Soulless

CHAPTER NINE A Problem of Werewolf Proportions

Mrs. Loontwill did what any well-prepared mother would do upon finding her unmarried daughter in the arms of a gentleman werewolf: she had very decorous, and extremely loud, hysterics.

As a result of this considerable noise, the entirety of the Loontwill household came rushing from whatever room they had formerly been occupying and into the front parlor. Naturally, they assumed someone had died or that Miss Hisselpenny had arrived in a bonnet of unmatched ugliness. Instead, they found something far less likely— Alexia and the Earl of Woolsey romantically enmeshed.

Miss Tarabotti would have moved off the couch and seated herself an appropriate distance from Lord Maccon, but he coiled one arm about her waist and would not let her shift.

She glared at him in extreme annoyance from under dark brows. “What are you doing, you horrible man? We are already in enough trouble. Mama will see us married; you see if she does not,” she hissed under her breath.

Lord Maccon said only, “Hush up now. Let me handle this.” Then he nuzzled her neck. Which naturally made Miss Tarabotti even more put out and uncomfortable.

Felicity and Evylin paused in the doorway, eyes wide, and then commenced hysterical giggling. Floote appeared at their heels and hovered in a worried but mostly invisible manner next to the hat stand.

Mrs. Loontwill continued to scream, more in surprise than in outrage. The earl and Alexia? What would this do to their social standing?

Miss Tarabotti fidgeted under the warmth of Lord Maccon's arm. Surreptitiously, she tried to pry his fingers off where they gripped her waist, just above her hipbone. His arm rested across the top of her bustle —shocking. He merely winked at her subtle struggles in apparent amusement. Winked!

I mean, thought Alexia, really!

Squire Loontwill bumbled into the front parlor with a handful of household accounts he had been in the middle of reckoning. Upon observing Alexia and the earl, he dropped the accounts and sucked his teeth sharply. He then bent to retrieve the paperwork, taking his time so as to consider his options. He ought, of course, to call the earl out. But there were intricate layers to this situation, for the earl and he could not engage in a duel, being as one was supernatural and the other not. As the challenger, Squire Loontwill would have to find a werewolf to fight the earl as his champion. No werewolf of his limited acquaintance would take on the Woolsey Castle Alpha. As far as he knew, no werewolf in London would take on such a Herculean task, not even the dewan. On the other hand, he could always ask the gentleman to do the right thing by his stepdaughter. But who would willingly take on Alexia for life? That was more of a curse than even werewolf change. No, Lord Maccon would probably have to be forced. The real question was whether the earl could be persuaded in a nonviolent manner to marry Alexia or if the best the squire could hope for was for her to become simply one of Woolsey's clavigers.

Mrs. Loontwill, naturally, complicated the issue.

“Oh, Herbert,” she said pleadingly to her silent husband, “you must make him marry her! Call for the parson immediately! Look at them... they are...,” she sputtered, “canoodling!”

“Now, now, Leticia, be reasonable. Being a claviger is not so bad in this day and age.” Squire Loontwill was thinking of the expense of Alexia's continued upkeep. This situation might turn out to be profitable for all concerned, except Alexia's reputation.

Mrs. Loontwill did not agree. “My daughter is not claviger material.”

Alexia muttered under her breath, “You have no idea how true a statement that is.”

Lord Maccon rolled his eyes heavenward.

Her mother ignored her. “She is wife material!” Mrs. Loontwill clearly had visions of drastically improved social status.

Miss Tarabotti stood up from the couch to better confront her relations. This forced the earl to release her, which upset him far more than her mother's hysterics or her stepfather's cowardice.

“I will not marry under duress, Mama. Nor will I force the earl into such bondage. Lord Maccon has not tendered me an offer, and I will not have him commit unwillingly. Don't you dare press the issue!”

Mrs. Loontwill was no longer hysterical. There was instead a steel-edged gleam in her pale blue eyes. A gleam that made Lord Maccon wonder which side Alexia had gotten her flinty personality from. Until that moment, he had blamed the deceased Italian father. Now he was not so certain.

Mrs. Loontwill said, voice high-pitched and abrasive, “You brazen hussy! Such sentiments should have prevented you from allowing him such liberties in the first place.”

Alexia was belligerent. “Nothing of significance has occurred. My honor is still intact.”

