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
“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
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.”
