At the front ran the biggest of the lot, a brindled wolf with yellow eyes, intent on but one thing—a smell on the evening breeze. It was the scent of mate, and lover, and partner, and fear, and something new coming. Near to that, twining with it, was the scent of young boy, fresh meat to be consumed. Underneath was the smell of rotten flesh and old bloodlines—other predators invading his territory. Dominating it all was the odor of industry, a monstrous machine, another enemy.

Lady Maccon stepped out of the carriage and slammed the door behind her, placing herself before the boy and the queen, knowing that she would be the last possible defense, that if nothing else, she had her bare hands.

Her legs, however, refused to obey her. She found herself leaning against the door, wishing she had her parasol for leverage.

The pack was there. The blur of fur and teeth and tail turned into individual wolves. Lord Conall Maccon came to a sliding halt before his wife.

Alexia never quite knew how to handle her husband when he was in such a state. There was nothing of the man she loved in those yellow eyes, not during full moon. Her only hope was that he would perceive the octomaton as more of a threat than the vampires. That his driving instinct would be to defend territory first and eat later, thus ignoring her and Quesnel, who represented fresh meat.

Her hope proved to be the case, for Conall’s yellow eyes flashed once, almost human, and he lolled his tongue out at her. Then the pack turned in a body and launched itself at the octomaton. One wolf per tentacle, the remaining four at the neck. Supernatural teeth were guided by instinct toward joints and arteries, even if those joints were made of ball bearings and pulleys and those arteries hydraulic steam-powered cables.

Alexia could only watch, admiring the grace in their amazingly high leaps. She held Ethel in one hand, but the gun dangled uselessly. She was nowhere near good enough to hit even something the size of the octomaton without also risking a wolf. The vampires made no move to help. This might have been because they were afraid a werewolf would take this ill and start attacking them, or it might be because they were vampires.

Lady Maccon could make out some of the pack by their markings. There was Channing, easiest to spot because of his pure white coat; and Lyall, smaller than the rest and more nimble, almost vampirelike in his speed and dexterity; and Biffy, darkest of all the pack with his oxblood stomach fur, abandoned and utterly vicious in his movements. But Alexia’s eye was ever drawn, again and again, to the brindled coat of the largest wolf as he leaped up and savaged some portion of the octomaton, landed, and then leaped again.

To have had any real effect, the wolves should have all concentrated on one tentacle together, or all gone for the neck, but they were moonstruck. Even under the best of circumstances, only a few werewolves fully retain their capacity for human intelligence while in wolf form. Full moon was not the best of circumstances.