Romancing the Werewolf

by Gail Carriger

  The pack all looked at one another.

  “We werewolves customarily get outdoor colors like browns and greens and such.” Phelan was trying to help.

  Biffy glared. “I am attempting to give us an aura of sophistication! It’s 1895. We live in London. Earth tones are so very last decade!”

  The werewolves now looked as though they were trying not to laugh. At least a few of them did.

  “Why do vampires get to have purple? Is it a rule? Something to do with royalty?” Biffy had learned there were lots of unwritten rules to immortality. The werewolves called them protocols, but really they were traditionally codified rules.

  Adelphus smiled. “Not officially. It’s more to do with Rome.”

  Biffy grinned back. “Oh, yes, ancient history, is it?”

  Biffy knew he had a bit of a lax attitude about tradition. But then again, wasn’t that part of his role? In his lucid days, before the previous Alpha went mad with Alpha’s curse, Lord Maccon would say, This is your time, Biffy. Bring us into the modern age. We have to learn to accommodate the present, or we are going to become obsolete. You’re important to all werewolves – you represent a new kind of Alpha.

  I’m failing. I’m failing him. And I’m failing them. Well, us, I suppose I should say. He looked at his pack sitting around the dinner table, worried, uncomfortable.

  Biffy stood. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he had good form and excellent posture. He was a practiced gentleman and he called upon that sophistication (in lieu of arrogance) so that he could put his beautifully shod foot very firmly down.

  “Purple curtains. End of discussion.”

  Adelphus opened his mouth. Biffy glared. “End. Of. Discussion.”

  Adelphus snapped his mouth closed and tilted his head quickly to show his neck. “Yes, Alpha.”

  With a start, the others followed suit.

  Biffy marched from the room. Feeling a little faint. Which he attributed to not having had time to eat – too busy arguing about curtains.

  * * *

  Biffy had elected to move the pack – his pack – for various reasons. But the main one was standing in the house next door’s entranceway, entreating him to come visit as he stormed past in a purple-curtain temper. Biffy was on a mission to settle his nerves. His authority had been questioned, not as Alpha but as arbiter of good taste. It made him feel unstable and petulant. Which was a long way of saying – he had hats to decorate. Having a gossip with his former lover, ex vampire-master, inveterate scandalmonger, and next-door neighbor was nowhere near as restful as hat decorating.

  But Lord Akeldama was nothing if not persuasive, and Biffy was nothing if not courteous.

  He might, of course, have pretended not to hear. But he had supernatural hearing, and Lord Akeldama knew that.

  “Biffy! Pudding! Come be social with your old chum, it’s perishingly dull right now.”

  It was also perishingly cold. Not as bad as last year when the blasted Thames had become an ice pit, but London was having another frigid winter in a string of them. Lord Akeldama, however, stood defiantly in his doorway wearing little more than a charming silk smoking jacket (though he didn’t smoke), a precocious gold monocle (although he had perfect vision), and skin-tight satin trousers (although it was not yet visiting hours). Vampires did not really feel the cold. They were cold already.

  Biffy sighed, admiring the trousers. He no longer wore anything so well fitted. It was too difficult to strip out of tight clothing with speed and finesse. He shouldn’t have been shocked to learn (although he had been) that werewolves got naked a great deal more frequently than anyone else.

  He admired the consequences of course – Biffy was a great appreciator of the male physique, and werewolves mainly came big and muscled. While that wasn’t his particular romantic preference, he could still admire – on an intellectual level, of course. But he did miss tight clothing. He himself had a slender build, but with nice lean muscles that he’d taken care to maintain, even in his human dandy lifetime, with fencing and dancing. He’d once quite enjoyed showing himself off with fashion. To be frank, he missed tight trousers.

  “Are you admiring the cut of my jib, dahling?” inquired the vampire, tapping his monocle and smiling – without showing fang.

  Biffy paused on the threshold and gave Lord Akeldama an assessing look. Goodness, I miss flirting.

  “Will you be hoisting a petard any time soon?”

  Lord Akeldama laughed. “Shall I run it up the flagpole and see if anything salutes?” His eyes drifted downwards, speculatively.

