The earl was looking perfectly fine, if a little sleepy. Werewolves usually slept the full day through after a full moon. It was testament to both Conall’s and Lyall’s strength that they were up and moving, although both were rather clumsy about it. Conall described being awake the night after as akin to playing tiddlywinks, drunk, with a penguin—confusing and slightly dreamlike. His hair was wild and unkempt, and his tawny eyes were soft and buttery, mellowed by battle and victory.

He caught sight of his wife. “Ah, my love, get inside, would you? No way to get Biffy back to safety without your touch. Good of you to come. Interesting choice of transport.”

At which juncture, his wife threw back her head and screamed.

Lord Conall Maccon’s expression changed instantly to one of absolute panic and total ferocity. He charged out of the octomaton and bounded to his mate. He tossed poor Boots out of his way with a mere flick of the wrist and took Lady Maccon into his own arms.

“What’s wrong? Are you—You canna! Now isna a good time!”

“Oh, no?” panted his wife. “Well, tell that to the child. This is all your fault, you do realize?”

“My fault, how could it possibly . . . ?”

He trailed off as a different howl of agony came from inside the octomaton’s head and Madame Lefoux looked back out. “Young Biffy could use your presence, my lord.”

The earl growled in annoyance and made his way over to the door. He shoved Alexia inside first, following after.

It was very cramped quarters. Madame Lefoux had designed the guidance chamber for only two occupants, herself and Quesnel. Lord Maccon accounted for about that number on his own, plus the pregnant Alexia, and Biffy sprawled on the floor.

It took a moment for Lady Maccon’s eyes to adjust to the inner gloom, but she saw soon enough that Biffy was burned badly down one leg. Much of the skin was gone—blistered and blackened most awfully.

“Should I touch him? He might never heal.”

Lord Maccon slammed the door closed against the wicked sun. “Blast it, woman, what possessed you to come down here in such a state?”

“How is Quesnel?” demanded Madame Lefoux. “Is he unharmed?”

“He’s safe.” Alexia did not mention he was currently locked in a dungeon with a vampire queen.

“Alexia”—Madame Lefoux clasped her hands together and opened her green eyes wide and looked pleading—“you know it was my only choice? You know I had to get him back. He’s all I have. She stole him from me.”

“And you couldn’t come to me for help? Really, Genevieve, what kind of feeble friend do you take me for?”

“She has the law on her side.”

Alexia clutched at her stomach and moaned. She was being flooded by the most overwhelming sensation—the need to push downward. “So?”

“You are muhjah.”

“I might have been able to come up with a solution.”

“I hate her more than anything. First she steals Angelique, and now Quesnel! What right has she to—”