“Are you saying he wasna dominant enough? I heard naught of lack of discipline. Whenever I ran a recognizance on Kingair, you all seemed to be perfectly content.” Conall’s voice was soft.
“So you did check up on us, did you, old wolf?” Lady Kingair looked hurt at that rather than relieved.
“Of course I did. You were once my pack.”
The Beta looked up from where he still lay on the floor. “You left us weak, Conall, and you knew it. Niall had na Anubis Form, and the pack couldna procreate. Clavigers abandoned us as a result, the local loners rebelled, and we didn’t have an Alpha fighting for the integrity of the pack.”
Lady Maccon glanced at her husband. His face was carved in stone, relentless. Or what little she could see behind the puffy eye and bloodstained cravat seemed that way.
“You betrayed me,” he repeated, as though that settled the matter. Which, in Conall’s world, it probably did. He valued few things more than loyalty.
Alexia decided to make her presence known. “What is the point of recriminations? Nothing can be done about it now, since none of you can change into any form at all, Anubis or otherwise. No new wolves can be made, no new Alpha found, no challenge battles fought. Why argue over what was when we are immersed in what isn’t?”
Lord Maccon looked down at her. “So speaks my practical Alexia. Now do you understand why I married her?”
Lady Kingair said snidely, “A desperate, if ineffectual, attempt at control?”
“Oooh, she has claws. Are you positive you never bit her to change, husband? She has the temper of a werewolf.” Alexia could be just as snide as the next person.
The Gamma stepped forward, looking at Lady Maccon. “Our apologies, my lady, and you a newly arrived guest among us. We must truly seem the barbarians you English take us for. ’Tis only that na Alpha these many moons is making us nervous.”
“Oh, and here I thought your behavior sprang from the whole not-being-able-to-change-shape quandary,” she quipped back sharply.
He grinned. “Well, that too.”
“Werewolves without pack leaders tend to get into trouble?” Lady Maccon wondered.
No one said anything.
“I don’t suppose you are going to tell us what trouble you got into overseas?” Alexia tried to look as though she wasn’t avidly interested, taking her husband’s arm casually.
Silence.
“Well, I think we have all had enough excitement for one evening. Since you have been human these many months, I assume you are keeping daylight hours?”
A nod from Lady Kingair.
“In that case”—Lady Maccon straightened her dress—“Conall and I shall bid you good night.”
“We shall?” Lord Maccon looked dubious.
“Good night,” said his wife firmly to the pack and clavigers. Grabbing her parasol in one hand and her husband’s arm in the other, she practically dragged the earl from the room.
Lord Maccon lumbered obediently after her.
The room they left behind was filled with half-thoughtful, half-amused faces.
“What are you about, wife?” Conall asked as soon as they were upstairs and out of everyone’s earshot.
His wife plastered herself up against him and kissed him fiercely.
“Ouch,” he said when they pulled apart, although he had participated with gusto. “Busted lip.”
“Oh, look what you did to my dress!” Lady Maccon glared down at the blood now decorating the white satin trim.
Lord Maccon refrained from pointing out that she had initiated the kiss.
“You are an impossible man,” continued his ladylove, swatting him on one of the few undamaged portions of his body. “You could have been killed in such a fight, do you realize?”
“Oh, phooey.” Lord Maccon waved a dismissive hand in the air. “For a Beta, Dubh is not a verra good fighter even in wolf form. He is hardly likely to be any more capable as a human.”
“He is still a trained soldier.” She was not going to let this rest.
“Have you forgotten, wife, that so am I?”
“You are out of practice. Woolsey Pack Alpha has not been on campaign in years.”
“Are you saying I’m getting old? I’ll show you old.” He swept her up like some exaggerated Latin lover and carried her into their bedchamber.
Angelique, who was engaged in some sort of tidying of the wardrobe, quickly made herself scarce.
“Stop trying to distract me,” said Alexia several moments later. During which time her husband had managed to divest her of a good percentage of her clothing.
