Heartless

CHAPTER NINE In Which the Past Complicates the Present

A knock came at the back parlor door, and Floote stuck his debonair head around the side. “Madame Lefoux to see you, madam.”

Lady Maccon placed her parasol carefully to one side, pretending her husband had not just given her due warning. “Ah, yes, show her into the front parlor, would you, please, Floote? I’ll be in shortly. We simply can’t have company in this room yet—it’s not decent.”

“Very good, madam.”

Alexia turned back to her husband, beckoning with one hand to get him to come help her stand. He did, bracing himself.

“Oomph,” she said, attaining her feet. “Very well, I shall add Lord Woolsey to our ever-growing list of suspects who are now dead and thus useless. Death can be jolly well inconvenient, if you ask me. We can’t possibly prove his involvement.”

“Or what bearing it might have on this new threat to the queen.” The earl placed a casual arm about his wife, assistance couched in a more Alexia-acceptable act of affection. Nearly a year of marriage and he was finally learning.

“True, true.” His wife leaned against him.

Another knock sounded at the back parlor door.

“What now!” growled Lord Maccon.

Professor Lyall’s sandy head popped in this time. “You’re wanted, my lord, on a matter of pack business.”

“Oh, very well.” The earl helped his wife waddle down the hallway. He abandoned her at the door to the front parlor and then followed his Beta out into the night.

“Hat, my lord,” came Professor Lyall’s mild rebuke, a disembodied voice from the darkness.

Conall came back inside, scooped a convenient top hat off of the hall stand, and disappeared outside again.

Alexia paused at the door to the front parlor. Floote had left it slightly ajar, and she overheard conversation drifting from within, Madame Lefoux’s mellow voice and that of another, clear and erudite, confident with age and authority.

“Mr. Tarabotti had significant romantic success. I often wondered if the soulless weren’t dangerously attractive to those with too much soul. You, for example, probably have excess. You like her, don’t you?”

“Oh, really, Mr. Floote, why this sudden interest in my romantic inclinations?”

Lady Maccon started at that. She might have recognized Floote’s voice, of course, except that she had never heard him string so many words together at once. It must be admitted, she had privately doubted his ability to formulate a complete sentence. Or at least his willingness to do so.

“Be careful, madam.” The butler’s voice was stiff with rebuke.

Alexia flushed slightly at the very idea of her staff taking such a tone with a guest!

“Is it my care you are concerned with or Alexia’s?” Madame Lefoux seemed well able to withstand such a grave breach in domestic protocol.

“Both.”

“Very well. Now, would you be so kind as to check up on Her Highness? I am in a bit of a rush and the evening isn’t getting any longer.”

At this juncture, Lady Maccon made a great blundering noise and entered the room.

Floote, unflappable, backed away from his intimate proximity to the French inventor as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Madame Lefoux, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company? I seem to have just left you.” Alexia made her way laboriously across the room.

“I have that information you were looking for. About the teapots.” The inventor handed over a sheaf of old parchment paper, yellowed about the edges, thick and ridged, marked by hand and the assistance of a straight edge into some sort of ledger. “It’s in my aunt’s code, which I am certain you could decipher if you wished. But essentially it indicates that she had only one order for the teapot invention that year, but it was a big one. It didn’t come through any suspicious channels. That’s the intriguing part. It was a government order, out of London, with funds originating in the Bureau of Unnatural Registry.”

Lady Maccon’s mouth opened slightly, then snapped shut. “Ivy’s Agent Doom was at BUR?” She sighed. “Well, I suppose that puts Lord Woolsey to the top of my suspect list. He would have held my husband’s position at the time.”

Floote, in the act of shutting the door behind himself, paused on the threshold. “Lord Woolsey, madam?”

Alexia looked at him, all big-eyed and innocuous. “Yes. I’m beginning to think he must have had a hand in the Kingair assassination attempt.”

