Ten minutes of manoeuvring later, Winkle managed to extract them from the crush, by which point BUR had arrived and hustled all those involved back inside Claret’s for questioning. The spectacle was over.
Once they were far enough out, Rue’s tether to Uncle Hemming snapped and her human form returned. She pulled the striped dress back on. It was a little worse for its werewolf encounter, but then wasn’t everyone?
She bit her lip and fretted. Paw hadn’t turned up at all, not even with BUR. Was he sick? Missing? Dead? Well, more dead than normal? She would not let herself think that he was losing control. Missing or sick would be preferable.
“Winkle, please hurry,” she yelled out of the window. “I do believe something awful may have happened to one of my parents.”
Rue lived with her adoptive father, Lord Akeldama. Dama was many things: vampire, rove, potentate, fashion icon, and nobbiest of the nobs. He ruled over a house of impeccable taste and harmonious design replete with assorted stunning works of art, scintillating conversation, and beautiful young men. Rue appreciated his skill, and mostly bowed to his authority, although as he was no longer her legal guardian so she did not technically have to.
Her blood parents, Lord and Lady Maccon, and their werewolf pack lived in the townhouse adjacent. It was only as tasteful as Uncle Rabiffano could impose, otherwise being characterised by dark wood, practical accoutrements, and the general aura of a bachelor residence over which Lady Maccon wafted like a hen in full squawk.
The two residences were connected via a walkway hidden behind a large holly tree. Rue had found it a fun, if wildly erratic upbringing, for three more different parents one could never find than Dama, Paw, and Mother. Nothing was ever agreed upon, except teatime. Rue adored her Paw, who was a big softy and always let her have her way with only token protestations. She respected her Dama, in whom love was tempered by razor wit and a strict adherence to etiquette. But she was in awe of her mother. Given Rue’s metanatural abilities, one might have expected this. For while Rue could steal werewolf form from Paw and vampire form from Dama, Alexia Maccon could cancel both out. Only Rue’s soulless mother could put a stopper in all her fun. And usually did.
Lady Maccon was difficult. She couldn’t be managed or charmed. She wouldn’t be moved once she made up her mind. She was as tough as old boot leather and as inevitable as clotted cream when scones were in the offing.
So it was with real fear that Rue overheard her indomitable mother in conversation with Dama sounding upset.
“He won’t listen to me. That in and of itself isn’t unusual, but this has gone on far too long. I’m worried he may be beyond saving. It’s past time the plan was enacted. We need to leave. Soon. Have you heard from India at all? Is he coming home?”
“Really, my dove, why would you think I know anything about him? Why don’t you ask your husband’s Beta?”
Rue paused in the hallway, ears perked. Uncle Rabiffano? What has he to do with anything? He seems the only one able to control himself these days.
“My dear Akeldama. This is serious.” Her mother sounded almost cross with the vampire, yet he was one of her favourite people.
“My darlingest of Alexias, I am never serious. I resent the implication that I should be.”
“Not even about love?”
“What do you take me for – sentimental? Wait, before you continue on at me, I do believe we have an audience.” Dama opened the door and tilted his head at his daughter. “Good evening, Puggle. What have you been up to? Your gown looks as if it has been dragged through the streets by a dog.”
“You aren’t far off, actually. Is that Mother? May I speak to her?”
Dama quirked an eyebrow over the edge of his monocle. His movements were always precise – calculated. “Mmmm, you know I’d rather not be involved in one of those conversations. But if you insist, come in. You’re sure you won’t change first?”
“It is rather urgent.”
Lord Akeldama waved her in. Tonight he was dressed sombrely, for him, in teal and cream with a gold monocle and gold rings on all of his fingers. His hands sparkled as he gestured for her to sit.
Lady Alexia Maccon was taking tea, nose up and commanding in one of the wingback chairs. She didn’t rise as her daughter entered the room, as it was, after all, for Rue to go to her.
Rue did so, delivering a polite peck on the cheek and then sitting opposite on the settee.
Dama remained standing, leaning with a studied casualness on the back of one of the other chairs.
Rue’s mother did not demure. “Infant, please tell me you didn’t look like this when you saw the queen? Your hair is down. And the state of your gown defies comment.”
“Apparently not, as both you and Dama have now commented.”
Lady Maccon narrowed her eyes.
“Mother, really. What do you take me for – a harridan? No, don’t answer that. I assure you, I was perfectly respectable during my audience with the queen. You may ask Winkle for confirmation. Where is Winkle anyway?” But Winkle had squeaked off the moment he heard Lady Maccon’s voice. He, like all the drones and most of the pack, knew never to come between Lady Maccon and her daughter when there were incidents to explain. The ladies tended to engage in verbal skirmishing that became semantic battles in which bystanders were skewered.
Dama’s expression said he wished to vanish as well. But this was his house, and he was host, and twenty years of intimacy and shared familial responsibility were not enough to cause him to abandon a guest in his drawing room, not even when his daughter was there to entertain. Standards must be upheld.
