The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set by Gail Carriger
Professor Lyall did not dignify that with an answer. “Shall we proceed?”
He led the challenger around the back of the castle, to the wide stone porch where the pack fought most of its practice bouts. Spread out and down the long sloping green of Woolsey’s well-tended lawn, a vast number of military-issue white canvas tents had sprouted, clearly visible under the almost full moon. The regiment usually camped around the front of Woolsey, but Alexia had had kittens over their presence and insisted they remove themselves to the back. They were scheduled to depart for winter quarters in a week or so, having squatted at Woolsey merely for the sake of unity with the pack. Conventional niceties having been observed, pretty much everyone was now ready to move on.
The rest of the Woolsey Pack came wandering after the three men, followed by a handful of clavigers. Rafe and Phelan were looking rather haggard. Lyall suspected he would have to insist they confine themselves to the dungeon presently, before the onslaught of moon madness. Curious, a few of the officers left their evening campfires, grabbed lanterns, and meandered over to see what the pack was getting up to.
Lyall and Mr. Ulf both stripped and stood naked for all the world to see. No one commented beyond a hoot and a whistle or two. Military men were used to werewolf changes and the indecency that preceded the affair.
Professor Lyall was older than he cared to admit and had grown, if not comfortable with shape change, at least enough in control of his own finer feelings not to show how much it hurt. And it always hurt. The sound of shifting from man to wolf was that of breaking bones, tearing muscle, and oozing flesh, and, unfortunately, that was also what it felt like. Werewolves called their particular brand of immortality a curse. Every time he shifted, Lyall wondered if this weren’t true and if the vampires might not have made a better choice. Certainly they could be killed by the sunlight, and they had to run around drinking people’s blood, but they could do both in comfort and style. At its root, being a werewolf, what with the nudity and the tyranny of the moon, was essentially undignified. And Professor Lyall was rather fond of his dignity.
If asked, the surrounding men would have admitted that if anyone could be said to change from man to wolf with dignity, it was Professor Lyall. He did the regiment proud and they all knew it. They had seen their attachment of Woolsey werewolves change both on and off the battlefield, but none were as fast and quiet about it as Lyall. Spontaneously, they gave him a round of polite applause when he had finished.
The smallish, sandy, almost foxlike wolf now standing where Professor Lyall had been gave a little nod of embarrassed gratitude at the clapping.
The challenger’s change was not nearly so elegant. It was accomplished with much groaning and whimpers of pain, but when complete, the black wolf that resulted was a good deal larger than Professor Lyall. The Woolsey Pack Beta was not perturbed by this discrepancy in size. Most werewolves were a good deal larger than he.
The challenger attacked, but Lyall was already in motion, twisting out of the way and darting in for the other’s throat. There was so much to do back at BUR and he wanted to end the bout quickly.
But the loner was a crafty fighter, nimble and adept. He avoided Lyall’s counterattack, and the two circled each other warily, both coming to the realization that they might have underestimated their opponent.
The men around them closed in, forming a circle of bodies around the pair. The soldiers called insults at the challenger, the officers catcalled, and the pack stood in silent wide-eyed attention.
The loner charged at Professor Lyall, snapping. Lyall dodged. The challenger skidded slightly on the smooth paving stones, his claws making an awful scraping noise as he scrabbled for purchase. Taking advantage of the skid, Lyall dove at him, hitting him broadside with enough force to knock him onto his side. The two wolves rolled over and over together, bumping into the shins of those who goaded them on. Professor Lyall could feel the claws of the other wolf tearing against his soft underbelly as he bit viciously into the creature’s neck.
This was what he disliked most about fighting. It was so embarrassingly untidy. He didn’t mind the pain; he would heal fast enough. But he was bleeding all over his own pristine coat, and blood from the challenger was dripping down over his muzzle, matting the fur of his white ruff. Even as a wolf, Professor Lyall did not like to be unkempt.
