“Of course, Madame Tarabotti. Of course.”

To be certain there was tea, of indifferent quality, but Alexia’s attention was drawn to the food on offer. There were stacks of raw vegetables—raw!—and some sort of pressed gelatinous meat with tiny nutty-looking digestive biscuits. There was nothing sweet at al . Alexia was deeply suspicious of the whole arrangement. However, upon selection of a smal mound of nibbles, she found the fare to be more than passing delicious, with the exception of the tea, which proved itself to be as indifferent in taste as it had appeared initial y.

The clockmaker nibbled delicately at some of the foodstuffs but took no libations, commenting that he believed tea would make a superior beverage served cold over ice.

Were ice, of course, to become a less expensive commodity. At which statement, Alexia utterly despaired of both him and his moral integrity.

He continued his conversation with Madame Lefoux, as though they had never been interrupted. “On the contrary, my dear Genevieve, I am interested enough in the aetheric phenomena to keep up with the current literature out of Italy. Contrary to the British and the American theories on volatile moral natures, blood derangements, and feverish humors, the Italian investigative societies now hold that souls are connected to the correct dermatological processing of ambient aether.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, how preposterous.” Alexia was not impressed. The infant-inconvenience appeared to feel equal y unimpressed by raw vegetables. Alexia stopped eating and put a hand to her stomach. Damn and blast the annoying thing. Couldn’t it leave her in peace for one meal?

Floote, previously occupied with his own comestibles, immediately moved toward her in concern.

Alexia shook her head at him.

“Ah, you are a reader of scientific literature, Madame Tarabotti?”

Alexia inclined her head.

“Wel it may seem absurd to you, but I believe their ideas have merit. Not the least of which being the fact that this particular theory has temporarily halted Templar-sanctioned vivisections of supernatural test subjects.”

“You are a progressive?” Alexia was surprised.

“I try to stay out of politics. However, England seems to be doing rather well having openly accepted the supernatural. That is not to say I approve. Making them hide, however, has its disadvantages. I should love to have access to some of the vampires’

scientific investigations for one; the things they know about clocks! I also do not believe the supernatural should be hunted down and treated like animals as in the Italian mode.”

The little room in which they sat turned a pretty shade of gold as the sun began to set over the Parisian rooftops.

The clockmaker paused upon noticing the change. “Wel , well , we have chatted long enough, I suspect. You must be exhausted. You wil be staying the night with me, of course?”

“If you don’t mind the imposition, cousin.”

“It’s no trouble at al . So long as you forgive the arrangements, for they wil be quite cramped. I am afraid you ladies wil have to bunk down together.”

Alexia gave Madame Lefoux an assessing look. The Frenchwoman had made her preferences, and her interest, clear. “I suspect my virtue is safe.”

Floote looked as though he would like to object.

Alexia gave him a funny look. There was no possible way her father’s ex-valet could be a prude in matters of the flesh. Was there? Floote had terribly rigid ideas about sensible dress and public behavior, but he had never batted a single eye at the entirely untoward private doings of Woolsey Castle’s rambunctious werewolf pack. On the other hand, he had never particularly liked Lord Akeldama, either. Alexia twitched a smal frown in his direction.

Floote gave her a blank stare.

Perhaps he stil mistrusted Madame Lefoux for some other reason?

Since puzzling over the matter would certainly yield no results, and talking to Floote

—or, more precisely, at Floote—never did any good, Alexia swept by him and fol owed Monsieur Trouvé up the hal way to a tiny bedroom.

Alexia had changed into a claret-colored taffeta visiting dress and was just enjoying a little nap before supper when the most amazing racket awakened her. It seemed to be emanating from the downstairs clock shop.

“Oh, for the love of treacle, what now?”

Grabbing her parasol in one hand and her dispatch case in the other, she charged out into the hal way. It was very dark, as the lights in the apartment were not yet lit. A warm glow emanated up from the shop below.

Alexia bumped into Floote at the top of the stairs.

“Madame Lefoux and Monsieur Trouvé have been consulting on matters clock-related while you rested,” he informed her softly.

“That cannot possibly account for such a hul abaloo.”

Something crashed into the front door. Unlike London, the Paris shops did not stay open late in order to cater to werewolves and vampires. They shut down before sunset, locked firmly against any possible supernatural clientele.

Alexia and Floote bounded down the stairs—as much as a dignified butler-type personage and a pregnant woman of substance can be said to bound. There Alexia thought Paris’s closed-door policy might well have its merits. For just as she entered the clock shop, four large vampires did the same by way of the now-broken front door. Their fangs were extended, and they did not look in favor of formal introductions.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Trouble with Vampires

The trouble with vampires, thought Professor Lyal as he cleaned his glassicals with a handkerchief, was that they got hung up on the details. Vampires liked to manipulate things, but when things did not turn out as planned, they lost al capacity for refinement in the resulting chaos. The upshot was that they panicked and resorted to a course of action that never ended as elegantly as they had original y hoped.

“Where is our il ustrious Alpha?” asked Hemming, sitting down at the table and helping himself to several slices of ham and a kipper. It was dinnertime for most, but for the werewolves this was breakfast. And since gentlemen were never served at breakfast, the staff merely provided mounds of meat and let the pack and clavigers see to themselves.

“He is in the clink and has been al day, sobering up. He was so drunk last night he went wolf. The dungeon seemed like the best place to stash him.”

“Gol y.”

“Women wil do that to a soul. Best avoided, if you ask me.” Adelphus Bluebutton wandered in, fol owed shortly thereafter by Rafe and Phelan, two of the younger pack members.

