Blameless

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.”

The loner looked offended. Lyall could tell from the man’s scent that this was for show. He was neither upset nor nervous at seeing Lyall instead of Lord Maccon. He had not expected the earl to meet his challenge. He had heard the rumors.

Professor Lyall’s lip curled. He loathed lawyers.

“The Alpha will not even acknowledge my challenge?” Mr. Ulf’s question was a sly one. “I know of you by reputation, of course, Professor, but why is Lord Maccon himself not meeting me?”

Professor Lyall did not dignify that with an answer. “Shall we proceed?”

He led the challenger around the back of the castle, to the wide stone porch where the pack fought most of its practice bouts. Spread out and down the long sloping green of Woolsey’s well-tended lawn, a vast number of military-issue white canvas tents had sprouted, clearly visible under the almost full moon. The regiment usually camped around the front of Woolsey, but Alexia had had kittens over their presence and insisted they remove themselves to the back. They were scheduled to depart for winter quarters in a week or so, having squatted at Woolsey merely for the sake of unity with the pack. Conventional niceties having been observed, pretty much everyone was now ready to move on.

The rest of the Woolsey Pack came wandering after the three men, followed by a handful of clavigers. Rafe and Phelan were looking rather haggard. Lyall suspected he would have to insist they confine themselves to the dungeon presently, before the onslaught of moon madness. Curious, a few of the officers left their evening campfires, grabbed lanterns, and meandered over to see what the pack was getting up to.

Lyall and Mr. Ulf both stripped and stood naked for all the world to see. No one commented beyond a hoot and a whistle or two. Military men were used to werewolf changes and the indecency that preceded the affair.

Professor Lyall was older than he cared to admit and had grown, if not comfortable with shape change, at least enough in control of his own finer feelings not to show how much it hurt. And it always hurt. The sound of shifting from man to wolf was that of breaking bones, tearing muscle, and oozing flesh, and, unfortunately, that was also what it felt like. Werewolves called their particular brand of immortality a curse. Every time he shifted, Lyall wondered if this weren’t true and if the vampires might not have made a better choice. Certainly they could be killed by the sunlight, and they had to run around drinking people’s blood, but they could do both in comfort and style. At its root, being a werewolf, what with the nudity and the tyranny of the moon, was essentially undignified. And Professor Lyall was rather fond of his dignity.

If asked, the surrounding men would have admitted that if anyone could be said to change from man to wolf with dignity, it was Professor Lyall. He did the regiment proud and they all knew it. They had seen their attachment of Woolsey werewolves change both on and off the battlefield, but none were as fast and quiet about it as Lyall. Spontaneously, they gave him a round of polite applause when he had finished.

The smallish, sandy, almost foxlike wolf now standing where Professor Lyall had been gave a little nod of embarrassed gratitude at the clapping.

The challenger’s change was not nearly so elegant. It was accomplished with much groaning and whimpers of pain, but when complete, the black wolf that resulted was a good deal larger than Professor Lyall. The Woolsey Pack Beta was not perturbed by this discrepancy in size. Most werewolves were a good deal larger than he.

The challenger attacked, but Lyall was already in motion, twisting out of the way and darting in for the other’s throat. There was so much to do back at BUR and he wanted to end the bout quickly.

But the loner was a crafty fighter, nimble and adept. He avoided Lyall’s counterattack, and the two circled each other warily, both coming to the realization that they might have underestimated their opponent.

The men around them closed in, forming a circle of bodies around the pair. The soldiers called insults at the challenger, the officers catcalled, and the pack stood in silent wide-eyed attention.

The loner charged at Professor Lyall, snapping. Lyall dodged. The challenger skidded slightly on the smooth paving stones, his claws making an awful scraping noise as he scrabbled for purchase. Taking advantage of the skid, Lyall dove at him, hitting him broadside with enough force to knock him onto his side. The two wolves rolled over and over together, bumping into the shins of those who goaded them on. Professor Lyall could feel the claws of the other wolf tearing against his soft underbelly as he bit viciously into the creature’s neck.

This was what he disliked most about fighting. It was so embarrassingly untidy. He didn’t mind the pain; he would heal fast enough. But he was bleeding all over his own pristine coat, and blood from the challenger was dripping down over his muzzle, matting the fur of his white ruff. Even as a wolf, Professor Lyall did not like to be unkempt.