Timeless

Alexia felt a slight wiggle of butterflies in her stomach, which she was beginning to label her sensation of significance. Something was, quite defiantly, up.

“It’s sealed under the Clandestine Scientific Information Act of 1855.” Professor Lyall sat down with a thump next to Biffy on the small settee in the back parlor. He shoved him over gently to make room. Biffy bumped back against him affectionately but moved. Lyall had just returned from BUR and he smelled like a London night, etching acid, and the Thames.

“Have you been swimming?”

The Beta ignored this to continue his complaint. “It’s all sealed.”

“What is?”

“Records to do with Egypt, for a period of twelve years, starting right about the time the plague began to expand. Familiarity with clandestine-level scientific secrets is beyond my rank and authority. Especially mine, as no supernaturals, drones, clavigers, or persons with suspected excess soul are allowed access. I was working for BUR at the time, and I didn’t know anything about the Clandestine Scientific Information Act until after it had passed into law.” Professor Lyall seemed mildly annoyed by this. It wasn’t that he was particularly troubled by not knowing, in the way of Lord Akeldama, it was more that he did not approve of anything that upset the efficient running of pack life or BUR duties.

Biffy thought back to some bits of information that Lord Akeldama had once let slip. “Wasn’t the Clandestine Act linked to the last of the intelligencers before they were disbanded?”

“Under the previous potentate, yes. It also had something to do with the Great Picklemen Revolt and the disposal of patents of domestic servitude. What a mess things were in those days.”

“Well, that’s that, then.” From what Biffy could recall, very serious action had been taken and there was nothing even the hives could do to countermand the restrictions that were put into place as a consequence.

“Not entirely. All this material about Egypt is locked under a cipher, and that cipher is linked to the code name of a known provocateur. A provocateur whose loyalties were unreliable and true allegiance unknown.”

“Yes?”

“Fortunately, his is a cipher I know, without having to go up against the Clandestine Act.”

“Oh?” Biffy sat up a little straighter, intrigued.

“He went by Panattone, but his real name was Alessandro Tarabotti.”

Biffy started. “Again? My goodness, your former amour certainly had his fingers in many pies.”

“Preternaturals are like that. You should know their ways by now.”

“Of course—worse than Lord Akeldama. He has to know everyone’s business. Lady Maccon has to know everyone’s business and interfere in it.”

Professor Lyall turned to face Biffy fully on the small couch, placing his hand on the young werewolf’s knee. His calm demeanor might have been slightly shaken, although not a hair was out of place. Biffy wondered if he might persuade him to share this secret.

“The thing is, he was there. I know Sandy was there. It’s in his journals—several trips to Egypt starting in 1835. But there is nothing about what he did while he was there nor the name of his actual employer. I knew he was involved in some pretty dark dealings, but to require an official seal?”

“You think it might have something to do with the God-Breaker Plague, don’t you?”

“I think preternaturals, mummies, and the God-Breaker Plague go together better than custard and black-currant jelly. Alessandro Tarabotti was one powerful preternatural.”

Biffy wasn’t comfortable with Lyall talking about his former lover in such a reverent tone, but he kept his mind on the business in question, finding reassurance in the fact that Lyall’s hand was still on his knee. “Well, I have only one suggestion. And Egypt is not exactly his forté. But you know…”

“We should see what Lord Akeldama has to say on the matter?”

“You suggested it, not me.” Biffy tilted his head and examined Lyall’s sharp vulpine face for signs of jealousy. Unable to discern any, he stood and offered the Beta a quite unnecessary hand up. Any excuse for a touch.

The two men clapped top hats to their heads and made their way next door to call upon the vampire in question.

Lord Akeldama’s house was in an uproar. A very frazzled-looking drone opened the door a good five minutes after they had yanked on the bellpull for the third time.

“Werewolf on the loose?” asked Professor Lyall casually.

Biffy pretended to blush, remembering just such an incident a few years back when he had broken into his former master’s abode. He had written a long letter of apology but had never quite recovered from the humiliation. Lord Akeldama had been decent about the whole incident, which somehow made it worse.

“No, not so bad as that, but something untoward certainly has happened.” Biffy looked around, eyes bright with curiosity.

A gaggle of excited drones rushed through the hallway at that juncture, carrying various-sized empty jam jars. Two of the drones were wearing large brown leather gloves.

“What ho, Biffy,” called out one excitedly.

“Boots, what’s afoot?” Biffy asked.

Boots separated from the gaggle and slid to a stop before the two werewolves. “Oh, it’s all go around here! Shabumpkin let loose a lizard in the front parlor.”

“A lizard? Whatever for?”

“Just because, I suppose.”

“I see.”

“Can’t seem to catch the darn thing.”

“Big lizard is it?”

“Huge! Almost the size of my thumb. No idea where Shabumpkin got it. Cracking teal color.”

Then came a crash from said front parlor and a deal of squealing. Boots hastily excused himself and went dashing after the sound.

