The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set

by Gail Carriger

  No one answered Lady Maccon. But the pack’s collective worried expression spoke volumes. They were back to being entirely human, or as human as creatures who had once partially died could get. Mortal was perhaps a better word for it. It meant they could finish dying now, just like any other daylight mundane. Of course, Lord Maccon was in the same situation.

  Lady Maccon chewed a small bite of hare. “I commend you for not panicking. But I am curious—why not ask for medical assistance while in London? Or perhaps seek out BUR to make inquiries? You did come through London with the rest of the regiments.”

  The pack looked to Lord Maccon to rescue them from his wife. Lord Maccon’s expression said it all: they were at her mercy, and he was enjoying witnessing the carnage. Still, she needn’t have asked. She was perfectly well aware of the fact that most supernatural creatures mistrusted modern doctors, and this pack would hardly seek out the London BUR offices with Lord Maccon in charge. Of course, they would want to get out of London as quickly as possible, retreat to the safety of their home den, hiding their shame with tails between their legs—proverbially, of course, as this was no longer literally possible. No tails to be seen.

  Much to the pack’s relief, the next course arrived, veal and ham pie with a side of beet and cauliflower mash. Lady Maccon waved her fork about expressively and asked, “So, how did it happen? Did you eat some polluted curry or something while you were over in India?”

  “You must excuse my wife,” said Lord Maccon with a grin. “She is a bit of a gesticulator, all that Italian blood.”

  Awkward silence persisted.

  “Are you all ill? My husband thinks you have a plague. Will you be infecting him in addition to yourselves?” Lady Maccon turned to look pointedly at the earl sitting next to her. “I am not entirely sure how I would feel about that.”

  “Thank you for your concern, wife.”

  The Gamma (what had her husband called him? Oh yes, Lachlan) said jokingly, “Come off it, Conall. You canna expect sympathy from a curse-breaker, even if you did wed her.”

  “I heard of this phenomenon,” piped up Madame Lefoux, turning her attention to their conversation. “It did not extend to my neighborhood, so I did not experience it firsthand; nevertheless, I am convinced there must be a logical scientific explanation.”

  “Scientists!” muttered Dubh. Two of his fellow pack members nodded in agreement.

  “Why do you people keep calling Alexia a curse-breaker?” wondered Ivy.

  “Precisely. Isn’t she simply a curse?” said Felicity unhelpfully.

  “Sister, you say the sweetest things,” replied Lady Maccon.

  Felicity gave her a dour look.

  The pack Gamma seized this as an opportunity to change the subject. “Speaking of which, I was under the impression that Lady Maccon’s former name was Tarabotti. But you are a Miss Loontwill.”

  “Oh”—Felicity smiled charmingly—“we have different fathers.”

  “Ah, I see.” The Gamma frowned. “Oh, I see. That Tarabotti.”

  He looked at Alexia with newfound interest. “I should never have thought he would marry.”

  The Beta also looked at Lady Maccon curiously. “Indeed, and to produce offspring. Civic duty, I suppose.”

  “You knew my father?” Lady Maccon was suddenly intrigued, and, it must be admitted, distracted from her course of inquiry.

  The two werewolves exchanged a look. “Not personally. We knew of him, of course. Quite the traveler.”

  Felicity said with a sniff, “Mama always said she could never remember why she leg-shackled herself to an Italian. She claimed it was a marriage of convenience, although I understand he was very good-looking. It did not last, of course. He died, just after Alexia was born. Such a terribly embarrassing thing to do, simply to up and die like that. Goes to show, Italians cannot be trusted. Mama was well rid of him. She married Papa shortly thereafter.”

  Lady Maccon turned to look hard at her husband. “Did you know my father too?” she asked him in a low voice to keep things private.

  “Not as such.”

  “At some point, husband of mine, we must have a discussion, you and I, about the proper methods of fully transferring information. I am tired of feeling consistently behind the times.”

  “Except that, wife, I have two centuries on you. I can hardly tell you everything I have learned and about everyone I have met during all those years.”

  “Do not trouble me with such weak excuses,” she hissed.

