Zev nodded, smiling. “Entertainment, in all its many forms.”
“Well, don’t go wild. Our clavigers have the local musical halls and theaters covered, but there are other forms of amusement. Gaming hells, brothels, molly houses.”
Zev had a sweet boyish face, open and honest and clean-shaven with big dark eyes and outrageous lashes. He could use it all to very good effect, particularly the lashes. As a result, he was remarkably effective in the worst parts of London.
Biffy’s lip curled. “Really, Professor, we are in Greenwich, not Bethnal Green!”
Lyall gave him a blank, unconcerned look. Knowing the Alpha found this annoying. Well, mostly he found it annoying – once, he had found it something more. A temptation and a taunt. I simply want to ruffle you up, Alpha, disturb you, make you feel something. “There are still docks here, Alpha. And we don’t have Riehard.”
Biffy relented. “Curse the man. The one time we really do need his particular brand of assistance.”
Lyall nodded. “When is he due back, again?” This question was directed at the pack, since Riehard had left before Lyall returned.
“Should be within the next few days,” volunteered Zev. “You know he doesn’t like to be away for more than two weeks, and always returns before full moon.”
Biffy nodded. “As he should.”
Riehard was their most elusive pack-mate. Lyall had once wondered why he even bothered with a pack at all. Until Lyall realized, with the life Riehard Tiklebark led, he needed the pack more than most. More than Channing, more than Biffy – more, even, than I. Riehard was tethered so loosely to reality, he needed a strong tether to an Alpha or he would drift and become a danger to society and himself. Lyall hoped fervently that Biffy could hold him. Riehard was many things – redhead, blond, and brunet in the space of one evening, for example – but he was also an asset.
But for now, they would have to hunt without him.
Biffy tilted his head at Lyall. “And what of you and I, my Beta?”
Lyall suppressed a smile at the claiming tone. “Visiting hours, I’m afraid, with the local gentry.”
“Oh, really, must we?”
“Not we, my lord. I believe someone requested my nose on this job.”
Biffy nodded with only a slight roll of his eyes.
Later, as they all parted ways in the hallway, Lyall turned away from the others to return to his quarters to strip and change shape. His nose was good in both forms, but better as a wolf.
Biffy stopped him with a gentle touch to his neck above his collar. “Pity. I put so much care into this knot.”
Lyall let himself love, for one brief moment, the soft caress, and then fled upstairs. He almost welcomed the pain of the shift, for it might distract from the pain of his memories.
* * *
Lyall sniffed the swaddling clothes of both infants. Nothing particularly unique stood out from the expected scent of human nursling, except that they were not at all similar. Wherever the children had originated, it wasn’t the same household, or workhouse, or orphanage.
So, Lyall took a deep breath of Robin’s blanket, stuck his nose to the cold wet street, and ran out into the night.
He had absolutely no luck with that trail – it stopped close to the pack house at a nearby street corner in a mess of horse and leather. No doubt the infant had arrived by carriage.
That in and of itself was interesting, as it meant whoever brought him had more money than one might expect from someone bent on abandoning a child. Robin had not, therefore, been abandoned, but instead intentionally delivered.
The redheaded toddler, whom, for lack of another option, they were calling Rosie, had a longer scent trail. Hers went well towards the main village of Blackheath, which was a good sign, as it meant she might be local. If she’d originated in London central, finding her relations could be well-nigh impossible.
Lyall spent the next few hours in fur. He was small for a wolf, lean and vulpine. He faded easily into the background shadows, dismissed more often as a stray dog or very large fox than a fearsome werewolf.
He paced the streets of the middle classes first, sniffing for anything that might remind him of the scent of either child. Then he went to the poorer alleys and waysides.
He thought, at one point, that he caught a whiff of Rosie at an abandoned warehouse, but there was no one there and nobody inside. Still, he made note of the location, as it might be worth setting a claviger to watch the place come daylight.
