Professor Lyal ’s lip curled. He loathed lawyers.
“The Alpha wil not even acknowledge my chal enge?” 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 Lyal did not dignify that with an answer. “Shal we proceed?”
He led the chal enger 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 ful moon. The regiment usual y 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, fol owed by a handful of clavigers. Rafe and Phelan were looking rather haggard. Lyal 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.
Lyal and Mr. Ulf both stripped and stood nak*d for al 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 Lyal 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 cal ed their particular brand of immortality a curse. Every time he shifted, Lyal wondered if this weren’t true and if the vampires might not have made a better choice. Certainly they could be kil ed 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 essential y undignified.
And Professor Lyal 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 Lyal . He did the regiment proud and they al 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 Lyal .
Spontaneously, they gave him a round of polite applause when he had finished.
The smal ish, sandy, almost foxlike wolf now standing where Professor Lyal had been gave a little nod of embarrassed gratitude at the clapping.
The chal enger’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 Lyal . The Woolsey Pack Beta was not perturbed by this discrepancy in size. Most werewolves were a good deal larger than he.
The chal enger attacked, but Lyal 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 Lyal ’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 cal ed insults at the chal enger, the officers catcal ed, and the pack stood in silent wide-eyed attention.
The loner charged at Professor Lyal , snapping. Lyal dodged. The chal enger skidded slightly on the smooth paving stones, his claws making an awful scraping noise as he scrabbled for purchase. Taking advantage of the skid, Lyal dove at him, hitting him broadside with enough force to knock him onto his side. The two wolves rol ed over and over together, bumping into the shins of those who goaded them on. Professor Lyal could feel the claws of the other wolf tearing against his soft underbel y 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 al over his own pristine coat, and blood from the chal enger was dripping down over his muzzle, matting the fur of his white ruff. Even as a wolf, Professor Lyal did not like to be unkempt.
Stil the blood flowed, bits of fur flew about the chal enger’s scrabbling back legs in white puffs, and the sound of growling rent the air. The wet, rich smel of flowing blood caused the noses of the other pack members to wrinkle with interest. Professor Lyal wasn’t one to play dirty, but things being as they were, he thought he might have to go in for an eyebal . Then he realized something was disturbing the crowd.
The tight circle of bodies began rippling, and then two pack members were thrust violently aside and Lord Maccon entered the ring.
He was nak*d, had been al day, but under the moonlight, he was once more looking scruffy and feral. From his mild weaving back and forth, either a day in dry dock hadn’t sufficiently eliminated the formaldehyde from his system or he’d managed to acquire more. Professor Lyal would have to have words with the claviger who’d been persuaded to let Lord Maccon out of the dungeon.
Despite the presence of his lord and master, Lyal was in the middle of a fight and did not al ow himself to be distracted.
“Randolph!” roared his Alpha. “What are you about? You hate fighting. Stop it immediately.”
Professor Lyal ignored him.
Until Lord Maccon changed.
The earl was a big man, and in wolf form, he was large even for a werewolf, and he changed loudly. Not with any vocal indication of pain—he was too proud for that—it was simply that his bones were so massive that when they broke, they did so with a real wil to crunch. He emerged from the transformation a huge brindled wolf, dark brown with gold, black, and cream markings and pale yel ow eyes. He bounced over to where Lyal stil scrabbled with the chal enger, wrapped his massive jaws about his Beta’s neck, and hauled him off, tossing him aside with a contemptuous flick.
Professor Lyal knew what was good for him and stepped away into the crowd, flopping down onto his bloody stomach, tongue lol ing out as he panted for breath. If his Alpha wanted to make a fool of himself, there came a point when even the best Beta couldn’t stop him. But he did stay in wolf form, just in case. Surreptitiously, he licked at his white ruff like a cat to get the blood off.
Lord Maccon barreled into the loner, massive jaws snapping down.
The chal enger dodged to one side, a glint of panic in his yel ow gaze. He had banked on not having to fight the earl; this was not in his plan.
