Romancing the Werewolf Read online

  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?”

  A small huff of amusement met that. “Tell me, Biffy.”

  “I can’t hold them together. Whatever is needed of an Alpha, I don’t think I have enough of it. They’re always arguing with me. They don’t trust my judgment. It’s no wonder the clavigers left me. Without them, I feel like the pack trusts me even less. I’m too young, too new at this. Don’t most Alphas spend decades as loners first?”

  “You are not the type of man to be a loner.”

  “No, I’m not.” I’d never survive. Not that I couldn’t fight. Simply that I’d have nothing to fight for. Perhaps that’s part of this as well. I’m afraid that I need the pack more than the pack needs me. Biffy drank the last of his brandy. It burned his throat but did nothing more. The comforting looseness of intoxication was no longer an option. Well, there was formaldehyde – drink enough of that and even a werewolf turned squiffy. But the last thing he needed as a few-months-old Alpha was to lose control.

  Lyall put his still-full brandy glass down on the table between them. Then in one of those lightning-quick movements that Biffy had learned to anticipate from the supernatural set, Lyall shifted to sit next to him on the settee.

  I forgot he could move so fast. Much of Lyall’s survival and his fighting skills came from his speed. Lord Maccon once said he knew of none faster, and that had Professor Lyall been a big enough wolf, and of the right temperament, he would have been the foremost Alpha in the land. But, of course, Lyall was neither. So, his speed was made to serve a pack, and serve them it had for hundreds of years.

  Biffy knew agility was some of his own Alpha skill set as well. As if by swindling them both in the size department when compared to other werewolves, the gods of immortality had deemed Biffy and Lyall worthy of great speed and cunning instead. So far, Biffy had only had to fight a few times, but he practiced a lot. He’d decided, after defeating Channing, he’d take what he’d been given and learn to use it. Perhaps Lyall can teach me some of his tricks.

  Lyall moved closer until they were almost touching, side by side on the small couch. Both of them watched the play of the fire rather than each other.

  Biffy turned his gaze, almost desperately, to his empty glass.

  Lyall reached out and took it out of his hands, setting it aside.

  Then those fine gentle fingers were pressing insistently on Biffy’s cheek, turning his head, tilting Biffy’s face until he was forced to look into serious sand-colored eyes.

  Sad eyes. Always. Even when Lyall was smiling, or plotting, or fighting, or solving some pack riddle or another, his eyes were always a little sad. Only a few times had Biffy seen them wide and full of wonder, almost but not quite joyful. And I most certainly shouldn’t be thinking about that right now, with my bed right there.

  Biffy lowered his eyelashes, collected himself. He recounted the twenty perfect cravat knots in his head. He contemplated the button choices he’d been offered for his next waistcoat. I think I’ll go with the milk glass. I should have James contact my tailor with that decision. He collected himself.

  Lyall’s fingers did not stroke Biffy’s skin – there was no caress to his touch, only insistence and comfort.

  “Tell me.”

  Biffy stayed silent and turned his face into the hand, seeking more. It instantly withdrew.

  Biffy flinched. “I was rather hoping you could tell me.” He does not want me anymore. Not in that way.

  Lyall sighed. He pushed Biffy back against the corner of the settee and then turned himself around and rested against him. His back was lean and warm on Biffy’s chest.

  It was a pose of lovers. A way they had sat in the past. Only, they were both dressed, and this felt more like friendship and necessary intimacy than lust.

  Biffy took it, though. He was embarrassingly grateful for whatever scraps he was offered. He held Lyall close, but not tightly, and tried not to breathe in his scent. Not because he didn’t want to – because he did want to. Too much. Lyall clearly did not desire that. Did not desire him. Oh, but it wasn’t easy.

  Lyall was offering him comfort without obligation, and connection without expectation. He had arranged them to be close but only so that Biffy would not have to look directly at him while he confessed his deficiencies. No Alpha could bear that, to look into sympathetic eyes.

