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 wore 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 they 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.

It is all the pretty things that I wanted, draped over all the durable and ugly things that I have become.

“So,” said Lyall at last. “Tell me, Alpha.”

“Alpha?”

A small huff of amusement met that. “Tell me, Biffy.”

“I can’t hold them together. Whatever is needed of an Alpha, I don’t think I have enough of it. They’re always arguing with me. They don’t trust my judgment. It’s no wonder the clavigers left me. Without them, I feel like the pack trusts me even less. I’m too young, too new at this. Don’t most Alphas spend decades as loners first?”

“You are not the type of man to be a loner.”

“No, I’m not.” I’d never survive. Not that I couldn’t fight. Simply that I’d have nothing to fight for. Perhaps that’s part of this as well. I’m afraid that I need the pack more than the pack needs me. Biffy drank the last of his brandy. It burned his throat but did nothing more. The comforting looseness of intoxication was no longer an option. Well, there was formaldehyde – drink enough of that and even a werewolf turned squiffy. But the last thing he needed as a few-months-old Alpha was to lose control.

Lyall put his still-full brandy glass down on the table between them. Then in one of those lightning-quick movements that Biffy had learned to anticipate from the supernatural set, Lyall shifted to sit next to him on the settee.

I forgot he could move so fast. Much of Lyall’s survival and his fighting skills came from his speed. Lord Maccon once said he knew of none faster, and that had Professor Lyall been a big enough wolf, and of the right temperament, he would have been the foremost Alpha in the land. But, of course, Lyall was neither. So, his speed was made to serve a pack, and serve them it had for hundreds of years.

Biffy knew agility was some of his own Alpha skill set as well. As if by swindling them both in the size department when compared to other werewolves, the gods of immortality had deemed Biffy and Lyall worthy of great speed and cunning instead. So far, Biffy had only had to fight a few times, but he practiced a lot. He’d decided, after defeating Channing, he’d take what he’d been given and learn to use it. Perhaps Lyall can teach me some of his tricks.

Lyall moved closer until they were almost touching, side by side on the small couch. Both of them watched the play of the fire rather than each other.

Biffy turned his gaze, almost desperately, to his empty glass.

Lyall reached out and took it out of his hands, setting it aside.

Then those fine gentle fingers were pressing insistently on Biffy’s cheek, turning his head, tilting Biffy’s face until he was forced to look into serious sand-colored eyes.

Sad eyes. Always. Even when Lyall was smiling, or plotting, or fighting, or solving some pack riddle or another, his eyes were always a little sad. Only a few times had Biffy seen them wide and full of wonder, almost but not quite joyful. And I most certainly shouldn’t be thinking about that right now, with my bed right there.

Biffy lowered his eyelashes, collected himself. He recounted the twenty perfect cravat knots in his head. He contemplated the button choices he’d been offered for his next waistcoat. I think I’ll go with the milk glass. I should have James contact my tailor with that decision. He collected himself.

Lyall’s fingers did not stroke Biffy’s skin – there was no caress to his touch, only insistence and comfort.

“Tell me.”

Biffy stayed silent and turned his face into the hand, seeking more. It instantly withdrew.

Biffy flinched. “I was rather hoping you could tell me.” He does not want me anymore. Not in that way.

Lyall sighed. He pushed Biffy back against the corner of the settee and then turned himself around and rested against him. His back was lean and warm on Biffy’s chest.

It was a pose of lovers. A way they had sat in the past. Only, they were both dressed, and this felt more like friendship and necessary intimacy than lust.

Biffy took it, though. He was embarrassingly grateful for whatever scraps he was offered. He held Lyall close, but not tightly, and tried not to breathe in his scent. Not because he didn’t want to – because he did want to. Too much. Lyall clearly did not desire that. Did not desire him. Oh, but it wasn’t easy.

Lyall was offering him comfort without obligation, and connection without expectation. He had arranged them to be close but only so that Biffy would not have to look directly at him while he confessed his deficiencies. No Alpha could bear that, to look into sympathetic eyes.

He knows I am crumbling and he wants to help. He knows it is now impossible for me to expose any deficiency. He is making it so I can do so with support but not confrontation.

Biffy wondered if Lyall had done this for any of his previous Alphas. No doubt Biffy was not so different from them in matters of guilt and confession. If I was made to lead and to take risks with my actions, my greatest fear, by default, must be failure. Well, that and any change that I myself have not chosen.

I guess I really am an Alpha.

So, Biffy held his love against him, not too tight. And encouraged into release by his Beta’s easy acceptance, Biffy spoke of all the terrors of the young and responsible when the weight of a broken dream is upon them.

* * *

Lyall lay motionless in his Alpha’s undemanding embrace. He had instigated it, but Biffy had not repelled him. Unfortunately, he had not drawn him closer, either. His Alpha’s hands, laced together, rested open and still and undemanding on Lyall’s chest.

He needs to tell me what’s wrong. He needs to articulate all of it so that I can understand and help. Lyall waited, keeping his breath even.

