Fol owing Alexia came Monsieur Trouvé, who, having utilized some of the parasol’s armament, had reverted to swinging the heavy bronze accessory about like a club, bludgeoning al who got in his way. Alexia could understand his approach; it was her preferred method as well . Could that technique, she wondered, be legitimately referred to as a “parassault”? Fol owing him was Madame Lefoux, bagpipe blunderbuss in one hand, cravat pin in the other, slashing and bashing away merrily. After her came Floote, bringing up the rear in dignified elegance, using the dispatch case as a kind of shield and poking at people with Madame Lefoux’s other cravat pin, borrowed for the occasion.

Thus, undercover of an uncommon amount of pandemonium and bedlam, Alexia and her little band of gal ant rescuers made their way through the battle and out the other side. Then there was nothing for it but to run, bruised and bloody as they were. Channing led them first through the Roman catacombs, then through a long modern tunnel that housed, if the steel tracks were any indication, a rail trol ey of some kind. Final y, they found themselves clambering up damp wooden stairs and tumbling out onto the wide soft bank of the Arno. The town obviously observed a supernatural curfew after nightfal , for there was absolutely no one to witness their panting exit.

They climbed up to street level and dashed a good long way through the city. Alexia developed a stitch in her side and a feeling that, should her future permit it, she would spend the rest of her days relaxed in an armchair in a library somewhere. Adventuring was highly overrated.

Having reached one of the bridges over the Arno, she cal ed a stop halfway across. It was a good defensible position; they could afford a short rest. “Are they fol owing us?”

Channing raised his muzzle to the sky and sniffed. Then he shook his shaggy head.

“I cannot believe we escaped so easily.” Alexia looked about at her companions, taking stock of their condition. Channing had sustained only a few additional injuries, but al were healing even as she watched. Of the others, Madame Lefoux was sporting a nasty gash on one wrist, which Floote was bandaging with a handkerchief, and Monsieur Trouvé was rubbing at a lump on his forehead. She herself ached terribly in one shoulder but would rather not look just yet. Otherwise, they al were in sufficient form and spirits.

Channing appeared to have reached the same conclusion and decided to shift form.

His body began that strange, uncomfortable-looking writhing, and the sound of flesh and bone re-forming itself rent the air for a few moments, and then he rose to stand before them. Alexia gave a squeak and turned her back hurriedly on his endowments, which were ample and well proportioned.

Monsieur Trouvé took off his frock coat. It was far too wide for the werewolf, but he handed it over for modesty’s sake. With a nod of thanks, Channing put it on. It covered the necessaries, but was far too short and, coupled with his long, loose hair, made him look disturbingly like an oversized French schoolgirl.

Alexia was perfectly well aware of what she was required to do at this juncture.

Courtesy demanded gratitude, but she could wish it was someone other than Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings who was to receive it. “Wel , Major Channing, I suppose I must thank you for the timely intervention. I am confused, however. Shouldn’t you be off somewhere kil ing things?”

“My lady, I rather thought that was what I just did.”

“I mean official y, for queen and country, with the regiment and everything.”

“Ah, no, deployment was delayed after you left. Technical difficulties.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, it was technical y difficult to leave a heartbroken Alpha. And it is a good thing for you I wasn’t overseas. Someone had to extract you from the Templars.” He entirely ignored the rest of Alexia’s rescue party.

“I should have managed perfectly well on my own. But thank you, anyway. You are always terribly impressed with yourself, aren’t you?”

He leered. “Aren’t you?”

“So why have you been tracking me this entire time?”

“Ah, you knew it was me?”

“There aren’t a great number of white wolves roaming around safeguarding my interests. I figured it had to be you after the vampire and the carriage incident. So, why were you?”

A new voice, deep and gravel y, came from behind them. “Because I sent him.”

Floote stopped attending to Madame Lefoux and whirled to face this new threat, the Frenchwoman was already reaching once more for her trusty cravat pins, and Monsieur Trouvé raised the bagpipe blunderbuss, which he’d been examining with scientific interest. Only Major Channing remained unperturbed.

Lord Conal Maccon, Earl of Woolsey, stepped out of the shadows of the bridge tower.

“You! You are late, ” pointed out his errant wife with every sign of extreme annoyance.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

On a Bridge over the Arno and Other Romantic On a Bridge over the Arno and Other Romantic Misnomers

Late! Of course I’m late. You do realize, wife, I’ve been hunting al over Italy for you? You havna been exactly easy to find.”

“Wel , of course you wouldn’t find me if you took that tactic. I haven’t been al over Italy. I have been stuck in Florence the entire time. I was even trapped in some horrible Roman catacombs, thanks to you.”

“Thanks to me? How could that possibly have been my fault, woman?” Lord Maccon came forward and loomed over his wife, both of them having entirely forgotten about their companions, who formed a semicircle of rapt interest about them. Their voices carried far over the water and through the vacant streets of Florence—no doubt providing entertainment for many.

“You rejected me!” Even as she said it, Alexia experienced once more that glorious sense of profound relief. Although this time, thankful y, it was not coupled with the need to break down and cry. Conal had come after her! Of course, she was stil mad at him.

Floote bravely interjected at this juncture. “Please, madam, lower your voice. We are not yet out of danger.”

“You sent me away!” Alexia hissed, low and fierce.

“No, I didna—that is, not real y. I didna intend it that way. You should have known I didna mean it. You should have realized I needed time to recover from being an idiot.”

“Oh, real y? How was I to know idiocy was only a temporary condition, especial y in your case? It never has been before! Besides which, vampires were trying to kil me.”