  He knows I am crumbling and he wants to help. He knows it is now impossible for me to expose any deficiency. He is making it so I can do so with support but not confrontation.

  Biffy wondered if Lyall had done this for any of his previous Alphas. No doubt Biffy was not so different from them in matters of guilt and confession. If I was made to lead and to take risks with my actions, my greatest fear, by default, must be failure. Well, that and any change that I myself have not chosen.

  I guess I really am an Alpha.

  So, Biffy held his love against him, not too tight. And encouraged into release by his Beta’s easy acceptance, Biffy spoke of all the terrors of the young and responsible when the weight of a broken dream is upon them.

  * * *

  Lyall lay motionless in his Alpha’s undemanding embrace. He had instigated it, but Biffy had not repelled him. Unfortunately, he had not drawn him closer, either. His Alpha’s hands, laced together, rested open and still and undemanding on Lyall’s chest.

  He needs to tell me what’s wrong. He needs to articulate all of it so that I can understand and help. Lyall waited, keeping his breath even.

  He has the charisma to hold this pack. There’s no reason the clavigers should have left us. Unless it is that they can sense how he doubts himself.

  Lyall could tell that Biffy needed many things from him. But principally, he needed guidance towards a better understanding of Alpha nature and pack structure. Only then could they come up with a cure for this thing that was eating away at what was left of Biffy’s soul. The other need, Lyall’s own, a temptation that was dormant beneath everything, would only complicate matters. I had forgotten the way his lips curved, and that his bottom one is slightly fuller than the top.

  What we had was just the one moment to help us both overcome loss, him of his past and me of my future. I cannot encumber him with the awkwardness of my continued desire. It’s not fair. Another requirement for an overburdened Alpha. Another need to fulfill.

  Lyall did many things, but he never, ever imposed. What was comfort is now friendship. And that is good enough. It must be good enough.

  Finally, Biffy began to speak. “They went mad at the end there. All of them, not only Lord Maccon. He refused to leave, you see, even though we all knew it was time. And I...” Biffy’s voice broke a moment. “I liked him. He was my Alpha. My friend. But he wasn’t here anymore, not present, there was just the shell of him left.”

  Lyall explained, “He was losing his tethers.”

  “Vampires are tethered to place, werewolves to pack.” Biffy repeated the old saying.

  But did he really understand it? Had Conall been well enough to give him that much training? When Lyall left, he’d thought Lord Maccon was still holding everything together. He’d thought, with Lady Maccon’s particular abilities, that they could weather Alpha curse and come out the better for it. Perhaps I was wrong.

  So, Lyall felt it his duty to ensure Biffy knew now. “It’s not simply a platitude. When you became Alpha of this pack, you tethered to them, to each and every member. Your tether is the last of your soul, so, in a way, the pack becomes the Alpha’s soul. And you are theirs.”

  “And what about you?” Biffy wondered. The slight breath of his speaking shivered over Lyall’s hair.

  “You didn’t feel it snap back into place? In the hat shop, when you knew it was me and I didn’t smell right?”

  Mine. “Oh. That. You still don’t smell quite righ
t.”

  Of course, Lyall knew how to change that in a hurry. You could mark me, inside and out. We could... Not a good idea. Continue the lesson.

  “That will change. I’m only just home. Anyway, clavigers aren’t pack, they aren’t supernatural, they have no sense of tether.”

  “But the pack could still leave me.”

  “Perhaps. But it would not be easy. Because they are also tethered to each other.”

  “This seems awfully tangled up and messy.”

  Lyall smiled. Now Biffy was looking down at him. “Before Lord Vulkasin... died” – before I arranged to have him killed – “the pack had no clavigers left at all. All of them were dead or had run away.”

  “Is that where I’m headed?” Biffy knew the story of the previous Lord Woolsey, of the mad Alpha before Lord Maccon, and of Lyall’s role in seeing him dispossessed. At least, he knew some of the story. Lord Vulkasin had taken Alpha’s curse to an extreme, turning violent, cruel, and abusive.

