CHAPTER FIVE

Decorating for Christmas

The drawing room was only slightly less chaotic than it had been the evening before. Apparently, the pack had no intention of keeping their new additions confined to the safe anonymity of the upstairs nursery.

Despite the fact that, under ordinary circumstances, everyone ought to be at breakfast, the pack were all in the drawing room with Mrs Whybrew and the (now three) babies. Quite apart from everything else, this was startling because werewolves, as a rule, never missed a meal.

Well, to be fair, Channing was eating with the clavigers. But no one thought it was a good idea to invite him along at the best of times. To anything. For any reason. Let alone a room full of infants.

Lyall went to speak with said clavigers, while Biffy went to supervise the rest of the pack.

Hemming and Rafe were on the floor, playing with an infant apiece.

Their newest addition was of the walking variety of child, if the odd I’m-about-to-fall waddle was anything to go by. She, and Biffy had to take it on faith that she was a she because there were no other indicators, could move remarkably fast for someone who clearly hadn’t been doing it for very long. The toddler’s mode of locomotion had Biffy legitimately worried over the efficaciousness of bipedal motion in future generations.

Quinn was chasing after her, his quizzical brow lined even more than usual. Apparently, he was terrified that she would fall (a legitimate concern with gravity around), or bump into something (which, given the state of one of Biffy’s Wedgwood urns, had already occurred).

Biffy looked with mixed feelings upon the urn. It had once been a Westmoreland opal milk glass fluted vase with flower details, imported at great expense and with much fanfare by a certain blond vampire for Biffy’s fortieth birthday. It was, however, more to Lord Akeldama’s taste than his own. But one did not reject a gift from a vampire – quite apart from anything else, such trinkets were often priceless. Well, no use crying over spilled milk glass. Ha-ha.

Biffy stuck his head back out into the hallway and yelled for the butler.

Rumpet the Second rushed up.

Rumpet the Second was a second cousin to the pack’s previous butler, Rumpet the Original. Or possibly Premier Rumpet, if one was feeling Roman about one’s butlers. Rumpet the Original had retired happily some ten years earlier, on a generous stipend, to a small hamlet called Merkin-on-Tow, or Smirkall-near-Boot or some such rot, where he had become rather well known for his prize chrysanthemums. Every year, he sent the pack a large bunch of his own variant, called the Scarlet Moon. Which Biffy appreciated even if the flowers were most decidedly not scarlet, but more a kind of puce.

Their new Rumpet had arrived shortly after the first batch of chrysanthemums, on his cousin’s recommendation, proving himself to look and act remarkably like the first Rumpet, only younger and slightly larger and sporting a pencil-thin mustache. He was occasionally referred to by Adelphus (who thought rather too much of his own wit) as Rumpet Revisited.

Regardless of moniker, he was an excellent butler (despite the unfortunate mustache) who had seen them through Alpha transition and subsequent relocation with the unflappably stiff demeanor upon which they had all come to rely. Biffy had even learned to tolerate the mustache. Rumpet had been visiting a sick aunt the evening prior, but was apparently now caught up on the particulars of their involuntary multiple paternity, if his long-suffering expression was anything to go by.

“Ah, Rumpet. Be a good man and have one of the maids clean up the broken glass in our drawing room, if you would be so kind.”

“More broken, my lord? Right away, sir.”

“And we’d better clear out or elevate the other valuables in the room. If it is to be used for the entertainment of children...” Biffy allowed his displeasure to show.

Rumpet quite agreed with this unspoken commentary on the misuse of a perfectly civilized drawing room. His own eyebrow was minutely elevated in judgment. “Sir.”

“We must allow them their fun.”

“If you say so, sir.” Rumpet slipped off to see about maids and anti-child drawing room fortifications, and Biffy turned back to the scene before him.

Phelan, Zev, and Ulric were off to one side in the position of commentator, observer, and judge respectively, but they seemed more entertained here than Biffy had ever seen them at the theater.

Biffy took a breath. “What on earth?”

“Alpha!” said Adelphus, “We got landed with another one.”

“So I see.”

“Same exact style as last time. Simply wrapped in a blanket on the step, poor little lady.” Phelan, bless him, seemed to be willing to provide details.

“This one doesn’t spit up near as much as the other,” added Ulric.

