The challenger was already up and around and charging Biffy again. But he had come too close to the circle’s edge, and he did not seem to know proper protocols at all. They shouldn’t be surprised. After all, he had sent babies as weregild.
Rafe began stripping down. None of Biffy’s reticence, nor did he need Lyall’s assistance (he was in his layman’s clothing). His shape shift was long and uncomfortable to watch. Rafe was relatively young and not an Alpha. Lyall did not watch, refocusing on the fight before him. He trusted his pack-mate to be ready. Rafe would act on instinct. He would maintain the circle with tooth and claw. He would follow the strongest Alpha without question. Whoever that ended up being.
Biffy dodged another charge, only this time he stuck out a paw, almost casually, scraping away the challenger’s flesh from ear to shoulder, pulling deep red gashes up through dirty brown fur.
Now was the time when the American should fold, falling over to his back and exposing his belly in supplication. First blood and a clearly superior opponent in power, position, brains, and speed. But he did not. The gash only seemed to enrage him further.
Lyall frowned. Perhaps this was even more abnormal than he had already thought. Perhaps this challenger was not simply a loner but too long a loner. To long without pack. Or too old being both Alpha and loner. Perhaps he was mad under Alpha’s curse.
Sending babies as challenge offerings certainly didn’t smack of sanity.
Well – Lyall was philosophical – at least he didn’t send us dead babies.
Customarily, pack challenges did not end in death. It was considered a waste of supernatural life. Although there were always exceptions. Sometimes, challenges were issued by wolves who wished to die, who had lived too long and were ready to leave in blood and glory – an honorable end in an Alpha’s jaw. Lyall hoped for that himself someday. Not yet, of course. He wasn’t done yet.
Lyall twitched in uncertainty. This fight was not clean. Or it was from Biffy’s perspective, but not from Mr Monday’s.
The man was unhinged. He kept simply charging, no leaps, no twists, no swipes, nothing to indicate technique, or interest in a proper battle.
So, Biffy kept dodging and swiping. The challenger was now bleeding from multiple lacerations. The slow black blood of immortality oozed down onto the stage, making him slip.
Biffy lost his hat in the scuffle.
Lyall retrieved it for him.
End it, Lyall tried to think at him. This long, drawn-out suffering was no kind of proper fight.
Biffy seemed to understand, for in a rush, he twisted his dodge and went in for the other wolf’s neck. He dove under, and with a firm, full bash of his forehead, Biffy upended the heavier wolf and threw him to his side.
Biffy avoided the challenger’s scrabbling claws with ease and in one smooth move clamped his jaws fully around the other wolf’s neck. Lord Maccon had taught his protégé well. Lyall knew without a doubt that Biffy’s canines pressed upon Monday’s windpipe. He would apply a steady pressure until things ended, one way or another.
Lyall could not have been prouder. This was a perfect subjugation move, beautifully executed, elegant and final without being deadly.
Ulric and Adelphus clapped. It was, after all, very prettily done.
But the other wolf would not be still. He writhed even as his air flow was restricted, even as Biffy’s other teeth cut in closer and closer to the main artery of his neck.
Lyall shook his head, sorrowed. Either Monday did not know the proper form at all, or he was too far gone in madness to care.
“Submit, you fool!” said Adelphus, but the wolf was beyond human speech.
Biffy’s eyes, harsh and yellow, looked over at them from around his struggling mouthful. The buttercup color was filled with sadness.
Lyall met them in compassion and understanding. He inclined his head, not that Biffy needed his permission. But he thought it might help, in the end, if it was given.
The yellow eyes closed, once. Then Biffy lifted his head high, at the same time biting down as hard as he could and twisting aside. He slammed the other wolf’s head to the floor, breaking his neck, constricting his air, and severing the main blood flow to his brain all at the same time.
Even supernatural creatures can die.
*
Biffy let go as soon as his enemy’s body stopped twitching. The burnt iron of old blood filled his mouth, foul and flawed and tainted. This was nothing like the fresh kill of a wild creature, coppery and sweet. Immortals never tasted good – there was no freshness left in them to enjoy.
He sat back and tried not to shake himself like a wet dog, or sneeze.
Ulric stripped the waistcoat off of the dead wolf. It seemed almost insultingly undignified to leave it on him. Fortunately, it had been ruined in the scuffle. Just to be safe, and because he was twitchy with having had to kill, Biffy savaged the hideous thing into tiny pieces. It cleaned his mouth of some of the blood, too.
Those supplicants still present and not fallen into shocked stupors gasped in titillated horror. Funny how the taking of a life had held them silently in thrall, but the destruction of a vest gave them license to react.
Biffy could hear them gossiping down at the pub the next day. First, the new Alpha killed the visiting American, and then, well then, he destroyed the man’s waistcoat!
The ensuing silence eventually yielded up hysterics on the part of some of the congregation, a roar of anger from the brute with the child, and general discombobulation from everyone else present. Well, Greenwich wasn’t accustomed to such carryings-on.
The pack sprang into action.
Adelphus removed the child from the brute and disposed of both. The child back to the mother, the brute to the floor in a crumpled heap. Not dead, just momentarily incapacitated with a well-aimed fist.
Ulric explained in his most arrogant and commanding tone that the others would have to clean up the mess and bury the body. Since it wasn’t the winner’s responsibility, and the challenger hadn’t brought a second, there was no one else to do the deed. They should have thought of that before they started listening, willy-nilly, to pedantic Americans.
Biffy and Rafe remained in wolf form. No sense in adding nudity into the mix at this juncture. Might cause a riot.
Lyall suggested that word be spread about the neighborhood concerning the unfortunate demise of the nascent cult leader, and that perhaps they might consider congregating again tomorrow night? The proper local pack would come down and instruct them in niceties of wolf-worship. (Of course, they had absolutely no intention of continuing the farce of supernatural supremacy, but it wouldn’t do to disencumber the supplicants of their leader and their rhetoric all at once.) Besides, the pack still needed to return the children.
“We should bring the wassail with us,” Lyall said to Adelphus.
“Good idea.”
They returned to the pack house at least pleased to have solved the mystery, if a little perturbed to see it end in such an unsportsmanlike manner. It was always disappointing when a challenge ended in death.
Biffy went up to his room to change and did not come back down. He didn’t feel up to more pack histrionics right away. Adelphus and Ulric could handle explaining and gossip and such as the others returned home.
Biffy moped. It wasn’t gentlemanly, but it was the truth. And his tummy was a mite queasy. Fortunately, no one witnessed his weakness.
Although it seemed Lyall guessed, because he sent Rumpet up with tea.
Shortly thereafter, the Beta himself followed, accompanied by consolatory biscuits. “My lord, may I come in?”
Somehow, Biffy didn’t mind his Beta. Lyall’s presence was more a soothing balm than an imposition, even when Biffy wished to be alone. It was probably a Beta characteristic, or simply because he was Professor Randolph Lyall and always easy to be around for everyone.
Biffy had not bothered to dress again. Instead, he was wearing his favorite quilted velvet dressing gown. It was a very fine rich blue, lined in satin. He felt almost royal in it.
He gestured for Lyall and the biscuits to enter.
CHAPTER NINE
Tethered and Forgotten