer in salute. He had to give Lord Ambrose tribute—the man put on an excellent show. Top marks for dramatic flair.

Lord Ambrose made his way straight to the soldier’s table and sat down without introduction. The tavern was loud enough to make an auditory disruptor unnecessary, and even Lyall and Channing with their supernatural hearing caught only about one word in ten.

The exchange moved quite rapidly and culminated in the soldier showing Lord Ambrose his collection of goods. The vampire looked each one over, then shook his head violently and stood to leave.

The soldier stood as well, leaning forward to ask a question.

Lord Ambrose clearly took offense, for he lashed out with supernatural speed, striking the man across the face so fast even a soldier’s reflexes stood him in poor stead.

Major Channing immediately jumped to his feet, his chair crashing back as he surged forward. Professor Lyall grabbed his wrist, halting his protective instinct. Channing all too often thought of his soldiers as pack.

The vampire’s head swiveled around, focusing in on their little band. He hissed through his teeth, the tips of both fangs visible over thin lips. Then with a swirl of long burgundy greatcoat, he swept majestically from the inn.

Professor Lyall, who had never done anything majestically in all his life, faintly envied the man.

The young soldier came over to them, a harsh red welt about the side of his mouth.

“I’ll murder the liverless bastard,” swore Major Channing, making as if to follow Lord Ambrose out into the street.

“Stop.” Professor Lyall’s hand tightened on the Gamma’s arm. “Burt here is perfectly fine. Aren’t you, Burt?”

Burt spat out a bit of blood but nodded. “Dealt with worse at sea.”

Biffy picked his snuffbox off the table and tucked it into a coat pocket. “So”—the young man gestured for the soldier to pull up a chair and join them—“what did he say? What are they looking for?”

“It’s the weirdest thing. Artifacts.”

“What?”

The soldier bit his bottom lip. “Yeah, Egyptian artifacts. But not objects as we might have thought. Not a weapon as such. That’s why he was so angry with my offerings. Thems is looking for scrolls. Scrolls with a certain image on ’em.”

“Hieroglyphic?”

Burt nodded.

“What image, did he say?”

“Seems they’re quite desperate, ’cause it was pretty indiscreet of him to tell me, but, yeah, he said. Something called an ankh, only they want it broken. You know, in the picture, like the symbol was cut in half.”

Professor Lyall and Biffy looked at one another. “Interesting,” they both said at the same time.

“I wager the edict keepers have some kind of record of the symbol.” Biffy, of course, had some knowledge of vampire information sources.

“Which means,” Lyall said thoughtfully, “this has happened before.”

Alexia left her husband soundly asleep. After centuries as an immortal, he had forgotten how a mortal body seeks succor in slumber when it has injuries to deal with. Despite the excitement, the night was young and most of the rest of the castle was still awake.

She nearly ran full tilt into a rapidly scuttling Ivy in the hallway. Miss Hisselpenny had a fierce frown decorating her normally amiable face.

“Good Lord, Ivy, what an expression.” Lady Maccon leaned casually on her parasol. The way things were progressing this evening, she was unwilling to part with the accessory.

“Oh, Alexia. I do not mean to be forward, but I really must venture: I simply loathe Mr. Tunstell.”

“Ivy!”

“Well, I mean to say, well, really! He is so very impossible. I was given to understand that his affection for me was secure. And one little objection and he switches allegiance quite flippantly. One might even call him flighty! To bill and coo around another female so soon after I went to such prodigious lengths to break his heart. It gives him the countenance of a, well, a vacillating butterfly!”

Lady Maccon was arrested trying to imagine a cooing butterfly. “Really, I thought you were still quite enamored of him, despite rejecting his suit.”

“How could you think such a thing? I positively detest him. I am in full agreement with myself on this. He is nothing more than a billing-cooing vacillator! And I shall have nothing more to do with a person of such weakened character.”

Lady Maccon was not quite certain how to converse with Miss Hisselpenny when she was in such a mood. She was accustomed to Ivy-overset and Ivy-chatterbox, but Ivy-full-of-wrath was a new creature altogether. She opted for the fallback position. “You are clearly in need of a fortifying cup of tea, my dear. Shall we go and see if we can hunt one down? Even the Scots must stock some form of libation.”