Madame Lefoux looked entirely uninterested at this. Her present concerns must be outweighing any curiosity over the past. “I do hope the information will be of some use, Alexia. When you’re finished, could I please have those records back? I like to keep these things in proper order. You understand, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“And now, I hate to be so abrupt, but I must get back to it.”

“Of course, of course. Do try to get some rest, please, Genevieve?”

“I’ll rest when the souls do,” quipped the inventor with a shrug. Then she left the room, only to return a moment later. “Have you seen my top hat?”

“The gray one out in the hall?” Lady Maccon’s stomach fell in a way that had nothing whatsoever to do with the child.

“Yes.”

“I believe my husband may have accidentally absconded with it. Was it special?”

“Only in that it was my favorite hat. I can’t imagine it fit him. Must be several sizes too small.”

Lady Maccon closed her eyes at the very idea. “Oh, he must look quite a picture. I do apologize, Genevieve. He is so very bad about these things. I’ll have it sent over as soon as he returns.”

“Oh, no trouble. I do, after all, own a hat shop.” The inventor flashed a dimpled smile, and Alexia felt a strange bump of pleasure at the sight. It had been so long since Genevieve had smiled fully.

Floote saw the Frenchwoman to the door, but before he could even attempt to resume his regular duties, Lady Maccon called him back into her presence.

“Floote, a moment of your time.”

Floote came to stand before her, wary. His face, as always, was impassive, but Alexia had learned over the years to watch the set of his shoulders for clues as to his real feelings.

“Floote, I wouldn’t wish to be an eavesdropper, not on my friends or my staff—that is, by rights, your provenance. However, I couldn’t help but overhear some bit of your conversation with Madame Lefoux before I entered this room. Really, I didn’t know you had it in you. Several sentences in a row. And some of them quite sharp.”

“Madam?” The shoulders twitched.

Floote really didn’t have much of a sense of humor, poor man. Lady Maccon stopped teasing him and moved on to the meat of the matter. “You were discussing my father, weren’t you?”

“In a manner, madam.”

“And?”

“Madame Lefoux pays you a good deal of conspicuous attention.”

“Yes. I always figured it was her way. If you take my meaning.”

“I do, madam.”

“But you think it is something more?”

His shoulders tensed and Floote looked, if such a thing were to be conceived, uncomfortable. “I have made observations over the years.”

“Yes?” Having a conversation with Floote was about as easy as explaining the formulation of the counterbalance theorem to a bowl of macaroni pudding.

“On the nature of preternatural interactions, if you would, madam.”

“Yes, I would. Go on.”

Floote spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. “I have arrived at certain conclusions.”

“Concerning what, exactly?” Coaxing, coaxing, thought Alexia. Never her strong point in a conversation, letting others take their time getting to a point. Still, the company of Lord Akeldama had taught her much in the way of it.

“There may be attraction between those who have excess soul and those who have none at all, madam.”

“You mean preternatural and supernatural?”

“Or preternatural and natural folk with supernatural potential.”

“What kind of attraction?” asked Lady Maccon rather injudiciously.

Floote raised an eloquent eyebrow.

“Did my father—” Alexia stopped, trying to come up with the correct phrasing. This was a strange sensation for her, thinking before she spoke. Her husband was much the same way or they might never have tolerated each other. Floote was notoriously reluctant to talk about his former employer, citing classified protection of international relations and the safety of the empire. Lady Maccon tried again. “Did my father exercise this appeal on purpose?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Suddenly Floote switched topics, volunteering information in a most unexpected and un-Floote-like manner. “Do you know why the Templars gave up their preternatural breeding program, madam?”

Alexia’s brain tried to change gears, a steam engine caught on the wrong track. “Uh, no.”

“They never could entirely control preternaturals. It’s your pragmatism. Your kind cannot be persuaded by faith; pure logic must be applied.”

Alexia’s very pragmatic nature was confused as to why normally taciturn Floote was telling her this, and right now. “Is that what happened to my father? Did he lose faith?”

“Not exactly faith, madam.”

“What do you mean, precisely, Floote? Enough shilly-shallying.”

“He engaged in an exchange of loyalties.”

