Changeless

CHAPTER NINE In Which Meringues Are Annihilated

Lady Maccon wore a dinner gown of black with white pleated trim and white satin ribbon about the neck and sleeves. It would have cast her in a suitably subdued and dignified tone except that, due to the protracted argument with her husband, she had entirely forgotten to stuff her hair under a cap. Her dark tresses rioted about her head, only partially confined by the morning’s updo, a heaven of frizz and feathering. Lord Maccon adored it. He thought she looked like some exotic gypsy and wondered if she might be amenable to donning gold earrings and dancing topless about their room in a loose red skirt. Everyone else was outraged—imagine the wife of an earl appearing at dinner with frizzy hair. Even in Scotland such things were simply not done.

The rest of the company was already at dinner when they arrived. Ivy had rejected the blue gown for a more excitable puce monstrosity, with multiple poufs of ruffles like so many taffeta puffballs, and a wide belt of bright crimson tied in an enormous bow above the bustle. Felicity had chosen an uncharacteristic white and pale green lace affair, which made her look deceptively demure.

Conversation was already in flow. Madame Lefoux was in deep consult with one of the Kingair clavigers, a bespectacled young man with high-arched eyebrows that gave him a perpetual expression of equal parts panic and curiosity. They appeared to be ruminating on the malfunction of the aethographor and formulating plans to investigate it after the meal.

Kingair’s Beta, Gamma, and four other pack members all looked glum and uninterested in the world about them, but spoke comfortably enough to Ivy and Felicity on the inanities of life, such as the appalling Scottish weather and the appalling Scottish food. Both of which the ladies made a show of liking more than was the case and the gentlemen a show of liking less.

Lady Kingair was in a fine fettle, waxing sharp and grumpy at the head of the table. She paused in the act of waving austere hands at the footmen to glower at her distant grandfather and his new wife for their unpardonable tardiness.

Lord Maccon hesitated upon entering the room, as though unsure of where to sit. The last time he’d been in residence he would have sat at the foot of the table, a spot now ostentatiously vacant. As a guest in his old home, his precedence was unknown. An earl would sit in one chair, a family member in another, and a BUR representative in still another. There was a cast to his expression that said eating with his former pack at all was burden enough. What had they done, Alexia wondered, to earn his disgust and his neglect? Or was it something he had done?

Lady Kingair noticed the hesitation. “Canna choose? Is that not just like you? May as well take Alpha position, Gramps, naught else for it.”

The Kingair Beta paused in his discussion with Felicity (aye, Scotland was terribly green) and looked up at this.

“He’s na Alpha here! Have you run mad?”

The woman stood. “Shut your meat trap, Dubh. Someone’s gotta fight challengers, and you’d go belly-up to the first man capable of Anubis Form.”

“I’m not a coward!”

“Tell that to Niall.”

“I had his back. He missed the signs and the scent. Shoulda known they’d ambush.”

Conversation deteriorated at that point. Even Madame Lefoux and Mr. Querulous Brows paused in their pursuit of scientific superiority as tension spread about the supper table. Miss Loontwill stopped flirting with Mr. Tunstell. Mr. Tunstell stopped glancing hopefully in Miss Hisselpenny’s direction.

In a desperate bid to reestablish civilized talk and decorum, Miss Hisselpenny said, quite loudly, “I see they are bringing in the fish course. What a pleasant surprise. I do so love fish. Don’t you Mr., uh, Dubh. It is so very, um, salty.”

The Beta sat back down at that, bemused. Alexia sympathized. What could one say to such a statement? The gentleman, for he still was such despite a hot temper and lupine inclinations, replied to Ivy, as required by the standards of common decency, with a, “I, too, am mighty fond of fish, Miss Hisselpenny.”

Some more daring scientific philosophers claimed that the manners of the modern age had partly developed in order to keep werewolves calm and well behaved in public. Essentially, the theory was that etiquette somehow turned high society into a kind of pack. Alexia had never given it much credence, but seeing Ivy, through the mere application of fish-riddled inanities, tame a man like that was quite remarkable. Perhaps there was something to the hypothesis after all.

“What is your very favorite kind?” persisted Miss Hisselpenny breathily. “The pink, the white, or the bigger sort of grayish fishes?”