  “You have hundreds of years, young pup, before you need face Alpha’s curse. I merely tell you so that you realize clavigers come and go. We need them, but they do not need us. Thus, they can leave when times are unsettled.”

  “Are you saying I need to settle?”

  “Yes, I suppose in a way I am. You need to focus on pack, on building our new home together.”

  “Solidifying my tethers?”

  “Exactly. Stability. Loyalty. Then everything else will follow.”

  “How do I do that? The rest of the pack... they are all so much older and stronger than I am.”

  “When you were with Lord Akeldama, you were, without question, leader of his drones. How did that happen? How did all those young men come to look to you for guidance? You were no older than they, nor were you physically stronger, nor were you better positioned in society. How did Lord Akeldama come to rely upon you? Even the vampire himself leaned on your strength. I saw him do so, more than once.”

  “I don’t know, it simply happened that way. It was easier for me to lead and for the other drones to follow. I was good at making the right decisions and willing to step to the fore. They trusted me. Because, I guess, I trusted them.” Biffy shifted under Lyall, a shudder of realization. “Oh.”

  Lyall twisted to look up at him, to see the understanding in those blue eyes. “So, Alpha?”

  “I think I have curtains to replace.”

  “The purple ones?”

  “How did you know? Don’t answer that – of course you knew.”

  Lyall made to shift off of Biffy. Reluctant to lose the contact but knowing his task was done.

  Biffy’s arms tightened then, slightly. “Not yet, please. A little longer. I haven’t been like this with anyone in a long time.”

  Please from an Alpha. Something to be savored.

  Lyall wanted to ask how long. He wanted to know if he had been replaced, and with whom. But he was way too old for such juvenile prying. And whom was he fooling? He didn’t want to leave Biffy’s arms either. It had been a long time for him as well.

  Lyall thought he felt Biffy’s head tilt forward, and a tiny feather-light nuzzle against the top of his own. He wanted so badly for it to be real.

  But even if it were, how awful to take advantage again? His new Alpha was vulnerable and lonely. He was seeking solace, not love. It would be unfair of Lyall to offer himself under such circumstances, knowing he wanted more than Biffy was capable of giving. Friendship would have to be enough.

  I didn’t think it would be this difficult.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  If Offerings Were Babies

  They’d fallen asleep like that. Dozing off. Biffy woke, just before dawn, with a crick in his neck and the weight of his Beta still curled against his chest. Comforting, welcome warmth.

  Poor Lyall, he’s been traveling forever, and finally arrives home only to find screaming babies and shaken Alphas and a pack in crisis.

  Unwilling to lose contact just yet, Biffy slid out from under Lyall, and, blessing his supernatural strength, lifted his Beta and carried him to the bed. Biffy set him, still in his greatcoat, atop the covers. Nothing untoward might be thought of him lying there like that.

  Still fully clothed himself, and wincing for the state of his trousers on the morrow, feeling only a little guilty at manipulating Lyall’s exhaustion, Biffy crawled next to him on the counterpane.

  He didn’t curl about him or put his head to the crook of Lyall’s shoulder as they had once done so easily – that seemed too much like what they’d been before and were no longer. Instead, Biffy reached out a hand and rested his fingers gently in Lyall’s slack palm. Only that small press of touch and familiarity.

  He slept the whole day through, untroubled.

  * * *

  When Biffy awoke again, Lyall was gone. As if that weren’t bad enough, James came in and attempted to put him in a green tweed suit. Green. Tweed. In town! After disabusing him of this notion – Tweed is for the country and shooting, James, I know Greenwich seems provincial, but it is not the country and I am not currently possessed with the need to shoot anything, except perhaps this suit – they agreed upon a nice dark blue number instead.

  It was a trying start to the evening, only improved upon, in the worst possible way, by the discovery that yet another baby had been left on the pack’s doorstep.

  Biffy had had enough.

  Fortunately, one of the clavigers had been on “doorstep watch” out the front parlor window, and gone running after the departing carriage with Rumpet hot on his heels. (Rumpet because the young man had left without hat or coat, not because butlers worried about baby deposits.) And once the iron fist of Rumpet was released from the household... Most of the clavigers and staff gave chase as well.

