She rose from her desk, crossed to the double doors, and poked her head through.
Sir John was bent over his desk, a pencil in his hand as he scratched out words and started over, muttering to himself.
She coughed into her hand. “Goodnight, Sir John. I shall see you in the morning.”
“Goodnight, Aster. Don’t let the night wights bite,” he called without looking up. His sole focus lay on the document before him. His glasses rested perilously close to the end of his nose as he peered through the lenses.
She worried that the night wights would get him. He worked too many long hours and didn’t take care of himself, but she understood the lure that kept him there. Life offered him the same choice that lay before her: to keep one’s mind focused on a task, or return to an empty home.
On the street, she set a clipping pace and Dougal trotted to keep up. She kept her gaze set to the middle distance so as not to attract the attention of other pedestrians. Not that anyone would look her way, just one plain working girl scurrying home before the other working girls emerged.
2
Hamish
Edinburgh, March 1812
A Scotsman hated to be left out of a decent fight, especially one he believed he could win. Unfortunately for Hamish Logan, captain of the newly formed Highland Wolves, he and his men were left sitting in Edinburgh like wallflowers at a ball. Everyone else had left England for active duty in Europe and the battle against Napoleon, while his unit languished in Scotland.
He drew a deep breath to centre himself. Anger and frustration coursed hot through his veins like a fine brandy. He slowed his breathing to douse the flames of his rage, and brought it under control. For the last two years he and his men had learned how to adapt to the lunar madness that infected them and the outbreaks of rage it caused. The Wolves were not considered fit for duty alongside decent English soldiers. But they could be used in secret under the cover of dark where no one else would see, much like cheap prostitutes.
Letting out all his disappointment, Hamish tugged at the red wool of his jacket, to ensure it sat exactly at his waist. Touching the fabric triggered another reminder of the low status of his men: They did not have their own uniform or even an insignia, but still wore their old cavalry colours. Satisfied that his appearance and uniform were immaculate, he knocked on the dark panelled door in front of him and waited for the barked, “Enter.”
He pushed into the spartan office of his superior. The inside resembled a camp office hastily erected under canvas, despite the fact they stood in a military base in Edinburgh. Colonel Sir Manly Powers had devoted his life to the army and even as he rose in the ranks, he eschewed the fancy trappings of his position. The colonel maintained a functional environment without any fripperies. He said it kept his mind free of distractions. There were no luxurious sofas to recline on, and lingering conversations were discouraged—although he did overcompensate with all the things clogging up his desk.
“Ah, Captain.” The man hunched over the desk waved his hand like a conductor; one swipe brought Hamish forward, another put him at ease. Age had not diminished the straight set of the colonel’s shoulders, earned through a lifetime of service. Greying hair showed the pink scalp underneath but he made up for the lack of hair on his head with the enormous curled moustache and mutton-chop sideburns that adorned his face. Men wagered he could lift weights with his facial hair; the moustache was highly waxed to maintain its ornate curves.
“You wanted to see me, Colonel?” Hamish stood at ease, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Yes, on a most confidential matter.” The colonel tossed aside the paper that had held his attention, then took off his gold-framed glasses and set them on the desk with slightly more care than the paper had received. He squeezed the bridge of his nose before looking up.
Two years ago, twenty hand-picked Highlanders were given an opportunity, a chance to become England’s secret weapon against the French. All they had to do was risk their lives and sanity. A Scottish mage had lured a wild lycanthrope down from the hills and Hamish and his men were all infected with its blood. Five of the men didn’t survive the transformation process. Fury ate at their minds and they become uncontrollable beasts that had to be put down.
The fifteen who survived became the Highland Wolves, the core of a new regiment under Hamish’s command. Except the War Office was overly cautious in using them in battle with other troops. They were kept on a short leash like misbehaved dogs—perhaps in case they lashed out like rabid animals and bit good English troops.
The Wolves were reserved mainly for dangerous assignments behind enemy lines that carried a high chance of death. The lupine change gave them greater strength, stamina, and powers of recovery, but at times it seemed the War Office was intent on discovering just what it would take to kill them. While the Wolves were difficult to kill, they could still die. So far the army’s suicide missions had whittled their numbers down to an even dozen.
“For the next month your men are confined to the kennels—”
Hamish snorted. No change there, then. He and his men were well used to the kennels, where doctors and the mage studied them. They all itched to run free of such constraints and wondered if they would ever be given the chance, or if they would all be executed as a failed experiment.
“—but I have an opportunity for a few of your closest men in Kent,” the colonel said.
“Kent, sir?” Hamish wracked his brain, but the only thing of interest in Kent was the Royal Arsenal. This was the first time his superior officer had suggested sending the Wolves to a civilised area. Unless there was a dungeon in Kent they planned to chain him and his men up in as a zoological exhibition?
“Woolwich, to be exact. I need you to have a care for Sir John Warrington.” The senior officer's steady grey gaze met his, each word weighted with unspoken meaning.