Lady Maccon exchanged a look with her husband and tried not to laugh. She took her own seat on his left-hand side, and with that, the fish in question was served and dinner continued.

“I like fish,” chirruped Tunstell.

Felicity drew his attention immediately back to herself. “Really, Mr. Tunstell? What is your preferred breed?”

“Well”—Tunstell hesitated—“you know, the um, ones that”—he made a swooping motion with both hands—“uh, swim.”

“Wife,” murmured the earl, “what is your sister up to?”

“She only wants Tunstell because Ivy does.”

“Why should Miss Hisselpenny have any interest whatsoever in my actor-cum-valet?”

“Exactly!” replied his lady wife enthusiastically. “I am glad we are in agreement on this matter: a most unsuitable match.”

“Women,” said her still-perplexed husband, reaching over and serving himself a portion of fish—the white kind.

The conversation never did improve much after that. Alexia was too far away from Madame Lefoux and her scientifically inclined dinner companion to engage in any intellectual conversation, much to her regret. Not that she could have contributed: they had moved on to magnetic aether transmogrification, which was far beyond her own cursory knowledge. Nevertheless, it verbally surpassed her end of the table. Her husband concentrated on eating as though he had not fed in several days, which he probably hadn’t. Lady Kingair seemed incapable of multisyllabic sentences that were not crass or dictatorial in tone, and Ivy kept up a constant flow of fish-related commentary to a degree Alexia would never have countenanced had she been the intended target. The problem being, of course, that Miss Hisselpenny knew nothing on the subject of fish—a vital fact that seemed to have escaped her notice.

Finally, in desperation, Alexia grasped the conversational reins and inquired rather casually as to how the pack was enjoying its vacation from the werewolf curse.

Lord Maccon rolled his eyes heavenward. Hardly had he supposed even his indomitable wife would confront the pack so directly, en masse, and over dinner. He thought she would at least approach members individually. But then, subtlety never had been her style.

Lady Maccon’s comment interrupted even Miss Hisselpenny’s talk of fish. “Oh dear, have you become afflicted too?” said the young lady, glancing sympathetically around the table at the six werewolves present. “I had heard members of the supernatural set were, well, indisposed, last week. My aunt said that all the vampires took to their hives, and most of the drones were called in. She was supposed to see a concert, but it was canceled due to the absence of a pianist belonging to the Westminster Hive. All of London was on its ear. Really, there are not all that many of”—she paused, having talked herself into a corner—“well, you know, the supernatural persuasion in London, but there certainly is a fuss when they cannot leave their homes. Of course, we knew werewolves must be affected, too, but Alexia never said anything to me about it, did you, Alexia? Why, I even saw you, just the next day, and you said not a word on the subject. Was Woolsey unaffected?”

Lady Maccon did not bother to respond. Instead, she turned sharp brown eyes upon the Kingair Pack sitting about the table. Six large, guilty-looking Scotsman who apparently had nothing to say for themselves.

The pack exchanged glances. Of course, they assumed Lord Maccon would have told his wife they were unable to change, but they did think it a tad injudicious of her, not to say overly direct, to bring the subject up publicly at supper.

Finally, the Gamma said awkwardly, “It has been an interesting few months. Of course, Dubh and myself have been supernatural long enough to safely experience daylight with few of the, uh, associated difficulties, at least during new moon. But the others have rather enjoyed their vacation.”

“I’ve only been a werewolf for a few decades, but I hadna realized how much I missed the sun,” commented one of the younger pack members, speaking for the first time.

“Lachlan’s been singing again—hard to be mad about that.”

“But now it’s beginning to annoy,” added a third. “The humanity, not the singing,” he added hastily.

The first grinned. “Yeah, imagine, at first we missed the light; now we miss the curse. Once one is accustomed to being a wolf part of the time, it is hard to be denied it.”

The Beta gave them all a warning look.

“Being mortal is so inconvenient,” complained a third, ignoring the Beta.

“These days, even the tiniest of cuts take forever to heal. And one is so verra weak without that supernatural strength. I used to be able to lift the back end of a carriage; now, carrying in Miss Hisselpenny’s hatboxes gave me heart palpitations.”

Alexia snorted. “You should see the hats inside.”

“I’d forgotten how to shave,” continued the first with a little laugh.

Felicity gasped and Ivy blushed. Bringing up a gentleman’s toilette at the table—imagine being so indiscreet!