  The clavigers liked to rise in the late afternoon to get themselves dressed and ready before the pack awoke. Seeing one of their number dash out the door at sunset, followed by Rumpet, meant three others should follow, plus a footman, and the upstairs maid. This left only James and one other claviger to tend the waking pack.

  Being that they were mostly dancers, singers, and stage performers, pursuit of a carriage was accompanied by much leaping and bounding, colorful language, and not a few capes, forming a mini herd trailing the offending conveyance down the street. Unfortunately, none of them were of the Greek Olympiad marathon variety (had they been, Lord Akeldama would never have allowed them to move house), so the carriage soon outpaced the mob. They returned home in an excited breathless clatter, to report that while it escaped their clutches, it had sped through Blackheath towards the warehouse district and the docks.

  That being a most excellent point of data, Biffy was inclined not to grumble about the pink-cheeked, bright-eyed, hair-mussed return of his underlings. Instead, he praised them for perspicacious action, and listened for any further details that might be of use. He didn’t even mock them for the capes. He’d once had a weakness for a nice cape himself when on an escapade.

  I wonder if Alphas are permitted capes? Too frivolous? Another vampire-only affectation?

  Unfortunately, while the boys had noted the exact style and design of the carriage, not to mention the cut of the coachman’s coat and hat, none of this was particularly useful. There was no crest and it was unmarked hired transport, not privately owned and branded. Still, Biffy was pleased. They’d done their very best, and to his standards. Wassail was brought up in gratitude. It proved a most welcome addition.

  The second bit of good news came over breakfast, when Adelphus and Phelan commenced chattering on about their research into the new religious sect in the area. They casually mentioned that the group was informal enough not to have consecrated grounds, but instead was reputed to assemble out on the heath when the weather was fine, and in an old warehouse or tent when it was inclement.

  This caused poor Ulric no end of distress. “Did you say preaching... outside? How very rough and ready.”

  �
��Well, that’s the problem, we believe.”

  Biffy perked up and speared Adelphus with what he hoped was a very crafty look. “What’s the problem?”

  “The head preacher is reputed to be one of those barn-raisers. Or do I mean tent pole-lifters?”

  Biffy quirked a brow. “Do you, Adelphus?”

  Adelphus, who had no shame and liked to keep every possible option open, winked. “Not that kind of revival, my dear. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, all I am saying is that this man seems the type to climb up on top of things and...” He cleared his throat and looked embarrassed. “…raise his voice.”

  “How unbecoming,” said Phelan.

  “How very not on,” agreed Hemming.

  “Is he English?” wondered Quinn.

  “No. All signs point to his being” – pregnant pause – “an American.”

  Silence met that statement. Adelphus basked in everyone’s appalled reactions. He had a flair for the dramatic.

  “Ah, well, regardless of any possible connection to, you know, our current issue with, well, human issue, we will have to investigate further.” Lyall didn’t look like he was trying to be cute, but he was cute. Impossibly cute.

  Biffy nodded to show he entirely agreed with his Beta (he would hardly do otherwise at table). He privately wished the American preacher to perdition. He already had four children to provenance, and rogue preachers were quite pushing things too far.

  However, American meant any rhetoric being shouted (ugh) was likely to be anti-supernatural, and that simply couldn’t be allowed to continue. Not by Biffy’s pack, and certainly not in England. He would have to deal with this new problem.

  I am beginning to very much regret having moved us to Greenwich.

  “Very well. Professor Lyall and I discovered a likely warehouse last night. I want a watch set all night tonight and all day tomorrow. If there’s anti-supernatural sentiment brewing, that has to be the priority. The accidental children are fine in our keeping for now. I acknowledge that their relations are likely rather worried” – he tilted his head at Hemming’s distressed expression – “but they must now play second fiddle to this new inconvenience. If not connected to the children, the cult must be our focus.”