The arched and frescoed hallway was packed with concerned-looking young men, several of them worse off than Boots and Tizzy. Two were even missing their cravats. A truly startling thing to see. They were milling about and talking in obvious trepidation, at a loss but eager to do something.
“Gentlemen!” Lady Maccon’s shrill feminine voice cut through the masculine hubbub. She raised her parasol on high as though about to conduct a concert. “Where is the beast?”
“Please, mum, it’s our master.”
Alexia paused in perplexity and lowered her parasol slightly. Lord Akeldama was a vampire, but no one would ever refer to him as a beast.
The dandies continued in a chorus of explanations and objections.
“He’s gone and locked himself in the drawing room.”
“With that monster.”
“I should never wish to question our lord’s choices, but really!”
“So ill-kempt. I’m convinced its fur had split ends.”
“Said he could handle it.”
“For our own good, he said. Not to let anyone in.”
“I’m not anyone.” Lady Maccon pushed her way through the throng of perfectly tailored jackets and high white collars, as one of those particularly chubby terriers might clear a path through a pack of poodles.
The young men gave way until she was faced with the gilt door, painted with white and lavender swirls, that led into Lord Akeldama’s infamous drawing room. She took a deep breath and knocked loudly with the handle of her parasol.
“Lord Akeldama? It’s Lady Maccon. May I enter?”
From behind the door came the sound of scuffling and possibly Lord Akeldama’s voice. But no one actually bid her entrance.
She knocked again. Even under the most dire of circumstances, one didn’t simply go bursting into a man’s private drawing room without sufficient provocation.
A particularly loud crash was all the response she got.
Alexia decided that this could be considered sufficient provocation and slowly turned the knob. Parasol at the ready, she waddled in as quick as she could, closing the door firmly behind her. Just because she was disobeying Lord Akeldama’s orders didn’t mean the drones could as well.
Her fascinated gaze fell upon quite the tableau.
Lady Maccon had witnessed an altercation between a vampire and a werewolf once before, but it had been inside a moving carriage and had rather rapidly relocated from carriage to road. Also, back then, the two opponents had genuinely been trying to kill each other. This was different.
Lord Akeldama was locked in single combat with a werewolf. The wolf was definitely trying to kill him, jaws snapping and all his supernatural strength bent on the vampire’s destruction. But Lord Akeldama, while fighting the wolf off, did not seem to be enthusiastic about killing him. For one thing, his favored weapon, a silver-edged glaive that masqueraded as a piece of gold plumbing, was still in its customary place above the mantelpiece. No, Lord Akeldama seemed to be employing mostly evasive strategies, which only served to frustrate and anger the wolf.
The beast lunged for the vampire’s elegant white neck, and Lord Akeldama dodged to the side, flicking out one arm in a blasé manner, as if flapping a large handkerchief at a departing steamer. It was a gesture that, for all its casualness, still lifted the werewolf up and entirely over the vampire’s blond head to land on his back near the fireplace.
Alexia had never had the chance to observe Lord Akeldama fight before. Of course, one knew Lord Akeldama must be able to fight. He was rumored to be quite old, and as such must be at least capable of combat. But this was akin to knowing, academically, that his chubby calico house cat was capable of hunting rats—the actual execution of the task always seemed highly improbable and possibly embarrassing for all concerned. Thus, she now found herself quite intrigued by the display before her. And soon discovered that she was wrong in her initial assumption.
Far from any discomfit or awkwardness, Lord Akeldama fought with a nonchalant lazy efficiency, as though he had all the time in the world on his side. Which Alexia supposed he did. His advantage was in speed, eyesight, and dexterity. The wolf had strength, smell, and sound to rely on, but he was inexperienced. The werewolf hadn’t an Alpha’s skill, either, which Lord Maccon had once described to his wife as fighting with soul. No, this wolf was moon mad. His jaws snapped and his claws speared surfaces without regard to logic or expense. The vampire’s perfectly elegant drawing room was faring no better than Alexia’s back parlor. He was also getting saliva all over the pretty throw cushions.
It would have been an entirely uneven match except that Lord Akeldama really was trying not to hurt Biffy.
Because that was who it was: Biffy, chocolate brown fur with an oxblood stomach.
“How on earth did you get out of the Woolsey dungeon?”
No one answered her, of course.
Biffy charged Lord Akeldama. The vampire seemed to flash spontaneously from one side of the room to the other, leaving the werewolf to complete his leap with no quarry at the end of it. Biffy landed on a gold brocade chair, overturning it so that its legs stuck up, shockingly bare, into the air.
The werewolf noticed Lady Maccon’s presence first. His nostrils flared. His hairy head swiveled around to cast a yellow-eyed glare in her direction. There was none of Biffy’s soft blue gentleness in those eyes, only the need to maim, feast, and kill.
Lord Akeldama was only seconds behind noticing that they had company. “Why, Alexia, my little cowslip, how kind of you to call. Especially in your present condition.”
Alexia played along. “Well, I had nothing better to do of an evening, and I did hear you needed help in entertaining an unexpected guest.”
The vampire gave a little chuckle. “La so, my custard. As you see. Our company is a tad overwrought. Methinks he could use some good cheer.”
“I do see. Is there any way in which I may provide assistance?”
While this conversation took place, Biffy charged at Alexia. She barely had time to arm her dart emitter before Lord Akeldama interposed, protecting her gallantly.
He took on the brunt of the attack. Biffy’s claws scraped down the vampire’s legs, tearing silk trousers to ribbons and gouging deep into the muscle. Old black blood seeped out. At the same time, the werewolf’s jaws locked about Lord Akeldama’s upper arm, biting clean through the meatiest part. The pain must have been phenomenal, but the vampire merely shook the wolf off, as a dog will shake off water. Even as Alexia watched, Lord Akeldama’s wounds began to heal.