Alexia frowned. She was beginning to suspect there were far fewer coincidences in life than she had previously believed. “Let me guess. This occurred about twenty years ago?”

“Nearer to thirty, but if you are asking if the three events are linked, the answer is yes.”

“My father rejecting the Templars, his death, and the Kingair assassination attempt? But when the Kingair Pack tried to kill the queen, he was already dead.”

“My point exactly, madam.”

A loud crashing and banging came at the front door. Lady Maccon would have liked to query Floote further, but pressing noises seemed to be calling on his butler attentions.

Floote glided out, all calmness and dignity, to see what the fuss was about. Whoever it was, however, pushed past him and came rushing into the front parlor, crying, “Lady Maccon! Lady Maccon, you are needed most urgently!”

The intrusion resolved itself into the form of two of Lord Akeldama’s boys, Boots and a young viscount by the name of Trizdale. They were overwrought and disheveled—conditions highly out of character for any of Lord Akeldama’s drones. One sleeve of Boots’s favorite green jacket was torn, and Tizzy’s boots actually looked to be scuffed in places. Scuffed, indeed!

“My goodness me, gentlemen, has there been an incident?”

“Oh, my lady, I can hardly bear to say it. But we are being assaulted!”

“Oh, my.” Lady Maccon signaled them to come closer. “Don’t stand there gawping—help me to rise. What can I do?”

“Well, my lady, we are under attack from a werewolf!”

Alexia paled considerably. “In a vampire’s abode? Deary me! What is this world coming to?”

Boots said, “That’s just the thing, my lady. We thought it best to fetch you. The creature is on a bender.”

Lady Maccon grabbed up her parasol and her reticule. “Of course, of course. I’ll come directly. Lend me your arm, please, Mr. Bootbottle-Fipps.”

As quickly as possible, the two young dandies helped Alexia to waddle out the front door and along the path past the lilac bushes into Lord Akeldama’s house.

The arched and frescoed hallway was packed with concerned-looking young men, several of them worse off than Boots and Tizzy. Two were even missing their cravats. A truly startling thing to see. They were milling about and talking in obvious trepidation, at a loss but eager to do something.

“Gentlemen!” Lady Maccon’s shrill feminine voice cut through the masculine hubbub. She raised her parasol on high as though about to conduct a concert. “Where is the beast?”

“Please, mum, it’s our master.”

Alexia paused in perplexity and lowered her parasol slightly. Lord Akeldama was a vampire, but no one would ever refer to him as a beast.

The dandies continued in a chorus of explanations and objections.

“He’s gone and locked himself in the drawing room.”

“With that monster.”

“I should never wish to question our lord’s choices, but really!”

“So ill-kempt. I’m convinced its fur had split ends.”

“Said he could handle it.”

“For our own good, he said. Not to let anyone in.”

“I’m not anyone.” Lady Maccon pushed her way through the throng of perfectly tailored jackets and high white collars, as one of those particularly chubby terriers might clear a path through a pack of poodles.

The young men gave way until she was faced with the gilt door, painted with white and lavender swirls, that led into Lord Akeldama’s infamous drawing room. She took a deep breath and knocked loudly with the handle of her parasol.

“Lord Akeldama? It’s Lady Maccon. May I enter?”

From behind the door came the sound of scuffling and possibly Lord Akeldama’s voice. But no one actually bid her entrance.

She knocked again. Even under the most dire of circumstances, one didn’t simply go bursting into a man’s private drawing room without sufficient provocation.

A particularly loud crash was all the response she got.

Alexia decided that this could be considered sufficient provocation and slowly turned the knob. Parasol at the ready, she waddled in as quick as she could, closing the door firmly behind her. Just because she was disobeying Lord Akeldama’s orders didn’t mean the drones could as well.

Her fascinated gaze fell upon quite the tableau.

Lady Maccon had witnessed an altercation between a vampire and a werewolf once before, but it had been inside a moving carriage and had rather rapidly relocated from carriage to road. Also, back then, the two opponents had genuinely been trying to kill each other. This was different.