Mrs. Loontwill stepped forward and slapped her eldest daughter smartly across the face. The cracking sound echoed like a pistol shot through the room. “You are in no position to argue this point, young lady!”

Felicity and Evylin gasped in unison and stopped giggling. Floote made an involuntary movement from his statuelike state near the door.

Lord Maccon, faster than anyone's eye could catch, suddenly appeared next to Mrs. Loontwill, a steel grip about her wrist. “I would not do that again, if I were you, madam,” he said. His voice was soft and low and his expression bland. But there was a kind of anger in the air that was all predator: cold, impartial, and deadly. The anger that wanted to bite and had the teeth to back it up. This was a side of Lord Maccon that no one had seen before—not even Miss Tarabotti.

Squire Loontwill had the distinct impression that, regardless of his decision, Alexia was now no longer his responsibility. He also had the impression that his wife was actually in danger of her life. The earl looked both angry and hungry, and canines were inching down over his bottom lip.

Miss Tarabotti touched her hot cheek thoughtfully, wondering if she would have a handprint. She glared at the earl. “Let my mother go immediately, Lord Maccon.”

The earl looked at her, not really seeing her. His eyes were entirely yellow, not simply the colored part either but the whites as well, just like a wolf. Miss Tarabotti thought werewolves could not change during daylight, but perhaps this close to full moon anything was possible. Or perhaps it was another one of those Alpha abilities.

She stepped forward and forcibly placed herself between Lord Maccon and her mother. He wanted an Alpha female, did he? Well, she would give him Alpha in spades.

“Mama, I will not marry the earl against his will. Should you or Squire Loontwill attempt to coerce me, I will simply not submit to the ceremony. You will be left looking like fools among family and friends, and me silent at the altar.”

Lord Maccon looked down at her. “Why? What is wrong with me?”

This shocked Mrs. Loontwill into speaking again. “You mean you are willing to marry Alexia?” Lord Maccon looked at her like she had gone insane. “Of course I am.”

“Let us be perfectly clear here,” said Squire Loontwill. “You are willing to marry our Alexia, even though she is... well...,” he floundered.

Felicity came to his rescue. “Old.”

Evylin added, “And plain.”

“And tan,” said Felicity.

The squire continued. “And so extraordinarily assertive.”

Miss Tarabotti was nodding agreement. “My point exactly! He cannot possibly want to marry me. I will not have him forced into such an arrangement merely because he is a gentleman and feels he ought. It is simply that it is near to full moon, and things have gotten out of hand. Or”— she frowned—“should I say too much in hand?”

Lord Maccon glanced about at Alexia's family. No wonder she devalued herself, growing up in this kind of environment.

He looked at Felicity. “What would I possibly want with a silly chit just out of the schoolroom?” At Evylin. “Perhaps our ideas on beauty do not ally with one another. I find your sister's appearance quite pleasing.” He carefully did not mention her figure, or her smell, or the silkiness of her hair, or any of the other things he found so alluring. “After all, it is I who would have to live with her.”

The more Lord Maccon considered it, the more he grew to like the idea. Certainly his imagination was full of pictures of what he and Alexia might do together once he got her home in a properly wedded state, but now those lusty images were mixing with others: waking up next to her, seeing her across the dining table, discussing science and politics, having her advice on points of pack controversy and BUR difficulties. No doubt she would be useful in verbal frays and social machinations, as long as she was on his side. But that, too, would be part of the pleasure of marrying such a woman. One never knew where one stood with Alexia. A union full of surprise and excitement was more than most could hope for. Lord Maccon had never been one to seek out the quiet life.

He said to the squire, “Miss Tarabotti's personality is a large measure of her appeal. Can you see me with some frippery young thing whom I could push around at any opportunity and cow into accepting all my decisions?”

Lord Maccon was not explaining himself for Alexia's family's benefit but for hers. Although, he certainly did not want the Loontwills to think they were forcing him into anything! He was Alpha enough for that. This whole marriage thing was his idea, curse it. No matter that it had only just occurred to him.

Squire Loontwill said nothing in response to that. Because he had, in fact, assumed the earl would want just such a wife. What man would not?

Lord Maccon and the squire were clearly birds of entirely different feathers. “Not with my work and position. I need someone strong, who will back me up, at least most of the time, and who possesses the necessary gumption to stand up to me when she thinks I am wrong.”

