The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set

by Gail Carriger

“Yes, but to behave like animals? Surely that’s not polite.”

  Lady Maccon narrowed her eyes, tilted her head, and gave her sister a look and the time to contemplate what she had just said.

  Felicity sputtered. “You mean to say? Changed! Here! In town? How unspeakably shameful!” She turned to walk with her sister back down the stairs. “May I see?”

  Lady Maccon wondered if she did not prefer the cuttingly nasty Felicity of previous incarnations.

  “No, you most certainly may not! Really, what has gotten into you of late? You are not at all yourself.”

  “Is it so unlikely that I should wish to improve myself?”

  Alexia fingered the dull gray shawl draped over her sister’s faded dress. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  Felicity huffed in annoyance. “I must go change for supper.”

  Lady Maccon looked her up and down, emitting a lip curl that was, quite frankly, remarkably Felicity-like. Sometimes, although not too often, there came an indication that they were, indeed, related. “Yes, I do believe you must.”

  Felicity wiggled her shoulders and emitted the “Oh, la,” of an insult being shaken off, and proceeded back up to the best bedroom, which she had, naturally, commandeered as her own.

  Lady Maccon waddled on down, one careful stair at a time. The urgency of the noises below made her increasingly annoyed by her own inability to move with any kind of alacrity. Really this is simply too ridiculous! I’m trapped by my own body. She attained the main hall only to find that the door to the back parlor was locked and shaking. Professor Lyall and two clavigers were milling about unhappily, crowding the passageway with masculine concern.

  “Why aren’t you at supper?” demanded Lady Maccon imperiously. “I am certain Floote and the staff have gone to substantial lengths to provide.”

  Everyone stilled and looked at her.

  “Go on, go eat,” she said to them, as though they were small children or pet dogs.

  Professor Lyall raised a quizzical brow at her.

  Lady Maccon lowered her voice. “Biffy wouldn’t want anyone to see.”

  “Ah.” Then the Beta, obedient to his mistress’s will, followed his fellows into the dining room, shutting the door behind him.

  Lady Maccon let herself into the back parlor. Which was an absolute mess. Lord Maccon, now a massive brindled wolf—quite handsome, Alexia always thought, even in lupine form—was squared off against a younger, lankier animal. Biffy’s fur was a deep chocolate color, much the same as his hair, except for his stomach and up to the ruff, which was oxblood. His eyes were yellow and crazed.

  Lord Maccon barked at his wife authoritatively. Lord Maccon was always barking at his wife, the form of his body mattering not one jot.

  Alexia dismissed the commanding tone. “Yes, yes, but you must admit I can be quite useful under such circumstances as these, even in my less-than-nimble state.”

  Lord Maccon growled in evident annoyance.

  Biffy caught Lady Maccon’s scent and turned instinctively to hurl himself at her, a new threat. The earl twisted to place his own body in the way. The slighter wolf charged full tilt into his Alpha. Biffy reeled, shaking his head and whining. Lord Maccon feinted toward him, teeth nipping, backing him flush against the now mostly destroyed chaise.

  “Oh, Conall, look at this room!” Lady Maccon was displeased. The place was in chaos—furniture overturned, drapes shredded, and one of the cook’s precious journals had been bitten into and slobbered all over.

  “Oh, doesn’t that just take the biscuit! That’s evidence, that is.” Alexia’s hand was to her breast in distress. “Oh, dear, I suppose I ought to have kept it with me.” She couldn’t really blame Biffy, of course, but it was vexing. She toddled her way toward him, stripping off her gloves.

  Biffy continued to snap and slather in her direction, growling in uncontrollable rage, the cursed monster of folklore made flesh and fur before her.

  Alexia tsked at him. “Really, Biffy, must you?” Then she used her best Lady Maccon voice. “Behave! What kind of conduct is this for a gentleman!”

  Alexia was Alpha, too, and the commanding tone sunk in. Biffy mellowed his snapping frenzy. Some measure of sense entered his yellow eyes. Lord Maccon seized the opportunity and charged, clamping down hard on the other wolf’s neck, bearing him down to the floor by sheer superiority of mass.