“Cubs,” barked Lady Kingair, “that is by far enough of that.”

“Aye, my lady,” bobbed the three gentlemen, who were all two or three times her age. They had probably seen her grow up.

The table fell silent.

“So, are you all aging?” Lady Maccon wanted to know. She was blunt, but then, that was part of her charm. The earl looked to his great-great-great-granddaughter. It must drive Sidheag batty that she could not order Alexia, a guest, to be silent.

No one answered Lady Maccon. But the pack’s collective worried expression spoke volumes. They were back to being entirely human, or as human as creatures who had once partially died could get. Mortal was perhaps a better word for it. It meant they could finish dying now, just like any other daylight mundane. Of course, Lord Maccon was in the same situation.

Lady Maccon chewed a small bite of hare. “I commend you for not panicking. But I am curious—why not ask for medical assistance while in London? Or perhaps seek out BUR to make inquiries? You did come through London with the rest of the regiments.”

The pack looked to Lord Maccon to rescue them from his wife. Lord Maccon’s expression said it all: they were at her mercy, and he was enjoying witnessing the carnage. Still, she needn’t have asked. She was perfectly well aware of the fact that most supernatural creatures mistrusted modern doctors, and this pack would hardly seek out the London BUR offices with Lord Maccon in charge. Of course, they would want to get out of London as quickly as possible, retreat to the safety of their home den, hiding their shame with tails between their legs—proverbially, of course, as this was no longer literally possible. No tails to be seen.

Much to the pack’s relief, the next course arrived, veal and ham pie with a side of beet and cauliflower mash. Lady Maccon waved her fork about expressively and asked, “So, how did it happen? Did you eat some polluted curry or something while you were over in India?”

“You must excuse my wife,” said Lord Maccon with a grin. “She is a bit of a gesticulator, all that Italian blood.”

Awkward silence persisted.

“Are you all ill? My husband thinks you have a plague. Will you be infecting him in addition to yourselves?” Lady Maccon turned to look pointedly at the earl sitting next to her. “I am not entirely sure how I would feel about that.”

“Thank you for your concern, wife.”

The Gamma (what had her husband called him? Oh yes, Lachlan) said jokingly, “Come off it, Conall. You canna expect sympathy from a curse-breaker, even if you did wed her.”

“I heard of this phenomenon,” piped up Madame Lefoux, turning her attention to their conversation. “It did not extend to my neighborhood, so I did not experience it firsthand; nevertheless, I am convinced there must be a logical scientific explanation.”

“Scientists!” muttered Dubh. Two of his fellow pack members nodded in agreement.

“Why do you people keep calling Alexia a curse-breaker?” wondered Ivy.

“Precisely. Isn’t she simply a curse?” said Felicity unhelpfully.

“Sister, you say the sweetest things,” replied Lady Maccon.

Felicity gave her a dour look.

The pack Gamma seized this as an opportunity to change the subject. “Speaking of which, I was under the impression that Lady Maccon’s former name was Tarabotti. But you are a Miss Loontwill.”

“Oh”—Felicity smiled charmingly—“we have different fathers.”

“Ah, I see.” The Gamma frowned. “Oh, I see. That Tarabotti.”

He looked at Alexia with newfound interest. “I should never have thought he would marry.”

The Beta also looked at Lady Maccon curiously. “Indeed, and to produce offspring. Civic duty, I suppose.”

“You knew my father?” Lady Maccon was suddenly intrigued, and, it must be admitted, distracted from her course of inquiry.

The two werewolves exchanged a look. “Not personally. We knew of him, of course. Quite the traveler.”

Felicity said with a sniff, “Mama always said she could never remember why she leg-shackled herself to an Italian. She claimed it was a marriage of convenience, although I understand he was very good-looking. It did not last, of course. He died, just after Alexia was born. Such a terribly embarrassing thing to do, simply to up and die like that. Goes to show, Italians cannot be trusted. Mama was well rid of him. She married Papa shortly thereafter.”

Lady Maccon turned to look hard at her husband. “Did you know my father too?” she asked him in a low voice to keep things private.

“Not as such.”

“At some point, husband of mine, we must have a discussion, you and I, about the proper methods of fully transferring information. I am tired of feeling consistently behind the times.”

