The countess tsked dismissively. “Oh, really. There’s no cause for condescension, soul-sucker. The boy was promised to us. In her will, Angelique named the hive guardian to her child. We didn’t even know he existed until that moment. Madame Lefoux wouldn’t hear of it, of course. But he is ours. And we never let go of what is rightfully ours. We didn’t kidnap him. We retrieved him.”

Lady Maccon thought of her own child, now promised away to Lord Akeldama in order to keep them both safe from fang interference and assassination attempts. “Oh, really, Countess. I mean to say! What is it with you vampires? Don’t you ever relax your machinations? No wonder Genevieve wants to kill you. Kidnapping. That’s very low. Very low, indeed. What could you possibly want with the boy anyway? He’s a terrible scamp.”

The countess’s round, pleasant face went very hard. “We want him because he is ours! What more reason do we need? The law is on our side in this. We have copies of the will.”

Lady Maccon demanded details. “Does it name the hive, or you specifically, Countess?”

“Me alone, I believe.”

Lady Maccon cast her hands heavenward, although there was no one up there for her to appeal to. It was an accepted fact that preternaturals had no spiritual recourse, only pragmatism. Alexia didn’t mind; the latter had often gotten her out of sticky situations, whereas the former seemed highly unreliable when one was in a bind. “Well, there you have it. With no legal recourse, Genevieve only has to see you dead in order to get her child back. Plus, she has the added pleasure of killing the woman who corrupted her lover.”

The countess looked as though she had not thought of matters in such a way.

“You cannot be serious.”

Alexia shrugged. “Consider her perspective.”

The countess stood. “Good point. And she is French. They get terribly emotional, don’t they? Ambrose, arm the defenses. Hematol, send out runners. If it really is an octomaton, we are going to need additional military support. Get me my personal physician. Oh, and bring out the aethertronic Gatling gun.”

Lady Maccon could not help but admire the countess’s command of the situation. Alexia herself was sometimes known, among members of the pack, as the general. Of course, the gentlemen in question believed their mistress unaware of this moniker. Alexia preferred it that way and would periodically go into fits of autocratic demands simply to ascertain if she could get them to grumble about it when they thought she couldn’t hear. Werewolves tended to believe all mortals slightly deaf.

As the countess set about putting her people in order, her meal, left to lie on the tea table in soporific languor, stirred. The young blonde raised herself slowly up onto her elbows and looked about foggily.

“Felicity!”

“Oh, dear, Alexia? What on earth are you doing here?”

“Me! Me?” Lady Maccon was reduced to sputtering. “What about you? I’ll have you know, sister mine, that I came here because I had an invitation to the party!”