Biffy winced. Admission time. He hated to be humiliated in Lyall’s estimation, but it wouldn’t do to have a Beta out of the loop either.
“You met with the clavigers earlier this evening.”
Lyall nodded.
“Not very many of them, are there?” Biffy kept his expression blank.
They walked out of the warehouse.
Lyall locked the door after them, fine hands nimble with the heavy bolt. “Half dozen? I assumed some had already left about their business.” He wiped down the metal with a handkerchief and a bit of lemon oil from a vial in his coat pocket.
Smart. Lemon to disguise the musk of wolf. “No more than six.”
They headed back towards the new pack house.
There was a long pause while Lyall contemplated numbers and, no doubt, how to ask the obvious question politely. When he finally got around to it, his voice was soft and kind. “Why so few, Alpha?”
Biffy looked at his hands. Once so fine and clean and gloved. He never wore gloves anymore, and his knuckles always seemed to be smudged or scratched. “No new petitions since I took charge, and we lost over half when Lord Maccon retired.”
“But they know you have Anubis Form?”
Biffy nodded, miserable. How humiliating had that been? To have to show the assembled clavigers that he was capable of making new werewolves. To prove himself with that grotesque wolf’s head on a human body.
He whispered it to his hands. “They still left. I couldn’t hold them.”
Lyall gave him an unreadable look. “Their loss.”
Biffy stayed silent.
A gentle hand to his wrist stopped him in the street.
“You’re afraid the pack will start to abandon you, like the clavigers did?”
Biffy said nothing, only lowered his eyes. I have one job to do now. One charge. Them. Hold them together. Keep them sane. How can I keep my wolves when I can’t even keep my humans?
Lyall’s voice was low and urgent. “This pack has been through this before – transitioning Alphas. Well, most of us have. The Alpha isn’t all that holds us together, we also legitimately like each other. We’re family. Mostly.”
“And I’m like the evil step-wolf from some contorted fairy tale.”
Lyall gave a small tight smile. “Which one of us is Snow White?”
“Ulric, of course. Zev is the little matchstick girl.”
Lyall chuckled. “And who is Sleeping Beauty?”
This was kind of a fun game. “Definitely Channing. We all live in hope some day he’ll wake up and grow a personality.”
Lyall nodded. “And Cinderella?”
Biffy looked away. “You of course, professor.” Always running after dust mites and putting things to rights. Always tidying the world around you to exacting specifications. Always wishing for something more. Then, before Lyall could grow uncomfortable, he added, “There have been no formal applications, Lyall. Not a single one. The clavigers we do have were recruits. They’re all after patronage, not immortality. No one trusts me to metamorphose them successfully.”
“Or perhaps London has changed and immortality has lost its luster?” Lyall was trying to be kind.
Biffy shook his head. He couldn’t believe that. Surely, other Alphas had clavigers who wanted to try for bite. “It’s me, the way I look, the way I am. No one trusts me to be a strong Alpha.”
Lyall closed his eyes and shook his head. “Fools, to judge so much by appearances. You developed Anubis Form early. And you have always shifted forms quickly. And you fight smart. Those are true signs of Alpha strength. Not to be diminished by the fact that your collar points are high and your waistcoats tight.”
“Judge not the werewolf by the starch of his apparel but by the speed of its removal?” Biffy suggested.
Lyall chuckled. As he was supposed to.
Biffy returned to being serious. “It’s not easy with only six clavigers. I’ve been thinking of hiring more footmen and a valet or two. I mean to say, Riehard doesn’t need anyone, but we should really pay someone to put up with Channing, Adelphus, Ulric, and, well, me. We’re a bit too demanding for clavigers.”
Lyall nodded. “I noticed some of the pack were dressing far better than when I left. Your influence?”
“I believe it’s more that my presence gives them permission. Ulric now openly reads the Paris fashion papers. Last week, Phelan and Channing actually got into an argument about the old-fashioned nature of a mathematical cravat tie. Not that the others haven’t struggled to improve themselves as well under my guidance.” And occasional prodding.
“An Alpha leads by example and you care deeply about appearances.”
“I do.”
“Perhaps that’s why some of the clavigers left.”
“They think me shallow?”
“No, they no longer fit with the pack. Or no longer felt that they did.”
Alpha and Beta had reached the front door of their new home at this juncture. Biffy pushed inside the house, uncomfortable with continuing this conversation where others might overhear. But knowing, now that he’d started, he must tell Lyall everything and unburden himself of all his flaws.
The butler rushed forward to take their coats. Well, Biffy’s coat. Taking Lyall’s wouldn’t be politic.
“Rumpet, bring two large glasses of brandy up to my chambers, please. Professor Lyall and I have pack business to discuss. We are not to be disturbed.” If he talked quietly and quickly inside the confines of his own bedroom, the servants wouldn’t be able to eavesdrop. A werewolf likely could, but the rest of the pack was still out hunting.
Lyall didn’t seem concerned by the intimacy of the invitation. Likely, he understood the need for discretion rather than any possible implication of indiscretion.
Nevertheless, Biffy self-consciously waited while his guest selected a seat in his private quarters. He was oddly crushed when Lyall opted for the chair next to the fireplace rather than the small settee in front of it. Apparently, Lyall was ensuring that they not share a piece of furniture.
His Beta sat and sipped his brandy. Waiting.
Biffy took the settee, lifted his own glass, and stared contemplatively at the amber liquid within.
Biffy liked his room well enough to live in it, although it was not what he once might have wished. Its appearance was all compromise, balance between his very exacting standards and his animalistic nature. He’d found, once a werewolf, that a certain inherent clumsiness in human form (regardless of the possibility of becoming a lunatic beast) was disastrous to delicate furniture. Fine spindly legs and fussy details were simply not werewolf-compatible. It was as though, while he had not grown more muscle, he had lost some gracefulness of form and replaced it with concentrated strength. His bones and tendons were more solid and stiff. Forced to rely upon heavy thick chairs, solid stable tables, and wrought iron, Biffy strove to balance this clunkiness with delicacy in the matter of light, airy curtains and cream upholstery. His bedroom was, therefore, an exercise in contradictions. His dark chairs and tables were solid mahogany but beautifully carved and rounded wherever possible, glassy with polish, and spread with filmy muslin cloth. His settee was low and stable and made of thick, resilient velvet, but in an elegant pale sage color.
No doubt Lyall saw all these differing elements, took them in through those measuring hazel eyes. Certainly, his Beta assessed them with that wickedly sharp mind and saw that part of Biffy that was at war with himself. The solid iron bed, its circular decorative elements more like gears or compasses than flowers, the canopy over the head taller and wider than any human would require. The bed coverlet was velvet again, striped cream and gold, but chosen with durability in mind rather than warmth. Biffy no longer needed warmth, and though he rarely slept well, he was still a werewolf – during daylight, he always slept solid.
It is all the pretty things that I wanted, draped over all the durable and ugly things that I have become.
“So,” said Lyall at last. “Tell me, Alpha.”
“Alpha?”