Imprudence Page 2

  Once they were far enough out, Rue’s tether to Uncle Hemming snapped and her human form returned. She pulled the striped dress back on. It was a little worse for its werewolf encounter, but then wasn’t everyone?

  She bit her lip and fretted. Paw hadn’t turned up at all, not even with BUR. Was he sick? Missing? Dead? Well, more dead than normal? She would not let herself think that he was losing control. Missing or sick would be preferable.

  “Winkle, please hurry,” she yelled out of the window. “I do believe something awful may have happened to one of my parents.”

  Rue lived with her adoptive father, Lord Akeldama. Dama was many things: vampire, rove, potentate, fashion icon, and nobbiest of the nobs. He ruled over a house of impeccable taste and harmonious design replete with assorted stunning works of art, scintillating conversation, and beautiful young men. Rue appreciated his skill, and mostly bowed to his authority, although as he was no longer her legal guardian so she did not technically have to.

  Her blood parents, Lord and Lady Maccon, and their werewolf pack lived in the townhouse adjacent. It was only as tasteful as Uncle Rabiffano could impose, otherwise being characterised by dark wood, practical accoutrements, and the general aura of a bachelor residence over which Lady Maccon wafted like a hen in full squawk.

  The two residences were connected via a walkway hidden behind a large holly tree. Rue had found it a fun, if wildly erratic upbringing, for three more different parents one could never find than Dama, Paw, and Mother. Nothing was ever agreed upon, except teatime. Rue adored her Paw, who was a big softy and always let her have her way with only token protestations. She respected her Dama, in whom love was tempered by razor wit and a strict adherence to etiquette. But she was in awe of her mother. Given Rue’s metanatural abilities, one might have expected this. For while Rue could steal werewolf form from Paw and vampire form from Dama, Alexia Maccon could cancel both out. Only Rue’s soulless mother could put a stopper in all her fun. And usually did.

  Lady Maccon was difficult. She couldn’t be managed or charmed. She wouldn’t be moved once she made up her mind. She was as tough as old boot leather and as inevitable as clotted cream when scones were in the offing.

  So it was with real fear that Rue overheard her indomitable mother in conversation with Dama sounding upset.

  “He won’t listen to me. That in and of itself isn’t unusual, but this has gone on far too long. I’m worried he may be beyond saving. It’s past time the plan was enacted. We need to leave. Soon. Have you heard from India at all? Is he coming home?”

  “Really, my dove, why would you think I know anything about him? Why don’t you ask your husband’s Beta?”

  Rue paused in the hallway, ears perked. Uncle Rabiffano? What has he to do with anything? He seems the only one able to control himself these days.

  “My dear Akeldama. This is serious.” Her mother sounded almost cross with the vampire, yet he was one of her favourite people.

  “My darlingest of Alexias, I am never serious. I resent the implication that I should be.”

  “Not even about love?”

  “What do you take me for – sentimental? Wait, before you continue on at me, I do believe we have an audience.” Dama opened the door and tilted his head at his daughter. “Good evening, Puggle. What have you been up to? Your gown looks as if it has been dragged through the streets by a dog.”

  “You aren’t far off, actually. Is that Mother? May I speak to her?”

  Dama quirked an eyebrow over the edge of his monocle. His movements were always precise – calculated. “Mmmm, you know I’d rather not be involved in one of those conversations. But if you insist, come in. You’re sure you won’t change first?”

  “It is rather urgent.”

  Lord Akeldama waved her in. Tonight he was dressed sombrely, for him, in teal and cream with a gold monocle and gold rings on all of his fingers. His hands sparkled as he gestured for her to sit.

  Lady Alexia Maccon was taking tea, nose up and commanding in one of the wingback chairs. She didn’t rise as her daughter entered the room, as it was, after all, for Rue to go to her.

  Rue did so, delivering a polite peck on the cheek and then sitting opposite on the settee.

  Dama remained standing, leaning with a studied casualness on the back of one of the other chairs.