  While they were arguing, the suppertime conversation moved on without them. Madame Lefoux began explaining that she felt the aethographic transmitter’s crystalline valve resonator’s magnetic conduction might be out of alignment. Compounded, of course, by the implausibility ratio of transference during inclement weather.

  No one, except the bespectacled claviger, was able to follow a word of her explanation, but everyone was nodding sagely as though they did. Even Ivy, who had the look of a slightly panicked dormouse on her round face, pretended interest.

  Tunstell solicitously passed Miss Hisselpenny the plate of potato fritters, but Ivy ignored him.

  “Oh, thank you, Mr. Tunstell,” said Felicity, reaching across to take one as though he had offered them to her.

  Ivy huffed.

  Tunstell, apparently frustrated by Miss Hisselpenny’s continued rejection, turned in Miss Loontwill’s direction, and began chatting with her about the recent influx of automated eyelash-curling implements imported from Portugal.

  Ivy was more annoyed by this and turned away from the redhead to join in the werewolves’ discussion on a possible hunting outing the next morning. Not that Miss Hisselpenny knew a whit about guns or hunting, but dearth of knowledge on a subject had never yet kept Ivy from waxing poetical upon it.

  “I believe there is considerable range in the bang of most guns,” she said sagely.

  “Uh…” The gentlemen about her drifted in confusion.

  Ah, Ivy, thought Alexia happily, spreading a verbal fog wherever she goes.

  “Since we can go out during the day, we might as well take advantage and get a little dawn shooting in for old times’ sake,” said Dubh finally, ignoring Miss Hisselpenny’s comment.

  “Is Dubh his given name or surname?” Alexia asked her husband.

  “Good question,” he replied. “Hundred and fifty years I have had to put up with that blighter and he never told me the which way of it. I dinna know much about his past before Kingair. Came in as a loner, back in the early seventeen hundreds. Bit of a troublemaker.”

  “Ah, and you wouldn’t know anything about secrecy or troublemaking, would you, husband?”

  “Touché, wife.”

  The dinner drew to a close, and eventually the ladies left the gentlemen to their drinks.

  Lady Maccon had never much supported the vampire-derived tradition of after-dinner gender segregation. After all, what had begun as an honor to the hive queen’s superiority and need for privacy now felt like a belittling of the feminine ability to imbibe quality alcohol. Still, Alexia recognized the opportunity for what it was and made an effort to fraternize with Lady Kingair.

  “You are fully human, yet you seem to act as female Alpha. How is that?” she asked, settling herself on the dusty settee and sipping a small sherry.

  “They lack leadership, and I’m the only one left.” The Scotswoman was blunt to the point of rudeness.

  “Do you enjoy leading?” Alexia was genuinely curious.

  “It’d work a mite better if I were a werewolf proper.”

  Lady Maccon was surprised. “Would you really be willing to try? It’s such a grave risk for the gentler sex.”

  “Aye. But yon husband of yers didna care for my wishes.” Left unsaid was the fact that Conall’s was the only opinion that mattered. Only an Alpha capable of Anubis Form could breed more werewolves. Alexia had never witnessed a metamorphosis, but she had read the scientific papers on the subject. Something about soul reclamation needing both fo
rms at once.

  “He thinks you would die in the attempt. And it would be at his hand. Well, at his teeth.”

  The woman sipped her own sherry and nodded. Suddenly she looked every bit of her forty years and then some.

  “And I the last of his mortal line,” said Sidheag Maccon.

  “Oh.” Alexia nodded. “I see. And he would have to give you the full bite. It is a heavy burden you ask of him, to end his last mortal holding. Is that why he left the pack?”

  “You think I drove him out with my asking? You dinna ken the truth of it?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “Then it isna my place to be telling you. You married the blighter; you should be asking him.”

  “You think I have not tried?”

  “Cagey old cuss, my gramps, that’s for pure certain. Tell me something, Lady Maccon, why did you cleave to him? ’Cause he’s seated right proper in an earldom? ’Cause he heads up BUR and they watchdog your kind? What could one such as you gain from such a union?”

  It was clear what the Lady of Kingair thought. She saw Alexia as nothing more than some kind of pariah who had married Lord Maccon out of either social or pecuniary avarice.

