Heartless pp-4 Read online

  Lady Maccon could make out some of the pack by their markings. There was Channing, easiest to spot because of his pure white coat; and Lyall, smaller than the rest and more nimble, almost vampirelike in his speed and dexterity; and Biffy, darkest of all the pack with his oxblood stomach fur, abandoned and utterly vicious in his movements. But Alexia’s eye was ever drawn, again and again, to the brindled coat of the largest wolf as he leaped up and savaged some portion of the octomaton, landed, and then leaped again.

  To have had any real effect, the wolves should have all concentrated on one tentacle together, or all gone for the neck, but they were moonstruck. Even under the best of circumstances, only a few werewolves fully retain their capacity for human intelligence while in wolf form. Full moon was not the best of circumstances.

  The octomaton was built for many things but not, apparently, for a full-pack assault. True, it was well armored and mostly metal, but Madame Lefoux had not used any silver, so it was vulnerable, especially in such numbers. But the Frenchwoman was not remaining idle. Oh, no. Madame Lefoux had those vicious tentacles in play, spraying fire and shooting wooden stakes. Alexia knew it was only a matter of time before the inventor became desperate enough to once more bring out the tentacle that shot lapis solaris.

  Then Lady Maccon caught sight of a white floating blob behind the top of the octomaton, sailing the aether breezes swiftly in her direction—a small private dirigible.

  Another contraction hit her hard. Alexia doubled over and slid down the side of the carriage, slumping to the ground, leaving the door vulnerable to attack. It was the first time the wave sensation had actually hurt. Curling against the involuntary movements of her own body, she looked up and over to the east.

  She couldn’t help but cry out—not from the pain but from what she saw. There was a distinct pinking to the cold silvery blue of the night sky.

  She had to get them all to the safety of the castle.

  She looked to Lord Ambrose, now standing over her barring the door, defending his queen. “We must bring the creature down somehow, buy us enough time to get to Woolsey. The sun is rising.”

  The vampire’s eyes went black with fear. The sun would stop werewolves in their tracks, turning them back to human shape. It would slow some of the younger members, making them vulnerable, and it would do permanent damage to Biffy, who lacked the necessary control. But it would kill the vampires, every last one of them, even the queen.

  Alexia thought of something. “Find me a litter, my lord.”

  “What, Lady Maccon?”

  “Tear off the roof of the carriage or remove part of the driving box. With one vampire at either end, you could use it to carry me to Woolsey. No one would have to touch me, there would be no loss of strength. We could make a break for it.”

  “Strategic retreat. Excellent notion.” He leaped atop the driver’s box.

  Lady Maccon heard a loud ripping noise.

  Above, she saw a bright flash of orange light emanate from the side of the dirigible and a loud clang as a massive bullet hit and tore through the mantle of the octomaton. The creature lurched at the impact but did not fall.

  Lord Akeldama had sent air support. Alexia had no idea what kind of weapon the drones had, possibly a tiny cannon, or an elephant gun, or an aethero-modified blunderbuss, but she didn’t care. It fired again.

  By the time the second projectile hit its mark, Lord Ambrose was back, as was the duke. They rested a wide board on the ground next to Alexia. She managed to slide and squirm her way onto it.

  They lifted her up. The queen and Dr. Caedes, carrying Quesnel, leaped out of the top of the torn and burned carriage, jack-in-the-box-like, and took off toward Woolsey, jumping the felled tree. The countess looked particularly odd performing this maneuver with her flowered receiving gown and dumpy figure. Lady Maccon’s vampire litter bearers followed. Alexia could do nothing more than grip the sides of the board, desperate not to tumble off. The leap over the fallen tree was pure torture, and she was convinced she would fall when they bumped down, but she managed to hold on.

  The wolves were providing enough of a distraction so that Madame Lefoux in the octomaton did not at first see them break for the castle. By the time she did, sending flames blasting after them, they were well out of range.

