Rue buried her hand in Hemming’s thick coat, seeking his skin. That was all it took. There she went, bones breaking and re-forming, eyesight and hearing shifting, sense of smell increasing. Rue the brindled wolf stood among the tatters of a lovely striped gold and brown velvet visiting dress. And Hemming lay quite naked and somewhat less handsome as a confused man.
Winkle scooped up Rue’s dress and draped it over the now-mortal werewolf. The drone was quite brainy enough to know, at this juncture, there was no way he could safely interfere.
Rue leapt to protect the frightened huddle of drones. In actuality, they weren’t that pathetic, but she liked to think of herself as coming to the heroic defence of the innocent.
Hackles up, she bared her teeth at Uncle Channing, backing him away, challenging him.
Channing was not the kind of wolf to resist a challenge. As a major in the British Army, there had even been several duels, much more messy than a wolf brawl. Duels were illegal and had to be stuffed under carpets at great expense to avoid scandal. Channing had a vast collection of lumpy carpets. Rue usually allowed him some leeway because he was obviously a wounded soul of some sullen Shakespearian ilk, plus he wore angry petulance so beautifully. But tonight he was drunk, and she wasn’t going to put up with any of his nonsense.
Uncle Channing, unfortunately, was so far gone into the pickle that he either didn’t care or didn’t recognise that Rue was Rue and not some male werewolf actually challenging him.
He growled and crouched to leap.
Rue was loosely aware that the drones had taken Uncle Channing’s distraction as an opportunity to get away but that other pack members were corralling them. It wasn’t only Uncle Channing acting irrationally; it was the entire pack. Even Uncle Bluebutton who was practically civilised – he owned a smoking jacket and everything – was participating.
What had gotten into them? Certainly Rue noticed that the pack was generally more rowdy since she returned from India, but she hadn’t thought it would come to brawling in the street. Where was their restraint? Where was Paw? Paw was Alpha and he was supposed to have them under control. This was outrageous! They should all be disciplined. Paw was always one for a good fight. He was positively cheerful about it. When Dama and Mother weren’t looking, he even encouraged Rue to train with the pack.
Which is how Rue knew to fluff up her ruff in an attempt to look bigger. If someone had to fight for their sobriety, she would do what must be done.
Look at me, she thought. I’m joining the Teatotal Abstinence Society.
Uncle Channing tensed.
Rue, never one to back down from a challenge either, reared up. She was under no delusion as to her chances. Uncle Channing was the pack Gamma, not to mention a professional soldier. He was a tall rangy fellow who made for a big rangy wolf, but any leanness was deceptive, as in both forms he was composed mainly of muscle. Rue, on the other hand, made a tough-looking scrappy sort of wolf, but she wasn’t big, vicious, or muscly. This was not going to be a fair fight. But she might distract the pack long enough for the drones to get away.
Uncle Channing leapt, teeth bared.
And was knocked out of the way by another wolf, slighter than Channing, with dark brown colouring and blood-red chest fur.
Uncle Rabiffano!
Uncle Rabiffano was – technically – pack Beta, although he never much acted like it physically. He ran a very well-regarded hat shop not too far down the street from Claret’s.
Rue had never seen Rabiffano fight. In fact, if anyone asked, she would have said he couldn’t. He was more the type to shame a fellow into doing what he wanted. A few slow blinks of disapproval from those sad eyes and perhaps a cutting remark, and nearly any werewolf would do as Uncle Rabiffano suggested, even Paw.
However, it turned out he could fight.
He might be smaller than Uncle Channing, but he was also sober, and quick. Really, very quick!
Rue sat back on her haunches in shock, watching as the most urbane and sweet-natured of her uncles turned into a whirling dervish of teeth and claws.
Channing, surprised by the attack and by its ferocity, whined and whimpered as his tender nose and ears were savaged. He wobbled to his side and then flopped on his back, presenting his stomach as quickly as possible.
Rabiffano took this as his due with one final nip of reproach.
Channing subdued, the oxblood wolf turned his angry yellow glare on the rest of the pack.
The ones sober enough to have realised what had just happened were already backing away from the drones. Hemming, whose form Rue had stolen, was sitting at Winkle’s feet, wrapped in her striped dress like a bathing towel and looking thoroughly ashamed. Channing remained lying on his back. Which, given Rabiffano’s expression of annoyance, was a good decision.