  “You know,” replied Lady Maccon, not playing into her trap, “I ask myself that question daily.”

  “It ain’t natural, a blending like that.”

  Alexia looked over to ensure that the other ladies were out of earshot. Madame Lefoux and Ivy were engaged in complaining about long-distance travel in the mild manner of those who had thoroughly enjoyed the experience. Felicity stood on the far side of the room, looking out into the rainy night.

  “Of course it is not natural. How could it be natural when neither of us are?” Lady Maccon sniffed.

  “I canna make you out, curse-breaker,” replied Sidheag.

  “It is really very simple. I am just like you, only without a soul.”

  Lady Kingair leaned forward. Those familiar tawny eyes of hers were set in an equally familiar frown. “I was raised by the pack, child. ’Twas always intended I become Alpha female and lead them, whether he changed me or not. You merely married into the role.”

  “And in that you have the advantage over me. But then again, instead of adapting, I am simply retraining my pack to accept my ways.”

  A half-smile appeared on Sidheag’s dour face. “I wager Major Channing is cracked over your presence.”

  Alexia laughed.

  Just when Lady Maccon felt like she might be gaining ground with Lady Kingair, an enormous crash reverberated against the wall nearest the dining chamber.

  The ladies all exchanged startled looks. Madame Lefoux and Lady Maccon immediately leaped to their feet and went swiftly back toward the supper room. Lady Kingair was but a few steps behind, and all three burst through to find Lord Maccon and the Kingair Beta, Dubh, grappling fiercely on top of the massive table, rolling about among the remnants of what once had been a most excellent brandy and plate of sticky meringues. The other members of the pack, the Kingair clavigers in residence, and Tunstell had arranged themselves well out of the way and seemed to be viewing the fisticuffs in the manner of sportsmen at the races.

  Tunstell was running a commentary. “Oh, nice uppercut from Lord Maccon there, and, oh, did Dubh kick? Bad form, terribly bad form.”

  Alexia paused, regarding the two large Scotsman rolling about among the sticky powder of crushed meringue.

  “Lachlan, report!” barked Lady Kingair over the racket. “What’s going on?”

  The Gamma, who Alexia had thought of as rather sympathetic up until that point, shrugged. “It needs getting out right to the open, mistress. You know how we like to settle things.”

  The woman shook her head, gray-streaked plait flying back and forth. “We settle things by teeth and claw, na fist and flesh. This isna our way. This isna pack protocol!”

  Lachlan shrugged again. “Having na teeth possible, this be the next best option. You canna stop it, mistress, challenge was issued. We all witnessed the wording of it.”

  The other pack members nodded gravely.

  Dubh landed a good right punch to Lord Maccon’s chin, sending him flying backward.

  Lady Kingair stepped hastily to one side to avoid a silver platter as it skidded off the table toward her.

  “Oh my goodness!” came Ivy’s voice from the doorway. “I do believe they are actually skirmishing!”

  Tunstell immediately sprang into action. “This is not a thing a lady should witness, Miss Hisselpenny,” he exclaimed, rushing over and shepherding her out of the room.

  “But…” came Ivy’s voice.

  Lady Maccon smiled proudly at the fact that the redhead hadn’t considered her sensibilities. Madame Lefoux, noting that Felicity still stood watching with wide, interested eyes, gave Alexia a look and left the room, shutting the door behind her and sweeping Felicity in her wake.

  Lord Maccon slammed into Dubh’s stomach with his head, propelling the werewolf backward into the wall. The whole room shook at the impact.

  Now, thought Alexia maliciously, Kingair will have to remodel.

  “At least take the disagreement outside!” yelled Lady Kingair.

  There was blood everywhere, as well as spilled brandy, broken glass, and crushed meringues.

  “For goodness’ sake,” said Lady Maccon, exasperated, “don’t they realize that as humans, they could seriously injure one another if they carry on like this? They do not have the supernatural strength to take those kinds of blows, nor the supernatural healing to recover from them.”

  Both men rolled to the side and fell off the tabletop with a loud thud.

  Good Lord, thought Lady Maccon, noting that a good deal of the blood seemed to be emerging from her husband’s nose, I do hope Conall has brought a spare cravat.