“Which,” interrupted Alexia, “she does at this very moment. You are not convincing anyone, Lord Maccon. Least of all me.”

She held up her hand when he would have protested. “We have been caught in a compromising position, and you are trying to do the best by me.” She stubbornly refused to believe his interest and intentions were genuine. Before her family had interrupted them, and during all previous encounters, no mention of marriage had ever passed his lips. Nor, she thought sadly, had the word love. “I do appreciate your integrity, but I will not have you coerced. Nor will I be manipulated into a loveless union based entirely on salacious urges.” She looked into his yellow eyes. “Please understand my position.”

As though her family were not watching, he touched the side of her face, stroking the cheek her mother had hit. “I understand that you have been taught for far too long that you are unworthy.”

Miss Tarabotti felt inexplicably like crying. She turned her face away from his caress.

He let his arm drop. Clearly, the damage done could not be mended with a few words from him in the space of one disastrous morning.

“Mama,” she said, gesturing expansively, “I will not have you manipulating this situation. No one need know what has occurred in this room. So long as you all hold your collective tongues for once.” She glared at her sisters. “My reputation will remain intact, and Lord Maccon will remain a free man. And now I have a headache; please excuse me.”

With that, she gathered what was left of her dignity and swept from the room. She retreated upstairs to the sanctity of her own boudoir to indulge in a most uncharacteristic but blessedly short-lived bout of tears. The only one who caught her at it was Floote, who placed a sympathetic tea tray on her bedside table, including some of Cook's extra-special apricot puffs, and issued orders with the household staff that she was not to be disturbed.

Lord Maccon was left in the bosom of her family.

“I believe, for the moment, we ought to do as she says,” he said to them.

Mrs. Loontwill looked stubborn and militant.

Lord Maccon glared at her. “Do not interfere, Mrs. Loontwill. Knowing Alexia, your approbation is likely to turn her more surely against me than anything else possibly could.”

Mrs. Loontwill looked like she would like to take offense, but given this was the Earl of Woolsey, she resisted the inclination.

Then Lord Maccon turned to Squire Loontwill. “Understand, my good sir, that my intentions are honorable. It is the lady who resists, but she must be allowed to make up her own mind. I, too, will not have her coerced. Both of you, stay out of this.” He paused in the doorway, donning his hat and coat and baring his teeth at the Loontwill girls. “And, you two, keep quiet. Your sister's reputation is at stake, and never doubt that it drastically impacts your own. I am not one to be trifled with in this matter. I bid you good day.” With that, he left the room.

“Well, I never,” said Mrs. Loontwill, sitting down heavily on the couch. “I am not sure I want that man for a son-in-law.”

“He is very powerful, my dear, no doubt, and a man of considerable means,” said Squire Loontwill, attempting to establish a silver lining of some kind.

“But so rude!” persisted his wife. “And all that, after eating three of our best chickens!” She gestured limply at the carcasses in question, a blatant reminder that, whatever it was that had just occurred, she had clearly emerged the loser. The chickens were beginning to attract flies. She pulled the bell rope for Floote to come and clear them away, peeved with the butler for not disposing of them sooner.

“Well, I shall tell you one thing. Alexia is definitely not attending the duchess's rout tonight. Even if I had not already forbidden her, today's behavior would have sealed it. Full-moon celebration or not, she can stay at home and think long and hard on her many transgressions!”

Mr. Loontwill patted his wife's hand sympathetically. “Of course, my dear.”

There was no “of course” about it. Miss Tarabotti, knowing her family's propensity for the dramatic, followed suit by keeping to her room most of the day and refusing to leave it even to see them depart that evening. Appreciating the tragedy of it all, her two sisters made sympathetic cluck-clucking noises outside her closed door and promised to bring back all the latest gossip. She would have been more reassured if they had promised not to engage in any gossip of their own. Mrs. Loontwill refused to speak to her, an occurrence that did not tax Alexia in the slightest. Eventually the house fell silent. She breathed a prodigious sigh of relief. Sometimes her family could really be very trying.

She stuck her head out of her bedroom door and called, “Floote?”

The butler appeared on cue. “Miss?”

“Hail a cab, please, Floote. I am going out.”

“Are you certain that is wise, miss?”

“To be wise, one might never leave one's room at all,” quoted Miss Tarabotti.

Floote gave her a skeptical look but went downstairs as bidden to flag down a hackney.

