Blameless

Madame Lefoux helped her up and out of the way just as Floote let go of a strap and landed graceful y, stopping his own forward momentum by bending one knee, managing to make his dismount look like a bow. Show-off.

They heard shouts behind them from the oncoming drones.

It was getting dark but they could stil make out a track heading farther up the mountain toward what they could only hope was a customhouse and the Italian border.

They took off running again.

Alexia figured she might be getting enough exercise to last a lifetime in the space of one afternoon. She was actual y sweating—so very improper.

Something whizzed by her shoulder. The drones were firing their guns once more.

Their aim was, of course, affected detrimental y by their pace and the rough terrain, but they were gaining ground.

Up ahead, Alexia could make out a square structure among the dark trees to one side of the road—a shed, real y—but there was a large sign on the other side of the road that appeared to have something threatening written on it in Italian. There was no other gate or barrier, nothing on the track to mark that they were about to go from one country to another, just a little mounded hil ock of dirt.

So it was that they crossed the border into Italy.

The drones were stil fol owing them.

“Wonderful. Now what do we do?” panted Alexia. Somehow she had thought once they entered Italy, everything would change.

“Keep running,” advised Madame Lefoux unhelpful y.

As if in answer to her question, the deserted pass, now heading down the other side of the mountain, suddenly was not quite so deserted after al .

Out of the shadows of the trees to either side materialized a whole host of men.

Alexia only had time to register the utter absurdity of their dress before she, Madame Lefoux, and Floote found themselves surrounded. A single, rapidly lyrical utterance revealed that these were, in fact, Italians.

Each man wore what appeared to be entirely pedestrian country dress—bowler, jacket, and knickerbockers—but over this, each had also donned what looked like female sleeping attire with a massive red cross embroidered across the front. It greatly resembled an expensive silk nightgown Conal had purchased for Alexia shortly after their marriage. The comedic effect of this outfit was moderated by the fact that each man also wore a belt that housed a large sword with medieval inclinations and carried a chubby revolver. Alexia had seen that type of gun before—a Galand Tue Tue—probably the sundowner model. It is a strange world, she ruminated, wherein one finds oneself surrounded by Italians in nightgowns carrying French guns modified by the English to kill supernaturals.

The outlandishly garbed group seemed unflustered by Alexia’s party, closing in around them in a manner that managed to be both protective and threatening. They then turned to face down the panting gaggle of drones who drew to a surprised stop just on the other side of the border.

One of the white-clad men spoke in French. “I would not cross into our territory if I were you. In Italy, drones are considered vampires by choice and are treated as such.”

“And how would you prove we are drones?” yel ed one of the young men.

“Did I say we needed proof?” Several of the swords shinked out of their sheaths.

Alexia peeked around the side of the Italian hulking in front of her. The drones, silhouetted against the rising moon, were stal ed in confusion. Final y they turned, perhaps calculating the better part of valor, shoulders hunched in disappointment, and began walking away back down the French side of the mountain.

The lead nightgowner turned inward to face the three refugees. Dismissing Madame Lefoux and Floote with a contemptuous glance, he turned his hook-nosed gaze onto Alexia. Who could see quite unsatisfactorily far up his nostrils.

Alexia spared a smal frown for Floote. He was pinch-faced and white-lipped, looking more upset by their current stationary position than he had been when they were running around under gunfire.

“What is it, Floote?” she hissed at him.

Floote shook his head slightly.

Alexia sighed and turned big bland innocent eyes on the Italians.

The leader spoke, his English impossibly perfect. “Alexia Maccon, daughter of Alessandro Tarabotti, how wonderful. We have been waiting a very long time for you to return to us.” With that, he gave a little nod and Alexia felt a prick on the side of her neck.

Return?

She heard Floote shout something, but he was yel ing from a very long way away, and then the moon and the shadowed trees al swirled together and she col apsed backward into the waiting arms of the Pope’s holiest of holy antisupernatural elite, the Knights Templars.

Professor Randolph Lyal general y kept to a nighttime schedule, but he had spent the afternoon prior to ful moon awake in order to conduct some last-minute research.

Unfortunately, Ivy Tunstel ’s revelation had served only to complicate matters. The preponderance of mysteries was beginning to aggravate. Despite a day spent tapping al his various sources and investigating every possible related document BUR might have, Lord Akeldama and his drones were stil missing, Alexia’s pregnancy remained theoretical y impossible, and Lord Conal Maccon was stil out of commission. The Alpha was, most likely, no longer drunk, but, given the impending ful moon, Professor Lyal had seen him safely back behind bars with strict instructions that this time no one was to let him out or there would be uncomfortable consequences.

He himself was so involved in his inquiries as to be quite behind schedule for his own lunar confinement. His personal clavigers—his valet and one of the footmen

—awaited him in the Woolsey vestibule wearing expressions of mild panic. They were accustomed to Woolsey’s Beta, tamest and most cultured of al the pack, arriving several hours ahead of moonrise.

“I do apologize, boys.”

“Very good, sir, but you understand we must take the proper precautions.”

Professor Lyal , who could already feel the strain of the moon even though it had not yet peeked above the horizon, held out his wrists obediently.

His valet clapped silver manacles about them with an air of embarrassment. Never during al his years of service had he had to bind Professor Lyal .