CHAPTER SIX
A Crisis of Nasal Proportions
Biffy really wished he had Riehard in residence. No doubt that particular werewolf would have nipped down to the Crown and Sceptre and returned a few hours later with all their questions answered. Biffy and Riehard had always gotten along well. Riehard had a gift for gathering information and Biffy had a gift for loving it. Some might call Biffy a gossip, but only lesser intellects.
Without Riehard, Biffy had to put his faith in Rafe – a shaky proposition. Oh, he knew why Lyall had chosen Rafe and Hemming for pub detail. Hemming was for jocularity and show. And Rafe was for appearances. Rafe was their most (frankly) common-looking pack mate. He had a rough-and-tumble air not helped by the fact that he’d been metamorphosed with two days’ worth of beard and no inclination to fix it. It gave him, Biffy felt, a sadly plebeian aura. Rafe wasn’t as good as Riehard at extracting information, because he tended to come over friendly and start singing bawdy tunes and lose track of things. But he was better than nothing, so Biffy waved him off to the pub, resigned to the fact that at least it wasn’t Channing. Channing never did anyone any favors at pubs.
Then Biffy’s own trials must commence.
Visiting the gentry was a necessary evil that he’d already conducted the day after moving. Biffy was no slouch where the observation of proper etiquette was concerned. The rules were very strict on the matter of a lord taking up residence in a new neighborhood. The fact that said lordling came complete with a pack of werewolves was neither here nor there to the necessity of paying calls. So, calls he had paid. All of them.
The gentry of Blackheath proved itself by and large to be the type to have opted for Greenwich over North London. Which is to say, more relaxed and also a great deal less fashionable than was Biffy’s routine society. They had a great deal more concern for the state of the whitebait fisheries than for the arrangement of their hair. Biffy tried not to hold this against them. Although, really, how hard is it to find yourself a decent barber once a month? One must forgive both the sins of the fish and flesh, I suppose, when living in Greenwich. Needless to say, he did not relish the idea of having to pay another round of calls again so soon.
Nevertheless, he did as Lyall bid – making polite inquiries that might lead the various mildly confused ladies and gentlemen (or better, their staff) to mention the unexpected absence of a child from their household.
Nothing.
He returned to the house for midnight dinner to find the others equally fruitless and the babies in question abed. Thank heavens Mrs Whybrew seemed to feel it best to keep them to a daylight schedule, despite being fostered by a pack of werewolves.
Dinner was eaten in ravenous silence and then filled with reports on what had not been found. After this, the pack split again and went back on the hunt.
Visiting hours had ended and there were no balls or parties Biffy might attend. So, he and Lyall joined forces to amble about the town, not really hoping for anything, just as something to do.
“That warehouse where you think you caught the scent, will you show me?”
Lyall nodded.
It was a quiet, companionable walk. This was something Biffy had always liked about Lyall. He could make civilized conversation with the best of them, but when he had nothing to say, he said nothing.
Biffy couldn’t help but notice, however, that the good professor wore his greatcoat buttoned all the way up to the throat. Which meant it was likely he wor
e nothing underneath. Biffy tried to be more worried than intrigued. As a rule, if a werewolf had limited control over his wolf form, he might opt for less clothing over more on any given evening, in case of shift. But Professor Lyall was noted for his control, so the greatcoat meant that Lyall was anticipating trouble.
This was something to which it had taken Biffy nearly a decade to acclimate. Knowing that the gentleman next to you was, essentially, naked could play hell with the sensibilities of any dandy, let alone one who rather fancied the nude male form. Biffy had learned to manage it with equanimity. But now he realized he was not yet there when it came to Professor Lyall’s nude male form.
They arrived at the warehouse in question, and Lyall proved himself unexpectedly adept with a lock pick. Inside, the place was entirely empty and cleaner than one might expect, with a raised platform at one end, like a small stage of some kind.
