The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (100 page)

In the interest of scientific experimentation, Alexia fired Ethel out the carriage window at a porcupine nearer to the edge
of the undulating herd. Proximity and density combined to result in her actually hitting one. Not the one she'd aimed at,
but… The animal in question fell heavily to one side and began to slowly bleed, thick black blood, the kind of blood
emitted by vampires. Alexia wrinkled her nose in disgust. Once in her past, a certain wax-faced automaton had also oozed such
blood.

Another shot rang out. The coachman, a newer claviger, was also firing on their attackers.

Lady Maccon frowned. Were these porcupines already dead?
Zombie porcupines?
She snorted at her own flight of fancy.
Surely not.
Necromancy had long since been disproved as mere superstitious folderol. She squinted. They did seem to have oddly shiny
quills.
Wax perhaps? Or glass?

Alexia's gun was outfitted with sundowner bullets, although no one had authorized her to carry them. Conall had positively
insisted, and Alexia was not one to stand against him on matters of munitions. Undead or not, the porcupine she had shot stayed
down. That was something to note. Although, truth be told, sundowner bullets would work just as well on any normal porcupine.
Still, there were positively masses, and Conall had fallen once more to his side, writhing and howling under the swarm of
quills.

Alexia put away Ethel and armed herself with her parasol once more. She poked it fully out the carriage window, opened it
up, and then in one practiced movement flipped it about so that she held the tip, her fingers poised on the deadly dial there.
Her husband would take some time to recover from the resulting injuries, and she loathed causing him pain, but sometimes circumstances
warranted extreme measures. Making very certain she was dialing to the second and not the first or third position, she sprayed
out a mixture of lapis solaris diluted in sulfuric acid. The liquid, designed to combat vampires, was still strong enough
to burn any living creature—causing severe pain at the very least.

The mist floated out, coating the porcupines. The unmistakable smell of burning fur permeated the air. Her husband, now almost
entirely covered in the creatures, avoided most of the spray as the porcupines took the brunt of the falling acid.

Eerily, they made no noise. The acid burned through the fur covering their faces but had little effect on the quills that
continued to jab into Lord Maccon. The parasol sputtered and the spray turned to a dribble. Alexia shook it, flipped it up,
and caught it in reverse before closing it.

With a roar so loud it was guaranteed to shake the porcupines in their boots, had they been wearing any, her husband shook
off the creatures and reared back, as though luring them to follow him. Perhaps he was not so disabled as he pretended. Perhaps
he was trying to draw them away from Alexia.

Struck with a sudden inspiration, Lady Maccon yelled to her lupine spouse, “My love, lead them off. Go for the lime pit.”
She remembered Conall complaining to her about running into the pit by accident only a few nights previous, singeing all the
hair off of his forefeet.

Lord Maccon barked his agreement, understanding her completely—as Alpha, he was one of the few who held on to his wits when
he lost his skin. He began backing off the road and down the gully toward the nearby pit. If the creatures had any wax components
at all, the lime should at least seize them into immobility.

The porcupines followed.

Alexia had only a moment of reprieve to appreciate the macabre sight of a wolf luring away a flock of porcupines like some
Aesop's version of the Pied Piper. A thud resounded on the driver's box on the outside of the carriage. Something far larger
than a porcupine had hit the claviger coachman and knocked him out. Seconds later, for speed was always their strong point,
the parasol was bashed out of Alexia's grasp and the carriage door yanked open.

“Good evening, Lady Maccon.” The vampire tipped his
top hat with one hand, holding the door with the other. He occupied the entrance in an ominous, looming manner.

“Ah, how do you do, Lord Ambrose?”

“Tolerably well, tolerably well. It is a lovely night, don't you find? And how is your”—he glanced at her engorged belly—“health?”

“Exceedingly abundant,” Alexia replied with a self-effacing shrug, “although, I suspect, unlikely to remain so.”

“Have you been eating figs?”

Alexia was startled by this odd question. “Figs?”

“Terribly beneficial in preventing biliousness in newborns, I understand.”

Alexia had been in receipt of a good deal of unwanted pregnancy advice over the last several months, so she ignored this and
got on to the business at hand.

