Changeless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Second (32 page)

Lady Kingair shrugged. “No one has tried in hundreds of years. ’Tis one of the ways packs beat out hives. At least we dinna
need females to sustain ourselves.”

“Yes, but vampires still manage to survive longer—less fighting. Even if you do survive the bite, you’re setting yourself
up to Alpha for the rest of your life.”

“Hang the danger!” Sidheag Maccon practically yelled. Alexia thought the woman had never looked more like Conall. Her eyes
also turned toward yellow when she was overset with extreme emotion.

“And you want Conall to do this for you? Risk killing off the last of his living relatives?”

“For me, for the pack. I’m na having any bairns at my age. He willna be able to continue the Maccon line through me. He’s
needing to move on from that. He owes Kingair some kind of salvation.”

“You’ll likely die.” Lady Maccon poured herself another spot of tea. “You have held this pack together as a human.”

“And what happens after I die of old age? Better to take the risk now.”

Alexia was silent. Finally she said, “Oddly enough, I agree with your assessment.”

Lady Kingair stopped drinking her tea and simply clutched the saucer for a long moment, fingertips white with tension. “Would
you
talk to him for me?”

“You want me to involve myself in Kingair’s problems? Is that wise? Couldn’t you simply go to another pack’s Alpha for the
bite?”

“Never!” There went that stiff werewolf pride, or was it Scottish pride? Difficult to tell the difference sometimes.

Alexia sighed. “I will discuss it with him, but it is a moot point: Conall cannot bite you or anyone else to change, as he
cannot take Anubis Form. Until we find out why this pack is changeless, nothing else can happen. No Alpha challenge, no metamorphosis.”

Lady Kingair nodded, relaxing her grip enough to sip at her tea once more.

Alexia noted that the woman did not crook her finger properly. What kind of finishing school had she been sent to, where they
did not teach the basics of teacup holding? She cocked her head. “Is this humanization plague some kind of foolish self-flagellation?
Do you want to take the rest of the pack with you into mortality because my husband will not bite you to metamorphosis?”

Lady Kingair’s tawny eyes, so much like Conall’s, narrowed at that. “It isna my fault,” she practically yelled. “Dinna you
understand?
We
canna tell you because we
dinna ken
why this has happened to us. I dinna know. None of us know. We dinna ken what’s doing it!”

“So can I count on your support to figure it out?” Alexia asked.

“What’s it to you, Lady Maccon?”

Alexia backpedaled hurriedly. “I encourage my husband’s BUR concerns. It keeps him out of household affairs. And I am interested
in these things, as a new Alpha of my own pack. If you have some kind of dangerous disease, I should very much like to understand
it fully and prevent it from spreading.”

“If he agrees to try for my metamorphosis, I’ll agree to help.”

Knowing she couldn’t make any such promise on her husband’s behalf, Lady Maccon nevertheless said, “Done! Now, shall we finish
our tea?”

They finished drinking in companionable discussion of the Women’s Social and Political Union, whose stance both ladies supported
but whose tactics and working-class routes neither was inclined to ally with publicly. Lady Maccon refrained from commenting
that, from her more intimate knowledge of Queen Victoria’s character, she could practically guarantee that lady’s continued
low opinion of the movement. She could not make such a statement, however, without revealing her own political position. Even
an earl’s wife would not be on such intimate terms with the queen, and she did not wish Lady Kingair to know that she was
muhjah. Not yet.

Their pleasant conversation was interrupted by a knock at the parlor door.

At Lady Kingair’s call, Tunstell’s copious freckles came wandering in, attached to a somber-looking Tunstell.

“Lord Maccon sent me to sit with the patient, Lady Maccon.”