Miss Hisselpenny took a deep breath. “Yes, I think you may be right. Excellent notion.”

Lady Maccon solicitously shepherded her friend down the stairs and into one of the smaller drawing rooms, where they ran into two clavigers. The young gentlemen were more than eager to hunt down the requisite tea, see to Miss Hisselpenny’s every whim, and generally prove to the ladies that all good manners had not fled the Highlands along with its complement of trousers. As a result, Ivy forgave them their kilts. Lady Maccon left her friend to their stimulating accents and tender care and went in search of Madame Lefoux and the broken aethographor, hoping for a peek at its functional component parts.

It took her some time to track the massive machine down. Castle Kingair was a real castle, with none of Woolsey’s practical notions on conservation of space and gridlike layout. It was very large, with a propensity for confusing itself with additional rooms, towers, and gratuitous staircases. Lady Maccon was logical in her approach (which may have been her mistake). She surmised that the aethographor must be located in one of the many castle turrets, but which one proved to be the difficulty. There was a decided overabundance of towers. Very concerned with defensibility, the Scots. It took a good deal of time to climb the winding steps to each turret. She knew she was in the right area, however, when she heard the cursing. In French, of course, and not words that she was familiar with, naturally, but she was in no doubt as to their profane nature. Madame Lefoux appeared to be experiencing some form of inconvenience.

When she finally attained the room, Alexia came face-to-face, or as is were, face-to-bottom, with yet another good reason for the lady inventor to don trousers. Madame Lefoux was on her back, half underneath the apparatus, only her legs and backside visible. Had she been in skirts, it would have been a most indelicate position.

Kingair’s aethographic transmitter was raised up on little legs above the stone floor of the castle. It looked somewhat like two attached privy houses with footstool feet. Everything was brightly lit with gas lamps, as the pack had clearly spared no expense on this room. It was also clean.

Lady Maccon craned her neck to see into the darkened interior of the chamber that Madame Lefoux worked under. It appeared that the transmitting mechanicals were the ones being problematical. The Frenchwoman had with her a hatbox that appeared to be no hatbox at all but a cleverly disguised toolkit. Lady Maccon instantly coveted one herself—so much less obvious than a dispatch case.

The bespectacled claviger, with the ever-present expression of panic, crouched nearby, passing the inventor, one after another, a string of exciting-looking tools.

“The magnetomotor modulating adjustor, if you please,” Madame Lefoux would say, and a long, sticklike object with a corkscrew of copper at one end and a glass tube full of an illuminated liquid at the other was passed over. Shortly after, there would emit another curse, the tool would be passed back to the claviger, and a new one called for.

“Goodness gracious,” exclaimed Alexia. “What are you doing?”

There came the sound of a thump, Madame Lefoux’s legs jerked, and further cursing ensued. Moments later, the Frenchwoman wormed her way out and stood up, rubbing her head. The action only added to a vast collection of grease smudges covering her pretty face.

“Ah, Lady Maccon, how lovely. I did wonder when you would track us down.”

“I was unavoidably delayed by husbands and Ivys,” explained Alexia.

“These things, regrettably, are bound to occur when one is married and befriended.” Madame Lefoux was sympathetic.

Lady Maccon leaned forward and, using her parasol as a prop, tried to see underneath the contraption. Her corset made this action mostly impossible, so she turned back to the Frenchwoman. “Have you determined the nature of the problem?”

“Well, it is definitely the transmitting chamber that is malfunctioning. The receiving room seems fully operational. It is hard to tell without an actual transmission of some kind.”

Alexia looked to the claviger for confirmation, and the young man nodded. He did not appear to have much to say for himself, but he was eager to help. The best kind of person, felt Alexia.

“Well,” said Lady Maccon, “what time is it?”

The young gentleman took out a small pocket watch and flipped it open. “Half past ten.”

Lady Maccon turned to Madame Lefoux. “If you can get it ready by eleven, we can try to raise Lord Akeldama on his aethographor. Remember, he gave me the codes, a valve frequensor, and an eleven o’clock time slot for open-scan transmission.”

“But if he doesna have our resonance, what good is that? He willna be able to receive.” The claviger snapped his watch closed and stashed it once more in his waistcoat pocket.