“If you don't feel that it is forward of me to ask, are you here to kill me, Lord Ambrose?” She inched away from the carriage
door, reaching for Ethel. The gun lay behind her on the coach seat. She had not had time to put it back into its reticule
with the pineapple cut siding. The reticule was a perfect match to her gray plaid carriage dress with green lace trim. Lady
Alexia Maccon was a woman who liked to see a thing done properly or not at all.

The vampire tilted his head to one side in acknowledgment. “Sadly, yes. I do apologize for the inconvenience.”

“Oh, really, must you? I'd much rather you didn't.”

“That's what they all say.”

*   *   *

The ghost drifted. Floating between this world and death. It felt like being trapped in a coop, a cage for chickens,
and she a poor fat hen kept to lay and lay and lay. What could she provide but the eggs of her mind? Nothing left. No more
eggs.

“Bawk, bawk!” she clucked.

No one answered her.

It was better—this was better, she had to believe—than nothingness. Even the madness was better.

But sometimes she was aware of it, the reality of her coop, and the substantial world around it. There was something very
wrong with that world. There were parts of it missing. There were people acting indifferent or incorrect. There were new feelings
intruding that had no right to intrude. No right at all.

The ghost was certain, absolutely certain, that something must be done to stop it. But she was nothing more than a specter,
and a mad one at that, drifting between undead and dead. What could she do? Who could she tell?

L
ord Ambrose was an exceptionally well-formed gentleman. His perpetual expression was one of pensive hauteur exacerbated by
aquiline features and brooding dark eyes. Alexia felt that he had much in common with a mahogany wardrobe that belonged to
Mrs. Loontwill's great-grandfather and now resided in embarrassed austerity among the frippery of her mother's boudoir. That
is to say, Lord Ambrose was immovable, impossible to live with, and mostly filled with frivolities incompatible with outward
appearance.

Lady Maccon moved toward her gun, finding the spacious carriage difficult to navigate with her attention focused on the vampire
in the doorway and her mobility hampered by the infant in her belly. “Terribly forward of the countess to send you, Lord Ambrose,
to do the deed.”

Lord Ambrose made his way inside. “Ah, well, our more subtle attempts seem to be wasted on you, Lady Maccon.”

“Subtlety usually is.”

Lord Ambrose ignored her and continued with his explanation. “I am her
praetoriani.
When you want something done properly, sometimes you must send the best.” He lunged toward her, supernaturally fast. In his
hands he held a garrote. Alexia would never have thought the most dignified of the Westminster Hive capable of wielding such
a primitive assassin's weapon.

Lady Maccon might be prone to waddling of late, but there was nothing wrong with the mobility of her upper extremities. She
ducked to avoid the deadly wire, grabbed for Ethel, swung about, pulling the hammer back in the same movement, and fired.

At such close range, even she could hit a vampire full force in the shoulder, surprising him considerably.

He paused in his attack. “Well, my word! You can't threaten me, you're pregnant!”

Alexia pulled the hammer back again. “Take a seat, won't you, Lord Ambrose? I believe I have something to discuss with you
that might change your current approach. And I shall aim for a less-resilient part of your anatomy next.”

The vampire was looking down at his shoulder, which wasn't healing as it ought. The bullet hadn't passed through but had gone
into the bone and lodged there.

“Sundowner bullets,” explained Lady Maccon. “You're in no mortal danger from a mere shoulder injury, my lord, but I shouldn't
leave the bullet in there if I were you.”

Gingerly, the vampire settled back against the plush velvet seat. Alexia had always thought Lord Ambrose the pinnacle of what
a vampire ought to look like. He had a full head of glossy dark hair, a cleft chin, and, currently, a certain air of childish
petulance.

Lady Maccon, never one for shilly-shallying even when her life wasn't in danger, got straight to the point. “You can stop
with all your uncouth attempts at execution. I have decided to give this child up for adoption.”

“Oh? And why should that make any difference to us, Lady Maccon?”

“The lucky father is to be Lord Akeldama.”

The vampire lost his sulky expression for one of genuine shock. He most certainly hadn't expected such a bizarre revelation.
The surprise sat upon his face as precariously as a mouse on a bowl of boiled pudding.

“Lord Akeldama?”

Lady Maccon nodded, sharply, once.

