Alexia averted her eyes and kept her hand to the back of his head, her fingers buried in his thick chocolate brown hair, while the clavigers stripped him and clapped silver manacles about his elegant wrists. Conscious of his fading dignity, she kept a stream of irreverent chatter mostly concerning matters fashionable and decorative.
“We are ready, my lady,” said one of the clavigers, arms full of clothing, as he exited the prison cell. The other stood outside the silver-plated bars, ready to slam the door as soon as Lady Maccon came through.
“I am sorry,” was all Alexia could think to say to the young man.
Biffy shook his head. “Oh, no, my lady, you have given me unexpected peace.”
They stretched apart, fingertips just touching.
“Now,” said Lady Maccon, and she broke contact, moving as fast as she could in her condition through the door and into the viewing hall.
Biffy, mindful of any damage he might do before she could touch him again, threw himself away in that same instant, using all his regained supernatural strength and speed, before the change descended upon him.
Alexia found the werewolf transformation an intellectually fascinating occurrence and enjoyed watching it, as one might enjoy dissecting a frog, but not in the younger werewolves. Her husband, Professor Lyall, and even Major Channing could manage shifting form with very little indication as to the pain accompanying the experience. Biffy could not. The moment they broke contact, he began to scream. Lady Maccon had learned over the past several months that there is no worse noise in the universe than a proud, kind young man suffering. His scream evolved into a howl as bones and organs broke and re-formed.
Swallowing down bile and wishing she had wax to stopper her ears, Alexia firmly took the arm of one of the clavigers and ushered him toward the stairs and up into the comforting hullabaloo of the pack, leaving the other to stand solitary vigil over a broken man.
“You really want that?” she asked her escort.
The claviger did not try to hedge. Everyone knew Lady Maccon to be direct in her conversation and intolerant of shilly-shallying. “Immortality, my lady, is nothing to treat lightly, no matter the package or the price.”
“But at such a cost as that?”
“I would be choosing it, my lady. He did not.”
“And you wouldn’t prefer trying for vampire instead?”
“To suck blood for survival and never see the sun again? No, thank you, my lady. I’ll take my chances with the pain and the curse, should I be so lucky as to have the choice.”
“Brave lad.” She patted his arm as they attained the top of the stair.
The hubbub resulting from the sudden arrival of Alphas in their midst had settled down into the pleasant boisterous hum of pack in full play. There was some discussion of going hunting, others thought a game of dice was in order, and a few were advocating a light wrestling match. “Outside,” grumbled Lady Maccon mildly upon hearing that.
At first, Alexia had thought she would never acclimatize to living with over a dozen grown men—she, who had been reared with only sisters. But she rather enjoyed it. At least with men, one always knew where they were located, great yelling, galumphing creatures that they were.
She flagged down Rumpet, the pack butler. “Tea in the library when you have a moment, please, Rumpet? I have some research to undertake. And, would you be so kind as to ask my husband to attend me when he has the time? No hurry.”
“Right away, my lady.”
The library was Alexia’s favorite room and personal sanctuary. However, this evening she intended to use it for its actual purpose—research. She headed toward the far corner, where behind a massive armchair she had carved out some space on the shelves for her father’s collection. He had favored tiny leather-covered journals of the type used by schoolboys to keep accounts—navy blue with plain covers dated in the upper left corner.
From what his daughter had gleaned, Alessandro Tarabotti had not been a very nice person. Practical, as all preternaturals are, but without the ethical grounding Alexia had managed to cultivate. Perhaps this was because he was male, or perhaps it was the result of a childhood spent in the wilds of Italy far from the progressive posturing of England. His journals began the autumn of his sixteenth year, during his first term at Oxford, and ended shortly after his marriage to Alexia’s mother. They were sporadic at best, constant for weeks and then absent of a single word for months or years. They were mainly concerned with sexual exploits, violent encounters, and long descriptions of new jackets and top hats. Nevertheless, Alexia turned toward them hopefully, hunting out any possible mention of an assassination attempt. Sadly, the journals stopped some ten years before the Kingair plot. She allowed herself only a brief time to get lost in her father’s tidy handwriting—amazed, as always, to note how similar that writing was to her own—before pulling herself back and turning her attention to other books. She whiled away the rest of the night thus occupied. Her reverie was disturbed only by Rumpet bringing in an endless supply of fresh tea and, at one point, by Channing, of all people.
“Why, Lady Maccon,” he said, unconvincingly. “I was simply looking for—”
“A book?”
Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings and Lady Alexia Maccon had gotten off on the wrong foot and never managed to stabilize their relationship—despite the fact that he had, on more than one occasion, saved her life. As far as Alexia was concerned, Major Channing was uncomfortably good-looking—a strapping blond with icy-blue eyes, marked cheekbones, and imperiously arched brows. He was a true soldier to the bone, which might not have been so bad a thing had not his nobility of profession been augmented by an arrogance of manner and toothiness of accent so extreme only the bluest of the blue-blooded individuals ought to foist such upon others. As to Channing’s opinion of his mistress, the less said on the subject the better, and even he was wise enough to understand that.