“Thank heavens for small mercies.” Zev raised a palm upwards reverently.

“She seems recovered from her ordeal.” Biffy did not let any emotion color his tone. Merely made a show of watching the toddler gyrate about the room.

“She has a lot of energy,” said Quinn fervently as he chased after. “We thought we’d run it out of her.”

“Oh, we did, did we?” Biffy crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. No doubt any one of them could catch the little girl if needed – after all, they were supernaturally fast.

At which juncture the toddler in question dashed past Biffy and out into the hallway, where she crashed into the legs of Major Channing, who was collecting his hat from his claviger and preparing to depart for BUR.

Everyone gasped.

Channing looked down. Very far down. Channing was one of the tallest in the pack.

“Yes?” He frowned at the infant. Channing had, under most circumstances, a decidedly overwhelming effect on females of all species. Until he opened his mouth, of course.

Mrs Whybrew, who’d followed the child to the doorway, stood with her hand to her mouth and her gaze fixed on, most likely, one of the best-looking men she’d ever seen. Or would ever see.

Biffy swiveled to watch but did not relax his stance.

The toddler stopped and stared up, transfixed.

Frankly, Biffy could understand the sentiment. Channing was incredibly easy on the eyes. Lanky but muscled, with crystal-clear blue eyes and pale blond hair. He was like some winter god, Jack Frost perhaps.

If only he didn’t also shoot first in the firing squad of premier pompous twats.

“Oh, my heavens,” breathed Mrs Whybrew.

It was likely everyone expected Channing to shake the child off his leg in the manner in which one dismisses a tiny dog or a shoe full of rocks.

Biffy was prepared to intervene, as Alpha, if the man turned violent. Channing was difficult at the best of times, and didn’t particularly like to be touched, not even by his ladybirds. (Biffy preferred not to contemplate how that even worked.)

The toddler was now clinging to Channing’s well-pressed trouser leg, wrinkling it something awful, and there was a good chance sticky finger smudges were also being transferred. (If Biffy knew anything about children, which he did.)

Channing bent down.

The pack held its collective breath.

Biffy relaxed his arms and prepared to shift and strike, or simply place himself in front of a blow. He was, after all, immortal, and he could take the hit.

He could also take Channing, for all the pack Gamma outweighed him by half again as much.

But Channing only slid two fingers through the little girl’s mop of curly red hair.

A look of profound pain crossed Channing’s impassively beautiful face but was gone again so quickly, Biffy wondered if it were a trick of the gas lighting. Or if he had imagined it.

Before anything else could happen, Biffy reached down and scooped the child up, carrying her back inside the drawing room.

Channing left, the front door closing quietly behind him.

Biffy said to the recovering Mrs Whybrew, “It would be best to keep the children away from Major Channing, if at all possible. He is a busy man. In fact, might we avoid the hallways as a general rule? And now, if you wouldn’t mind taking the three in hand, madam? My pack requires feeding and a few words on standards of behavior appropriate to drawing rooms, it would seem.”

He gave what he hoped was a commanding look at the men standing, sitting, and, in the case of Hemming, crawling about the room.

“We are all late for our breakfast. The clavigers have already had theirs. If you would, gentlemen? I require tea.” He turned away, hoping they would follow him.

They did.

* * *

Biffy must have said something cutting, because Lyall looked up, shortly after Channing left, to see the rest of the pack troop into breakfast without babies and with very cowed expressions.

Lyall didn’t think this was the result of any serious discipline. For one thing, no one was bruised or bleeding. For another, Biffy wasn’t that kind of Alpha. Thank heavens.

Said Alpha seemed more resigned than tense. Lyall hoped Biffy was prepared to stick faithfully to the plan they’d concocted over cravat-tying earlier.

Lyall resisted touching the beautiful knot at his own throat. He certainly wasn’t thinking about those long, fine fingers caressing his neck. Not thinking about it at all.

Lyall turned his attention, very thoroughly, to his breakfast kippers and dried sprats.

Rumpet the Second had somehow known, with that instinct of all good butlers, that Lyall was one of those rare werewolves who preferred fish. Most were of the sausage and bacon persuasion. Well, thought Lyall, amused at his own whimsy, I’ve always been one for both sausage and fish. As the saying goes. But at breakfast – kippers. Perhaps the previous Rumpet had told the new one of his eccentricity. Or perhaps there was such a thing as a collective butler memory for such niceties. Regardless, a generous helping of kippers had been placed before Lyall’s seat along with a most excellent pot of tea.

