Changeless
Page 41“Ooomph,” said his wife. “Not now.”
He nuzzled in at her neck, kissing and licking her softly just below her ear. “Just a moment,” he said. “I need a small reminder that you are here, you are whole, and you are mine.”
“Well, the first two should be patently obvious, and the last one is always in question,” replied his lady unhelpfully. But she wrapped her arms about his neck and pressed against him despite all protestations to the contrary.
He resorted, as always, to action over words and sealed his lips atop hers, stopping that wicked tongue.
Alexia, who had, until that moment, managed to remain rather pulled together and tidy, despite all of her dashing about the castle, cast herself into a willing state of hopeless disarray. There was really nothing else to do when Conall was in one of these moods but enjoy it. Her husband drove his hands into her hair, tilting her head to the correct angle for ravishment. Ah well, at least he was good at it.
Alexia sacrificed herself on the altar of wifely duty, enjoying every minute of it, of course, but still determined to pull him back and get on to the aethographor.
Her determination notwithstanding, it was several long moments before he finally raised his head.
“Right,” he said, as though he had just finished a refreshing beverage. “Shall we continue on, then?”
“What?” Alexia asked, dazed, trying to recall what they had been about before he started kissing her.
“The transmitter, remember?”
“Oh yes, right.” She swatted him out of habit. “Why did you want to go and distract me like that? I was quite in my element and everything.”
Conall laughed. “Someone has to keep you off balance; otherwise you’ll end up ruling the empire. Or at least ordering it into wretched submission.”
“Ha-ha, very funny.” She started down the hallway at a brisk trot, bustle waggling suggestively back and forth. Halfway down, she paused and looked back at him over one shoulder coquettishly. “Oh, Conall, do get a move on.”
Lord Maccon growled but lumbered after her.
She stopped again, cocking her head. “What is that preposterous noise?”
“Opera.”
“Really? I should never have guessed.”
“I believe Tunstell is serenading Miss Hisselpenny.”
“Good heavens! Poor Ivy. Ah well.” She started onward again.
“If Angelique did manage to reveal all to the hive, no possible good can come of it. We might as well tell Madame Lefoux; at least she will use the knowledge to make weapons for our side.”
Lord Maccon looked at his wife oddly. “Are there sides?”
“It would appear to be that way.”
Lord Maccon sighed, his face worn with care, if not the passage of time. Alexia realized she was gripping his hand tightly and had thus brought him back into mortal state. She let go. He probably needed to be a werewolf right now, tapping into his reserves of supernatural strength.
He grumbled. “The last thing we need is a competition over weaponry based on dead preternaturals. I shall issue standing orders that all soulless are to be cremated after death. Covertly, of course.” He looked to his wife, for once not angry, simply concerned. “They would all be after you and those of your kind dotted about the empire. Not only that, but you would also be more valuable dead if they knew that mummification worked as a preservation technique for your power.”
“Luckily,” Alexia said, “no one knows how the ancients conducted mummification. It gives us some time. And perhaps the transmission did not go through. I did manage to blast the aethographor with my magnetic disruption emitter.”
She retrieved Angelique’s metal scroll from where she had stashed it. It was not reassuring. The spy’s message was burned completely through, and the track marks from the spark readers were evident across most of it.
Lady Maccon swore an impressive blue streak. The earl gave her a look that was half disapproval, half respect.
“I take it the message was sent on successfully?”
She passed the slate over to him. It read simply, “Dead mummy is soul-sucker.” Not so many words in the end, but enough to complicate her life considerably in the future.
“Well, that has gone and torn it,” was Lady Maccon’s first cogent sentence.
“How can we be certain it went through to the other side?”
Alexia picked up a faceted crystalline valve, completely intact, from where it rested in the resonator cradle. “This must belong to the Westminster Hive.” She tucked it into her parasol, in the pocket next to the one for Lord Akeldama’s valve.
Then, with a thoughtful frown, she pulled that one out and examined it, twisting it this way and that in her gloved hand. What had Lord Akeldama’s message said when they were testing Madame Lefoux’s repairs? Something about rats? Oh no, no, it had been bats. Old-fashioned slang for the vampire community. If Lord Akeldama was monitoring the Westminster Hive, as she’d thought at the time, would he, too, have received the transmission about the mummy? Would him knowing be any worse or better?
Only one way to find out. Try sending him a message and see if he responded.
It was well past her arranged transmission time, of course, but Lord Akeldama’s was the kind of apparatus that, if it was on and directed toward the appropriate frequency, would receive whatever was sent. If he had intercepted something significant, he would be expecting Alexia to contact him.
Instructing her husband to please stay as silent as possible, with a glare that indicated real consequences should he misbehave, Alexia went to work. She was getting quite adept at running the aethographor. She etched in her message as quickly as possible. Fitting Lord Akeldama’s valve into the cradle and the slate into its holder and activating the machine to transmit was much less difficult this time. Her message consisted of two things: “?” and “Alexia.”