“Ah,” Madame Lefoux jumped in, “he has a multiadaptive model that does not operate using crystalline compatibility protocol. All he need do is scan for a transmission to his frequency during the allotted time. We can receive back because Lady Maccon does have the appropriate valve component.”

The claviger looked even more surprised than usual.

“I understand they are dear friends.” Madame Lefoux appeared to feel this would explain everything.

Alexia smiled. “On the evening of my wedding, I held his hand so he could watch the sunset.”

The claviger looked confused. Again, more confused than usual (his was a difficult face for expressing the full range of human emotion).

Madame Lefoux explained, “Lord Akeldama is a vampire.”

The young man gasped. “He trusted you with his life?”

Lady Maccon nodded. “So trusting me with a crystalline valve, however technologically vital, is no very great thing by comparison.”

Madame Lefoux shrugged. “I do not know about that, my lady. I mean to say, one’s life is one thing; one’s technology is an entirely different matter.”

“Nevertheless, I can provide you the means to test this aethographor’s effectiveness, once it has been repaired.”

The claviger gave her a look of burgeoning respect. “Efficient female, aren’t you, Lady Maccon?”

Alexia was not certain whether she should be pleased or offended by the statement, so she chose to ignore it.

“So, I had better get to it, hadn’t I?” Madame Lefoux turned and crawled back under the transmitter, returning to her tinkering.

Muffled words emanated a few moments later.

“What was that?”

Madame Lefoux’s head reappeared. “I said, would you like to inscribe a message to Lord Akeldama while you are waiting?”

“Superb idea.” Lady Maccon turned to the claviger. “Would you mind finding me a blank scroll, a stylus, and some acid?”

The young man jumped to oblige. While she waited for the supplies, Alexia poked about looking for the pack’s valve frequensor library. Who did Kingair communicate with? Why had they bothered to invest in the aethographor at all? She found the crystalline valves in a small set of unlocked drawers off to one side. There were only three, but they were all entirely unlabeled and without any other identification.

“What are you doing, Lady Maccon?” The claviger came up behind her, looking suspicious (an expression entirely unsuited to his face).

“Just pondering why a Scottish pack would need an aethographor,” replied Alexia. She was never one to dissemble when forthrightness could keep others off guard.

“Mmm,” the young man replied, noncommittal. He handed her a metal scroll, a small vial of acid, and a stylus.

Lady Maccon set herself up in one corner of the room, tongue sticking out slightly as she attempted to be as neat as possible inscribing one letter into each grid square on the scroll. Her penmanship had never won her any school awards, and she wanted to make it as clear as possible.

The message read, “Testing Scots. Please reply.”

She removed Lord Akeldama’s crystalline valve from the secret pocket of her parasol, carefully using her copious skirts to shroud her movements so the claviger could not see where it was hidden.

Madame Lefoux was still puttering, so Lady Maccon entertained herself by exploring the receiving room, the part of the aethographor on which Madame Lefoux was not working. She tested her own memory on the parts. They were, in general, larger and less streamlined than on Lord Akeldama’s transmitter, but they were in the same place: filter to eliminate ambient noise, dial for amplifying incoming signals, and two pieces of glass with black particulate between.

Madame Lefoux surprised Alexia with a gentle touch on her arm.

“We are almost ready. It is five minutes until eleven. Shall we set the machine to transmit?”

“Will I be allowed to watch?”

“Of course.”

The three of them crammed into the tiny transmitting room, which, like the receiving room, was packed with machinery that looked like Lord Akeldama’s—except that the gadgetry was more tangled, something Alexia had not thought possible, and the dials and switches were more numerous.

Madame Lefoux smoothed out and slotted Alexia’s metal scroll into the special frame. Alexia placed Lord Akeldama’s valve into the resonator cradle. After confirming the time, Madame Lefoux pulled down on a large knob-ended switch and engaged the aetheric convector, activating the chemical wash. The etched letters began to phosphoresce. The two small hydrodine engines spun to life, generating opposing aetheroelectric impulses, and the two needles raced across the slate. Sparking brightly whenever they were exposed to one another through the letters, transmission commenced. Alexia worried about the rain causing delay, but she had faith that Lord Akeldama’s improved technology was capable of greater sensitivity and could cut though climatic interference.

