Heartless pp-4 Read online

Upon seeing the amazing vision of his Alpha female, carried by two young men, in clear distress—both the lady and the young men—wending toward him, he said, “Lady Maccon?”

  “Professor. Where is my husband? Where is Biffy?”

  “Oh, of course, preternatural touch. Very good idea.”

  “Professor!”

  “Lady Maccon, are you all right?” Professor Lyall moved closer, inspecting her closely. “Have you started?” He looked at Boots, who raised both eyebrows expressively.

  “Where is Conall?” Alexia practically shrieked.

  “He’s fine, my lady. Perfectly fine. He took Biffy inside, out of the sun.”

  “Inside?”

  “Inside the octomaton. With Madame Lefoux. Once she realized, she opened the hatch and let them in.”

  Lady Maccon swallowed down her fear, almost sick with relief. “Show me.”

  Professor Lyall led them to the octomaton’s head, around one side, and then rat-tat-tatted on it diffidently. A door, previously invisible it was so seamlessly integrated into the octomaton’s armor plating, popped open and Genevieve Lefoux looked out.

  Lady Maccon wished fervently at that moment that she had her parasol with her. She would have greeted the Frenchwoman with one very hard whack to the head, friend or no, for getting them all into such a pickle. Justified or not, the inventor had caused everybody a good deal of unnecessary bother.

  “Professor Lyall. Yes?”

  “Lady Maccon, to see her husband.” The Beta stepped aside to allow the Frenchwoman to catch sight of the sweating and clearly distressed Alexia and her improvised transport.

  “Alexia? Are you unwell?”

  Alexia was quite definitely at her limit. “No, no, I am not. I have been gallivanting all over London chasing you or being chased by you. I have watched the city burn and the hive house collapse and have fallen out of a dirigible—twice! I am in imminent danger of giving birth. And I have lost my parasol!” This last was said on a rather childish wail.

  A different voice came from inside—deep, commanding, and tinged with a Scottish accent. “That my wife? Capital. She’s just the thing to get the pup his legs back.”

  Genevieve’s head disappeared with an “oof” as though she had been dragged forcibly backward, and Lord Maccon’s head emerged instead.

  The earl was looking perfectly fine, if a little sleepy. Werewolves usually slept the full day through after a full moon. It was testament to both Conall’s and Lyall’s strength that they were up and moving, although both were rather clumsy about it. Conall described being awake the night after as akin to playing tiddlywinks, drunk, with a penguin—confusing and slightly dreamlike. His hair was wild and unkempt, and his tawny eyes were soft and buttery, mellowed by battle and victory.

  He caught sight of his wife. “Ah, my love, get inside, would you? No way to get Biffy back to safety without your touch. Good of you to come. Interesting choice of transport.”

  At which juncture, his wife threw back her head and screamed.

  Lord Conall Maccon’s expression changed instantly to one of absolute panic and total ferocity. He charged out of the octomaton and bounded to his mate. He tossed poor Boots out of his way with a mere flick of the wrist and took Lady Maccon into his own arms.

  “What’s wrong? Are you—You canna! Now isna a good time!”

  “Oh, no?” panted his wife. “Well, tell that to the child. This is all your fault, you do realize?”

  “My fault, how could it possibly . . . ?”

  He trailed off as a different howl of agony came from inside the octomaton’s head and Madame Lefoux looked back out. “Young Biffy could use your presence, my lord.”

  The earl growled in annoyance and made his way over to the door. He shoved Alexia inside first, following after.

  It was very cramped quarters. Madame Lefoux had designed the guidance chamber for only two occupants, herself and Quesnel. Lord Maccon accounted for about that number on his own, plus the pregnant Alexia, and Biffy sprawled on the floor.

  It took a moment for Lady Maccon’s eyes to adjust to the inner gloom, but she saw soon enough that Biffy was burned badly down one leg. Much of the skin was gone—blistered and blackened most awfully.

  “Should I touch him? He might never heal.”

  Lord Maccon slammed the door closed against the wicked sun. “Blast it, woman, what possessed you to come down here in such a state?”