  She was not particularly worried, for she had little doubt in her husband’s pugilistic skills. He boxed regularly at Whites, and he was her chosen mate. Of course, he would win the fight, but still, the disarray being generated was unacceptable. Things could not be allowed to continue much longer. Imagine, the poor Kingair staff, having to clean up such a mess.

  With that thought, Lady Maccon whirled about and went purposefully to fetch her parasol.

  She need not have bothered. By the time she returned, numbing darts loaded and parasol ready to fire, both men were slumped in opposite corners of the room. Dubh was clutching his head and coughing in sharp painful little gasps, and Lord Maccon was listing to one side, blood dribbling out of his nose and one eye nearly swollen shut.

  “Well don’t you two look a picture,” Alexia said, resting her parasol against the wall and crouching down to examine Conall’s face with gentle fingers. “Nothing a spot of vinegar won’t put to rights.” She turned to one of the clavigers. “Run and get me some cider vinegar, my good man.” Lord Maccon looked at her over the top of his cravat, which he was now holding to his nose. Ah well, the cravat was ruined already.

  “Didna ken you cared, wife,” he grumbled, but leaned in against her gentle ministrations nevertheless.

  So as not to seem too sympathetic, Alexia began vigorously brushing off the meringue crumbs covering his jacket.

  At the same time, she looked over at the Kingair Beta and said, “Settle the issue to your mutual satisfaction, did you, gentlemen?”

  Dubh gave her a deadpan expression that still managed to indicate a certain profound level of deep disgust in her very existence, let alone her question. Alexia only shook her head at such petulance.

  The Kingair claviger returned bearing a flask of cider vinegar. Lady Maccon immediately began to copiously douse her husband about the face and neck with it.

  “Ouch! Steady on, that stings!”

  Dubh made to rise.

  Lord Maccon instantly struggled to his feet. He would have to, Alexia surmised, to maintain dominance. Or it could be that he was trying to get away from her vinegar-riddled attentions.

  “I know it stings,” she said. “Not nice to have
to heal the old-fashioned way, now, is it, my brave table warrior? Perhaps you will pause to consider next time before you commence fighting in a confined space. I mean really, look at this room.” She tutted. “You both should be thoroughly ashamed of yourselves.”

  “Nothing has been settled,” Dubh said, returning hastily to his slumped position on the carpeted floor. He appeared to have gotten the worse end of things. One of his arms looked broken, and there was a nasty gash in his left cheek.

  However, Lady Maccon’s brisk application of vinegar seemed to have shattered everyone else’s collective inertia, for they began bustling around the fallen Beta, splinting up his arm and tending to his wounds.

  “You still abandoned us.” Dubh sounded like a petulant child.

  “You all know exactly why I left,” Lord Maccon growled.

  “Uh,” said Alexia timidly, raising a questioning hand, “I do not.”

  Everyone ignored her.

  “You couldna control the pack,” Dubh accused.

  Everyone present in the room gasped. Except Alexia, who did not comprehend the gravity of the insult and was occupied trying to pick the last of the meringue off her husband’s dinner jacket.

  “That isna fair,” said Lachlan, not moving from his stance. Unsure of his allegiance, the Gamma simply stayed away from both Conall and Dubh.

  “You betrayed me.” Lord Maccon did not yell, but the words carried and, even though he could not change to wolf form, there was wolf anger in them.

  “And you pay us back in kind? The emptiness you left, was that fair?”

  “There is naught fair about pack protocol. You and I both know that; there is simply protocol. And there was none to cover what you did. It was entirely unprecedented. So I was cursed with the dubious pleasure of having to make it up myself. Abandonment seemed to be the best solution, since I didna want to spend another night in your presence.”

  Alexia looked over at Lachlan. The Gamma had tears in his eyes.

  “Besides”—Lord Maccon’s voice softened—“Niall was a perfectly good Alpha alternative. He led you well, I hear. He married my progeny. You were tame enough for decades under his dominance.”

  Lady Kingair finally spoke. Her voice was oddly soft. “Niall was my mate, and I pure loved him. He was a brilliant tactician and a good soldier, but he wasna a true Alpha.”