  Rue’s mother did not demure. “Infant, please tell me you didn’t look like this when you saw the queen? Your hair is down. And the state of your gown defies comment.”

  “Apparently not, as both you and Dama have now commented.”

  Lady Maccon narrowed her eyes.

  “Mother, really. What do you take me for – a harridan? No, don’t answer that. I assure you, I was perfectly respectable during my audience with the queen. You may ask Winkle for confirmation. Where is Winkle anyway?” But Winkle had squeaked off the moment he heard Lady Maccon’s voice. He, like all the drones and most of the pack, knew never to come between Lady Maccon and her daughter when there were incidents to explain. The ladies tended to engage in verbal skirmishing that became semantic battles in which bystanders were skewered.

  Dama’s expression said he wished to vanish as well. But this was his house, and he was host, and twenty years of intimacy and shared familial responsibility were not enough to cause him to abandon a guest in his drawing room, not even when his daughter was there to entertain. Standards must be upheld.

  “Tea, Puggle?” He came around to pour her a cup. It was a rhetorical question. As far as Rue was concerned, the answer to the great question of life, “Tea?” was always “Yes.” And Dama was perfectly well aware of this character trait.

  Rue sipped the tea gratefully, mustering her courage and attempting to frame her worries about the pack in a manner that would offend her mother least. Meanwhile, she withstood Lady Maccon’s opening tactics: a series of sharp, fast questions on her visit with Queen Victoria. If Mother has the wherewithal to be concerned about that, then there can’t possibly be anything seriously wrong with Paw. Can there?

  “Oh, Mother, you should be perfectly pleased with everything. Queen Victoria was utterly beastly, took me to task for all the things both you and Dama already reprimanded me for. Said something about rescinding my legal protections and rights.”

  Mother and Dama exchanged a look.

  “Majority?” queried her mother. “The government and the vampires?”

  “Just so.” Dama did not look as surprised.

  Rue only just stopped herself from foot stamping. “I hate it when you two do that!”

  Lady Maccon ignored her daughter and added, to the vampire, “We have to assume we’ve done enough training. It’s more than I had.”

  “Mmmm,” was all the vampire said, and then to Rue, “Go on, precious dove, what else?”

  Rue glared at them but said, since they would find out at the Shadow Council meeting later that week anyway, “She also took away my sundowner status, which I call most unfair. I never even got to kill anybody, not really.”

  “Sometimes you remind me so much of your father.” Lady Maccon sniffed. “Violent leanings. Can’t have been my doing.” She chose to ignore the fact that she had, in her younger days, a well-deserved reputation for biffing people with her parasol.

  Rue chose to ignore this in turn, jumping on the opening her mother had inadvertently given her. “Speaking of Paw, where is he this evening?”

  Lady Maccon was taken aback. Rue generally showed little interest in the nightly duties of her parents. All three of them were heavily involved in secret government work, so they preferred it this way.

  “With BUR, I suppose. I didn’t ask. Why do you want to know?”

  “He’s not with BUR, or I would have seen him.”

  “Oh? Was BUR called in to your meeting with the queen?” Lady Maccon’s voice went dangerous.

  “No. I was no threat. Do give me some credit. They were called to deal with the pack. There was an incident at Claret’s. You haven’t heard?”


  Lady Maccon looked very tired. “What did they do now?”

  Lord Akeldama removed his monocle and began to clean it carefully with a silk handkerchief. This was, Rue knew from experience, him trying to hide how interested he was in the conversation.

  Fascinating that neither of them had yet heard of the werewolves attacking the drones. Lord Akeldama, at least, had a fast network of informants. Rue had come directly home, but still, she wasn’t accustomed to being the only one who knew what was really going on… except with her own private business.

  She took a moment to relish the sensation but then realised that Mother and Dama should know. It was their business to know what went on in London, especially with the supernatural. She became worried, which made her less diplomatic than she ought to be. “They were sloshed. In public. The entire pack. And they were shoving drones. It was most decidedly not on!”