Ulric, silently chomping on a chop at the other end of the table, glanced up. “No one did ask you. No one has ever been in any doubt as to your preferences.”

“Some of us are less narrow-minded than others.”

“More opportunistic, you mean to say.”

“I get bored easily.”

Everyone was grumpy—it was that time of the month.

Professor Lyal , with great deliberation, finished cleaning his glassicals and put them on. He looked around at the pack through the magnified lens. “Gentlemen, might I suggest that a discussion of preference is better suited to your club? It is certainly not the reason I have cal ed a meeting this evening.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You wil note that the clavigers have not been invited?”

Around him, al the immortal gentlemen nodded. They knew that this meant Lyal wanted to discuss a serious matter with the pack alone. Normal y, the clavigers were in on everyone’s business. Living with several dozen mostly out-of-work actors wil do that to a man’s private life—that is, make it considerably less private.

Al the werewolves seated about the large dining table tilted their heads so that their necks were exposed to the Beta.

Professor Lyal , aware that he now had their ful attention, began the meeting. “Given that our Alpha is pursuing a new and glorious career as an imbecilic twit, we must prepare for the worst. I require two of you to take leave of your military duties to help handle the extra BUR workload.”

No one questioned Professor Lyal ’s right to make changes to the status quo. At one point or another, each member of the Woolsey Pack had tested himself against Randolph Lyal . Al had discovered the damage inherent in such an undertaking. They had, as a result, settled into the realization that a good Beta was as valuable as a good Alpha, and it was best to be happy that they had both. Except, of course, that now their Alpha had gone quite decidedly off the rails. And their reputation and position as England’s premier pack was one that had to be defended constantly.

Professor Lyal continued. “Ulric and Phelan, it had best be you two. You have dealt with BUR paperwork and operational procedure before. Adelphus, you wil handle the military negotiations and make al accommodations needed to compensate for Channing’s absence.”

“Is he drunk, too?” one of the youngsters wanted to know.

“Mmm. No. Missing. I don’t suppose he told any of you where he was going?”

Silence met that question, broken only by the sound of chewing.

Lyal pressed his glassicals up the bridge of his nose and looked down through them at his cup of tea. “No? I suspected as much. Very well . Adelphus, you wil have to liaise with the regiment and persuade them to assign Channing’s majority temporarily to the nearest eligible officer. It wil probably have to be a mortal.” He looked at Adelphus, whose rank was lieutenant and who thought rather too well of his own abilities and rather too meanly of others’. In truth, he had fifty years more experience than most, but military protocol must be fol owed. “You wil continue to obey his orders as you would any supernatural superior officer. Is that clear? If there is any question of improper use of pack abilities, or excess risk due to immortal prejudice, you are to come directly to me.

No dueling, Adelphus, not even under the most trying circumstances. That goes for the rest of you as well .”

Professor Lyal took off the glassicals and issued the table of large men a cutting glare.

They al hung their heads and focused on their food.

“Too much dueling gives a pack a reputation. Any questions?”

No one had any. Professor Lyal himself held the rank of lieutenant colonel with the Coldsteam Guards, but had, in the last fifty years, rarely had cause to serve. He was beginning to regret not maintaining a more consistent presence within the regiment by letting his BUR duties supersede his military obligations. But even he, a man of considerable forethought, had not planned for a contingency wherein the regiment would be in residence and both Lord Maccon and Major Channing would, essential y, not be in residence.

He al owed the pack to continue the rest of their meal untroubled. They were nervous and a little restless. Merely through his presence alone, Lord Maccon kept them tame.

Professor Lyal could fight them each individual y, but he hadn’t the charisma to control them en masse, and if Lord Maccon continued to remain sloshed, problems might well arise from within the pack as easily as from without it. Either that, or England would run out of formaldehyde.

Just as the gentlemen were finishing their meal, a timid knock sounded against the closed door. Professor Lyal frowned; he had left orders they were not to be disturbed.

“Yes?”

The door creaked open and a very nervous-looking Rumpet entered, carrying a brass tray with a single card resting atop it.

“Begging your pardon, Professor Lyal , sir,” said the butler. “I know you said only in cases of emergency, but the clavigers don’t know what to do, and the staff is in an uproar.”

Professor Lyal took the card and read it.

Sandalius Ulf, Barrister. Messrs. Ulf, Ulf, Wrendofflip, & Ulf. Topsham, Devonshire.

Underneath that in very smal letters was one additional printed word: Loner.

The Beta flipped over the card. On the back had been scrawled, in the appropriate medium—blood—the fated phrase, Name your second.

“Oh, just wonderful.” Professor Lyal rol ed his eyes. And he had taken such prodigious care with his dress for the evening. “Bother.”

Lyal had spent a good deal of his existence as a werewolf avoiding becoming an Alpha. Not only was his temperament il -suited to the job, but he had no desire for that kind of physical responsibility, quite apart from the fact that he was unable to affect Anubis Form. Alphas had, he observed over the centuries, remarkably short life spans for immortals. His circumspect attitude toward brawling had served him in good stead.

The devil in his current situation was that despite himself, Professor Lyal was rather fond of his current Alpha and was, as yet, unwil ing to acquiesce to a regime change. Which meant that when upstart loners came to Woolsey to fight for the right to lead England’s most powerful pack because the Alpha was rumored to be incapacitated, there was only one thing poor Lyal could do—fight in Lord Maccon’s stead.

“Lieutenant Bluebutton, if you would attend me?”