Lord Akeldama was locked in single combat with a werewolf. The wolf was definitely trying to kill him, jaws snapping and all his supernatural strength bent on the vampire’s destruction. But Lord Akeldama, while fighting the wolf off, did not seem to be enthusiastic about killing him. For one thing, his favored weapon, a silver-edged glaive that masqueraded as a piece of gold plumbing, was still in its customary place above the mantelpiece. No, Lord Akeldama seemed to be employing mostly evasive strategies, which only served to frustrate and anger the wolf.

The beast lunged for the vampire’s elegant white neck, and Lord Akeldama dodged to the side, flicking out one arm in a blasé manner, as if flapping a large handkerchief at a departing steamer. It was a gesture that, for all its casualness, still lifted the werewolf up and entirely over the vampire’s blond head to land on his back near the fireplace.

Alexia had never had the chance to observe Lord Akeldama fight before. Of course, one knew Lord Akeldama must be able to fight. He was rumored to be quite old, and as such must be at least capable of combat. But this was akin to knowing, academically, that his chubby calico house cat was capable of hunting rats—the actual execution of the task always seemed highly improbable and possibly embarrassing for all concerned. Thus, she now found herself quite intrigued by the display before her. And soon discovered that she was wrong in her initial assumption.

Far from any discomfit or awkwardness, Lord Akeldama fought with a nonchalant lazy efficiency, as though he had all the time in the world on his side. Which Alexia supposed he did. His advantage was in speed, eyesight, and dexterity. The wolf had strength, smell, and sound to rely on, but he was inexperienced. The werewolf hadn’t an Alpha’s skill, either, which Lord Maccon had once described to his wife as fighting with soul. No, this wolf was moon mad. His jaws snapped and his claws speared surfaces without regard to logic or expense. The vampire’s perfectly elegant drawing room was faring no better than Alexia’s back parlor. He was also getting saliva all over the pretty throw cushions.

It would have been an entirely uneven match except that Lord Akeldama really was trying not to hurt Biffy.

Because that was who it was: Biffy, chocolate brown fur with an oxblood stomach.

“How on earth did you get out of the Woolsey dungeon?”

No one answered her, of course.

Biffy charged Lord Akeldama. The vampire seemed to flash spontaneously from one side of the room to the other, leaving the werewolf to complete his leap with no quarry at the end of it. Biffy landed on a gold brocade chair, overturning it so that its legs stuck up, shockingly bare, into the air.

The werewolf noticed Lady Maccon’s presence first. His nostrils flared. His hairy head swiveled around to cast a yellow-eyed glare in her direction. There was none of Biffy’s soft blue gentleness in those eyes, only the need to maim, feast, and kill.

Lord Akeldama was only seconds behind noticing that they had company. “Why, Alexia, my little cowslip, how kind of you to call. Especially in your present condition.”

Alexia played along. “Well, I had nothing better to do of an evening, and I did hear you needed help in entertaining an unexpected guest.”

The vampire gave a little chuckle. “La so, my custard. As you see. Our company is a tad overwrought. Methinks he could use some good cheer.”

“I do see. Is there any way in which I may provide assistance?”

While this conversation took place, Biffy charged at Alexia. She barely had time to arm her dart emitter before Lord Akeldama interposed, protecting her gallantly.

He took on the brunt of the attack. Biffy’s claws scraped down the vampire’s legs, tearing silk trousers to ribbons and gouging deep into the muscle. Old black blood seeped out. At the same time, the werewolf’s jaws locked about Lord Akeldama’s upper arm, biting clean through the meatiest part. The pain must have been phenomenal, but the vampire merely shook the wolf off, as a dog will shake off water. Even as Alexia watched, Lord Akeldama’s wounds began to heal.

Biffy launched himself at the vampire once more, and together they grappled, Lord Akeldama always just that split second faster and a whole lot craftier so that even with all the predatory advantages afforded by the werewolf state, Biffy could not break the vampire’s hold nor his will when both were set so firmly against him.

