“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 of 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.
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 gather, 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.
