Timeless

CHAPTER NINE Biffy Experiments with Flirting and Felicity

Everything ought to have proceeded smoothly with the investigation—or as smoothly as possible with Lady Kingair’s brand of Alpha obnoxious interference. Biffy genuinely believed they were doing well, even after calling in at the eighth ball in an attempt to track down various private dirigible owners. Lucky for him, in the manner of all wealthy enthusiasts, the owners were quite willing to talk about their floating conveyances to the exclusion of all else, even with a slight young man to whom they had only recently been introduced. Biffy learned how the Great Mitten Slayer earned its name, where it was berthed, how often it was used, and what security measures were in place that prevented lone assassins from floating it to Fenchurch Street and killing werewolves. He ascertained similar details about Her Majesty’s Truss, the Lady Boopsalong, and several others with names less easily recalled. He also learned that those gentlemen equipped with the means and inclination to purchase personal flotation devices were not so interested in tying their cravats with finesse. Dirigibles brought out the worst in people.

It was Professor Lyall’s plan of inquiry. Biffy was to handle the high-society elements, while the professor looked in at registration offices and sequestered paperwork on pilots’ credentials and private dirigible sales from Giffard’s. Lady Kingair was of very little use, so they left her to stew at the house, pacing about the library and pouncing upon whoever stumbled in. Floote kept her in line as well as he was able with a constant supply of chewing tobacco, Scotch, and treacle tart. Just like Lady Maccon, she seemed to have an unholy passion for the dratted stuff. Biffy had never liked treacle tart, even as a human; he simply couldn’t respect any kind of food that left a residue.

He came home from the eighth party, and yet another failed lead, to find Floote waiting for him in the hallway looking rather more concerned than he had previously thought Floote capable of looking, even after an entire evening spent with sticky, treacle-eating werewolf she-Alphas. The hallway smelled of roses.

“Is something wrong, Floote?”

“It’s Miss Felicity, sir.”

“Lady Maccon’s sister? What could she possibly want with me?”

“Not you, sir. She called here to see Lady Kingair. They’ve been sequestered in the back parlor for over an hour.”

“Good gracious me! They know each other from when the ladies visited Scotland, but I did not think they were on terms of any intimacy.”

“No, sir, I don’t believe they are.”

“You think Miss Loontwill is up to something?”

Floote inclined his head. As much as to say, Isn’t she always?

Biffy took off his hat and gloves, placing them both on the hall table and checking the state of his rebellious hair in the looking glass above it. Tonight it was frizzy. He sighed. “But what could Miss Loontwill possibly want with Lady Kingair?”

“Is that Professor Lyall?” came a roar from the back parlor. The door crashed open, revealing Lady Kingair in a towering fury.

Biffy, noting the rage, inclined his head, tugging down on his cravat to expose his neck.

This submissive stance only seemed to aggravate her further. “Oh, it’s you. Where is Lyall, the little weasel? I’ll see him flayed alive. You see if I don’t.”

Biffy glanced up through his lashes, trying to keep as unthreatening a demeanor as possible.

Felicity followed Lady Kingair out into the hall. She was wearing a dress of pale blue satin with royal blue velvet trim and a smug expression. Biffy had no idea why, but that expression terrified him more than Lady Kingair’s rage. He wasn’t particularly taken with the dress, either. Blue on blue always looked damp.

Lady Kingair came close enough for his hackles to rise, even in human form. “Did you ken, pup?”

“Know what, my lady?” Biffy kept his voice mellow.

“Did you ken it was him? Did you ken what he did?”

“I’m sorry, my lady, but I have no idea to what you are referring.”

“Did you ken what he did to my pack? Stole Gramps away from us! Lyall, that jackass. Stole him! Organized everything. Played us all like we were bally puppets. Got my pack to attempt treason and Gramps to feel betrayed so he would up and run to Woolsey. Do you ken what that did to my life? A child left to clean up dross? Have you any inkling what it was like? Did he give us a single thought? Destroy one pack to save another, will he? Bollocks to that! I’ll skin him alive!”

Biffy could only shake his head, trying to understand, trying to put everything together. “This is all before my time, my lady.”

