CHAPTER SEVEN

If Offerings Were Babies

They’d fallen asleep like that. Dozing off. Biffy woke, just before dawn, with a crick in his neck and the weight of his Beta still curled against his chest. Comforting, welcome warmth.

Poor Lyall, he’s been traveling forever, and finally arrives home only to find screaming babies and shaken Alphas and a pack in crisis.

Unwilling to lose contact just yet, Biffy slid out from under Lyall, and, blessing his supernatural strength, lifted his Beta and carried him to the bed. Biffy set him, still in his greatcoat, atop the covers. Nothing untoward might be thought of him lying there like that.

Still fully clothed himself, and wincing for the state of his trousers on the morrow, feeling only a little guilty at manipulating Lyall’s exhaustion, Biffy crawled next to him on the counterpane.

He didn’t curl about him or put his head to the crook of Lyall’s shoulder as they had once done so easily – that seemed too much like what they’d been before and were no longer. Instead, Biffy reached out a hand and rested his fingers gently in Lyall’s slack palm. Only that small press of touch and familiarity.

He slept the whole day through, untroubled.

* * *

When Biffy awoke again, Lyall was gone. As if that weren’t bad enough, James came in and attempted to put him in a green tweed suit. Green. Tweed. In town! After disabusing him of this notion – Tweed is for the country and shooting, James, I know Greenwich seems provincial, but it is not the country and I am not currently possessed with the need to shoot anything, except perhaps this suit – they agreed upon a nice dark blue number instead.

It was a trying start to the evening, only improved upon, in the worst possible way, by the discovery that yet another baby had been left on the pack’s doorstep.

Biffy had had enough.

Fortunately, one of the clavigers had been on “doorstep watch” out the front parlor window, and gone running after the departing carriage with Rumpet hot on his heels. (Rumpet because the young man had left without hat or coat, not because butlers worried about baby deposits.) And once the iron fist of Rumpet was released from the household... Most of the clavigers and staff gave chase as well.

The clavigers liked to rise in the late afternoon to get themselves dressed and ready before the pack awoke. Seeing one of their number dash out the door at sunset, followed by Rumpet, meant three others should follow, plus a footman, and the upstairs maid. This left only James and one other claviger to tend the waking pack.

Being that they were mostly dancers, singers, and stage performers, pursuit of a carriage was accompanied by much leaping and bounding, colorful language, and not a few capes, forming a mini herd trailing the offending conveyance down the street. Unfortunately, none of them were of the Greek Olympiad marathon variety (had they been, Lord Akeldama would never have allowed them to move house), so the carriage soon outpaced the mob. They returned home in an excited breathless clatter, to report that while it escaped their clutches, it had sped through Blackheath towards the warehouse district and the docks.

That being a most excellent point of data, Biffy was inclined not to grumble about the pink-cheeked, bright-eyed, hair-mussed return of his underlings. Instead, he praised them for perspicacious action, and listened for any further details that might be of use. He didn’t even mock them for the capes. He’d once had a weakness for a nice cape himself when on an escapade.

I wonder if Alphas are permitted capes? Too frivolous? Another vampire-only affectation?

Unfortunately, while the boys had noted the exact style and design of the carriage, not to mention the cut of the coachman’s coat and hat, none of this was particularly useful. There was no crest and it was unmarked hired transport, not privately owned and branded. Still, Biffy was pleased. They’d done their very best, and to his standards. Wassail was brought up in gratitude. It proved a most welcome addition.

The second bit of good news came over breakfast, when Adelphus and Phelan commenced chattering on about their research into the new religious sect in the area. They casually mentioned that the group was informal enough not to have consecrated grounds, but instead was reputed to assemble out on the heath when the weather was fine, and in an old warehouse or tent when it was inclement.

This caused poor Ulric no end of distress. “Did you say preaching... outside? How very rough and ready.”

“Well, that’s the problem, we believe.”

Biffy perked up and speared Adelphus with what he hoped was a very crafty look. “What’s the problem?”

“The head preacher is reputed to be one of those barn-raisers. Or do I mean tent pole-lifters?”

Biffy quirked a brow. “Do you, Adelphus?”

Adelphus, who had no shame and liked to keep every possible option open, winked. “Not that kind of revival, my dear. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, all I am saying is that this man seems the type to climb up on top of things and...” He cleared his throat and looked embarrassed. “…raise his voice.”

