The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (162 page)

Conall straightened, looking markedly better and less green.

Alexia patted him sympathetically. “Human?”

“Yes, but that doesn't do much good. I think I simply got everything, well, out. If you know what I mean?”

Alexia nodded. “Could it be our current proximity to the aether?”

“Could be. Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Are you going to make a note of it, wife? Seems that the God-Breaker Plague reaches all the way up to the aether.”

“Either that, or the aethersphere itself counteracts your supernatural abilities.”

“Well, if that were the case, scientists would have figured that out by now, wouldn't they?”

Lady Maccon took out a tiny notebook from one of the secret pockets of her parasol and a stylographic pen from another. “Oh, yes? And how would they have done that? Vampires can't float up that high, because they are tethered too short. And werewolves don't float at all, because they get sick.”

“You can't tell me no one has transported a ghost and body via float before?”

Alexia frowned. “I don't know, but it's worth researching. I wonder if Genevieve and her deceased aunt came via float or ferry when they left Paris for London.”

“You'll have to ask her when we catch up.” They paused in their conversation, awkward for a moment; then Conall asked, “Can you feel the plague?”

“You mean that odd tingly sensation I felt at the edge of Alexandria?”

He nodded.

“Difficult to tell, since the feeling was already similar to that of aether breezes.” Alexia closed her eyes and leaned her arms out of the balloon basket, embracing the air.

The earl immediately grabbed her shoulder and pulled her backward. “Don't
do
that, Alexia!” He was looking green again, this time with fear.

Alexia sighed. “Can't tell. Could be the plague, could be proximity to the aethersphere. We'll simply have to wait and see what happens as we move farther toward the epicenter.”

“Did no one ever tell you, wife, that it's rather dangerous to do scientific experiments on oneself?”

“Now, dear, don't fuss. To be fair, I'm doing them on you as well.”

“How verra reassuring.”

Biffy knocked politely on Lyall's office door. He sniffed the air while he waited to be bidden entrance. He smelled the usual odors of BUR—sweat and cologne, leather and boot polish, gun oil and weaponry. In the end it was most similar to a soldier's barracks. He did not scent another pack. Wherever she was at the moment, Lady Kingair was not there.

“Enter,” came Lyall's mild bidding.

Biffy was shocked by how warm simply the sound of that voice made him feel. Almost reassured. Whatever they were building together, Biffy decided at that moment that it was
good
and worth fighting for. Which, being a werewolf, he supposed might actually be more of a literal than figurative way of putting matters.

The young dandy took a breath and entered the room, his pleasure subdued under the weight of the information he had to impart. The burden of a spy, Lord Akeldama always said, was not in the knowing of things but in knowing when to tell such things to others. That and the
fact that creeping around could be dusty work, terrible on the knees of one's trousers.

Biffy felt that there was no point in barking about the dell. “I know who killed Dubh, and no one is going to like it.” He moved across the room, pausing only to remove his hat and place it on the stand near the door. The poor hat stand was already overloaded with coats and wraps and chapeaus as well as a number of less savory items—leather collars with gun compartments, Gatling straps, and what looked to be a plucked goose made of straw.

Once he stood across the cluttered desk from Lyall, Biffy removed the bullet from his waistcoat pocket and slapped it down on the dark mahogany.

Professor Lyall put aside the papers he had been studying and picked up the bullet. After a moment of close examination, he tipped a pair of glassicals down from where they perched atop his head and studied the bullet even more carefully through the magnification lens.

He looked up after a long moment, the glassicals distorting one hazel eye out of all proportion.

Biffy winced at the asymmetry.

Lyall took the glassicals off, set them aside, and handed the bullet back to Biffy. “Sundowner ammunition. Old-fashioned. Of the kind that shot Dubh.”

Biffy nodded, face grave. “You'll never guess who from.”

Professor Lyall sat back, vulpine face impassive, and raised one dark blond eyebrow patiently.

“Floote.” Biffy waited for a reaction, wanted one.

Nothing. Lyall was good.

