as easily as from without it. Either that, or England would run out of formaldehyde.
Just as the gentlemen were finishing their meal, a timid knock sounded against the closed door. Professor Lyall frowned; he had left orders they were not to be disturbed.
“Yes?”
The door creaked open and a very nervous-looking Rumpet entered, carrying a brass tray with a single card resting atop it.
“Begging your pardon, Professor Lyall, sir,” said the butler. “I know you said only in cases of emergency, but the clavigers don’t know what to do, and the staff is in an uproar.”
Professor Lyall took the card and read it.
Sandalius Ulf, Barrister. Messrs. Ulf, Ulf, Wrendofflip, & Ulf. Topsham, Devonshire. Underneath that in very small letters was one additional printed word: Loner.
The Beta flipped over the card. On the back had been scrawled, in the appropriate medium—blood—the fated phrase, Name your second.
“Oh, just wonderful.” Professor Lyall rolled his eyes. And he had taken such prodigious care with his dress for the evening. “Bother.”
Lyall had spent a good deal of his existence as a werewolf avoiding becoming an Alpha. Not only was his temperament ill-suited to the job, but he had no desire for that kind of physical responsibility, quite apart from the fact that he was unable to affect Anubis Form. Alphas had, he observed over the centuries, remarkably short life spans for immortals. His circumspect attitude toward brawling had served him in good stead. The devil in his current situation was that despite himself, Professor Lyall was rather fond of his current Alpha and was, as yet, unwilling to acquiesce to a regime change. Which meant that when upstart loners came to Woolsey to fight for the right to lead England’s most powerful pack because the Alpha was rumored to be incapacitated, there was only one thing poor Lyall could do—fight in Lord Maccon’s stead.
“Lieutenant Bluebutton, if you would attend me?”
One of the stronger and more senior pack members objected to that. “Shouldn’t I be Gamma in Channing’s place?”
“Given that the regiment is still here, it had better be a ranking officer.”
Professor Lyall had to maintain military support and, with the Gamma gone, this could prove difficult. Major Channing might be a pain in the proverbial posterior as a pack mate, but he was an excellent officer with a reputation as a fire-eater, and he had the respect of both soldiers and fellow officers. Without him standing as second, Lyall needed another officer to act the part so that the pack was seen as united with the regiment, should he need to bring soldiers in to support Woolsey as a last resort. It was a truly horrible idea, using Her Majesty’s army to prevent an Alpha coup. Werewolves had served their military contracts with dedication since Queen Elizabeth first integrated them, but they had always strived to keep pack protocol separate. Nevertheless, Lyall was a man of ingenuity, and he would call up the Coldsteam Guards if he had to.
Hemming was no Beta, so he objected further. “Yes, but—”
“My decision is final.” Professor Lyall finished his tea in one gulp, stood, summoned Adelphus to follow him, and left for the cloakroom.
There, both gentlemen stripped down to the skin and donned long wool cloaks before exiting through the front door, where an excited milling mass of clavigers and Woolsey staff waited in the cold evening air.
Professor Lyall could smell the loner even before he saw him. His scent was not that of the Woolsey Pack, nor of any distant association. The bloodline was off, making Lyall’s nose twitch.
Professor Lyall went forward to greet him. “Mr. Ulf? How do you do?”
The werewolf looked at Lyall suspiciously. “Lord Maccon?”
“Professor Lyall,” said Professor Lyall. And then to make matters clear to this upstart, “And this is my second, Lieutenant Bluebutton.”
The loner looked offended. Lyall could tell from the man’s scent that this was for show. He was neither upset nor nervous at seeing Lyall instead of Lord Maccon. He had not expected the earl to meet his challenge. He had heard the rumors.
Professor Lyall’s lip curled. He loathed lawyers.
“The Alpha will not even acknowledge my challenge?” 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 Lyall did not dignify that with an answer. “Shall we proceed?”
He led the challenger 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