Still the blood flowed, bits of fur flew about the challenger’s scrabbling back legs in white puffs, and the sound of growling rent the air. The wet, rich smell of flowing blood caused the noses of the other pack members to wrinkle with interest. Professor Lyall wasn’t one to play dirty, but things being as they were, he thought he might have to go in for an eyeball. Then he realized something was disturbing the crowd.
The tight circle of bodies began rippling, and then two pack members were thrust violently aside and Lord Maccon entered the ring.
He was naked, had been all day, but under the moonlight, he was once more looking scruffy and feral. From his mild weaving back and forth, either a day in dry dock hadn’t sufficiently eliminated the formaldehyde from his system or he’d managed to acquire more. Professor Lyall would have to have words with the claviger who’d been persuaded to let Lord Maccon out of the dungeon.
Despite the presence of his lord and master, Lyall was in the middle of a fight and did not allow himself to be distracted.
“Randolph!” roared his Alpha. “What are you about? You hate fighting. Stop it immediately.”
Professor Lyall ignored him.
Until Lord Maccon changed.
The earl was a big man, and in wolf form, he was large even for a werewolf, and he changed loudly. Not with any vocal indication of pain—he was too proud for that—it was simply that his bones were so massive that when they broke, they did so with a real will to crunch. He emerged from the transformation a huge brindled wolf, dark brown with gold, black, and cream markings and pale yellow eyes. He bounced over to where Lyall still scrabbled with the challenger, wrapped his massive jaws about his Beta’s neck, and hauled him off, tossing him aside with a contemptuous flick.
Professor Lyall knew what was good for him and stepped away into the crowd, flopping down onto his bloody stomach, tongue lolling out as he panted for breath. If his Alpha wanted to make a fool of himself, there came a point when even the best Beta couldn’t stop him. But he did stay in wolf form, just in case. Surreptitiously, he licked at his white ruff like a cat to get the blood off.
Lord Maccon barreled into the loner, massive jaws snapping down.
The challenger dodged to one side, a glint of panic in his yellow gaze. He had banked on not having to fight the earl; this was not in his plan.
Lyall could smell the wolf’s fear.
Lord Maccon swiveled about and went after the challenger again, but then tripped over his own feet, lurched to the side, and came down hard on one shoulder.
Definitely still drunk, thought Professor Lyall, resigned.
The challenger seized the opportunity and dove for Lord Maccon’s neck. At the same moment, the earl shook his head violently as though to clear it. Two large wolf skulls cracked together.
The challenger fell back, dazed.
Lord Maccon, already in a state of confusion, did not register the encounter, instead lurching after his enemy with single-minded focus. Normally a quick and efficient fighter, he ambled after his bemused opponent and took one long second to look down at him, as if trying to remember what, exactly, was going on. Then he surged forward and bit down on the other wolf’s muzzle.
The fallen wolf squealed in pain.
Lord Maccon let go in befuddled surprise, as if shocked that his meal should yell back. The challenger stumbled to his feet.
The earl wove his head back and forth, an action his opponent found disconcerting. The loner crouched back onto his haunches, forelegs splayed out before him. Lyall wasn’t certain if he was bowing or preparing to spring. He had no chance to do either, for Lord Maccon, much to his own astonishment, stumbled again
Almost as an afterthought, he craned his neck around and sank all of his very long and very deadly teeth into the upper portion of the other wolf’s head—conveniently spearing one eye and both ears.
Because werewolves were immortal and very hard to kill, challenge fights could go on for days. But a bite to the eyes was generally considered a no-contest win. It would take a good forty-eight hours to heal properly, and a blind wolf, immortal or no, could be killed during the interim merely because he was at such a grave disadvantage.
As soon as the teeth struck home, the challenger, whimpering in agony, wriggled onto his back, presenting his belly to Lord Maccon in surrender. The earl, still lying half on top of the unfortunate fellow, lurched off of him, spitting and sneezing over the flavor of eye goo and ear wax. Werewolves enjoyed fresh meat—they needed it, in fact, to survive—but other werewolves did not taste fresh. They tasted perhaps not quite so putrefied as vampires, but still old and slightly spoiled.