  Lady Maccon approached and looked down at the tableau. “It’s no good, Conall. I can’t bend down to touch him without falling over.”

  Her husband let out a snort of amusement. Then, with a casual flick of his head, he hurled the young wolf upward. A surprised Biffy landed on his back on the chaise lounge, scrambling to right himself and attack once more.

  Lady Maccon grabbed his tail. He jerked in surprise, enough to overbalance her so that she fell with an oof onto the chaise next to him. In that same instant, the power of her preternatural touch forced him back into human form. Even as Biffy’s tail retreated, Alexia reached for a paw with her other hand.

  In very short order, a naked Biffy lay sprawled in a most undignified way upon the chaise lounge with his foot firmly grasped by his mistress. Since contact with Alexia made him mortal, with all the physical responses such a state entailed, it was not unsurprising to find him blushing crimson in humiliation.

  Alexia, while sympathetic to his plight, maintained her grasp and noted, with scientific detachment, that his blush went all the way down. Remarkable.

  Her husband’s growl drew her attention back to him. He, too, was back in his human form and naked.

  “What?”

  “Stop looking at him. He’s bare.”

  “So are you, husband.”

  “Yes, well, you can look at me all you like.”

  “Yes, well. Oh.” Lady Maccon clutched suddenly at her stomach with her free hand.

  Conall’s mild jealousy translated instantly to overbearing solicitude. “Alexia! Are you ailing? Oh, you shouldna hae come in here! It’s too dangerous. You fell.”

  Biffy sat up, also concerned. He tried to extract his ankle, but Lady Maccon refused to let go. “My lady, what is wrong?”

  “Oh, stop it! Both of you. The infant is simply kicking up a fuss over such sudden activity. No, Biffy dear, we must stay in contact, however indecorous you find it.” Biffy offered her his hand instead of his foot. Alexia accepted the exchange of prisoners.

  “Shall I ring for Floote?” suggested Biffy, blushing slightly less now that he had something to be worried about that wasn’t his own shame.

  Alexia hid a smile. “You should find that rather difficult, as you seem to have chewed up the bell rope.”

  Biffy looked around, blushing again. He covered his face with one hand, peeking through open fingers as though he couldn’t stand to look, yet was unable to drag his eyes away. “Oh my ruffled bacon! What have I done? Your poor parlor. My lord, my lady, please forgive me. I was not myself. I was in thrall to the curse.”

  Lord Maccon was having none of it. “That’s the problem, pup. You were yourself. You continue to refuse to accept that.”

  Lady Maccon understood her husband’s meaning and tried to phrase it in a more sympathetic manner. “You must begin to accustom yourself to being a werewolf, Biffy dear. Even attempt to enjoy it. This continued resistance is unhealthy.” She looked around. “Mainly to my furniture.”

  Biffy looked down and nodded. “Yes, I know. But, my lady, it’s so undignified. I mean to say, one must strip before shifting. And then after…” He looked down at himself, attempting to cross his legs. Lord Maccon took sympathy on him and tossed him a velvet throw pillow. Biffy placed it into his lap gratefully. Alexia noted her husband took no such pains himself.

  Biffy’s blue eyes were wide. “Thank you, my lady, for bringing me back. It hurts, but it is worth anything to be human again.”

  “Yes, but the question is, how are we to get you dressed while I maintain contact?” Alexia wanted to know, ever practical.

  Lord Maccon grinned. “Some
thing can be arranged. I shall call Floote in, shall I? He will know how to manage.” In the absence of the bellpull, Conall strode out into the hall, yelling for the butler.

  Mere moments later, Floote appeared. He took in the wretched condition of the room, furniture everywhere, and the entirely unfurnished condition of two of its occupants without even the flicker of an eyelid.

  “Sirs. Madam.”

  “Floote, my man,” said the earl jovially. “We will need someone to see to this room. It’s a wee bit messy. A re-covering of the chaise, I think; repairs to the wallpaper and curtains; and a new bell rope. Oh, and Biffy here needs to be dressed without letting go of my wife’s paw.”

  “Yes, sir.” Floote turned to see to the matter.

  Lady Maccon cleared her throat and looked meaningfully at her husband, up and down and then up again.