She lashed out at him, backhanding him hard across the face, all werewolf strength and Alpha rage at anyone who would threaten her pack, past or present, real or imagined. The force of the blow thrust Biffy back against the wall and down to one knee, blood spattering the perfect points of his white starched collar.

Felicity gave a little squeak of alarm.

The pain was intense but fleeting. Biffy could feel the cut on his lip healing even as he regained his feet. It had taken him a long while to become accustomed to the sensation of flesh knitting back together again, like skin darning. He pulled out his handkerchief, lilac scented, and dabbed the spatter off of his cheek. He could feel the hunger starting, the need to consume bloody flesh to compensate for the blood he had lost. Felicity, standing so still behind the vibrating Lady Kingair, smelled delicious, even through the lilac of his handkerchief and the rose of her perfume—werewolf urges were so embarrassing.

“Now, Lady Kingair, there’s no call for that kind of behavior. We are all civilized here, if you would just—”

But the Alpha was already away, ripping the dress from her own body and changing to wolf form there in the hallway. She went charging out into the night. Floote had enough presence of mind to open the front door wide or she might have crashed through it.

Biffy was frightened for Lyall and momentarily at a loss given the suddenness and violence of the preceding few minutes. He knew he should warn the Beta somehow, but first he had to ascertain the particulars. He turned to face Felicity.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Floote subtly replacing a tiny pearl-handled gun into his inner coat pocket with his free hand. The butler must have armed himself when Lady Kingair turned violent. Biffy wasn’t certain how he felt about this. Should butlers be hiding small firearms about their personage? Didn’t seem very domestic.

Felicity tried to make her way to the now-open door.

Biffy moved supernaturally fast. He would never be as quick as Lord Akeldama, but he was certainly faster than Felicity Loontwill. He signaled Floote with a sharp gesture, and the butler, understanding perfectly, closed the door firmly in the young lady’s face. In the same instant, Biffy took Felicity by one arm.

His hands—slender and fine and once so well suited to his preferred mortal pastime, playing the piano—were now more than equipped with the strength to waylay one frivolous female.

“I didn’t know you knew Lady Kingair.”

“I didn’t until I met her.”

Biffy glared.

Felicity started to prattle. “Why, Mr. Rabiffano, I’ve hardly seen you out in society at all since I returned from abroad. I’m finding private balls about town so very undiscriminating these days. They’ll let practically anyone attend. Then again, you were at the Blingchesters last night, weren’t you? Talking to Lord Hoffingstrobe about his new dirigible?”

Biffy decided, under the circumstances, it was not too rude to interrupt her. “Miss Loontwill, stop gargling, please. I think you had better tell me what, exactly, you just told Lady Kingair.”

After being warmed by multiple hot water bottles and then cleaned of brine in the plushest of the SS Custard’s bathhouses, Lady Maccon was once more able to carry on a conversation without chattering.

“Alexia,” Ivy reprimanded most severely once she was back in her friend’s presence, “you had my heart in my chest! You really did.”

Alexia disposed of Ivy’s panic and solicitude by sending her off in search of comforting and obscure foodstuffs and took to her bed merely because it seemed the safest way to keep the gossipmongers at bay. Ivy had proved resourceful under such extreme circumstances as her favorite friend and patroness falling overboard. After calling for help, she had extracted the two parts of the new parasol, coiling the grapple about the tip like yarn about a spindle. She even spent time scuttling and hopping about, managing to stomp on the instruction sheet before it flew overboard.

“You see,” said Alexia to her husband as Ivy dashed off to see about custard éclairs, “I told you she had hidden depths.”

“Do you think it’s only saltwater immersion that has this kind of effect?” Lord Maccon was far more interested in their recent revelation. Ivy’s peculiarities of character were nothing on his wife’s peculiarities of ability.

Alexia was most decided on this point. “No. I believe it is any water. Even moisture in the air narrows the scope. Did you never wonder why the Kingair mummy’s effect was so wide in London and so small when we reached Scotland? It was raining in Scotland. Also, there must be some kind of proximity and air contact as well, for I was only affected by the preternatural mummy when I was in the same room with it, unlike you, who could not change into a werewolf within a larger-ranging area.”