Lyal could smel the wolf’s fear.
Lord Maccon swiveled about and went after the chal enger again, but then tripped over his own feet, lurched to the side, and came down hard on one shoulder.
Definitely still drunk, thought Professor Lyal , resigned.
The chal enger seized the opportunity and dove for Lord Maccon’s neck. At the same moment, the earl shook his head violently as though to clear it. Two large wolf skul s cracked together.
The chal enger fel back, dazed.
Lord Maccon, already in a state of confusion, did not register the encounter, instead lurching after his enemy with single-minded focus. Normal y a quick and efficient fighter, he ambled after his bemused opponent and took one long second to look down at him, as if trying to remember what, exactly, was going on. Then he surged forward and bit down on the other wolf’s muzzle.
The fal en wolf squealed in pain.
Lord Maccon let go in befuddled surprise, as if shocked that his meal should yel back. The chal enger stumbled to his feet.
The earl wove his head back and forth, an action his opponent found disconcerting.
The loner crouched back onto his haunches, forelegs splayed out before him. Lyal wasn’t certain if he was bowing or preparing to spring. He had no chance to do either, for Lord Maccon, much to his own astonishment, stumbled again, and in an effort to regain his balance, jumped forward, coming down solidly on top of the loner with a loud thud.
Almost as an afterthought, he craned his neck around and sank al of his very long and very deadly teeth into the upper portion of the other wolf’s head—conveniently spearing one eye and both ears.
Because werewolves were immortal and very hard to kil , chal enge fights could go on for days. But a bite to the eyes was general y considered a no-contest win. It would take a good forty-eight hours to heal properly, and a blind wolf, immortal or no, could be kil ed during the interim merely because he was at such a grave disadvantage.
As soon as the teeth struck home, the chal enger, whimpering in agony, wriggled onto his back, presenting his bel y to Lord Maccon in surrender. The earl, stil lying half on top of the unfortunate fel ow, lurched off of him, spitting and sneezing over the flavor of eye goo and ear wax. Werewolves enjoyed fresh meat—they needed it, in fact, to survive
—but other werewolves did not taste fresh. They tasted perhaps not quite so putrefied as vampires, but stil old and slightly spoiled.
Professor Lyal stood and stretched—tail tip quivering. Perhaps, he thought as he trotted back to the cloakroom, this battle might be a good thing: to have it publicly known that Lord Maccon could stil defeat a chal enger, even when drunk. The rest of the pack could take care of cleaning up the mess. Now that the matter was settled, Professor Lyal had business to attend to. He paused in the cloakroom. He might as well run to London in wolf form, as he was already wearing his fur and his evening attire was now hopelessly wrinkled. He real y must get his Alpha back on the straight and narrow—the man’s behavior was affecting his clothing. Lyal understood a broken heart, but it could not be al owed to rumple perfectly good shirtwaists.
The trouble with vampires, thought Alexia Tarabotti, was that they were quick as well as strong. Not as strong as werewolves, but in this particular instance Alexia didn’t have any werewolves fighting on her side— blast Conall to all three atmospheres—so the vampires had a distinct advantage.
“Because,” she grumbled, “my husband is a first-rate git. I wouldn’t even be in this situation if it weren’t for him.”
Floote gave her a look of annoyance that suggested he felt that now was not the time for connubial recriminations.
Alexia took his meaning perfectly.
Monsieur Trouvé and Madame Lefoux, having been disturbed from some detailed consultation on the nature of spring-loaded cuckoo clocks, were making their way around from behind a little workman’s table. Madame Lefoux pul ed out a sharp-looking wooden pin from her cravat with one hand and pointed her other wrist at the intruders.
Upon that wrist she wore a large wristwatch that was probably no wristwatch at al . The clockmaker, for lack of any better weapon, grasped the mahogany and pearl case of a cuckoo clock and brandished it in a threatening manner.
“Quoo?” said the clock. Alexia was amazed that even a tiny mechanical device could sound inexplicably French in this country.