Gail Carriger - Heartless

The first set of clavigers returned at that point, dragging a netted wolf with the aid of a penny-farthing wagon. It took four of them to get him up the steps and into the castle, even with the silver net burning him into submission. It wasn’t Biffy, but it looked to be one of the other youngsters, Rafe.

Alexia’s attention was refocused into moaning as her pains became, if possible, worse. She looked for Rumpet, but he was busy supervising the unloading, seeing to it that the young wolf was dragged down into the dungeon and locked away. Alexia spared a moment to hope that all the vampires had gone into one of the cells together, or things were about to get very complicated, indeed.

“Conall!” she yelled through the pain, even knowing he was in wolf form and that he would be the hardest to catch and the last to return home. “Where is he?” She was irrationally convinced that he should be with her right that very moment.

At which juncture, a wide, cool cloth was placed across her brow and a soft reliable voice said exactly the right thing. “Here, madam, drink this.”

A cup was pressed against her lips and Alexia sipped. Strong, milky, and restorative, exactly how she liked it best. Tea.

She opened her eyes, previously screwed closed in anguish, to see the fine lined face of an elderly gentleman, nondescript and familiar. “Floote.”

“Good evening, madam.”

“Where did you come from?”

Floote gestured behind him where the dirigible was still visible through the open front door. Tizzy and Boots hovered in the doorway, looking at Alexia in horror and with an air that suggested they would rather be anywhere else but there.

“I caught a lift, madam.”

“Eep!” squeaked Tizzy as he was pushed aside by another group of clavigers dragging another netted wolf home. Hemming, thought Alexia. Had to be. Only Hemming whined like that. They muscled their captive through the hallway and toward the dungeon stairs without need of an order from the panting and writhing Lady Maccon.

The previous group came back up, passing them on the stairs.

“Back out,” ordered their Alpha female, “and concentrate on finding Biffy. The others can take the sun.”

“I thought werewolves could withstand sunlight?” asked Boots.

Alexia moaned long and low before answering. “Yes. But not when still learning control.”

“What’ll happen to him if he doesn’t make it in?”

Rumpet reappeared at that juncture. “Ah, Mr. Floote.” He acknowledged his butler peer with a slight bow.

“Mr. Rumpet,” replied Floote. And then, turning his attention back to Lady Maccon, “Now, madam, do concentrate and try to inhale deeply. Breathe through the pain.”

Alexia glared at her butler. “Easy for you to say. Have you ever done this?”

“Certainly not, madam.”

“Rumpet, did all the vampires get sorted?”

“Mostly, my lady.”

“What do you mean, mostly ?”

The conversation paused at that while everyone waited courteously for Lady Maccon to let out another part scream part howl of anger as the agony rippled through her body. They all pretended not to notice her thrashing. It was very polite of them.

“Well, a few of the vampires spread themselves about. So we’ll have to put some of ours in with them.”

“What’s the world coming to? Vampires and werewolves sleeping together,” quipped Alexia sarcastically.

One of the clavigers, a cheerful, freckled blighter who had performed Scottish ballads for the queen herself on more than one occasion, said, “It’s quite sweet, really. They’ve snuggled up with each other.”

“Snuggled? The wolf should be tearing the vampire apart.”

“Not anymore, my lady. Look.”

Alexia looked. The sun was up, its first rays cresting the horizon. It was going to be a bright, clear summer day. It was all too much, even for the most sensible preternatural. Lady Maccon panicked. “Biffy! Biffy’s not yet inside! Quickly!” She gestured the clavigers. “Get me up. Get me out there. Get me to him! He could die!” Alexia was starting to cry, both from the pain and from the thought of poor young Biffy lying out there, burning alive.

“But, my lady, you’re about to, well, uh, give birth!” objected Rumpet.

“Oh, that’s not important. That can wait.” Alexia turned. “Floote! Do something.”

Floote nodded. He pointed to one of the clavigers. “You, do as she asks. Boots, you take the other side.” He looked down at his mistress. Of course, Alessandro Tarabotti’s daughter would be difficult. “Madam, whatever you do, don’t push!”

“Bring blankets,” yelled Lady Maccon at the remaining clavigers and Rumpet. “Rip those curtains down if you must. Most of the pack is out there naked! Oh, this is all so embarrassing.”

Boots and the freckled claviger formed a kind of litter by linking their crossed arms and hoisted Lady Maccon up. She threw an arm around each, and the two young men part ran and part stumbled their way back out the door and down the seemingly endless hillside toward the carnage below.

The octomaton was down, the result of too many of its tentacles torn off during battle. As she neared, Alexia could see the now-naked bodies of the pack lying fallen—bloodied, bruised, and burned. Scattered among them were the severed tentacles of the octomaton plus some of its guts: bolts, pulleys, and engine parts. Here and there, a claviger or BUR member who hadn’t moved fast enough was limping or clutching at a wounded limb, but thankfully none of them seemed seriously injured. The werewolves, on the other hand, lay floppy and nonsensical, like so much fried fish. Most of them looked like they were simply sound asleep, the standard reaction to full-moon bone-benders. But none were healing under the direct rays of the sun. Even immortality had its limits.

Clavigers were running around covering the ones they could with blankets and pulling others back toward the house.

“Where’s Biffy?” Alexia couldn’t see him anywhere.

Then she realized there was someone else she couldn’t see, and her voice rose in terror to a near shriek. “Where’s Conall? Oh no, oh no, oh no.” Alexia’s commanding tone turned into a chant of keening distress only offset by the need to scream as another contraction hit her. She loved Biffy dearly, but all her worry was now transferred to an even more important love—her husband. Was he injured? Dead?

The two young men carried her, tripping and faltering, in and around the wreckage until, near the great metal bowler hat that was the fallen head of the octomaton, an oasis of calm awaited them.

Professor Lyall, wearing an orange velvet curtain wrapped about him like a toga and still looking remarkably dignified, was marshaling the troops and issuing orders.

Upon seeing the amazing vision of his Alpha female, carried by two young men, in clear distress—both the lady and the young men—wending toward him, he said, “Lady Maccon?”

“Professor. Where is my husband? Where is Biffy?”

“Oh, of course, preternatural touch. Very good idea.”

“Professor!”

“Lady Maccon, are you all right?” Professor Lyall moved closer, inspecting her closely. “Have you started ?” He looked at Boots, who raised both eyebrows expressively.

“Where is Conall?” Alexia practically shrieked.

“He’s fine, my lady. Perfectly fine. He took Biffy inside, out of the sun.”

“Inside?”

“Inside the octomaton. With Madame Lefoux. Once she realized, she opened the hatch and let them in.”

Lady Maccon swallowed down her fear, almost sick with relief. “Show me.”

Professor Lyall led them to the octomaton’s head, around one side, and then rat-tat-tatted on it diffidently. A door, previously invisible it was so seamlessly integrated into the octomaton’s armor plating, popped open and Genevieve Lefoux looked out.