“We have always known preternaturals and supernaturals functioned differently. Why should we not react differently to an alien agent in our midst? Werewolves are affected by the sun and moon; preternaturals are not.”

“And it’s clear the water was not enforcing your form?”

“Absolutely. I can change in water. Have done so many times.”

“So it definitely limits preternatural touch.”

“We know your abilities are related to ambient aether. We should not be so very surprised.”

Alexia looked at her husband. “I wonder how wet I have to be.”

“Well, my darling, we will have to perform a series of scientific tests… by bathing together.” Lord Maccon waggled his eyebrows at her and leered.

“Could soap be a factor?” Alexia was willing to play his game.

“And how about underwater kisses?”

“Now you’re getting silly. Do you think that’s why our Prudence hates bath night so much?”

Conall sat up and stopped flirting. “By George, that is an idea! Perhaps she feels a limiting of her abilities, or perhaps she has a way of sensing others out of the aether that she relies upon that is shut off by water.”

“You mean she feels blinded? Goodness, bathing would be quite a torture, then. She does always seem to notice when someone new is in the room before anyone else.”

“That could simply be excellent powers of observation.”

“True. Oh, dear, I wish she would acquire complete sentences. It would be so much more efficient to ask her these questions and get a sensible answer.”

“Our curiosity will have to wait a few years.”

Alexia worried her lower lip. “It’s all to do with the aether in the end.”

“Very poetical, my dear.”

“Was it? I didn’t know I had it in me.”

“Well, do be careful, my love. Poetry can cause irreparable harm when misapplied.”

“Especially with reference to our daughter.”

Very little made Biffy lose his poise or posture, but after Felicity’s story, he was practically slouching. “Let me see if I have this quite clear: Professor Lyall was responsible for Kingair losing Lord Maccon as Alpha?”

Felicity nodded.

“But how could you possibly know a thing like that?”

Felicity flicked a curl of blond hair over one shoulder. “I overheard Alexia accusing him of it when I was staying here. He didn’t deny it and they agreed to keep the whole thing from Lord Maccon. I don’t think that’s right. Do you? Keeping secrets from one’s husband.”

Biffy was sickened, not so much by the information, as he could readily believe such a thing of Professor Lyall, who would do anything for his pack, but by Felicity’s duplicity. “You have been sitting on this information for several years, waiting to distribute it until it could do the most damage. Why, Felicity?”

Felicity huffed out a little breath of aggravation. “You know, I told Countess Nadasdy. I told her! And she did nothing! She said it was a matter of werewolf internal politics and domestic relations, and none of her concern.”

“So you waited, and when you heard Lady Kingair was in town, you decided to tell her? Why?”

“Because she will react badly and tell Lord Maccon in the worst possible way.”

“You may, quite possibly, be evil,” said Biffy in a resigned tone.

“It’s always been Alexia: better, smarter, special in that way of hers. Alexia who married an earl. Alexia who visits the queen. Alexia who lives in town. Alexia with a baby. Who am I to be left behind by my great lump of a sister? Why is she so wonderful? She’s not pretty. She’s not talented. She has none of my finer qualities.”

Biffy could hardly believe such pettiness. “You did this to destroy your sister’s marriage?”

“Alexia had me exiled to Europe for two years! Now I’m too old for the marriage mart. But what does she care for my problems? She’s well set up. Wife of an earl! She doesn’t deserve to have any of it! It should be mine!”

“Why, you horrible little creature.”

“No wife should keep a confidence from her husband like that.” Felicity struggled to find the moral high ground.

“And no thought of what this will do to Professor Lyall or this pack?”

“What do I care for a middle-class professor or a gaggle of werewolves?”

Biffy suddenly couldn’t stand to even look at the girl. “Get out.”

“What?”

“Get out of my house, Miss Loontwill. And I hope never to see you again.”

“What do I care for your ill opinion, either, Mr. Rabiffano? A mere hat-shop owner and a low-ranked werewolf.”