The vampire raised one hand and fluttered it slightly from side to side in a highly illustrative gesture. “Lord Akeldama?”

Lady Maccon nodded again.

He seemed to recollect some of his much-vaunted vampire gravitas. “You would allow your progeny to be raised by a vampire?”

Alexia's hand, still clutching her gun, didn't waver one iota. Vampires were tricky, changeable creatures. No sense in relaxing
her guard, for all Lord Ambrose seemed to have relaxed his. He still held the garrote in his other hand.

“The potentate, no less.” Alexia reminded him of Lord Akeldama's relatively recent change in political status.

She watched his face closely. She was giving him an out and knew that he must
want
an out. Countess Nadasdy, Queen of the Westminster Hive, would want one. All the vampires had to be uncomfortable with this
situation. It was probably why they kept bungling the assassination attempts;
their little hearts simply weren't in it. Oh, not the killing—with vampires, that was but one step up from ordering a new
pair of shoes. No, they would want to get out of having to kill an Alpha werewolf's mate. Lady Maccon's death at vampire hands,
whether provable or not, would bring a whole mess of trouble down upon the hives. Trouble of the large, hairy, and angry variety.
It was not that the bloodsuckers thought they would lose a war with werewolves; it was simply that they knew it would be bloody.
Vampires hated to lose blood—it was troublesome to replace and always left a stain.

Lady Maccon pressed the point, figuring that Lord Ambrose had had enough time to cogitate her revelation. “Surely you can
do nothing but approve so tidy a solution to our current predicament?”

The vampire pursed his full lips over his fangs. It was the very elegance of Alexia's proposal that had him seriously considering
it. They both knew that. “You would not contemplate allowing Countess Nadasdy to be the infant's godmother, would you?”

Alexia placed a hand on her belly, taken aback. “Well,” she hedged, trying for the most courteous response, “you know I should
be delighted, but my husband, you must understand. He is already a little flustered by Lord Akeldama's parental undertaking.
To add your hive into the mix might be more than he could stomach.”

“Ah, yes, the sensitivities of werewolves must be taken into account. I always forget that. I can hardly countenance his approval
of the scheme in the first place. He is amenable to this arrangement?”

“Unreservedly.”

Lord Ambrose gave her a look of disbelief.

“Ah, well,” Lady Maccon made light of the situation. “My dearest spouse has some reservations as to Lord Akeldama's ideas
on schooling and, uh, proper dress, but he has approved the adoption.”

“Remarkable powers of persuasion you possess, Lady Maccon.”

Alexia was rather flattered he should think it all her idea, so she did not bother to correct him on the matter.

“You will make it fully legal, put the adoption in writing, file it with the Bureau?”

“Indeed. I understand Queen Victoria is agreeable. Woolsey is intending to lease the house adjacent to Lord Akeldama's to
keep an eye on the child. You must allow me some level of motherly concern.”

“Oh, yes, yes, entirely understandable. In writing, you said, Lady Maccon?”

“In writing, Lord Ambrose.”

The vampire put his garrote away in a waistcoat pocket. “Given such a proposed arrangement, Lady Maccon, you will excuse me
for the time being? I should return to Westminster at once. It is taxing to be so far away as it is, and my queen will want
this new information as quickly as supernaturally possible.”

“Ah, yes. I thought the hive's range extended only to parts of London proper.”

“
Praetoriani
has some advantages.”

With a gleam of pure mischief in her brown eyes, Lady Maccon remembered her manners. “You are certain you won't stay? Take
a drop of port? My husband keeps a small stash in the carriage amenities compartment for emergencies.”

“No, thank you kindly. Perhaps at some future date?”

“Not the whole killing thing, I hope? I should like to put that well behind us.”

Lord Ambrose actually smiled. “No, Lady Maccon, the port. After all, you are taking a house in town. You will be in our territory
now, won't you?”

Alexia blanched. Westminster Hive did hold sway over the most fashionable parts of London. “Why, yes, I suppose I will.”

Lord Ambrose's smile became less friendly. “I will bid you good evening, then, Lady Maccon.”

With that, he let himself out of the carriage, tossed her parasol in, and vanished into the night. Mere moments later, Lord
Maccon, looking none the worse for his porcupine-herding activities, let himself back inside and unceremoniously swept Alexia
into his arms. He was naked, of course, and Alexia had no time to reprimand him for not changing out of his clothing before
he shifted form. Yet another jacket ruined.

