Blameless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Third

by Gail Carriger

  She poked him in the center of his chest with two fingers to punctuate her words. “You are an unfeeling”—poke—“traitorous”—poke—“mistrusting”—poke—“rude”—poke—“booby!” Every poke turned him mortal, but Lord Maccon didn’t seem to mind it in the least.

  Instead he grabbed the hand that poked him and brought it to his lips. “You put it very well, my love.”

  “Oh, don’t get smarmy with me, husband. I am nowhere near finished with you yet.” She started poking him with the other hand. Lord Maccon grinned hugely, probably, Alexia realized, because she had slipped up and called him “husband.”

  “You kicked me out without a fair trial. Do stop kissing me. And you didn’t even consider that the child might be yours. Stop that! Oh, no, you had to leap to the worst possible assumption. You know my character. I could never betray you like that. Just because history says it is not possible doesn’t mean there aren’t exceptions. There are always exceptions. Look at Lord Akeldama—he is practically an exception to everything. Why, it took only a little research in the Templar records and I figured it out. Stop kissing my neck, Conall, I mean it. Templars should have practiced more of the scholarly arts and stopped whacking about at everything willy-nilly.” She reached into her cleavage and produced the small, now-garlic-scented Roman curse tablet, which she waved at her husband. “Look right here! Evidence. But not you, oh no. You had to act first. And I was stuck running around without a pack.”

  Lord Maccon managed to get a word in at this point, but only because Lady Maccon had run out of breath. “It looks like you managed to build your own pack, anyway, my dear. A parasol protectorate, perhaps one might say.”

  “Oh, ha-ha, very funny.”

  Lord Maccon leaned forward and, before she could resume her tirade, kissed her full on the mouth. It was one of his deep, possessive kisses. It was the kind of embrace that made Alexia feel that somewhere in there, even though her touch had stolen all the werewolf out of him, he might still want to gobble her right up. She continued poking him absently even as she curled into his embrace.

  Just as swiftly as he had started, he stopped. “Ew!”

  “Ew? You kiss me when I haven’t even finished yelling at you and then you say ‘ew’!” Alexia jerked out of her husband’s grasp.

  Conall stopped her with a question. “Alexia, darling, have you been eating pesto recently?” He started rubbing at his nose as though it were itching. His eyes began to water.

  Alexia laughed. “That’s right—werewolves are allergic to basil. You see the full force of my revenge?” She could touch him and the allergic reaction would probably stop immediately, but she stood back and watched him suffer. Funny that even as a mortal, he had reacted badly to the taste of her supper. She resigned herself to a life without pesto, and with that thought realized she was going to forgive her husband.

  Eventually.

  The werewolf in question approached her cautiously once more, as if he was afraid if he moved too fast she would panic and bolt. “It’s been a long time since I tasted that flavor, and I never liked it, even as a human. I’ll put up with it, though, if you really like it.”

  “Will you put up with the child, too?”

  He pulled her into his arms again. “If you really like it.”

  “Don’t be difficult. You are going to have to like it, too, you realize.”

  Nuzzling against her neck, he let out a sigh of satisfaction. “Mine,” he said happily.

  Alexia was resigned to her fate. “Unfortunately, both of us are.”

  “Well, that’s all right, then.”

  “So you think.” She pulled away, punching him in the arm, just to make her position perfectly clear. “The fact remains that you also belong to me! And you had the temerity to behave as though you didn’t.”

  Lord Maccon nodded. It was true. “I shall make it up to you.” Adding unguardedly, “What can I do?”

  Alexia thought. “I want my own aethographic transmitter. One of the new ones that doesn’t require crystalline valves.”

  He nodded.

  “And a set of ladybugs from Monsieur Trouvé.”

  “A what?”

  She glared at him.

  He nodded again. Meekly.

  “And a new gun for Floote. A good-quality revolver or some such that shoots more than one bullet.”

  “For Floote? Why?”

  His wife crossed her arms.