  “What? Oh, yes, and send one of the clavigers next door for some kit for me as well. Deuced inconvenient, but I suppose I may need garments at some point tonight.”

  Floote vanished and then reappeared in due time carrying a stack of clothing for Biffy. The young werewolf looked as though he would like to object to the butler’s selection but didn’t want to cause any more of a fuss. It did seem that Floote had chosen the most somber attire possible out of all of the dandy’s peacocklike closet. Biffy’s bottom half was seen to rather simply. After which Floote suggested the young man kneel at the edge of the chaise lounge and Lady Maccon touch the back of his head while shirt, waistcoat, jacket, and cravat were summarily dealt with. Floote handled everything with consummate skill, an ability Alexia attributed to his many years as valet to her father. Alessandro Tarabotti, by all accounts, had been a bit of a dandy himself.

  While Floote, Alexia, and Biffy performed their complicated game of knotted parts on the chaise, a claviger arrived with apparel for Lord Maccon. The earl threw it on in an arbitrary way, showing all the attention to detail a ferret might employ if called upon to decorate a hat. Lord Maccon believed that if his trousers were on his legs, and something else was on his torso, he was dressed. The less done after that, the better. His wife had been startled to find that in the summertime, he actually went around their room barefoot! Once—and only once, mind you—he even attempted to join her for tea in such a state. Impossible man. Alexia put a stop to that posthaste.

  Professor Lyall stuck his head in to see if everything was sorted.

  “Ah, good. You’ve managed matters.”

  “Doesn’t she always?” grumbled her husband.

  “Yes, Professor Lyall?” asked Alexia.

  “I thought you should know, my lady, those results you wanted came in from our laboratory at BUR.”

  “Yes?”

  “On those little vials you, uh, found?”

  “Yes?”

  “Poison. All of them. Different kinds, different effectiveness levels. Some detectable, some not as such. Mostly for mortals but one or two that might put even a supernatural under the weather for some time. Nasty stuff.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Werewolves of Woolsey Castle

  Having to keep Biffy mortal made for a pretty incommodious several hours. Ordinarily, Lady Maccon, even pregnant, could manage a meal and a carriage ride with aplomb, but when one must stay attached in some manner to a dandy, even the most mundane tasks become an exercise in complexity.

  “It’s a good thing I enjoy your company, Biffy. I can’t imagine having to handle daily tasks with someone less agreeable affixed. Like my husband, for example.” Alexia shuddered at the very idea. She enjoyed having Conall affixed to her, but only for a limited amount of time.

  The husband in question looked up at his lady with a grumbled, “Oh, thank you verra much, wife.”

  They were sitting in the carriage together. Woolsey Castle loomed on the horizon—a sizable blob in the moonlight. Lady Maccon, being a woman of little artistic preference, regarded her domain with an eye toward its practicality as an abode for werewolves rather than an architectural endeavor. Which was good, as it was rather more of an architectural tragedy. Those unfortunate enough to happen upon it during daylight could tender only one compliment—that it was pleasingly situated. And it was, atop rising ground in extensive, if slightly unkempt, grounds with a cobbled courtyard and decent stables.

  “Oh, you know perfectly well what I mean, husband. We’ve had to stay attached before, but customarily only when violence was imminent.”

  “And sometimes for other reasons.” He gave her his version of a seductive look.

  She smiled. “Yes, dear, exactly.”

  Biffy said, being on his best behavior, “Thank you for the compliment, my lady, and I do apologize for the inconvenience.”

  “So long as there are no more zombie porcupines, we should do very well.”

  “Shouldn’t be,” said her husband. “Seems the hives have officially declared a cease-fire. Hard to tell truth with vampires but they appear to be pleased with the idea of Lord Akeldama adopting our child.”

  “Well, at least someone is.”

  Woolsey Castle was no castle at all but a large Georgian manor house augmented by mismatched Gothic-style flying buttresses. On her most recent trip to Italy, Lady Maccon had encountered a bug—a creature larger than her thumb that flew upright, like an angel, with a nose like an elephant, horns like a bull, and multiple wings. It stayed aloft in an erratic up-and-down manner as though it were remembering, occasionally, that a bug of its size and shape ought not to be able to fly. Woolsey Castle was built, in principle, upon much the same lines as that bug: improbably constructed, exceedingly ugly, and impossible to determine how it continued to stay upright or, indeed, why it bothered to do so.