“You may not care for mine, Miss Loontwill, but I still enjoy the friendship of Lord Akeldama, and I will see he knows exactly what you have done. Lady Maccon is his very dear friend and he will see you ostracized from polite society because of this. Rest assured, Miss Loontwill, you will become a social pariah. I recommend you plan an emigration of some kind. Perhaps to the Americas. You will no longer be welcome in any parlor in London.”

“But—”

“Good evening, Miss Loontwill.”

Biffy didn’t know what good he thought it might do, but it was quarter moon—enough for him to change without difficulty and not so full he might lose control. Not that he did that much anymore. He was getting better and better at the shift, almost like adjusting to a new haircut or cravat. It still hurt like nothing else on earth, which made it less cravatlike than one would prefer, but at least now when he was a wolf, he was still himself. There had been some doubt of that once.

He had only one advantage over Lady Kingair. He already knew where Professor Lyall was supposed to be. He did not have to track him through the city. He ran straight there, a lean chocolate-colored wolf with an oxblood stomach and a certain mottling about his neck that was almost, Lady Maccon had kindly noted, cravatlike. He used the back alleys and side streets so as not to disturb anyone. Most of London knew they now boasted a werewolf pack residing in the city center, but there was a difference between knowing and meeting a wolf face-to-face when engaging in an evening constitutional. That said, he did encounter a group of sporting blunts at their cups, who all politely raised their hats to him as he passed.

The Bureau of Unnatural Registry occupied the first few stories of an unassuming Georgian near the London Times offices and generally kept itself to itself in the manner of all semisecret government operations. Tonight, however, there was clearly something afoot even from outside the building. Had not the bright lights and rapidly shifting shadows given this indication, the yells loud enough for even a normal human to hear would have. Not to mention the fact that the front door was wide open and hanging askew on its hinges.

Biffy nosed his way inside.

The hallway was filled with running men, demands for numbing agents, calls for the constabulary, and arguments over whether they were authorized to interfere.

“Clearly a personal werewolf matter!”

“Oh, you think so, Phinkerlington? Then why bring it to BUR?”

“Who knows the ways of werewolves? Ours is not to question pack protocol.”

“But… but… but Professor Lyall never fights!”

“This is a matter of enforcement. BUR must enforce!”

At that juncture, the collective in the hallway noticed Biffy slinking in among them.

“Oh, spiffing, here’s another one!”

“Now, now, perhaps he can help.”

“They’re in the stockroom, Mr. Werewolf, sir, and we may not have a stockroom soon if they don’t quiet down.”

Biffy was not all that familiar with the layout of BUR, but he could follow his ultrasensitive hearing, which directed him up the stairs toward a large cavernous room. The door to this room was also open, although unbroken, and crowded round it stood a group of BUR officers and agents watching a battle within. Money was exchanged as wagers were taken on the outcome, and now and then a cry of distress went up as something particularly dramatic occurred.

Biffy forced his way through the onlookers’ legs and entered the room, still not certain what good he might do but determined to try.

Professor Lyall and Lady Kingair were faced off against one another. Professor Lyall was not doing well.

If one were to pass the professor in wolf form in the countryside, one might mistake him for some kind of overgrown off-color fox. He was a slender, elegant creature and not one to inspire confidence in battle. Biffy had learned since joining the pack that Professor Lyall’s skill lay in his ability to fight smart and in his quickness and dexterity. He was almost beautiful as he battled the Alpha of Kingair, his movements lithe and graceful, calculated, yet impossibly swift.

But he was only a Beta. He simply wasn’t strong enough. He was holding his own, but his body was ripped open in a thousand places and he was fighting pure defense. Every good general knows that defense will never win.

Biffy couldn’t help himself. Instinct took over. He’d been learning his werewolf instincts for two years now, so he was cogent enough to analyze their meaning. One urged him not to face an Alpha, but it was balanced out by another that urged him to help his packmate, to protect his Beta. That second instinct was the one that won.