  There was no need to bang on Woolsey’s main door; it was wide open, with many of the clavigers and household staff assembled on the front stoop, mouths agape. They had binoculars or glassicals pressed to their faces and were riveted by the battle below. At Lady Maccon’s imperious wave, they made a corridor for the vampires to run through, right up to the entrance, at which point everyone stopped abruptly. They waited with a ritual solemnity uncalled for in such dire circumstances.

  “What is it now?” Alexia was annoyed beyond all reason. She was carried right to the door, like a dressed pig on a dinner platter. Any moment now, she thought in a flight of fantasy, Cook will appear with an apple to stuff into my mouth.

  Lord Ambrose rested the bottom of the board down and the duke tilted it up so that Lady Maccon had merely to slide gently to her feet, finding herself standing.

  A quick gesture had her supported on both sides by two of Woolsey’s largest clavigers. Thus she managed to hobble inside the entrance of her home.

  Still the vampires waited on the front stoop, like some bizarre parody of orphaned puppies—soulful eyed, pathetically scruffy, deadly fanged, immortal orphaned puppies.

  Lady Maccon turned ponderously. “Well?”

  “Invite us in to stay, Alexia Maccon, Lady of Woolsey, mistress of this domicile.” The countess’s words were singsong and hymnlike. She clutched a wide-eyed, blubbering Quesnel tightly to her breast—no trace of the scamp left, just terrified boy.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, come in, come in.” Alexia frowned, trying to think. They had a goodly number of rooms, but where would it be best to put a whole hive of vampires? She pursed her lips. “Best to get you lot down to the dungeon. It’s the only place I can guarantee that there are absolutely no windows, and the sun is about to rise.”

  Rumpet came forward. “Lady Maccon, what have you done?”

  The vampires traipsed solemnly into the house. Alexia pointed out the appropriate staircase and they filed wordlessly down.

  “You have invited in a queen?” The butler, normally quite a florid man, was ashen.

  “I have.”

  The Duke of Hematol gave her a tired smile as he passed, showing fang, acknowledging the butler’s fear as his due. “We can never go back now, you realize, Lady Maccon? Once a queen swarms and relocates, it is forever.”

  Lady Maccon finally understood Lord Akeldama’s smile and why he refused to invite the hive in for tea. Alexia had managed to get his greatest rival out of London, for good. Not only was he potentate, and in charge of his own ring of very specially trained young men, but also he would now be the sole leader of fashion left in central London.

  And Lady Maccon was stuck with vampires in her basement. “Curses, I have been rather neatly played.”

  Another contraction hit her, and she had no more thought for her present domestic predicament. She suspected this was somewhat akin to the pain her husband felt upon changing shape.

  Rumpet put out a hand to steady her. “My lady?”

  “Rumpet, there is an octomaton on our doorstep.”

  “So I noticed, my lady. And half of BUR has just arrived as well.”

  Alexia looked. It was true. Several of BUR’s human members, on the octomaton’s trail out of London, had finally caught up. She thought she could see Haverbink’s tall, strapping form. “Oh, God. The pack will turn on them, they’re food.” And even as she watched, one of the werewolves left off fighting Madame Lefoux’s creature and charged one of the BUR agents. “We must protect them. Get the pack members back inside!”

  “Indeed, madam.”

  “Call up the clavigers. Tell them to bring the necessary equipment and open the silver cabinet.”

 
“Immediately, madam.” The butler moved toward a nested triangular alcove formed by the staircase. Next to the large cowbell that he rang at mealtimes there dangled a silver chain. At the end of that chain was a silver key. Next to it was a special glass box containing a large horn. Rumpet broke the glass with one swift punch of his gloved hand. He placed the horn to his lips and blew.

  Not the most dignified of sounds emanated forth, a kind of farting noise. But it rattled through the castle in a way that suggested the sound had been manufactured specifically to permeate rock. The clavigers instantly assembled around Rumpet in the hallway. Pack policy dictated that every pack member have at least two clavigers. Lord Maccon had six these days, and there were a few extras loitering about as well.