“Testing… Scots… please… reply” sped invisibly outward.

And leagues to the south, at the top of a posh town house, a well-trained vampire drone, dressed like a candied orange peel, who looked as though his gravest concern was whether winter cravats permitted paisley or not, sat up straight and began recording an incoming transmission. The source was unknown, but he had been told to sweep on broad receiving at eleven o’clock for several nights straight. He took down the message and then noted the transmission coordination frequency and the time before dashing off to find his master.

“It is hard to know for certain, but I believe everything went smoothly.” Madame Lefoux switched off the transmitter, the little hydrodine engines spinning quietly down. “Of course, we will not know if communication has been established until we receive an answering transmission.”

The claviger said, “Your contact will have to determine the correct frequency from the incoming message so that he can dial it in from his end, without a companion valve frequensor. How long will such an endeavor take?”

“No way to know,” replied the Frenchwoman. “Could be quite rapid. We had best go turn the receiving room on.”

So they let themselves into the other chamber and lit the silent little steam engine located under the instrument board. Then came a long quarter of an hour simply sitting, as quietly as possible, waiting.

“I think we will give it just a few more minutes,” Madame Lefoux whispered. Even her whisper caused the magnetic resonator coils to shake slightly.

The claviger frowned at her and went to retune the ambient noise filtration component.

Then, with no warning at all, Lord Akeldama’s message slowly began to appear between the two pieces of glass on the receiver. The small hydraulic arm with its mounted magnet began painstakingly moving back and forth, shifting the magnetic particulate one letter at a time.

The claviger, whose name Alexia still did not know, began carefully and quietly copying down the incoming letters on a soft piece of washed canvas using a stylographic pen. Lady Maccon and Madame Lefoux held their collective breaths and tried not to move. Silence was vital. After each letter was complete, the arm reset itself and the glass shook softly, erasing the previous letter and preparing for the next.

Eventually, the arm stopped moving. They waited a few more minutes, and when Alexia went to speak, the claviger held up his hand autocratically. Only when he had switched everything off did he nod, allowing them to talk. Lady Maccon realized why he had charge of the aethographor. The Scots were a silent, dour lot, but he seemed to have the least to say of any of them.

“Well? Read out the message,” she demanded.

He cleared his throat and, blushing slightly, read out, “ ‘Got you. Scots taste good?’ ”

Lady Maccon laughed. Lord Akeldama must have misread her message. Instead of “testing Scots,” he had read “tasting Scots.” “Regardless of the reply, we know that this transmitter is working. And I can gossip with Lord Akeldama.”

The claviger looked offended. “An aethographor isna intended for gossip, Lady Maccon!”

“Tell that to Lord Akeldama.”

Madame Lefoux’s dimples appeared.

“Could we send him one more message to be certain as to the efficaciousness of the transmitting room?” Lady Maccon asked hopefully.

The claviger sighed. He was reluctant to agree but was apparently also unwilling to resist the request of a guest. He wandered off and returned with another metal scroll.

Alexia inscribed, “Spy here?”

From what she could recall, Lord Akeldama’s newer model had the ability to overhear other transmissions, if it knew where to look.

Minutes later in the other room, the reply came. “Not mine. Probably chatty bats.”

While the other two looked confused, Alexia only nodded. Lord Akeldama thought that any spy would belong to the vampires. Knowing her friend, he would now take it upon himself to start monitoring the Westminster Hive and nearby roves. She could just imagine him rubbing pink-gloved hands together, thrilled with the challenge. With a smile, she removed Lord Akeldama’s valve and, when the claviger was not looking, stashed it back in her trusty parasol.

Lady Maccon was exhausted by the time she sought her bed. It was not a small bed by any means, yet her husband seemed to be occupying the entirety of it. He was sprawled, snoring softly, wrapped every which way in a ragged and much-abused (clearly throughout its long and not very successful life) coverlet.

Alexia climbed in and applied a tried-and-true technique she had developed over the last few months. She braced herself against the headboard and used her legs to push him as much to one side as possible, clearing sufficient space for her to worm her way down before he took to sprawling once more. She supposed he had spent decades, even centuries, sleeping alone; it would take some time to retrain him. In the meantime, she was developing some decent thigh muscles from her nightly ritual. The earl was no lightweight.

