“Not to mention her shock at seeing you alight from my carriage without a chaperone. We would not want to compromise your reputation in any way, now, would we?” Lord Maccon actually sounded riled by the idea.
Miss Tarabotti thought she understood the reasoning behind his tone. She laughed. “My lord, you could not possibly think I have set my cap for you?”
“And why is that such a laughable idea?”
Alexia’s eyes sparkled in merriment. “I am a spinster, long on the shelf, and you are a catch of the first water. The very notion!”
Lord Maccon marched out the door, dragging her behind him. “Don’t ken why you should find it so devilish funny,” he muttered under his breath. “Leastways you are nearer my age than most of those so-called incomparables the society matrons persist in hurling at me.”
Miss Tarabotti let out another trill of mirth. “Oh, my lord, you are too droll. You are nearing what? Two hundred? As if my being eight or ten years older than the average marriage-market chit should matter under such circumstances. What delightful nonsense.” She patted him approvingly on the arm.
Lord Maccon paused, annoyed at her belittling of herself and him. Then he realized what a ridiculous conversation they were having and how nearing dangerous it had become. Some of his hard-won London social acumen returned, and he held his tongue determinedly. But he was thinking that by “nearer his age” he had not meant nearer in years but in understanding. Then he wondered at his own recklessness in thinking any such thing. What was wrong with him today? He could not stand Alexia Tarabotti, even if her lovely brown eyes twinkled when she laughed, and she smelled good, and she had a particularly splendid figure.
He hustled his lady guest down the passageway, intent upon getting her into the carriage and out of his presence as quickly as possible.
Professor Randolph Lyall was a professor of nothing in particular and several subjects in broad detail. One of those generalities was a long running study on the typical human behavioral response when faced with werewolf transformation. His research on the subject had taught him it was best to change out of wolf shape away from polite company, preferably in a corner of a very dark alley where the only person likely to see him was equally likely to be crazy or drunk.
While the population of the greater London area, in specific, and the British Isle, in general, had learned well enough to accept werewolves on principle, to be faced with one engaging in the act of conversion was an entirely different matter. Professor Lyall considered himself rather good at the change—elegant and graceful despite the pain. Youngsters of the pack were prone to excessive writhing and spinal gyrations and sometimes a whimper or two. Professor Lyall simply melted smoothly from one form to the next. But the change was, at its root, not natural. Mind you, there was no glow, no mist, no magic about it. Skin, bone, and fur simply rearranged itself, but that was usually enough to give most daylight folk a large dose of the screaming heebie-jeebies. Screaming being the operative word.
Professor Lyall reached the Canterbury BUR offices just before dawn still in wolf shape. His animal form was nondescript but tidy, rather like his favorite waistcoat: his pelt the same sandy color as his hair but with a sheen of black about the face and neck. He was not very big, mostly because he was not a very big human, and the basic principles of conservation of mass still applied whether supernatural or not. Werewolves had to obey the laws of physics just like everyone else.
The change took only moments: his fur crawling away from his body and moving up to become hair, his bones breaking and reforming from quadruped to biped, and his eyes going from pale yellow to gentle hazel. He had carried a cloak in his mouth during his run, and he threw it on as soon as he was back to human form. He left the alleyway with no one the wiser to the arrival of a werewolf in Canterbury.
He rested against the BUR office’s front doorjamb, dozing softly, until morning caused the first of the standard-issue clerks to make his appearance.
“Who are you, then?” the man wanted to know.
Professor Lyall eased himself away from the door and stepped aside so that the clerk could unlock it.
“Well?” The man barred the way when Lyall would have followed him inside.
Lyall bared his canines. It was not an easy trick in the morning sun, but he was an old enough werewolf to make it look easy. “Woolsey Castle pack Beta, BUR agent. Who is in charge of vampire registration in this office?”
The man, unperturbed by Lyall’s demonstration of supernatural ability, replied without shilly-shallying. “George Greemes. He will be in around nine. Cloakroom is ’round that corner over there. Should I send the boot-boy to the butcher for you when he gets in?”
