How To Marry A Werewolf (Claw & Courtship, #1)(8)

He followed his nose and found a pork pie. On it was pinned a note that read, For tomorrow’s supper, absolutely not to be eaten. This means you, Major! He cut himself a generous slice and sneered at the note.

He smeared his helping with hot mustard and quite enjoyed his feed, huddled in the dark kitchen like a beggar in his own home.

The gloom suited his mood. He was disappointed that the search had proved fruitless. He was also discomfited by the young American and her blue eyes and direct address. The two had combined to make him rather grumpy. Not that this was particularly abnormal for him.

No one disturbed his wallowing. He thought he might even make it to his chambers without having to actually speak with anyone – pack, claviger, or staff. I should return home at this hour more often.

Unfortunately, his Alpha found him, heralded by the comforting scent of sandalwood and pomade.

“Channing, how are you this evening?”

Biffy was an odd kind of Alpha. Slender, with a fencer’s physique and lacking the bulk and height endemic to most werewolves, let alone Alphas. He was impossibly stylish, or perhaps one might say practically impossibly stylish. Werewolves were not known for their elegance of attire, for obvious reasons. When one was prone to stripping and turning into a slavering beast, one did not, as rule, care to invest too much in one’s clothing. Channing cared so little, for example, that he missed his days as a soldier, when his attire had been chosen for him.

Biffy was not like this at all. He cherished deeply held feelings on his outward presentation. He’d spent years creating a pomade strong enough to keep his unruly werewolf mop under control. Then he’d made a mint selling it on Bond Street with his face sketched on the jar labels. He was young; perhaps that accounted for a certain foppishness. Some might say too young. He was, after all, only twenty years or so a werewolf, and barely half a year as London Pack Alpha.

But Biffy was a strong Alpha; every wolf could feel that. The tug on Channing’s tether was sure and steady. It grounded him in a way he hadn’t felt in years. He was embarrassingly grateful for the relief and the surety of that connection. He was gruff with his Alpha because he was gruff with everyone, but also because he felt safe.

Biffy didn’t seem to mind.

Channing had challenged Biffy, of course, when Biffy first seized control of the London Pack. It was Channing’s right and his duty as pack Gamma to cry challenge. Biffy had neatly defeated him, without fuss or too much bloodshed, and taking long enough for it not to appear embarrassingly easy. Stylish even in battle. They were both content with the outcome.

Sandalio de Rabiffano might look like an unthreatening popinjay, dandified and inconsequential, but as a wolf, he was unbearably fast and freakishly strong. He’d struggled initially, of course. Too young to control such a large and powerful pack. There had been a time there when they’d all felt unmoored and lost. Their Alpha had doubted himself, and so he doubted them, and so the pack doubted themselves. But then their pack Beta, Professor Lyall, had returned home. And now all was peaceful and safe, even with two human toddlers roaming about the den. (Channing still wasn’t sure how that had happened.)

It wasn’t that Channing necessarily disliked children. He simply didn’t like the memories they incurred. Another life. Another time. He’d rather his past stayed where it belonged, drowned by the weight of decades.

Biffy sat down across the kitchen table from him and watched him eat his pie.

Channing did not offer him any.

“How’d the Sundowner investigation go?” Biffy was careful not to touch the tabletop for fear of flour smudges on his lovely grey suit.

“How do you always know BUR business, Alpha? Sometimes I think you know it before I do, and I’m the head of the division.”

“You know my training. I maintain many of my connections… from before. You know I don’t like things messy. I don’t like to be confused or uninformed.” Strumming under Biffy’s confession was Alpha possession and Alpha control. My city, the tether said to Channing. My people. My responsibility.

In his other life, Biffy had trained as a spy under the greatest vampire intelligencer of them all. But that was before his metamorphosis. He didn’t work for the vampires anymore but he still craved information. The blood-suckers had instilled in him a desire that his mortal death had not cured. Biffy liked knowing what was going on in London. And in the world. He needed to know things. Recently, he’d begun training the pack to gather such knowledge for him. Of course, he already had Riehard, who was one of the best. But Biffy also had other contacts. No doubt one of them was at BUR.

“I should clean up my offices,” said Channing.

“You know it wouldn’t be effective.”

It annoyed Channing to no end when Biffy did that. Channing would tell his Alpha about his job, if asked. But Biffy never asked for details on BUR operations. He searched things out using more secretive means. He also never asked Channing for his loyalty. It’s almost as if he thinks I’ve none left to give. Perhaps he is right.

Channing gave his Alpha the information anyway; it was all he had to offer. “Trail turned cold in Hyde Park earlier this evening. I suspect the contraband never left Boston.”

“Pity. You could have used a fresh supply.”

Channing inclined his head but didn’t answer, because he was chewing.

Biffy leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes slightly. “Something else happened, didn’t it? In the park tonight.”