  “Whatever you say, dear.”

  Alexia considered asking for a Nordenfelt but thought that might be pushing it a bit, so she downgraded. “And I want you to teach me how to shoot.”

  “Now, Alexia, do you think that’s quite the best thing for a woman in your condition?”

  Another glare.

  He sighed. “Verra well. Anything else?”

  Alexia frowned in thought. “That will do for now, but I might still come up with something.”

  He tucked her in close against him once more, running his hands over her back in wide circular motions and burying his nose in her hair.

  “So, what do you think, my dear, will it be a girl or a boy?”

  “It will be a soul-stealer, apparently.”

  “What!” The earl reared away from his wife and looked down at her suspiciously.

  Channing interrupted them. “Best be getting a move on, I’m afraid.” He head was cocked to one side, as though he were still in wolf form, ears alert for signs of pursuit.

  Lord Maccon turned instantly from indulgent husband to Alpha werewolf. “We’ll split up. Channing, you, Madame Lefoux, and Floote act as decoy. Madame, I’m afraid you may have to don female dress.”

  “Sometimes these things are necessary.”

  Alexia grinned, both at Madame Lefoux’s discomfort and the very idea someone might confuse the two of them. “I recommend padding as well,” she suggested, puffing out her chest slightly, “and a hair fall.”

  The inventor gave her a dour look. “I am aware of our differences of appearance, I assure you.”

  Alexia hid a grin and turned back to her husband. “You’ll send them over land?”

  Lord Maccon nodded. Then he looked to the clockmaker. “Monsieur?”

  “Trouvé,” interjected his wife helpfully.

  The clockmaker twinkled at them both. “I shall head home, I think. Perhaps the others would care to accompany me in that general direction?”

  Channing and Madame Lefoux nodded. Floote, as ever, had very little reaction to this turn of events. But Alexia thought she detected a gleam of pleasure in his eyes.

  Monsieur Trouvé turned back to Alexia, took her hand, and kissed the back of it gallantly. His whiskers tickled. “It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Maccon. Most enjoyable, indeed.”

  Lord Maccon looked on in shock. “You are referring to my wife, are you not?”

  The Frenchman ignored him, which only endeared him further to Alexia.

  “And you as well, Monsieur Trouvé. We must continue our acquaintance sometime in the not too distant future.”

  “I wholeheartedly agree.”

  Alexia turned back to her faintly sputtering husband. “And we shall go by sea?”

  He nodded again.

  “Good.” His wife grinned. “I will have you all to myself. I still have a lot to yell at you about.”

  “And here I thought we were due for a honeymoon.”

  “Does that mean quite the same thing to werewolves?”

  “Very droll, wife.”

  It wasn’t until much later that Lord and Lady Maccon returned to the topic of a certain infant-inconvenience. They had had to make their formal good-byes and escape out of Florence first. Morning found them secluded in the safety of an abandoned old barn of the large and drafty variety, at which point things had settled enough for them to undertake what passed, for Lord and Lady Maccon, as serious conversation.

  Conall, being supernatural and mostly inured against the cold, spread his cloak gallantly upon a mound of moldy
straw and lounged back upon it entirely bare and looking expectantly up at his wife.

  “Very romantic, my dear,” was Alexia’s unhelpful comment.

  His face fell slightly at that, but Lady Maccon was not so immune to her husband’s charms that she could resist the tempting combination of big-muscled nudity and bashful expression.

  She divested herself of her overdress and skirts.

  He made the most delicious huffing noise when she cast herself, swanlike, on top of him. Well, perhaps more beached-sea-mammal-like than swanlike, but it had the desirous upshot of plastering most of the length of her body against most of the length of his. It took him a moment to recover from several stone of wife suddenly settled atop him, but only a moment, for then he began a diligent quest to rid her of all her remaining layers of clothing in as little time as possible. He unlaced the back and popped open the front of her corset, and stripped off her chemise with all the consummate skill of a lady’s maid.