Professor Lyall moved off in the direction indicated. “Yes, do: three dozen sausages, if you would be so kind. No need to cook them.”
Most BUR offices kept spare clothing in their cloakrooms, the architectural conceit of cloakrooms having spawned from generations of werewolf arrivals. He found some relatively decent garments, although not precisely to his exacting taste, and, of course, the waistcoat was significantly under par. He then gorged on several strings of sausage and settled in on a convenient ottoman for a much needed nap. He awoke just before nine, feeling much more human—or as human as was supernaturally possible.
George Greemes was an active BUR agent but not a supernatural one. He had a ghost partner who compensated for this disadvantage but who, for obvious reasons, did not work until after sunset. Greemes was therefore accustomed to quiet days full of paperwork and little excitement and was not pleased to find Professor Lyall waiting for him.
“Who did you say you were?” he asked as he came into his office to find Lyall already in residence. Greemes slapped his battered pork pie hat down over a pot full of what looked like the internal guts of several much-abused grandfather clocks.
“Professor Randolph Lyall, second in command of the Woolsey Castle pack and assistant administer of supernatural relations in London central,” said Lyall, looking down his nose at Greemes.
“Aren’t you a mite scrawny to be Beta to someone as substantial as Lord Maccon?” The BUR agent ran a hand distractedly down his large sideburns, as if checking to ensure they were still affixed to his face.
Lyall sighed. His slender physique engendered this reaction all too often. Lord Maccon was so large and impressive that people expected his second to be of a similar stature and nature. Few understood how much it was to a pack’s advantage having one who always stood in the limelight and one who never did. Lyall preferred not to illuminate the ignorant on this subject.
So he said, “Fortunately for me, I have not yet been called upon to physically fulfill my role. Few challenge Lord Maccon, and those who do, lose. However, I did attain Beta rank by fully following all aspects of pack protocol. I may not look like much for brawn, but I have other germane qualities.”
Greemes sighed. “What do you need to know? We’ve no local pack, so you must be here on BUR business.”
Lyall nodded. “Canterbury has one official hive, correct?” He did not wait for an answer. “Has the queen reported any new additions recently? Any blood-metamorphosis parties?”
“I should say not! The Canterbury hive is old and very dignified, not given to crass displays of any kind.” He actually seemed a little offended.
“Has there been anything else out of the ordinary? Vampires turning up unexpectedly without metamorphosis reports or proper registration? Anything along those lines?” Professor Lyall kept his expression mild, but those hazel eyes of his were startlingly direct.
Greemes looked annoyed. “Our local hive is very well behaved, I will have you know; no aberrations in recorded history. Vampires tend to be fairly cautious in these parts. It is not comfortable to be supernatural in a port town—too fast-paced and changeable. Our local hive tends to produce very careful vampires. Not to mention the fact that all those sailors in and out means a ready supply of willing blood-whores down dockside. The hive is very littl
e bother so far as BUR is concerned. It is an easy job I have here, thank heavens.”
“What about new unregistered roves?” Lyall refused to let the subject drop.
Greemes stood and went to crouch over a wooden wine crate filled with documents. He rifled through them, pausing periodically to read an entry. “Had one in about five years ago. The hive queen forced him to register; no problems since.”
Lyall nodded. Clapping his borrowed top hat to his head, he turned to leave. He had a stagecoach to catch for Brighton.
Greemes, sorting the parchment sheaves back into the crate, continued muttering. “’Course, I have not heard from any of the registered roves in a while.”
Professor Lyall stopped in the doorway. “What did you say?”
“They have been disappearing.”
Lyall took his hat back off. “You made this fact clear in this year’s census?”
Greemes shook his head. “I submitted a report on the matter to London last spring. Didn’t you read it?”
Professor Lyall glared at the man. “Obviously not. Tell me, what does the local hive queen have to say on this particular topic?”