  Since Lord and Lady Maccon had set forth to their country seat with no warning, their unanticipated arrival at Woolsey threw the residents into a tizzy. Lord Maccon swept into the bevy of sprightly young men who’d congregated in the courtyard, taller than most by a head, and carved a path before him, scythelike.

  Major Channing, Woolsey’s Gamma, strode down from his sanctum and out the front door to greet them, still knotting his cravat and looking as though he had only just arisen, despite the lateness of the hour. “My lord, you were not expected until full moon.”

  “Emergency trip. Have to stick certain persons down the dungeon sooner than anticipated.” There were rumors as to the original owner’s use of Woolsey’s dungeon, but regardless of initial intent it had proved ideal for a werewolf pack. In fact, the whole house was well suited. In addition to a well-fortified holding area and brick walls, there were no less than fourteen bedrooms, a goodly number of receiving parlors, and several precarious-looking but fully functional towers, one of which Lord and Lady Maccon utilized as their boudoir.

  Channing waved a hand at a gaggle of clavigers, directing them to help with luggage and assist in extracting Lady Maccon from the carriage. The earl was already cocking an ear to a murmured report from one of his pack. He left his wife to see to Biffy, secure in the knowledge that if nothing else, Alexia was good at setting a gentleman in his proper place, even if that place be a dungeon.

  Lady Maccon, happy to lean upon Biffy, for exhaustion was beginning to take its toll once more, made her way down into the dungeon and saw the young dandy safely into one of the smaller cells. Two clavigers accompanied them, carrying the requisite amount of silver-tipped and silver-edged weaponry, just in case Lady Maccon lost her grip.

  Alexia did not want to let go, for Biffy’s face was pale with the imminent terror of transformation. It was an agonizing process for all werewolves to endure, but the new ones had it the worst, for they were not yet accustomed to the sensation, and they were forced into it more frequently by their own lack of control.

  Biffy clearly did not care to leave contact with the safe haven of her preternatural skin, but he was too much the gentleman to say. He would be more mortified to impose upon her for the duration of an entire night than to transform into a rampaging monster.

 
Alexia averted her eyes and kept her hand to the back of his head, her fingers buried in his thick chocolate brown hair, while the clavigers stripped him and clapped silver manacles about his elegant wrists. Conscious of his fading dignity, she kept a stream of irreverent chatter mostly concerning matters fashionable and decorative.

  “We are ready, my lady,” said one of the clavigers, arms full of clothing, as he exited the prison cell. The other stood outside the silver-plated bars, ready to slam the door as soon as Lady Maccon came through.

  “I am sorry,” was all Alexia could think to say to the young man.

  Biffy shook his head. “Oh, no, my lady, you have given me unexpected peace.”

  They stretched apart, fingertips just touching.

  “Now,” said Lady Maccon, and she broke contact, moving as fast as she could in her condition through the door and into the viewing hall.

  Biffy, mindful of any damage he might do before she could touch him again, threw himself away in that same instant, using all his regained supernatural strength and speed, before the change descended upon him.

  Alexia found the werewolf transformation an intellectually fascinating occurrence and enjoyed watching it, as one might enjoy dissecting a frog, but not in the younger werewolves. Her husband, Professor Lyall, and even Major Channing could manage shifting form with very little indication as to the pain accompanying the experience. Biffy could not. The moment they broke contact, he began to scream. Lady Maccon had learned over the past several months that there is no worse noise in the universe than a proud, kind young man suffering. His scream evolved into a howl as bones and organs broke and re-formed.

  Swallowing down bile and wishing she had wax to stopper her ears, Alexia firmly took the arm of one of the clavigers and ushered him toward the stairs and up into the comforting hullabaloo of the pack, leaving the other to stand solitary vigil over a broken man.

  “You really want that?” she asked her escort.

  The claviger did not try to hedge. Everyone knew Lady Maccon to be direct in her conversation and intolerant of shilly-shallying. “Immortality, my lady, is nothing to treat lightly, no matter the package or the price.”