Biffy launched himself at Lady Kingair, going for her face. As a human, he would never contemplate such a thing—to hit the face was ungentlemanly and to hit a lady unpardonable—but werewolves measured victory in challenge by the destruction of the eyes. Eyes were one of the few things a wolf could bite that took time to heal, rendering continued roughhousing impossible. There was also death, of course. It wasn’t common, but it did happen, usually when an Alpha faced a much weaker opponent, or two Alphas fought in daylight.

Lady Kingair dodged easily out of Biffy’s way. Professor Lyall barked at him, an order to stay out of it, but Biffy wasn’t going to let him take on an enraged Alpha all alone. He charged Lady Kingair again.

The Alpha swung her head around and sliced at the side of his cheek, tearing it open with her teeth. Biffy felt the burning sting of profound pain and then the equally agonizing knitting sensation as his body repaired itself. Everything, he had realized shortly after his metamorphosis, was pain for werewolves. Which was probably why they were so mean—general buildup of peevishness.

Lady Kingair was on him again. Biffy realized what Professor Lyall was up against. The female Alpha was vicious in battle. She gave no quarter and had no mercy. Oh, she was smart about it, as smart as Lord Maccon in a fight, but she was a lot less nice. She was almost taunting them, never going in for a kill strike or the eye mark that would bring about victory. She wanted the torture, like a cat with mice. She wanted Professor Lyall to suffer, and now that Biffy was there, she wanted him to suffer, too.

Biffy and Professor Lyall exchanged yellow-eyed looks. They really had only one option. They had to either exhaust Lady Kingair, or they had to keep her occupied until sunrise. A tall order indeed, but there were two of them.

For the next three hours, Biffy and Lyall traded off fighting Lady Kingair. They never once let her rest, while managing to grab a few minutes to flop down and pant one at a time, catch a breath, and heal slightly. Even two of them acting together could not defeat her or injure her enough to make her yield. She was far too much of an Alpha for that. So they simply kept fighting her. Hoping her anger would run dry. Hoping she might collapse in exhaustion. Hoping the sun might rise. Her anger was inexhaustible, as was her speed and abilities. And the sun refused to rise.

Biffy was beginning to flag. The loss of blood was catching up with him in a quintessential werewolf way. He wanted to turn upon the humans crowding the doorway and feed almost as much as he wanted to fight. But some lingering sense of gentlemanly behavior would not allow him to abandon his Beta. He fought on until all his muscles were shaking, until he thought he could not lift another paw. He could only imagine what poor Professor Lyall felt, who must have been fighting Lady Kingair at least an hour longer than he.

Yet she kept right on going, her claws wicked and fast, her teeth impossibly sharp.

She got that great jaw of hers around Biffy’s hind leg and began biting down. She was no doubt strong enough to snap the bone in half. Biffy hoped Professor Lyall was prepared to jump in while he took the time needed to knit that bone back together. He also hoped he was prepared for the pain. When the bone broke, it was liable to be excruciating, and he’d hate to howl with all those men watching.

Except it became suddenly clear that all the bones in his body were involuntarily breaking, fracturing, and re-forming. Fur was moving toward his head, the feel of stinging gnats crawling up his skin. He was left lying, limp and panting, naked in the utterly destroyed stockroom of BUR headquarters.

The sun had peeked its cheery head above the horizon.

“I’ll thank you, Lady Kingair, to remove my ankle from your mouth,” he said.

Sidheag Maccon did so, looking exhausted, and spat in disgust.

“I took a bath recently,” said Biffy in mild rebuke.

Professor Lyall crawled over to them, his wounds far greater than either Biffy’s or Lady Kingair’s. They would be slow to heal, now that the sun was up. But at least the fighting was over. Or so Biffy thought.

“You nasty, manipulative little maggot,” said Lady Kingair to Professor Lyall, her words more rancorous than her tone, which was fatigued.

The Beta looked over at the door full of curious BUR employees. “Haverbink, close the door, please. This is none of BUR’s concern.”

“Oh, but, sir!”

“Now, Haverbink.”

“Well, here you go, sir. Figured you might need these.” The aforementioned Haverbink, a strapping lad who looked like he ought to be milking pigs, or whatever it was they did in the Yorkshire dales, tossed some blankets and three large muttonchops into the room. Then he shut the door, no doubt leaning his ear to the outside.

