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Alexia tuckedthe blanket, one of Lord Akeldama’s pink brocade shawls, more securely about her daughter.
    Lord Maccon and Lady Kingair both looked at Alexia. Lord Maccon, it ought to be noted, was wearing another pink brocade shawl wrapped securely about his waist. It looked like a skirt from the East Indies. Alexia supposed her husband, being Scottish, was accustomed to wearing skirts. And he did have very nice knees. Scotsmen, she had occasion to observe, often did have nice knees. Perhaps that was why they insisted upon kilts.
    “Oh, don’t tell me I never told you about it?”
    “You never told
me
, my little robin’s egg.” Lord Akeldama waved his closed feathered fan about in the air, inscribing the symbol he saw before him.
    “Well, the ankh translates to ‘eternal life’ or so Champollion says. And there we see eternal life destroyed. What do you think it might mean? Preternaturals, of course. Me.”
    Lord Akeldama pursed his lips. “Perhaps. But sometimes the ancients inscribed a hieroglyphic broken to keep the symbol from leaking off the stone and into reality. When inscribed for that reason, the meaning of the hieroglyphic does not alter.”
    “But who would nae want immortality?” asked Sidheag Maccon. She had pestered her great-great-great-grandfather for years to be made into a werewolf.
    “Not everyone wants to live forever,” Alexia said. “Take Madame Lefoux, for example.”
    Lord Maccon brought them back around to the point. “So Dubh has gone missing, in Egypt? What do you want me to do about it? Isn’t this a matter for the dewan?”
    Lady Kingair cocked her head. “You are family. Ithought you might make some inquiries without having tae involve official channels.”
    Lord Maccon exchanged looks with his wife. Alexia glanced significantly at Lord Akeldama’s massive gilded cuckoo clock that dominated one corner of the room.
    “We should be getting on,” he said.
    “I shall be fine without you, my love. I will take the train. Nothing unpleasant ever happens on the train,” assured his wife.
    Lord Maccon did not look reassured. Nevertheless, it was clear he was more concerned by troubles among werewolves than summons from vampires.
    “Very well, my dear.” He turned to Lady Kingair. “We had better adjourn to BUR headquarters. We will need the assets only the Bureau can provide.”
    Lady Kingair nodded.
    “Randolph.”
    “I’m with you, my lord. But I prefer to travel a little more formally.”
    “Very well. We shall meet you there.” At which Lord Maccon swooped down upon his wife, one hand firmly occupied in keeping the shawl secure about his midriff. “Please, be cautious, my love, train or no train.”
    Alexia leaned into his embrace. Uncaring for the watching eyes about them—everyone there was family, after all—she touched his chin with one hand and arched up into his kiss. Prudence, accustomed to such activity, did not move in her mother’s lap. Conall disappeared out into the hallway to remove the pink brocade and change form.
    Mere moments later, a shaggy wolf head peeked back into the room and barked insistently. With a start, Lady Kingair excused herself to follow him.
    “My hallway,” remarked Lord Akeldama, “has never before seen such
lively
action. And
that
, my sugarplums, is
saying
something!”
    Lady Maccon left her daughter asleep in her adopted father’s drawing room. She changed out of her evening gown and into a visiting dress of ecru over a bronze skirt with brown velvet detailing. It was perhaps too unadorned for a vampire queen, but it was eminently appropriate for public transport. She commandeered one of the drones to assist her with the buttons, seeing as Biffy—her
lady’s valet
, as she liked to call him—was busy with his hats. She tucked Ethel into a brown velvet reticule, checking to ensure the gun was fully loaded with sundowner bullets. Alexia detested the very idea that she might have to actually
use
her gun. Like any well-bred