Alexia nodded her understanding. Worried and unsure of whom to trust, Lord Maccon was placing Tunstell as a surety against
further attacks on Madame Lefoux’s person. Essentially, her husband was utilizing Tunstell’s claviger training. Tunstell may
look like a git of the first water, but he could handle werewolves in full-moon thrall. Of course, that meant both Ivy and
Felicity were soon likely to take up residence in the sickroom as well. Poor Tunstell. Miss Hisselpenny was still convinced
she did not want him, but she was equally convinced she must protect him from Felicity’s wickedness. Lady Maccon felt that
the presence of both women would provide a better defense than anything else. It was hard to get up to serious shenanigans
under the enthusiastic interest of two perennially bored, unmarried ladies.

Eventually, however, it became necessary for everyone but Tunstell to leave the still-unconscious Frenchwoman and dress for
dinner.

Upon attaining her chamber, Lady Maccon received her second major shock of the day. It was a good thing she was a woman of
stalwart character. Someone had upended her room. Again. Probably looking for the dispatch case. Shoes and slippers were everywhere,
and the bed had been torn apart; even the mattress was slashed open. Feathers coated flat surfaces like so much snow. Hatboxes
lay broken, hats disemboweled, and the contents of Alexia’s wardrobe lay strewn across the floor (a condition familiar to
only the nightgowns).

Alexia propped her parasol safely to one side and took stock of the situation. The chaos was greater than it had been on board
the dirigible, and the crisis was compounded shortly thereafter when Lord Maccon discovered the carnage.

“This is a gross outrage! First we are shot at, and now our rooms are ransacked,” he roared.

“Does this kind of thing always happen around a pack without an Alpha?” wondered his wife, nosing about, trying to determine
if anything significant was missing.

The earl grunted at her. “A terrible bother, leaderless packs.”

“And messy.” Lady Maccon picked her way delicately about the room. “I wonder if this was the information Madame Lefoux had
to impart before she was shot. She said something about trying to find me regarding the aethographor. Perhaps she disturbed
the culprits in action when she came looking for me here.” Alexia began to form three piles: things beyond salvation, items
for Angelique to repair, and the undamaged.

“But why would someone shoot at her?”

“Perhaps she saw their faces?”

The earl pursed his well-formed lips. “It is possible. Come here, woman; stop your fussing. The dinner bell is about to go,
and I’m hungry. We shall tidy later.”

“Bossy britches,” said his wife, but she did as she was bid. It wouldn’t do to get into an argument with him on an empty stomach.

He helped her unbutton her dress, so well distracted by the day’s proceedings that he only fluttered kisses down her spine
and did not even nibble. “What do you believe they were looking for? Your dispatch case again?”

“Difficult to know. Could be someone else, I suppose. I mean, not the same miscreant as when I was floating.” Alexia was confused.
Initially, on board the dirigible, she had suspected Madame Lefoux, but that lady had been asleep and in company all day long.
Unless the inventor managed it before she was shot at, this chaos must be attributed to someone else. A different spy with
a different motive? Things certainly were getting complicated.

“What else might they be looking for? Did you bring something I should know about, husband?”

Lord Maccon said nothing, but when Alexia turned about and gave him the wifely eye of suspicion, he looked like a guilty sheepdog.
He left off unbuttoning and went to the window. Throwing aside the shutters, he stuck his head far out, reached around, retrieved
something, and returned to her side with a look of relief, carrying a small package wrapped in oiled leather.

“Conall,” said his wife, “
what
is that?”

He unwrapped and showed her: a strange chubby little revolver with a square grip. He clicked open the chamber to display its
armament: hardwood bullets inlaid with silver in a cagelike pattern and capped to take the powder explosion. Alexia wasn’t
big on guns, but she knew enough about the mechanics to realize this little creature was expensive to make, used only the
most modern technology, and was capable of taking down either a vampire or a werewolf.

“A Galand Tue Tue. This is the Sundowner model,” he explained.

Lady Maccon took her husband’s face in her hands. His skin was rough with a day’s growth of beard; she would have to remind
him to shave, now that he was human all the time. “Husband, you are not here to kill someone, are you? I should hate to find
out that you and I were working at cross purposes.”

“Simply a precautionary measure, my love, I assure you.”