“Me, distract you? You are the one who dragged me off and up here right when things were getting interesting.”
“They are not going to tell us what is going on no matter how hard we push,” said Alexia, unbuttoning his shirt and hissing in concern at the array of harsh red marks destined to become rather spectacular bruises by the morning. “We are simply going to have to figure this out for ourselves.”
He paused in kissing a little path along her collarbone and looked at her suspiciously. “You have a plan.”
“Yes, I do, and the first part of it involves you telling me exactly what happened twenty years ago to make you leave. No.” She stopped his wandering hand. “Stop that. And the second part involves you going to sleep. You are going to hurt in places your little supernatural soul forgot it could hurt in.”
He flopped back on the pillows. There was no reasoning with his wife when she got like this. “And the third part of the plan?”
“That is for me to know and you not to know.”
He let out a lusty sigh. “I hate it when you do that.”
She waggled a finger at him as though he were a schoolboy. “Uh-uh, you just miscalculated, husband. I hold all the high cards right now.”
He grinned. “Is that how this works?”
“You have been married before, remember? You should know.”
He turned on his side toward her, wincing at the pain this caused. She lay back against the pillows, and he ran one large hand over her stomach and chest. “You are perfectly correct, of course; that is exactly how this works.” Then he made his tawny eyes wide and batted his eyelashes at her, pleading. Alexia had learned that expression from Ivy and had employed it effectively on her husband during their, for lack of a better word, courtship. Little did she know how persuasively it could be applied in the opposite direction.
“Are you going to at least see me settled?” he murmured, nibbling her neck, his voice gravelly.
“I might be persuaded. You would, of course, have to be very very nice to me.”
Conall agreed to be nice, in the best nonverbal way possible.
Afterward, he lay staring fixedly up at the ceiling and told her why he had left the Kingair Pack. He told her all of it, from what it was like for them, as both werewolves and Scotsmen, at the beginning of Queen Victoria’s rule, to the assassination attempt on the queen planned by the then Kingair Beta, his old and trusted friend, without his knowledge.
He did not once look at her while he talked. Instead his eyes remained fixed on the stained and smudged molding of the ceiling above them.
“They were all in on it. Every last one of them—pack and clavigers. And not a one told me. Oh, not because I was all that loyal to the queen; surely you know packs and hives better than that by now. Our loyalty to a daylight ruler is never unreserved. No, they lied to me because I was loyal to the cause, always have been.”
“What cause?” wondered his wife. She held his big hand in both of hers as she lay curled toward him, but otherwise she did not touch him.
“Acceptance. Can you imagine what would have happened if they had succeeded? A Scottish pack, attached to one of the best Highland regiments, multiple campaigns served in the British Army, killing Queen Victoria. It would have thrown over the whole government, but not only that, it would have taken us back to the Dark Ages. Those daylight conservatives who have always been against integratio
n would call it a nationally supported supernatural plot, the church would regain its foothold on British soil, and we would be back to the Inquisition quicker than you could shake a tail.”
“Husband”—Alexia was mildly startled, but only because she’d never given Conall’s political views much consideration—“you are a progressive!”
“Damn straight! I couldna believe my pack would put all werewolves into such a position. And for what? Old resentments and Scottish pride? A weak alliance with Irish dissidents? And the worst of it was, not a one had told me of the plot. Not even Lachlan.”
“Then how did you find out about it in the end?”
He huffed in disgust. “I caught them mixing the poison. Poison, mind you! Poison has no place on pack grounds or in pack business. It isna an honest way to kill anyone, let alone a monarch.”
Alexia suppressed a smile. This would appear to be the aspect of the conspiracy that upset him the most.
“We werewolves are not known for our subtlety. I had realized they were plotting something for weeks. When I found the poison, I forced a confession out of Lachlan.”
“And you ended up having to fight and kill your own Beta over it. Then what, you simply took off for London, leaving them without leadership?”