Despite the gnawing, raging hunger, Biffy reached for a blanket first, dragging it to cover over his lower half, for modesty’s sake.

“Good lad, Haverbink,” commented Lyall as he bit into a chop. He handed one to Biffy, and in exchange Biffy tucked half the blanket around Lyall solicitously, noting that Professor Lyall had very nice thighs.

Biffy took the meat gratefully, wishing he had a knife and fork. And a plate, for that matter. But the meat smelled so good he turned aside so the others couldn’t quite see and took as delicate bites as he could.

Lady Kingair gave the Beta a long look when he offered her the last chop and then took it with a muttered “thanks.” She tore into the bloody meat without regard for anyone’s finer feelings.

Lyall was looking at Biffy with an odd expression in his hazel eyes. “Biffy, my dear boy, when did you learn to fight with soul?”

“Um, what do you mean, Professor?”

“Just now, you knew who you were, who I was, and what we were doing the entire time.”

Biffy swallowed his mouthful. “Isn’t that part of controlling the shape-shift?”

“Goodness no. It’s a rare thing for a wolf to fight smart. Alphas, of course, and a few lucky Betas, and some of the oldest of the pack regulars. But most everyone else goes on instinct. It’s quite a gift to have learned so young. I’m proud of you.”

Biffy could feel himself blushing. Never before had he received a compliment from Professor Lyall, not even a fashion-related one.

“Och, how sweet.” Lady Kingair’s lip curled. “But perhaps the compliments could wait until you have explained yourself, Beta.”

Lyall finished his repast and collapsed against an overturned stack of metal slates. Biffy pressed his back slightly against his Beta’s legs, taking comfort from the contact, and leaned up on one elbow to look at Lady Kingair. The Alpha propped herself into a full seated position, using a massive box of ammunition. She looked tired, but still angry. They all stared at one another.

Finally Professor Lyall said, “I’ll admit I did not see it from your perspective, my lady. And for that I extend my sincerest apologizes. But you have no idea what he was like. No idea.”

Sidheag Maccon looked much like her great-great-great-grandfather as she popped the last bite into her mouth and gave the Beta an austere look. When she finished chewing, she said magnanimously, “I ken he went mad. I ken he was violent. I dinna think that’s an excuse.”

“He killed Alessandro.”

“Aye? Well, Templar training will only get a man so far. And after, what? You planned for years to get your revenge. At my expense. At poor old Gramps’s expense. He was happy in Scotland. What werewolf wants to come to England when he has the rolling green of the Lowland to run? You stole him against his will. Against our will.”

The Beta fished about for a scrap of paper and cleaned his hands of blood as though with a handkerchief. “I provided the temptation. Your pack need not have followed it.”

“Na good enough, Randolph Lyall. Na good enough.”

Professor Lyall took a deep breath as though to fortify himself. Biffy felt a soft touch on his shoulder, and he craned his neck about to find the Beta leaning toward him. “You needn’t have come, pup, although I’m glad you did. But I do wish you didn’t have to hear what comes next.”

But Biffy did hear, every messy, degrading, disgusting detail as Professor Lyall told Lady Kingair exactly what life had been like under the Alpha Lord Woolsey. Servicing him as Beta near the end had been humiliating—for five and a half long years. Lyall’s face was deadpan as he relayed the details, as those who are tortured or raped will become when they retell the pattern of abuse. Biffy began crying quietly and wishing, indeed, that he did not have to hear it.

Lady Kingair lost much of her anger in the telling, but her sympathies were not entirely swayed. She could understand that Lyall had found himself in a situation with no possible way out except the one he took. But she could still not forgive that her pack had suffered the consequences of his choice.

“Oh, aye, and is that to be my lot as well? Tae be going all over abusive and deranged? Will poor old Gramps face the same fate?”

“Not all Alphas go bad the way Lord Woolsey went bad. He already had the tendencies. It’s simply that when he was sane, he acted with the consent of his partners. Take comfort, my lady—most Alphas die before the opportunity arises.”

“Oh, aye, much obliged I’m sure. Verra comforting, that is. What now, Professor?”