As soon as the transmission was complete, she went into the receiving chamber. Her husband merely continued to stand outside the aethographor, arms crossed, watching his wife’s frilly form. She scuttled about, twiddling various dials and flipping large, important-looking switches. He might approve of her bluestocking tendencies, but he would never understand them. Back at BUR, he had people to run his aethographor for him.
“Fantastic!” said Lady Maccon, grinning.
“What?” Her husband’s head looked in at the door to the receiving chamber.
“My favorite vampire, with the help of your illustrious Beta, managed to get his fangs into the Westminster Hive’s transmitter. Angelique’s last message never made it through.”
Lord Maccon frowned darkly. “Randolph was working with Lord Akeldama?”
Lady Maccon patted his arm. “Well, he is far more accepting than you about these things.”
The frown increased. “Clearly.” A pause. “Well, then, let me just…” Her husband, still holding the slate with Angelique’s message on it, twisted the dangerous thing around itself, his muscles expanding impressively, and then crushed the scroll together until all that remained was a crumpled metal ball. “We had better melt it down as well,” he said, “just to be on the safe side.” He looked to his wife. “Does anyone else know?”
“About the mummy?” She bit her lip in thought. “Lachlan and Sidheag. Possibly Lord Akeldama and Professor Lyall. And Ivy, but only in that way Ivy knows things.”
“Which is to say, not with any real cogency?”
“Exactly.”
They smiled at each other and, after Alexia shut down the machine, made their way leisurely back downstairs.
“Miss Hisselpenny has eloped.”
After the general chaos of the night before, everyone had retired to their respective beds. Those still affected by Angelique’s sleep drug were carried up by the pack. Then most of them, werewolves driven once more by antisun instincts and everyone else through pure exhaustion, slept the day away.
When Alexia came down for her first meal of the day, right about teatime, the sun had just set. It was as though her old pattern of nighttime living had miraculously transplanted itself to the Scottish Highlands.
The Kingair Pack sat about munching down fried kippers at the rate of knots, all looking brighter and bushier of tail, seeing as they now could go back to having tails. Even Lady Kingair seemed in slightly better spirits. She certainly relished delivering the news that Tunstell and Ivy had set out for Gretna Green sometime that morning, while everyone was still abed.
“What?” barked Lady Maccon, genuinely surprised. Ivy was silly, but was she really that silly?
Felicity, whom Alexia had, it must be admitted, entirely forgotten about in the chaos of the night before, looked up from her meal. “Why, yes, sister. She left you a note, with me of course.”
“Did she, by George?” Alexia snatched the scribbled missive from her sister’s pink-gloved hand.
Felicity grinned, enjoying Alexia’s discomfort. “Miss Hisselpenny was awfully distraught when she composed it. I noticed no less than ten exclamation marks.”
Felicity shrugged, biting into a pickled onion. “I was the only one keeping respectable hours?”
Alexia was instantly suspicious. “Felicity, did you encourage them in any way into this rash course of action?”
“Who, me?” Her sister blinked wide eyes at her. “I never.”
Lady Maccon was confident that if Felicity had helped, she had done so out of malice. She rubbed at her face with one hand. “Miss Hisselpenny will be ruined.”
Felicity grinned. “Yes, yes, she will. I knew no good could possibly come of their association. I never liked Mr. Tunstell. I never even thought to look in his direction.”
Lady Maccon gritted her teeth and opened Ivy’s message.
All about the dining table, fascinated eyes watched her and less fascinated jaws masticated even more kipper.
Dearest Alexia, the message read. Oh, please absolve me of this guilt I already feel squishing on my very soul! Lady Maccon huffed, trying not to laugh. My troubled heart weeps! Oh dear, Ivy was getting flowery. My bones ache with the sin that I am about to commit. Oh, why must I have bones? I have lost myself to this transplanting love. You could not possibly understand how this feels! Yet try to comprehend, dearest Alexia, I am like a delicate bloom. Marriage without love is all very well for people like you, but I should wilt and wither. I need a man possessed of a poet’s soul! I am simply not so stoic as you. I cannot stand to be apart from him one moment longer! The caboose of my love has derailed, and I must sacrifice all for the man I adore! Please do not judge me harshly! It was all for love! ~ Ivy.
Lady Maccon passed the missive to her husband. Several lines in, he began to guffaw.
His wife, eyes twinkling, said unhelpfully, “Husband, this is a serious matter. There are derailed cabooses to consider. You have lost your valet, for one, not to mention a promising claviger for the Woolsey Pack.”
Lord Maccon wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Ah Tunstell, the nitwit, he was never a very good claviger. I was having doubts about him anyhow.”
Lady Maccon took Ivy’s note back from him. “But we must feel sorry for poor Captain Featherstonehaugh.”
Lord Maccon shrugged. “Must we? He has had a lucky escape, if you ask me. Imagine having to look at those hats for the rest of one’s life.”
“Conall.” His wife slapped his arm in reprimand.
“Well,” Lord Maccon said truculently.
“You realize, husband, this puts us in an exceptionally embarrassing position? Ivy was in my charge. We shall have to inform her parents of this sad affair.”