Greemes raised both eyebrows. “What does she care for roves in her feeding ground except that, when they are gone, things are easier for her household brood?”
The professor frowned. “How many have gone missing?”
Greemes looked up, his eyebrows arched. “Why, all of them.”
Lyall gritted his teeth. Vampires were too tied to their territory to roam away from home for long. Greemes and Lyall both knew that missing roves most likely meant dead roves. It took all of his social acumen not to show his profound irritation. This might not interest the local hive, but it certainly was significant information, and BUR should have been told immediately. Most of their vampire problems involved roves. As most of their were-wolf problems involved loners. Professor Lyall decided he had better push for Greemes’s reassignment. The man’s behavior smacked of drone thrall, those initial stages of over-fascination with the ancient mysteries of the supernatural. It did no one any good to have someone firmly in the vampire camp in charge of vampire relations.
Despite his anger, the Beta managed to nod a neutral good-bye to the repulsive man and headed out into the hallway, thinking hard.
A strange gentleman was waiting for him in the cloakroom. A man Professor Lyall had never met before but who smelled of fur and wet nights.
The stranger held a brown bowler hat in front of his chest with both hands, like a shield. When he saw Lyall, he nodded in a way that was less greeting and more an excuse to bare the side of his neck in obeisance.
Lyall spoke first.
Pack dominance games might seem complicated to an outsider, but very few wolves in England outranked Professor Lyall, and he knew all of them by face and smell. This man was not one of them; therefore, he, Professor Lyall, was in control.
“This office has no werewolves on staff,” he said harshly.
“No, sir. I am not BUR, sir. There is no pack in this city as I am certain your eminence is well aware. We are under your lord’s jurisdiction.”
Lyall nodded, crossing his arms. “Yet, you are not one of the Woolsey Castle pups. I would know.”
“No, sir. No pack, sir.”
Lyall’s lip curled. “Loner.” Instinctively, his hackles raised. Loners were dangerous: community-oriented animals cut off from the very social structure that kept them sane and controlled. Alpha challenges invariably came from within the pack, following official lines, with Conall Maccon’s unexpected ascension to power the most recent exception to that rule. But brawling, violence, feasting on human flesh, and other such illogical carnage—that was the loner’s game. They were more common than vampire roves, and far more dangerous.
The loner clutched his hat tighter at Lyall’s sneer, hunching down. If he had been in wolf shape, his tail would be tucked tight between his back legs.
“Yes, sir. I set a watch to this office waiting for the Woolsey Alpha to send someone to investigate. My claviger told me you had arrived. I thought I had best come myself and ascertain if you wanted an official report, sir. I am old enough to stand daylight for a little while.”
“I am here on hive, not pack, business,” Lyall admitted, impatient to get to the point.
The man looked genuinely surprised. “Sir?”
Lyall did not like being confused. He did not know what was going on, and he did not appreciate being put at a disadvantage, especially not in front of a loner. “Report!” he barked.
The man straightened, trying not to cower at the irate tone in the Beta’s voice. Unlike George Greemes, he had no doubt of Professor Lyall’s fighting capabilities. “They have stopped, sir.”
“What has stopped?” Lyall’s voice took on a soft deadly timbre.
The man swallowed, twisting his hat about further. Professor Lyall began to suspect the bowler might not survive this interview. “The disappearances, sir.”
Lyall was exasperated. “I know that! I just found out from Greemes.”
The man looked confused. “But he is on vampires.”
“Yes, and…?”
“It is werewolves who have gone missing, sir. You know, the Alpha had most of us loners stashed along the coast round these parts; keeps us well out of London’s way. Also ensures we stay busy fighting pirates rather than each other.”
“So?”
The man cringed back. “Thought you knew, sir. Thought the Alpha had started and then stopped it. It has been going several months now.”
“You thought it might be Lord Maccon doing a culling, did you?”
“Packs never take to loners, sir. He is a new Alpha, needs to establish his authority.”
