Timeless

convulsed one final time and stilled.

Alexia went to bend over her solicitously, careful not to touch her in case, somehow, this was all as it was meant to be, and preternatural contact might interfere with the process of metamorphosis. The girl, however, was motionless. Lady Maccon looked up from her crouch at Major Channing. The werewolf shook his blond head.

Dr. Caedes spoke into the shocked quiet of the Blue Room. “My Queen, it did not take. You need to feed and restore your strength. Please, put the makers away. I will call in the drones.”

Countess Nadasdy turned an unfocused gaze onto her vampire companion. “Didn’t it work? Another one gone. How unfortunate. I shall have to buy a new dress, then.” She looked around, catching sight of the fallen girl and Lady Maccon bent over her. She laughed. “There’s nothing you can do, soul-sucker.”

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.