“We could raid Madame Lefoux’s contrivance chamber, but I think time is of the essence. We are werewolves, my lord. Muscling things is our specialty. If we can open it fast enough, we should be able to get him out with relatively little harm.”
“Good, because if I do damage him, my wife will never let me hear the end of it. Once she decides to speak to me again, that is. She is awfully fond of Biffy.”
“Yes, I recall. He helped with the wedding.”
“Did he really? Well, what do you know? So, on the count of three? One, two, three.”
Both men inhaled deeply and dove down to crack open the sphere.
It was constructed in two halves, joined by means of large metal ribs, screwed tightly together. From these stretched a cagelike lattice with glass in between, each square far too small for a man to squeeze through. Each werewolf grabbed at one bolt and began to unscrew it as fast as possible. Soon enough, the pressure of the air within caused the upper half of the sphere to separate from the bottom. Air began to escape and water rushed in to fill the vacancy.
Professor Lyall caught sight of Biffy’s panicked expression, his blue eyes wide in a face bushy with weeks’ worth of beard. He could do nothing to help free himself. Instead he fought the inrushing water, trying to keep his head afloat and tilted toward the air tube as long as possible.
With two bolts gone, the two werewolves wedged their bodies into the opening and began to physically push, muscles screaming, tearing the sphere apart bodily. The metal buckled, glass broke, and water filled the small compartment.
Even in all the chaos, Professor Lyall heard several out-of-context noises and, moments later, saw from the corner of his eye as the earl popped out of the sphere and began wildly thrashing about. But Lyall maintained his focus on Biffy. Pushing forward with both legs off the edge of the sphere, he dove for the drone, grabbed him around the waist, and with another tremendous push, shot upward toward the surface.
He emerged, panting, Biffy clutched against him. The young man was suspiciously limp, and Professor Lyall could think of nothing but the need to get him to shore as quickly as possible. Drawing on every last iota of his werewolf strength to give him the necessary speed, he plowed through the water, reaching the Westminster side of the Thames in record time and dragging the drone out onto the bottom of a filthy set of stone steps.
Professor Lyall was no medical doctor, but he could say with confidence that the best thing for Biffy at that moment would be to get the water out and the air into his lungs. So the werewolf stood, lifting the young man up by his feet. Lyall had to dangle him off the side of the steps; Biffy was taller than he. Then the Beta proceeded to shake the limp drone vigorously.
As he was shaking, Professor Lyall looked over at the midpoint of the river. The moon was only a few days past full, and it had risen enough for his werewolf eyes to see everything clearly. His Alpha was engaged in a splashy battle with three assailants. Much frothing of the water, yelling, and growling was involved. Lord Maccon was in his Anubis Form, his head that of a wolf but his body still human. This allowed him to tread water but still apply the trademark werewolf savaging. It seemed to be working. His opponents were human, and, while they were armed with silver knives, they were not so adept at striking and swimming as Lord Maccon.
Professor Lyall returned to his task. As the shaking was proving to be ineffective, he positioned the young man carefully on a higher step and bent over him.
He was at a loss. Werewolves breathed, but not so deeply, nor so frequently as mortals. He wasn’t convinced his next idea would even work. But, blushing furiously—after all, he and Biffy had only met casually a few times; they were hardly on terms of any intimacy—he bent forward and sealed the young man’s mouth with his. Breathing out in a powerful blast, he attempted to physically force air into the drone’s lungs. Nothing happened. So he did it again. And again.
A loud cry caused him to look up, although not stop in his attentions to young Biffy’s survival. The figure of a man, a gentleman by his top hat and tails, ran along the rail bridge, faster than was humanly possible. The figure stopped and, in one impossibly quick and smooth movement, drew a gun and fired down into the churning mass of combatants.
Professor Lyall’s protective instincts reared up. He had no doubt that the vampire, for that is what the newcomer must be, was firing silver bullets at his Alpha. Desperately, he breathed harder, hoping against hope that Biffy would revive so that he could go to his Alpha’s aid.
Behind him, Lord Maccon behaved in an unexpectedly sensible manner. Abandoning his roughhousing, the Alpha dove under the surface of the Thames and began swimming toward the steps and his Beta. He stuck his muzzle up for air only once and briefly.