Alexia said, “I’ve been meaning to have this little chat with you, my lord. Some of your young gentlemen friends do seem to get overly clingy, don’t you find?”

The vampire puffed out a breath of amusement. His hair was coming loose from its ribbon, and he appeared to have lost his cravat pin.

“My darling pumpkin blossom, it is not my intent to engender such gripping affection, I assure you. It is purely by accident.”

“You are too charismatic for your own good.”

“You said it, my dabble-duck, not I.” Once more the vampire managed to use grip and speed to lever the wolf off of him and hurl the creature across the room, away from Alexia. Biffy landed full against the wall and slid down, taking several watercolors with him. He crashed to the floor, the paintings now lying amidst shards of glass and gilt frames. He shook himself and stumbled dizzily to his feet.

Alexia fired the parasol. Her dart struck home and the werewolf collapsed back. He seemed to wobble, losing control of bits of himself, but then, quicker than any vampire Alexia had ever shot, fought against the effects of the drug and regained his feet. She wondered if Madame Lefoux’s last batch of numbing agent was up to snuff or if it was simply less effective on werewolves.

Lord Akeldama flitted to one side, catching the wolf’s attention and directing his next charge away from Lady Maccon.

Alexia said, deciding on a new tactic, “If you think you could hold him steady, my lord, I might be able to manage a calming touch. You know, some lads these days simply require a female to administer discipline.”

“Of course, my plum, of course.”

Biffy hit Lord Akeldama broadside, and in the same movement, the vampire turned all affectionate, instead of tossing him away. Wrapping both his arms and legs about the wolf, Lord Akeldama used the beast’s own momentum to tumble them both to the lush carpet. In an amazing feat of wrestling, the vampire got one elbow about Biffy’s muzzle, his hand closing firmly over the nose. With his other arm, he locked down the forelegs. With his legs, Lord Akeldama secured Biffy’s hindquarters. It was a remarkable exhibition of agility and flexibility. Alexia was duly impressed, having wrestled a bit with her husband. Lord Akeldama was clearly very experienced in the matter of intimate tussling.

Alexia knew the vampire would not be able to pin the werewolf thus for very long. In the end, Biffy was stronger and would break free, but Lord Akeldama did have the beast momentarily confused.

She waddled up and, casting her own safety to the winds, leaned forward, not unexpectedly losing her balance. She landed fully atop both supernatural creatures, ensuring her bare hands were in contact with Biffy but turning both men mortal in her enthusiasm.

It was a very odd sensation, for in such a position, Alexia was uncomfortably aware of Biffy’s body changing from wolf to human. She could feel the slide of muscle and bone beneath her protruding belly as he shifted. It was eerily like the feel of her child kicking underneath her own skin.

Biffy howled with the pain of it, directly into Alexia’s ear. A howl that turned to a scream of agony, then a whimper of remembered suffering, and finally little snuffles of acute embarrassment. Then, as he came to the horrific realization of what he had almost done, he turned to his former master.

“Oh, dear, oh, dear. Oh dear.” It was a litany of distress. “My lord, are you well? Did I cause any permanent injury? Oh look at your trousers! Oh, mercy. I am so sorry.”

Lord Akeldama’s healing was paused midway so that the claw marks were still visible under the tattered ribbons of his silken britches.

“ ’Tis but a scratch, my pet. Do not trouble yourself so.” He looked down at himself. “Well, several scratches, to be precise.”

At this juncture, Alexia was forced into a realization that rather shook the foundations of her universe: there are some circumstances that even the very best manners could not possibly rectify. This was one such situation. For there she lay, pregnant and out of balance, atop a pile consisting of one overdressed vampire and one underdressed werewolf.

“Biffy,” she said finally, “to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit? I was under the impression you were otherwise contained this evening.” It was a valiant attempt, but even such talk as this could not mask the awkwardness.

Lord Akeldama attempted to unwind himself from Biffy and extract himself from Alexia without the aid of supernatural strength. When this was finally accomplished, he stood, dashed to the door to reassure his drones of his undamaged state, and sent one of them to fetch clothing.

