Heartless

“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