“How do you do, my lord? Please, sit down.”
The dewan gave a disgusted look at the slumbering Biffy. “Looks like you already have company. What is he drunk?” He sniffed the air. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, have you both been swimming in the Thames?”
“I assure you it was entirely involuntary.”
The dewan looked as though he was about to continue his reprimanding tone, but then he sniffed the air again and stopped in his tracks. Twirling about, he lumbered over to the couch and bent over the comatose young dandy.
“Now, that is an unfamiliar face. I know most of the Woolsey Pack has been overseas with the regiment, but I think I remember them all. I am not that old.”
“Ah, yes.” Professor Lyall sat up straight and cleared his throat. “We are to be congratulated. Woolsey has a new pack member.”
The dewan grunted, half pleased but trying to hide it with annoyance. “I thought he stank of Lord Maccon. Well, well, well, a metamorphosis and a dead vampire all in one night. My, my, Woolsey has been busy.”
Professor Lyall put down his quill and took off his spectacles. “The one is, in fact, tied intimately to the other.”
“Since when has killing vampires resulted in new werewolves?”
“Since vampires stole other vampire’s drones, imprisoned them under the Thames, and then shot at them.”
The dewan looked less like a gruff loner wolf and more like a politician at that statement. He drew up a chair on the other side of the desk from Lyall. “I think you had better start explaining what happened, little Beta.”
When Lyall finished his account, the dewan was left looking a mite stunned.
“Of course, such a story will have to be corroborated. With the potentate’s illegal kill order out on Lady Maccon’s head, you must see that Lord Maccon’s motives for killing the man are highly suspicious. Still, if all you say is true, he was within his rights as chief sundowner. Such shenanigans cannot be allowed. Imagine, stealing someone else’s drone! So rude.”
“You must understand I have other difficulties to deal with?”
“Went off hunting that stray wife of his, did he?”
Professor Lyall curled his lip and nodded.
“Alphas are so very difficult.”
“My feeling exactly.”
“Well, I shall leave you to it.” The dewan stood but walked once more over to look down at Biffy before he left.
“Two successful metamorphoses in as many months. Woolsey may be in political trouble, but you are to be congratulated on the potency of your Alpha’s Anubis Form. Pretty young pup, isn’t he? He is going to bring down a whole mess of trouble on your head. How much worse will it be to have the vampires think werewolves stole a drone away?”
Professor Lyall sighed. “Lord Akeldama’s favorite, no less.”
The dewan shook his head. “Mess of trouble, mark my words. Best of luck, little Beta. You are going to need it.”
Just as the dewan was leaving, one of Lord Maccon’s best BUR agents appeared.
The agent bowed to the dewan in the doorway before coming in to stand in front of Professor Lyall, with his hands laced behind his back.
“Report, Mr. Haverbink.”
“’S’not pretty out there, sir. The Teeth are a’stirring up all kinds of toss about you Tails. Them’s saying Lord M had a grudge against the potentate. Saying he took him down out’a anger, not duty.”
Haverbink was a good solid chap in both looks and spirit. And no one would bet a ha’penny on his having excess soul, but he listened well and got around to places more aristocratic types couldn’t. He looked a bit like a farmhand, and people didn’t give a man of his brawn much credit in the way of brain. It was a mistake.
“How unsettled?”
“Couple of pub brawls so far, mostly just clavigers giving fist to drones with big mouths. Could get ugly if the conservatives weigh in. You’re knowing how they can get: ‘none of this would’ve happened if we hadn’t integrated. England deserves it for acting unnatural. Against God’s law.’ Whine, whine.”
“Any word on the vampires themselves?”
“Westminster queen’s been dead silent ’scuse the pun since word on the potentate’s death broke. You better believe if she thought she were in the right, she’d be squawking official statements to the press like a hen laying eggs.”
“Yes, I would tend to agree with you. Her silence is a good thing for us werewolves. How about BUR’s reputation?”
“We’re taking the fallout. Lord M was working, not werewolfing, or that’s the claim. He should’ve had more self restraint.” Haverbink turned his wide, friendly face on his commander questioningly.
Lyall nodded.
Haverbink continued. “Those that like BUR are claiming he was within his rights as sundowner. Those that don’t like it, don’t like him, and don’t like wolves they’re going to complain regardless. Not a whole lot would change that.”
Lyall rubbed at his neck. “Well, that’s about what I thought. Keep talking the truth as much as possible while you are out there. Let people know the potentate stole Lord Akeldama’s drone. We cannot allow the vampires or the Crown to cover that up, and we have got to hope both Biffy and Lord Akeldama corroborate the official story or we really will be in the thick of it.”
Haverbink looked skeptically over at Biffy’s sleeping form. “Does he remember any of it?”
“Probably not.”
“Is Lord Akeldama likely to be amenable?”
“Probably not.”
“Right’o, sir. I wouldn’t want to be in your spats right now.”
“Don’t get personal, Haverbink.”
“’Course not, sir.”
“Speaking of which, still no word on Lord Akeldama’s return or whereabouts?”
“Not a single sausage, sir.”
“Well, that’s something. Very well, carry on, Mr. Haverbink.”
“Jolly good, sir.”
Haverbink went out, and the next agent, waiting patiently in the hallway, came in.
“Message for you, sir.”
“Ah, Mr. Phinkerlington.”
Phinkerlington, a round, bespectacled metal burner, managed a slight bow before continuing hesitatingly into the room. He had the manners of a clerk, the demeanor of a constipated mole, and some minor aristocratic connection that temperament compelled him to regard as an embarrassing character flaw. “Something finally came through on that Italian channel you had me monitoring sunset these past few days.” He was also very, very good at his job, which consisted mainly of sitting and listening, and then writing down what he heard without thought or comment.
Professor Lyall sat up. “Took you long enough to get it to me.”
“Sorry, sir. You’ve been so busy this evening; I didn’t want to disturb.”
“Yes, well.” Professor Lyall made an impatient gesture with his left hand.
Phinkerlington handed Professor Lyall a scrap of parchment paper, on which had been inked a message. It was not, as Lyall had hoped, from Alexia but was from, of all people, Floote.
It was also so entirely off topic and unhelpful to the situation in hand as to give Lyall a brief but intense feeling of exasperation with Lady Maccon. This was a feeling that had, heretofore, been reserved solely for his Alpha.
“Get queen to stop Italians excavating in Egypt. Can’t find soulless mummies, bad things result. Lady Maccon with Florentine Templars. Not good. Send help. Floote.”
Professor Lyall, cursing his Alpha for departing so precipitously, balled up the piece of paper and, after minor consideration for the delicacy of the information it contained, ate it.
He dismissed Phinkerlington, stood, and went to check on Biffy, finding the young man still sleeping. Good, he thought, best and most sensible thing for him to be doing at the moment. Just as he was tucking the blanket a little more firmly about the new werewolf, yet another person entered his office.
He straightened up and turned to face the door. “Yes?”
He caught the man’s scent: very expensive French perfume coupled with a hint of Bond Street’s best hair pomade and under that the slow richness of the unpalatable old blood.