The Beta gave him a little half smile. “Not to worry, dear boy. It happens to the best of us.” Then he fol owed both young men docilely down the staircase and into the pack dungeon, where the others were already behind bars. He gave absolutely no hint of the discipline it took for him to remain calm. Simply out of obstinacy and pride, he fought the change as long as possible. Long after his two clavigers had reached through the bars and unlocked his manacles, and he had stripped himself of al his careful y tailored clothing, he continued to fight it. He did it for their sake, as they went to stand with the first shift of watchers against the far wal . Poor young things, compel ed to witness powerful men become slaves to bestial urges, forced to understand what their desire for immortality would require them to become. Lyal was never entirely certain whom he pitied more at this time of the month, them or him. It was the age-old question: who suffers more, the gentleman in the badly tied cravat or those who must look upon him?

Which was Professor Lyal ’s last thought before the pain and noise and madness of ful moon took him away.

He awoke to the sound of Lord Maccon yel ing. For Professor Lyal , this was so commonplace as to be almost restful. It had the pleasant singsong of regularity and custom about it.

“And who, might I ask, is Alpha of this bloody pack?” The roar carried even through the thick stone of the dungeon wal s.

“You, sir,” said a timid voice.

“And who is currently giving you a direct order to be released from this damned prison?”

“That would be you, sir.”

“And yet, who is stil locked away?”

“That would stil be you, sir.”

“Yet somehow you do not see my difficulty.”

“Professor Lyal said—”

“Professor Lyal , my ruddy arse!”

“Very good, sir.”

Lyal yawned and stretched. Ful moon always left a man slightly stiff, al that running about the cel and crashing into things and howling. No permanent damage, of course, but there was a certain muscle memory of deeds done and humiliating acts performed that even a ful day of sleep could not erase. It was not unlike waking after a long night of being very, very drunk.

His clavigers noticed he was awake and immediately unlocked his cel and came inside. The footman carried a nice cup of hot tea with milk and a dish of raw fish with chopped mint on top. Professor Lyal was unusual in his preference for fish, but the staff had quickly learned to accommodate this eccentricity. The mint, of course, was to help deal with recalcitrant wolf breath. He snacked while his valet dressed him: nice soft tweed trousers, sip of tea, crisp white shirt, nibble of fish, chocolate brocade waistcoat, more tea, and so on.

By the time Lyal had finished his ablutions, Lord Maccon had almost, but not quite, convinced his own clavigers to let him out. The young men were looking harassed, and had, apparently, deemed it safe to pass some clothing through to Lord Maccon, if nothing else. What the Alpha had done with said clothing only faintly resembled dressing, but at least he wasn’t striding around hol ering at them naked anymore.

Professor Lyal wandered over to his lordship’s cel , fixing the cuffs of his shirt and looking unruffled.

“Randolph,” barked the earl, “let me out this instant.”

Professor Lyal ignored him. He took the key and sent the clavigers off to see to the rest of the pack, who were al now starting to awaken.

“Do you remember, my lord, what the Woolsey Pack was like when you first came to chal enge for it?”

Lord Maccon paused in his yel ing and his pacing to look up in surprise. “Of course I do. It was not so long ago as al that.”

“Not a nice piece of work, the previous Earl of Woolsey, was he? Excel ent fighter, of course, but he had gone a little funny about the head—one too many live snacks.

‘Crackers’ some cal ed him.” Professor Lyal shook his head. He loathed talking about his previous Alpha. “An embarrassing thing for a carnivore to be compared to a biscuit, wouldn’t you say, my lord?”

“Your point, Randolph.” Lord Maccon could only be surprised out of his impatience for a brief length of time.

“You are becoming, shal we say, of the biscuit inclination, my lord.”

Lord Maccon took a deep breath and then sucked on his teeth. “Gone loopy, have I?”

“Perhaps just a little bit noodled.”

Lord Maccon looked shamefacedly down at the floor of his cel .

“It is time for you to face up to your responsibilities, my lord. Three weeks is enough time to wal ow in your own colossal mistake.”

“Pardon me?”

Professor Lyal had had more than enough of his Alpha’s nonsensical behavior, and he was a master of perfect timing. Unless he was wrong, and Professor Lyal was rarely wrong about an Alpha, Lord Maccon was ready to admit the truth. And even if Lyal was, by some stretch of the imagination, incorrect in his assessment, the earl could not be al owed to continue to be ridiculous out of mere stubbornness.

“You aren’t fooling any of us.”

Lord Maccon resisted admission of guilt even as he crumbled like the metaphorical cracker. “But I turned her out.”

“Yes, you did, and wasn’t that an idiotic thing to do?”

“Possibly.”

“Because?” Professor Lyal crossed his arms and dangled the key to his Alpha’s cel temptingly from one fingertip.

“Because there is no way she would have canoodled with another man, not my Alexia.”

“And?”

“And the child must be mine.” The earl paused. “Good gracious me, can you imagine that, becoming a father at my age?” This was fol owed by another much longer pause.

“She is never going to forgive me for this, is she?”

Professor Lyal had no mercy. “I wouldn’t. But then I have never precisely been in her situation before.”

“I should hope not, or there’s a prodigious deal regarding your personage about which I was previously unaware.”

“Now is not the time for jocularity, my lord.”

Lord Maccon sobered. “Insufferable woman. Couldn’t she have at least stayed around and argued with me more on the subject? Did she have to cut and run like that?”

“You do recal what you said to her? What you cal ed her?”

Lord Maccon’s wide, pleasant face became painful y white and drawn as he went mental y back to a certain castle in Scotland. “I’d just as soon not remember, thank you.”

“Are you going to behave yourself now?” Professor Lyal continued to wave the key.

“Stay off the formaldehyde?”

“I suppose I must. I’ve drunk it al , anyway.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">