Biffy perked up and speared Adelphus with what he hoped was a very crafty look. “What’s the problem?”
“The head preacher is reputed to be one of those barn-raisers. Or do I mean tent pole-lifters?”
Biffy quirked a brow. “Do you, Adelphus?”
Adelphus, who had no shame and liked to keep every possible option open, winked. “Not that kind of revival, my dear. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, all I am saying is that this man seems the type to climb up on top of things and...” He cleared his throat and looked embarrassed. “…raise his voice.”
“How unbecoming,” said Phelan.
“How very not on,” agreed Hemming.
“Is he English?” wondered Quinn.
“No. All signs point to his being” – pregnant pause – “an American.”
Silence met that statement. Adelphus basked in everyone’s appalled reactions. He had a flair for the dramatic.
“Ah, well, regardless of any possible connection to, you know, our current issue with, well, human issue, we will have to investigate further.” Lyall didn’t look like he was trying to be cute, but he was cute. Impossibly cute.
Biffy nodded to show he entirely agreed with his Beta (he would hardly do otherwise at table). He privately wished the American preacher to perdition. He already had four children to provenance, and rogue preachers were quite pushing things too far.
However, American meant any rhetoric being shouted (ugh) was likely to be anti-supernatural, and that simply couldn’t be allowed to continue. Not by Biffy’s pack, and certainly not in England. He would have to deal with this new problem.
I am beginning to very much regret having moved us to Greenwich.
“Very well. Professor Lyall and I discovered a likely warehouse last night. I want a watch set all night tonight and all day tomorrow. If there’s anti-supernatural sentiment brewing, that has to be the priority. The accidental children are fine in our keeping for now. I acknowledge that their relations are likely rather worried” – he tilted his head at Hemming’s distressed expression – “but they must now play second fiddle to this new inconvenience. If not connected to the children, the cult must be our focus.”
The werewolves around the table all agreed.
Channing, who’d remained uncharacteristically silent throughout breakfast, finished his meal and stood.
Biffy gave him a look that he hoped was full of enigmatic wisdom but probably looked more anemic.
Fortunately, Channing tilted his head slightly in supplication. “Yes, I’ll stop by on my way to BUR and make inquiries at the Home Office. But this preacher is not registered – I would have known already if he were. I cleared this area before we relocated. He’s not official, but I’ll ask around to be certain. There are always rabble-rousers and anarchists and the like – Home Office keeps an eye on the known elements.”
Biffy nodded. “I’d appreciate it.”
Channing’s lip curled. “Of course, Alpha.” Without another word, he left the table.
Lyall watched him go. “Such a charmer.”
Biffy turned back. He couldn’t keep all pack from their normal jobs and duties a second night running. Since they’d been relieved of military service overseas, they weren’t on strict schedules for tangential military duties, instead working for BUR, serving with Her Majesty’s Growlers, or helping out the War Office. Pack business always took priority, but even an American preacher and four squalling babies couldn’t be furnished as an excuse for more than one day.
Still, it wasn’t all of them. Rafe hadn’t any official obligations at the moment. Hemming wanted to stay home and help Mrs Whybrew. She was eminently capable, but four children under a year old was enough to drive anyone spare. Adelphus did everything he could not to work. As a matter of fact, he worked awfully hard at it. And Ulric, who liked to remind them that he had once been a European prince, preferred papers and aetherographic transmission processing. When not required to fight, Ulric actually preferred to fool about with the pack accounts, investments, and correspondences. For his part, Biffy could afford to leave the hat shop in Cyril’s capable hands. His head shop-keep might not have the best stylistic eye where millinery was concerned, but the man could sell last week’s bread as this week’s pudding for three times the price, and make you feel lucky to get it while it was hot. Biffy had watched a young lady wearing dubious amounts of lace walk in looking for gloves and leave carrying three new hats, a fichu, two parasols, and a pair of hair muffs.
So it was that Biffy, Lyall, Rafe, Ulric, and Adelphus took the first half of the night’s watch over the warehouse. He instructed his pack-mates to observe only. Then, right about eight at night, early for most gatherings, people began to arrive. They seemed to represent all walks of laboring life, including full families among their ranks, and were all dressed in Sunday best.
With a start, Biffy realized it was Sunday.
Biffy himself wished he’d dressed down, but he hadn’t, which meant he far outclassed everyone there (Sunday best or not). He signaled for Lyall and Rafe to join the modest throng entering the warehouse. They did, lurking to the back and fitting in well enough to pass cursory inspection.
He, Ulric, and Adelphus stayed to the outside, hidden in the shadows, regretting their pretty suits and fine ways.
*
Professor Lyall had learned over the years never to expect very much. If one didn’t cherish high expectations, one was never disappointed and, occasionally, one might even be pleasantly surprised.
Sadly, Lyall would never have called this surprise pleasant.
He skulked at the back of the massive room, hidden in plain sight as was his wont. No one noticed him at the best of times – it was his gift. A dubious thing, to be constantly overlooked. After four hundred years, however, he’d learned to appreciate it rather than resent it. Well, most of the time.
Rafe, who had a less easy time of skulking, still managed to lurk with enough subtlety on the other side of the room to pass as human. Rafe was still obviously a predator, large and fierce and deadly. But there were humans like that too, and he’d found a group of them in a corner. Rough, ready, angry men, cracked like leather beneath the weight of the world’s use. Standing with them, Rafe could still be one of the things that went bump in the night, just closer to home. The world hid all kinds of monsters – some had too many teeth and some had too much gin.
The gathering rustled in an anticipatory manner, as people murmured and moved about one another. It was much as Lyall expected from a church gathering, except that there were no pews and everyone stood about in a pickling warehouse.
Finally, a man came marching in. Big, confident strides took him up to the small raised platform at the front of the room to the stage that smelled of vinegar. He wore a suit that defied the term, a waistcoat that did no one any favors, least of all him, and a scarf about his neck instead of a cravat. Professor Lyall was the type to make allowances, but really. He worried for Biffy’s health should the Alpha catch sight of the offending garments.
Lyall wrinkled his nose involuntarily.
The man – he had to assume he was the preacher, nothing less than abject devotion to the almighty could lead anyone to neglect his attire like that – reeked of vinegar, so much so that it brought tears to Lyall’s eyes. He wasn’t dripping wet, but he clearly bathed in the stuff. Yech.