Conall growled at her slightly but seemed pleased enough to find her next to him once she snuggled against his side. He rolled toward her, nuzzled the back of her neck, and wrapped a heavy arm about her waist.

She tugged hard at the coverlet, which would not budge, and settled for arranging the earl’s arm about her instead of the blanket. As a supernatural creature, Conall was supposed to be cold most of the time, but Alexia never felt it. Whenever she touched him, he was mortal, and his mortal body seemed to run at temperatures something akin to a high-end steam boiler. It was nice to be able to sleep touching him for once, with no worries she might cause him to age.

And on that note, Lady Maccon drifted off.

She awoke still warm. But her husband’s affection, or possibly his hidden murderous tendencies, had shoved her so far toward the edge of the bed that she was partly suspended in midair. Without his arm about her waist, she would most certainly have tumbled off the side. Her nightgown was, of course, gone. How did he always manage to do that? The nuzzling at the back of her neck had turned into nibbles.

She cracked an eyelid: it was just about dawn, or the gray and depressing Highland winter version of dawn. Kingair heralded the day with a sad, reluctant spit of light, which in no way encouraged one to spring swiftly from the bed and trip lightly the morning dew. Not that Alexia was any kind of springer or tripper first thing on normal occasions.

Conall’s nibbles turned into slightly more insistent bites. He was fond of a bite here or there. Sometimes Alexia was given to wonder if, had she not been a preternatural, he would not have actually eaten a chunk of her once in a while. There was something in the way his eyes came over yellow and hungry when he was in an amorous mood. She had ceased fighting the fact that she loved Conall, but that did not stop her from being practical about his requirements. Baser instincts were baser instincts, after all, and, her touch aside, he was still a werewolf. On occasions like this, she had reason to be glad her own powers kept his teeth nice and square. Although, of course, the way things stood in Kingair, had she been in full possession of a soul, she still would not have had to worry.

He turned his attention to her ear.

“Stop that. Angelique will be in presently to see me dressed.”

“Bother her.”

“For goodness’ sake, Conall. Think of her delicate sensibilities.”

“Your maid is a prude,” was her husband’s grumbled reply. He did not leave off his romantic attentions. Instead he moved his arm to better facilitate his notion of acceptable morning activities. Unfortunately, he neglected to realize his arm was all that was holding his wife in the bed.

With an undignified squawk, Alexia tumbled to the floor.

“Good Lord, woman, what’d you do that for?” her husband asked in profound confusion.

Lady Maccon checked to see that everything was unbroken and then stood, angrier than a hornet. She was just about to sting her husband into oblivion with the sharper side of her already-sharp tongue when she remembered that she was naked. At that same moment, she came to the sudden realization of exactly how cold a stone castle could get during a Highland winter. Cursing her husband a blue streak, she jerked the covers off of him and launched herself at him, burrowing into his warmth.

Seeing how this put her naked body plastered on top of him, Lord Maccon had no objection. Except that his wife was still annoyed and was now wide awake and twitchy, and he was aching something awful from his fight the night before.

“I am going to find out what is going on with this pack of yours today if it is the last thing I do,” she said, swatting at his hands when they attempted to make interesting forays. “The longer I spend lazing about in bed, the less time I have to investigate.”

“I wasna planning on being lazy,” came the growl.

Lady Maccon decided that, in the interest of economy, she would have to face the cold, or her husband would carry on about this for hours. When he took it into his head to do a thing, he liked to see it done properly.

“It will have to wait until this evening,” she said, extracting herself from his embrace. In a swift movement, she rolled off of him to one side, spinning the coverlet around herself. She part rolled, part hopped off the edge of the bed to her feet and shuffled across the floor toward her pelisse. This left her poor husband naked on the bed behind her. He was less disturbed by the cold, for he simply propped himself up on a pillow, folded his hands behind his head, and watched her out of heavy-lidded eyes.

Which was the scene poor Angelique came in upon—her mistress wrapped in a blanket like a large upended sausage roll, and her master sprawled naked for all the world to see. The maid had been living among werewolves, and in the presence of Lord and Lady Maccon, long enough not to have this bother her overmuch. She squeaked, winced, averted her eyes, and carried the basin of washing water over to the little stand provided.