Professor Lyall stood and stretched—tail tip quivering. Perhaps, he thought as he trotted back to the cloakroom, this battle might be a good thing: to have it publicly known that Lord Maccon could still defeat a challenger, even when drunk. The rest of the pack could take care of cleaning up the mess. Now that the matter was settled, Professor Lyall had business to attend to. He paused in the cloakroom. He might as well run to London in wolf form, as he was already wearing his fur and his evening attire was now hopelessly wrinkled. He really must get his Alpha back on the straight and narrow—the man’s behavior was affecting his clothing. Lyall understood a broken heart, but it could not be allowed to rumple perfectly good shirtwaists.
The trouble with vampires, thought Alexia Tarabotti, was that they were quick as well as strong. Not as strong as werewolves, but in this particular instance Alexia didn’t have any werewolves fighting on her side—blast Conall to all three atmospheres—so the vampires had a distinct advantage.
“Because,” she grumbled, “my husband is a first-rate git. I wouldn’t even be in this situation if it weren’t for him.”
Floote gave her a look of annoyance that suggested he felt that now was not the time for connubial recriminations.
Alexia took his meaning perfectly.
Monsieur Trouvé and Madame Lefoux, having been disturbed from some detailed consultation on the nature of spring-loaded cuckoo clocks, were making their way around from behind a little workman’s table. Madame Lefoux pulled out a sharp-looking wooden pin from her cravat with one hand and pointed her other wrist at the intruders. Upon that wrist she wore a large wristwatch that was probably no wristwatch at all. The clockmaker, for lack of any better weapon, grasped the mahogany and pearl case of a cuckoo clock and brandished it in a threatening manner.
“Quoo?” said the clock. Alexia was amazed that even a tiny mechanical device could sound inexplicably French in this country.
Alexia pressed the appropriate lotus leaf, and the tip of her parasol opened to reveal a dart emitter. Unfortunately, Madame Lefoux had designed the emitter to fire only three shots, and there were four vampires. In addition, Alexia could not recall if the inventor had told her whether or not the numbing agent even worked on the supernatural. But it was the only projectile in her armament, and she figured all great battles began with an airborne offensive.
Madame Lefoux and Monsieur Trouvé joined Alexia and Floote at the bottom of the stairs, facing off against the vampires, who had slowed their hectic charge and were moving forward in a menacing manner, as cats will stalk string.
“How did they find me so quickly?” Alexia took aim.
“So they are after you, are they? Well, I suppose that is hardly a surprise.” The clockmaker glanced in Alexia’s direction.
“Yes. Terribly inconvenient of them.”
Monsieur Trouvé let out a rolling bark of deep laughter. “I did say you always brought me charming surprises, and trouble with them, didn’t I, Genevieve? What have you gotten me into this time?”
Madame Lefoux explained. “I am sorry, Gustave. We should have told you sooner. The London vampires want Alexia dead, and they appear to have passed the desire on to the Parisian hives.”
“Well, fancy that. How jolly.” The clockmaker did not seem upset, behaving more like a man on the brink of some grand lark.
The vampires pressed closer.
“Now, see here, couldn’t we discuss this like civilized beings?” Alexia, ever one for form and courtesy, was in favor of negotiations whenever possible.
None of the vampires responded to her request.
Madame Lefoux tried the same question in French.
Still nothing.
Alexia thought this dreadfully boorish. The least they could do was answer with a “No, killing is all we are interested in at the moment, but thank you kindly for the offer all the same.” Alexia had, in part, compensated for a lack of soul through the liberal application of manners. This was rather like donning an outfit consisting entirely of accessories, but Alexia maintained that proper conduct was never a bad thing. These vampires were behaving most improperly.
There were plenty of tables and display cabinets in the little shop that currently stood between the vampires and Alexia’s small band of defenders. Most of the surfaces of these were covered in disassembled clocks of one style or another. It was, therefore, not unexpected that one of the vampires, probably intentionally—given the general grace and elegance of the species—knocked a pile of mechanicals to the floor.
