Changeless

“Fiddlesticks,” said Lady Maccon to Professor Lyall. “Am I ever going to make it to my meeting?”

Lyall took that as a hint and turned to go. Unless, of course, he was fleeing from the hat. His mistress stopped him.

“I truly do appreciate your unexpected intervention just now. I did not think he would actually attack.”

Professor Lyall looked at his Alpha’s mate thoughtfully. It was a rare unguarded look, his face free of its customary glassicals, his mild hazel eyes puzzled. “Why unexpected? Didn’t you think I was capable of defending you in Conall’s place?”

Lady Maccon shook her head. It was true she had never had much confidence in the physical abilities of her husband’s Beta, with his slight frame and professorial ways. Lord Maccon was massive and treelike; Professor Lyall was built more on the shrub scale. But that wasn’t what she had meant. “Oh no, unexpected because I had assumed you would be with my husband tonight, if this BUR problem is so very bad.”

Professor Lyall nodded.

Lady Maccon tried one last time. “I don’t suppose it was the arrival of the regiment that had my husband in a dither?”

“No. He knew the regiment was due in; he sent me to meet them at the station.”

“Oh, he did, did he? And he did not see fit to inform me?”

Lyall, realizing he might have just gotten his Alpha into some very hot water indeed, dissembled. “I believe he was under the impression you knew. It was the dewan who ordered the military recall. Withdrawal papers came through the Shadow Council several months ago.”

Alexia frowned. She remembered vaguely the potentate arguing vociferously with the dewan on this subject at the beginning of her stint as muhjah. The dewan had won, since the strength of Queen Victoria’s regiments and the building of her empire was dependent upon her alliance with the packs. The vampires held controlling interest in the East India Company and its mercenary troops, of course, but this had been a matter for the regulars and so the werewolves. Still, Lady Maccon had not realized the results of that decision would end up encamping on her doorstep.

“Don’t they have a proper barracks somewhere they should be shambling off to?”

“Yes, but it is tradition for them all to stay here for several weeks while the pack re-forms—before the daylight soldiers head homeward.”

Lady Maccon watched Ivy wend her way through the chaos of military tents and baggage. She moved with such purpose it was as though she walked with exclamation marks. Hydrodine engines emitted small puffs of yellow smoke at her as she passed and compressed expansion tent stakes hissed as they were pulled prematurely from the ground. All were now being taken back down and moved around the side of the house and into Woolsey’s extensive grounds.

“Have I mentioned recently how much I dislike tradition?” Alexia said, and then panicked. “Are we expected to feed them all?”

The grape bunches bobbed in time with Ivy’s rapidly mincing footsteps. She did not even pause to investigate the disarray. She was clearly in a hurry, which meant Ivy had news of note.

“Rumpet knows what to do. Don’t concern yourself,” advised Professor Lyall.

“You really cannot tell me what is going on? He was up so very early, and Formerly Merriway was definitely involved.”

“Who, Rumpet?”

That earned the Beta a look of profound disgust.

“Lord Maccon did not inform me of the particulars,” Professor Lyall admitted.

Lady Maccon frowned. “And Formerly Merriway won’t. You know how she gets, all-over nervous and floaty.”

Ivy attained the steps to the front door.

As she neared, Professor Lyall said hastily, “If you will excuse me, my lady, I should be getting on.”

He bowed to Miss Hisselpenny and vanished around the corner of the house after Major Channing.

Ivy curtsied to the departing werewolf, a strawberry on a long silk stem wiggling about in front of her left ear. She didn’t take offense at Lyall leaving so precipitously. Instead, she trotted up to the stoop, blithely ignoring Alexia’s dispatch case and waiting carriage, certain in the knowledge that her news was far more important than whatever affair was causing her friend to depart forthwith.

“Alexia, did you know there is an entire regiment decamping on your front lawn?”

Lady Maccon sighed. “Really, Ivy, I would never have noticed.”

Miss Hisselpenny ignored the sarcasm. “I have the most splendid news. Should we go in for tea?”

“Ivy, I have business in town, and I am already late.” Lady Maccon refrained from mentioning that business was with Queen Victoria. Ivy knew nothing of her preternatural state, nor her political position, and Alexia thought it best to keep her friend ignorant. Ivy was particularly adept at being ignorant but could cause extensive havoc with the smallest scrap of information.

“But, Alexia, this is very important gossip!” The grapes vibrated in agitation.

“Oh, have the winter shawls from Paris come into the shops?”

Ivy tossed her head in frustration. “Alexia, must you be so tiresome?”

Lady Maccon could barely tear her eyes off of the hat. “Then, please, do not keep it to yourself one moment longer. Pray tell me at once.” Anything to get her dearest friend gone posthaste. Really, Ivy could be too inconvenient.

“Why is there a regiment on your lawn?” Miss Hisselpenny persisted.

“Werewolf business.” Lady Maccon dismissed it in the manner calculated to most efficiently throw Ivy off the scent. Miss Hisselpenny had never quite accustomed herself to werewolves, even after her best friend had the temerity to marry one. They were not exactly commonplace, and she had never had to cope with their brand of gruffness and sudden nudity. She simply couldn’t seem to acclimatize to it the way Alexia had. So she preferred, in typical Ivy fashion, to forget they existed.

“Ivy,” said Lady Maccon, “what exactly are you doing here?”

“Oh, Alexia, I am terribly sorry for descending upon you so unexpectedly! I hadn’t the time to send round a card, but I simply had to come and tell you as soon as it was decided.” She opened her eyes wide and flipped both hands toward her head. “I am engaged.”