  “How is Quesnel?” demanded Madame Lefoux. “Is he unharmed?”

  “He’s safe.” Alexia did not mention he was currently locked in a dungeon with a vampire queen.

  “Alexia”—Madame Lefoux clasped her hands together and opened her green eyes wide and looked pleading—“you know it was my only choice? You know I had to get him back. He’s all I have. She stole him from me.”

  “And you couldn’t come to me for help? Really, Genevieve, what kind of feeble friend do you take me for?”

  “She has the law on her side.”

  Alexia clutched at her stomach and moaned. She was being flooded by the most overwhelming sensation—the need to push downward. “So?”

  “You are muhjah.”

  “I might have been able to come up with a solution.”

  “I hate her more than anything. First she steals Angelique, and now Quesnel! What right has she to—”

  “And your solution is to build a ruddy great octopus? Really, Genevieve, don’t you think you might have overreacted?”

  “The OBO is on my side.”

  “Oh, are they really? Now that is interesting. That plus taking in former Hypocras members?” Alexia was momentarily distracted by the need to give birth. “Oh, yes, husband, I meant to tell you this. It seems the OBO is developing an antisupernatural agenda. You might want to look into—“ She broke off to let out another scream. “My goodness, that is uncommonly painful.”

  Lord Maccon turned ferocious yellow eyes on the inventor. “Enough. She has other things to attend to.”

  Genevieve looked closely at Alexia. “True, that does seem to be the case. My lord, have you ever delivered a baby before?”

  The earl paled as much as was possible, which was a good deal more than normal given he was holding on to his wife’s hand. “I delivered a litter of kittens once.”

  The Frenchwoman nodded. “Not quite the same thing. What about Professor Lyall?”

  Lord Maccon looked wild-eyed. “Mostly sheep, I think.”

  Alexia looked up between contractions. “Were you there when Quesnel was born?”

  The Frenchwoman nodded. “Yes, but so was the midwife. I think I remember the principles, and, of course, I’ve read a good deal on the subject.”

  Alexia relaxed slightly. Books always made her feel better. Another wave washed through her and she cried out.

  Lord Maccon looked sternly at Madame Lefoux. “Make it stop!”

  Both women ignored him.

  A polite tap came at the door. Madame Lefoux cracked it open.

  Floote stood there, his back stiff, his expression one of studied indifference. “Clean cloth, bandages, hot water, and tea, madam.” He passed the necessities in.

  “Oh, thank you, Floote.” The Frenchwoman took the items gratefully. After a moment’s thought, she rested them on top of the comatose Biffy, since he was the only vacant surface. “Any words of advice?”

  “Madam, sometimes even I am out of options.”

  “Very good, Floote. Keep the tea coming.”

  “Of course, madam.”

  Which was why, some six hours later, Alexia Maccon’s daughter was born inside the head of an octomaton in the presence of her husband, a comatose werewolf dandy, and a French inventor.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  In Which We All Learn a Little Something About Prudence

  Later on, Lady Maccon was to describe that particular day as the worst of her life. She had neither the soul nor the romanticism to consider childbirth magical or emotionally transporting. So far as she could gathe
r, it mostly involved pain, indignity, and mess. There was nothing engaging or appealing about the process. And, as she told her husband firmly, she intended never to go through it again.

  Madame Lefoux acted as midwife. In her scientific way, she was unexpectedly adept at the job. When the infant finally appeared, she held it up for Alexia to see, rather proudly as though she’d done all the hard work herself.

  “Goodness,” said an exhausted Lady Maccon, “are babies customarily that repulsive looking?”

  Madame Lefoux pursed her lips and turned the infant about, as though she hadn’t quite looked closely before. “I assure you, the appearance improves with time.”

  Alexia held out her arms—her dress was already ruined anyway—and received the pink wriggling thing into her embrace. She smiled up at her husband. “I told you it would be a girl.”

  “Why isna she crying?” complained Lord Maccon. “Shouldna she be crying? Aren’t all bairns supposed to cry?”