Not for the first time, Lyall marveled at the fine line between butler and Beta.

Lyall sipped his tea reverently. My, but I missed good British brew.

The subdued silence didn’t last, because the requisite mounds of sausages, slabs of ham, boiled eggs, rump steak pie, and rolled tongue soon distracted the pack from prior chastisement and encouraged conversation in the way that hearty food often does, after an initial pause to inhale first.

The dialogue focused mainly on their newest additions, as might be expected. Lyall decided to let the pack hash things out for a bit before encouraging his Alpha to lay down the letter of the law.

Biffy seemed to agree with this approach. The Alpha sat back and sipped his own tea while the pack got ever more excited around him.

Lyall worried Biffy wasn’t eating enough. He offered him the platter of kippers.

Biffy gave him a funny look.

Adelphus started them off in a roundabout way by clearing his throat and announcing, “I believe we must acquire a Christmas tree. You know, of the kind that Queen Victoria always insists upon. As the Germans have it.”

“Why on earth?” Biffy wanted to know.

“It’s what people with children do,” Adelphus told his boiled egg firmly, not quite able to look Biffy in the eye.

“Oh, is it indeed?” Biffy was not going to make this easy on them.

“Of course it is. Makes the place more homey.” Hemming grinned.

“And smell nice.” Quinn was hopeful.

“Oh! We could put evergreen boughs all down the banisters. Saw that done at a ball once, very festive.” Hemming’s blue eyes started to shine with enthusiasm.

“Indeed? I don’t recall any of you so keen to decorate when it was curtains and carpets.” Biffy arched his eyebrows. But Lyall could tell that the Alpha was being playful, not critical.

As if Biffy will ever brook interference from this pack on the matter of interior decorating. The choice of purple curtains alone shows he did not consult with them. Very daring, given our already contentious vampire relations.

“Should we mull cider?” asked Rafe. “Or maybe have Cook mull cider? Should I ask Rumpet? Rumpet would know. Rumpet!”

“Wassail?” suggested Ulric.

“Do humans still brew wassail?” Zev frowned.

“Aren’t cider and wassail the same thing?” That was Phelan, under his breath in genuine confusion, looking at Lyall. The moniker “Professor” meant most of the pack turned to the Beta in times of verbal or cultural confusion, despite the fact that his particular area of expertise was in the procreative habits of Ovis aries. Not, as Phelan seemed to currently believe, the finer niceties of hot, fruity seasonal beverages.

“Is brewing even the right word? I thought wassail was… sort of… steeped.” Quinn stabbed a sausage thoughtfully.

“Like tea?” Adelphus sipped his.

“Sirs?” Rumpet slid into the room.

“Rumpet, please see if you can lay on some wassail, or maybe hot cider,” instructed Rafe. “Or possibly that wine they do with the spices. What’s it called?”

“Sir?” Rumpet looked in confusion at Biffy.

Biffy shook his head a little and rolled his eyes.

“For the children, Rumpet,” explained Adelphus, as if this should be perfectly obvious.

The unflappable Rumpet appeared rather flapped at that statement. “But sir! I’m tolerably certain infants should not imbibe beverages of the inebriatory variety. Terribly bad for the constitution.”

“Oh, not to drink, my man, simply to make the place smell nice.” Rafe’s brown eyes crinkled in amusement.

Feeling that this was unfair on the butler and tantamount to teasing the household staff, which was the very height of rudeness, Lyall was moved to interject, “Perhaps you and the servants would like to partake yourselves?”

Rumpet gave him a grateful look. “If you insist, sir, that’s very thoughtful and festively minded of you. But I shouldn’t like it to become a habit.”

“Oh, Rumpet, don’t be silly, this is only for the holidays.” Zev seemed on board with the general scheme to festoon the household in vegetative matter and fermented-fruit smells.

Lyall was pleased to see him engaged. Zev had confessed that he’d been feeling a little forlorn of late. Apparently, the idea of holiday celebrations cheered up everyone, even werewolves.

“And there’s always the clavigers, they’ll drink anything.” Adelphus pointed out the obvious.

