Imprudence
Page 29
“To die together there.”
“Not many Alphas get a retirement, chérie. And the weather is reputed to be very nice in Egypt.”
Rue gave a watery chuckle. Although she’d asked for his opinion, she did question his judgement. He’d no father and a dead birth mother. And, despite her indenture to a vampire hive, Madame Lefoux had never requested the bite. So his other mother would die too. He was accustomed to mortality.
“You do own one of the world’s fastest dirigibles.” Quesnel came to stand before her, not touching but there. And she adored – oh dear – the slight dimples when he smiled.
He was kind. “We could visit anytime you liked.”
Rue took a breath and struggled for something she could do to help. “So, how do we get him to Egypt? Will The Spotted Custard do?”
“Werewolves can’t float,” said Mother sadly.
Quesnel frowned. “It’s not the intent, but my tank might help there. The one Aggie’s hovering over in engineering.”
Lady Maccon looked thoughtful. “Prudence mentioned something about a tank.”
Rue nodded, numb. “Let’s give it a try? You’ll have to supervise, Quesnel. I’ll be indisposed.”
Then Rue took off the frock coat and walked to Paw.
He was moving, sluggishly returning to consciousness. She placed a hand gently to his dear wrinkled forehead. Rue shifted back to wolf, bones breaking and reforming and hair crawling from her head to cover her entire body. For once, she relished the pain. It was a punishment she richly deserved for her treachery.
Paw, please forgive me.
She tried not to be grateful for the relief on Uncle Rabiffano’s – and Mother’s and even Quesnel’s – faces.
Lord Maccon sat up, groggy.
And Uncle Rabiffano was hit full in his middle by a large vicious white wolf.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Channing,” Rue heard Uncle Rabiffano say just prior to shifting form. “I love this suit.”
The suit was ripped beyond repair and among the tatters of perfectly lovely and very expensive grey cashmere and crisp white lawn, stood a dark chocolate wolf with an oxblood red chest.
The two wolves met on a leap and began fighting. This was not how the pack had been tussling earlier with vampires, but really fighting. Trying to kill and maim one another. It was sickening in its ferocity.
Rue wanted to look away.
Channing went straight for Rabiffano’s neck. Rabiffano twisted so that Channing only got his shoulder. Blood dripped from deep puncture wounds as the white wolf bit down. They struggled with such force it was as though Channing were lifting and balancing the younger wolf on his nose. Rabiffano scrabbled at Channing’s belly with his hind legs, claws out, decorating the white with red gashes. He chomped down on Channing’s ear, fairly taking it off.
Rue came over queasy. She wasn’t usually squeamish, but she had never before witnessed two men she adored trying to brutally murder one another.
The wolves reared up, biting and slashing with their front paws and generally turning themselves into a fur-flying fray of white, chocolate, and red in the moonlight. Channing yipped in pain. What looked to have been his battle to win suddenly wasn’t any more. Rabiffano was braced in such a way as to give superior leverage against the white wolf, biting hard into the neck, applying a brutal pressure forwards and down. He was fighting smart, something very few werewolves could do, usually only the oldest or the most Alpha.
Rue leaned against her Paw, turned her wet nose into his leg, pressing her furred face against him helplessly.
There was no dramatic final moment; the fighters seemed likely to go on until dawn or exhaustion or death forced a separation. Except that, without apparent reason, they both stopped.
They backed away from each other, panting.
The pack leaned in, eyes gleaming.
So slowly that at first Rue wasn’t sure it was happening, the white wolf stretched out his front legs and sank over them. Then he flipped to his back, stomach up.
The rest of the pack threw back their heads and howled in victory and acceptance.
Rue felt absolutely no urge to join in such vocal nonsense.
The chocolate wolf’s tale swished once and then Rabiffano shifted back to human. For a dandy who wore his suits like armour against the world, Uncle Rabiffano was oddly comfortable wearing nothing but moonlight and the gaze of his pack.
His pack. Not Paw’s.
Uncle Rabiffano addressed Rue’s parents, uncompromising. “It is time for you to leave.”
Lord Maccon twitched. Rue could feel it in the muscles of his leg against her cheek.
Mother hadn’t watched the fight; her gaze stayed on her husband the entire time. Without acknowledging Uncle Rabiffano’s order, she turned her indomitable focus onto Quesnel. “I assume it’s a preservation tank you have, Mr Lefoux?”
Quesnel, slightly green about the gills from the battle, took a few seconds to react. “Modified from my mother’s original design. It’s not intended for werewolf transport, although the theory holds. If Rue thinks we should try, I’m game.”
“Would he be in danger?”
Quesnel shrugged. “If it turns out the tank doesn’t work on werewolves, he’ll likely go mad with aether, break it, and jump overboard.”
“Not an ideal outcome.”
Quesnel arched an eyebrow in agreement and continued. “Otherwise he’ll appear asleep or dead the whole time.”
Lady Maccon paled considerably. “So how would we know it’s working?”