They sniffed about, but the scents were muddled and the place too plain to offer much beyond smells in the way of information. Although Professor Lyall had a good eye.
“It does appear that a group is assembling here regularly. See there, the mark of a door recently and frequently pushed open?” Lyall gestured to scrape marks on the dirt floor.
Biffy investigated the small stage. It smelled heavily of vinegar, obvious even to his inferior human olfactory sense. Perhaps this place was previously used for pickling operations? Or a cider press? “After-hours bawdy theater?” he suggested.
“Perhaps a political gathering place?” Lyall stood back and watched while Biffy took to the stage.
Biffy grinned. “As if there’s a difference.”
Professor Lyall gave a quiet chuckle.
Finding nothing of interest, Biffy jumped down and rejoined his Beta. “I can’t really spare anyone right now, but I’ll set someone to watch the place during the day tomorrow.”
Lyall frowned. “What do you mean, can’t spare anyone?”
Biffy winced. Admission time. He hated to be humiliated in Lyall’s estimation, but it wouldn’t do to have a Beta out of the loop either.
“You met with the clavigers earlier this evening.”
Lyall nodded.
“Not very many of them, are there?” Biffy kept his expression blank.
They walked out of the warehouse.
Lyall locked the door after them, fine hands nimble with the heavy bolt. “Half dozen? I assumed some had already left about their business.” He wiped down the metal with a handkerchief and a bit of lemon oil from a vial in his coat pocket.
Smart. Lemon to disguise the musk of wolf. “No more than six.”
They headed back towards the new pack house.
There was a long pause while Lyall contemplated numbers and, no doubt, how to ask the obvious question politely. When he finally got around to it, his voice was soft and kind. “Why so few, Alpha?”
Biffy looked at his hands. Once so fine and clean and gloved. He never wore gloves anymore, and his knuckles always seemed to be smudged or scratched. “No new petitions since I took charge, and we lost over half when Lord Maccon retired.”
“But they know you have Anubis Form?”
Biffy nodded, miserable. How humiliating had that been? To have to show the assembled clavigers that he was capable of making new werewolves. To prove himself with that grotesque wolf’s head on a human body.
He whispered it to his hands. “They still left. I couldn’t hold them.”
Lyall gave him an unreadable look. “Their loss.”
Biffy stayed silent.
A gentle hand to his wrist stopped him in the street.
“You’re afraid the pack will start to abandon you, like the clavigers did?”
Biffy said nothing, only lowered his eyes. I have one job to do now. One charge. Them. Hold them together. Keep them sane. How can I keep my wolves when I can’t even keep my humans?
Lyall’s voice was low and urgent. “This pack has been through this before – transitioning Alphas. Well, most of us have. The Alpha isn’t all that holds us together, we also legitimately like each other. We’re family. Mostly.”
“And I’m like the evil step-wolf from some contorted fairy tale.”
Lyall gave a small tight smile. “Which one of us is Snow White?”
“Ulric, of course. Zev is the little matchstick girl.”
Lyall chuckled. “And who is Sleeping Beauty?”
This was kind of a fun game. “Definitely Channing. We all live in hope some day he’ll wake up and grow a personality.”
Lyall nodded. “And Cinderella?”
Biffy looked away. “You of course, professor.” Always running after dust mites and putting things to rights. Always tidying the world around you to exacting specifications. Always wishing for something more. Then, before Lyall could grow uncomfortable, he added, “There have been no formal applications, Lyall. Not a single one. The clavigers we do have were recruits. They’re all after patronage, not immortality. No one trusts me to metamorphose them successfully.”
“Or perhaps London has changed and immortality has lost its luster?” Lyall was trying to be kind.
Biffy shook his head. He couldn’t believe that. Surely, other Alphas had clavigers who wanted to try for bite. “It’s me, the way I look, the way I am. No one trusts me to be a strong Alpha.”