Actors.

Rumpet looked mollified but no less confused.

“And we’ll need evergreens as well,” said Rafe. “Maybe even a tree.”

Rumpet’s mouth twisted. “That’s awfully European, sir.”

“And what about a Yule log?” Ulric added.

“For the nippers. Think of the nippers.” Hemming again.

“It’s your drawing room, sirs.”

Biffy stood at this juncture, which meant everyone else fell silent.

Rumpet looked grateful.

Lyall could almost hear him thinking, Finally, a voice of reason.

“Why don’t we go easy for now, Rumpet? Just some spiced and roasted apples for the pudding course at supper later tonight – that will help make the house smell nice. The evergreen boughs seem like a good idea regardless, something to celebrate the season. I’ll collect some ribbon to tie them up with, from the hat shop.”

Lyall smiled to himself. For certainly Biffy would never let anyone else choose the color of ribbons meant to drape over his banisters.

“For the rest, we shall see how things lie next week, hum? It’s not Christmas yet, after all. Thank you for your time, Rumpet. Perhaps a little more tea?”

Relieved that things had been made clear by the Alpha, Rumpet bowed. “Certainly, my lord. Right away.” He practically dashed from the room.

“Are we keeping them? I think we should keep them.” Hemming finished his breakfast and pushed the plate away so he could lean forward intently on his elbows, blue eyes pleading.

Lyall considered reprimanding him for posture. But really, why bother? Hemming wasn’t going to change the habit of two lifetimes.

Biffy arched a perfect brow. “Keeping the pine boughs? Of course we are. Well, until they dry out.”

“The nippers!” said Hemming.

“Please, Alpha, can’t we keep them? They’re so cute!” Quinn tried to look and sound winsome. On a quizzically browed six-foot-plus werewolf, this was as odd as a snake wearing shoes.

Biffy rolled his eyes. “We can’t simply keep two babies, even if someone did leave them on our doorstep.”

A chorus of why nots met that statement.

Biffy’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not done. And I’ll hear no more on it!”

Crestfallen looks all around. Even from Ulric, whom Lyall had thought aloof in the matter of infant impositions.

Lyall sighed, and went to provide support, like any good Beta. “See here, gentlemen. They must belong to someone, you understand? They need to be returned to their rightful owners, or what have you.”

In an effort to move them on, he added, “The Alpha and I have discussed this matter” – a slight inclination of Biffy’s head and Lyall continued – “and we feel it necessary to spend tonight hunting for the parental relations. Most of you can be spared from your regular duties for one night. I’ve drawn up a list of places around Greenwich worthy of our attention. Also, I think it best if two of us attend service this evening. It had better be you, Adelphus and Phelan.”

Lyall chose them because, quite frankly, they cut the best leg and were the most toff of the pack. Adelphus could come over too arrogant, but he looked a fine dandy in his Sunday best, and was almost regal when sitting in a pew.

Lyall might be recently returned to London, but he’d decades with this pack under other Alphas, and both Adelphus and Phelan knew (without his having to tell them) why they’d been chosen to pray first.

“If you can, after, try to track down this other religious group that the pastor was muttering about? I want the lay of the land. How they react to you two, as werewolves, will give a good indication of general attitude. Let’s hope we aren’t dealing with one of those militant types that likes to stand on top of pulpits and throw things. So unseemly. If we have a Dark Ages issue, or worse, some kind of Sundower sympathizers, better we know it now.”

Looking slightly more grave, the two nodded.

Lyall continued. “Hemming and Rafe, you’re touring the taverns and pubs. I know, quite the hardship. But try to remember we are after information. Anything pertaining to missing children. Any other abandoned infants turning up? Or is it just our doorstep? Ask after the history of this house. Perhaps it used to be an orphanage or hospital or charitable organization before we moved in.

“Quinn, I’ve got you down for tradesmen and the like. Grocers, butchers, and so forth. Ask Cook who has our accounts, visit them first. Then do the others. Wave the carrot of a possible switch to encourage goodwill. Ulric, you’re on the high-end stuff, jewelers, pawn shops, dressmakers. Remember we’re after information, not pocket watches. No, you can’t draw on the pack accounts, so don’t bother to ask. And Zev, you know where that leaves you?”

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.