“Well, in an odd way, I am glad it is known. But Lord Maccon will never forgive me or trust me again. I take it you wrote him the details?”

“Oh, aye.”

“Poor Lady Maccon. She didn’t want to keep my secret. Now she will have to handle Conall finding out.”

“You telling me you’re prepared to make reparations?” Lady Kingair looked less angry and more contemplative, examining Professor Lyall through half-lidded eyes.

Biffy, wary of that look, leaned in against his Beta. Relishing the intimacy, feeling oddly proprietary.

Professor Lyall squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “Of course.”

“And you ken what I will want of you?”

The Beta nodded, looking resigned.

Lady Kingair took a deep breath and looked down her nose at the slight, sandy-haired gentleman. And Professor Lyall was still a gentleman, Biffy realized, even without a stitch of clothing, lying on the floor of a stockroom.

“I’m thinking Kingair’s needing a Beta right about now.”

“No!” Biffy couldn’t help the exclamation. He reeled away from Lyall, turning so that he faced him fully.

Professor Lyall only nodded.

“And you, for all yon manipulations, are one of the best. Possibly because of them.”

Professor Lyall nodded again.

“Oh, no,” Biffy cried. “You can’t abandon us! What will we do without you?”

Professor Lyall only looked at him with a little smile. “Oh, now, Biffy, I think you will do very well.”

“Me!” squeaked Biffy.

“Of course. You have the makings of an excellent Beta.”

“But I… I…,” Biffy stuttered.

Lady Kingair nodded. “That’ll do nicely. Now dinna worry, pup, we won’t keep him for all time—only until we find someone better.”

“There is no one better,” said Biffy with absolute confidence.

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Haverbink stuck his head in without being summoned.

“Didn’t I order you to stay away?” asked Professor Lyall placidly.

“Yes, sir, but it was so quiet I wanted to make certain you were all still alive.”

“As you see. And?”

“And a massive gilt carriage has just pulled up out front. Lord Akeldama sent it with his compliments.” Haverbink produced a mauve-colored scrap of paper. Lilac scent wafted into the room. “Said you would need a nice dark ride back home to get some sleep, and what were you fluffy darlings all doing still out and about?”

“How could he have known to send such a thing? He himself should already be comatose.” Lyall blinked in mild confusion and looked to Biffy for an explanation.

“He would have left orders with his drones.”

“Nosy vampire neighbors,” sniffed Lady Kingair.

Afterward, Biffy could only just recall that ride back home, stumbling into the house and up the stairs, he and Professor Lyall leaning against one another in exhaustion. But he remembered perfectly the Beta’s face, a single sharp look when they reached the door to his chamber, almost frightened. It was a look Biffy recognized. He had neither the strength nor the interest in allowing loneliness to pillage anyone else’s peace of mind.

So he made the offer. “Would you like company, Professor?”

Professor Lyall looked at him, hazel eyes desperate. “I wouldn’t… that is… I couldn’t… that is… I’m not all that… capable.” He gave a weak little flap of a gesture indicating his still-wounded state, his fatigue, and his disheveled appearance all in one.

Biffy gave a little puff of a chuckle. He had never seen the urbane professor discombobulated before. Had he known, he might have flirted more in the past. “Just company, sir. I should never presume even if we were both in perfect health.” Besides, my hair must look atrocious. Imagine being able to attract anyone in such a state, let alone someone of Lyall’s standing.

The corner of his Beta’s mouth twitched, and he withdrew behind a veil of dispassionate hazel eyes. “Pity, pup? After you heard what Lord Woolsey did to me? It was a long time ago.”

Biffy had no doubt Professor Lyall was as proud, in his way, as any other man of good breeding and refined tastes. He tilted his head, showing his neck submissively. “No, sir. Never that. Respect, I suppose. To survive such things and still be sane.”

“Betas are made to maintain order. We are the butlers of the supernatural world.” An analogy no doubt sparked by the advent of Floote, who glided down the hallway toward them, looking as concerned as it is possible for a man to look who, so far as Biffy could tell, never displayed any emotion at all.

“You are well, gentlemen?”