Lady Maccon hid a smile. Poor Angelique. To come from the world of hives into the chaos that was pack life must be disconcerting. After all, no one was more civilized than the vampires, and no one less civilized than werewolves. Alexia wondered if vampires ever even made it to bed sport; they were so busy being polite to one another. At least the werewolves lived large: loud and messy, but also large.

She thanked the maid and took pity on her, sending her off to find tea. Then she quickly dropped the blanket to wash.

Conall lumbered off the bed and came over to see if he could “help” with her ablutions. His assistance caused some giggling, and a lot of splashing, and a certain degree of wetness that was not necessarily water related. But she did manage to be safely enshrouded in her pelisse and to see him shoved off into his dressing chamber and under the tender ministrations of Tunstell’s waistcoat choices before Angelique reappeared.

She sipped tea while the maid picked out a perfectly serviceable tweed day dress and underthings. She pulled these on in an apologetic silence, with not even a token complaint, figuring they had already put the poor woman’s finer feelings through the wringer that morning.

She huffed a little as the corset went on. Angelique was merciless. Soon enough Alexia was seated, docile and dressed, while the Frenchwoman did her hair.

Angelique asked, “So, ze machine, iz it fixed?”

Alexia gave her a suspicious look through the mirror. “Yes, we believe so. But I wouldn’t be too excited; Madame Lefoux shows no inclination to depart anytime soon.”

Angelique made no reply.

Alexia was positively aquiver with the need to know the history between the two women but resigned herself to the fact that French caginess beat out British stubbornness, in this at least. So she sat in silence while the maid finished her work.

“Tell him this is good enough,” came her husband’s roar.

Lady Maccon stood and turned around.

Conall came striding in, trailed by the long-suffering Tunstell.

Lady Maccon looked at her husband with a critical eye.

“Your shirt is untucked, your cravat has no finish, and your collar is bent at one side.” She stood and began fussing with his rumpled clothing.

“I dinna ken why I bother; you always side with him.” Conall submitted to her ministrations with ill grace.

“Did you know your accent has gotten stronger since we arrived in Scotland?”

That got her a dour look. Lady Maccon rolled her eyes at Tunstell over Conall’s shoulder and gestured with her head that he could leave.

“We didna arrive in Scotland. I arrived; you followed.” He ran a finger under his high collar.

“Stop that—you’ll dirty the white.”

“Have I mentioned recently how loathsome I find the current fashions?”

“Take it up with the vampires; they set the trends.”

“Hence the high collars,” he grumbled. “I and mine, however, have no need to hide our necks.”

“No,” quipped his wife, “simply your personalities.” She stepped back, brushing down the shawl collar of his waistcoat. “There. Very handsome.”

Her large supernatural husband looked shy at that. “You think so?”

“Stop fishing for compliments and go get your jacket. I am positively starving.”

He pulled her against him and administered a long, deep, and distracting kiss. “You are always hungry, wife.”

“Mmm.” She could not take umbrage with a true statement. “So are you. Simply for different things.”

They were only slightly late for breakfast.

Most of the rest of the house was not yet up. Lady Kingair was there—Alexia wondered if the woman slept—and two clavigers, but none of the Kingair Pack. Of course, Ivy and Felicity were still abed. They kept London hours, even in the country, and could not be expected to appear until midmorning. Tunstell, Lady Maccon suspected, would find things to occupy himself until the ladies came down.

The castle put on a decent breakfast, for the middle of nowhere. There were cold cuts of pork, venison, and woodcock; potted shrimp; fried wild mushrooms; sliced pears; boiled eggs and toast; as well as a nice collection of fruit preserves. Lady Maccon helped herself, then settled down to tuck in.

Lady Kingair, who was eating a bowl of unseasoned porridge and a piece of plain toast, gave Alexia’s loaded plate a telling look. Alexia, who had never let the opinions of others sway her overmuch, especially where food was concerned, merely chewed loudly and with appreciative gusto.

Her husband shook his head at her antics, but as he himself sported a plate piled nearly twice as high as his wife’s, he could not cast aspersions.

“If you are back to being human,” Lady Maccon said after a pause, “you will get rotund eating like that.”