Once they were far enough out, Rue’s tether to Uncle Hemming snapped and her human form returned. She pulled the striped dress back on. It was a little worse for its werewolf encounter, but then wasn’t everyone?
She bit her lip and fretted. Paw hadn’t turned up at all, not even with BUR. Was he sick? Missing? Dead? Well, more dead than normal? She would not let herself think that he was losing control. Missing or sick would be preferable.
“Winkle, please hurry,” she yelled out of the window. “I do believe something awful may have happened to one of my parents.”
Rue lived with her adoptive father, Lord Akeldama. Dama was many things: vampire, rove, potentate, fashion icon, and nobbiest of the nobs. He ruled over a house of impeccable taste and harmonious design replete with assorted stunning works of art, scintillating conversation, and beautiful young men. Rue appreciated his skill, and mostly bowed to his authority, although as he was no longer her legal guardian so she did not technically have to.
Her blood parents, Lord and Lady Maccon, and their werewolf pack lived in the townhouse adjacent. It was only as tasteful as Uncle Rabiffano could impose, otherwise being characterised by dark wood, practical accoutrements, and the general aura of a bachelor residence over which Lady Maccon wafted like a hen in full squawk.
The two residences were connected via a walkway hidden behind a large holly tree. Rue had found it a fun, if wildly erratic upbringing, for three more different parents one could never find than Dama, Paw, and Mother. Nothing was ever agreed upon, except teatime. Rue adored her Paw, who was a big softy and always let her have her way with only token protestations. She respected her Dama, in whom love was tempered by razor wit and a strict adherence to etiquette. But she was in awe of her mother. Given Rue’s metanatural abilities, one might have expected this. For while Rue could steal werewolf form from Paw and vampire form from Dama, Alexia Maccon could cancel both out. Only Rue’s soulless mother could put a stopper in all her fun. And usually did.
Lady Maccon was difficult. She couldn’t be managed or charmed. She wouldn’t be moved once she made up her mind. She was as tough as old boot leather and as inevitable as clotted cream when scones were in the offing.
So it was with real fear that Rue overheard her indomitable mother in conversation with Dama sounding upset.
“He won’t listen to me. That in and of itself isn’t unusual, but this has gone on far too long. I’m worried he may be beyond saving. It’s past time the plan was enacted. We need to leave. Soon. Have you heard from India at all? Is he coming home?”
“Really, my dove, why would you think I know anything about him? Why don’t you ask your husband’s Beta?”
Rue paused in the hallway, ears perked. Uncle Rabiffano? What has he to do with anything? He seems the only one able to control himself these days.
“My dear Akeldama. This is serious.” Her mother sounded almost cross with the vampire, yet he was one of her favourite people.
“My darlingest of Alexias, I am never serious. I resent the implication that I should be.”
“Not even about love?”
“What do you take me for – sentimental? Wait, before you continue on at me, I do believe we have an audience.” Dama opened the door and tilted his head at his daughter. “Good evening, Puggle. What have you been up to? Your gown looks as if it has been dragged through the streets by a dog.”
“You aren’t far off, actually. Is that Mother? May I speak to her?”
Dama quirked an eyebrow over the edge of his monocle. His movements were always precise – calculated. “Mmmm, you know I’d rather not be involved in one of those conversations. But if you insist, come in. You’re sure you won’t change first?”
“It is rather urgent.”
Lord Akeldama waved her in. Tonight he was dressed sombrely, for him, in teal and cream with a gold monocle and gold rings on all of his fingers. His hands sparkled as he gestured for her to sit.
Lady Alexia Maccon was taking tea, nose up and commanding in one of the wingback chairs. She didn’t rise as her daughter entered the room, as it was, after all, for Rue to go to her.
Rue did so, delivering a polite peck on the cheek and then sitting opposite on the settee.
Dama remained standing, leaning with a studied casualness on the back of one of the other chairs.
Rue’s mother did not demure. “Infant, please tell me you didn’t look like this when you saw the queen? Your hair is down. And the state of your gown defies comment.”
“Apparently not, as both you and Dama have now commented.”
Lady Maccon narrowed her eyes.
“Mother, really. What do you take me for – a harridan? No, don’t answer that. I assure you, I was perfectly respectable during my audience with the queen. You may ask Winkle for confirmation. Where is Winkle anyway?” But Winkle had squeaked off the moment he heard Lady Maccon’s voice. He, like all the drones and most of the pack, knew never to come between Lady Maccon and her daughter when there were incidents to explain. The ladies tended to engage in verbal skirmishing that became semantic battles in which bystanders were skewered.
Dama’s expression said he wished to vanish as well. But this was his house, and he was host, and twenty years of intimacy and shared familial responsibility were not enough to cause him to abandon a guest in his drawing room, not even when his daughter was there to entertain. Standards must be upheld.