Biffy launched himself at the vampire once more, and together they grappled, Lord Akeldama always just that split second faster and a whole lot craftier so that even with all the predatory advantages afforded by the werewolf state, Biffy could not break the vampire’s hold nor his will when both were set so firmly against him.
Alexia said, “I’ve been meaning to have this little chat with you, my lord. Some of your young gentlemen friends do seem to get overly clingy, don’t you find?”
The vampire puffed out a breath of amusement. His hair was coming loose from its ribbon, and he appeared to have lost his cravat pin.
“My darling pumpkin blossom, it is not my intent to engender such gripping affection, I assure you. It is purely by accident.”
“You are too charismatic for your own good.”
“You said it, my dabble-duck, not I.” Once more the vampire managed to use grip and speed to lever the wolf off of him and hurl the creature across the room, away from Alexia. Biffy landed full against the wall and slid down, taking several watercolors with him. He crashed to the floor, the paintings now lying amidst shards of glass and gilt frames. He shook himself and stumbled dizzily to his feet.
Alexia fired the parasol. Her dart struck home and the werewolf collapsed back. He seemed to wobble, losing control of bits of himself, but then, quicker than any vampire Alexia had ever shot, fought against the effects of the drug and regained his feet. She wondered if Madame Lefoux’s last batch of numbing agent was up to snuff or if it was simply less effective on werewolves.
Lord Akeldama flitted to one side, catching the wolf’s attention and directing his next charge away from Lady Maccon.
Alexia said, deciding on a new tactic, “If you think you could hold him steady, my lord, I might be able to manage a calming touch. You know, some lads these days simply require a female to administer discipline.”
“Of course, my plum, of course.”
Biffy hit Lord Akeldama broadside, and in the same movement, the vampire turned all affectionate, instead of tossing him away. Wrapping both his arms and legs about the wolf, Lord Akeldama used the beast’s own momentum to tumble them both to the lush carpet. In an amazing feat of wrestling, the vampire got one elbow about Biffy’s muzzle, his hand closing firmly over the nose. With his other arm, he locked down the forelegs. With his legs, Lord Akeldama secured Biffy’s hindquarters. It was a remarkable exhibition of agility and flexibility. Alexia was duly impressed, having wrestled a bit with her husband. Lord Akeldama was clearly very experienced in the matter of intimate tussling.
Alexia knew the vampire would not be able to pin the werewolf thus for very long. In the end, Biffy was stronger and would break free, but Lord Akeldama did have the beast momentarily confused.
She waddled up and, casting her own safety to the winds, leaned forward, not unexpectedly losing her balance. She landed fully atop both supernatural creatures, ensuring her bare hands were in contact with Biffy but turning both men mortal in her enthusiasm.
It was a very odd sensation, for in such a position, Alexia was uncomfortably aware of Biffy’s body changing from wolf to human. She could feel the slide of muscle and bone beneath her protruding belly as he shifted. It was eerily like the feel of her child kicking underneath her own skin.
Biffy howled with the pain of it, directly into Alexia’s ear. A howl that turned to a scream of agony, then a whimper of remembered suffering, and finally little snuffles of acute embarrassment. Then, as he came to the horrific realization of what he had almost done, he turned to his former master.
“Oh, dear, oh, dear. Oh dear.” It was a litany of distress. “My lord, are you well? Did I cause any permanent injury? Oh look at your trousers! Oh, mercy. I am so sorry.”
Lord Akeldama’s healing was paused midway so that the claw marks were still visible under the tattered ribbons of his silken britches.
“?’Tis but a scratch, my pet. Do not trouble yourself so.” He looked down at himself. “Well, several scratches, to be precise.”
At this juncture, Alexia was forced into a realization that rather shook the foundations of her universe: there are some circumstances that even the very best manners could not possibly rectify. This was one such situation. For there she lay, pregnant and out of balance, atop a pile consisting of one overdressed vampire and one underdressed werewolf.
“Biffy,” she said finally, “to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit? I was under the impression you were otherwise contained this evening.” It was a valiant attempt, but even such talk as this could not mask the awkwardness.
Lord Akeldama attempted to unwind himself from Biffy and extract himself from Alexia without the aid of supernatural strength. When this was finally accomplished, he stood, dashed to the door to reassure his drones of his undamaged state, and sent one of them to fetch clothing.
Biffy and Alexia helped each other to rise.
“Are you unharmed, my lady?”
Alexia did a quick internal check. “It would appear so. Remarkably resilient, this baby of mine. I could use a bit of a sit-down, though.”
Biffy helped her to an ottoman—one of the few pieces of furniture in the room not overturned—her hand firmly clasped in his. They sat and stared off into space, grappling with how best to handle their predicament. Lord Maccon might be a blustering instrument of rudeness, but he did have his uses in dispersing awkward silences. Alexia handed Biffy a shawl, only slightly saliva-ridden. He set it gratefully in his lap.
She tried not to look, of course she did, but Biffy did have a rather nice physique. Not nearly so splendid as her husband’s, but not everyone could be built like a steam engine, and the young dandy had kept himself well in hand before metamorphosis, for all his frivolous pursuits.
“Biffy, were you secretly a Corinthian?” Alexia wondered out loud before she could stop herself.
Biffy blushed. “No, my lady, although I did enjoy fencing rather more than some of my compatriots might consider healthy.”
Lady Maccon nodded sagely.
Lord Akeldama returned, looking not a whit put out. His brief sojourn among his drones had resulted in hair and neck cloth back to crisp and pristine order and a new pair of satin trousers. How do they do it? wondered Alexia.
“Biffy, duckling, what a surprise your visiting little old me at this time of moon.” He handed his former drone a pair of sapphire-colored britches.