“Where were we?” he rumbled into her ear before nibbling on it. He slid his arms about her, as far as they would reach, which
admittedly wasn't far these days, and rubbed up and down her back.

Lady Maccon's increasing girth had rendered most bed sport impossible, but this did not stop them from what Conall affectionately
referred to as
playing.
Despite Alexia's protestations that she was in perfect health, modern medical science banned connubial relations during the
final months, and the earl refused to risk his wife's well-being. He had, Alexia discovered much to her distress, unanticipated
powers of resistance.

She slid her gun out from between them and pushed it away along the bench. Time enough to tell her husband
about Lord Ambrose later. If she told him now, he'd get all flustered and distracted. At the moment,
she
preferred to be the cause of both his flustering and his distraction.

“No lasting harm, my love?” She slid her hands along his sides, enjoying the silkiness of his skin just there and the way
he writhed under her touch.

“Never.” He kissed her mouth in a heated embrace.

Alexia wondered that even after so many months of marriage she still could get utterly lost in kissing her husband. It never
became unexciting. It was like a rich milky tea—comforting, revitalizing, and delicious. Though she wasn't certain how he
would take such an analogy, Alexia Maccon was
very
fond of tea.

She touched his chin with both hands, encouraging him to kiss deeper.

Moving house,
thought Lady Maccon,
must be the world's most incommodious undertaking.

She, of course, was not being allowed to physically help, although she did toddle about pointing at objects and indicating
where they should go. She was enjoying herself immensely. Her husband and coconspirators having sallied off about their own
business several days ago, she felt much like a chubby general in sole possession of a field of glittery battle, directing
a mass invasion of foreign soil. Although, after having to mediate a head-to-head between Boots and Biffy over the efficaciousness
of velvet decorative pillows, she suspected generals had it easier. Conall and Professor Lyall had arranged for her dominion
over the relocation operation in order to distract her, but as she was well aware of the manipulation and, as they were well
aware that she was well aware, she might as well have fun.

What made it particularly pleasant was that it had to be covert. They didn't want it known that Lord and Lady Maccon were
actually taking up residence
inside
Lord Akeldama's house. The vampires had only reluctantly agreed to the Maccons moving in
next door,
frightened that a werewolf and a preternatural might unduly influence the rearing of a child, even one under Lord Akeldama's
care. Further intimacy was strongly discouraged. Thus, they had made it look as though Lady Maccon were seeking refuge from
the chaos by taking tea at Lord Akeldama's, while her belongings were moved into the rented accommodations adjacent. Alexia's
personal effects were taken up one flight of stairs, down a hall, and out onto a balcony. They were then tossed over to Lord
Akeldama's balcony—the balconies being a short distance apart and conveniently hidden by a large holly tree. Her private possessions
were then carried down another hall, up another flight of stairs, and eventually into her new residential closet. This involved
a good deal of ruckus, especially when it was furniture being tossed.
Thank goodness,
reflected Alexia, watching Biffy catch her favorite armoire with ease,
for supernatural strength.

Lady Maccon's minions in this elaborate charade were three younger members of Woolsey's pack: Biffy, Rafe, and Phelan (Biffy
as catcher and the other two as porter and chucker, respectively); the ever-efficient Floote; and a positive bevy of Lord
Akeldama's drones scuttling about arranging everything
just so.

After overseeing the tossing, Alexia repaired to monitor the arrangement of her new sleeping chamber. Lord Akeldama's third
closet was quite spacious, almost the size of her bedchamber back at Woolsey. Admittedly, there were
no windows, and there were gratuitous hooks, shelves, and rails covering the walls. But there was also enough room for a large
bed (specially commissioned by Lord Akeldama to accommodate Lord Maccon's frame), a dressing table, and several other bits
and bobs. Conall would have to make do without his dressing chamber, but since he was prone to wandering around underdressed,
anyway, Alexia suspected this would not affect his habits detrimentally. The lack of a proper valet concerned her for about
five seconds before she realized no drone of Lord Akeldama's would allow her husband passage through their hallways in anything
less than tip-top, wrinkle-free condition.