Biffy and Alexia helped each other to rise.

“Are you unharmed, my lady?”

Alexia did a quick internal check. “It would appear so. Remarkably resilient, this baby of mine. I could use a bit of a sit-down, though.”

Biffy helped her to an ottoman—one of the few pieces of furniture in the room not overturned—her hand firmly clasped in his. They sat and stared off into space, grappling with how best to handle their predicament. Lord Maccon might be a blustering instrument of rudeness, but he did have his uses in dispersing awkward silences. Alexia handed Biffy a shawl, only slightly saliva-ridden. He set it gratefully in his lap.

She tried not to look, of course she did, but Biffy did have a rather nice physique. Not nearly so splendid as her husband’s, but not everyone could be built like a steam engine, and the young dandy had kept himself well in hand before metamorphosis, for all his frivolous pursuits.

“Biffy, were you secretly a Corinthian?” Alexia wondered out loud before she could stop herself.

Biffy blushed. “No, my lady, although I did enjoy fencing rather more than some of my compatriots might consider healthy.”

Lady Maccon nodded sagely.

Lord Akeldama returned, looking not a whit put out. His brief sojourn among his drones had resulted in hair and neck cloth back to crisp and pristine order and a new pair of satin trousers. How do they do it? wondered Alexia.

“Biffy, duckling, what a surprise your visiting little old me at this time of moon.” He handed his former drone a pair of sapphire-colored britches.

Biffy blushed, pulling them on with one hand. Alexia took polite interest in the opposite side of the room. “Yes, well, I wasn’t entirely in my right faculties, my lord, when I made the decision to, uh, call. I think I simply, well, instinctively”—he glanced at Lady Maccon from under his lashes—“headed home.”

Lord Akeldama nodded. “Yes, my dove, but you have missed the mark. Your home is next door. I know it’s easy to be confused.”

“Too easy. Especially in my altered state.”

They were speaking about Biffy’s werewolfness as one would an evening’s inebriation. Alexia looked back and forth between the two of them. Lord Akeldama had taken a seat opposite his former drone, his eyes heavy-lidded, his posture informal, revealing nothing.

Biffy, too, was beginning to assume his old dapperness, as though this were actually a social call. As though he were not half naked in a vampire’s drawing room. As though he had not just tried to kill them both.

Lady Maccon had always admired Lord Akeldama’s ability to remain patently unruffled by the world about him. It was as commendable as his never-ending efforts to ensure that his own small corner of London was filled with nothing but beauty and pleasant conversation. But sometimes, and she should never say such a thing openly, it smacked of cowardice. She wondered if the immortal’s avoidance of life’s ugliness was a matter of survival or bigotry. Lord Akeldama did so love to know all the gossip about the mundane world, but it was in the manner of a cat amusing himself among the butterflies without a need to interfere should their wings get torn off. They were only butterflies, after all.

Lady Maccon felt it behooved her, just this once, to point out the wounded wingless insect before him. Soullessness may confer practicality, but it did not always confer caution. “Gentlemen, you may place my abruptness at the door of my current condition, but I am not in the mood to tolerate idiosyncrasies. Circumstances have placed us all in an untenable position. No, Biffy, I do not mean your unclothed state—I mean your werewolf one.”

Both Lord Akeldama and Biffy looked at her, mouths slightly agape.

“The time has come to move onward. Both of you. Biffy, your choices were taken from you, and that is regrettable, but you are still an immortal—and not dead—which is more than most can say.” She turned her baleful look upon the vampire. “And you, my lord, must let go. This is not some contest you have lost. This is life, or afterlife, I suppose. For goodness’ sake, stop wallowing, both of you.”

Biffy looked duly chastised.

Lord Akeldama sputtered.

Lady Maccon tilted her head in such a way as to dare him to deny the truth in her words. He was certainly old enough to know himself; whether he cared to admit such a fault out loud remained to be seen.