Professor Lyall could not argue with that reasoning. “I have got to get moving,” he said. “If these disappearances start up again, you will let us know immediately.”
The man cleared his throat subserviently. “Cannot do that, sir. All apologies, sir.”
Lyall gave him a hard look.
The man hooked a finger in his cravat to pull it down and expose his neck defensively. “Sorry, sir, but I am the only one left.”
A cold shiver caused all the hairs on Professor Lyall’s body to stick up on end.
Instead of going on to Brighton, he caught the next stagecoach back to London.
CHAPTER FOUR
Our Heroine Ignores Good Advice
Alexia was embarrassed to find that she was reduced to shamefully sneaking out of her own home. It simply would not do to tell her mama she was paying a late-night call on a vampire hive. Floote, though disapproving, proved an able ally in her transgression. Floote had been Alessandro Tarabotti’s valet before Alexia was even a twinkle in that outrageous gentleman’s eye. As such, he knew a lot more than just how to butler, and that included a thing or two on the organization of misdemeanors. He hustled his “young miss” out of the servants’ entrance at the back of the house. He had her carefully shrouded in the scullery maid’s old cloak and managed to stuff her into a hired cab maintaining a stiff but capable silence all the while.
The hackney rattled through the darkened streets. Miss Tarabotti, mindful of her hat and hair, nevertheless drew down the widow sash and stuck her head out into the night. The moon, three-quarters and gaining, had not yet risen above the building tops. Above, Alexia thought she could make out a lone dirigible, taking advantage of the darkness to parade stars and city lights before one last load of passengers. For once, she did not envy them their flight. The air was cool and probably unbearably chilly so high up; this was no surprise, as London was generally a city not celebrated for its balmy evenings. She shivered and closed the window.
The carriage finally stopped at a good-enough address in one of the more fashionable ends of town, although not an end Miss Tarabotti’s particular collection of acquaintances tended to frequent. Anticipating a brief engagement, she paid the hackney to wait and hurried up the front steps, holding high the skirts of
her best green and gray check visiting dress.
A young maid opened the door at her approach and curtsied. She was almost too pretty, with dark blond hair and enormous violet eyes, and neat as a new penny in a black dress and white apron.
“Miz Tarabotti?” she asked in a heavy French accent.
Alexia nodded, pulling at her dress to rid it of travel wrinkles.
“Zi comtesse, she iz expecting you. Right diz way.” The maid led her down a long hallway. She seemed to sway as she moved with a dancer’s grace and liquid movements. Alexia felt large, dark, and clumsy next to her.
The house was typical of its kind, though perhaps a touch more luxurious than most, and outfitted with every possible modern convenience. Miss Tarabotti could not help but compare it to the Duchess of Snodgrove’s palatial residence. Here there was more real affluence and grandeur, the kind that did not need to display itself openly—it simply was. The carpets were thick and soft, in coordinating shades of deep red, probably imported directly from the Ottoman Empire three hundred years ago. There were beautiful works of art hanging on the walls. Some were very old; some were more contemporary canvases signed with names Alexia knew from newspaper gallery announcements. Luxuriant mahogany furniture showcased beautiful statues: Roman busts in creamy marble, lapis-encrusted Egyptian gods, and modern pieces in granite and onyx. Rounding a corner, Miss Tarabotti was treated to an entire hallway of polished machinery, displayed much as the statuary had been and with the same studied care. There was the first steam engine ever built, and, after it, a silver and gold monowheel; and, Alexia gasped, was that a model of the Babbage engine? Everything was perfectly clean and chosen with utter precision, each object occupying the space it had been given with immense dignity. It was more impressive than any museum Alexia had ever visited—and she was fond of museums. There were drones everywhere, all attractive and perfectly dressed, efficiently going about the business of running daylight interference and nighttime entertainment for the hive. They, too, were works of art, dressed in subdued elegance to match the tenor of the house, and collected with care.
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