He has the charisma to hold this pack. There’s no reason the clavigers should have left us. Unless it is that they can sense how he doubts himself.

Lyall could tell that Biffy needed many things from him. But principally, he needed guidance towards a better understanding of Alpha nature and pack structure. Only then could they come up with a cure for this thing that was eating away at what was left of Biffy’s soul. The other need, Lyall’s own, a temptation that was dormant beneath everything, would only complicate matters. I had forgotten the way his lips curved, and that his bottom one is slightly fuller than the top.

What we had was just the one moment to help us both overcome loss, him of his past and me of my future. I cannot encumber him with the awkwardness of my continued desire. It’s not fair. Another requirement for an overburdened Alpha. Another need to fulfill.

Lyall did many things, but he never, ever imposed. What was comfort is now friendship. And that is good enough. It must be good enough.

Finally, Biffy began to speak. “They went mad at the end there. All of them, not only Lord Maccon. He refused to leave, you see, even though we all knew it was time. And I...” Biffy’s voice broke a moment. “I liked him. He was my Alpha. My friend. But he wasn’t here anymore, not present, there was just the shell of him left.”

Lyall explained, “He was losing his tethers.”

“Vampires are tethered to place, werewolves to pack.” Biffy repeated the old saying.

But did he really understand it? Had Conall been well enough to give him that much training? When Lyall left, he’d thought Lord Maccon was still holding everything together. He’d thought, with Lady Maccon’s particular abilities, that they could weather Alpha curse and come out the better for it. Perhaps I was wrong.

So, Lyall felt it his duty to ensure Biffy knew now. “It’s not simply a platitude. When you became Alpha of this pack, you tethered to them, to each and every member. Your tether is the last of your soul, so, in a way, the pack becomes the Alpha’s soul. And you are theirs.”

“And what about you?” Biffy wondered. The slight breath of his speaking shivered over Lyall’s hair.

“You didn’t feel it snap back into place? In the hat shop, when you knew it was me and I didn’t smell right?”

Mine. “Oh. That. You still don’t smell quite right.”

Of course, Lyall knew how to change that in a hurry. You could mark me, inside and out. We could... Not a good idea. Continue the lesson.

“That will change. I’m only just home. Anyway, clavigers aren’t pack, they aren’t supernatural, they have no sense of tether.”

“But the pack could still leave me.”

“Perhaps. But it would not be easy. Because they are also tethered to each other.”

“This seems awfully tangled up and messy.”

Lyall smiled. Now Biffy was looking down at him. “Before Lord Vulkasin... died” – before I arranged to have him killed – “the pack had no clavigers left at all. All of them were dead or had run away.”

“Is that where I’m headed?” Biffy knew the story of the previous Lord Woolsey, of the mad Alpha before Lord Maccon, and of Lyall’s role in seeing him dispossessed. At least, he knew some of the story. Lord Vulkasin had taken Alpha’s curse to an extreme, turning violent, cruel, and abusive.

“You have hundreds of years, young pup, before you need face Alpha’s curse. I merely tell you so that you realize clavigers come and go. We need them, but they do not need us. Thus, they can leave when times are unsettled.”

“Are you saying I need to settle?”

“Yes, I suppose in a way I am. You need to focus on pack, on building our new home together.”

“Solidifying my tethers?”

“Exactly. Stability. Loyalty. Then everything else will follow.”

“How do I do that? The rest of the pack... they are all so much older and stronger than I am.”

“When you were with Lord Akeldama, you were, without question, leader of his drones. How did that happen? How did all those young men come to look to you for guidance? You were no older than they, nor were you physically stronger, nor were you better positioned in society. How did Lord Akeldama come to rely upon you? Even the vampire himself leaned on your strength. I saw him do so, more than once.”

“I don’t know, it simply happened that way. It was easier for me to lead and for the other drones to follow. I was good at making the right decisions and willing to step to the fore. They trusted me. Because, I guess, I trusted them.” Biffy shifted under Lyall, a shudder of realization. “Oh.”

Lyall twisted to look up at him, to see the understanding in those blue eyes. “So, Alpha?”

“I think I have curtains to replace.”

“The purple ones?”

“How did you know? Don’t answer that – of course you knew.”

Lyall made to shift off of Biffy. Reluctant to lose the contact but knowing his task was done.

Biffy’s arms tightened then, slightly. “Not yet, please. A little longer. I haven’t been like this with anyone in a long time.”

Please from an Alpha. Something to be savored.

Lyall wanted to ask how long. He wanted to know if he had been replaced, and with whom. But he was way too old for such juvenile prying. And whom was he fooling? He didn’t want to leave Biffy’s arms either. It had been a long time for him as well.

Lyall thought he felt Biffy’s head tilt forward, and a tiny feather-light nuzzle against the top of his own. He wanted so badly for it to be real.

But even if it were, how awful to take advantage again? His new Alpha was vulnerable and lonely. He was seeking solace, not love. It would be unfair of Lyall to offer himself under such circumstances, knowing he wanted more than Biffy was capable of giving. Friendship would have to be enough.

I didn’t think it would be this difficult.