  “Steady on there,” protested Alexia mildly, though she was flattered by his haste.

  As though influenced by her comment, which she highly doubted, he suddenly switched tactics and jerked her against him tightly. Burying his face in the side of her neck, he took a deep, shuddering breath. The movement lifted her upward as his wide chest expanded. She felt almost as though she were floating.

  Then he rolled her slightly off him and, incredibly gently, pulled off her bloomers and began stroking over her slightly rounded belly.

  “So, a soul-stealer, is that what we’re getting?”

  Alexia wriggled slightly, trying to get him back into his customary, rather more forceful handling. She would never admit it out loud, of course, but she enjoyed it when he became enthusiastically rough. “One of the Roman tablets called it a Stalker of Skins.”

  He paused, glowering thoughtfully. “Na, still never heard of it. But, then, I’m na all that old.”

  “It certainly has the vampires in a tizzy.”

  “Following in its mother’s footsteps already, the little pup. How verra charming.” His big hands began moving optimistically in a northward direction.

  “Now what are you about?” wondered his wife.

  “I have some further reacquainting to do. Must evaluate size differentials,” he insisted.

  “I hardly see how you could tell the difference,” pointed out his wife, “considering their oversubstantial nature to start with.”

  “Oh, I believe I am more than equal to the task.”

  “We all must have goals in life,” agreed his wife, a slight tremor in her voice.

  “And to determine all the new particulars, I must apply all the available tools in my repertoire.” This comment apparently indicated Conall intended to switch and use his mouth rather than his hands.

  Alexia, it must be admitted, was running out of both token protests and the ability to breathe regularly. And since her husband’s mouth was occupied, and even a werewolf shouldn’t talk with his mouth full, she determined that was the end of their conversation.

  So it proved to be the case, for some time at least.

  Look out for HEARTLESS,

  The Parasol Protectorate:

  Book the Fourth,

  coming in July 2011.

  extras

  meet the author

  Ms. Carriger began writing in order to cope with being raised in obscurity by an expatriate Brit and an incurable curmudgeon. She escaped small-town life and inadvertently acquired several degrees in higher learning. Ms. Carriger then traveled the historic cities of Europe, subsisting entirely on biscuits secreted in her handbag. She now resides in the Colonies, surrounded by fantastic shoes, where she insists on tea imported directly from London. She is fond of teeny-tiny hats and tropical fruit. Find out more about Ms. Carriger at www.gailcarriger.com.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed BLAMELESS,

  look out for

  TEMPEST RISING

  Book One of the Jane True series

  by Nicole Peeler

  Jane True, small-town Maine bookstore clerk, always knew she didn’t quite fit in with so-called normal society—but she didn’t realize she had a supernatural heritage.

  I woke up to the sensation of something warm and wet lapping at my face, and I was overwhelmed by the smell of fresh toothpaste. My eyes weren’t quite functioning and all I could see was a large, fuzzy shape looming above my head. As my pupils slowly started to focus, I figured out that something was licking my cut clean. It felt incredibly soothing, until my brain restarted and I realized that the tongue in question was attached to the fanged mouth of the black hound of hell that had just been chasing me through my woods. I moaned with fear, trying to sit up and scramble backward at the same time. All I succeeded in doing was to bring my face closer to the dog’s enormous teeth and to make my head bleed again.

  Good strategy, Jane, I thought as my world spun and I collapsed back down with a thump.

  Another face swam into my vision. This wasn’t the dog, or the kindly old lady with the bun. This face had mud-brown eyes and thick tendrils of green hair, like seaweed. Her skin—for I thought it was a her—was a luminous pearl gray and she had a strange, flat nose that barely rose off the surface of her face.

  Whatever she was, she wasn’t human.

  But she was talking.

  “Let him heal your wound,” she said, in an oily, unpleasant voice that did little to quell my fears.

  The sound made me freeze, even if I didn’t really want to follow her instructions, and I again felt the rough tongue of the big black dog lapping at my eyebrow.