Biffy turned to Professor Lyall, grinning. “A lizard.”

“Massive one,” agreed the Beta, pretending seriousness.

“It’s all go at Lord Akeldama’s place.”

“As if I would have it any differently!” sang out the vampire himself, wafting in to greet them on a wave of lemon pomade and champagne cologne. “Did you hear what that silly boy let loose in my house? A reptile of all things. As if I should admit any creature born out of an egg. I don’t even like poultry. Never trust a chicken—that’s what I say. But enough about my little problems. How are you, my fuzzy darlings? To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

Lord Akeldama was wearing a black-and-white-checked jacket with black satin trousers, the beginnings of what might have been subtle and elegant evening dress. Except that he had paired this with a burnt umber waistcoat and orange spats.

He received them with every sign of pleasure and led them into his drawing room with alacrity. Once seated, however, his bright blue eyes darted back and forth between the two werewolves with a hint of suspicion. Had the opportunity presented itself, and had it not been a delicate and highly personal matter, Biffy might have tried to tell his former lord of his new sleeping arrangements. But the opportunity did not arise, nor was it likely to. One did not, after all, gossip about oneself. It was simply not done.

Lord Akeldama’s drones, however, would be pretty poor spies if they had not already informed their master as to the Beta’s new chew toy, which meant that Lord Akeldama’s odd expression was one of a man hunting for confirmation. It wounded Biffy deeply to know that he might be causing his former master emotional pain, but it had been two years, and he was tolerably assured that Lord Akeldama had moved on to better, younger, and more mortal morsels himself. Werewolves also liked to gossip about their neighbors.

As was often the case with Lord Akeldama, while he seemed to be doing a good deal of the talking, in the end Biffy and Lyall found themselves transferring to him the bulk of the information. Professor Lyall was not happy with this, but Biffy was comfortable knowing that the vampire enjoyed collecting information, but rarely did he put it to any concrete use. He was rather like a little old biddy who collected demitasse teacups that she then set upon a shelf to admire.

Biffy found himself telling Lord Akeldama all about Egypt and the expansion of the God-Breaker Plague. Lyall was convinced to tell him what he could about Alessandro Tarabotti and his trips to Egypt and how they all might be connected.

Once they had relayed all they could, the two werewolves stopped and sat, looking expectantly at the thin blond vampire as he twirled his monocle about in the air and frowned up at his cherub-covered ceiling.

Finally the vampire said, “My furry darlings, this is all very interesting indeed, but I fail to see how I could possibly be of any assistance. Or how this might connect to that tiny upset the Kingair Pack experienced. Losing a Beta. So sad. When was it? Last week or the week before?”

“Well, Dubh did say something to Lady Maccon about Alessandro,” said Lyall.

Lord Akeldama stopped twirling the monocle and sat up straighter. “And there is Matakara to consider. The hive queen wanted to meet my little puggle. And the puggle is your Alessandro’s granddaughter. You are correct to be suspicious, Dolly dear. But there are so many threads, and it is not so much that you are trying to untangle them, as weave them back into a pattern someone else already set.”

The vampire stood and began to mince around the room. “You are missing something key, and while I should hate to mention it, given his most excellent service, there is only one person who knows what happened—what really happened—to your Sandy when he was in Egypt, my dear Dolly.”

Biffy and Lyall looked at one another. They both knew to whom Lord Akeldama was referring.

Lyall said, “It’s always difficult to get him to talk.”

Biffy said, “I’ve often wondered if he could say anything more than the obligatory ‘yes, sir.’ ”

Lord Akeldama smiled, showing his teeth. “So, lovely boys, in this instance it is not me you want for information. Who knew I should ever be outclassed by a butler?”

Professor Lyall and Biffy stood, bowing politely, knowing that what Lord Akeldama said was true and that they might be facing, for the first time in their collective careers in covert inquiry, a true challenge: convincing Floote to talk.

They tracked Lady Maccon’s butler down to the kitchen where he was overseeing the menus for next week’s repasts.

Biffy had never really looked at Floote before. One didn’t, as a rule, examine one’s domestic staff too closely. They might think it interfering. Floote was the perfect servant, always there when needed, always knowing what was desired, sometimes before the sensation registered in his employers.

Professor Lyall said softly, “Mr. Floote, might we have a moment of your time?”

The butler looked up at them. A nondescript man with a nondescript face, he could outdo Professor Lyall at his own game. Biffy noticed for the first time how weather-beaten Floote’s skin was and that there were deep wrinkles about his nose and mouth and the corners of his eyes. He noticed that the butler’s shoulders, once ramrod straight, were beginning to curve with age. Floote had acted as valet to Alessandro Tarabotti, so far as Biffy knew, since Alexia’s father first appeared in the Bureau’s official registry. Floote had worked for Alexia after that. He must be, thought Biffy, well over seventy years of age! He’d never even thought to ask.