“How unbecoming,” said Phelan.

“How very not on,” agreed Hemming.

“Is he English?” wondered Quinn.

“No. All signs point to his being” – pregnant pause – “an American.”

Silence met that statement. Adelphus basked in everyone’s appalled reactions. He had a flair for the dramatic.

“Ah, well, regardless of any possible connection to, you know, our current issue with, well, human issue, we will have to investigate further.” Lyall didn’t look like he was trying to be cute, but he was cute. Impossibly cute.

Biffy nodded to show he entirely agreed with his Beta (he would hardly do otherwise at table). He privately wished the American preacher to perdition. He already had four children to provenance, and rogue preachers were quite pushing things too far.

However, American meant any rhetoric being shouted (ugh) was likely to be anti-supernatural, and that simply couldn’t be allowed to continue. Not by Biffy’s pack, and certainly not in England. He would have to deal with this new problem.

I am beginning to very much regret having moved us to Greenwich.

“Very well. Professor Lyall and I discovered a likely warehouse last night. I want a watch set all night tonight and all day tomorrow. If there’s anti-supernatural sentiment brewing, that has to be the priority. The accidental children are fine in our keeping for now. I acknowledge that their relations are likely rather worried” – he tilted his head at Hemming’s distressed expression – “but they must now play second fiddle to this new inconvenience. If not connected to the children, the cult must be our focus.”

The werewolves around the table all agreed.

Channing, who’d remained uncharacteristically silent throughout breakfast, finished his meal and stood.

Biffy gave him a look that he hoped was full of enigmatic wisdom but probably looked more anemic.

Fortunately, Channing tilted his head slightly in supplication. “Yes, I’ll stop by on my way to BUR and make inquiries at the Home Office. But this preacher is not registered – I would have known already if he were. I cleared this area before we relocated. He’s not official, but I’ll ask around to be certain. There are always rabble-rousers and anarchists and the like – Home Office keeps an eye on the known elements.”

Biffy nodded. “I’d appreciate it.”

Channing’s lip curled. “Of course, Alpha.” Without another word, he left the table.

Lyall watched him go. “Such a charmer.”

Biffy turned back. He couldn’t keep all pack from their normal jobs and duties a second night running. Since they’d been relieved of military service overseas, they weren’t on strict schedules for tangential military duties, instead working for BUR, serving with Her Majesty’s Growlers, or helping out the War Office. Pack business always took priority, but even an American preacher and four squalling babies couldn’t be furnished as an excuse for more than one day.

Still, it wasn’t all of them. Rafe hadn’t any official obligations at the moment. Hemming wanted to stay home and help Mrs Whybrew. She was eminently capable, but four children under a year old was enough to drive anyone spare. Adelphus did everything he could not to work. As a matter of fact, he worked awfully hard at it. And Ulric, who liked to remind them that he had once been a European prince, preferred papers and aetherographic transmission processing. When not required to fight, Ulric actually preferred to fool about with the pack accounts, investments, and correspondences. For his part, Biffy could afford to leave the hat shop in Cyril’s capable hands. His head shop-keep might not have the best stylistic eye where millinery was concerned, but the man could sell last week’s bread as this week’s pudding for three times the price, and make you feel lucky to get it while it was hot. Biffy had watched a young lady wearing dubious amounts of lace walk in looking for gloves and leave carrying three new hats, a fichu, two parasols, and a pair of hair muffs.

So it was that Biffy, Lyall, Rafe, Ulric, and Adelphus took the first half of the night’s watch over the warehouse. He instructed his pack-mates to observe only. Then, right about eight at night, early for most gatherings, people began to arrive. They seemed to represent all walks of laboring life, including full families among their ranks, and were all dressed in Sunday best.

With a start, Biffy realized it was Sunday.

Biffy himself wished he’d dressed down, but he hadn’t, which meant he far outclassed everyone there (Sunday best or not). He signaled for Lyall and Rafe to join the modest throng entering the warehouse. They did, lurking to the back and fitting in well enough to pass cursory inspection.

He, Ulric, and Adelphus stayed to the outside, hidden in the shadows, regretting their pretty suits and fine ways.