  Biffy allowed a gentle chuckle to leak forth.

  Lord Akeldama stepped back and gestured for him to come inside.

  “Am I welcome?” Biffy hesitated.

  “Ah, dear boy, you’ve been studying vampire-werewolf relationship protocols again, haven’t you?”

  “I must learn.”

  “Of course you must. Please, my lovely, come inside, do.”

  At an outright verbalized invitation, Biffy walked inside the vampire’s home.

  He was hit with a pang of regret almost instantly. Very little had changed. The hallway was still overly decorated in a French rococo style, full of opulence, gilt, and seductive tapestries featuring shepherds in compromising positions. There were marble statues of cupids and thick Persian rugs. Certainly, it wasn’t to Biffy’s taste, but it was to taste. It had a point of view and Biffy admired that in a house. And it was achingly familiar. I lived here for half as much time as I lived with the pack next door, and yet I miss this place more. Sentimentality? Perhaps it’s simply that I was so very happy here.

  Lord Akeldama led him into his luxurious drawing room. Not the more comfortable sitting room – that was reserved for family and Biffy was no longer family.

  “Tea? Pink slurp? Something raw and still wiggling?”

  Biffy smiled. “A slurp would be lovely.” It wasn’t to his taste, but courtesy must take preeminence with vampires, even ex-lovers and old friends – especially then.

  Lord Akeldama whistled up his current favorite drone, a beautiful young man with raven hair and catlike black eyes named Winkle. Well, not named Winkle, but called Winkle by my lord, and thus everyone else.

  “Winkle, darling. Two pink slurps when you have a moment.”

  “Of course, my lord, coming right up.”

  “And we are not to be disturbed.”

  Winkle frowned, looking disturbed himself. “Oh, but sir...”

  “What is it, my pet?”

  “There’s the matter of the kitten?”

  “Kitten, Winkle?”

  “Yes, sir, you promised Kippers. Remember? You agreed that we should get a new kitten, since Madame Pudgemuffin...”

  Lord Akeldama tapped his lip with one fingertip. “Yes, I did, didn’t I? Is Kippers bringing around the candidate soonish?”

  “They’re in the kitchen as we speak.”

  “They? They! I believe I was quite clear on this matter – only one cat at a time in this household. I can’t be seen to have more than one cat, it simply isn’t done. It’s too much. Too eccentric in a vampire.”

  Biffy leaned back. Trying not to slide comfortably into the ridiculous banter of Lord Akeldama’s household. Trying not to enjoy the conversation too much. Trying not to jump in and mediate, as once would have been his role. It hurt. By George, it hurt. Although not as much as it once had. Twenty years were remarkably numbing.

  “But sir! They are so cute. A brother-and-sister pair.”

  Lord Akeldama frowned. “Do they match to my aesthetic?”

  “A ginger and a tabby, sir.”

  Lord Akeldama winced. “I shall have to entirely redecorate the sitting room. Ginger indeed!”

  “He has the cutest little face...” Winkle gave a winning smile. “Looks like he’s got a most serious statement mustache.”

  “Mustache? Mustache! In my house?” Lord Akeldama was not to be persuaded by must
aches on cats. Or anyone else, for that matter.

  Winkle made his eyes big. “Please, sir?”

  Lord Akeldama gave a very elegant snort. “I shall think about it. Now, bring us the slurps and leave us be for twenty minutes. I trust you can entertain the candidates until then? How many of you are home at the moment?”

  “Only four of us drones, my lord.”

  “That should be enough for two kittens.”

  More fateful words were never spoken. Biffy hid a grin.

  Winkle nodded. “I hope so, sir. They are most ebullient.”

  “Well, you’d best hop to it, then, hadn’t you, my sweet?”

  Winkle hurried off, returning in mere moments with the champagne mixed with blood, and then excusing himself with a slightly panicked look in his eye.

  Lord Akeldama sipped his slurp and turned his piercing eyes back to Biffy.

  “So, Alpha, how is everything with your new pack?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “It has only been a few months since you became the power behind the fur. Is that correct? You know me and time.”

