The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set

by Gail Carriger

  Alexia stood, feeling queasy.

  There was blood everywhere. Soaked into the countess’s green gown, splattered across the cream and blue carpet, and pooling under the body of the unfortunate girl. It was really more than any lady should have to tolerate when making a social call.

  Dr. Caedes gestured Mabel Dair forward. “See to your mistress, Miss Dair.”

  “Certainly, Doctor. At once.” Mabel ran to the countess, her golden curls bouncing, and offered up her wrist.

  Dr. Caedes followed, reaching around to support his queen’s head. “Now remember, only feeders. You are weak, My Queen.”

  Countess Nadasdy drank for a long time from the actress’s wrist, everyone watching in silence. Mabel Dair stood still and quiet in her beautiful bronze dress, but soon the rose bloom on her perfect round cheeks began to fade.

  Dr. Caedes said gently, “Enough, My Queen.”

  Countess Nadasdy did not stop.

  Madame Lefoux strode forward. Her movements were angular and sharp under the impeccable cut of her evening jacket. She grabbed Miss Dair’s arm above the wrist and jerked it off the vampire queen’s teeth, causing both women to gasp in surprise.

  “He said enough.”

  The countess glared at the Frenchwoman. “Don’t you dare dictate to me, drone.”

  “Haven’t you had sufficient blood for one evening?” The inventor gestured with her hand at the body and the mess that resulted.

  Countess Nadasdy licked her lips. “And yet, I am still hungry.”

  The Frenchwoman lurched away. Dr. Caedes stopped her by placing his hands on her shoulders. “You don’t want the queen to take from Miss Dair anymore, do you, Madame Lefoux? Offering yourself in her place, are you? That’s very generous. Especially considering how cautious you have been with your blood since you came to us.”

  Madame Lefoux pushed her hair back behind her ears, defiantly. She’d let it grow longer since becoming a drone, but it was still too short for a woman. She offered up her wrist without protest. The countess sank in her fangs. Madame Lefoux looked away.

  “Perhaps the major and I should make our farewells,” suggested Alexia, uncomfortable witnessing Genevieve’s pretend disinterest. At which juncture they did, leaving Madame Lefoux dismissive, Mabel Dair drained, Dr. Cedes distracted, and the countess still at tea.

  Fenchurch Street wasn’t Alexia’s favorite station. It was too close to the London Docks and, of course, the Tower of London. There was something about the Tower, with all its ghosts that would not be exorcized, that gave her the squirms. It was as if they were dinner guests who had overstayed their welcome.

  Lady Maccon and Major Channing alighted. It was the quietest time of the night, so there were no porters to be found. Lady Maccon sat in the first-class waiting room alone, impatient, while Major Channing went to see about a hackney.

  A man unlike any Alexia had ever encountered burst in through the door just after Channing vanished out of sight. Alexia knew there were such people about London, but not in her part of the city! His hair was long and shaggy. His face was sunburned like that of a sailor. His beard was ferocious and untended. However, Alexia did not fear him, for the man appeared to be in a state of extreme distress, and he knew her name.

  “Lady Maccon! Lady Maccon.”

  He spoke with a Scottish accent. His voice was vaguely familiar, for all that it was faint and cracked. For the life of her, Alexia couldn’t place that gaunt, cooked-lobster face, not under all that unkempt.

  She looked down her nose at the man. “Do I know you, sir?”

  “Yes, my lady. Dubh.” He cracked a weak smile. “I’m a mite different from when you saw me last.”

  The werewolf could not be but understating the case. Dubh had not been a particularly handsome or agreeable man, but now he was positively unsightly. A Scotsman, to be sure, and Alexia acknowledged her preferences seemed to lean in that direction. In the past, the man had not behaved much to Alexia’s taste, having engaged in a bout of fisticuffs with Conall that destroyed most of a dining room and an entire plate of meringues. “Why, Mr. Dubh, what has brought about such a need for the barber? Are you unwell? Have you been the victim of an anarchist outrage?”

  Alexia made to move over to him, for he had propped himself against the jamb of the door and seemed likely to slide right down it and fold up upon the floor.

  “No, my lady, I beg you. I could not stand your touch.”