* * *

Professor Lyall had learned over the years never to expect very much. If one didn’t cherish high expectations, one was never disappointed and, occasionally, one might even be pleasantly surprised.

Sadly, Lyall would never have called this surprise pleasant.

He skulked at the back of the massive room, hidden in plain sight as was his wont. No one noticed him at the best of times – it was his gift. A dubious thing, to be constantly overlooked. After four hundred years, however, he’d learned to appreciate it rather than resent it. Well, most of the time.

Rafe, who had a less easy time of skulking, still managed to lurk with enough subtlety on the other side of the room to pass as human. Rafe was still obviously a predator, large and fierce and deadly. But there were humans like that too, and he’d found a group of them in a corner. Rough, ready, angry men, cracked like leather beneath the weight of the world’s use. Standing with them, Rafe could still be one of the things that went bump in the night, just closer to home. The world hid all kinds of monsters – some had too many teeth and some had too much gin.

The gathering rustled in an anticipatory manner, as people murmured and moved about one another. It was much as Lyall expected from a church gathering, except that there were no pews and everyone stood about in a pickling warehouse.

Finally, a man came marching in. Big, confident strides took him up to the small raised platform at the front of the room to the stage that smelled of vinegar. He wore a suit that defied the term, a waistcoat that did no one any favors, least of all him, and a scarf about his neck instead of a cravat. Professor Lyall was the type to make allowances, but really. He worried for Biffy’s health should the Alpha catch sight of the offending garments.

Lyall wrinkled his nose involuntarily.

The man – he had to assume he was the preacher, nothing less than abject devotion to the almighty could lead anyone to neglect his attire like that – reeked of vinegar, so much so that it brought tears to Lyall’s eyes. He wasn’t dripping wet, but he clearly bathed in the stuff. Yech.

The preacher stood, clapping his hands together, and then began to stride about the small stage, yelling the holy word in a highly aggressive manner. His rhetoric boarded on abusive and was certainly enthusiastic. It was almost theatrical.

He had a big voice and big presence. Not ill formed, possibly even handsome, except that his mouth never stopped moving and his teeth were very... square. His lips were thin, and in speaking, he exposed a great deal of his gums. He was strapping, in a cricket-playing kind of way, with a square jaw – but the noise that emanated from his mouth! It could hardly be called talking. He was brutish towards the English language, harsh with sharp constants and nasal inflections. His vowels were positively abused! Lyall suspected the man’s first name was something ridiculously penitent and American like Obadiah or Abner.

The preacher punctuated his sermon with lots of hand gestures and facial grimaces, raising his arms up to heaven, then sweeping them about. He even twirled once or twice and stomped his feet.

“And the Lord came unto you and he said, you are the weak and the meek and the prey. And you shall not inherit, oh no! You shall be food for the lords of our holy and true nature. You shall be fodder for the great beasts of the castles. Your children shall be as mere snacks to the supernatural!”

Oh, dear, thought Lyall. This is not at all what I was expecting. It seems this new cult is quite the opposite of what we feared.

Instead of preaching the gospel of hating the supernatural set, this man was preaching the gospel of worship. Which, quite frankly, was almost as bad. Thousands of years before Lyall’s time, the ancient Egyptians had worshiped werewolves, and everyone knew how badly that turned out. The God-Breaker Plague. Well, maybe not everyone, but everyone that mattered knew.

Still, Lyall was mildly fascinated. The man was a powerful speaker – potent and charismatic. Almost as if he himself had some sort of supernatural ability, drawing all the eyes in the room. A big, commanding presence. A focus point. A tug on the tethers. Riveting and faintly grotesque.

A werewolf Alpha.

That would explain the vinegar smell. If a werewolf wished to disguise his scent, vinegar was a good option. Even I can’t pick up wolf smell through that kind of pong.

“Make your sacrifices or you too will be called upon to feed the beasts of heaven of your own flesh! Bring forth the next possible candidate!”

An eager (or perhaps nervous) rustle went throughout the room and a young woman was shoved forward. She was dirty and unkempt, her face-paint tear-stained. A lady of the night, no doubt. She clutched to her breast a squalling infant.

Lyall tensed.

