CHAPTER EIGHT

Fight for Your Right to Pulpit

Biffy sighed. Really, this had to be the worst part about being a werewolf. He could tame his hair (which had taken a decade to get right and caused him to invest, rather lucratively, in werewolf-strength pomade called Parfumé Contrôle du Citron) and he could tame his temper (which was mild by Alpha standards already, and really didn’t take much doing) but he could not tame the way other werewolves behaved – hair or temper. The result was that, in the end, disagreements were settled with claws and teeth. So very undignified.

Biffy was a man of words, not fur. He’d far rather argue, persuade, flatter, or insult an enemy into submission. Fighting simply seemed rather gauche. Still, a man dressed like that pulpit jockey could hardly be expected to obey the social niceties of any society, be it werewolf, English, or even (heaven forfend) American.

Far be it for Biffy not to try civility first, however. Everyone deserved at least one opportunity to run away.

He entered the warehouse, four of his pack at his back. No one made a fuss about them. The werewolves nodded politely to the remaining supplicants as they passed through the cavernous space. Hats were tipped to the ladies. Even Biffy issued all proper courtesies, although given his superior rank, he wasn’t required to be nice. Still, he was newly minted nobility, and newly moved to the area – no need to come off as condescending with the locals.

Even if they were members of a cult.

Even if none of them seemed to know who he was.

Given the meat of the sermon, he supposed, if they did, they might have run screaming, or cast themselves at his feet bowing and scraping. Not for the first time, Biffy was grateful he didn’t actually look the part of werewolf. Neither did the others, when all was said and done.

Lyall looked, most of the time, like a county cleric, or possibly a banking clerk. Adelphus looked like a mildly dyspeptic toff, Ulric like a Byronic hero, and Rafe like the local pub’s ferret-legging champion. Of all of them, Rafe appeared the most wolfish when human, but even he projected a bashful lumbering that disguised his predator’s grace. Biffy could not have picked a more unthreatening group from his pack. He was pleased by this unintended subterfuge.

A few sycophants and disciples remained collected about the preacher standing on his dais. Some were requesting private blessings or prayers, others begged for aid or solace. The squirming child-sacrifice was being held by a large brutish fellow off to one side. The child’s mother sat crumpled on the floor at the brute’s feet, perhaps having prostrated herself there in an excess of emotion.

Lacking any other means of modulating the situation, Biffy fell onto classic societal strictures.

He and his pack waited politely to one side while the man dealt with his flock.

Finally, the preacher turned inquiring eyes upon them.

Biffy inclined his head. “Good evening, sir. My name is Lord Falmouth.”

“Welcome! Welcome, gentlemen. I’m Thaddeus Monday.”

“Pastor Monday?” Biffy prodded for correct address.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m afraid this is a rather delicate matter.”

“I make no allowances for my speech tonight, boys. I come when summoned by the Lord and say the Word as it moves me. Can’t say I’m sorry if it disturbed your slumber.”

“Oh, no, nothing like that.”

“Then has one of your number turned to me and taken up the Following of the Beasts? Because you’ll find he has saved himself with righteousness. Nothing you or I can do will turn him back from the bright and snapping path.”

“Not that, either.” Biffy was mildly amused to see where this was going.

“Well then, well then, you seeking the Word yourselves, young gentlemen? You wish to establish a worship group, perhaps?”

“No, actually. We find your subject matter a smidgen off-putting, to be perfectly honest.”

“Hey now, hey now. I thought you Blighty types welcomed werewolves with open arms. That’s why I’ve come. This being the first step in the enlightened direction, I’m merely encouraging the savage truth to out itself.”

“You advocate a belief in the superiority of the supernatural?” Biffy wanted verbal evidence to his face.

“Exactly so. Exactly so. Why, I could tell you things that’d raise the hairs on the backs of your necks.”

“Could you, indeed?”

“For surely, I could.”

“I find I’m well able to do that myself, to be quite frank with you.” Biffy edged closer to the man.

How long? How long until the scent – five of them together – finally broke through the vinegar stench surrounding the interloping werewolf loner?

Alpha in my territory.

Biffy moved another step closer.

Carefully, subtly, the others fanned out. Lyall to his right. Adelphus to his left. Rafe towards the brute with the baby. Ulric taking back position, ready to scoop up any leftovers.

