She paused outside the gates, breathing the night air in angry pants like a perturbed bellows. It was a crisp evening, the gibbous moon illuminating a busy street. London was awake and bustling, for while the season was over, the supernatural set still carried the torch.
Dama’s carriage was waiting for her. Her father had insisted she travel to the palace in style, although his aesthetic – one of gilt and ribbons and plush velvets – was not to Rue’s particular taste. Dama was peeved with her over the loss of his tea but refused to let that affect standards in conveyance arrangements.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Winkle.” Rue waved off the drone on the driving box when he made to hop down and help her inside. She swung herself up easily; fewer skirts and a lack of corset improved one’s mobility in a marked manner.
Winkle made an affronted noise but it was too late to insist. He whipped the horses up and they set forth at a brisk clip.
Inside the cab, Rue slouched into her lace collar, feeling sorry for herself.
Sooner than they ought, Winkle drew the carriage to a halt. There was no way they had traversed all of Mayfair. Rue leaned dangerously far out the window and craned her neck to see the box. There was some kind of commotion going on in the middle of Oxford Circus near the recently reopened Claret’s.
“Turn back and go around, Winkle, do.”
“Everyone seems to have the same idea, miss.”
There was quite the ruckus surrounding them. Conveyances of all types were circling and trapping each other at odd angles as they jockeyed for position.
“Has there been an accident? Should I get out and see?”
Winkle had a much superior vantage point. “I don’t think that particularly wise, miss.”
Which, naturally, caused Rue to pop open the carriage door and swing down.
The first thing she noticed was that there was a great deal of yipping and some growling. Someone was also singing a bawdy song, off-key, at the top of his not-inconsiderable lungs.
“What the devil?”
Rue pushed through the confused mess of carriages, steam-powered Coccinellidae, monowheels, and assorted bicycles. She then forced her way to the front of a jeering crowd. It surrounded the dramatically carved marble entryway of Claret’s Gentleman’s Club, out the mahogany door from which oozed a stumbling mass of masculine rabble composed of several officers of Her Royal Majesty’s service, a handful of tight-trouser-wearing thespians, and one or two large dogs in top hats and cravats.
Ah, not dogs, wolves.
There were only eleven members of Paw’s werewolf pack, but as they tended to be rather large dramatic specimens, there always seemed to be more of them than there actually were.
Most of them were now in front of her and, much to Rue’s horror, at their cups. Now, far be it for Rue to object on principle to the consumption of the divine pip: even werewolves should be allowed a snootful on occasion. No, it was the fact that, ordinarily, werewolves did not get soused in the way of mortal men. They required a great deal of formaldehyde, of the type used to embalm human remains, not surprising since they were technically undead. Yet the pack before her was so very juicy that they had taken to, and there was no nicer way of putting it – troubling a group of beautiful and beautifully dressed ladies and gentlemen.
The beautiful group was not amused by this attention. There was something to their quick movements and very high collars that spoke of training and the covering of neck bites.
Vampire drones.
These were not the highly dressed pinks of the type her dear Dama collected. These drones must belong to one of the London hive queens.
One of the werewolves was harrying them, darting in and out like a sheepdog, only bigger and meaner. It had to be Channing; none of the others had a pure white coat. He was a beautiful wolf, if not very friendly with teeth bared and tail lashing.
“What in heaven’s name is going on?” Rue demanded of no one in particular.
Channing ignored her.
One of the other uncles, Rafe, still in human form, looked up. “Infant! What are you doing here? No place for a chit.”
Rue planted her hands on her hips. “You are no longer inside your club, you do realise? This is a respectable thoroughfare and I’m perfectly within my rights to be— Wait a moment. Stop distracting me. What is wrong with the pack? Corned beef, the lot of you. Oh, do stop it, Uncle Channing! You can’t go around growling at someone’s drones in public. It’s not done.”
They ignored her. Although Hemming, who made for a handsome wolf with his black and gold markings on creamy white, lurched in her direction – possibly operating under some latent need to protect.
Rue took that as permission and pulled off her gloves.
From behind her, Winkle said, “Miss, I don’t think—” but it was too late.