She was not convinced. Her fingers tightened about his jaw. “When did you start carrying the deadliest supernatural weapon
known to the British Empire as a
precaution
?”

“Professor Lyall had Tunstell bring it for me. He guessed I’d be mortal while I was here and thought I might want the added
security.”

Alexia let go of his face and watched as he wrapped the deadly little device back up and returned it to its hidey-hole just
outside the window.

“How easy is that to use?” she asked, all innocence.

“Dinna even consider it, wife. You’ve got that parasol of yours.”

She pouted. “You are no fun as a mortal.”

“So,” he said, deliberately changing the subject, “where did you hide your dispatch case, then?”

She grinned, pleased that he would not think her so feeble as to have kept it where it could be stolen. “In the least likely
place, of course.”

“Of course. And are you going to tell me where?”

She widened her large brown eyes at him, batting her eyelashes and attempting to look innocent.

“What is in it that someone might want?”

“That’s the odd thing. I really have no idea. I took the smallest things out and stashed them in my parasol. So far as I can
tell, there is nothing too valuable left: the royal seal; my notes and paperwork on this latest issue with the humanization
plague, minus my personal journal, which got pinched; the codes to various aethographors; a stash of emergency tea; and a
small bag of gingersnaps.”

Her husband gave her his version of the
look.

Lady Maccon defended herself. “You would not believe how long those Shadow Council meetings are prone to running, and being
as the dewan and the potentate are supernatural, they don’t seem to notice when it’s teatime.”

“Well I hardly think anyone is ransacking our rooms in a desperate bid to acquire gingersnaps.”

“They are very
good
gingersnaps.”

“I suppose it could be something other than the dispatch case?”

Lady Maccon shrugged. “This is useless speculation for the time being. Here, help me on with this. Where is Angelique?”

In the absence of the maid, Lord Maccon buttoned his wife up into her dinner dress. It was a gray and cream affair with a
multitude of pleated gathers all up the front and a long, rather demure ruffle at the hem. Alexia liked the gown, except that
it had a cravatlike bow at the neck, and she wasn’t entirely behind this latest fashion for incorporating masculine elements
into women’s garb. Then again, there was Madame Lefoux.

Which reminded her that, since Tunstell was on French-inventor guard detail, she would have to help her husband dress. It
was a mild disaster: his cravat came out lopsided and his collar limp. Alexia was resigned. She had, after all, been a spinster
most of her life, and cravat-tying was not a proficiency generally acquired by spinsters.

“Husband,” she said as they finished their preparations and headed downstairs for dinner, “have you considered biting your
many-times great-granddaughter to change?”

Lord Maccon stopped abruptly at the head of the staircase and growled, “How on God’s green earth did that bloody woman persuade
you
to
her
cause?”

Alexia sighed. “It makes sense, and it is an elegant solution to Kingair’s current problems. She is already acting like an
Alpha; why not make it official?”

“It isna as simple as that, wife, and you verra well know it. And her chances of survival—”

“Are very slim. Yes, I am well aware of that.”

“Not simply slim—they are beyond salvation. You are essentially suggesting that I kill the last living Maccon.”

“But if she survived…”

“If.”

Lady Maccon tilted her head. “Isn’t it her risk to take?”

He remained silent and continued on down the massive staircase.

“You should think about it, Conall, as BUR, if nothing else. It is the most logical course of action.”

He kept on walking. There was something about the set of his shoulders.

“Wait a moment.” She was suddenly suspicious. “That was the reason you came back here all along, wasn’t it? The family problem.
You intend to fix the Kingair Pack? Despite the betrayal.”

He shrugged.

“You wanted to see how Sidheag was handling things. Well?”

“There’s this changeless issue,” he prevaricated.

Alexia grinned. “Yes, well, apart from that. You must agree I have a point.”

He turned to frown up at her. “I hate it when you come over all correct.”

Alexia trotted down the staircase until they were nose to nose. She had to stand one step up from him for it to be so. She
kissed him softly. “I know. But I am so very good at it.”