“Professor Lyall.” Lyall introduced himself and stuck out his hand in a friendly American manner. “Good evening, Mr Monday. I’m afraid we may be at a bit of an impasse. You see, you appear to be a lone werewolf. It is against protocol for one such as yourself to be within pack territory without calling upon us first. Regardless of the rabble-rousing talk, and the baby-depositing action, we must rectify your presence here with werewolf requirements. We would like this matter settled so we may return to the peace of our normal pursuits. We are recently moved to this neighborhood and were under the initial impression that Greenwich was cult-free. Now, the normal way of these things provides two possible solutions...”
The American crossed his arms and smiled that big gum-ridden smile. “Oh, now, boys, I think I may know where this is going. You think I ain’t prepared for this? You think I ain’t heard how things went down here in London a few months ago? Young Alpha, untried, untested, and weak, yet holding the most prestigious pack in Britain?”
Biffy rolled his eyes. Wonderful. Why does everyone think I’m weak? He took out his handkerchief and waved it at Lyall in a here we go again kind of manner.
Hard to tell with his beloved Beta, but it looked like the professor was trying to hide a smile.
Lyall cleared his throat. “As I was saying. Traditionally, you would leave, now, quietly and untroubled. And I would leave England entirely, if I were you – the Crown frowns upon talk of supernatural supremacy. You’ll be registered as a malcontent, of course. As will your, ahem, followers.”
“And my other options, little man?”
Lyall gave a tiny smile. “You’ve only the one. You fight.”
“You?”
Lyall examined his nails. “If you like.”
“But you’re not the Alpha.”
“Certainly not.”
“Well, that seems pointless.”
Biffy sighed. “Professor, if you would?”
Lyall moved to him quickly, assisting in the removal of his coat, waistcoat, and cravat. Biffy hated this part. It never got less embarrassing, stripping in public. But he refused to destroy a perfectly nice suit. Even if it wasn’t one of his favorites.
He toed off his shoes and dropped his trousers. Which left him in only his shirt and hat. He’d long since given over undergarments. He didn’t need them for warmth, and they complicated matters.
Lyall gathered the garments delicately and placed them on the dais. Leaving his own hands unencumbered, just in case he needed to shift himself.
Biffy appreciated the backup. The man before him was bigger than he was, angrier than he was, and likely more vicious. But then again, most other Alpha wolves were. Frankly, most other werewolves were bigger, angrier, and more vicious, Alpha or otherwise. Lyall was the only wolf Biffy had ever met who matched him in size and temperament.
The American was laughing. “You? You dandy boy? You want to fight me? Is this a joke?”
Biffy sighed. “Not that I object to the destruction of your current garments, but will you be shifting without removing your coat first? It can inhibit movement. Wouldn’t want to put you at a disadvantage.” Biffy paused, his lip gently curled. “More of a disadvantage than you already are.”
The man looked around. No one else was laughing. His remaining followers were standing back, puzzled. The four other werewolves in the room remained calm and quiet and watchful.
Were this an official challenge for supremacy, they could not interfere, merely enforce the circle. But, so far, the challenge had not been properly issued. So, they could step in, if they liked.
Biffy didn’t want them at risk, so he would have to force the point. “Shall we try this again, Mr Monday? I am Lord Falmouth, Alpha of the London Pack. Do you wish to challenge my leadership, as you are a loner in my territory?” The formality of the words warmed him, even as their crassness bit his human nature. All too often, Biffy wished that wolves might be a little less direct.
The man stopped laughing. “What is this cussed foolishness? I don’t want to have to kill you, boy. You need only bow before me. Challenge has already been issued. What’d you think the children were, offerings? Come at me.”
No one moved.
“Wait” – that was Ulric – “You sent infants as preemptive weregild in lieu of challenge blood?”
Lyall seemed to follow this line of thinking. He gave a small cough. “In this day and age, Mr Monday, we do not even require a dead rabbit. A simple inscription in blood on the back of a calling card would suffice.”
Biffy did not like to be confused. He knew the protocols for challenge. They’d been impressed upon him from the moment he proved himself to be an Alpha with pack intentions. Challenge could be issued many ways, usually with words written in blood, occasionally with the slap of a bloodied glove in the old-fashioned dueling manner. Years ago, it was the slaying of a deer in contested territory. Live babies seemed a bit excessive.
The man shrugged. “Cultural differences. So, you accept my challenge then, boy?”
Biffy knew he was not very prepossessing, standing there in his shirt, top hat, and nothing else. But he was still Alpha – dignity was paramount.
He nodded. “I accept.”
*
Lyall sighed. Why must it always come to this? His Biffy hated to fight. He’d always hated to fight. Although he had been a spectacular fencer before he turned wolf, it had been more a form of dance than a battle of steel.
Yet a challenge had been issued and must be accepted. The Alpha was present and in fighting form. Lyall could not fight for him. Would not. It was for Biffy to do this now.
He glanced at the other pack members. None of them seemed particularly tense or upset. Biffy might not have much confidence in himself, but he had his pack’s support. I wonder if he knows that.
Then Biffy changed shape. And Lyall realized that while twenty years might not be very long in werewolf time, it was long enough for some things to change a great deal.
His young Alpha had already mastered the shift. His beautiful Alpha. Smooth and easy with barely a hint of pain. Where once Biffy had fought it so hard and so fiercely, it seemed he had now accepted shape change with that same fierceness. Almost as if he welcomed the pain.
He was fast with it, too. Fully formed wolf long before the American had even started to follow him into the beast.
Biffy’s fine white shirt ripped easily around his now wolf body to fall beneath him. He’d grown into his fur, too. Still lean and muscled and svelte, not bulky, but his wolf looked comfortable, rich chocolate with an oxblood ruff and stomach. His eyes were fierce and sharp and yellow as buttercups.
The challenger, however, got all caught up in his coat and trousers, shifting without stripping first. He had to fight himself free in a hugely undignified manner. The end result being that his waistcoat survived entirely intact and still on his body, even though that body was now a wolf. It was beyond absurd-looking. And such an ugly waistcoat! Striped, like that of a footman.
This had the werewolves all about chuckling quietly into their cuffs. Except Lyall, whose attention wasn’t on the challenger or his waistcoat.
He watched Biffy’s stillness and calm. His contained power. Biffy’s Alpha nature was flowing from him now, fully formed and cloaking him in power. Nothing was visible, it appeared almost more like an odorless, pulsing smell. Obey. Obey. Obey.
Alpha nature was more obvious when Biffy was a wolf, and more obvious to Lyall, who knew to look for it. Lyall saw it in the flash of buttercup eyes, careful and contained and calculating.
Fighting smart. So few wolves could do that.
The challenger certainly couldn’t. He howled as he shifted, turning beast in the worst way, slow horror and monstrous suffering. He wasn’t happy with what he was, had never fully accepted it, for all he tried to glorify it from the pulpit.
Once fully shifted, panting slightly from residual pain, the challenger charged, teeth bared and drooling slightly. He looked like a creature from the Dark Ages. No intelligence was there, only instinct and rage.
Biffy moved almost imperceptibly, a flicker of muscles, and he was on the other side of the dais, still sitting, still calm. Still, miraculously, wearing his top hat.
The American wolf flew past where Biffy had just been, and barreled off the stage, stumbling over the edge.
He fell close to where Rafe stood.
Lyall flicked Rafe a look and a nod. Rafe backed up a tiny bit, lip curled.