What was unexpected was Monsieur Trouvé’s reaction to this event.
He growled in anger and threw the cuckoo clock he was holding at the vampire.
“Quoo?” questioned the clock as it flew.
Then the clockmaker began to yell. “That was a prototype atmos clock with a dual regulatory aether conductor! A groundbreaking invention and utterly irreplaceable.”
The cuckoo clock hit the vampire broadside, startling him considerably. It did minimal damage, landing with a sad little “Quooooo?”
Alexia decided it was probably a good time to start shooting. So she shot.
The poisoned dart hissed slightly as it flew, struck one of the vampires dead center to the chest, and stuck there. He looked down at it, up at Alexia with an expression of deep offense, and then crumpled limply to the floor like an overcooked noodle.
“Nicely shot, but it won’t hold him for long,” said Madame Lefoux, who should know. “Supernaturals can process the numbing agent faster than daylight folk.”
Alexia armed her parasol and shot a second dart. Another vampire collapsed, but the first was already beginning to struggle groggily to his feet.
Then the remaining two were upon them.
Madame Lefoux shot at one with a wooden dart from her wristwatch, missing his chest and hitting the meaty part of his left arm. Hah, thought Alexia. I knew it wasn’t an ordinary watch! The Frenchwoman then slashed at that same vampire with her wooden cravat pin. The vampire began to bleed from two spots, arm and cheek, and backed away warily.
“We are not interested in you, little scientist. Give us the soul-sucker and we’ll be away.”
“Now you want to engage in conversation?” Alexia was annoyed.
The last of the vampires lunged for her, clearly planning to drag her off. He had one hand wrapped around her wrist when he realized his miscalculation.
Upon contact with her, his fangs disappeared, as did all of his extraordinary strength. His pale, smooth skin turned fleshy peach with freckles—freckles! He was no longer capable of dragging her off, yet no matter how hard Alexia pulled, she could not break his grip. He must have been a strong man before he changed. She began bashing at the no-longer-supernatural creature with her parasol, but he did not let go, even as she inflicted real injury upon him. He seemed to be recovering his powers of deduction and realized he would have to fall back on leverage for this task. So he shifte
A gunshot rattled throughout the shop, and before he could do anything further, the vampire collapsed backward, letting go of Alexia in order to clutch at his own side. Alexia glanced to her left, astounded to see the unflappable Floote pocketing a still-smoking, single-shot derringer with an ivory handle. It was undoubtedly the tiniest pistol Alexia had ever seen. From the same pocket, he pulled a second slightly bigger gun. Both were horribly antiquated, thirty years or more out of date, but still effective. The vampire Floote had shot stayed down, writhing in agony on the floor. Unless Alexia missed her guess, that bullet was made of a reinforced wood of some kind, for it seemed to continue to cause him harm. There was a good chance, Alexia realized with a sick kind of dread, that a vampire could actually die from a shot like that. She could hardly countenance it, the very idea of killing an immortal. All that knowledge, gone just like that.
Monsieur Trouvé seemed momentarily captivated. “That’s a sundowner’s weapon you have there, isn’t it, Mr. Floote?”
Floote did not respond. There was accusation inherent in the term, for “sundowner” implied official sanction from Her Majesty’s government to terminate the supernatural. No British gentleman without such authorization ought to carry such a weapon.
“Since when would you know anything about munitions, Gustave?” Madame Lefoux issued her friend an imperiously quirked brow.
“I’ve developed a keen interest in gunpowder recently. Terribly messy stuff, but awfully useful for a directed mechanical force.”
“I should say so,” said Alexia, readjusting her parasol and shooting her last dart.
“Now you’ve wasted them all,” accused Madame Lefoux, letting fly with her own, more effective wooden dart at the groggy vampire just after Alexia’s projectile struck home. It hit him in the eye. Sluggish black blood oozed out from around it. Alexia felt ill.
“Really, Genevieve, must you go for the eye? It’s so unsightly.” Monsieur Trouvé appeared to agree with Alexia’s disgust.