Lyall closed his eyes and shook his head. “Fools, to judge so much by appearances. You developed Anubis Form early. And you have always shifted forms quickly. And you fight smart. Those are true signs of Alpha strength. Not to be diminished by the fact that your collar points are high and your waistcoats tight.”
“Judge not the werewolf by the starch of his apparel but by the speed of its removal?” Biffy suggested.
Lyall chuckled. As he was supposed to.
Biffy returned to being serious. “It’s not easy with only six clavigers. I’ve been thinking of hiring more footmen and a valet or two. I mean to say, Riehard doesn’t need anyone, but we should really pay someone to put up with Channing, Adelphus, Ulric, and, well, me. We’re a bit too demanding for clavigers.”
Lyall nodded. “I noticed some of the pack were dressing far better than when I left. Your influence?”
“I believe it’s more that my presence gives them permission. Ulric now openly reads the Paris fashion papers. Last week, Phelan and Channing actually got into an argument about the old-fashioned nature of a mathematical cravat tie. Not that the others haven’t struggled to improve themselves as well under my guidance.” And occasional prodding.
“An Alpha leads by example and you care deeply about appearances.”
“I do.”
“Perhaps that’s why some of the clavigers left.”
“They think me shallow?”
“No, they no longer fit with the pack. Or no longer felt that they did.”
Alpha and Beta had reached the front door of their new home at this juncture. Biffy pushed inside the house, uncomfortable with continuing this conversation where others might overhear. But knowing, now that he’d started, he must tell Lyall everything and unburden himself of all his flaws.
The butler rushed forward to take their coats. Well, Biffy’s coat. Taking Lyall’s wouldn’t be politic.
“Rumpet, bring two large glasses of brandy up to my chambers, please. Professor Lyall and I have pack business to discuss. We are not to be disturbed.” If he talked quietly and quickly inside the confines of his own bedroom, the servants wouldn’t be able to eavesdrop. A werewolf likely could, but the rest of the pack was still out hunting.
Lyall didn’t seem concerned by the intimacy of the invitation. Likely, he understood the need for discretion rather than any possible implication of indiscretion.
Nevertheless, Biffy self-consciously waited while his guest selected a seat in his private quarters. He was oddly crushed when Lyall opted for the chair next to the fireplace rather than the small settee in front of it. Apparently, Lyall was ensuring that th
ey not share a piece of furniture.
His Beta sat and sipped his brandy. Waiting.
Biffy took the settee, lifted his own glass, and stared contemplatively at the amber liquid within.
Biffy liked his room well enough to live in it, although it was not what he once might have wished. Its appearance was all compromise, balance between his very exacting standards and his animalistic nature. He’d found, once a werewolf, that a certain inherent clumsiness in human form (regardless of the possibility of becoming a lunatic beast) was disastrous to delicate furniture. Fine spindly legs and fussy details were simply not werewolf-compatible. It was as though, while he had not grown more muscle, he had lost some gracefulness of form and replaced it with concentrated strength. His bones and tendons were more solid and stiff. Forced to rely upon heavy thick chairs, solid stable tables, and wrought iron, Biffy strove to balance this clunkiness with delicacy in the matter of light, airy curtains and cream upholstery. His bedroom was, therefore, an exercise in contradictions. His dark chairs and tables were solid mahogany but beautifully carved and rounded wherever possible, glassy with polish, and spread with filmy muslin cloth. His settee was low and stable and made of thick, resilient velvet, but in an elegant pale sage color.
No doubt Lyall saw all these differing elements, took them in through those measuring hazel eyes. Certainly, his Beta assessed them with that wickedly sharp mind and saw that part of Biffy that was at war with himself. The solid iron bed, its circular decorative elements more like gears or compasses than flowers, the canopy over the head taller and wider than any human would require. The bed coverlet was velvet again, striped cream and gold, but chosen with durability in mind rather than warmth. Biffy no longer needed warmth, and though he rarely slept well, he was still a werewolf – during daylight, he always slept solid.
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