  “But, my dear sir, let me summon help. You have been much missed. Your Alpha is here in London looking for you. I could send Major Channing to fetch—”

  “No, please, my lady, only listen. I have waited to catch you alone. ’Tis a matter for you alone. Your household… your household is nae safe. It is nae contained.”

  “Do go on.”

  “Your da… what he did… in Egypt. You need tae stop it.”

  “What? What did he do?”

  “The mummies, my lady, they—”

  A gunshot fired clear and sharp in the silence of the station. Lady Maccon cried out as a bloom of red blood appeared on Dubh’s chest. The Beta looked utterly surprised, raising both hands to cup over the wound.

  He pitched forward, facedown, showing that he had been shot in the back.

  Alexia clasped her hands together and willed herself to stay away, although all her instincts urged her to help the injured man. She yelled out at the very top of her lungs, “Major Channing, Major Channing, come quickly! Something untoward has occurred.”

  The Gamma came dashing in using speed only supernaturals could achieve. He immediately crouched over the fallen werewolf.

  He sniffed. “Kingair Pack? The missing Beta? But what is he doing here? I thought he went missing in Egypt.”

  “It appears he recently returned. Look—beard, tan, loss of flesh. He’s been mortal for some length of time. Only one thing does that to a werewolf.”

  “The God-Breaker Plague.”

  “Can you think of a better explanation? Except, of course, that he is back here, in the country. He should be a werewolf once more.”

  “Oh, he is, or I wouldn’t be able to smell the pack in him,” answered Major Channing with confidence. “He’s not mortal, only very, very weak.”

  “Then he’s not dead?”

  “Not yet. We’d better get him home and the bullet out or he might well be. Take care, my lady. The assailant may still be out there. I should go first.”

  “But,” said Alexia, “I have Ethel.” She withdrew the small gun from her reticule and cocked it.

  Major Channing rolled his eyes.

  “Onward!” Alexia trotted out of the waiting room, eyes alert for movement in the shadows, gun at the ready.

  Nothing happened.

  They made it to the waiting hackney easily. Major Channing offered the driver triple the fare for double the speed. They would have made it back home in record time had there not been a fire in Cheapside that caused them to double back and go around.

  Once home, a single yell from Lady Maccon brought all the werewolves and clavigers running. It was getting near to dawn, so the house was full, clavigers waking up and werewolves preparing for bed. The injured Kingair Beta caused quite a hubbub. He was taken carefully inside and into the back parlor, while runners were sent to BUR to fetch Lord Maccon and Lady Kingair.

  Dubh was looking worse, his breath rasped. Alexia was genuinely concerned for his survival. She sat down on the couch opposite, feeling utterly ineffectual, as she could not even pat his hand or wipe his brow.

  Floote appeared at her elbow. “Trouble, madam?”

  “Oh, Floote, yes. Where have you been? Do you know anything that could help?”

  “Help, madam?”

  “He’s been shot.”

  “We should try to get the bullet out, madam, in case it is silver.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, do you—”

  “I’m afraid not, madam, but I will send for a surgeon directly.”

  “Progressive?”

/>   “Naturally, madam.”

  “Very good. Please do.”

  Floote nodded to a young claviger who jumped eagerly forward, and the butler gave him the address of a physician.

  “Perhaps, madam, a little air for the invalid?”

  “Of course! Clear the room, please, gentlemen.”

  All the worried-looking clavigers and werewolves filed out. Floote walked quietly off and returned moments later with tea.

  They sat in silence, watching as Dubh’s breathing became fainter. Their reverie was interrupted by a clatter at the door, indicating Lord Maccon had returned.

  Alexia hurried to meet her husband.

  “Alexia, are you unwell?”

  “Of course not. Did the runner explain what has transpired?”

  “Dubh appeared, found you at the train station, tried to tell you something, and was shot.”

  “Yes, that’s about the whole of it.”

  “Dashed inconvenient.”

  Lady Kingair pushed up next to her great-great-great-grandfather. “How is he?”

  “Not well, I’m afraid. We have done what we can, and a surgeon has been sent for. Follow me.” Alexia led the way into the back parlor.

