Imprudence (The Custard Protocol #2)(25)
“You’ll have to stay within tether distance of your father, infant. Please don’t forget. He can’t be allowed wolf form at night, unless he absolutely must fight.”
Rue nodded her big shaggy head.
They were interrupted by someone knocking – loudly and persistently – on the parlour door.
Lady Maccon, freed up from her hand-holding obligations, went to open it.
Winkle stood there, looking sheepish. He was, as only to be expected from one of Dama’s drones, perfectly turned out for the evening. His dark glossy hair, a true glorious blue black, shone under the hallway lights and his up-tilted eyes gleamed.
He took in the family dynamic without comment. “Lady Maccon, Lady Prudence.” A small bow to both the woman and the wolf. “Lord Maccon.”
Lady Maccon smiled. “Good evening. Winkle, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my lady. I apologise for interrupting but it’s a matter of some delicacy. It’s Lord Akeldama.”
Rue felt her stomach lurch. Not Dama as well!
“Is he unwell?” Even Mother was worried.
Winkle grinned. “Him? Never. He has sent me with a message. I’m afraid it’s not the best news. But there seems to be – oh dear me, I don’t quite know how to put it – a brawl occurring down off Worple Road. Some species of croquet green or what have you is playing host.”
Rue’s ears perked. My airship!
Lord Maccon grumbled, “What’s that to do with us? Mobs are constabulary business. What is that vampire about? Disturbing us with gossip of brawls and—”
Lady Maccon looked to her wolf daughter. “Isn’t that where The Spotted Custard is parked?”
Moored, Rue wanted to correct her but couldn’t. She nodded.
“I’m sorry to say,” Winkle continued, “this brawl looks to be taking place between your pack, my lord, and Baroness Tunstell’s drones.”
“Wonderful. Just wonderful,” said Lady Maccon while Rue and her father both pushed past Winkle and ran out of the front door into the street.
Rue kept pace with her father easily; after all, she was the one in wolf form. He was fit as a mortal human but was big enough to be built for taking a stand rather than moving fast. In fact, Lord Maccon running was more an act of falling at speed. So really, Rue only had to trot.
It came as no surprise to her when Lady Maccon drew alongside driving a shapely little bounder. The dogcart was of the sporting style, where the driver sits facing and the passenger at his back in a reverse position – plenty of room inside the box for hunting dogs. Or, as was its use in the Maccon household, prematurely shifted werewolves.
“Get in,” Lady Maccon ordered her husband.
“I’ll drive.”
“Don’t be absurd, Conall. I’m a much better whip.”
Rue sat on her haunches in the alcove of a delicious-smelling butcher’s shop and waited for them to hash it out.
With a look of disgust, Paw swung himself up behind his wife in the transverse seat.
“Infant, keep pace but don’t startle the prancer.”
Rue resented being instructed by her mother to do something that she was going to do anyway. Being in the company of Lady Maccon without being able to speak might well drive Rue more bonkers than Paw. She was already regretting her offer. She bared her teeth.
Lady Maccon took off at a dangerous speed.
Rue ran after, wishing she could remind Mother that Paw was currently mortal, and perhaps a little care was warranted.
The dogcart careened around a corner, practically on one wheel.
Rue shook her head and put on a burst of speed to close the widening gap. Werewolves could outpace horses, especially one pulling Lord and Lady Maccon’s weight. She caught up and jogged behind, nostrils flaring to keep track of the cityscape around her. That had been one of the hardest things to learn as a werewolf pup, how her map of the world changed to one of scents.
They made good time across town. Fortunately, traffic was light, as it was early yet. Balls and shows were hours off starting so no one was trying to get anywhere important. Given that Lady Maccon was all over the road, this was a good thing. If Mother is the superior whip, Paw must be a sight.
By the time they drew up outside the All England Croquet, Lawn Tennis, and Airborne Polo Club, Rue’s senses already told her that things were in a bad state. The noise was absurd, a mix of yells, yips, growls, and foul language. The smells were those of sweat, fear, and blood.
Rue’s attention went to her ship.
The Spotted Custard floated in chubby majesty under the moonlight, well out of a werewolf’s leaping range. Decklings lined the railing of the main deck, armed to the teeth but not doing anything, simply watching the broiling mass below. Occasionally, one of them would point, shaking his head, and another would nod and spit in disgust. By deckling standards the fight was inferior entertainment.
There was a large, beautifully decorated hat among the spectators, which meant Primrose was there. Good, Prim is safe. No doubt Percy is in his library, uninterested in such a plebeian thing as a werewolf brawl.
It was quite the scrapper. All of the pack seemed to be there in wolf form. They were up against four vampires and a dozen drones, all male and all armed for battle with silver knives and grim expressions. None of them seemed to be packing serious firepower, but nevertheless an encounter between silver blade and werewolf flesh rarely worked out in the werewolf’s favour.