“Except that, wife, I have two centuries on you. I can hardly tell you everything I have learned and about everyone I have met during all those years.”

“Do not trouble me with such weak excuses,” she hissed.

While they were arguing, the suppertime conversation moved on without them. Madame Lefoux began explaining that she felt the aethographic transmitter’s crystalline valve resonator’s magnetic conduction might be out of alignment. Compounded, of course, by the implausibility ratio of transference during inclement weather.

No one, except the bespectacled claviger, was able to follow a word of her explanation, but everyone was nodding sagely as though they did. Even Ivy, who had the look of a slightly panicked dormouse on her round face, pretended interest.

Tunstell solicitously passed Miss Hisselpenny the plate of potato fritters, but Ivy ignored him.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Tunstell,” said Felicity, reaching across to take one as though he had offered them to her.

Ivy huffed.

Tunstell, apparently frustrated by Miss Hisselpenny’s continued rejection, turned in Miss Loontwill’s direction, and began chatting with her about the recent influx of automated eyelash-curling implements imported from Portugal.

Ivy was more annoyed by this and turned away from the redhead to join in the werewolves’ discussion on a possible hunting outing the next morning. Not that Miss Hisselpenny knew a whit about guns or hunting, but dearth of knowledge on a subject had never yet kept Ivy from waxing poetical upon it.

“I believe there is considerable range in the bang of most guns,” she said sagely.

“Uh…” The gentlemen about her drifted in confusion.

Ah, Ivy, thought Alexia happily, spreading a verbal fog wherever she goes.

“Since we can go out during the day, we might as well take advantage and get a little dawn shooting in for old times’ sake,” said Dubh finally, ignoring Miss Hisselpenny’s comment.

“Is Dubh his given name or surname?” Alexia asked her husband.

“Good question,” he replied. “Hundred and fifty years I have had to put up with that blighter and he never told me the which way of it. I dinna know much about his past before Kingair. Came in as a loner, back in the early seventeen hundreds. Bit of a troublemaker.”

“Ah, and you wouldn’t know anything about secrecy or troublemaking, would you, husband?”

“Touché, wife.”

The dinner drew to a close, and eventually the ladies left the gentlemen to their drinks.

Lady Maccon had never much supported the vampire-derived tradition of after-dinner gender segregation. After all, what had begun as an honor to the hive queen’s superiority and need for privacy now felt like a belittling of the feminine ability to imbibe quality alcohol. Still, Alexia recognized the opportunity for what it was and made an effort to fraternize with Lady Kingair.

“You are fully human, yet you seem to act as female Alpha. How is that?” she asked, settling herself on the dusty settee and sipping a small sherry.

“They lack leadership, and I’m the only one left.” The Scotswoman was blunt to the point of rudeness.

“Do you enjoy leading?” Alexia was genuinely curious.

“It’d work a mite better if I were a werewolf proper.”

Lady Maccon was surprised. “Would you really be willing to try? It’s such a grave risk for the gentler sex.”

“Aye. But yon husband of yers didna care for my wishes.” Left unsaid was the fact that Conall’s was the only opinion that mattered. Only an Alpha capable of Anubis Form could breed more werewolves. Alexia had never witnessed a metamorphosis, but she had read the scientific papers on the subject. Something about soul reclamation needing both forms at once.

“He thinks you would die in the attempt. And it would be at his hand. Well, at his teeth.”

The woman sipped her own sherry and nodded. Suddenly she looked every bit of her forty years and then some.

“And I the last of his mortal line,” said Sidheag Maccon.

“Oh.” Alexia nodded. “I see. And he would have to give you the full bite. It is a heavy burden you ask of him, to end his last mortal holding. Is that why he left the pack?”

“You think I drove him out with my asking? You dinna ken the truth of it?”

“Obviously not.”

“Then it isna my place to be telling you. You married the blighter; you should be asking him.”

“You think I have not tried?”

“Cagey old cuss, my gramps, that’s for pure certain. Tell me something, Lady Maccon, why did you cleave to him? ’Cause he’s seated right proper in an earldom? ’Cause he heads up BUR and they watchdog your kind? What could one such as you gain from such a union?”

It was clear what the Lady of Kingair thought. She saw Alexia as nothing more than some kind of pariah who had married Lord Maccon out of either social or pecuniary avarice.