Miss Tarabotti summoned her maid and went about changing into one of her more serviceable evening gowns. It was an ivory taffeta affair with small puffed sleeves, a modest scooped neckline, and trimmed out with raspberry pin-tucked ribbon and pale gold lace edging. True, it was two seasons old and probably should have been made over before now, but it was comfortable and wore well. Alexia thought of the dress as an old friend, and knowing she looked passably well in it, tended to don it in times of stress. Lord Akeldama expected grandeur, but Miss Tarabotti simply hadn't the emotional energy for her russet silk fancy, not tonight. She curled her hair over her still-marked shoulder, coiling part of it up with her two favorite hair pins, one of silver and one of wood. She braided the rest loosely with ivory ribbon. It contrasted becomingly with her dark tresses.

By the time she was ready, it was dark outside her window. All of London nested safely in those few hours after sunrise, before the moon climbed into the sky. It was a moment supernatural folk called twinight: just enough time to get werewolves under lock and key before the moon herself appeared and drove them to become mad unstoppable monsters.

Floote gave Miss Tarabotti one more long warning glance as he handed her up the steps of the cab. He did not approve of her going out on such a night. He was certain she would get into mischief. Of course, Floote tended to be under the impression that the young miss was up to no good whenever she was out of his sight. But on full moon in particular, no possible benefit could come of it.

Miss Tarabotti frowned, knowing exactly what the butler was thinking, despite his face remaining perfectly impassive. Then she smiled slightly. She must admit, he was probably correct in his opinion.

“Be careful, miss,” Floote instructed severely but without much hope. He had, after all, been butler to her father before her, and just look what happened to Alessandro. Prone to willful and problematic lives, the Tarabottis.

“Oh, Floote, do stop mothering. It is most unbecoming in a man of your age and profession. I will only be gone a few hours, and I will be perfectly safe. Look.” She pointed behind Floote to the side of the house, where two figures appeared out of the night shadows like bats. They moved with supernatural grace coming to stand several feet from Alexia's hackney, obviously prepared to follow it.

Floote did not look reassured. He snorted in a most unbutlerlike manner and shut the carriage door firmly.

Being vampires, Miss Tarabotti's BUR guards needed no cab of their own. Of course, they probably would have preferred one. It was not quite apropos to the supernatural mystique, jogging after a public transport. But they experienced no physical taxation of any kind from the exertion. So that is precisely what Miss Tarabotti forced them to do, instructing her driver to walk on, before they had a chance to find a conveyance of their own.

Miss Tarabotti's little cab wended its way slowly through the throngs of moon-party traffic, ending up in front of one of the most dashing abodes in London, the town residence of Lord Akeldama.

The foppish vampire was waiting for her at the door when she alighted from the cab. “Alexia, sugar plumiest of the plums, what a lovely way to spend the full moon, in your ambrosial company! Who could possibly wish for anything else in life?”

Miss Tarabotti smiled at the excessive gallantry, knowing full well Lord Akeldama would far rather be at the opera, or the theater, or the duchess's rout, or even down the West End in the blood-whores' den gorging himself until he could not see straight. Vampires liked to misbehave on full moon.

She paid the cab and made her way up the front steps. “Lord Akeldama, how lovely to see you again so soon. I am delighted you could accommodate my visit at such short notice. I have much to talk with you about.”

Lord Akeldama looked pleased. Just about the only thing that could keep him home at full moon was information. In fact, he had been motivated to change his plans at Miss Tarabotti's request in light of the fact that she would only contact him if she needed to know something. And if she needed to know something, she must perforce know something else significant already. The vampire rubbed his elegant white hands together in delight. Information: reason for living. Well, that and fashion.

Lord Akeldama was dressed to the pink for the evening. His coat was of exquisite plum-colored velvet paired with a satin waistcoat of sea-foam green and mauve plaid. His britches were of a perfectly coordinated lavender, and his formal cravat a treble bow of white lawn secured with a massive amethyst and gold pin. His Hessian boots were polished to a mirror shine, and his top hat was plum velvet to match the coat. Miss Tarabotti was not certain if this elaborate outfit was because he intended to go out after the assignation, if he actually considered her that important, or if he just always dressed like a sideshow performer on full moon. Regardless, she felt shabby and severe by comparison in her outmoded gown and practical shoes. She was glad they were not going out on the town together. How the ton would laugh at such a mismatched pair!