  I lay there, feeling as uncomfortable and on edge as I’ve ever felt, while the dog gently continued to lick. The gray-faced being was making a strange, leering expression at me, and then she reached out and patted my hand.

  That isn’t a leer, I realized. That is a smile. The strange woman was trying to comfort me, which was about as effective as a bear hug from the steely arms of an iron maiden.

  The dog had stopped licking my brow, which, I had to admit, felt much better. But it was now licking off the blood that had streamed down my face, and then it leaned in to lick the blood that had dripped over my neck and into the top of my shirt.

  “Okay,” I said, in what I hoped was a commanding voice. “Off.”

  I raised my arms and pushed weakly. The big dog did back away slightly, wagging its tail in what I assumed was hellhound for “Don’t worry, I’m satiated by your delicious blood and therefore won’t eat you… tonight.”

  The gray girl took a firm hold of one of my upraised hands and helped me to sit up. Hel-lo Dolly, I thought, as I got a gander of her. She was very naked, and very obviously female. And that strange gray skin continued the whole way down to her webbed feet with their thick black toenails.

  She definitely wasn’t human.

  “Can you sit up?” came that oily voice, again; she didn’t release her grip.

  “Yes, I think so.” I’d say anything to get my hand back.

  She leered—no, smiled at me again—and trotted over to the little old lady’s stool. Where, with no modesty whatsoever, she plopped down Indian-style, airing her bits for the world to see.

  She has seaweed pubes, observed my brain, unhelpfully, as I blinked and looked around at my little cove.

  My secret strip of beach that had once been as familiar as my own childhood bedroom had become an alien realm. If the enormous devil-dog, the eensy cartoon grandmother, and old barnacle crotch weren’t enough, there was a large globe of light suspended about eight feet above the old lady’s head. There were no wires that I could see, but it hung like a chandelier, bathing my little cove in an eerie luminescence.

  I felt a chill run down my spine, and I looked at the plump old woman sitting on the stool.

  She smiled beatifically, which didn’t make me feel one bit better.

  “It’s so nice finally to meet you, Jane,” she said. “Anyan has told us so much about you.”

  Th
e dog whined and lay down uncomfortably close to me while the old lady kept on smiling, clearly waiting for a response.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too?” I queried, not really sure of my role here. Were we going to have tea and chicken salad sandwiches like ladies who lunch or were they going to sacrifice me to their dark god of chaos? If they’d been banking on me being a virgin, they were plumb out of luck…

  “I realize you are at a disadvantage here, and that you are unsure of what is happening, but you are perfectly safe. I am Nell and this”—she gestured toward the gray girl—“is Trill.” Trill gave me that horrible grin again, but now that the grin had a name, it wasn’t quite as scarifying.

  “You’ve already met Anyan,” she said, indicating the giant dog.

  She again seemed to be waiting for some sort of response. “He’s got very fresh breath,” I said, the first thing that popped into my mind. “For a dog,” I clarified.

  “Yes.” She smiled even wider, if that were possible. “He’s very hygienic. And he’s done a good job on your head.”

  I raised my hand to my brow and felt absolutely nothing. There was no cut at all, and only the slightest tenderness when I pressed down on where my hurt had been. What the fuck? I thought, shooting a sharp glance at the canine. In response, Anyan wagged his tail and stretched his back paws out behind him so he was lying with his stomach embedded in the sand. It was such a doggy thing to do, for a hellhound, that I nearly smiled. He looked over at me and for a second I could have sworn he winked. But I guess I just hit my head harder than I thought. Speaking of which…

  “Why did he chase me?” I said, remembering the awful run through the woods. If they were so friendly, why scare the shit out of me and make me nearly brain myself in the process?

  “We’re sorry about that,” came Trill’s slippery voice. “It’s just that first contact is always difficult, even when it doesn’t have to be rushed like this. We couldn’t wait; we had to get you here tonight. And there were all sorts wandering the woods today, so we had to meet you under a glamour.”