“I shall have to take up some sort of abrasively atrocious athletic sport.”

“You could go in for the hunt,” suggested Alexia. “Tallyho and view halloo.”

Werewolves, as a general rule, were not big on riding. Precious few horses were willing to carry a wolf on their back, even if he did look temporarily human. Driving a team was about as close as most werewolves could get. Since they could run faster in wolf form than a horse anyway, this fact did not tend to trouble the packs much. Except, of course, those men who had enjoyed riding before their metamorphosis.

Lord Maccon was not one of those men. “Foxhunting? I should think not,” he said, gnawing on a bit of pork. “Foxes are practically cousins; wouldna sit well with the family, if you take my meaning.”

“Oh, but how dashing you would look in shiny boots and one of those flashy red jackets.”

“I was contemplating boxing or possibly lawn tennis.”

Lady Maccon stifled a giggle by stuffing her face with a forkful of mushroom. The very idea of her husband prancing around all in white with a little netted baton in his hand. She swallowed. “Those sound like lovely ideas, dear,” she said, deadpan, eyes bright and dancing. “Have you considered golf? Highly suited to your heritage and sense of style.”

Conall glared at her, but there was a bit of a smile playing about his lips. “Now, now, wife, there’s no cause for blatant insult.”

Alexia was not certain whether she was insulting him by suggesting golf or insulting golf by suggesting he was its ideal participant.

Lady Kingair watched this byplay with both fascination and repugnance. “Goodness, I had heard it said that yours was a love match, but I couldna countenance it.”

Lady Maccon huffed. “Why else would any woman marry him?”

“Or her,” agreed Lord Maccon.

Something caught Alexia’s attention out of the corner of one eye. Something small and moving near the door to the room. Taken with curiosity, she stood, arresting the table conversation, and went to investigate.

Upon closer examination, she squealed in a most un-Alexia-like manner and jumped away in horror. Lord Maccon leaped to her rescue.

Lady Maccon looked at her great-great-whatever-daughter-in-law. “Cockroaches!” she accused, horrified out of any politeness that dictated she not mention the filthiness of the abode. “Why does your castle have cockroaches?”

Lord Maccon, with great presence of mind, removed his shoe and went to crush the offending insect. He paused, examined it for a split second, and then squished it flat.

Lady Kingair turned to one of the clavigers. “How did that get in here?”

“Canna keep them confined, my lady. They seem to be breeding, they do.”

“Then summon an exterminator.”

The young man glanced furtively in Lord and Lady Maccon’s direction. “Would he ken how to deal with”—a pause—“this particular type?”

“Only one way to find out. Hie yourself into town immediately.”

“Very good, madam.”

Alexia returned to the dining table, but her appetite had deserted her. She made to rise shortly thereafter.

Lord Maccon inhaled a few last bites and then took off after his wife, catching up to her in the hallway.

“That was not a cockroach, was it?” she asked.

“Aye. It wasna.”

“Well?”

He shrugged, his big hands spread wide in confusion. “Strangely colored, all shiny.”

“Oh, thank you for that.”

“Why bother? ’Tis dead now.”

“Point taken, husband. So, what are we planning for today?”

He nibbled a fingertip thoughtfully. “You know, I thought we might discern exactly why the supernatural isna working properly here.”

“Oh, darling, what a unique and original idea.”

He paused. The subject of Kingair’s little affliction of humanity seemed not to actually be foremost in his mind. “Red jacket and shiny boots, you say?”

Lady Maccon looked at her husband, confused for a moment. Where was he going with this line of reasoning? “Boots are causing the illness?”

“No,” he grumbled, shamefaced, “on me.”

“Ah!” She grinned hugely. “I believe I might have mentioned something to that effect.”

“Anything else?”

The grin widened. “Actually, I was envisioning boots, jacket, and nothing else at all. Mmm, perhaps just boots.”

He swallowed, nervous.

She turned to him, upping the odds. “If you were to make this fashion event happen, I might be open to a little negotiating about which of us will be doing the riding.”

Lord Maccon, werewolf of some two hundred years, blushed beet red at that. “I am eternally grateful you have not taken up gambling, my dear.”

She wormed herself into his arms and raised her lips to be kissed. “Give me time.”