Lord Akeldama guided her solicitously up the last few steps. He paused on the stoop and looked back over his plum-colored shoulder at the spot where her cab had been and now was not anymore. “Your shadows will have to stay outside my domain, little creampuff. You know vampire territory laws, don't you, my dove? Not even your safety, or their jobs at BUR, can countermand such regulations. They are more than law; they are instinct.”

Miss Tarabotti looked at him, wide-eyed. “If you deem it necessary, my lord, of course they must stay off the premises.”

“Well, my ravishing one, even if you do not comprehend to what I am referring, they certainly do.” His eyes slitted as he glared out into the street.

Miss Tarabotti could not see what drew his attention, but she knew that did not mean they were not there: two vampire guards, standing supernaturally still in the night, watching them. She looked closely at her friend's face.

For a moment, Miss Tarabotti thought Lord Akeldama's eyes actually glowed, a sheen of warding, a spark of possession. She wondered if that look was the vampire equivalent of a dog peeing to mark his territory. Stay out, said Lord Akeldama's expression. Mine. What, then, did werewolves do? Lord Maccon had implied they were not as territorial as vampires, but still. The packs tended to stick to certain geographic regions; there was no doubt of that. Miss Tarabotti mentally shrugged. They actually were wolves, at least part of the time, and scent did seem to be particularly important to werewolves. They probably did pee. The thought of Lord Maccon cocking a leg to mark Woolsey Castle parklands was so absurd that Miss Tarabotti actually had to stop herself from chortling aloud. She filed the image away as an excellent and insulting question to ask the earl at an utterly inappropriate future moment.

A shadow across the street, empty darkness contrasting the light cast by flickering gas, materialized into the figure of two men. They doffed their hats at Lord Akeldama, who merely sniffed. Then they faded out of view once more.

Lord Akeldama grabbed Miss Tarabotti's hand, affectionately tucking it over his arm, and steered her into his fabulous house.

“Come along, my dearest girl.” The sheen in his eyes vanished, as if it had never been, and he was back to his usual debonair self.

He shook his head as his butler closed the front door behind them. “Little better than drones, youngsters of the hive. They cannot even be bothered to think for themselves! First, obey the queen; second, obey BUR, spending their strongest years simply jumping from one set of orders to the next like trumped-up soldiers. Still, it is an uncomplicated life for the primitive of intellect.” His tone was rancorous, but Miss Tarabotti thought she could detect an undercurrent of regret. He had a faraway look in his eyes, as if he were visiting some long-forgotten and far simpler time.

“Is that why you became a rove—too many orders?” Miss Tarabotti asked.

“What was that, my diminutive gherkin?” Lord Akeldama shook himself and blinked as though waking up from a long sleep. “Orders? No, the split was due to circumstances far more labyrinthine than that. It all started when gold buckles came back into vogue, progressed to heights of bitterness over spats versus gaiters, and wended down a slippery slope from there. I believe the defining moment was when certain persons, who shall remain nameless, objected to my fuchsia silk striped waistcoat. I loved that waistcoat. I put my foot down, right then and there; I do not mind telling you!” To punctuate his deeply offended feelings, he stamped one silver-and-pearl-decorated high heel firmly. “No one tells me what I can and cannot wear!” He snapped up a lace fan from where it lay on a hall table and fanned himself vigorously with it for emphasis.

It was clear he was skidding the conversation off track, but Miss Tarabotti did not mind. She responded to his distress with a noncommittal murmur of sympathy.

“Pardon me, my fluffy cockatoo,” he said, pretending to rein in an excessively emotional state. “Please ignore my ramblings as those of a madman. It is just so uncomfortable to have two not of m/bloodline in proximity to my home, you understand? It is a little like having those disagreeable shivers constantly running up and down one's spine. Something does not feel right with the universe when one's territory is invaded. I can bear it, but I do not like it. It makes me quite edgy and off kilter.”

Lord Akeldama put the fan down. A personable young man appeared at his elbow with a solicitous cooling cloth draped artistically on a silver tray. Lord Akeldama dabbed at his brow delicately. “Oh, thank you, Biffy. So thoughtful.” Biffy winked and skipped off again. He displayed impressive musculature for all his grace. Acrobat? wondered Alexia. Lord Akeldama watched the young man walk away appreciatively. “I should not have favorites, of course...” He sighed and turned to Miss Tarabotti. “But, now, on to more important topics! Such as your scrumptious self. To what do I owe the singular pleasure of your company this evening?”