“It was all Floote. He had opportunity. He was free at the time of the initial attack at the train station. He had
access to Lord Akeldama's dirigible, which he could fly back, setting part of London on fire to delay Lady Maccon. Do you recall, Dubh mentioned something to her ladyship about not wanting to go with her home? He said it wasn't safe. I believe that was because he knew Floote would be there. Then when Lady Maccon brought the wounded Beta back, who did she leave him alone with in the sickroom for those few minutes?”

“Floote.”

“And what happened?”

“Dubh died.”

“Exactly.”

“But opportunity is not motive, my dear boy.” Professor Lyall, for all his passivity, was unwilling to believe.

“I confronted him, but you know Floote. He claimed it was something to do with Alessandro Tarabotti, orders left behind when he died. Something wasn't supposed to get out. Lady Maccon wasn't supposed to know. Of course, she left for Egypt anyway. You know what I think? I think Alessandro Tarabotti somehow set the God-Breaker Plague into motion, and Floote has been seeing that it continues to expand. Those were the orders Mr. Tarabotti left, and Floote's been secretly conducting a long-distance supernatural extermination mandate ever since. I think Dubh simply got in the way and Floote had no other choice.”

“Ambitious, but what do you—” Lyall paused and sniffed the air. “Oh, dear,” he said succinctly.

Biffy sniffed as well. He caught a whiff of open fields and country air, although not of the kind he might be familiar with from his own pack. This was a damp, lush, impossibly green field leagues to the north—Scotland.

Biffy whirled and ran to the door, throwing it open, only to see Lady Kingair's graying tail tip disappear out the front entrance of BUR and into the night, at speed.

He felt Lyall's presence next to him. “What did you do with Floote, my dandy?”

“Locked him in the wine cellar, of course.”

“This is not good. Given half a chance, she'll kill him before we extract any additional information out of him.”

“Not to mention that it's a bad idea to eat one's domestic staff.”

The two men looked at one another and then, by mutual accord, began to strip out of their clothes. At least, Biffy consoled himself, BUR agents were accustomed to such eccentricities.

Professor Lyall gave up about halfway through and simply sacrificed his wardrobe to the cause. Biffy watched him run after the Alpha. He hoped fervently they weren't in for another fight with the she-wolf; he didn't think he had it in him. However, Biffy did spare a few moments to divest himself of his favorite waistcoat and cravat before shifting form. The trousers and shirt could be replaced, but not that waistcoat; it was a real pip.

Biffy took off after Lyall, pushing himself hard, so hard he caught up to the slighter wolf just before they reached the pack's town house. Professor Lyall was reputed to be one of the fastest fighters in England, but Biffy still had enough muscle mass on him to catch up in a straight race. He was inordinately proud of himself.

They pushed in the open door to the Maccon's town house to find Lady Kingair snuffling about, dashing frantically from room to room, evidently having started her hunt for the butler on the top floor in the servants' quarters.
Luckily, she had not yet reached the wine cellar. Floote's scent was so prevalent throughout the house it must be throwing her off.

Biffy and Lyall looked at one another, yellow eyes to yellow eyes. Then they both leaped toward the angry Alpha and backed her into the front parlor by dint of surprise, rather than power.

Biffy lashed out with his tail, slamming the door closed behind them.

Professor Lyall changed form, standing before the furious she-wolf. “Lady Kingair, don't you think we might talk about this civilly, just this once?”

The rangy wolf sat back on her haunches, as though considering this proposition, and then, after a moment, the graying fur of her coat retreated, and she stood before Lyall.

Sidheag Kingair was a fine figure of a woman for all she had been converted later in life. She crossed her arms, utterly unself-conscious. “Professor, I dinna want tae be civil. If that man killed my Beta, 'tis my right tae take his blood.”

“If.”

She looked at Biffy, now sitting back on his haunches, tongue out and panting after such a run. “But I heard him say that—”

“You heard him speculate. Nothing has been proven.”

“That dinna sound like speculation tae me.”

Biffy wondered if he, too, should change his form, or if such a thing would be wasted on the Alpha's rage. He wanted to have some input, however, aside from wagging his tail and twitching his ears, so he sought out his reserves of courage, faced the pain, and shifted.

