When they arrived at the spot, Lord Maccon dove with alacrity off the newly completed Victoria Embankment and into the filthy water. Professor Lyal was more fastidious and thus more reticent. Nothing the Thames could throw at him could damage him permanently, but that didn’t prevent his shuddering at the inevitability of the smel he was destined to produce: wet dog mixed with Thames river water.
Lord Maccon’s brindled head appeared, fur slicked back like a seal, and he barked at his Beta imperiously. Professor Lyal locked his jaw and leapt stiffly into the water, al four legs extended in disgust. Together, looking like nothing so much as two stray dogs after a stick, the two made their way under the bridge.
Since they knew what they were looking for, they managed to find the breathing tube affixed to one of the piers. It was stretched upward well out of the high-tide mark. It looked as though it could have also been used as a drop for food and water bags. At least the potentate had no intention of actual y kil ing poor Biffy. Stil , it was carelessly done. Should the tube fal , some misguided boat crash into it, or one curious animal climb up and stopper it over, Biffy would suffocate to death.
Lord Maccon dove down to investigate the contraption. This was hard to do in wolf form, and it was hard to see much in the blackness of the river. But he had supernatural strength and wolf night vision helping him. He surfaced looking pleased with himself, tongue lol ing.
Professor Lyal winced at the very idea of tongue having any proximity to the Thames.
Lord Maccon, being Lord Maccon and good at such things, then changed, right there in the Thames, from dog-paddling wolf to large man treading water. He did so flawlessly, so that his head never went under the water. Professor Lyal suspected him of practicing such maneuvers in the bathtub.
“That is one interesting little contraption he has down there, like some species of mechanical Scotch egg. Biffy’s stil alive, but I have absolutely no idea how to get him out, short of simply muscling the blasted thing open and dragging him up through the water. Do you think a human could survive such an experience? There seems to be no means of attaching a crank or pul ey to the sphere, nor of getting a net underneath, even if we had ready access to such things.”
Professor Lyal sacrificed his meticulousness to the winds and changed form. He was not so good as Lord Maccon, sinking down slowly in the process so that he bobbled up, sputtering and disgruntled, to his Alpha’s amused gaze.
“We could raid Madame Lefoux’s contrivance chamber, but I think time is of the essence. We are werewolves, my lord. Muscling things is our specialty. If we can open it fast enough, we should be able to get him out with relatively little harm.”
“Good, because if I do damage him, my wife wil never let me hear the end of it.
Once she decides to speak to me again, that is. She is awful y fond of Biffy.”
“Yes, I recal . He helped with the wedding.”
“Did he real y? well , what do you know? So, on the count of three? One, two, three.”
Both men inhaled deeply and dove down to crack open the sphere.
It was constructed in two halves, joined by means of large metal ribs, screwed tightly together. From these stretched a cagelike lattice with glass in between, each square far too smal for a man to squeeze through. Each werewolf grabbed at one bolt and began to unscrew it as fast as possible. Soon enough, the pressure of the air within caused the upper half of the sphere to separate from the bottom. Air began to escape and water rushed in to fil the vacancy.
Professor Lyal caught sight of Biffy’s panicked expression, his blue eyes wide in a face bushy with weeks’ worth of beard. He could do nothing to help free himself. Instead he fought the inrushing water, trying to keep his head afloat and tilted toward the air tube as long as possible.
With two bolts gone, the two werewolves wedged their bodies into the opening and began to physical y push, muscles screaming, tearing the sphere apart bodily. The metal buckled, glass broke, and water fil ed the smal compartment.
Even in al the chaos, Professor Lyal heard several out-of-context noises and, moments later, saw from the corner of his eye as the earl popped out of the sphere and began wildly thrashing about. But Lyal maintained his focus on Biffy. Pushing forward with both legs off the edge of the sphere, he dove for the drone, grabbed him around the waist, and with another tremendous push, shot upward toward the surface.
He emerged, panting, Biffy clutched against him. The young man was suspiciously limp, and Professor Lyal could think of nothing but the need to get him to shore as quickly as possible. Drawing on every last iota of his werewolf strength to give him the necessary speed, he plowed through the water, reaching the Westminster side of the Thames in record time and dragging the drone out onto the bottom of a filthy set of stone steps.
Professor Lyal was no medical doctor, but he could say with confidence that the best thing for Biffy at that moment would be to get the water out and the air into his lungs. So the werewolf stood, lifting the young man up by his feet. Lyal had to dangle him off the side of the steps; Biffy was tal er than he. Then the Beta proceeded to shake the limp drone vigorously.
As he was shaking, Professor Lyal looked over at the midpoint of the river. The moon was only a few days past ful , and it had risen enough for his werewolf eyes to see everything clearly. His Alpha was engaged in a splashy battle with three assailants. Much frothing of the water, yel ing, and growling was involved. Lord Maccon was in his Anubis Form, his head that of a wolf but his body stil human. This al owed him to tread water but stil apply the trademark werewolf savaging. It seemed to be working. His opponents were human, and, while they were armed with silver knives, they were not so adept at striking and swimming as Lord Maccon.
Professor Lyal returned to his task. As the shaking was proving to be ineffective, he positioned the young man careful y on a higher step and bent over him.