He finally turned and looked at her, propping himself on his elbow. Seeing no judgment or accusation in her eyes, he relaxed slightly. “There is no pack protocol to cover this kind of situation. A large-scale betrayal of an Alpha with no qualified reason or ready replacement. Led by my own Beta.” His eyes were agonized. “My Beta! They deserved to be without metamorphosis. I could have killed them all, and not a one would have objected, least of all the dewan, save that they were not plotting against me; they were plotting against a daylight queen.”
He looked to her and his eyes were sad.
She tried to distill the story down into one manageable chunk. “So your leaving was a point of pride, honor, and politics?”
“Essentially.”
“I suppose it could have been worse.” She smoothed away the frown creasing his forehead.
“They could have succeeded.”
“You realize, as muhjah, I am forced to ask: will they try again, do you think? After two decades? Could that explain the mysterious weapon?”
“Werewolves have long memories.”
“In the interest of Queen Victoria’s safety, is there a way for us to provide a surety against this?”
He sighed softly. “I dinna know.”
“And that’s why you came back? If it’s true, you’ll have to kill them all, won’t you, sundowner?”
He turned away from her words, his broad back stiff, but he did not deny them.
CHAPTER TEN
Aether Transmissions
Using the information Lord Akeldama had provided, and with the assistance of a personable young man the vampire referred to only as Biffy, Professor Lyall set up an operation. “Ambrose has been meeting with various members of the incoming regiments,” Lord Akeldama had informed him over an aged scotch—a warm fire in the grate and a plump calico cat on his knee. “At first I thought it was simply opiates or some other form of illegal trade, but now I believe it to be something more sinister. The hive is not only employing its vampire contacts—it’s approaching any common soldier. Even the ill-dressed. It’s horrible.” The vampire gave a delicate little shudder. “I cannot discern what it is they are buying up so greedily. You want to find out what Westminster is up to? Tap into those werewolf military connections of yours, darling, and set up an offer. Biffy can take you to the preferred venue.”
And so it was, on the information provided by a rove vampire, that Professor Lyall now sat in a very seedy pub, the Pickled Crumpet, accompanied by a spectacularly well-dressed drone and Major Channing. A few wobbly tables away sat one of Major Channing’s most trusted soldiers, clutching several suspicious packages and looking nervous.
Professor Lyall slouched down and nursed his beer. He hated beer, a vile common beverage.
Major Channing was twitchy. He shifted long legs, jostling the table and sloshing their drinks.
“Stop that,” his Beta instructed. “No one’s come yet. Be patient.”
Major Channing only glared at him.
Biffy offered them a pinch of snuff. Both werewolves declined in thinly veiled horror. Imagine mucking about with one’s sense of smell! Such a vampiric kind of affectation.
Some while later, with Professor Lyall’s beer barely touched but Major Channing on his third pint, the vampire entered the pub.
He was a tall, exceedingly comely individual, who looked exactly as a novelist might describe a vampire—sinister and pensive with an aquiline nose and unfathomable eyes. Professor Lyall sipped his beer in salute. He had to give Lord Ambrose tribute—the man put on an excellent show. Top marks for dramatic flair.
Lord Ambrose made his way straight to the soldier’s table and sat down without introduction. The tavern was loud enough to make an auditory disruptor unnecessary, and even Lyall and Channing with their supernatural hearing caught only about one word in ten.
The exchange moved quite rapidly and culminated in the soldier showing Lord Ambrose his collection of goods. The vampire looked each one over, then shook his head violently and stood to leave.
The soldier stood as well, leaning forward to ask a question.
Lord Ambrose clearly took offense, for he lashed out with supernatural speed, striking the man across the face so fast even a soldier’s reflexes stood him in poor stead.
Major Channing immediately jumped to his feet, his chair crashing back as he surged forward. Professor Lyall grabbed his wrist, halting his protective instinct. Channing all too often thought of his soldiers as pack.
