“Are you going to at least see me settled?” he murmured, nibbling her neck, his voice gravelly.
“I might be persuaded. You would, of course, have to be very very nice to me.”
Conall agreed to be nice, in the best nonverbal way possible.
Afterward, he lay staring fixedly up at the ceiling and told her why he had left the Kingair Pack. He told her all of it, from what it was like for them, as both werewolves and Scotsmen, at the beginning of Queen Victoria’s rule, to the assassination attempt on the queen planned by the then Kingair Beta, his old and trusted friend, without his knowledge.
He did not once look at her while he talked. Instead his eyes remained fixed on the stained and smudged molding of the ceiling above them.
“They were all in on it. Every last one of them—pack and clavigers. And not a one told me. Oh, not because I was all that loyal to the queen; surely you know packs and hives better than that by now. Our loyalty to a daylight ruler is never unreserved. No, they lied to me because I was loyal to the cause, always have been.”
“What cause?” wondered his wife. She held his big hand in both of hers as she lay curled toward him, but otherwise she did not touch him.
“Acceptance. Can you imagine what would have happened if they had succeeded? A Scottish pack, attached to one of the best Highland regiments, multiple campaigns served in the British Army, killing Queen Victoria. It would have thrown over the whole government, but not only that, it would have taken us back to the Dark Ages. Those daylight conservatives who have always been against integration would call it a nationally supported supernatural plot, the church would regain its foothold on British soil, and we would be back to the Inquisition quicker than you could shake a tail.”
“Husband”—Alexia was mildly startled, but only because she’d never given Conall’s political views much consideration—“you are a progressive!”
“Damn straight! I couldna believe my pack would put all werewolves into such a position. And for what? Old resentments and Scottish pride? A weak alliance with Irish dissidents? And the worst of it was, not a one had told me of the plot. Not even Lachlan.”
“Then how did you find out about it in the end?”
He huffed in disgust. “I caught them mixing the poison. Poison, mind you! Poison has no place on pack grounds or in pack business. It isna an honest way to kill anyone, let alone a monarch.”
Alexia suppressed a smile. This would appear to be the aspect of the conspiracy that upset him the most.
“We werewolves are not known for our subtlety. I had realized they were plotting something for weeks. When I found the poison, I forced a confession out of Lachlan.”
“And you ended up having to fight and kill your own Beta over it. Then what, you simply took off for London, leaving them without leadership?”
He finally turned and looked at her, propping himself on his elbow. Seeing no judgment or accusation in her eyes, he relaxed slightly. “There is no pack protocol to cover this kind of situation. A large-scale betrayal of an Alpha with no qualified reason or ready replacement. Led by my own Beta.” His eyes were agonized. “My Beta! They deserved to be without metamorphosis. I could have killed them all, and not a one would have objected, least of all the dewan, save that they were not plotting against me; they were plotting against a daylight queen.”
He looked to her and his eyes were sad.
She tried to distill the story down into one manageable chunk. “So your leaving was a point of pride, honor, and politics?”
“Essentially.”
“I suppose it could have been worse.” She smoothed away the frown creasing his forehead.
“They could have succeeded.”
“You realize, as muhjah, I am forced to ask: will they try again, do you think? After two decades? Could that explain the mysterious weapon?”
“Werewolves have long memories.”
“In the interest of Queen Victoria’s safety, is there a way for us to provide a surety against this?”
He sighed softly. “I dinna know.”
“And that’s why you came back? If it’s true, you’ll have to kill them all, won’t you, sundowner?”
He turned away from her words, his broad back stiff, but he did not deny them.
CHAPTER TEN
Aether Transmissions
Using the information Lord Akeldama had provided, and with the assistance of a personable young man the vampire referred to only as Biffy, Professor Lyall set up an operation. “Ambrose has been meeting with various members of the incoming regiments,” Lord Akeldama had informed him over an aged scotch—a warm fire in the grate and a plump calico cat on his knee. “At first I thought it was simply opiates or some other form of illegal trade, but now I believe it to be something more sinister. The hive is not only employing its vampire contacts—it’s approaching any common soldier. Even the ill-dressed. It’s horrible.” The vampire gave a delicate little shudder. “I cannot discern what it is they are buying up so greedily. You want to find out what Westminster is up to? Tap into those werewolf military connections of yours, darling, and set up an offer. Biffy can take you to the preferred venue.”
And so it was, on the information provided by a rove vampire, that Professor Lyall now sat in a very seedy pub, the Pickled Crumpet, accompanied by a spectacularly well-dressed drone and Major Channing. A few wobbly tables away sat one of Major Channing’s most trusted soldiers, clutching several suspicious packages and looking nervous.
Professor Lyall slouched down and nursed his beer. He hated beer, a vile common beverage.
Major Channing was twitchy. He shifted long legs, jostling the table and sloshing their drinks.
“Stop that,” his Beta instructed. “No one’s come yet. Be patient.”
Major Channing only glared at him.
Biffy offered them a pinch of snuff. Both werewolves declined in thinly veiled horror. Imagine mucking about with one’s sense of smell! Such a vampiric kind of affectation.
Some while later, with Professor Lyall’s beer barely touched but Major Channing on his third pint, the vampire entered the pub.
He was a tall, exceedingly comely individual, who looked exactly as a novelist might describe a vampire—sinister and pensive with an aquiline nose and unfathomable eyes. Professor Lyall sipped his beer in salute. He had to give Lord Ambrose tribute—the man put on an excellent show. Top marks for dramatic flair.
Lord Ambrose made his way straight to the soldier’s table and sat down without introduction. The tavern was loud enough to make an auditory disruptor unnecessary, and even Lyall and Channing with their supernatural hearing caught only about one word in ten.
The exchange moved quite rapidly and culminated in the soldier showing Lord Ambrose his collection of goods. The vampire looked each one over, then shook his head violently and stood to leave.
The soldier stood as well, leaning forward to ask a question.
Lord Ambrose clearly took offense, for he lashed out with supernatural speed, striking the man across the face so fast even a soldier’s reflexes stood him in poor stead.
Major Channing immediately jumped to his feet, his chair crashing back as he surged forward. Professor Lyall grabbed his wrist, halting his protective instinct. Channing all too often thought of his soldiers as pack.