“Not many Alphas get a retirement, chérie. And the weather is reputed to be very nice in Egypt.”
Rue gave a watery chuckle. Although she’d asked for his opinion, she did question his judgement. He’d no father and a dead birth mother. And, despite her indenture to a vampire hive, Madame Lefoux had never requested the bite. So his other mother would die too. He was accustomed to mortality.
“You do own one of the world’s fastest dirigibles.” Quesnel came to stand before her, not touching but there. And she adored – oh dear – the slight dimples when he smiled.
He was kind. “We could visit anytime you liked.”
Rue took a breath and struggled for something she could do to help. “So, how do we get him to Egypt? Will The Spotted Custard do?”
“Werewolves can’t float,” said Mother sadly.
Quesnel frowned. “It’s not the intent, but my tank might help there. The one Aggie’s hovering over in engineering.”
Lady Maccon looked thoughtful. “Prudence mentioned something about a tank.”
Rue nodded, numb. “Let’s give it a try? You’ll have to supervise, Quesnel. I’ll be indisposed.”
Then Rue took off the frock coat and walked to Paw.
He was moving, sluggishly returning to consciousness. She placed a hand gently to his dear wrinkled forehead. Rue shifted back to wolf, bones breaking and reforming and hair crawling from her head to cover her entire body. For once, she relished the pain. It was a punishment she richly deserved for her treachery.
Paw, please forgive me.
She tried not to be grateful for the relief on Uncle Rabiffano’s – and Mother’s and even Quesnel’s – faces.
Lord Maccon sat up, groggy.
And Uncle Rabiffano was hit full in his middle by a large vicious white wolf.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Channing,” Rue heard Uncle Rabiffano say just prior to shifting form. “I love this suit.”
The suit was ripped beyond repair and among the tatters of perfectly lovely and very expensive grey cashmere and crisp white lawn, stood a dark chocolate wolf with an oxblood red chest.
The two wolves met on a leap and began fighting. This was not how the pack had been tussling earlier with vampires, but really fighting. Trying to kill and maim one another. It was sickening in its ferocity.
Rue wanted to look away.
Channing went straight for Rabiffano’s neck. Rabiffano twisted so that Channing only got his shoulder. Blood dripped from deep puncture wounds as the white wolf bit down. They struggled with such force it was as though Channing were lifting and balancing the younger wolf on his nose. Rabiffano scrabbled at Channing’s belly with his hind legs, claws out, decorating the white with red gashes. He chomped down on Channing’s ear, fairly taking it off.
Rue came over queasy. She wasn’t usually squeamish, but she had never before witnessed two men she adored trying to brutally murder one another.
The wolves reared up, biting and slashing with their front paws and generally turning themselves into a fur-flying fray of white, chocolate, and red in the moonlight. Channing yipped in pain. What looked to have been his battle to win suddenly wasn’t any more. Rabiffano was braced in such a way as to give superior leverage against the white wolf, biting hard into the neck, applying a brutal pressure forwards and down. He was fighting smart, something very few werewolves could do, usually only the oldest or the most Alpha.
Rue leaned against her Paw, turned her wet nose into his leg, pressing her furred face against him helplessly.
There was no dramatic final moment; the fighters seemed likely to go on until dawn or exhaustion or death forced a separation. Except that, without apparent reason, they both stopped.
They backed away from each other, panting.
The pack leaned in, eyes gleaming.
So slowly that at first Rue wasn’t sure it was happening, the white wolf stretched out his front legs and sank over them. Then he flipped to his back, stomach up.
The rest of the pack threw back their heads and howled in victory and acceptance.
Rue felt absolutely no urge to join in such vocal nonsense.
The chocolate wolf’s tale swished once and then Rabiffano shifted back to human. For a dandy who wore his suits like armour against the world, Uncle Rabiffano was oddly comfortable wearing nothing but moonlight and the gaze of his pack.
His pack. Not Paw’s.
Uncle Rabiffano addressed Rue’s parents, uncompromising. “It is time for you to leave.”
Lord Maccon twitched. Rue could feel it in the muscles of his leg against her cheek.
Mother hadn’t watched the fight; her gaze stayed on her husband the entire time. Without acknowledging Uncle Rabiffano’s order, she turned her indomitable focus onto Quesnel. “I assume it’s a preservation tank you have, Mr Lefoux?”
Quesnel, slightly green about the gills from the battle, took a few seconds to react. “Modified from my mother’s original design. It’s not intended for werewolf transport, although the theory holds. If Rue thinks we should try, I’m game.”
“Would he be in danger?”
Quesnel shrugged. “If it turns out the tank doesn’t work on werewolves, he’ll likely go mad with aether, break it, and jump overboard.”
“Not an ideal outcome.”
Quesnel arched an eyebrow in agreement and continued. “Otherwise he’ll appear asleep or dead the whole time.”
Lady Maccon paled considerably. “So how would we know it’s working?”
