Lady Maccon could make out some of the pack by their markings. There was Channing, easiest to spot because of his pure white coat; and Lyall, smaller than the rest and more nimble, almost vampirelike in his speed and dexterity; and Biffy, darkest of all the pack with his oxblood stomach fur, abandoned and utterly vicious in his movements. But Alexia’s eye was ever drawn, again and again, to the brindled coat of the largest wolf as he leaped up and savaged some portion of the octomaton, landed, and then leaped again.
To have had any real effect, the wolves should have all concentrated on one tentacle together, or all gone for the neck, but they were moonstruck. Even under the best of circumstances, only a few werewolves fully retain their capacity for human intelligence while in wolf form. Full moon was not the best of circumstances.
The octomaton was built for many things but not, apparently, for a full-pack assault. True, it was well armored and mostly metal, but Madame Lefoux had not used any silver, so it was vulnerable, especially in such numbers. But the Frenchwoman was not remaining idle. Oh, no. Madame Lefoux had those vicious tentacles in play, spraying fire and shooting wooden stakes. Alexia knew it was only a matter of time before the inventor became desperate enough to once more bring out the tentacle that shot lapis solaris.
Then Lady Maccon caught sight of a white floating blob behind the top of the octomaton, sailing the aether breezes swiftly in her direction—a small private dirigible.
Another contraction hit her hard. Alexia doubled over and slid down the side of the carriage, slumping to the ground, leaving the door vulnerable to attack. It was the first time the wave sensation had actually hurt. Curling against the involuntary movements of her own body, she looked up and over to the east.
She couldn’t help but cry out—not from the pain but from what she saw. There was a distinct pinking to the cold silvery blue of the night sky.
She had to get them all to the safety of the castle.
She looked to Lord Ambrose, now standing over her barring the door, defending his queen. “We must bring the creature down somehow, buy us enough time to get to Woolsey. The sun is rising.”
The vampire’s eyes went black with fear. The sun would stop werewolves in their tracks, turning them back to human shape. It would slow some of the younger members, making them vulnerable, and it would do permanent damage to Biffy, who lacked the necessary control. But it would kill the vampires, every last one of them, even the queen.
Alexia thought of something. “Find me a litter, my lord.”
“What, Lady Maccon?”
“Tear off the roof of the carriage or remove part of the driving box. With one vampire at either end, you could use it to carry me to Woolsey. No one would have to touch me, there would be no loss of strength. We could make a break for it.”
“Strategic retreat. Excellent notion.” He leaped atop the driver’s box.
Lady Maccon heard a loud ripping noise.
Above, she saw a bright flash of orange light emanate from the side of the dirigible and a loud clang as a massive bullet hit and tore through the mantle of the octomaton. The creature lurched at the impact but did not fall.
Lord Akeldama had sent air support. Alexia had no idea what kind of weapon the drones had, possibly a tiny cannon, or an elephant gun, or an aethero-modified blunderbuss, but she didn’t care. It fired again.
By the time the second projectile hit its mark, Lord Ambrose was back, as was the duke. They rested a wide board on the ground next to Alexia. She managed to slide and squirm her way onto it.
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.