“He’s a good lad, he is. Never gave me a spot of trouble. Please don’t make me—”

“You will burn in the fiery bogs of hell and damnation. Brimstone and soot will rain down upon your head! Steam will scald, and oil will...” yelled the preacher at her. Rather stumbling for good vocabulary, Lyall felt.

The girl trembled.

“Your sacrifice is the only thing that can possibly save you. The beast must be pacified! You think God is kind and merciful? You have not looked into the face of the hellhound at his back!”

The preacher grabbed up the child and set it at his feet. Then he continued to stride around, yelling words at the crowd. Occasionally, he would leap over the child in a kind of wild ritual hopping. This went on for a good half hour, eventually culminating in the man picking up the infant, lifting him high into the air, and the crowd all howling at it.

Lyall exchanged amused glances with Rafe. Nothing is more droll than humans trying to howl, poor little monkeys.

No doubt the three others outside were having a good chuckle at the assembled’s expense.

Lyall gestured with his head and Rafe followed him out the door in one of those swift dodges only the supernatural could execute unnoticed.

“Did you catch it all, Alpha?” Rafe grinned at Biffy, who was looking poised and quietly diverted by the melodramatics within. The warehouse walls were by no means sufficient to stopper supernatural hearing.

“They’re worshiping us.” Biffy’s tone showed more discomfort than the situation warranted, but it could simply be that he’d caught sight of the preacher’s outfit when he first entered.

“It would appear so.” Lyall supported the assessment of his Alpha.

Adelphus snorted. “And the infants they keep leaving on our doorstep are what, offerings?”

“Or sacrifices,” Lyall shrugged.

“Charming.” Ulric curled his lip and turned to peer back into the warehouse, where the congregation still milled and chatted about the excitement of the oratory performance.

Lyall tilted his head. “I think the preacher is himself a werewolf.”

“Hardly possible – he’s an American.” Adelphus frowned at him.

Lyall quirked a brow. “American werewolves do happen.”

“He’ll be funny about the head, then, if he is one.” Rafe looked thoughtful. “I mean to say, funnier even than what we just heard.”

“Most likely.” Lyall nodded.

“Well, well, well, how fun is this?” Biffy did not look pleased. “An American werewolf in Greenwich preaching the gospel of supernatural worship and infant-sacrifice. Exactly what I always wanted for Christmas.”

Lyall sighed. “It’s worse than that, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, yes?”

“He smacks of Alpha.”

Rafe flinched but agreed. “Didn’t get a sniff, but he has that charm, you know? Can’t stop looking at him. For all he’s got no neckcloth.”

Lyall shuddered. “That waistcoat.”

“Horrid” – Rafe was morose – “and I don’t think he had a shirt on under it. At all.” Rafe wasn’t particularly fashionable, but this defied all reason.

Biffy gave one of his most winning smiles, almost like one from the bad old days when he was a clever little drone running Lord Akeldama’s house and heart. “Oh, well, I can’t think of a better reason to fight a man.”

“The child-sacrifice thing not bad enough?” Ulric grinned as well.

“We didn’t actually kill the infants, even if we were meant to,” objected Adelphus. “Don’t think sacrifice is the right word.”

“I think,” said Rafe, “we were supposed to eat them.”

Adelphus looked properly horrified. “Eat babies? What a preposterous notion. They’re almost entirely made of fat, quite detrimental to the digestion. Not to mention the waistline.”

Biffy looked approving. “Exactly.”

“And they never hold still! So messy.” Ulric joined in the spirit of the thing.

“Not to mention the gritty feeling of powdered talc on one’s teeth. Yech.” Adelphus shuddered.

“Good. Are we agreed, then, no eating babies?” Biffy looked about, and the other four werewolves nodded. “Very good, gentlemen.”

Lyall hid his smile. At least the Alpha was using flippancy to disguise his fear over having to actually challenge another werewolf.

While they huddled in conversation in the shadows, the doors to the warehouse creaked open and the congregation began to file out in a mildly cheerful and bubbly mass.

Lyall pushed his Alpha, gently, towards the correct decision. “So, what do we do now?”

“About him?” asked Biffy.

“About him.”

Biffy sighed. He removed his hat and twirled it on one hand. “Bah! Confrontation, I suppose. I do hate it so. But going about shirtless with only a waistcoat really cannot be condoned.”

“Agreed, Alpha,” said Lyall with feeling.