Hamish knew Sir John. He worked for the Board of Ordnance, in a tiny office called Records and Requisitions, a division of the War Office that ordered buttons for uniforms and kept track of how much shot each unit used. But the minutia of military life wasn’t the only sort of information Sir John collated. In a secluded and overlooked corner of the Arsenal, Sir John engaged in the same activity George Scovell did at Wellington’s side out in the field: deciphering French communiqués. Sir John was a one-man intelligence agency.
“You want the Wolves to stand as nursery maids?” The rage surged up in his gut, bile sending flames up his throat. His nostrils flared as he kept a tight rein on his emotions. He’d rather stay at the kennels and risk his chances on suicidal training exercises than be bored to death.
Colonel Powers twirled one end of his moustache. “Careful, Captain. There are those in power who are concerned about the creation of the Wolves and wonder if it was the right thing to do. Consider this an opportunity to show you are domesticated creatures, capable of a task that requires restraint and finesse, not just brute force.”
“With respect, Colonel, the War Office created us to combat the French vampyres and their mages, but instead they keep us collared so tight I begin to suspect they want to choke the life from us. When will we have our chance?” His men grew restless; their missions on the Iberian Peninsula were not enough to tire their need to fight. England had created new warriors and then held them back, too afraid of what they might be capable of off the leash.
“The French were sanctioned across Europe for what they did, and the mage responsible executed for perverting the laws of Nature. Parliament does not want to repeat the French experiment. English citizens are not yet ready for lycanthropes to walk among them, and frankly, we need our European allies.” The older man tapped a newspaper on his desk. The headline was of a family murdered in Spain, the culprit a suspected rogue vampyre.
“The French cannot control their monsters.” Hamish had heard the rumours; the supernatural beings the French mage created were fickle, vain, and didn’t respond to authority. Most had scattered across Europe to kill a
nd create more like themselves. Only a scant few remained with the French army and could be compelled into battle—assuming the weather was fine and wouldn’t damage their clothing.
Colonel Powers picked up his glasses and returned them to his nose. “They do seem more like cats; conceited and disobedient. Show those in power that your men are loyal dogs and your day will come. Your cover in Kent will be to commission a new uniform and insignia. The Highland Wolves are to be recognised within the ranks. It is the first step, Hamish, to being allowed on the battlefield in full view of everyone.”
The dogs were to be thrown a bone, a uniform of their own. It still rankled to be seen as something less than human when they had been created by magic as superior soldiers. But he could play the domesticated canine if it meant they would finally be deployed in battle. He longed to taste the enemy in his mouth. European monsters needed to be herded and destroyed, and the Wolves were the men to do it.
“Unnaturals have roamed these isles for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. This war creates more of us. We cannot be ignored or denied our basic rights.” Cracks appeared in the wall that held back his anger. He was the son of an earl, and now those in power would chain him up in a kennel as just another dog.
“Easy, Captain,” the colonel murmured. “Society is afraid of what they don’t understand and the Wolves fall into that category. You must bide your time until the Unnatural Act is passed into law. Those who hold the vote need to see that you will obey society’s rules, and not rip out someone’s throat on the ballroom floor.”
Hamish’s nostrils flared, the wolf so close to the surface that the lightest touch would release it. He was no dog—he could reason and see that they had to play a long game.
“Very well. The Wolves will obey.” He dug his blunt nails into his palms as he said the words. It would be a short-term pain for a long-term gain. They would perform tricks on whistled cues if it meant they finally got to charge across the battlefield with sabres drawn and were given their rights to inherit and marry.
Colonel Powers pushed away from his desk and rose. He paced to the window and watched the men on parade beyond. “Good. Ours are not the only eyes cast in the direction of Kent. Our mage reports a disturbance in the aether. He believes France prepares to launch a supernatural assault upon our shores. Report anything unusual or significant.”
If Hamish was tasked to watch over Sir John, it meant the knight was working on something important, more so than his usual dispatches. The man laboured in relative obscurity and most people would overlook him as an inconsequential civil servant, which was exactly the image he cultivated. It gave Sir John the anonymity he needed to work undisturbed. If other eyes were watching, then news had leaked—a leak Hamish would have to identify and stem.
“Very well, sir. Anything else?” he asked.
“I have received another petition from your father. He asks that you be discharged to return to Kinloch.” The colonel’s steady gaze met Hamish’s. “Since your older brother died, he has a right to ask that you be released from your commission, although I assume he does not know about your new condition.”
Hamish’s back stiffened. The role of heir to the Earl of Kinloch was a recent encumbrance to which he had not yet adjusted. Nor did he want to. There was also the issue of whether a lycanthrope could inherit a title. Some peers in the upper echelon grumbled about such a possibility, not wanting to rub shoulders with the likes of him in their parlours. They probably thought he might piss on the carpet or shed on their expensive furniture. “The issue of our status and rights to inherit have yet to come before parliament. Until that is resolved, I am fortunate in that my father is hale and healthy. My future with the army or potential duty as heir can wait—at least until after we have defeated Napoleon.”