  They entered to find Floote bent over the injured man. The butler’s normally impassive face was creased with worry. He looked up as they burst in and shook his head.

  “No!” cried Lady Kingair, her voice ringing in distress. She shoved the butler aside to bend over her Beta. “Oh, no, Dubh.”

  The werewolf was dead.

  Lady Kingair began to weep. Full shaking sobs, the grief of an old friend and longtime companion.

  Alexia turned away from such naked emotion to find her husband’s face also suffused with sorrow. She forgot that Dubh had been a part of his pack as well. Not so close as a Beta back then, but still, werewolves lived a long time and pack members were always valued. There had been no love lost personality-wise, but a dead immortal was never to be taken lightly. It was a tragedy of lost information, like the burning of the Library of Alexandria.

  Alexia went to Conall and held him close, wrapping her arms tightly about him, not caring that others could see. Taking charge of the situation—everyone needed a hobby and that was Alexia’s—she guided her husband gently to a large armchair and saw him seated. She sent Floote for a dram of formaldehyde and directed a claviger to fetch Professor Lyall. Then she made her way out into the hall to confirm what the waiting werewolves had already guessed from Lady Kingair’s cry—that they had lost one of their own.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Under Cover of Thespians

  Needless to say, there was a good deal for Lady Maccon to take care of before she could broach the matter of Queen Matakara with her husband. No one got much sleep that day, except perhaps Biffy. The newest of the London Pack seemed to have come home, raised his eyebrows at the unholy hubbub, and, very sensibly, gone to bed with the latest copy of Le Beaux Assemblée.

  Lady Maccon spent the morning finding a black dress for herself, black waistcoats for the pack, and mourning bands for the staff. Dubh hadn’t exactly been family, but he had died in her house, and she felt that proper respects ought to be paid. BUR was in an uproar and the clavigers were all aflutter with the drama, so she had to keep an eye to them as well.

  When evening finally did arrive, Lady Kingair insisted on departing immediately with Dubh’s body for Scotland. However, she stated that she would be returning after the burial in all due haste to sort the matter of his murder out to her satisfaction. Her tone cast aspersions over the English’s ability to properly tend to such matters. The abruptness of her departure left Lord and Lady Maccon standing dumbly in the hallway, staring at one another, exhausted by lack of sleep. When the knock came at their front door, they were entirely unprepared to meet Lord Akeldama’s painted face, nor a chipper Prudence sitting happily on Tizzy’s hip just behind him.

  “Dada! Mama!” greeted their daughter.

  “Oh, darling, good evening!” said her mother, trying to look pleased. “Lord Akeldama, Viscount Trizdale, do come in.”

  “Oh, no, thank you kindly, pudding cheeks. We thought we’d go for a little stroll in the park. I can’t believe we will benefit from this delightful weather much longer. The puggle and I were wondering if you darlings would care to accompany us?”

  “Oh, how kind. I do apologize, my lord, but we’ve had rather a trying day.”

  “So my little droney poos informed me. It was all go here last night and all day today, I understand. Someone had a serious accident. Not to mention the fact that you paid a visit to Woolsey Hive, my dear Alexia. But, my fabulous darling, all black? Surely that couldn’t possibly be necessary?”

  Lady Maccon faced this onslaught with composed grace until the very end. “Oh, good gracious me, Woolsey! Conall, my dear, I entirely forgot! I must talk with you about that directly. Yes, as you say, Lord Akeldama, very busy. I’m sorry to be so abrupt but I really am quite exhausted. Perhaps tomorrow night?” Alexia wasn’t about to give the vampire the satisfaction of any further information.

  Lord Akeldama knew when he was being dismissed. The vampire tilted his head graciously, and he and Tizzy returned to the street where an enormous pram awaited Prudence’s pleasure. Lord Akeldama had had the contraption made shortly after the adoption was made official. It was a Plimsaul Brothers Perambulator Special Class. It had penny-farthing-style wheels, in brass, and a leather carriage gilded in gold and trimmed with an excessive number of swirls. The handle could be adjusted for height, and from it dangled a porcelain plate with the name Proud Mary in flowery scroll. There was a crank for raising and lowering the affixed protective parasol—also good for inclement weather. The pram—rather optimistically, felt Alexia—converted to take more than one child at a time. Lord Akeldama had ordered it designed with removable interior lining, lace trim, and ribbons. He had then commissioned a full set made in every possible color so as to match any outfit he might wear. In the light of the gas streetlamp, Alexia could just make out that they were all in teal and silver this evening. Prudence was in a darling cream lace dress and Tizzy in a complementary shade of pale gold. The nursemaid trailed behind looking put-upon. Somehow the vampire had even gotten her to don a teal ribbon in solidarity.