Miss Tarabotti refrained from any direct answer. Instead, she looked about the interior of his house. She had never been inside before, and she was overwhelmed. Everything was to the height of style, if one were thinking in terms of style round about a hundred years ago. Lord Akeldama possessed real, substantial wealth and was not afraid to display it openly. Nothing in his home was substandard, or faux, or imitation, and all of it was well beyond the pale. The carpets were not Persian but were instead vibrant flower-ridden images of shepherds seducing shepherdesses under intense blue skies. Were those puffy white clouds? Yes, they were. The arched ceiling of the entrance hall was actually frescoed like the Sistine Chapel, only Lord Akeldama's ceiling depicted cheeky-looking cherubs up to nefarious activities. Alexia blushed. All kinds of nefarious activities. She turned her eyes hurriedly back down. Small Corinthian columns stood proudly all around, supporting marble statues of naked male gods that Miss Tarabotti had no doubt were authentically ancient Greek in origin.

The vampire led her through to his drawing room. It contained none of the style clutter but instead harkened back to a time before the French Revolution. The furniture was all white or gilded gold, upholstered in cream and gold striped brocade and riddled with fringe and tassels. Heavy layers of gold velvet curtains shielded the windows, and the plush rug on the floor sported yet another proximate shepherding event. Lord Akeldama's had only two nods to modern life. The first was evident in the room being well lit, with multiple gas lamps no less, elaborate candelabras appearing to be only for decorative purposes. The second facet of modernity took the form of a gilded pipe with multiple joints, mounted on the mantel. Alexia figured it must be some modern artwork. Such an expense! thought Miss Tarabotti.

She took a seat in a thronelike armchair and removed her hat and gloves. Lord Akeldama sat across from her. He produced the strange crystal tuning fork device, flicking it into dissonant resonance and placing it on a side table.

Alexia wondered that he thought such caution necessary inside his own home. Then she figured no one would be more worried about eavesdropping than a lifelong eavesdropper.

“Well,” he demanded, “what do you think of my humble abode?”

For all its gilt pomposity and grandeur, the room had a feeling of regular use. There were multiple hats and gloves strewn about, here-and-there notes on slips of paper, and the odd abandoned snuffbox. A fat calico cat lounged in possession of an overstuffed hassock and one or two dead tassels near the fire. A grand piano stood prominently in one corner, well dusted, with sheets of music lying atop it. It clearly underwent more regular use than the one in the Loontwills' front parlor.

“It is unexpectedly welcoming,” Miss Tarabotti replied.

Lord Akeldama laughed. “So speaks one who has visited the Westminster hive.”

“It is also very, uh, Rococo,” she said, attempting not to intimate she found it at all old-fashioned.

Lord Akeldama clapped his hands delightedly. “Isn't it just? I am afraid I never quite left that particular era. It was such a glorious time to be alive, when men finally and truly got to wear sparkly things, and there was lace and velvet everywhere.”

A gentle hubbub arose outside the drawing room door, then subsided, and then broke into raucous laughter.

Lord Akeldama smiled affectionately. His fangs showed clearly in the bright light. “There are my little ' drone-y-poos!” He shook his head. “Ah, to be young again.”

They were left untroubled by whatever it was that was occurring in the hallway. Apparently a closed door meant a well-respected “stay out” in Lord Akeldama's household. However, Alexia soon discovered that her vampire friend's domicile seemed to exist in a constant state of tumult-in-the-hallway.

Miss Tarabotti imagined this must be what it was like inside a gentlemen's club. She knew that there were no women among Lord Akeldama's drones. Even if his taste had extended in that direction, Lord Akeldama could hardly hope to present a female to Countess Nadasdy for metamorphosis. No queen would willingly turn a woman of a rove household; the chance of making a renegade queen, however slim, would never be risked. The countess probably only bit Lord Akeldama's male drones under sufferance—for the good of increasing the population. Unless, of course. Lord Akeldama was allied to a different hive. Miss Tarabotti did not ask. She suspected such a question might be impertinent.

Lord Akeldama sat back and twiddled his amethyst cravat pin with thumb and forefinger, pinky raised high into the air. “Well, my captivating crumpet, tell me about your visit to the hive!”

