It stung, but certainly didn’t hurt as much as werewolf shift. Still it surprised her into shocked silence.
So did the fact that Quesnel turned and stepped up against her mother in an entirely ungentlemanly way. “I wouldn’t do that again, Lady Maccon, if I were you.”
Mother blinked at him. “Oh. That’s the way of it? I didn’t realise.”
Rue clutched at her cheek and tried very hard not to cry.
“Prudence, little one.” Uncle Rabiffano’s voice was smooth as black treacle. He was so sure of himself. “This is not betrayal.”
Rue nodded. How long had it been since she had heard that kind of confidence in Paw’s voice? The slap seemed to have recharged her brain. They were right. The God-Breaker Plague would make her father an exiled mortal for the rest of his life, but he would have a rest of his life. Mother would surely go with him. Hadn’t Rue already acknowledged to herself that Paw’s time was running out?
It was a lot of realisations all at once.
“It’s only that I love him. He’s my Paw.” Rue didn’t know to whom she spoke, or why. Maybe it was for herself. She looked to Quesnel for reassurance. He was outside this. Outside her whole messy family with all its uncles and tethers and malingering life spans. “What do you think?”
“Oh, mon petite chou, it isn’t my place.”
“Please?”
“I think it’s romantic, to live together in an ancient land.”
“To die together there.”
“Not many Alphas get a retirement, chérie. And the weather is reputed to be very nice in Egypt.”
Rue gave a watery chuckle. Although she’d asked for his opinion, she did question his judgement. He’d no father and a dead birth mother. And, despite her indenture to a vampire hive, Madame Lefoux had never requested the bite. So his other mother would die too. He was accustomed to mortality.
“You do own one of the world’s fastest dirigibles.” Quesnel came to stand before her, not touching but there. And she adored – oh dear – the slight dimples when he smiled.
He was kind. “We could visit anytime you liked.”
Rue took a breath and struggled for something she could do to help. “So, how do we get him to Egypt? Will The Spotted Custard do?”
“Werewolves can’t float,” said Mother sadly.
Quesnel frowned. “It’s not the intent, but my tank might help there. The one Aggie’s hovering over in engineering.”
Lady Maccon looked thoughtful. “Prudence mentioned something about a tank.”
Rue nodded, numb. “Let’s give it a try? You’ll have to supervise, Quesnel. I’ll be indisposed.”
Then Rue took off the frock coat and walked to Paw.
He was moving, sluggishly returning to consciousness. She placed a hand gently to his dear wrinkled forehead. Rue shifted back to wolf, bones breaking and reforming and hair crawling from her head to cover her entire body. For once, she relished the pain. It was a punishment she richly deserved for her treachery.
Paw, please forgive me.
She tried not to be grateful for the relief on Uncle Rabiffano’s – and Mother’s and even Quesnel’s – faces.
Lord Maccon sat up, groggy.
And Uncle Rabiffano was hit full in his middle by a large vicious white wolf.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Channing,” Rue heard Uncle Rabiffano say just prior to shifting form. “I love this suit.”
The suit was ripped beyond repair and among the tatters of perfectly lovely and very expensive grey cashmere and crisp white lawn, stood a dark chocolate wolf with an oxblood red chest.
The two wolves met on a leap and began fighting. This was not how the pack had been tussling earlier with vampires, but really fighting. Trying to kill and maim one another. It was sickening in its ferocity.
Rue wanted to look away.
Channing went straight for Rabiffano’s neck. Rabiffano twisted so that Channing only got his shoulder. Blood dripped from deep puncture wounds as the white wolf bit down. They struggled with such force it was as though Channing were lifting and balancing the younger wolf on his nose. Rabiffano scrabbled at Channing’s belly with his hind legs, claws out, decorating the white with red gashes. He chomped down on Channing’s ear, fairly taking it off.
Rue came over queasy. She wasn’t usually squeamish, but she had never before witnessed two men she adored trying to brutally murder one another.
The wolves reared up, biting and slashing with their front paws and generally turning themselves into a fur-flying fray of white, chocolate, and red in the moonlight. Channing yipped in pain. What looked to have been his battle to win suddenly wasn’t any more. Rabiffano was braced in such a way as to give superior leverage against the white wolf, biting hard into the neck, applying a brutal pressure forwards and down. He was fighting smart, something very few werewolves could do, usually only the oldest or the most Alpha.