  “Perhaps she’s mute,” suggested Alexia. “Be a sensible thing with parents like us.”

  Lord Maccon looked properly horrified at the idea.

  Alexia grinned even more broadly as she came to a wonderful realization. “Look! I’m not repelled by her. No feelings of revulsion at all. She must be human, not a preternatural. How marvelous!”

  A tap came at the octomaton door.

  “Yes?” Lord Maccon sung out. He’d decided to stop worrying about the child and was crouched down cooing over her and making silly faces.

  Professor Lyall looked in. He’d apparently found the time to change out of the improvised toga and into perfectly respectable attire. He caught sight of his Alpha, who looked up and beamed proudly.

  “Randolph, I have a daughter!”

  “Felicitations, my lord, my lady.”

  Alexia nodded politely from her makeshift bed in the corner of the octomaton, only then noticing that she was resting against a pile of cords and springs, and there was some kind of valve digging into the small of her back. “Thank you, Professor. And it would appear that she is not a curse-breaker.”

  The Beta looked over at the child with a flash of academic interest but no real surprise. “She isn’t? I thought preternaturals always breed true.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Well, that is good news. However, and I do hate to interrupt the blessed event, but, my lord, we have several difficulties at the moment that could very much use your attention. Do you think we might repair to a more hospitable venue?”

  Lord Maccon crouched over his wife and nuzzled her neck gently. “My dear?”

  Alexia stroked his hair back from the temple with her free hand. “I’ll give it a try. I would dearly love to be in my own bed.”

  Lady Maccon had to hold on to both her newborn child and Biffy as Lord Maccon carried her and Professor Lyall carried Biffy back up to the castle. At which juncture Conall declared that Woolsey smelled rotten.

  Professor Lyall opened his mouth to explain but caught a sharp look from Alexia. So he refrained.

  Predicting that his Alpha would find out soon enough on his own, the Beta carried Biffy down to a cell, tended to the pup’s still-angry burns with a pat of butter, and chivied him in with the Duke of Hematol as the best of a bad lot of options.

  Upstairs it was decided that Madame Lefoux should also be locked up.

  “Put her into the one next to the countess and Quesnel,” suggested Lady Maccon snidely to her confused husband. “Now, there will be an interesting conversation come nightfall.”

  “The countess? Countess who?”

  Alexia contemplated letting Quesnel out—after all, the boy hadn’t done anything wrong—but from previous experience, she saw no reason why having him underfoot might improve matters. Quesnel was an agent of chaos even at the best of times, and life was busy enough without his help. Plus, she suspected the best thing for him at the moment was some time with his maman.

  “But I just delivered your child!” protested Madame Lefoux.

  “And very grateful I am, too, Genevieve.” Alexia was always one to give credit where it was due. “However, you rampaged through the streets of London in a massive octopus, and you are going to have to pay for your crimes.”

  “Preternaturals!” exclaimed the Frenchwoman, disgusted.

  “At least this way you are near your boy. He was terribly upset by the attack,” yelled Lady Maccon as her husband hauled the struggling inventor away.

  Which was when Lord Maccon discovered the reason behind the funny smell. He had a hive of vampires living in his castle.

  He came back upstairs fit to be pickled. “Wife!”

  Lady Maccon had vanished.

  “Floote!”

  “She’s gone upstairs, sir. To your chambers.”

  “Of course she has.”

  Lord Maccon stormed upstairs to find his wife abed, the babe asleep in the crook of one arm. The child had already proved herself perfectly capable of sleeping through both her mother’s and her father’s vocal exertions. A very good survival trait, thought Alexia, wincing as Conall clomped into the room.

  “There are vampires in my dungeon!”

  “Yes, well, where else was I supposed to stash them?”

  “The countess swarmed?” The earl leaped to the only possible conclusion. “And you invited them in? Here?”

  Alexia nodded.

  “Great. Wonderful! Brilliant.”

  Lady Maccon sighed, a kind of sad, quiet noise that calmed Lord Maccon where her yelling would only have aggravated matters. “I can explain.”

  Conall came to kneel next to the bed, his anger dissipated by her uncharacteristic meekness. His wife must be very tired.