“You know,” replied Lady Maccon, not playing into her trap, “I ask myself that question daily.”

“It ain’t natural, a blending like that.”

Alexia looked over to ensure that the other ladies were out of earshot. Madame Lefoux and Ivy were engaged in complaining about long-distance travel in the mild manner of those who had thoroughly enjoyed the experience. Felicity stood on the far side of the room, looking out into the rainy night.

“Of course it is not natural. How could it be natural when neither of us are?” Lady Maccon sniffed.

“I canna make you out, curse-breaker,” replied Sidheag.

“It is really very simple. I am just like you, only without a soul.”

Lady Kingair leaned forward. Those familiar tawny eyes of hers were set in an equally familiar frown. “I was raised by the pack, child. ’Twas always intended I become Alpha female and lead them, whether he changed me or not. You merely married into the role.”

“And in that you have the advantage over me. But then again, instead of adapting, I am simply retraining my pack to accept my ways.”

A half-smile appeared on Sidheag’s dour face. “I wager Major Channing is cracked over your presence.”

Alexia laughed.

Just when Lady Maccon felt like she might be gaining ground with Lady Kingair, an enormous crash reverberated against the wall nearest the dining chamber.

The ladies all exchanged startled looks. Madame Lefoux and Lady Maccon immediately leaped to their feet and went swiftly back toward the supper room. Lady Kingair was but a few steps behind, and all three burst through to find Lord Maccon and the Kingair Beta, Dubh, grappling fiercely on top of the massive table, rolling about among the remnants of what once had been a most excellent brandy and plate of sticky meringues. The other members of the pack, the Kingair clavigers in residence, and Tunstell had arranged themselves well out of the way and seemed to be viewing the fisticuffs in the manner of sportsmen at the races.

Tunstell was running a commentary. “Oh, nice uppercut from Lord Maccon there, and, oh, did Dubh kick? Bad form, terribly bad form.”

Alexia paused, regarding the two large Scotsman rolling about among the sticky powder of crushed meringue.

“Lachlan, report!” barked Lady Kingair over the racket. “What’s going on?”

The Gamma, who Alexia had thought of as rather sympathetic up until that point, shrugged. “It needs getting out right to the open, mistress. You know how we like to settle things.”

The woman shook her head, gray-streaked plait flying back and forth. “We settle things by teeth and claw, na fist and flesh. This isna our way. This isna pack protocol!”

Lachlan shrugged again. “Having na teeth possible, this be the next best option. You canna stop it, mistress, challenge was issued. We all witnessed the wording of it.”

The other pack members nodded gravely.

Dubh landed a good right punch to Lord Maccon’s chin, sending him flying backward.

Lady Kingair stepped hastily to one side to avoid a silver platter as it skidded off the table toward her.

“Oh my goodness!” came Ivy’s voice from the doorway. “I do believe they are actually skirmishing!”

Tunstell immediately sprang into action. “This is not a thing a lady should witness, Miss Hisselpenny,” he exclaimed, rushing over and shepherding her out of the room.

“But…” came Ivy’s voice.

Lady Maccon smiled proudly at the fact that the redhead hadn’t considered her sensibilities. Madame Lefoux, noting that Felicity still stood watching with wide, interested eyes, gave Alexia a look and left the room, shutting the door behind her and sweeping Felicity in her wake.

Lord Maccon slammed into Dubh’s stomach with his head, propelling the werewolf backward into the wall. The whole room shook at the impact.

Now, thought Alexia maliciously, Kingair will have to remodel.

“At least take the disagreement outside!” yelled Lady Kingair.

There was blood everywhere, as well as spilled brandy, broken glass, and crushed meringues.

“For goodness’ sake,” said Lady Maccon, exasperated, “don’t they realize that as humans, they could seriously injure one another if they carry on like this? They do not have the supernatural strength to take those kinds of blows, nor the supernatural healing to recover from them.”

Both men rolled to the side and fell off the tabletop with a loud thud.

Good Lord, thought Lady Maccon, noting that a good deal of the blood seemed to be emerging from her husband’s nose, I do hope Conall has brought a spare cravat.

She was not particularly worried, for she had little doubt in her husband’s pugilistic skills. He boxed regularly at Whites, and he was her chosen mate. Of course, he would win the fight, but still, the disarray being generated was unacceptable. Things could not be allowed to continue much longer. Imagine, the poor Kingair staff, having to clean up such a mess.