The vampire’s head swiveled around, focusing in on their little band. He hissed through his teeth, the tips of both fangs visible over thin lips. Then with a swirl of long burgundy greatcoat, he swept majestically from the inn.
Professor Lyall, who had never done anything majestically in all his life, faintly envied the man.
The young soldier came over to them, a harsh red welt about the side of his mouth.
“I’ll murder the liverless bastard,” swore Major Channing, making as if to follow Lord Ambrose out into the street.
“Stop.” Professor Lyall’s hand tightened on the Gamma’s arm. “Burt here is perfectly fine. Aren’t you, Burt?”
Burt spat out a bit of blood but nodded. “Dealt with worse at sea.”
Biffy picked his snuffbox off the table and tucked it into a coat pocket. “So”—the young man gestured for the soldier to pull up a chair and join them—“what did he say? What are they looking for?”
“It’s the weirdest thing. Artifacts.”
“What?”
The soldier bit his bottom lip. “Yeah, Egyptian artifacts. But not objects as we might have thought. Not a weapon as such. That’s why he was so angry with my offerings. Thems is looking for scrolls. Scrolls with a certain image on ’em.”
“Hieroglyphic?”
Burt nodded.
“What image, did he say?”
“Seems they’re quite desperate, ’cause it was pretty indiscreet of him to tell me, but, yeah, he said. Something called an ankh, only they want it broken. You know, in the picture, like the symbol was cut in half.”
Professor Lyall and Biffy looked at one another. “Interesting,” they both said at the same time.
“I wager the edict keepers have some kind of record of the symbol.” Biffy, of course, had some knowledge of vampire information sources.
“Which means,” Lyall said thoughtfully, “this has happened before.”
Alexia left her husband soundly asleep. After centuries as an immortal, he had forgotten how a mortal body seeks succor in slumber when it has injuries to deal with. Despite the excitement, the night was young and most of the rest of the castle was still awake.
She nearly ran full tilt into a rapidly scuttling Ivy in the hallway. Mis
s Hisselpenny had a fierce frown decorating her normally amiable face.
“Good Lord, Ivy, what an expression.” Lady Maccon leaned casually on her parasol. The way things were progressing this evening, she was unwilling to part with the accessory.
“Oh, Alexia. I do not mean to be forward, but I really must venture: I simply loathe Mr. Tunstell.”
“Ivy!”
“Well, I mean to say, well, really! He is so very impossible. I was given to understand that his affection for me was secure. And one little objection and he switches allegiance quite flippantly. One might even call him flighty! To bill and coo around another female so soon after I went to such prodigious lengths to break his heart. It gives him the countenance of a, well, a vacillating butterfly!”
Lady Maccon was arrested trying to imagine a cooing butterfly. “Really, I thought you were still quite enamored of him, despite rejecting his suit.”
“How could you think such a thing? I positively detest him. I am in full agreement with myself on this. He is nothing more than a billing-cooing vacillator! And I shall have nothing more to do with a person of such weakened character.”
Lady Maccon was not quite certain how to converse with Miss Hisselpenny when she was in such a mood. She was accustomed to Ivy-overset and Ivy-chatterbox, but Ivy-full-of-wrath was a new creature altogether. She opted for the fallback position. “You are clearly in need of a fortifying cup of tea, my dear. Shall we go and see if we can hunt one down? Even the Scots must stock some form of libation.”
Miss Hisselpenny took a deep breath. “Yes, I think you may be right. Excellent notion.”
Lady Maccon solicitously shepherded her friend down the stairs and into one of the smaller drawing rooms, where they ran into two clavigers. The young gentlemen were more than eager to hunt down the requisite tea, see to Miss Hisselpenny’s every whim, and generally prove to the ladies that all good manners had not fled the Highlands along with its complement of trousers. As a result, Ivy forgave them their kilts. Lady Maccon left her friend to their stimulating accents and tender care and went in search of Madame Lefoux and the broken aethographor, hoping for a peek at its functional component parts.
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