“Biffy,” she said finally, “to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit? I was under the impression you were otherwise contained this evening.” It was a valiant attempt, but even such talk as this could not mask the awkwardness.
Lord Akeldama attempted to unwind himself from Biffy and extract himself from Alexia without the aid of supernatural strength. When this was finally accomplished, he stood, dashed to the door to reassure his drones of his undamaged state, and sent one of them to fetch clothing.
Biffy and Alexia helped each other to rise.
“Are you unharmed, my lady?”
Alexia did a quick internal check. “It would appear so. Remarkably resilient, this baby of mine. I could use a bit of a sit-down, though.”
Biffy helped her to an ottoman—one of the few pieces of furniture in the room not overturned—her hand firmly clasped in his. They sat and stared off into space, grappling with how best to handle their predicament. Lord Maccon might be a blustering instrument of rudeness, but he did have his uses in dispersing awkward silences. Alexia handed Biffy a shawl, only slightly saliva-ridden. He set it gratefully in his lap.
She tried not to look, of course she did, but Biffy did have a rather nice physique. Not nearly so splendid as her husband’s, but not everyone could be built like a steam engine, and the young dandy had kept himself well in hand before metamorphosis, for all his frivolous pursuits.
“Biffy, were you secretly a Corinthian?” Alexia wondered out loud before she could stop herself.
Biffy blushed. “No, my lady, although I did enjoy fencing rather more than some of my compatriots might consider healthy.”
Lady Maccon nodded sagely.
Lord Akeldama returned, looking not a whit put out. His brief sojourn among his drones had resulted in hair and neck cloth back to crisp and pristine order and a new pair of satin trousers. How do they do it? wondered Alexia.
“Biffy, duckling, what a surprise your visiting little old me at this time of moon.” He handed his former drone a pair of sapphire-colored britches.
Biffy blushed, pulling them on with one hand. Alexia took polite interest in the opposite side of the room. “Yes, well, I wasn’t entirely in my right faculties, my lord, when I made the decision to, uh, call. I think I simply, well, instinctively”—he glanced at Lady Maccon from under his lashes—“headed home.”
Lord Akeldama nodded. “Yes, my dove, but you have missed the mark. Your home is next door. I know it’s easy to be confused.”
“Too easy. Especially in my altered state.”
They were speaking about Biffy’s werewolfness as one would an evening’s inebriation. Alexia looked back and forth between the two of them. Lord Akeldama had taken a seat opposite his former drone, his eyes heavy-lidded, his posture informal, revealing nothing.
Biffy, too, was beginning to assume his old dapperness, as though this were actually a social call. As though he were not half naked in a vampire’s drawing room. As though he had not just tried to kill them both.
Lady Maccon had always admired Lord Akeldama’s ability to remain patently unruffled by the world about him. It was as commendable as his never-ending efforts to ensure that his own small corner of London was filled with nothing but beauty and pleasant conversation. But sometimes, and she should never say such a thing openly, it smacked of cowardice. She wondered if the immortal’s avoidance of life’s ugliness was a matter of survival or bigotry. Lord Akeldama did so love to know all the gossip about the mundane world, but it was in the manner of a cat amusing himself among the butterflies without a need to interfere should their wings get torn off. They were only butterflies, after all.
Lady Maccon felt it behooved her, just this once, to point out the wounded wingless insect before him. Soullessness may confer practicality, but it did not always confer caution. “Gentlemen, you may place my abruptness at the door of my current condition, but I am not in the mood to tolerate idiosyncrasies. Circumstances have placed us all in an untenable position. No, Biffy, I do not mean your unclothed state—I mean your werewolf one.”
Both Lord Akeldama and Biffy looked at her, mouths slightly agape.
“The time has come to move onward. Both of you. Biffy, your choices were taken from you, and that is regrettable, but you are still an immortal—and not dead—which is more than most can say.” She turned her baleful look upon the vampire. “And you, my lord, must let go. This is not some contest you have lost. This is life, or afterlife, I suppose. For goodness’ sake, stop wallowing, both of you.”
Biffy looked duly chastised.
Lord Akeldama sputtered.
Lady Maccon tilted her head in such a way as to dare him to deny the truth in her words. He was certainly old enough to know himself; whether he cared to admit such a fault out loud remained to be seen.
The two men looked at each other, their faces tight.
It was Biffy who closed his eyes a long moment and then nodded briefly.
Lord Akeldama lifted one white hand and trailed two fingers down the side of his former drone’s face. “Ah, my boy. If it must be so.”
Lady Maccon could be merciful, so she moved the conversation on. “Biffy, how did you get out of Woolsey’s dungeon?”
Biffy shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t remember much when I’m a wolf. Someone must have unbolted the cell door.”
“Yes, but why? And who?” Alexia looked suspiciously at Lord Akeldama. Was he meddling?
The vampire shook his head. “Not me or mine, I assure you, blossom.”