vampires would never really trust one another.
Lady Maccon stopped suddenly. Her husband got four long strides ahead before he realized she had paused. She was staring thoughtfully up into the aether, twirling the deadly parasol about her head.
“I have just remembered something,” Alexia said when he returned to her side.
“Oh, that explains everything. How foolish of me to think you could walk and remember at the same time.”
She stuck her tongue out at him but began drifting toward the house once more. He slowed to match her pace. “That bug, the one that scared me at breakfast. It was not a cockroach at all. It was a scarab beetle. From Egypt. It must have something to do with the artifacts they brought back.”
Lord Maccon’s lip curled. “Yuck.”
They had fallen some distance behind the rest of the party. The others were busy entering the castle just as someone else emerged. There was a pause while they all politely greeted one another, and then the new figure headed purposefully in the direction of Lord and Lady Maccon.
The figure rapidly resolved itself into the personage of Madame Lefoux.
Alexia waved a “how do you do” at the Frenchwoman. She was wearing her beautiful morning coat of dove- gray, striped trousers, a black satin waistcoat, and a royal-blue cravat. It made for a pretty picture, the Kingair castle—mist-shrouded and gray in the background—and the attractive woman, as improperly dressed as she may be, hurrying toward them. Until Madame Lefoux neared enough for them to realize she was also wearing something else: a concerned expression.
“I am glad I ’ave found you two.” Her accent was unusually strong. She sounded almost as bad as Angelique. “Ze most extraordinary thing, Lady Maccon. I waz looking for you just now to let you know, we went to check on the aethographor; then I saw—”
The most tremendous clap resounded through the Scottish air. Alexia felt certain she could see the mist shake with the noise. Madame Lefoux, her face changing from worry to surprise, stopped midsentence and midstep and tumbled forward, as limp as overcooked pasta. A bloom of red appeared on one immaculate gray lapel.
Lord Maccon caught the inventor before she could fall completely to the ground and carefully lowered her there instead. He held his hand briefly before her mouth to see if she was breathing. “She is still alive.” Alexia quickly pulled her shawl from about her shoulders and handed it to him to use as a bandage. No sense in his spoiling the last of his good cravats.
Alexia looked up at the castle, scoping the battlements for a glint of sun on a rifle barrel, but there were too many battlements and there was too little sun. The sharpshooter, whoever he might be, was not visible.
“Get down this instant, woman,” ordered her husband, grabbing her by one skirt ruffle and yanking her down next to the fallen Frenchwoman. The ruffle ripped. “We dinna know if the shooter was aiming at her or at us,” he growled.
“Where’s your precious pack? Shouldn’t they be hightailing it to our rescue?”
“How do you ken it isna them shooting?” her husband wondered.
“Good point.” Lady Maccon shifted her open parasol defensively so that it shielded them as much as possible from sight of the castle.
Another shot rang out. It hit the ground next to them, splattering turf and small pebbles.
“Next time,” grumbled the earl, “I shall pay extra and have that thing made with metal shielding.”
“Oh, that will be tremendously practical for hot summer afternoons. Come on, we need to find cover,” hissed his wife. “I shall leave the parasol propped here as a diversion.”
“Break for that hedge?” suggested Conall, looking over to their right, where a little berm covered in wild roses seemed to be the Kingair formal garden hedge substitute.
Alexia nodded.
Lord Maccon hoisted the Frenchwoman over one shoulder easily. He might no longer have superhuman strength, but he was still strong.
They dashed toward the berm.
Another shot rang forth.
Only then did they hear yelling. Alexia peeked around the rosebush. Members of the pack poured out of the castle, looking about for the source of the shooting. Several yelled and pointed up. Clavigers and pack reentered the castle at a run.
Lord and Lady Maccon stayed hidden until they were convinced that no one would be taking any more shots at them. Then they emerged from behind the bushes. Lord Maccon carried Madame Lefoux, and Lady Maccon retrieved her parasol.
Upon attaining the house, it was found that Madame Lefoux was in no serious medical danger but had simply fainted from the wound, her shoulder badly gouged by the bullet.
Ivy appeared. “Oh dear, has something untoward ensued? Everyone is gesticulating.” Upon catching sight of the comatose form of Madame Lefoux, she added, “Has she come over nonsensical?” At the sight of the blood, Ivy became rather breathless and looked near to fainting herself. Nevertheless, she trailed them into the back parlor, unhelpfully offering to help and interrupting, as they lowered Madame Lefoux to the small settee, with, “She hasn’t caught a slight fatality, has she?”
“What happened?” demanded Lady Kingair, ignoring Ivy and Felicity, who had also entered the room.
“Someone seems to have decided to dispose of Madame Lefoux,” Lady Maccon said, bustling about ordering bandages and vinegar. Alexia believed that a generous application of cider vinegar could cure most ills, except, of course, for those bacterial disorders that required bicarbonate of soda.
Felicity decided to immediately absent herself from any possible associated danger via proximity to Madame Lefoux. Which, as it absented everyone else from her, was no bad thing.
Only Lady Kingair had the wherewithal to respond. “Good Lord, why? She’s naught more than a two-bit French inventor.”
Alexia thought she saw the Frenchwoman twitch at that. Was Madame Lefoux shamming? Alexia leaned in on the pretext of checking bandages. She caught a whiff of vanilla, mixed with the coppery smell of blood this time instead of mechanical oil. The inventor remained absolutely still under Alexia’s gentle ministrations. Not even her eyelids moved. If she was shamming, she was very, very good at it.
Lady Maccon glanced toward the door and thought she caught a flicker of servant black. Angelique’s white, horrified face peeked around the corner. Before Alexia could summon her in, the maid disappeared.
“An excellent question. Perhaps she will be so kind as to tell us once she has awakened,” Lady Maccon said, once more watching Madame Lefoux’s face. No reaction to that statement.
Unfortunately for everyone’s curiosity, Madame Lefoux did not awaken, or did not allow herself to be awakened, for the entirety of the rest of the afternoon. Despite the assiduous attentions of Lord and Lady Maccon, half the Kingair Pack, and several clavigers, her eyes remained stubbornly shut.
Lady Maccon took her tea in the sickroom, hoping the smell of baked goods would awaken Madame Lefoux. All that resulted was that Lady Kingair came to join her. Alexia had settled into not liking this relation of her husband’s, but she had not the constitution that would allow for anything to interfere with her consumption of tea.
“Has our patient awakened yet?” inquired Lady Kingair.
“She remains dramatically abed.” Alexia frowned into her cup. “I do hope nothing is seriously wrong with her. Should we call a doctor, do you think?”
“I’ve seen and tended to much worse on the battlefield.”
“You go with the regiment?”
“I may not be a werewolf, but I’m Alpha female for this pack. My place is with them, even if I dinna fight alongside.”
Alexia selected a scone from the tea tray and plopped a dollop of cream and marmalade on top of it. “Did you side with the pack when they betrayed my husband?” she asked in forced casualness.
“He told you about it.”
Lady Maccon nodded and ate a bite of scone.
“I was just sixteen when he left, away at finishing school. I didna have a say in the pack’s choices.”
“And now?”
“Now? Now I ken they all behaved like fools. You dinna piss upwind.”