  “Very well, explain.”

  Alexia relayed the events of the night, and by the time she reached the concluding pack-versus-octomaton battle, she was yawning hugely.

  “What are we going to do now?” wondered her husband. Even saying it, Alexia could tell from his defeated expression that he was already facing up to the truth—for better or worse, Woolsey Castle now belonged to the Westminster Hive. Or rather, the Woolsey Hive.

  Alexia saw him blink back tears and felt her heart clench. She hadn’t meant to make such a grave error in judgment, but the deed was done. Her own eyes stung in sympathy.

  He nodded. “I rather loved this old place, buttresses and all. But it hasna been my home all that long. I can break from it. The rest of the pack, they are going to be difficult. Ach, my poor pack. I’ve nae served them verra well these last few months.”

  “Oh, Conall, it’s not your fault! Please don’t worry. I’ll think of something. I always do.” Alexia wanted to find a solution right then and there just to wipe that horrible expression of disappointment off her husband’s sweet face, but she could hardly keep her eyes open.

  The earl bent and pressed a kiss to his wife’s lips and then to his daughter’s little forehead. Alexia suspected he was contemplating going back downstairs to check in with Lyall, as there was still a lot to be done that afternoon.

  “Come to bed,” said his wife.

  “You two ladies do look verra peaceful. Perhaps just a little kip.”

  “Lyall has both Floote and Rumpet helping him. They could run the empire, those three, if they felt like it.”

  Lord Maccon chuckled and crawled in on Alexia’s other side, settling his big body down into the feather mattress.

  Alexia sighed contentedly and nestled against him, curled about the baby.

  He snuffled once at the nape of her neck. “We need to find a name for the wee one.”

  “Mmm?” was his wife’s only answer.

  “I’m nae certain that’s a verra good name.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Sorry to disturb you, my lord, but the vampires are asking for you.” Professor Lyall’s voice was quiet and apologetic.

  Alexia Maccon came awake with a start to the feel of her husband shifting behind her. He was evidently trying to extract himself from
the bed without disturbing her. Poor man, stealth of movement was not one of his stronger character traits. Not in human form at any rate.

  “What time is it, Randolph?”

  “Just after sunset, my lord. I thought it best to let you sleep the remainder of the day away.”

  “Oh, yes? And have you been awake the whole time?”

  Silence met that.

  “Ah. Right. You tell me the lay of the fur, Randolph, and then you go catch some rest.”

  Alexia heard a faint howling. The younger werewolves, still unable to control change so close to full moon, were back in their fur and imprisoned below for another night. Locked away with vampires.

  “Who is seeing to them?” asked the earl as he, too, registered the sound.

  “Channing, my lord.”

  “Oh, blast.” All pretense at subtlety abandoned, Lord Maccon jumped out of bed.

  This jiggled the baby. A thin, querulous wail started up from just under Alexia’s chin. She started violently, for she had, until that moment, entirely forgotten about the child. Her child.

  She opened her eyes and looked down. Half a day’s intermittent rest had not improved the infant’s appearance. She was red and wrinkly, and her face got all scrunched up when she cried.

  Conall, obviously still under the impression that Alexia was asleep, hurried around the bed and scooped the tiny creature up. The whining turned to a little snuffling howl, and there in his arms instead of a child, lay a newborn wolf cub.

  Lord Maccon nearly dropped his daughter. “God’s teeth!”

  Alexia sat up, not quite comprehending what she had just seen. “Conall, where’s the baby?”

  Her husband, mute in shock, proffered the cub at her.

  “What have you done to her?”

  “Me? Nothing. I simply picked her up. She was perfectly normal and then poof.”

  “Well, she’s unquestionably cuter in that form.” Alexia was prosaic.

  “Here, you take her.” Lord Maccon put the squalling furry cub back into his wife’s arms.

  At which juncture she promptly turned back into a baby. Alexia could feel the bone and flesh shifting under the swaddling clothes. It seemed to be relatively painless, for the infant’s cries did not modulate to those of real distress.