  Rumpet used the key to open the silver cabinet, an old mahogany monstrosity that gave no clue as to its true contents. Inside, instead of the usual household valuables—candlesticks, baby spoons, and the like—was the claviger kit. Displayed in neat rows and on special hooks were silver manacles, enough pairs for every member of the pack; silver knives; a few precious bottles of lapis lunearis; and, most importantly, the fishing nets. These were spun of silver cord, weighted at the corners, and used to capture and weaken a wolf without damage. Dangling from little hooks in each door were fifty fine silver chains with fifty fine silver whistles.

  The clavigers, grim-faced, armed themselves and took up the nets. Each put a whistle over his head. They were so high-pitched that no human ear could possibly make out the sound, but wolves and dogs were violently affected by the noise.

  Alexia thought of something. “Try to bring in Biffy first. Remember he’s still susceptible to pup-stage sun damage. Take care—he’ll be the most vicious. Oh, my goodness, what will I say if he accidentally eats somebody?”

  Six of the biggest and best clavigers ran to the stables, and Alexia heard the roaring sound of the steam-powered penny-farthing wagons starting. Two clavigers per wagon—one to steer and one to cast the net—they roared out and down the hillside, steam trailing in a white cloud behind them. The other clavigers ran after.

  Lady Maccon witnessed very little of the battle after that. She leaned against Rumpet and tried to watch, but contractions kept distracting her, and the fighting below was nothing more to her unfocused mind than a puddinglike mass of clavigers, wolves, and steam from penny-farthings and an octomaton. Occasionally, a spurt of fire jetted into the air or a glittering waterfall of silver net was cast upward.

  Eventually she gave up. “Rumpet, help me to the bottom of the stair.” The butler did so, and Alexia sank gratefully down onto the steps of the grand staircase. “Now, please go down and ensure that the vampires are locked in. The last thing we need is them on the loose.”

  “At once, my lady.”

  Rumpet disappeared and returned later, grim-faced.

  “That bad?”

  “They are complaining about the accommodations and demanding feather pillows, my lady.”

  “Of course they are.” Alexia doubled over in pain as another contraction ripped through her. Dimly, she saw Lord Akeldama’s dirigible float in to a graceful landing in the front courtyard of Woolsey. Boots and the airship company leaped agilely out of the basket and lashed the craft to a hitching post.

  The first set of clavigers returned at that point, dragging a netted wolf with the aid of a penny-farthing wagon. It took four of them to get him up the steps and into the castle, even with the silver net burning him into submission. It wasn’t Biffy, but it looked to be one of the other youngsters, Rafe.

  Alexia’s attention was refocused into moaning as her pains became, if possible, worse. She looked for Rumpet, but he was busy supervising the unloading, seeing to it that the young wolf was dragged down into the dungeon and locked away. Alexia spared a moment to hope that all the vampires had gone into one of the cells together, or things were about to get very complicated, indeed.

  “Conall!” she yelled through the pain, even knowing he was in wolf form and that he would be the hardest to catch and the last to return home. “Where is he?” She was irrationally convinced that he should be with her right that very moment.

  At which juncture, a wide, cool cloth was placed across her brow and a soft reliable voice said exactly the right thing. “Here, madam, drink this.”

  A cup was pressed against her lips and Alexia sipped. Strong, milky, and restorative, exactly how she liked it best. Tea.

  She opened her eyes, previously screwed closed in anguish, to see the fine lined face of an elderly gentleman, nondescript and familiar. “Floote.”

  “Good evening, madam.”

  “Where did you come from?”

  Floote gestured behind him where the dirigible was still visible through the open front door. Tizzy and Boots hovered in the doorway, looking at Alexia in horror and with an air that suggested they would rather be anywhere else but there.

  “I caught a lift, madam.”

  “Eep!” squeaked Tizzy as he was pushed aside by another group of clavigers dragging another netted wolf home. Hemming, thought Alexia. Had to be. Only Hemming whined like that. They muscled their captive through the hallway and toward the dungeon stairs without need of an order from the panting and writhing Lady Maccon.

  The previous group came back up, passing them on the stairs.

  “Back out,” ordered their Alpha female, “and concentrate on finding Biffy. The others can take the sun.”

  “I thought werewolves could withstand sunlight?” asked Boots.