Alexia told him, as briefly as possible, about the experience and her evaluation of the characters involved.

Lord Akeldama seemed to agree with her general assessments. “Lord Ambrose you can disregard; he is her pet favorite but hasn't the brains of a peahen, I am afraid, for all his pulchritude. Such a waste!” He tut-tutted and shook his blond head sadly. “Now, the Duke of Hematol, he is a tricky character and in an outright sense of a one-on-one match, the most perilous of the Westminster inner circle.”

Alexia ruminated on that nondescript vampire who had reminded her so strongly of Professor Lyall. She nodded. “He certainly gave that impression.”

Lord Akeldama laughed. “Poor old Bertie, he works so hard nor to!” Miss Tarabotti raised her eyebrows. “Which is exactly why he does.”

“But you are, my daffodil, and I do not mean to cause offense, a tad insignificant fox his attentions. The duke contents himself mainly with attempting to rule the world and other suchlike nonsense. When one is guiding the patterns of the social universe, a single spinster preternatural is unlikely to cause one undue distress.”

Miss Tarabotti fully understood where he was coming from and was not in the least offended.

Lord Akeldama continued. “But, my treasure, under your particular circumstances, I suggest Dr. Caedes is the one to be most wary of. More mobile than the countess, and he is... How do I put this?” He stopped spinning his amethyst pin and began tapping it with one finger. “He is interested in minutia. You know he takes an interest in modern inventions?”

“That was his collection on display in the hallway of the hive house?”

Lord Akeldama nodded. “He dabbles himself, as well as investing and collecting like-minded drones. He is also not altogether compos mentis in the daylight sense of the term.”

“As opposed to?” Alexia was confused. Sanity was sanity, was it not?

“Ah”—Lord Akeldama paused—”we vampires tend to have an unfettered approach to the concept of mental health.” He twiddled his fingers in the air. “One's moral clarity goes a little fuzzy after the first two centuries or so.”

Miss Tarabotti said, “I see,” although she did not.

There came a timid knock on the drawing room door.

Lord Akeldama stilled the vibrating sound disrupter device. “Come!” he then sang out. It opened to reveal a gaggle of grinning young men, captained by the one Lord Akeldama had referred to earlier as Biffy. All of them were handsome, charming, and in high spirits. They bustled into the room. “My lord, we are going out to enjoy the full moon,” said Biffy, top hat in hand. Lord Akeldama nodded. “The usual instructions, my dear boys.”

Biffy and the other young bloods nodded, their smiles slipping ever so slightly. They were all dressed to the nines—dandified gentry of the kind welcome at any gathering and noticed at none. Alexia reasoned no man of Lord Akeldama's household would ever be less than perfectly fashionable, entirely presentable, and patently invisible as a result. A few favored his more outrageous mode of costuming, but most were toned-down, less eccentric versions of their lord. A few looked faintly familiar, but Alexia could not, for the life of her, pinpoint where or when she had seen them before. They were simply so very good at being exactly what was expected.

Biffy looked hesitantly at Miss Tarabotti before asking Lord Akeldama, “Anything in particular desired for this evening, my lord?”

Lord Akeldama waggled a wrist limply in the air. “There is a sizable game in motion, my darlings. I depend upon you all to play it with your usual consummate skill.”

The young men released a spontaneous cheer, sounding like they had already got into Lord Akeldama's champagne, and trundled out.

Biffy paused in the doorway, looking less jolly and more apprehensive. “You will be all right without us, my lord? I could stay if you wished.” There was something in his eyes that suggested he would very much like to do just that, and not only out of concern for his master's welfare.

Lord Akeldama stood and minced over to the doorway. He pecked the young man on the cheek, which was for show, and then stroked it gently with the back of his hand, which was not. “I must know the players.” He used no excessive emphasis when he spoke: no italic intonation, no endearments—just the flat sure voice of authority. He sounded old and tired.

Biffy looked down at the toe tips of his shiny boots. “Yes, my lord.”

Alexia felt a little discomfited, as though she were witnessing an intimate moment in the bedchamber. Her face heated with embarrassment, and she looked away, feigning sudden interest in the piano.

Biffy placed his top hat on his head, nodded once, and left the room.

Lord Akeldama closed the door behind him softly and returned to sit next to Miss Tarabotti.

