Imprudence (The Custard Protocol #2)(30)

Paw, please forgive me.

She tried not to be grateful for the relief on Uncle Rabiffano’s – and Mother’s and even Quesnel’s – faces.

Lord Maccon sat up, groggy.

And Uncle Rabiffano was hit full in his middle by a large vicious white wolf.





“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Channing,” Rue heard Uncle Rabiffano say just prior to shifting form. “I love this suit.”

The suit was ripped beyond repair and among the tatters of perfectly lovely and very expensive grey cashmere and crisp white lawn, stood a dark chocolate wolf with an oxblood red chest.

The two wolves met on a leap and began fighting. This was not how the pack had been tussling earlier with vampires, but really fighting. Trying to kill and maim one another. It was sickening in its ferocity.

Rue wanted to look away.

Channing went straight for Rabiffano’s neck. Rabiffano twisted so that Channing only got his shoulder. Blood dripped from deep puncture wounds as the white wolf bit down. They struggled with such force it was as though Channing were lifting and balancing the younger wolf on his nose. Rabiffano scrabbled at Channing’s belly with his hind legs, claws out, decorating the white with red gashes. He chomped down on Channing’s ear, fairly taking it off.

Rue came over queasy. She wasn’t usually squeamish, but she had never before witnessed two men she adored trying to brutally murder one another.

The wolves reared up, biting and slashing with their front paws and generally turning themselves into a fur-flying fray of white, chocolate, and red in the moonlight. Channing yipped in pain. What looked to have been his battle to win suddenly wasn’t any more. Rabiffano was braced in such a way as to give superior leverage against the white wolf, biting hard into the neck, applying a brutal pressure forwards and down. He was fighting smart, something very few werewolves could do, usually only the oldest or the most Alpha.

Rue leaned against her Paw, turned her wet nose into his leg, pressing her furred face against him helplessly.

There was no dramatic final moment; the fighters seemed likely to go on until dawn or exhaustion or death forced a separation. Except that, without apparent reason, they both stopped.

They backed away from each other, panting.

The pack leaned in, eyes gleaming.

So slowly that at first Rue wasn’t sure it was happening, the white wolf stretched out his front legs and sank over them. Then he flipped to his back, stomach up.

The rest of the pack threw back their heads and howled in victory and acceptance.

Rue felt absolutely no urge to join in such vocal nonsense.

The chocolate wolf’s tale swished once and then Rabiffano shifted back to human. For a dandy who wore his suits like armour against the world, Uncle Rabiffano was oddly comfortable wearing nothing but moonlight and the gaze of his pack.

His pack. Not Paw’s.

Uncle Rabiffano addressed Rue’s parents, uncompromising. “It is time for you to leave.”

Lord Maccon twitched. Rue could feel it in the muscles of his leg against her cheek.

Mother hadn’t watched the fight; her gaze stayed on her husband the entire time. Without acknowledging Uncle Rabiffano’s order, she turned her indomitable focus onto Quesnel. “I assume it’s a preservation tank you have, Mr Lefoux?”

Quesnel, slightly green about the gills from the battle, took a few seconds to react. “Modified from my mother’s original design. It’s not intended for werewolf transport, although the theory holds. If Rue thinks we should try, I’m game.”

“Would he be in danger?”

Quesnel shrugged. “If it turns out the tank doesn’t work on werewolves, he’ll likely go mad with aether, break it, and jump overboard.”

“Not an ideal outcome.”

Quesnel arched an eyebrow in agreement and continued. “Otherwise he’ll appear asleep or dead the whole time.”

Lady Maccon paled considerably. “So how would we know it’s working?”

Quesnel donned his delighted academic smile. Percy had the same smile. “Initially, if we stick him in and Rue here returns to normal, then we can presume the tank is at least preserving his tether.”

“And after that?” Mother was a great deal more careful with Paw’s well-being than she was with her own.

“We’d know when we arrive and he wakes up again.” Quesnel would not sugarcoat the reality of science.

“He is standing right here!” Lord Maccon gave an aggrieved rumble. His voice sounded worn and shaken, as if he’d been recently crying.

“Quite right, your risk, Conall. Do we try?”

“I am at your disposal, Wife. I’ve no other duties now but to attend your whims.”

“God help us all,” said Lady Maccon with real feeling. She turned towards The Spotted Custard. It had floated down for a better view of the Alpha challenge.

Rue stayed behind and watched the pack.

One at a time, each werewolf was approaching Uncle Rabiffano. Each knelt low over his forelegs and then flipped to present the soft underside of throat and stomach. There seemed a prescribed order of rank, or was it age? Rue found herself trying to guess whose turn would be next. Somehow she always got it right. She wondered if she had some latent pack instinct after all.

Her parents and Quesnel were up the gangplank now, chatting almost companionably to one another.