The colonel nodded, as though Hamish had passed some unspoken test. “Good. I shall tell the earl you cannot be spared at this time. I have petitioned parliament on behalf of your men. I see no reason why your condition should preclude you from possessing the same rights as any other Englishman, and you should inherit your title.”
“Thank you, Colonel.” He saluted, relieved that he had escaped the noose his father sought to drop around his neck. He’d never shown any interest in running the estate; that burden was always meant to fall on his older brother, Rab. Both his temperament and his birth order as second son destined him for the military. When he turned seventeen, his parents purchased a commission and shipped him off. When he was quietly approached about the experiment he took the chance, secure in knowing he was expendable to his family. The upper brass also dangled the promise of a promotion to major if he led the Wolves to success.
With the death of his brother just six months ago after a short but violent illness, his father wanted him home to impart a lifetime of knowledge on running their holding. He would simply have to bide his time until France surrendered and parliament decided if the Wolves were men with all the associated rights, or a new type of sub-human citizen. Hamish hoped to nurture his pack into a fighting force that would be indispensable to both the army and the government. With any luck, a turbulent world, and trouble that needed the Wolves to resolve it, could put off his role as heir for years, if not decades.
Dismissed, he strode out the door and headed across the compound to break the news to his men. Their relief at having another assignment would doubtless be tempered by the fact that they were being relegated to the role of nanny to a bureaucrat. It would be some salve to their pride to decide on their insignia. And at least they would be away from the ever-watchful eyes on the base.
He found three of his men in the near-deserted common room. The rest of the unit was out on a run, which meant being used as hounds for a hunt to test their endurance and scenting abilities. Alick and Quinn were cleaning bridles at a long table, pieces of leather, rags, and oil scattered over its surface. Ewan, his lieutenant, lounged with an open book, but all three turned their attention to him to hear their orders. His men took the news about their mission to Kent about as well as he had expected.
Alick muttered and scowled as his fingers buckled the bridle back together, then he threw it to the table.
“So they want us to be blasted wet nurses to a man who has spent the war hiding behind a desk? Instead of letting us off the leash they are cutting it shorter.” His dark brows drew together, meeting in the middle. Hamish and Alick were cousins, birthed just days apart and given by their mothers to the same wet nurse nearly thirty years ago. Alick was the one man who seemed unaffected by the lupine change, perhaps because he had always been wild, untamed, and prone to fits of rage. Tall and broad, he wore his fierce demeanour like a wolf cloak without having to shift form. Throw in the jagged scar running down the left side of his face and his constant growling, and he scared many people away. Yet Hamish wanted no other man at his back.
“We have our orders. We are to watch Sir John Warrington. He is working on something important. You don’t have to like it, Alick, but you will obey the order,” Hamish said.
Ewan affected his usual ennui and shrugged, one place being much the same as another to him. That one worried Hamish. At twenty-six, Ewan seemed wearied of the world. Nothing shocked him, but at the same time nothing seemed to bring him joy. With his black hair and chiselled looks, he could have been a poet penning flowery poems to some courtesan, but his handsome and languid exterior hid the cold soul of an assassin. An opponent would still be gazing into his clear blue eyes while Ewan opened him from navel to nose. If there was such a thing as a beautiful death, it was the one dealt by Ewan’s hand. He would have made an exquisite French vampyre; instead he had become a Highland Wolf.
Amongst them, only Quinn had any enthusiasm. The lad had never been to London, and he was as excited as a girl on her first shopping trip to the city. The youngest of the men at just twenty-three, he’d come to Hamish’s attention for his skill with horse, musket, and sword. He bestowed his loyalty with all his heart, even before the change, and ha
d an uncanny knack for any game of chance. More than once he had pulled them from a tight situation by betting, and winning, on the toss of a coin.
Despite the fact that he was the only man in the Wolves who seemed unable to shift, he still retained his boyish delight in all aspects of life and was the perfect foil to Alick’s dour moods and Ewan’s stoicism. He had even managed to keep their spirits up amongst the desolation and death of the Peninsula campaign. They were all relieved when that mission concluded and they could return to England. Not that anyone could ever know of the work they did behind enemy lines. Not yet.
The lad would have his opportunity to explore London like an excited puppy when they met the agent there. Hamish couldn’t fathom Quinn’s enthusiasm for cities; one smelt much like another at street level. He preferred the open countryside and isolated hills to packed streets and the press of people. The wolf deep inside him longed to run through the ancient forests of his homeland.
“You’ll have your chance to explore, Quinn. We will have to meet with our contact in London. Assuming Alick behaves and doesn’t scare the delicate townspeople. The army might rally, thinking a rabid wolf is on the loose.” Hamish took a seat at the table.
With his long hair and pale unnerving gaze, Alick’s inner wolf was close to the surface; only his uniform added a civilising touch. By instinct, most people skirted wide around him.
“Perhaps while we’re in London we can find a thoroughbred broodmare for Hamish. Since he is to be earl one day, he needs to be hobbled and about the serious business of producing heirs.” Alick raised dark eyebrows in a close approximation of a light-hearted gesture. The two ribbed each other as only lifelong friends could, knowing the perfect weak spot to thrust a quick retort.
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