  Biffy could have calculated to the exact hour he’d assumed leadership of the London Pack, but he didn’t want to let his former master know how much the responsibility weighed upon him. “A few, as you say, my lord.”

  “None of that anymore, my dear. We’re equals now.”

  Biffy winced. Technically, of course, he was Lord Akeldama’s social superior. An Alpha werewolf with a full pack outranked a rove vampire. He’d recently been learning all about it. He didn’t think Lord Akeldama would like it if he mentioned that little fact.

  Lord Akeldama put down his drink softly. “A little bird told me you’ll be leaving us soon.”

  Biffy wasn’t surprised at all by the knowledge, although he was a little shocked by the seriousness of the accusation. Lord Akeldama was never serious.

  “Yes.” He made the excuses in his head because it would never do to volunteer information to a vampire, least of all Lord Akeldama – not anymore. I don’t think it’s healthy for werewolves to be in such close proximity to a vampire. I need my own space, to establish a change from one Alpha to the next. I need change. And I need to redecorate.

  “Sweetie, I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

  “You do?” Biffy blinked at him.

  “You’re taking into account established influence of the supernatural set in other parts of the city? We’re a bit weighted at this juncture to north and west London.”

  Biffy fell, too easily, into their old strategic confidences. “Of course.”

  “Not Dulwich?” Lord Akeldama gave a delicate little shudder. “The name alone.”

  “Certainly not! Greenwich.”

  “Ah.” The pink drink swirled in the glass as the vampire contemplated the bubbles therein.

  “There’s Blackheath right there and it’s still close enough to the important parts of town.” Biffy tried not to sound as if he were defending his decision.

  “Not too rough-and-tumble?”

  “For me, perhaps, but not for them. In addition, there is the theater and the music hall.”

  “You’re thinking of new clavigers? Very wise, dear boy. Very wise indeed.”

  Biffy tried not to puff up at the praise from his former master.

  “Well, my pet, you will bring some charm and civilizing force to the area.”

  “That’s the general idea, yes.” Biffy leaned forward, determined to get them away from this serious track. “How do you feel about purple curtains?”

  “What shade of purple?”

  “My point exactly!”

  And just like that, they were back on familiar ground. Biffy spent a comfortable quarter of an hour debating the measure of interior decorating and the relative advantages when combined with the rather brutish attitude most werewolves extended towards furniture and finally rose to depart.

  Cries from the sitting room notwithstanding (the kittens, it seemed, were indeed a handful), it was time for Biffy to take his leave.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, what has their britches in a bunch now?” Lord Akeldama pondered, as he led Biffy towards his inner sanctum rather than the front door.

  Biffy hesitated to follow the vampire into his private quarters, but he was wildly curious.

  Lord Akeldama pushed open the sitting-room door to chaos. One of his drones was perched precariously atop the back of a settee trying to reach a small ginger fluff-ball that was, apparently, climbing the (not purple) curtains. Another drone was trying to gently shake said kitten off said curtains. The kitten clung as if life and limb depended upon it.

  Two other drones were down on their knees (at great risk of indelicate rending, given they took after their vampire master in the matter of tightly fitted trousers). They were fishing about under the self-same settee, presumably for the second kitten. Several chairs had been knocked over and there was a bowl sitting in what could only be a damp patch of spilled milk.

  Biffy glanced at Lord Akeldama to assess his reaction to the madness. The vampire’s first glance was one of shining affection, but he quickly schooled his features into that of disciplinarian and teacher. Biffy also watched him take in Winkle’s pert bottom as he attempted to retrieve the tabby. Or perhaps that hunger was the result of a bit of naked neck (between hair and cravat) exposed by the kneeling drone.

  Even as a drone himself, Biffy had never deluded himself about Lord Akeldama. Perhaps there had once been a youthful fantasy about Biffy becoming a vampire and the two of them immortal together forever. But in his heart, Biffy had always known that he was a one-immortal kind of dandy, and Lord Akeldama was not. The vampire had never led him on. Lord Akeldama’s love, such as it was, was always transient and shared.