With that thought, Lady Maccon whirled about and went purposefully to fetch her parasol.

She need not have bothered. By the time she returned, numbing darts loaded and parasol ready to fire, both men were slumped in opposite corners of the room. Dubh was clutching his head and coughing in sharp painful little gasps, and Lord Maccon was listing to one side, blood dribbling out of his nose and one eye nearly swollen shut.

“Well don’t you two look a picture,” Alexia said, resting her parasol against the wall and crouching down to examine Conall’s face with gentle fingers. “Nothing a spot of vinegar won’t put to rights.” She turned to one of the clavigers. “Run and get me some cider vinegar, my good man.” Lord Maccon looked at her over the top of his cravat, which he was now holding to his nose. Ah well, the cravat was ruined already.

“Didna ken you cared, wife,” he grumbled, but leaned in against her gentle ministrations nevertheless.

So as not to seem too sympathetic, Alexia began vigorously brushing off the meringue crumbs covering his jacket.

At the same time, she looked over at the Kingair Beta and said, “Settle the issue to your mutual satisfaction, did you, gentlemen?”

Dubh gave her a deadpan expression that still managed to indicate a certain profound level of deep disgust in her very existence, let alone her question. Alexia only shook her head at such petulance.

The Kingair claviger returned bearing a flask of cider vinegar. Lady Maccon immediately began to copiously douse her husband about the face and neck with it.

“Ouch! Steady on, that stings!”

Dubh made to rise.

Lord Maccon instantly struggled to his feet. He would have to, Alexia surmised, to maintain dominance. Or it could be that he was trying to get away from her vinegar-riddled attentions.

“I know it stings,” she said. “Not nice to have to heal the old-fashioned way, now, is it, my brave table warrior? Perhaps you will pause to consider next time before you commence fighting in a confined space. I mean really, look at this room.” She tutted. “You both should be thoroughly ashamed of yourselves.”

“Nothing has been settled,” Dubh said, returning hastily to his slumped position on the carpeted floor. He appeared to have gotten the worse end of things. One of his arms looked broken, and there was a nasty gash in his left cheek.

However, Lady Maccon’s brisk application of vinegar seemed to have shattered everyone else’s collective inertia, for they began bustling around the fallen Beta, splinting up his arm and tending to his wounds.

“You still abandoned us.” Dubh sounded like a petulant child.

“You all know exactly why I left,” Lord Maccon growled.

“Uh,” said Alexia timidly, raising a questioning hand, “I do not.”

Everyone ignored her.

“You couldna control the pack,” Dubh accused.

Everyone present in the room gasped. Except Alexia, who did not comprehend the gravity of the insult and was occupied trying to pick the last of the meringue off her husband’s dinner jacket.

“That isna fair,” said Lachlan, not moving from his stance. Unsure of his allegiance, the Gamma simply stayed away from both Conall and Dubh.

“You betrayed me.” Lord Maccon did not yell, but the words carried and, even though he could not change to wolf form, there was wolf anger in them.

“And you pay us back in kind? The emptiness you left, was that fair?”

“There is naught fair about pack protocol. You and I both know that; there is simply protocol. And there was none to cover what you did. It was entirely unprecedented. So I was cursed with the dubious pleasure of having to make it up myself. Abandonment seemed to be the best solution, since I didna want to spend another night in your presence.”

Alexia looked over at Lachlan. The Gamma had tears in his eyes.

“Besides”—Lord Maccon’s voice softened—“Niall was a perfectly good Alpha alternative. He led you well, I hear. He married my progeny. You were tame enough for decades under his dominance.”

Lady Kingair finally spoke. Her voice was oddly soft. “Niall was my mate, and I pure loved him. He was a brilliant tactician and a good soldier, but he wasna a true Alpha.”

“Are you saying he wasna dominant enough? I heard naught of lack of discipline. Whenever I ran a recognizance on Kingair, you all seemed to be perfectly content.” Conall’s voice was soft.

“So you did check up on us, did you, old wolf?” Lady Kingair looked hurt at that rather than relieved.

“Of course I did. You were once my pack.”