“We need to act within the confines of British law, Lady Kingair, as well as pack protocol. The first thing to do is confront the man and inquire further.”

Lady Kingair's lip curled. “Inquire? If you insist.”

Professor Lyall turned to Biffy. “If you would like to lead the way?”

Biffy would not like, but he did as he was told by his Beta, moving with a certain amount of embarrassed poise through the house in full view of half the servants.

Thus they trooped down to the wine cellar—to find the door slightly open with no sign of being forced and the cellar itself completely empty.

Floote was gone.

Lady Kingair erupted into immediate fury. “He's escaped!”

Professor Lyall shook his head. “Not possible. We secured this room to hold werewolves.”

“Then
someone
must have let him out. Or not locked the room down properly.” She snarled at Biffy.

Biffy was affronted. “I assure you, it was securely locked, and I searched his person for tools.”

“You must have missed something, pup!”

“Perhaps I missed the utterly ridiculous idea that a butler could pick locks!”

“Perhaps you did, you little—”

Professor Lyall stepped in. “Now wait just a moment, Lady Kingair. Did you search Floote's room just now when you were looking for him?”

The Alpha shrugged, the long fall of her thick hair shifting against her naked breasts. She still glared at Biffy.

Unashamed, knowing he had done all that could be
asked of someone in his position, Biffy pretended to examine his manicure. For some reason, shifting forms played hell on the cuticles.

Lyall continued his questioning. “Had he taken his belongings?”

Lady Kingair wasn't interested in figuring out the minutiae of Floote's disappearance. She was interested in blaming someone for it—Biffy.

Biffy turned away to poke about the cellar, trying to find any clues that might represent Floote's ability to escape a heretofore impenetrable wine cellar.

He did not see her shifting forms. The only warning he got was Lyall's shout.

Afterward, Biffy was never quite certain what he did or why it happened. He reacted out of instinct, but there were two instincts in place—the werewolf one that wanted to shift forms out of self-preservation and the Biffy one that hated the pain of shifting more than anything, more than a badly cut jacket or a loose cravat. Those two instincts went to battle against each other as the great vicious she-wolf charged toward him.

He shifted.

He simply didn't quite manage to shift everything.

Only his head went over.

That action stopped Lady Kingair in a way that nothing else possibly could. She halted her charge, stood on four legs stiffed in surprise, and stared at him.

Biffy didn't understand what was going on. He still felt like himself, and there was very little pain, but his head felt swollen and heavy, as though he had caught a cold, and his senses were suddenly far more acute.

Professor Lyall moved forward, brushed past Lady
Kingair, and stood quietly in front of him. The Beta's mouth was open ever so slightly in shock, not an expression Biffy had ever thought to see on his lover's face.

He tried to ask, “What's going on?” But all he could manage was a bit of a whine and a small bark.

“Biffy,” said Professor Lyall softly. “Did you know you had an Anubis form?”

Biffy barked at him again. He was beginning to shake slightly. It was from the fear and the stress, not from being naked in a cellar. Werewolves rarely felt cold even in human skin. Or half-human skin.

Lady Kingair shifted back into her
fully
human guise. She was still looking angry and impatient, but she also seemed far less inclined to fight him than she had mere moments before.

“He dinna
act
like an Alpha.”

All Lyall's attention was on Biffy; he barely glanced at the Kingair Alpha. “He does in some areas,” he replied.

Biffy argued he must look beyond ridiculous. The head of a wolf, all fuzzy and yellow-eyed, on the lean pale body of a dandy.
I don't want to be an Alpha
, he cried out internally.
I don't want to spend half my time fighting challengers. I don't want to have the responsibility of a pack. I don't want to die early or go mad. Make it go away!

But again, all he could do was whine.

“It's all right, pup,” soothed Lyall. “You simply shift it back. At least I think that's how it works.” He frowned to himself. “I've served several Alphas and I never thought to ask if Anubis worked any differently than full wolf fur. Some professor I am.”