The two men looked at each other, their faces tight.

It was Biffy who closed his eyes a long moment and then nodded briefly.

Lord Akeldama lifted one white hand and trailed two fingers down the side of his former drone’s face. “Ah, my boy. If it must be so.”

Lady Maccon could be merciful, so she moved the conversation on. “Biffy, how did you get out of Woolsey’s dungeon?”

Biffy shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t remember much when I’m a wolf. Someone must have unbolted the cell door.”

“Yes, but why? And who?” Alexia looked suspiciously at Lord Akeldama. Was he meddling?

The vampire shook his head. “Not me or mine, I assure you, blossom.”

A loud knock sounded at the door to the drawing room, all the warning they got before it burst open and two men came stomping in.

“Well,” said Alexia, “at least he knocked first. Perhaps he’s learning.”

The earl strode across the room and bent to kiss his wife’s cheek. “Wife, thought I would find you here. And young Biffy, too—how are you, pup?”

Lady Maccon looked to her husband’s Beta, gesturing at Biffy with her free hand. “The pack business that took you away?”

Professor Lyall nodded. “He led us a merry chase before we traced him here.” He tapped his nose, indicating the method of tracking.

“How’d he get out?”

Professor Lyall tilted his head, which was as good as he would get to admitting that he had no idea.

Alexia nudged her husband in Biffy’s direction. He shot her a brief glance out of resigned tawny eyes and then crouched down in front of the half-naked dandy. It was a very servile position for an Alpha. He lowered his voice to a soft growl, of the kind meant to be comforting. It’s terribly difficult for a werewolf to be comforting—especially an Alpha dealing with a reluctant pack member. The instinct is to subdue and discipline.

Alexia nodded at him encouragingly.

“My boy, why did you run here?”

Biffy looked up at the ceiling and then back down again. He swallowed, nervous. “I don’t know, my lord, some instinct. I’m sorry, but this is still home to me.”

Lord Maccon looked at Lord Akeldama, predator to predator. Then he turned back to his pack member.

“It has been six months, many moons, and still you are not settling. I know this was not the end you wanted, but it is the end you have been given. Somehow we must make this work.”

No one missed the we.

Alexia was extremely proud of her husband at that moment. He can be taught!

He took a deep breath. “How can we make this easier for you? How can I?”

Biffy looked utterly startled to be asked such a question by such a man. “Perhaps,” he ventured, “perhaps I could be allowed to take up permanent residence here, in town?”

Lord Maccon frowned, glancing at Lord Akeldama. “Is that wise?”

Lord Akeldama stood as though totally disinterested in the entire conversation. He walked to the other side of the room and stared down at his torn watercolor paintings.

Professor Lyall stepped in to fill the breach. “Young Biffy might benefit from a distraction. Some form of employment, perhaps?”

Biffy started. He was a gentleman, born and bred; honest work was a little beyond his frame of reference. “I suppose I could try it. I’ve never had proper employment before.” He spoke as though it were some kind of exotic cuisine he had not yet sampled.

Lord Maccon nodded. “At BUR? After all, you have contacts within society that might prove useful. I am in a position to see you well settled with the government.”

Biffy looked somewhat intrigued.

Professor Lyall came around to stand before Alexia, next to her crouching husband. His normally passive face showed genuine concern for the new pack member, and it was clear that he had put thought into how Biffy might be better integrated.

“We could come up with a suitable range of duties. Regular occupation might help you acclimatize to your new position.”

Lady Maccon looked, really looked, at her husband’s second for the first time in their acquaintance. At the way he stood, shoulders not too straight, gaze not too direct. At the way he dressed, almost to the height of style but with a studied carelessness, the simple knot to his cravat, the reserved cut to his waistcoat. There was just enough not perfect about his appearance as to make him forgettable. Professor Lyall was the type of man who could stand in the center of a group and no one would remember he was there, except that the group would stay together because of him.

And then, right there, holding on to the hand of a half-naked dandy, Alexia discovered the piece of the puzzle she had been missing.