The Beta looked up from where he still lay on the floor. “You left us weak, Conall, and you knew it. Niall had na Anubis Form, and the pack couldna procreate. Clavigers abandoned us as a result, the local loners rebelled, and we didn’t have an Alpha fighting for the integrity of the pack.”

Lady Maccon glanced at her husband. His face was carved in stone, relentless. Or what little she could see behind the puffy eye and bloodstained cravat seemed that way.

“You betrayed me,” he repeated, as though that settled the matter. Which, in Conall’s world, it probably did. He valued few things more than loyalty.

Alexia decided to make her presence known. “What is the point of recriminations? Nothing can be done about it now, since none of you can change into any form at all, Anubis or otherwise. No new wolves can be made, no new Alpha found, no challenge battles fought. Why argue over what was when we are immersed in what isn’t?”

Lord Maccon looked down at her. “So speaks my practical Alexia. Now do you understand why I married her?”

Lady Kingair said snidely, “A desperate, if ineffectual, attempt at control?”

“Oooh, she has claws. Are you positive you never bit her to change, husband? She has the temper of a werewolf.” Alexia could be just as snide as the next person.

The Gamma stepped forward, looking at Lady Maccon. “Our apologies, my lady, and you a newly arrived guest among us. We must truly seem the barbarians you English take us for. ’Tis only that na Alpha these many moons is making us nervous.”

“Oh, and here I thought your behavior sprang from the whole not-being-able-to-change-shape quandary,” she quipped back sharply.

He grinned. “Well, that too.”

“Werewolves without pack leaders tend to get into trouble?” Lady Maccon wondered.

No one said anything.

“I don’t suppose you are going to tell us what trouble you got into overseas?” Alexia tried to look as though she wasn’t avidly interested, taking her husband’s arm casually.

Silence.

“Well, I think we have all had enough excitement for one evening. Since you have been human these many months, I assume you are keeping daylight hours?”

A nod from Lady Kingair.

“In that case”—Lady Maccon straightened her dress—“Conall and I shall bid you good night.”

“We shall?” Lord Maccon looked dubious.

“Good night,” said his wife firmly to the pack and clavigers. Grabbing her parasol in one hand and her husband’s arm in the other, she practically dragged the earl from the room.

Lord Maccon lumbered obediently after her.

The room they left behind was filled with half-thoughtful, half-amused faces.

“What are you about, wife?” Conall asked as soon as they were upstairs and out of everyone’s earshot.

His wife plastered herself up against him and kissed him fiercely.

“Ouch,” he said when they pulled apart, although he had participated with gusto. “Busted lip.”

“Oh, look what you did to my dress!” Lady Maccon glared down at the blood now decorating the white satin trim.

Lord Maccon refrained from pointing out that she had initiated the kiss.

“You are an impossible man,” continued his ladylove, swatting him on one of the few undamaged portions of his body. “You could have been killed in such a fight, do you realize?”

“Oh, phooey.” Lord Maccon waved a dismissive hand in the air. “For a Beta, Dubh is not a verra good fighter even in wolf form. He is hardly likely to be any more capable as a human.”

“He is still a trained soldier.” She was not going to let this rest.

“Have you forgotten, wife, that so am I?”

“You are out of practice. Woolsey Pack Alpha has not been on campaign in years.”

“Are you saying I’m getting old? I’ll show you old.” He swept her up like some exaggerated Latin lover and carried her into their bedchamber.

Angelique, who was engaged in some sort of tidying of the wardrobe, quickly made herself scarce.

“Stop trying to distract me,” said Alexia several moments later. During which time her husband had managed to divest her of a good percentage of her clothing.

“Me, distract you? You are the one who dragged me off and up here right when things were getting interesting.”

“They are not going to tell us what is going on no matter how hard we push,” said Alexia, unbuttoning his shirt and hissing in concern at the array of harsh red marks destined to become rather spectacular bruises by the morning. “We are simply going to have to figure this out for ourselves.”

He paused in kissing a little path along her collarbone and looked at her suspiciously. “You have a plan.”

“Yes, I do, and the first part of it involves you telling me exactly what happened twenty years ago to make you leave. No.” She stopped his wandering hand. “Stop that. And the second part involves you going to sleep. You are going to hurt in places your little supernatural soul forgot it could hurt in.”

He flopped back on the pillows. There was no reasoning with his wife when she got like this. “And the third part of the plan?”