“Yes, thank you, Floote.”

“There is nothing I can get for you?”

“No, thank you, Floote.”

“Investigation?” The butler arched an eyebrow at their fatigued and roughened state.

“No, Floote, a matter of pack protocol.”

“Ah.”

“Carry on, Floote.”

“Very good, sir.” Floote drifted away.

Biffy turned to make his way to his own sleeping chamber, assured now that his overtures had been rejected. He was forestalled by a hand on his arm.

Lyall had lovely hands, fine and strong, the hands of an artist who practiced a craft, a carpenter, perhaps, or a baker. Biffy had a sudden fanciful image of Lyall with a smudge of flour on his face, going comfortably into old age with a fine wife and brood of mild-mannered children.

The sandy head tilted in silent invitation. Professor Lyall opened the door to his bedroom. Biffy hesitated only a moment before following him inside.

By the time the sun set that evening, they were both fully recovered from the ordeal, having slept the day away without incident. Fully recovered and curled together naked in Lyall’s small bed.

Biffy learned, through careful kisses and soft caress, that Lyall was not at all disturbed by messy hair. In fact, his Beta’s hands were almost reverent, stroking through his curls. Biffy hoped that with his own touch he could convey his disregard for Lyall’s past actions and suffering, determined that none of what they did together should be about shame. Most of it, Biffy guessed, was about companionship. There might have been a tiny little seed of love. Just the beginnings, but a tender, equality of love, of a kind Biffy had never before experienced.

Professor Lyall was as different from Lord Akeldama as was possible. But there was something in that very difference that Biffy found restful. The contrast in characters made it feel like less of a betrayal. For two years, Biffy had held on to his hope and his infatuation with the vampire. It was time to let go. However, he didn’t feel that Lyall was edging Lord Akeldama out. Lyall wasn’t the type to compete. Instead he was carving himself a new place. Biffy might just be able to make the room. Lyall was, after all, not very big, for a werewolf. Of course, he worried about Felicity’s story of Alessandro Tarabotti, about whether Lyall was capable of loving him back, but it was early yet and Biffy allowed himself to revel in the simple joy that can only be found in allaying another’s loneliness.

When Lyall lay flush against him, nuzzling up into his neck, Biffy thought they fit well together. Not matched colors so much as coordinated, with Lyall a neutral cream satin, perhaps, and Biffy a royal blue. Biffy said nothing concerning any such romantic flights of fancy. Instead he asked a more practical question.

“You truly intend to become Kingair’s Beta, even after all you sacrificed for this pack?”

“I must make amends.” Lyall did not stop his nuzzling.

“So far away from London?” So far from me?

“It won’t be forever. But I’ll have to stay away, at least until Lord Maccon retires.”

Biffy was floored. He stopped smoothing the hair at Lyall’s temple. “Retires? Retires from being Alpha?” As though it were a position in a tradesman’s firm? “You think that is something he’s likely to do?”

Lyall smiled. Biffy could feel the movement of his cheek against his chest. “Ah, Biffy, you think Lord Maccon is any less aware of the fate of Alphas who get too old than we are?”

Biffy’s hand went involuntarily to his throat in shock. For there could be only one possible implication from such a statement. Lord Maccon intended to kill himself before he went mad. “Poor Lady Maccon!” he whispered.

“Now, now, not to worry. I shouldn’t think it’ll be all that soon. Decades or more. You must really learn to think like an immortal, my sweet Biffy.”

“Will you come back here after?”

“I will try.”

“So we must wait until Lord Maccon dies? How macabre.”

“Much of immortality, you will find, is in surviving the deaths of others. And the waiting has not started yet. We have some time before our Alphas return.” He began kissing Biffy softly on the neck.

“By all means, let us not waste time.”

Which was how Biffy missed his last window to send a message by dirigible post, warning Lady Maccon of Lady Kingair’s letter to Lord Maccon. Which was why he used rather more colorful language than he ought upon realizing that he had mucked the timing up quite royally and would not have an opportunity to contact his mistress again until after she landed in Alexandria.

Timing, he realized, could work hard against one, even when one had, theoretically, all the time in the world.