Biffy sighed. Really, this had to be the worst part about being a werewolf. He could tame his hair (which had taken a decade to get right and caused him to invest, rather lucratively, in werewolf-strength pomade called Parfumé Contr?le du Citron) and he could tame his temper (which was mild by Alpha standards already, and really didn’t take much doing) but he could not tame the way other werewolves behaved – hair or temper. The result was that, in the end, disagreements were settled with claws and teeth. So very undignified.
Biffy was a man of words, not fur. He’d far rather argue, persuade, flatter, or insult an enemy into submission. Fighting simply seemed rather gauche. Still, a man dressed like that pulpit jockey could hardly be expected to obey the social niceties of any society, be it werewolf, English, or even (heaven forfend) American.
Far be it for Biffy not to try civility first, however. Everyone deserved at least one opportunity to run away.
He entered the warehouse, four of his pack at his back. No one made a fuss about them. The werewolves nodded politely to the remaining supplicants as they passed through the cavernous space. Hats were tipped to the ladies. Even Biffy issued all proper courtesies, although given his superior rank, he wasn’t required to be nice. Still, he was newly minted nobility, and newly moved to the area – no need to come off as condescending with the locals.
Even if they were members of a cult.
Even if none of them seemed to know who he was.
Given the meat of the sermon, he supposed, if they did, they might have run screaming, or cast themselves at his feet bowing and scraping. Not for the first time, Biffy was grateful he didn’t actually look the part of werewolf. Neither did the others, when all was said and done.
Lyall looked, most of the time, like a county cleric, or possibly a banking clerk. Adelphus looked like a mildly dyspeptic toff, Ulric like a Byronic hero, and Rafe like the local pub’s ferret-legging champion. Of all of them, Rafe appeared the most wolfish when human, but even he projected a bashful lumbering that disguised his predator’s grace. Biffy could not have picked a more unthreatening group from his pack. He was pleased by this unintended subterfuge.
A few sycophants and disciples remained collected about the preacher standing on his dais. Some were requesting private blessings or prayers, others begged for aid or solace. The squirming child-sacrifice was being held by a large brutish fellow off to one side. The child’s mother sat crumpled on the floor at the brute’s feet, perhaps having prostrated herself there in an excess of emotion.
Lacking any other means of modulating the situation, Biffy fell onto classic societal strictures.
He and his pack waited politely to one side while the man dealt with his flock.
Finally, the preacher turned inquiring eyes upon them.
Biffy inclined his head. “Good evening, sir. My name is Lord Falmouth.”
“Welcome! Welcome, gentlemen. I’m Thaddeus Monday.”
“Pastor Monday?” Biffy prodded for correct address.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m afraid this is a rather delicate matter.”
“I make no allowances for my speech tonight, boys. I come when summoned by the Lord and say the Word as it moves me. Can’t say I’m sorry if it disturbed your slumber.”
“Oh, no, nothing like that.”
“Then has one of your number turned to me and taken up the Following of the Beasts? Because you’ll find he has saved himself with righteousness. Nothing you or I can do will turn him back from the bright and snapping path.”
“Not that, either.” Biffy was mildly amused to see where this was going.
“Well then, well then, you seeking the Word yourselves, young gentlemen? You wish to establish a worship group, perhaps?”
“No, actually. We find your subject matter a smidgen off-putting, to be perfectly honest.”
“Hey now, hey now. I thought you Blighty types welcomed werewolves with open arms. That’s why I’ve come. This being the first step in the enlightened direction, I’m merely encouraging the savage truth to out itself.”
“You advocate a belief in the superiority of the supernatural?” Biffy wanted verbal evidence to his face.
“Exactly so. Exactly so. Why, I could tell you things that’d raise the hairs on the backs of your necks.”
“Could you, indeed?”
“For surely, I could.”
“I find I’m well able to do that myself, to be quite frank with you.” Biffy edged closer to the man.
How long? How long until the scent – five of them together – finally broke through the vinegar stench surrounding the interloping werewolf loner?
Alpha in my territory.
Biffy moved another step closer.
Carefully, subtly, the others fanned out. Lyall to his right. Adelphus to his left. Rafe towards the brute with the baby. Ulric taking back position, ready to scoop up any leftovers.
They hadn’t planned it. They hadn’t talked about it. But the pattern fell over them so naturally. Biffy knew well that the others had years together, shaping pack dynamics, but that they netted those years around him with such ease when he was so new to the front of that shape... Biffy glowed with the perfection of it. My pack. Tethered strong and sure and at his back. The missing link filled by his Beta brought that last vital element, calm and quiet and there and present. Waiting. All of them waiting, on him. For a movement. For a shift.
Words first.
Biffy leaned in. Closer still. Within striking distance. Surely, he must smell me now.
“Lord Falmouth?” The American tensed suddenly. No longer so relaxed. No longer the man in charge. “Not...”
He trailed off. Clearly trying hard to reconcile Biffy’s appearance with Biffy’s reputation. Or the reputation of werewolves in general – big, rough, and domineering. Or, if not rough, perhaps cruel. Soldiers. Beaters. Brutes. Biffy was none of those things.
A new Alpha for a new Age, Lord Maccon had called him, when Biffy had proved himself to be Alpha. To everyone’s surprise. To everyone’s continued surprise. So, I must keep proving myself. Over and over and over again. Only Lyall had never been surprised. Only Lyall had never wavered in his support. Until he left, of course. Abandoned me. None of that now.
Biffy cleared his throat and said, precisely, menacing in tone if not in the deep gruff growl that everyone expected, “I believe you and yours persist in leaving babies on my doorstep. It has become... incommodious.”
The man still looked him up and down, disbelieving.
Biffy explained. “While we appreciate the sentiment, we are ill equipped to handle the burden of fatherhood at this time. Perhaps you might assist us in reconnecting the unfortunates with their human relations?”
The man blinked at them. “Who the hell are you? Really? Pranksters? Is it a set-up? A wager? Are you from the Oxford Theologic Society?”
Ulric flinched at such language.
Adelphus huffed at the implication. “Oxford? Really? There’s no cause for insult. At least accuse us of being Cambridge men.”
“There’s a difference?” The preacher sneered.
Utter shock all ‘round met that statement.
Ignorant American.
“I beg your pardon!” Biffy straightened and returned his hat to his head in a blatant insult. Such a man did not deserve such a courtesy.
Now I shall have to beat him to a pulp without losing my hat, on principle.
A delicate cough and Lyall slid forward slightly. Yes, well, perhaps the time had come for Biffy to hold his tongue and stick his nose in the air in silent autocratic judgment. Which he did.