They hadn’t planned it. They hadn’t talked about it. But the pattern fell over them so naturally. Biffy knew well that the others had years together, shaping pack dynamics, but that they netted those years around him with such ease when he was so new to the front of that shape... Biffy glowed with the perfection of it. My pack. Tethered strong and sure and at his back. The missing link filled by his Beta brought that last vital element, calm and quiet and there and present. Waiting. All of them waiting, on him. For a movement. For a shift.

Words first.

Biffy leaned in. Closer still. Within striking distance. Surely, he must smell me now.

“Lord Falmouth?” The American tensed suddenly. No longer so relaxed. No longer the man in charge. “Not...”

He trailed off. Clearly trying hard to reconcile Biffy’s appearance with Biffy’s reputation. Or the reputation of werewolves in general – big, rough, and domineering. Or, if not rough, perhaps cruel. Soldiers. Beaters. Brutes. Biffy was none of those things.

A new Alpha for a new Age, Lord Maccon had called him, when Biffy had proved himself to be Alpha. To everyone’s surprise. To everyone’s continued surprise. So, I must keep proving myself. Over and over and over again. Only Lyall had never been surprised. Only Lyall had never wavered in his support. Until he left, of course. Abandoned me. None of that now.

Biffy cleared his throat and said, precisely, menacing in tone if not in the deep gruff growl that everyone expected, “I believe you and yours persist in leaving babies on my doorstep. It has become... incommodious.”

The man still looked him up and down, disbelieving.

Biffy explained. “While we appreciate the sentiment, we are ill equipped to handle the burden of fatherhood at this time. Perhaps you might assist us in reconnecting the unfortunates with their human relations?”

The man blinked at them. “Who the hell are you? Really? Pranksters? Is it a set-up? A wager? Are you from the Oxford Theologic Society?”

Ulric flinched at such language.

Adelphus huffed at the implication. “Oxford? Really? There’s no cause for insult. At least accuse us of being Cambridge men.”

“There’s a difference?” The preacher sneered.

Utter shock all ‘round met that statement.

Ignorant American.

“I beg your pardon!” Biffy straightened and returned his hat to his head in a blatant insult. Such a man did not deserve such a courtesy.

Now I shall have to beat him to a pulp without losing my hat, on principle.

A delicate cough and Lyall slid forward slightly. Yes, well, perhaps the time had come for Biffy to hold his tongue and stick his nose in the air in silent autocratic judgment. Which he did.

“Professor Lyall.” Lyall introduced himself and stuck out his hand in a friendly American manner. “Good evening, Mr Monday. I’m afraid we may be at a bit of an impasse. You see, you appear to be a lone werewolf. It is against protocol for one such as yourself to be within pack territory without calling upon us first. Regardless of the rabble-rousing talk, and the baby-depositing action, we must rectify your presence here with werewolf requirements. We would like this matter settled so we may return to the peace of our normal pursuits. We are recently moved to this neighborhood and were under the initial impression that Greenwich was cult-free. Now, the normal way of these things provides two possible solutions...”

The American crossed his arms and smiled that big gum-ridden smile. “Oh, now, boys, I think I may know where this is going. You think I ain’t prepared for this? You think I ain’t heard how things went down here in London a few months ago? Young Alpha, untried, untested, and weak, yet holding the most prestigious pack in Britain?”

Biffy rolled his eyes. Wonderful. Why does everyone think I’m weak? He took out his handkerchief and waved it at Lyall in a here we go again kind of manner.

Hard to tell with his beloved Beta, but it looked like the professor was trying to hide a smile.

Lyall cleared his throat. “As I was saying. Traditionally, you would leave, now, quietly and untroubled. And I would leave England entirely, if I were you – the Crown frowns upon talk of supernatural supremacy. You’ll be registered as a malcontent, of course. As will your, ahem, followers.”

“And my other options, little man?”

Lyall gave a tiny smile. “You’ve only the one. You fight.”

“You?”

Lyall examined his nails. “If you like.”

“But you’re not the Alpha.”

“Certainly not.”

“Well, that seems pointless.”

Biffy sighed. “Professor, if you would?”

Lyall moved to him quickly, assisting in the removal of his coat, waistcoat, and cravat. Biffy hated this part. It never got less embarrassing, stripping in public. But he refused to destroy a perfectly nice suit. Even if it wasn’t one of his favorites.