“That is for me to know and you not to know.”

He let out a lusty sigh. “I hate it when you do that.”

She waggled a finger at him as though he were a schoolboy. “Uh-uh, you just miscalculated, husband. I hold all the high cards right now.”

He grinned. “Is that how this works?”

“You have been married before, remember? You should know.”

He turned on his side toward her, wincing at the pain this caused. She lay back against the pillows, and he ran one large hand over her stomach and chest. “You are perfectly correct, of course; that is exactly how this works.” Then he made his tawny eyes wide and batted his eyelashes at her, pleading. Alexia had learned that expression from Ivy and had employed it effectively on her husband during their, for lack of a better word, courtship. Little did she know how persuasively it could be applied in the opposite direction.

“Are you going to at least see me settled?” he murmured, nibbling her neck, his voice gravelly.

“I might be persuaded. You would, of course, have to be very very nice to me.”

Conall agreed to be nice, in the best nonverbal way possible.

Afterward, he lay staring fixedly up at the ceiling and told her why he had left the Kingair Pack. He told her all of it, from what it was like for them, as both werewolves and Scotsmen, at the beginning of Queen Victoria’s rule, to the assassination attempt on the queen planned by the then Kingair Beta, his old and trusted friend, without his knowledge.

He did not once look at her while he talked. Instead his eyes remained fixed on the stained and smudged molding of the ceiling above them.

“They were all in on it. Every last one of them—pack and clavigers. And not a one told me. Oh, not because I was all that loyal to the queen; surely you know packs and hives better than that by now. Our loyalty to a daylight ruler is never unreserved. No, they lied to me because I was loyal to the cause, always have been.”

“What cause?” wondered his wife. She held his big hand in both of hers as she lay curled toward him, but otherwise she did not touch him.

“Acceptance. Can you imagine what would have happened if they had succeeded? A Scottish pack, attached to one of the best Highland regiments, multiple campaigns served in the British Army, killing Queen Victoria. It would have thrown over the whole government, but not only that, it would have taken us back to the Dark Ages. Those daylight conservatives who have always been against integration would call it a nationally supported supernatural plot, the church would regain its foothold on British soil, and we would be back to the Inquisition quicker than you could shake a tail.”

“Husband”—Alexia was mildly startled, but only because she’d never given Conall’s political views much consideration—“you are a progressive!”

“Damn straight! I couldna believe my pack would put all werewolves into such a position. And for what? Old resentments and Scottish pride? A weak alliance with Irish dissidents? And the worst of it was, not a one had told me of the plot. Not even Lachlan.”

“Then how did you find out about it in the end?”

He huffed in disgust. “I caught them mixing the poison. Poison, mind you! Poison has no place on pack grounds or in pack business. It isna an honest way to kill anyone, let alone a monarch.”

Alexia suppressed a smile. This would appear to be the aspect of the conspiracy that upset him the most.

“We werewolves are not known for our subtlety. I had realized they were plotting something for weeks. When I found the poison, I forced a confession out of Lachlan.”

“And you ended up having to fight and kill your own Beta over it. Then what, you simply took off for London, leaving them without leadership?”

He finally turned and looked at her, propping himself on his elbow. Seeing no judgment or accusation in her eyes, he relaxed slightly. “There is no pack protocol to cover this kind of situation. A large-scale betrayal of an Alpha with no qualified reason or ready replacement. Led by my own Beta.” His eyes were agonized. “My Beta! They deserved to be without metamorphosis. I could have killed them all, and not a one would have objected, least of all the dewan, save that they were not plotting against me; they were plotting against a daylight queen.”

He looked to her and his eyes were sad.

She tried to distill the story down into one manageable chunk. “So your leaving was a point of pride, honor, and politics?”

“Essentially.”

“I suppose it could have been worse.” She smoothed away the frown creasing his forehead.

“They could have succeeded.”

“You realize, as muhjah, I am forced to ask: will they try again, do you think? After two decades? Could that explain the mysterious weapon?”

“Werewolves have long memories.”

“In the interest of Queen Victoria’s safety, is there a way for us to provide a surety against this?”

He sighed softly. “I dinna know.”

“And that’s why you came back? If it’s true, you’ll have to kill them all, won’t you, sundowner?”

He turned away from her words, his broad back stiff, but he did not deny them.