  Lady Maccon’s face fell, her large dark eyes troubled. Rue had her father’s eyes, a weird yellow colour, and she’d always envied her mother for the soulfulness her brown eyes could impart. Now, however, Mother looked as if she might cry. It was more sobering than anything else that had happened that evening. Rue instantly regretted her harshness.

  Dama gave Rue a reproving look. He bent over Lady Maccon, taking her bare hand in one of his. The action turned him human, as Mother’s preternatural power stole away his soul. It wasn’t like Rue’s abilities: Lady Maccon did not turn into a vampire herself. She simply made Dama mortal while he touched her. It was a mark of concern that he would take the risk; Dama was usually so careful about such things.

  Mortal, Dama was less ethereal – less like some woodland sprite and more like a warn attic-bound artist with a taste for laudanum. There were lines on his face and smudges under his eyes. His hair was dulled to an ashy tone, and his movements became weighted.

  “Don’t worry, Alexia, my dearest posy. We shall get you both moving soon. You’re right. It’s past time. We must merely find the right chivvy.”

  Lady Maccon stood and reached for her trusty parasol. “I should go and find him. He’ll need my touch. Would you—?” She hesitated, unsure.

  Another frisson of fear spun up Rue’s spine. Paw is ill; there’s no other explanation.

  Lady Maccon closed her eyes and took a short breath. “Would you consider talking to Rabiffano? He might listen to you. Quite frankly, I’ve run out of options.”

  Dama let go of her hand. His features and manners snapped back into smooth immortality. “I don’t know that it should come from me.”

  “You’re right. I shouldn’t have asked. I apologise. I shall send an aetherogram to India. Perhaps it’s not too late.”

  Dama smiled without showing fang, a sympathetic smile. “Now there, my dear dandelion, I can help you. I have already alerted them to the situation.”

  Lady Maccon relaxed. “Good. Good. Thank you.”

  “Mother, what is it? You’re looking quite green round the gears.”

  “Infant, I do wish you wouldn’t use such ghastly modern vernacular. It’s nothing for you to worry about. Just… I should find that errant husband of mine.”

  She whisked out of the house. She didn’t stride, not like Rue strode, although she was a good deal taller and more stride-worthy. No, Lady Maccon kept to the current fashions, her movements hindered by underskirts, but she still managed an air of purpose and authority which Rue envied. She’d never have her mother’s presence, curse it.

  Rue turned back to her vampire father. “Dama, what on earth is going on? What is wrong with everyone? And why do we need the Kingair Pack? I assume that’s who you sent for in India.”

  “Ah, my dearest Puggle, if your other parents haven’t told you, it’s not my place at all.”

  Rue frowned. Someone else had said something exactly similar to her recently. Who was it? “You sound like Uncle Lyall,” she remembered out loud.

  Lord Akeldama started. His mouth twisted a tiny bit. Which surprised Rue. Uncle Lyall, London Pack Beta before Uncle Rabiffano took over and now stationed with Kingair in India, was a sublimely good egg. Why should Dama not like him? Everyone liked him.

  Dama would not allow her to question him further. “Enough, Puggle. This is not your problem to solve, especially when a solution is already in place. It simply needs to be acted upon.”

  He was annoyed enough for Rue to hear some long-forgotten accent slip into his words. Everyone was fracturing this evening.

  “I hate it when you are cryptic. I’m all grown up now, remember? I assure you I am equipped to handle truths.”

  Dama tilted his head at her and raised his monocle. “No, I don’t think you are if it means too much change. But you’ll have to be soon. You were a little tough on your mother just now, dear. Not to put too fine a point on it.”

  “Oh, really! That is unfair. I had no idea she would be sensitive. This is my mother we’re talking about. She’s never sensitive.”

  Dama puffed out a suppressed laugh. “You must begin to think through the consequences of your actions. Sweetling, you’ve already caused an international incident and risked your own safety. You can’t go around mucking up London politics as well. They’re quite absurd enough already.”

  “Are we still talking about Mother or have we moved back to the weremonkeys again? I am sorry I had to bargain away your tea, Dama. Really, I am. But I couldn’t think of another solution. I was trying to save lives.”