He toed off his shoes and dropped his trousers. Which left him in only his shirt and hat. He’d long since given over undergarments. He didn’t need them for warmth, and they complicated matters.

Lyall gathered the garments delicately and placed them on the dais. Leaving his own hands unencumbered, just in case he needed to shift himself.

Biffy appreciated the backup. The man before him was bigger than he was, angrier than he was, and likely more vicious. But then again, most other Alpha wolves were. Frankly, most other werewolves were bigger, angrier, and more vicious, Alpha or otherwise. Lyall was the only wolf Biffy had ever met who matched him in size and temperament.

The American was laughing. “You? You dandy boy? You want to fight me? Is this a joke?”

Biffy sighed. “Not that I object to the destruction of your current garments, but will you be shifting without removing your coat first? It can inhibit movement. Wouldn’t want to put you at a disadvantage.” Biffy paused, his lip gently curled. “More of a disadvantage than you already are.”

The man looked around. No one else was laughing. His remaining followers were standing back, puzzled. The four other werewolves in the room remained calm and quiet and watchful.

Were this an official challenge for supremacy, they could not interfere, merely enforce the circle. But, so far, the challenge had not been properly issued. So, they could step in, if they liked.

Biffy didn’t want them at risk, so he would have to force the point. “Shall we try this again, Mr Monday? I am Lord Falmouth, Alpha of the London Pack. Do you wish to challenge my leadership, as you are a loner in my territory?” The formality of the words warmed him, even as their crassness bit his human nature. All too often, Biffy wished that wolves might be a little less direct.

The man stopped laughing. “What is this cussed foolishness? I don’t want to have to kill you, boy. You need only bow before me. Challenge has already been issued. What’d you think the children were, offerings? Come at me.”

No one moved.

“Wait” – that was Ulric – “You sent infants as preemptive weregild in lieu of challenge blood?”

Lyall seemed to follow this line of thinking. He gave a small cough. “In this day and age, Mr Monday, we do not even require a dead rabbit. A simple inscription in blood on the back of a calling card would suffice.”

Biffy did not like to be confused. He knew the protocols for challenge. They’d been impressed upon him from the moment he proved himself to be an Alpha with pack intentions. Challenge could be issued many ways, usually with words written in blood, occasionally with the slap of a bloodied glove in the old-fashioned dueling manner. Years ago, it was the slaying of a deer in contested territory. Live babies seemed a bit excessive.

The man shrugged. “Cultural differences. So, you accept my challenge then, boy?”

Biffy knew he was not very prepossessing, standing there in his shirt, top hat, and nothing else. But he was still Alpha – dignity was paramount.

He nodded. “I accept.”

* * *

Lyall sighed. Why must it always come to this? His Biffy hated to fight. He’d always hated to fight. Although he had been a spectacular fencer before he turned wolf, it had been more a form of dance than a battle of steel.

Yet a challenge had been issued and must be accepted. The Alpha was present and in fighting form. Lyall could not fight for him. Would not. It was for Biffy to do this now.

He glanced at the other pack members. None of them seemed particularly tense or upset. Biffy might not have much confidence in himself, but he had his pack’s support. I wonder if he knows that.

Then Biffy changed shape. And Lyall realized that while twenty years might not be very long in werewolf time, it was long enough for some things to change a great deal.

His young Alpha had already mastered the shift. His beautiful Alpha. Smooth and easy with barely a hint of pain. Where once Biffy had fought it so hard and so fiercely, it seemed he had now accepted shape change with that same fierceness. Almost as if he welcomed the pain.

He was fast with it, too. Fully formed wolf long before the American had even started to follow him into the beast.

Biffy’s fine white shirt ripped easily around his now wolf body to fall beneath him. He’d grown into his fur, too. Still lean and muscled and svelte, not bulky, but his wolf looked comfortable, rich chocolate with an oxblood ruff and stomach. His eyes were fierce and sharp and yellow as buttercups.

The challenger, however, got all caught up in his coat and trousers, shifting without stripping first. He had to fight himself free in a hugely undignified manner. The end result being that his waistcoat survived entirely intact and still on his body, even though that body was now a wolf. It was beyond absurd-looking. And such an ugly waistcoat! Striped, like that of a footman.