  Alexia moaned long and low before answering. “Yes. But not when still learning control.”

  “What’ll happen to him if he doesn’t make it in?”

  Rumpet reappeared at that juncture. “Ah, Mr. Floote.” He acknowledged his butler peer with a slight bow.

  “Mr. Rumpet,” replied Floote. And then, turning his attention back to Lady Maccon, “Now, madam, do concentrate and try to inhale deeply. Breathe through the pain.”

  Alexia glared at her butler. “Easy for you to say. Have you ever done this?”

  “Certainly not, madam.”

  “Rumpet, did all the vampires get sorted?”

  “Mostly, my lady.”

  “What do you mean, mostly?”

  The conversation paused at that while everyone waited courteously for Lady Maccon to let out another part scream part howl of anger as the agony rippled through her body. They all pretended not to notice her thrashing. It was very polite of them.

  “Well, a few of the vampires spread themselves about. So we’ll have to put some of ours in with them.”

  “What’s the world coming to? Vampires and werewolves sleeping together,” quipped Alexia sarcastically.

  One of the clavigers, a cheerful, freckled blighter who had performed Scottish ballads for the queen herself on more than one occasion, said, “It’s quite sweet, really. They’ve snuggled up with each other.”

  “Snuggled? The wolf should be tearing the vampire apart.”

  “Not anymore, my lady. Look.”

  Alexia looked. The sun was up, its first rays cresting the horizon. It was going to be a bright, clear summer day. It was all too much, even for the most sensible preternatural. Lady Maccon panicked. “Biffy! Biffy’s not yet inside! Quickly!” She gestured the clavigers. “Get me up. Get me out there. Get me to him! He could die!” Alexia was starting to cry, both from the pain and from the thought of poor young Biffy lying out there, burning alive.

  “But, my lady, you’re about to, well, uh, give birth!” objected Rumpet.

  “Oh, that’s not important. That can wait.” Alexia turned. “Floote! Do something.”

  Floote nodded. He pointed to one of the clavigers. “You, do as she asks. Boots, you take the other side.” He looked down at his mistress. Of course, Alessandro Tarabotti’s daughter would be difficult. “Madam, whatever you do, don’t push!”

  “Bring blankets,” yelled Lady Maccon at the remaining clavigers and Rumpet. “Rip those curtains down if you must. Most o
f the pack is out there naked! Oh, this is all so embarrassing.”

  Boots and the freckled claviger formed a kind of litter by linking their crossed arms and hoisted Lady Maccon up. She threw an arm around each, and the two young men part ran and part stumbled their way back out the door and down the seemingly endless hillside toward the carnage below.

  The octomaton was down, the result of too many of its tentacles torn off during battle. As she neared, Alexia could see the now-naked bodies of the pack lying fallen—bloodied, bruised, and burned. Scattered among them were the severed tentacles of the octomaton plus some of its guts: bolts, pulleys, and engine parts. Here and there, a claviger or BUR member who hadn’t moved fast enough was limping or clutching at a wounded limb, but thankfully none of them seemed seriously injured. The werewolves, on the other hand, lay floppy and nonsensical, like so much fried fish. Most of them looked like they were simply sound asleep, the standard reaction to full-moon bone-benders. But none were healing under the direct rays of the sun. Even immortality had its limits.

  Clavigers were running around covering the ones they could with blankets and pulling others back toward the house.

  “Where’s Biffy?” Alexia couldn’t see him anywhere.

  Then she realized there was someone else she couldn’t see, and her voice rose in terror to a near shriek. “Where’s Conall? Oh no, oh no, oh no.” Alexia’s commanding tone turned into a chant of keening distress only offset by the need to scream as another contraction hit her. She loved Biffy dearly, but all her worry was now transferred to an even more important love—her husband. Was he injured? Dead?

  The two young men carried her, tripping and faltering, in and around the wreckage until, near the great metal bowler hat that was the fallen head of the octomaton, an oasis of calm awaited them.

  Professor Lyall, wearing an orange velvet curtain wrapped about him like a toga and still looking remarkably dignified, was marshaling the troops and issuing orders.