  Now Biffy understood why. True, Biffy was a young immortal, but he was almost fifty, and he’d seen his mortal friends grow old while he had not. Or die in the attempt to become like him. He wasn’t yet old enough to have grown the protective thickness around his heart, the one that made Lord Akeldama’s smiles brittle, but Biffy now knew why it was there. Frankly, he wasn’t convinced he’d ever be the type that preferred to share. For now, he’d decided he’d rather be alone than constantly watch his lovers leave him, one way or another. As a drone, Biffy had understood, and had shared, because that was the only way he got a piece of Lord Akeldama. As a werewolf, even if it were possible, he wouldn’t take that wager.

  I’m on my own now.

  Lord Akeldama was distracted, on to the next crisis, on to the next evening’s entertainment, on to the next toy. It was how he weathered immortality. I wonder if he’s as lonely in his way as I am in mine.

  Biffy bent and kissed the vampire’s cheek, aware of the imposition. Aware of the hairs rising on his arm and the press of his own supernatural instincts urging him to change shape. Protect himself. Instincts that screamed in his head. Vampire. Predator. Not pack. Enemy. He was aware too of the faint smell of carrion, like rotting flesh and decayed bones, that hung under the citrus cologne that Lord Akeldama always wore. Something Biffy had never scented when they lived together. When Biffy was human.

  “Good-bye, my lord,” he said, meaning it this time. Because that smell would always be there now. Because it would be the last time he said “my lord” to any vampire. Because under lost love and changed identities was one ineffable fact more vital than the horror of that smell – every fiber in Biffy’s werewolf soul knew he was no servant to this man anymore. And never would be again.

  Lord Akeldama looked at him and knew it too, in that perfect-quick way he had. One of the reasons Biffy had loved him so. “Lord Falmouth, best of luck with the relocation. And…” A pause and a slight curl of the lip. “…Greenwich.”

  Biffy inclined his head. He had a memory then. A brief flash of this man – who managed, somehow, to still be a man as well as a vampire – under him. Lean and white and needy. And taken. For back then, in tho
se few hours of privacy, when it was only the two of them, together, Biffy had always been the one to dominate. He had been the one in charge. Those rare moments, among all the rest of his time as a drone, had also been the very best. I should have known it would never work between us, werewolf or not.

  “Lord Akeldama. Best of luck with the kittens.” Biffy let himself out of the vampire’s house, breathing in fresh cool air unscented by death, and breathing out a lifetime of regrets.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Home for the Holidays

  Professor Randolph Lyall was tired. Tired from his toes to the tips of the (too long) sandy-colored hair on his (always, despite the length) neat and tidy head. London looked dirty and a little sad, but after so long away, he was still seized with the joy of it. It spread over and in him like bathing in slightly cold, but probably still edible, pea soup. Very cold, as it turned out. And congealed.

  Home.

  He’d separated from the Kingair Pack at Southampton – passing off his former Alpha to her new Beta. His replacement was there, waiting for her to disembark the ship – as any serviceable Beta should be. Phineas was a good-natured chap, a loner for most of his life, but Beta to the core. He’d need all three traits to put up with Sidheag Maccon, the Lady of Kingair. Still, Phineas was accustomed to Alpha females, if his partner was anything to go by. Lyall didn’t know her name – better not to. Those who inquired too closely into the identity of the Wicker Chicken disappeared. How the Dewan would survive henceforth, without his two best intelligencers, was anyone’s guess. But Lyall, who dealt all too often with the shadows, was glad to have the Wicker Chicken out of London at last, and Lady Kingair in very capable hands. What Phineas couldn’t keep in line, the Wicker Chicken would.

  Lyall felt almost happy about such a smooth transfer of pack power. An unusual sensation for him to grapple with. The Kingair Pack, plus new additions, were all looking forward to some quiet time in Scotland. All Lyall needed do was wish them a pleasant farewell, which he did. Surprised to find that he actually meant it, for a change.

  Not that he hadn’t tried his best to be a good Beta. Lady Kingair deserved nothing less than his best effort. But she hadn’t been his Alpha, not really. His real Alpha was here, in London.