This had the werewolves all about chuckling quietly into their cuffs. Except Lyall, whose attention wasn’t on the challenger or his waistcoat.

He watched Biffy’s stillness and calm. His contained power. Biffy’s Alpha nature was flowing from him now, fully formed and cloaking him in power. Nothing was visible, it appeared almost more like an odorless, pulsing smell. Obey. Obey. Obey.

Alpha nature was more obvious when Biffy was a wolf, and more obvious to Lyall, who knew to look for it. Lyall saw it in the flash of buttercup eyes, careful and contained and calculating.

Fighting smart. So few wolves could do that.

The challenger certainly couldn’t. He howled as he shifted, turning beast in the worst way, slow horror and monstrous suffering. He wasn’t happy with what he was, had never fully accepted it, for all he tried to glorify it from the pulpit.

Once fully shifted, panting slightly from residual pain, the challenger charged, teeth bared and drooling slightly. He looked like a creature from the Dark Ages. No intelligence was there, only instinct and rage.

Biffy moved almost imperceptibly, a flicker of muscles, and he was on the other side of the dais, still sitting, still calm. Still, miraculously, wearing his top hat.

The American wolf flew past where Biffy had just been, and barreled off the stage, stumbling over the edge.

He fell close to where Rafe stood.

Lyall flicked Rafe a look and a nod. Rafe backed up a tiny bit, lip curled.

The challenger was already up and around and charging Biffy again. But he had come too close to the circle’s edge, and he did not seem to know proper protocols at all. They shouldn’t be surprised. After all, he had sent babies as weregild.

Rafe began stripping down. None of Biffy’s reticence, nor did he need Lyall’s assistance (he was in his layman’s clothing). His shape shift was long and uncomfortable to watch. Rafe was relatively young and not an Alpha. Lyall did not watch, refocusing on the fight before him. He trusted his pack-mate to be ready. Rafe would act on instinct. He would maintain the circle with tooth and claw. He would follow the strongest Alpha without question. Whoever that ended up being.

Biffy dodged another charge, only this time he stuck out a paw, almost casually, scraping away the challenger’s flesh from ear to shoulder, pulling deep red gashes up through dirty brown fur.

Now was the time when the American should fold, falling over to his back and exposing his belly in supplication. First blood and a clearly superior opponent in power, position, brains, and speed. But he did not. The gash only seemed to enrage him further.

Lyall frowned. Perhaps this was even more abnormal than he had already thought. Perhaps this challenger was not simply a loner but too long a loner. To long without pack. Or too old being both Alpha and loner. Perhaps he was mad under Alpha’s curse.

Sending babies as challenge offerings certainly didn’t smack of sanity.

Well – Lyall was philosophical – at least he didn’t send us dead babies.

Customarily, pack challenges did not end in death. It was considered a waste of supernatural life. Although there were always exceptions. Sometimes, challenges were issued by wolves who wished to die, who had lived too long and were ready to leave in blood and glory – an honorable end in an Alpha’s jaw. Lyall hoped for that himself someday. Not yet, of course. He wasn’t done yet.

Lyall twitched in uncertainty. This fight was not clean. Or it was from Biffy’s perspective, but not from Mr Monday’s.

The man was unhinged. He kept simply charging, no leaps, no twists, no swipes, nothing to indicate technique, or interest in a proper battle.

So, Biffy kept dodging and swiping. The challenger was now bleeding from multiple lacerations. The slow black blood of immortality oozed down onto the stage, making him slip.

Biffy lost his hat in the scuffle.

Lyall retrieved it for him.

End it, Lyall tried to think at him. This long, drawn-out suffering was no kind of proper fight.

Biffy seemed to understand, for in a rush, he twisted his dodge and went in for the other wolf’s neck. He dove under, and with a firm, full bash of his forehead, Biffy upended the heavier wolf and threw him to his side.

Biffy avoided the challenger’s scrabbling claws with ease and in one smooth move clamped his jaws fully around the other wolf’s neck. Lord Maccon had taught his protégé well. Lyall knew without a doubt that Biffy’s canines pressed upon Monday’s windpipe. He would apply a steady pressure until things ended, one way or another.

Lyall could not have been prouder. This was a perfect subjugation move, beautifully executed, elegant and final without being deadly.

Ulric and Adelphus clapped. It was, after all, very prettily done.

