“Alexia, enough. Little one, your mother has a big mouth. But we have figured it all out. We even have the Alpha transition in place. I wanted to wait for Kingair to return. I don’t like to leave my pack with an inexperienced Alpha and no Beta. But they are still in India and I seem to have run out of time. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Your mother has been a godsend. No Alpha could have held on as long as I did without a preternatural spouse. She’ll not mind my saying, we are both wearing a little thin.”
“Too true,” said Lady Maccon with feeling. “I thought you were impossible when we only saw each other a few times a night. This” – she raised their joined hands – “is torture!”
Rue frowned, remembering something Quesnel had said. She’d been annoyed with him so it hadn’t struck her at the time. “I thought you were staying with your parents. Don’t you have to right now?” She’d thought he’d meant for propriety’s sake, but had he meant because of Paw’s illness? Because she could certainly help her parents in this particular arena.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, you two.” She allowed her annoyance to show. “You should have told me from the start and this could have been avoided.”
They blinked at her, confused.
“Just use me instead!”
“Oh!” said Lady Maccon. “What a fabulous idea.”
Paw frowned. “If you’re sure? You won’t be able to accomplish much of an evening.”
“I enjoy being a wolf.”
Which was really all it took.
Lady Maccon, with an expression of profound relief, let go of her husband’s hand.
Rue felt the snap back of the tether as it hit her own flesh like a physical wave of tingling. Then she was shifting and changing. And there she was, brindled wolf wearing her father’s power in her skin and the remnants of a rather nice tea-gown. It didn’t feel unusual; whatever it was that made Paw Alpha and insane didn’t transmit to her. She felt like her normal wolf self. No different from the night before when she’d filched from Hemming. She wasn’t surprised. While Rue’s wolf form looked like a smaller version of her father’s, she wasn’t actually him. She never felt Alpha, either. No Anubis form, no urge to dominate, although as a female werewolf she should automatically be Alpha. It wasn’t worth puzzling over, for even with her limited wolf eyes, Rue could see the profound relief on both her parents’ faces. That was what mattered.
“You’ll have to stay within tether distance of your father, infant. Please don’t forget. He can’t be allowed wolf form at night, unless he absolutely must fight.”
Rue nodded her big shaggy head.
They were interrupted by someone knocking – loudly and persistently – on the parlour door.
Lady Maccon, freed up from her hand-holding obligations, went to open it.
Winkle stood there, looking sheepish. He was, as only to be expected from one of Dama’s drones, perfectly turned out for the evening. His dark glossy hair, a true glorious blue black, shone under the hallway lights and his up-tilted eyes gleamed.
He took in the family dynamic without comment. “Lady Maccon, Lady Prudence.” A small bow to both the woman and the wolf. “Lord Maccon.”
Lady Maccon smiled. “Good evening. Winkle, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my lady. I apologise for interrupting but it’s a matter of some delicacy. It’s Lord Akeldama.”
Rue felt her stomach lurch. Not Dama as well!
“Is he unwell?” Even Mother was worried.
Winkle grinned. “Him? Never. He has sent me with a message. I’m afraid it’s not the best news. But there seems to be – oh dear me, I don’t quite know how to put it – a brawl occurring down off Worple Road. Some species of croquet green or what have you is playing host.”
Rue’s ears perked. My airship!
Lord Maccon grumbled, “What’s that to do with us? Mobs are constabulary business. What is that vampire about? Disturbing us with gossip of brawls and—”
Lady Maccon looked to her wolf daughter. “Isn’t that where The Spotted Custard is parked?”
Moored, Rue wanted to correct her but couldn’t. She nodded.
“I’m sorry to say,” Winkle continued, “this brawl looks to be taking place between your pack, my lord, and Baroness Tunstell’s drones.”
“Wonderful. Just wonderful,” said Lady Maccon while Rue and her father both pushed past Winkle and ran out of the front door into the street.
Rue kept pace with her father easily; after all, she was the one in wolf form. He was fit as a mortal human but was big enough to be built for taking a stand rather than moving fast. In fact, Lord Maccon running was more an act of falling at speed. So really, Rue only had to trot.
It came as no surprise to her when Lady Maccon drew alongside driving a shapely little bounder. The dogcart was of the sporting style, where the driver sits facing and the passenger at his back in a reverse position – plenty of room inside the box for hunting dogs. Or, as was its use in the Maccon household, prematurely shifted werewolves.
“Get in,” Lady Maccon ordered her husband.
“I’ll drive.”
“Don’t be absurd, Conall. I’m a much better whip.”
Rue sat on her haunches in the alcove of a delicious-smelling butcher’s shop and waited for them to hash it out.
With a look of disgust, Paw swung himself up behind his wife in the transverse seat.