  “Oh, lives.” The vampire flopped one hand dismissively. “I’m concerned about you, Puggle. You gave the queen her opening and she’s removed Crown protection. Plus you’ve achieved your majority, so you no longer have me as a guardian.”

  “Freedom!” crowed Rue. “I shall shop wherever I please.” Rue had always known her majority had all kinds of legal repercussions, but she’d never bothered with the details except the part where she no longer had to do what any of her parents told her to do.

  “Exactly, you take on great responsibility and danger now, my reckless little poppet. The proper shoes alone…”

  Rue knew he was being flippant to cover genuine concern. “I know it doesn’t seem so to you, my darling Dama, but I’ve got old. Twenty-one and no one’s ward. But you needn’t worry. I’ve got my own dirigible and friends and everything. You and Mother and Paw have given me all the advantages of a” – she paused, struggling for the right words – “peculiar upbringing.”

  Dama looked modestly pleased. “We have done our best. But, my dearest child, we have all trained you, in our way, to compensate for the mistakes of our own pasts. We cannot predict your future. I worry that you are no longer quite safe.”

  “Isn’t that part of being an adult?”

  “Yes, but you’re not the same type of adult. You’re unique, not exactly human, and there is some question as to your right to legally exist. I don’t think any of us fully understand the implications. Without government protection, or we vampires looking out for you, there are people who may want you dead.”

  Rue rolled her eyes. Really, this was too far. “Everyone wants me dead. That’s nothing new. Dama, I love you, but you are overreacting. I can take care of myself.”

  “Like you tried to take care of a drunken pack? You cannot expect me to believe that you stayed out of that, puglet. Your mother may be distracted, but I am not.”

  Rue pursed her lips, suppressing the urge to frown furiously. All right, so she shouldn’t have challenged Channing, but someone had to do something! However, there was no way to justify the action to Dama when she was already fighting from an inferior position. She didn’t want to admit to any wrongdoing.

  So she finished her tea and stood, radiating smugness. “You’ll have to ask Winkle for a full report now, won’t you, Dama dear? I’m certain he’ll be most forthcoming.”

  With which she was about to whisk dramatically out of the room, except that at that precise moment the front doorbell rang. Dama had recently had the latest style installed, which tolled deeply rather than a prope
r ringing. It sounded a bit like a death dirge. But Rue supposed that even Dama needed the occasional undead wallow.

  She paused and cocked her head; a familiar voice was chatting with the drone at the door.

  Moments later, Primrose Tunstell came trotting into the drawing room trailing Virgil in her wake.

  “Oh, Rue, were you heading out?”

  “Only in a huff. What is it, Prim? You look positively overcome. And what are you doing with your brother’s valet? Much as I respect you, Virgil, you’re hardly an ideal chaperone for someone in Miss Tunstell’s position.”

  Virgil didn’t take offence. Despite being a jaunty lower-class stripling, he was well versed in proper etiquette. He knew he was the worst possible escort for a lady of Prim’s rank. Since he was also an inveterate snob, he would have been the first to tell her so.

  Primrose is usually good about such things.

  Rue examined her friend.

  Despite her odd companion, everything else seemed in order. She was perfectly dressed in an elegant cherry gown patterned in cream mignonette with ribbon detail exactly on point, right down to the wide sash at her enviably small waist. Her rich brown hair was swirled atop her head and crowned in the latest gentleman’s inspired boater hats. She wore a not-too-ostentatious brooch at her throat, below which fell a quantity of not-too-ostentatious lace. She held leather gloves in one hand and a decorative fur purse in the other. Decorative because Primrose would never be so crass as to actually carry money on her person. The only thing even remotely out of character was the fact that she was trailing her brother’s valet. However, Rue was confident that a perfectly sensible explanation would be forthcoming.

  The net over Prim’s face did nothing to disguise her worried expression. Primrose was an even-tempered little thing. On those few occasions when sentimentality overwhelmed her, Prim was ever willing to share her feelings with her dearest friend. In fact, it was practically a requirement of their relationship.