But the other wolf would not be still. He writhed even as his air flow was restricted, even as Biffy’s other teeth cut in closer and closer to the main artery of his neck.

Lyall shook his head, sorrowed. Either Monday did not know the proper form at all, or he was too far gone in madness to care.

“Submit, you fool!” said Adelphus, but the wolf was beyond human speech.

Biffy’s eyes, harsh and yellow, looked over at them from around his struggling mouthful. The buttercup color was filled with sadness.

Lyall met them in compassion and understanding. He inclined his head, not that Biffy needed his permission. But he thought it might help, in the end, if it was given.

The yellow eyes closed, once. Then Biffy lifted his head high, at the same time biting down as hard as he could and twisting aside. He slammed the other wolf’s head to the floor, breaking his neck, constricting his air, and severing the main blood flow to his brain all at the same time.

Even supernatural creatures can die.

* * *

Biffy let go as soon as his enemy’s body stopped twitching. The burnt iron of old blood filled his mouth, foul and flawed and tainted. This was nothing like the fresh kill of a wild creature, coppery and sweet. Immortals never tasted good – there was no freshness left in them to enjoy.

He sat back and tried not to shake himself like a wet dog, or sneeze.

Ulric stripped the waistcoat off of the dead wolf. It seemed almost insultingly undignified to leave it on him. Fortunately, it had been ruined in the scuffle. Just to be safe, and because he was twitchy with having had to kill, Biffy savaged the hideous thing into tiny pieces. It cleaned his mouth of some of the blood, too.

Those supplicants still present and not fallen into shocked stupors gasped in titillated horror. Funny how the taking of a life had held them silently in thrall, but the destruction of a vest gave them license to react.

Biffy could hear them gossiping down at the pub the next day. First, the new Alpha killed the visiting American, and then, well then, he destroyed the man’s waistcoat!

The ensuing silence eventually yielded up hysterics on the part of some of the congregation, a roar of anger from the brute with the child, and general discombobulation from everyone else present. Well, Greenwich wasn’t accustomed to such carryings-on.

The pack sprang into action.

Adelphus removed the child from the brute and disposed of both. The child back to the mother, the brute to the floor in a crumpled heap. Not dead, just momentarily incapacitated with a well-aimed fist.

Ulric explained in his most arrogant and commanding tone that the others would have to clean up the mess and bury the body. Since it wasn’t the winner’s responsibility, and the challenger hadn’t brought a second, there was no one else to do the deed. They should have thought of that before they started listening, willy-nilly, to pedantic Americans.

Biffy and Rafe remained in wolf form. No sense in adding nudity into the mix at this juncture. Might cause a riot.

Lyall suggested that word be spread about the neighborhood concerning the unfortunate demise of the nascent cult leader, and that perhaps they might consider congregating again tomorrow night? The proper local pack would come down and instruct them in niceties of wolf-worship. (Of course, they had absolutely no intention of continuing the farce of supernatural supremacy, but it wouldn’t do to disencumber the supplicants of their leader and their rhetoric all at once.) Besides, the pack still needed to return the children.

“We should bring the wassail with us,” Lyall said to Adelphus.

“Good idea.”

They returned to the pack house at least pleased to have solved the mystery, if a little perturbed to see it end in such an unsportsmanlike manner. It was always disappointing when a challenge ended in death.

Biffy went up to his room to change and did not come back down. He didn’t feel up to more pack histrionics right away. Adelphus and Ulric could handle explaining and gossip and such as the others returned home.

Biffy moped. It wasn’t gentlemanly, but it was the truth. And his tummy was a mite queasy. Fortunately, no one witnessed his weakness.

Although it seemed Lyall guessed, because he sent Rumpet up with tea.

Shortly thereafter, the Beta himself followed, accompanied by consolatory biscuits. “My lord, may I come in?”

Somehow, Biffy didn’t mind his Beta. Lyall’s presence was more a soothing balm than an imposition, even when Biffy wished to be alone. It was probably a Beta characteristic, or simply because he was Professor Randolph Lyall and always easy to be around for everyone.

Biffy had not bothered to dress again. Instead, he was wearing his favorite quilted velvet dressing gown. It was a very fine rich blue, lined in satin. He felt almost royal in it.

He gestured for Lyall and the biscuits to enter.