Greatly daring, she put a hand on his arm. His fangs retracted. The human in him, buried by time, surfaced at her touch. Soul-sucker, the vampires called her, yet Alexia always felt it was only in these moments that she actually got close to seeing the true nature of Lord Akeldama's soul.

“They will be fine,” Miss Tarabotti said, trying to sound reassuring.

“I suspect that state would tend to depend on what my boys find out, and whether anyone thinks they have found out anything of import.” He sounded very paternal.

“So far, no drones have gone missing,” said Alexia, thinking about the French maid taking refuge at the Westminster hive, her rove master gone.

“Is that the official word? Or information from the source itself?” asked Lord Akeldama, patting the top of her hand with one of his appreciatively.

Alexia knew he was asking about BUR records. Since she did not know, she explained. “Lord Maccon and I are currently not on speaking terms.”

“Good gracious me, why ever not? It is so much more fun when you are.” Lord Akeldama had seen Miss Tarabotti and the earl through many an argument, but neither had ever resorted to silence before. That would defeat the purpose of their association.

“My mother wants him to marry me. And he agreed!” said Miss Tarabotti, as though that explained everything.

Lord Akeldama clapped a hand over his mouth in startlement, looking once more like his old frivolous self. He stared down into Alexia's upturned face to determine the veracity of her words. Upon realization that she was in earnest, he threw his head back and let out a quite unvampirelike bark of laughter.

“Showing his hand at last, is he?” He chuckled further, extracting a large perfumed mauve handkerchief from one waistcoat pocket to dab at his streaming eyes. “Lordy, what will the dewan have to say about such a union? Preternatural and supernatural! That has not happened in my lifetime. And Lord Maccon already so powerful. The hives will be outraged. And the potentate! Ha.”

“Now, hold just a moment,” insisted Alexia. “I refused him.”

“You did what?” Now Lord Akeldama really was startled. “After leading him on for so many years! That is just plain cruel, my rosebud. How could you? He is only a werewolf, and they can be terribly emotional creatures, you understand? Quite sensitive about these things. You could do permanent damage!”

Miss Tarabotti frowned at this unexpected diatribe. Wasn't her friend supposed to be on her side? It did not occur to her how confoundingly odd it was for a vampire to be lauding a werewolf.

The vampire in question continued his admonition. “What is wrong with him? A little crude, I grant you, but a robust young beastie? And, rumor has it, he is endowed most generously with copious other... attributes.” i«

Miss Tarabotti let go of his hand and crossed her arms. “I would not have him coerced into matrimony, simply because we were caught in flagrante delicto.”

“You were caught... what? This simply gets better and better! I demand all the particulars!” Lord Akeldama looked like he anticipated a deliciously vicarious experience.

Outside in the hallway came another of those hubbubs that frequented the Akeldama household. For the moment, both were so involved in Alexia's gossip, neither remembered the house was supposed to be empty of such activity.

The door to the drawing room burst open.

“Here!” said the man at the entrance. A man who was not well dressed and clearly did not belong in Lord Akeldama's splendid house.

Lord Akeldama and Alexia both stood. Alexia grabbed her brass parasol, gripping it firmly in both hands. Lord Akeldama reached for the gold pipe art piece from the mantel. He pressed hard at a hidden button in the midpoint, and a curved, hooklike blade sprang out each end of the pipe and clicked into place. One was sharpened ironwood, the other solid silver. Not art, as it turned out.

“Where are my on-premises drones?” wondered Lord Akeldama.

“Never mind that,” said Alexia. “Where are my vampire guards?”

The man in the doorway had no answer for either of them. He did not even appear to hear. He did not approach but merely stood, blocking their sole avenue of escape.

“He has got a female with him,” he shouted back to someone in the hallway.

“Well, bring them both,” came the sharp reply. Then some kind of complex Latin phrases were issued. The terms used were outside of Miss Tarabotti's limited education and spoken in such a strange old-fashioned accent as to make them particularly difficult to decode.

Lord Akeldama tensed. He clearly understood what was said, or at least what it implied. “No. That is impossible!” he whispered.

Miss Tarabotti felt that if he had not been vampire-white already, he would have blanched. His supernatural reflexes seemed stalled by some horrific realization.

The stranger in the doorway vanished to be replaced by an all-too-familiar figure: a man with a stagnant, wax-like face.