“Too much dueling gives a pack a reputation. Any questions?”
No one had any. Professor Lyall himself held the rank of lieutenant colonel with the Coldsteam Guards, but had, in the last fifty years, rarely had cause to serve. He was beginning to regret not maintaining a more consistent presence within the regiment by letting his BUR duties supersede his military obligations. But even he, a man of considerable forethought, had not planned for a contingency wherein the regiment would be in residence and both Lord Maccon and Major Channing would, essentially, not be in residence.
He allowed the pack to continue the rest of their meal untroubled. They were nervous and a little restless. Merely through his presence alone, Lord Maccon kept them tame. Professor Lyall could fight them each individually, but he hadn’t the charisma to control them en masse, and if Lord Maccon continued to remain sloshed, problems might well arise from within the pack as easily as from without it. Either that, or England would run out of formaldehyde.
Just as the gentlemen were finishing their meal, a timid knock sounded against the closed door. Professor Lyall frowned; he had left orders they were not to be disturbed.
“Yes?”
The door creaked open and a very nervous-looking Rumpet entered, carrying a brass tray with a single card resting atop it.
“Begging your pardon, Professor Lyall, sir,” said the butler. “I know you said only in cases of emergency, but the clavigers don’t know what to do, and the staff is in an uproar.”
Professor Lyall took the card and read it.
Sandalius Ulf, Barrister. Messrs. Ulf, Ulf, Wrendofflip, & Ulf. Topsham, Devonshire. Underneath that in very small letters was one additional printed word: Loner.
The Beta flipped over the card. On the back had been scrawled, in the appropriate medium—blood—the fated phrase, Name your second.
“Oh, just wonderful.” Professor Lyall rolled his eyes. And he had taken such prodigious care with his dress for the evening. “Bother.”
Lyall had spent a good deal of his existence as a werewolf avoiding becoming an Alpha. Not only was his temperament ill-suited to the job, but he had no desire for that kind of physical responsibility, quite apart from the fact that he was unable to affect Anubis Form. Alphas had, he observed over the centuries, remarkably short life spans for immortals. His circumspect attitude toward brawling had served him in good stead. The devil in his current situation was that despite himself, Professor Lyall was rather fond of his current Alpha and was, as yet, unwilling to acquiesce to a regime change. Which meant that when upstart loners came to Woolsey to fight for the right to lead England’s most powerful pack because the Alpha was rumored to be incapacitated, there was only one thing poor Lyall could do—fight in Lord Maccon’s stead.
“Lieutenant Bluebutton, if you would attend me?”
One of the stronger and more senior pack members objected to that. “Shouldn’t I be Gamma in Channing’s place?”
“Given that the regiment is still here, it had better be a ranking officer.”
Professor Lyall had to maintain military support and, with the Gamma gone, this could prove difficult. Major Channing might be a pain in the proverbial posterior as a pack mate, but he was an excellent officer with a reputation as a fire-eater, and he had the respect of both soldiers and fellow officers. Without him standing as second, Lyall needed another officer to act the part so that the pack was seen as united with the regiment, should he need to bring soldiers in to support Woolsey as a last resort. It was a truly horrible idea, using Her Majesty’s army to prevent an Alpha coup. Werewolves had served their military contracts with dedication since Queen Elizabeth first integrated them, but they had always strived to keep pack protocol separate. Nevertheless, Lyall was a man of ingenuity, and he would call up the Coldsteam Guards if he had to.
Hemming was no Beta, so he objected further. “Yes, but—”
“My decision is final.” Professor Lyall finished his tea in one gulp, stood, summoned Adelphus to follow him, and left for the cloakroom.
There, both gentlemen stripped down to the skin and donned long wool cloaks before exiting through the front door, where an excited milling mass of clavigers and Woolsey staff waited in the cold evening air.
Professor Lyall could smell the loner even before he saw him. His scent was not that of the Woolsey Pack, nor of any distant association. The bloodline was off, making Lyall’s nose twitch.
Professor Lyall went forward to greet him. “Mr. Ulf? How do you do?”
The werewolf looked at Lyall suspiciously. “Lord Maccon?”
“Professor Lyall,” said Professor Lyall. And then to make matters clear to this upstart, “And this is my second, Lieutenant Bluebutton.”