  They paraded off. No doubt the vampire was prepared, nay delighted, to stop and be admired by many a curious bystander. It was likely to be a very slow amble about the park. Lord Akeldama did so enjoy making a spectacle of himself. Luckily, signs were beginning to indicate that Prudence felt similarly on the subject. Two peas in a very sparkly pod.

  Lady Maccon grabbed her husband by the arm, practically dragging him into their back parlor and closing the door firmly behind her.

  “Oh, Conall, something else has happened, and in the horror of Dubh’s unfortunate demise, I entirely forgot to tell you. I witnessed Countess Nadasdy try to metamorphose a new queen yesterday eve.”

  “You never!” Lord Maccon was shaken slightly out of his melancholy. He patted the seat next to him, and Alexia came willingly over to settle beside him.

  “It was all a rather rushed affair. One of her drones had an accident. The countess failed the attempt, but it was fascinating, from a scientific standpoint. Did you know the feeder fangs go in first? Oh, and there was blood everywhere! But I get ahead of myself. That’s not the important part. Now, where did I put my reticule? Oh, bother. I must have dropped it when I pulled out Ethel at the station.” She tsked at herself. “Never mind, I think I can remember the sum of the note.”

  “Note? What are you on about, my dearest?” Lord Maccon was watching his wife in fascination. Alexia so rarely got flustered; it was charming. It made him want to grab and pull her close, stroke her into stopping all her verbal fluttering.

  “Countess Nadasdy summoned me to visit Woolsey because Prudence and I have been summoned, commanded even, to visit the queen of the Alexandria Hive herself.”

  Lord Maccon stopped thinking about the fineness of hi
s wife’s figure. “Matakara? Indeed?” He looked impressed.

  Alexia was surprised. Her husband was rarely impressed by anything to do with vampires. In fact, Lord Maccon was rarely impressed by anything period, except perhaps Lady Maccon on occasion.

  “She commands us to attend her in Egypt as soon as possible. In Egypt, mind you.”

  Lord Maccon didn’t flinch at the outrageousness of such a demand, only saying, “Well, I shall have to accompany you, if that is the case.”

  Alexia paused. She had her story all prepared. Her explanation as to why she should go. She was even formulating a plan to disguise her reason for traveling. Yet, here her husband went just knuckling under and wanting to go with her. “Wait, what? You aren’t going to object?”

  “Would it signify if I did?”

  “Well, yes, but I would still go.”

  “My love, one does not deny Queen Matakara. Not even if one is Alpha of the London Pack.”

  Alexia was so surprised she handed her husband his own argument—the one she had been prepared to battle. “You don’t want to stay and see to the murder investigation?”

  “Of course I do. But I would never allow you to go to Egypt alone. It’s a dangerous land and not simply because of the God-Breaker Plague. Lyall, Channing, and Biffy are rather more capable than I like to admit. I’m certain they can handle everything here, including Lady Kingair and a dead werewolf investigation.”

  Alexia’s jaw dropped. “Really, this is too easy. What—” She paused. “Oh, I see! You want to investigate what Dubh was up to in Egypt—what he found out there—don’t you?”

  Lord Maccon shrugged. “Don’t you?”

  “Do you think Lady Kingair was lying to us about why she sent him?”

  “No, but I do think he must have uncovered something significant. And why you in particular? Why not his pack?”

  “This all has to do with my father. Dubh started to say something to that effect right before he was shot, and Queen Matakara’s note intimated she knew secrets about my father. He spent some time in Egypt, I understand from his journals. Unfortunately, he seems never to have written anything down during those times. Although, he met my mother when he was over there.”