“And they didna try to kil you here as well as back home? ’Tis a good thing I had enough sobriety left to send Channing after you.”

“Oh, I like that… Wait, what did you say? Sobriety? You mean while I’ve been running across Europe pregnant, escaping ladybugs, flying in ornithopters, landing in mud, and drinking coffee, you have been inebriated?”

“I was depressed.”

“You were depressed? You!” Alexia actual y started to sputter, she was so angry. She looked up at her husband, which was always a strange experience, for she was a tal woman used to looking down on people. Lord Maccon could loom al he liked; so far as she was concerned, she was not impressed.

She poked him in the center of his chest with two fingers to punctuate her words.

“You are an unfeeling”—poke—“traitorous”—poke—“mistrusting”—poke—“rude” —poke—“booby!” Every poke turned him mortal, but Lord Maccon didn’t seem to mind it in the least.

Instead he grabbed the hand that poked him and brought it to his lips. “You put it very well , my love.”

“Oh, don’t get smarmy with me, husband. I am nowhere near finished with you yet.”

She started poking him with the other hand. Lord Maccon grinned hugely, probably, Alexia realized, because she had slipped up and cal ed him “husband.”

“You kicked me out without a fair trial. Do stop kissing me. And you didn’t even consider that the child might be yours. Stop that! Oh, no, you had to leap to the worst possible assumption. You know my character. I could never betray you like that. Just because history says it is not possible doesn’t mean there aren’t exceptions. There are always exceptions. Look at Lord Akeldama—he is practical y an exception to everything.

Why, it took only a little research in the Templar records and I figured it out. Stop kissing my neck, Conal , I mean it. Templars should have practiced more of the scholarly arts and stopped whacking about at everything wil y-nil y.” She reached into her cleavage and produced the smal , now-garlic-scented Roman curse tablet, which she waved at her husband. “Look right here! Evidence. But not you, oh no. You had to act first. And I was stuck running around without a pack.”

Lord Maccon managed to get a word in at this point, but only because Lady Maccon had run out of breath. “It looks like you managed to build your own pack, anyway, my dear. A parasol protectorate, perhaps one might say.”

“Oh, ha-ha, very funny.”

Lord Maccon leaned forward and, before she could resume her tirade, kissed her ful on the mouth. It was one of his deep, possessive kisses. It was the kind of embrace that made Alexia feel that somewhere in there, even though her touch had stolen al the werewolf out of him, he might stil want to gobble her right up. She continued poking him absently even as she curled into his embrace.

Just as swiftly as he had started, he stopped. “Ew! ”

“Ew? You kiss me when I haven’t even finished yel ing at you and then you say ‘ew’!”

Alexia jerked out of her husband’s grasp.

Conal stopped her with a question. “Alexia, darling, have you been eating pesto recently?” He started rubbing at his nose as though it were itching. His eyes began to water.

Alexia laughed. “That’s right—werewolves are al ergic to basil. You see the ful force of my revenge?” She could touch him and the al ergic reaction would probably stop immediately, but she stood back and watched him suffer. Funny that even as a mortal, he had reacted badly to the taste of her supper. She resigned herself to a life without pesto, and with that thought realized she was going to forgive her husband.

Eventually.

The werewolf in question approached her cautiously once more, as if he was afraid if he moved too fast she would panic and bolt. “It’s been a long time since I tasted that flavor, and I never liked it, even as a human. I’l put up with it, though, if you real y like it.”

“Wil you put up with the child, too?”

He pul ed her into his arms again. “If you real y like it.”

“Don’t be difficult. You are going to have to like it, too, you realize.”

Nuzzling against her neck, he let out a sigh of satisfaction. “Mine,” he said happily.

Alexia was resigned to her fate. “Unfortunately, both of us are.”

“Wel , that’s al right, then.”

“So you think.” She pul ed away, punching him in the arm, just to make her position perfectly clear. “The fact remains that you also belong to me! And you had the temerity to behave as though you didn’t.”

Lord Maccon nodded. It was true. “I shal make it up to you.” Adding unguardedly,

“What can I do?”

Alexia thought. “I want my own aethographic transmitter. One of the new ones that doesn’t require crystal ine valves.”

He nodded.

“And a set of ladybugs from Monsieur Trouvé.”

“A what?”

She glared at him.

He nodded again. Meekly.

“And a new gun for Floote. A good-quality revolver or some such that shoots more than one bul et.”

“For Floote? Why?”

His wife crossed her arms.

“Whatever you say, dear.”

Alexia considered asking for a Nordenfelt but thought that might be pushing it a bit, so she downgraded. “And I want you to teach me how to shoot.”

“Now, Alexia, do you think that’s quite the best thing for a woman in your condition?”

Another glare.

He sighed. “Verra well . Anything else?”

Alexia frowned in thought. “That wil do for now, but I might stil come up with something.”

He tucked her in close against him once more, running his hands over her back in wide circular motions and burying his nose in her hair.

“So, what do you think, my dear, wil it be a girl or a boy?”

“It wil be a soul-stealer, apparently.”

“What!” The earl reared away from his wife and looked down at her suspiciously.

Channing interrupted them. “Best be getting a move on, I’m afraid.” He head was cocked to one side, as though he were stil in wolf form, ears alert for signs of pursuit.

Lord Maccon turned instantly from indulgent husband to Alpha werewolf. “We’l split up. Channing, you, Madame Lefoux, and Floote act as decoy. Madame, I’m afraid you may have to don female dress.”