Gail Carriger - Heartless

They lifted her up. The queen and Dr. Caedes, carrying Quesnel, leaped out of the top of the torn and burned carriage, jack-in-the-box-like, and took off toward Woolsey, jumping the felled tree. The countess looked particularly odd performing this maneuver with her flowered receiving gown and dumpy figure. Lady Maccon’s vampire litter bearers followed. Alexia could do nothing more than grip the sides of the board, desperate not to tumble off. The leap over the fallen tree was pure torture, and she was convinced she would fall when they bumped down, but she managed to hold on.

The wolves were providing enough of a distraction so that Madame Lefoux in the octomaton did not at first see them break for the castle. By the time she did, sending flames blasting after them, they were well out of range.

There was no need to bang on Woolsey’s main door; it was wide open, with many of the clavigers and household staff assembled on the front stoop, mouths agape. They had binoculars or glassicals pressed to their faces and were riveted by the battle below. At Lady Maccon’s imperious wave, they made a corridor for the vampires to run through, right up to the entrance, at which point everyone stopped abruptly. They waited with a ritual solemnity uncalled for in such dire circumstances.

“What is it now? ” Alexia was annoyed beyond all reason. She was carried right to the door, like a dressed pig on a dinner platter. Any moment now, she thought in a flight of fantasy, Cook will appear with an apple to stuff into my mouth.

Lord Ambrose rested the bottom of the board down and the duke tilted it up so that Lady Maccon had merely to slide gently to her feet, finding herself standing.

A quick gesture had her supported on both sides by two of Woolsey’s largest clavigers. Thus she managed to hobble inside the entrance of her home.

Still the vampires waited on the front stoop, like some bizarre parody of orphaned puppies—soulful eyed, pathetically scruffy, deadly fanged, immortal orphaned puppies.

Lady Maccon turned ponderously. “Well?”

“Invite us in to stay, Alexia Maccon, Lady of Woolsey, mistress of this domicile.” The countess’s words were singsong and hymnlike. She clutched a wide-eyed, blubbering Quesnel tightly to her breast—no trace of the scamp left, just terrified boy.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, come in, come in.” Alexia frowned, trying to think. They had a goodly number of rooms, but where would it be best to put a whole hive of vampires? She pursed her lips. “Best to get you lot down to the dungeon. It’s the only place I can guarantee that there are absolutely no windows, and the sun is about to rise.”

Rumpet came forward. “Lady Maccon, what have you done?”

The vampires traipsed solemnly into the house. Alexia pointed out the appropriate staircase and they filed wordlessly down.

“You have invited in a queen?” The butler, normally quite a florid man, was ashen.

“I have.”

The Duke of Hematol gave her a tired smile as he passed, showing fang, acknowledging the butler’s fear as his due. “We can never go back now, you realize, Lady Maccon? Once a queen swarms and relocates, it is forever.”

Lady Maccon finally understood Lord Akeldama’s smile and why he refused to invite the hive in for tea. Alexia had managed to get his greatest rival out of London, for good. Not only was he potentate, and in charge of his own ring of very specially trained young men, but also he would now be the sole leader of fashion left in central London.

And Lady Maccon was stuck with vampires in her basement. “Curses, I have been rather neatly played.”

Another contraction hit her, and she had no more thought for her present domestic predicament. She suspected this was somewhat akin to the pain her husband felt upon changing shape.

Rumpet put out a hand to steady her. “My lady?”

“Rumpet, there is an octomaton on our doorstep.”

“So I noticed, my lady. And half of BUR has just arrived as well.”

Alexia looked. It was true. Several of BUR’s human members, on the octomaton’s trail out of London, had finally caught up. She thought she could see Haverbink’s tall, strapping form. “Oh, God. The pack will turn on them, they’re food.” And even as she watched, one of the werewolves left off fighting Madame Lefoux’s creature and charged one of the BUR agents. “We must protect them. Get the pack members back inside!”

“Indeed, madam.”

“Call up the clavigers. Tell them to bring the necessary equipment and open the silver cabinet.”

“Immediately, madam.” The butler moved toward a nested triangular alcove formed by the staircase. Next to the large cowbell that he rang at mealtimes there dangled a silver chain. At the end of that chain was a silver key. Next to it was a special glass box containing a large horn. Rumpet broke the glass with one swift punch of his gloved hand. He placed the horn to his lips and blew.

Not the most dignified of sounds emanated forth, a kind of farting noise. But it rattled through the castle in a way that suggested the sound had been manufactured specifically to permeate rock. The clavigers instantly assembled around Rumpet in the hallway. Pack policy dictated that every pack member have at least two clavigers. Lord Maccon had six these days, and there were a few extras loitering about as well.

Rumpet used the key to open the silver cabinet, an old mahogany monstrosity that gave no clue as to its true contents. Inside, instead of the usual household valuables—candlesticks, baby spoons, and the like—was the claviger kit. Displayed in neat rows and on special hooks were silver manacles, enough pairs for every member of the pack; silver knives; a few precious bottles of lapis lunearis; and, most importantly, the fishing nets. These were spun of silver cord, weighted at the corners, and used to capture and weaken a wolf without damage. Dangling from little hooks in each door were fifty fine silver chains with fifty fine silver whistles.

The clavigers, grim-faced, armed themselves and took up the nets. Each put a whistle over his head. They were so high-pitched that no human ear could possibly make out the sound, but wolves and dogs were violently affected by the noise.

Alexia thought of something. “Try to bring in Biffy first. Remember he’s still susceptible to pup-stage sun damage. Take care—he’ll be the most vicious. Oh, my goodness, what will I say if he accidentally eats somebody?”

Six of the biggest and best clavigers ran to the stables, and Alexia heard the roaring sound of the steam-powered penny-farthing wagons starting. Two clavigers per wagon—one to steer and one to cast the net—they roared out and down the hillside, steam trailing in a white cloud behind them. The other clavigers ran after.

Lady Maccon witnessed very little of the battle after that. She leaned against Rumpet and tried to watch, but contractions kept distracting her, and the fighting below was nothing more to her unfocused mind than a puddinglike mass of clavigers, wolves, and steam from penny-farthings and an octomaton. Occasionally, a spurt of fire jetted into the air or a glittering waterfall of silver net was cast upward.

Eventually she gave up. “Rumpet, help me to the bottom of the stair.” The butler did so, and Alexia sank gratefully down onto the steps of the grand staircase. “Now, please go down and ensure that the vampires are locked in. The last thing we need is them on the loose.”

“At once, my lady.”

Rumpet disappeared and returned later, grim-faced.

“That bad?”

“They are complaining about the accommodations and demanding feather pillows, my lady.”

“Of course they are.” Alexia doubled over in pain as another contraction ripped through her. Dimly, she saw Lord Akeldama’s dirigible float in to a graceful landing in the front courtyard of Woolsey. Boots and the airship company leaped agilely out of the basket and lashed the craft to a hitching post.