He swallowed his bit of kipper and rose slightly out of his seat in deference to rank. “Professor Lyall, how can I be of service?” Biffy was hoping someday to learn the secret of the Beta’s tame coiffure. It showed such admirable restraint.
“We’re hitting a spot of bother getting anything substantial in the way of onlookers from Fenchurch Street. I was wondering if perhaps you might have some contacts in that area, from your before days?”
“Lord Akeldama did have me visit a pub near there upon occasion. One of the barmaids might remember me.”
“Barmaids? Very well, if you say so.”
“Would you like me to inquire now?”
“Please, and if you wouldn’t mind some company?”
Biffy looked the Beta over—quiet, unassuming, with excellent if understated taste in waistcoats and a generally put-upon expression. Not the type of company Biffy would have chosen in his past, but that was the past. “Certainly, Professor, delighted.” Perhaps they might discuss the matter of controlling cowlicks.
“Now, Biffy, don’t tell fibs. I know I’m not up to your standards.”
If he still had the capacity, Biffy would have colored at that bold statement. “Oh, sir, I should never even hint that you were anything but ideally suited to—”
Professor Lyall cut him short. “I was only teasing. Shall we?”
Biffy finished his last mouthful of kipper, wondering if the Beta generally teased at table. Then he stood, grabbed his hat and cane, and followed the professor out into the night.
They walked in silence for a long moment. Finally Biffy said, “I was wondering, sir.”
“Yes?” Professor Lyall had a very gentle voice.
“I was wondering if perhaps your appearance were not as calculated to be unobtrusive as that of Lord Akeldama’s drones, only in a far more subtle way.” Biffy saw white teeth flash in a quick smile.
“Well, it is a Beta’s job to take to the background.”
“Did Dubh do that?”
“Not as I understood it. But he was a far fly from a true Beta. Lord Maccon killed his Kingair Beta for treason before he left the pack. Dubh stepped in because there was no one better.”
“What an awful mess that must have been.”
Next to him, Professor Lyall’s footsteps paused one infinitesimal minute. Without his supernatural hearing, Biffy never would have caught the hesitation. “For the Kingair Pack? Yes, I suppose it was. You know, at the time, I never even gave them a thought. The Woolsey Pack had its own problems.”
Biffy had heard the rumors. He had also done his best to learn the history of his pack. “The Alpha prior to Lord Maccon had gone sour, I understand.”
“That’s a rather elegant way of putting it—as though he were curdled milk.”
“You didn’t like him, sir?”
“Oh, Biffy, don’t you think you could call me Randolph by now?”
“Goodness, must I?”
“Everyone else in the pack does.”
“Doesn’t make it palatable. Can I rename you?”
“How very Lord Akeldama of you. Not Dolly, though, please.”
“Randy?”
Sour silence greeted that.
“Lyall, then. Are you going to answer my question, sir, or avoid it?”
Lyall cast him a sharp look. “You’re right. I didn’t like him.”
Biffy felt a small frisson of horror. “Do all Alphas go sour?”
“All of the old ones, I’m afraid. Fortunately, most of them die fighting off challengers. But the really strong ones, the ones who live past three or four hundred, they all go—as you say—sour.”
“And how old is Lord Maccon?”
“Oh, don’t you worry about him.”
“But he’ll get there?”
“I suspect he might be one of the ones who does.”
“And you have a plan?”
Professor Lyall gave a small huff of amusement. “I believe he does. You believe ours is a far more ugly world than that of the vampires, don’t you, young pup?”
Biffy said nothing at that.
“Perhaps they simply hide it better. Had you considered that?”
Biffy thought of his dear Lord Akeldama, all light heart, pale skin, and sweet fanged smiles. Again, he said nothing.
Professor Lyall sighed. “You’re one of us now. You made it through the first few years. You’re controlling the change. You’re taking on pack responsibility.”
“Barely. Have you seen the way my hair is behaving of late? Practically scruffy.”
They hailed a hansom cab and slung themselves inside. “Fenchurch Street, please, my good man, the Trout and Pinion Pub.”
The fly got them there in good time, and they alighted before a questionable-looking establishment. For this part of town, near the docks, being more of a mind to cater to the daylight folk, it was quiet late at night. Nevertheless, the pub looked unfortunately popular.
The locals quieted at the advent of strangers, especially one dressed as flawlessly as Biffy. A murmur of suspicious talk circulated as they made their way to the bar.
The barmaid remembered Biffy. Most women of her class did. Biffy was a good tipper and he never groped or expected anything. Plus he dressed so well he tended to make a favorable impression on females of the species.
“Well there’s my fine young gentleman, and ain’t it been an age since I clapped eyes on you last?”