CHAPTER TWO

A Plague of Humanization

Lord Conall Maccon was a very large man who made for an exceedingly large wolf. He was bigger than any natural wolf could ever hope to be and less rangy, with too much muscle and not enough lank. No passerby would be in any doubt, had they seen him, that he was a supernatural creature. That said, those few people traveling the cold winter road on this particular early evening could not see him. Lord Maccon was moving fast, and he boasted a dark brindled pelt so that, but for his yellow eyes, he faded almost completely into the shadows. On more than one occasion, his wife had called him handsome in his wolf form, yet she had never called him so as a human. He would have to ask her about that. Conall ruminated a moment; then again, perhaps he would not.

Such were the mundane thoughts that passed through a werewolf’s head as he ran the country lanes toward London. Woolsey Castle was some distance away from the metropolis, just north of Barking, a good two hours by carriage or dirigible and a little less on four legs. Time passed and eventually wet grass, neat hedgerows, and startled bunnies gave way to muddy streets, stone walls, and disinterested alley cats.

The earl found himself enjoying the run a good deal less when, just after entering the city proper, right around Fairfoot Road, he abruptly and completely lost his wolf form. It was the most astonishing thing—one moment he was dashing along on four paws, and the next his bones were crunching, his fur retreating, and his knees crashing down upon the cobbles. It left him, shivering and panting, naked in the road.

“Great ghosts!” exclaimed the aggrieved nobleman.

Never had he experienced the like. Even when his gloriously frustrating wife used her preternatural touch to force him back into humanity, it was not so sudden. She generally gave him some warning. Well, a little warning. Well, a yell or two.

He looked about, worried. But Alexia was nowhere near, and he was pretty darn certain he had managed to leave her safe, if fuming, back at the castle. There were no other preternaturals registered for the greater London area. What, then, had just happened?

He looked to his knees, which were bleeding slightly and quite definitely not healing. Werewolves were supernatural: such minor scrapes ought to be closing up right before his eyes. Instead they leaked his slow old blood onto the muddy stones.

Lord Maccon tried to change back, reaching for that place from which he drove his body to split its biological nature. Nothing. He tried for his Anubis Form, the Alpha’s ace, with the head of the wolf and the body of a man. Still nothing. Which left him sitting on Fairfoot Road, completely unclothed, and deeply confused.

Struck with the spirit of investigation, he backtracked a short way. He tried for Anubis Form, changing just his head into that of a wolf, an Alpha trick that was faster than full shift. It worked but left him in a conundrum: dally about as a wolf, or press on to the office naked? He changed his head back.

Normally, when there was a chance he might have to change publicly, the earl carried a cloak in his mouth. But he had thought to make it safely to the BUR offices and into the cloakroom there before decency became necessary. Now he regretted such careless confidence. Formerly Merriway had been right—something was terribly wrong in London, and that apart from the fact that he was currently lollygagging about starkers inside it. It would appear that it was not only the ghosts who were being affected. Werewolves, too, were undergoing alteration. He gave a tight smile and retreated hurriedly behind a pile of crates. He would lay good money that the vampires weren’t growing any feeding fangs tonight either—at least not the ones living near the Thames. Countess Nadasdy, queen of the Westminster hive, must be positively frantic. Which, he realized with a grimace, meant he was likely to get the unparalleled pleasure of a visit from Lord Ambrose later that evening. It was going to be a long night.

The Bureau of Unnatural Registry was not situated, as many a confused tourist expected, in the vicinity of Whitehall. It was in a small, unassuming Georgian building just off Fleet Street, near the Times offices. Lord Maccon had made the switch ten years ago, when he discovered that it was the press, not the government, that generally had a handle on what was truly transpiring around the city—political or otherwise. This particular evening, he had cause to regret his decision, as he now had to make his way through the commercial district as well as several crowded thoroughfares in order to get to his office.

He almost managed the trek without being seen, skulking through the grubby streets and around the mud-spattered corners—London’s finest back alleys. It was quite the feat, as the streets were crawling with soldiers. Fortunately, they were intent on celebrating their recent return to London and not his large white form. But he was spotted by the most unexpected individual, near St. Bride, the unfragrant scent of Fleet Street in the air.

A toff of the highest water, dressed to the nines in a lovely cut-front jacket and stunning lemon-yellow cravat tied in the Osbaldeston style, materialized out of the darkness behind a brewing pub, where no toff had a right to be. The man doffed his top hat amiably at the naked werewolf.

“Why, I do declare, if it isn’t Lord Maccon. How do you do? Fancy, aren’t we a tad underdressed for an evening’s stroll?” The voice was mildly familiar and laced with amusement.

“Biffy,” said the earl on a growl.

“And how is your lovely wife?” Biffy was a drone of reputation, and his vampire master, Lord Akeldama, was a dear friend of Alexia’s. Much to Lord Maccon’s annoyance. So, come to think of it, was Biffy. Last time the drone had visited Woolsey Castle with a message from his master, he and Alexia had spent hours discussing the latest hairstyles out of Paris. His wife had a penchant for gentlemen of the frivolous persuasion. Conall paused to deduce what that said about his own character.

“Hang my lovely wife,” he answered. “Get into that tavern there and wrestle me up a coat of some kind, would you?”

Biffy arched an eyebrow at him. “You know, I would offer you my coat, but it’s a swallowtail, hardly useful, and would never fit that colossal frame of yours anyway.” He gave the earl a long, appraising look. “Well, well, isn’t my master going to be all of a crumble for not having seen this?”

“Your impossible patron has seen me naked already.”

Biffy tapped his bottom lip with a fingertip and looked intrigued.

“Oh for goodness’ sake, you were there,” said Lord Maccon, annoyed.

Biffy only smiled.

“A cloak.” A pause, then the added grumble of, “Please!”

Biffy vanished and returned with alacrity, bearing an oilskin greatcoat of ill design and briny smell but that was at least large enough to cover the earl’s indignities.