The Gamma came dashing in using speed only supernaturals could achieve. He immediately crouched over the fallen werewolf.
He sniffed. “Kingair Pack? The missing Beta? But what is he doing here? I thought he went missing in Egypt.”
“It appears he recently returned. Look—beard, tan, loss of flesh. He’s been mortal for some length of time. Only one thing does that to a werewolf.”
“The God-Breaker Plague.”
“Can you think of a better explanation? Except, of course, that he is back here, in the country. He should be a werewolf once more.”
“Oh, he is, or I wouldn’t be able to smell the pack in him,” answered Major Channing with confidence. “He’s not mortal, only very, very weak.”
“Then he’s not dead?”
“Not yet. We’d better get him home and the bullet out or he might well be. Take care, my lady. The assailant may still be out there. I should go first.”
“But,” said Alexia, “I have Ethel.” She withdrew the small gun from her reticule and cocked it.
Major Channing rolled his eyes.
“Onward!” Alexia trotted out of the waiting room, eyes alert for movement in the shadows, gun at the ready.
Nothing happened.
They made it to the waiting hackney easily. Major Channing offered the driver triple the fare for double the speed. They would have made it back home in record time had there not been a fire in Cheapside that caused them to double back and go around.
Once home, a single yell from Lady Maccon brought all the werewolves and clavigers running. It was getting near to dawn, so the house was full, clavigers waking up and werewolves preparing for bed. The injured Kingair Beta caused quite a hubbub. He was taken carefully inside and into the back parlor, while runners were sent to BUR to fetch Lord Maccon and Lady Kingair.
Dubh was looking worse, his breath rasped. Alexia was genuinely concerned for his survival. She sat down on the couch opposite, feeling utterly ineffectual, as she could not even pat his hand or wipe his brow.
Floote appeared at her elbow. “Trouble, madam?”
“Oh, Floote, yes. Where have you been? Do you know anything that could help?”
“Help, madam?”
“He’s been shot.”
“We should try to get the bullet out, madam, in case it is silver.”
“Oh, yes, of course, do you—”
“I’m afraid not, madam, but I will send for a surgeon directly.”
“Progressive?”
“Naturally, madam.”
“Very good. Please do.”
Floote nodded to a young claviger who jumped eagerly forward, and the butler gave him the address of a physician.
“Perhaps, madam, a little air for the invalid?”
“Of course! Clear the room, please, gentlemen.”
All the worried-looking clavigers and werewolves filed out. Floote walked quietly off and returned moments later with tea.
They sat in silence, watching as Dubh’s breathing became fainter. Their reverie was interrupted by a clatter at the door, indicating Lord Maccon had returned.
Alexia hurried to meet her husband.
“Alexia, are you unwell?”
“Of course not. Did the runner explain what has transpired?”
“Dubh appeared, found you at the train station, tried to tell you something, and was shot.”
“Yes, that’s about the whole of it.”
“Dashed inconvenient.”
Lady Kingair pushed up next to her great-great-great-grandfather. “How is he?”
“Not well, I’m afraid. We have done what we can, and a surgeon has been sent for. Follow me.” Alexia led the way into the back parlor.
They entered to find Floote bent over the injured man. The butler’s normally impassive face was creased with worry. He looked up as they burst in and shook his head.
“No!” cried Lady Kingair, her voice ringing in distress. She shoved the butler aside to bend over her Beta. “Oh, no, Dubh.”
The werewolf was dead.
Lady Kingair began to weep. Full shaking sobs, the grief of an old friend and longtime companion.
Alexia turned away from such naked emotion to find her husband’s face also suffused with sorrow. She forgot that Dubh had been a part of his pack as well. Not so close as a Beta back then, but still, werewolves lived a long time and pack members were always valued. There had been no love lost personality-wise, but a dead immortal was never to be taken lightly. It was a tragedy of lost information, like the burning of the Library of Alexandria.
Alexia went to Conall and held him close, wrapping her arms tightly about him, not caring that others could see. Taking charge of the situation—everyone needed a hobby and that was Alexia’s—she guided her husband gently to a large armchair and saw him seated. She sent Floote for a dram of formaldehyde and directed a claviger to fetch Professor Lyall. Then she made her way out into the hall to confirm what the waiting werewolves had already guessed from Lady Kingair’s cry—that they had lost one of their own.
CHAPTER FIVE
Under Cover of Thespians
Needless to say, there was a good deal for Lady Maccon to take care of before she could broach the matter of Queen Matakara with her husband. No one got much sleep that day, except perhaps Biffy. The newest of the London Pack seemed to have come home, raised his eyebrows at the unholy hubbub, and, very sensibly, gone to bed with the latest copy of Le Beaux Assemblée.
Lady Maccon spent the morning finding a black dress for herself, black waistcoats for the pack, and mourning bands for the staff. Dubh hadn’t exactly been family, but he had died in her house, and she felt that proper respects ought to be paid. BUR was in an uproar and the clavigers were all aflutter with the drama, so she had to keep an eye to them as well.