He was at a loss. Werewolves breathed, but not so deeply, nor so frequently as mortals. He wasn’t convinced his next idea would even work. But, blushing furiously
—after al , he and Biffy had only met casual y a few times; they were hardly on terms of any intimacy—he bent forward and sealed the young man’s mouth with his. Breathing out in a powerful blast, he attempted to physical y force air into the drone’s lungs. Nothing happened. So he did it again. And again.
A loud cry caused him to look up, although not stop in his attentions to young Biffy’s survival. The figure of a man, a gentleman by his top hat and tails, ran along the rail bridge, faster than was humanly possible. The figure stopped and, in one impossibly quick and smooth movement, drew a gun and fired down into the churning mass of combatants.
Professor Lyal ’s protective instincts reared up. He had no doubt that the vampire, for that is what the newcomer must be, was firing silver bul ets at his Alpha. Desperately, he breathed harder, hoping against hope that Biffy would revive so that he could go to his Alpha’s aid.
Behind him, Lord Maccon behaved in an unexpectedly sensible manner. Abandoning his roughhousing, the Alpha dove under the surface of the Thames and began swimming toward the steps and his Beta. He stuck his muzzle up for air only once and briefly.
Unfortunately, with his first target underwater, the vampire simply moved on to the second best option. He fired at Professor Lyal and his charge as they hunched unprotected against the embankment. The bul et whizzed by perilously close to Lyal ’s head and struck the stone wal , causing fragments of rock to pel et downward. Lyal curled himself over the drone’s body, shielding it with his own.
Then Biffy began to cough and sputter, spewing out Thames river water in a manner that Professor Lyal felt, while inelegant, was most prudent of him. The drone’s eyes opened, and he stared up into the werewolf’s sympathetic face.
“Do I know you?” Biffy asked between coughs.
Lord Maccon reached the steps at that point and hauled himself up, stil in Anubis Form. He reached for his neck, unclasping the leather case safely fastened there, and pul ed out his gun. The case had served its purpose, for the Tue Tue was stil dry. He took aim at the vampire silhouetted against the moon and fired.
He missed.
“I’m Professor Lyal . We have met before. Remember the aethographor and the tea?
How do you do?”
“Where’s—?” But Biffy did not get to finish his thought, for the vampire’s return shot scooted right past both Lord Maccon and his Beta, striking the poor drone in the stomach. Biffy’s sentence stopped midquestion with a cry, as his body, emaciated from weeks in confinement, convulsed and writhed.
Lord Maccon’s second shot back at the vampire did not miss. It was a lucky one, for at such a distance, even his trusty Tue Tue was unreliable. Nevertheless, the bul et struck home.
The vampire fel from the bridge with a shout, hitting the Thames with a loud splash.
Immediately his agents—or were they drones?—ceased paddling about, recovering from their altercation with the earl, and swam over to him. From the resulting cries of distress, what they discovered was not to their liking.
Lord Maccon’s attention remained fixed on the tableau in the water, but Professor Lyal was once more focused on Biffy. The blood leaking from the young man’s injury smel ed divine, of course, but Lyal was no pup to be diverted by the scent of fresh meat.
The drone was dying. No doctor in Britain could patch up a damaged gut like that. There was real y only one solution and no one, in the end, was going to be happy with it.
Taking a deep breath, the Beta reached into the wound, fishing about for the bul et with no care for Biffy’s finer feelings. The young man conveniently fainted from the pain.
Lord Maccon came to kneel on the step below them.
He gave a confused whine, unable to talk, as his head was stil that of a wolf.
“I’m trying to get out the bul et,” Professor Lyal explained.
Another whine.
“It’s silver. It must come out.”
The earl began violently shaking his shaggy brindled head and backing slightly away.
“He is dying, my lord. You have no other choice. You’re already in Anubis Form. You might as well make the attempt.”
Lord Maccon continued to shake his wolf head. Professor Lyal fished out the offensive bul et, hissing in pain as the vile silver thing burned his fingertips.
“Don’t you think Lord Akeldama would rather have him stil alive, or at least partly alive, than dead? I am aware that it is not done. Unheard of, even, for a werewolf to poach a drone, but what else can we do? You have to at least try.”
The Alpha cocked his head to one side, ears drooping. Professor Lyal knew what he was thinking. If this failed, Biffy would be found dead, savaged by a werewolf. How could they possibly explain that to anyone?
“You metamorphosed a female recently. You can do this, my lord.”
With a smal shrug that said as clearly as any words that if this didn’t work, he would never forgive himself, the Alpha bent over the boy’s neck and bit.
Normal y, metamorphosis was a violent savaging of flesh, an infliction of a curse as much as a conversion to immortality, but Biffy was so very weak and had lost so much blood already that Lord Maccon took it slowly. He was able to. Conal Maccon had more self-control than any other Alpha Lyal had ever met, for al his Scottish heritage and grumpy temper. Lyal could only imagine how sweet the boy’s blood must taste. In answer to that thought, Lord Maccon stopped biting and bent to lap at the bul et wound. Then he went back to biting. The idea of metamorphosis, most scientists believed, was to get the werewolf saliva, carrier of the curse, into the petitioner and to get sufficient human blood out. This would break mortal ties and tether the remnant soul. Supposing there was, of course, excess soul present.