The previous group came back up, passing them on the stairs.

“Back out,” ordered their Alpha female, “and concentrate on finding Biffy. The others can take the sun.”

“I thought werewolves could withstand sunlight?” asked Boots.

Alexia moaned long and low before answering. “Yes. But not when still learning control.”

“What’ll happen to him if he doesn’t make it in?”

Rumpet reappeared at that juncture. “Ah, Mr. Floote.” He acknowledged his butler peer with a slight bow.

“Mr. Rumpet,” replied Floote. And then, turning his attention back to Lady Maccon, “Now, madam, do concentrate and try to inhale deeply. Breathe through the pain.”

Alexia glared at her butler. “Easy for you to say. Have you ever done this?”

“Certainly not, madam.”

“Rumpet, did all the vampires get sorted?”

“Mostly, my lady.”

“What do you mean, mostly?”

The conversation paused at that while everyone waited courteously for Lady Maccon to let out another part scream part howl of anger as the agony rippled through her body. They all pretended not to notice her thrashing. It was very polite of them.

“Well, a few of the vampires spread themselves about. So we’ll have to put some of ours in with them.”

“What’s the world coming to? Vampires and werewolves sleeping together,” quipped Alexia sarcastically.

One of the clavigers, a cheerful, freckled blighter who had performed Scottish ballads for the queen herself on more than one occasion, said, “It’s quite sweet, really. They’ve snuggled up with each other.”

“Snuggled? The wolf should be tearing the vampire apart.”

“Not anymore, my lady. Look.”

Alexia looked. The sun was up, its first rays cresting the horizon. It was going to be a bright, clear summer day. It was all too much, even for the most sensible preternatural. Lady Maccon panicked. “Biffy! Biffy’s not yet inside! Quickly!” She gestured the clavigers. “Get me up. Get me out there. Get me to him! He could die!” Alexia was starting to cry, both from the pain and from the thought of poor young Biffy lying out there, burning alive.

“But, my lady, you’re about to, well, uh, give birth!” objected Rumpet.

“Oh, that’s not important. That can wait.” Alexia turned. “Floote! Do something.”

Floote nodded. He pointed to one of the clavigers. “You, do as she asks. Boots, you take the other side.” He looked down at his mistress. Of course, Alessandro Tarabotti’s daughter would be difficult. “Madam, whatever you do, don’t push!”

“Bring blankets,” yelled Lady Maccon at the remaining clavigers and Rumpet. “Rip those curtains down if you must. Most of the pack is out there naked! Oh, this is all so embarrassing.”

Boots and the freckled claviger formed a kind of litter by linking their crossed arms and hoisted Lady Maccon up. She threw an arm around each, and the two young men part ran and part stumbled their way back out the door and down the seemingly endless hillside toward the carnage below.

The octomaton was down, the result of too many of its tentacles torn off during battle. As she neared, Alexia could see the now-naked bodies of the pack lying fallen—bloodied, bruised, and burned. Scattered among them were the severed tentacles of the octomaton plus some of its guts: bolts, pulleys, and engine parts. Here and there, a claviger or BUR member who hadn’t moved fast enough was limping or clutching at a wounded limb, but thankfully none of them seemed seriously injured. The werewolves, on the other hand, lay floppy and nonsensical, like so much fried fish. Most of them looked like they were simply sound asleep, the standard reaction to full-moon bone-benders. But none were healing under the direct rays of the sun. Even immortality had its limits.