“Great ghosts!” exclaimed the aggrieved nobleman.
Never had he experienced the like. Even when his gloriously frustrating wife used her preternatural touch to force him back into humanity, it was not so sudden. She generally gave him some warning. Well, a little warning. Well, a yell or two.
He looked about, worried. But Alexia was nowhere near, and he was pretty darn certain he had managed to leave her safe, if fuming, back at the castle. There were no other preternaturals registered for the greater London area. What, then, had just happened?
He looked to his knees, which were bleeding slightly and quite definitely not healing. Werewolves were supernaturaclass="underline" such minor scrapes ought to be closing up right before his eyes. Instead they leaked his slow old blood onto the muddy stones.
Lord Maccon tried to change back, reaching for that place from which he drove his body to split its biological nature. Nothing. He tried for his Anubis Form, the Alpha’s ace, with the head of the wolf and the body of a man. Still nothing. Which left him sitting on Fairfoot Road, completely unclothed, and deeply confused.
Struck with the spirit of investigation, he backtracked a short way. He tried for Anubis Form, changing just his head into that of a wolf, an Alpha trick that was faster than full shift. It worked but left him in a conundrum: dally about as a wolf, or press on to the office naked? He changed his head back.
Normally, when there was a chance he might have to change publicly, the earl carried a cloak in his mouth. But he had thought to make it safely to the BUR offices and into the cloakroom there before decency became necessary. Now he regretted such careless confidence. Formerly Merriway had been right—something was terribly wrong in London, and that apart from the fact that he was currently lollygagging about starkers inside it. It would appear that it was not only the ghosts who were being affected. Werewolves, too, were undergoing alteration. He gave a tight smile and retreated hurriedly behind a pile of crates. He would lay good money that the vampires weren’t growing any feeding fangs tonight either—at least not the ones living near the Thames. Countess Nadasdy, queen of the Westminster hive, must be positively frantic. Which, he realized with a grimace, meant he was likely to get the unparalleled pleasure of a visit from Lord Ambrose later that evening. It was going to be a long night.
The Bureau of Unnatural Registry was not situated, as many a confused tourist expected, in the vicinity of Whitehall. It was in a small, unassuming Georgian building just off Fleet Street, near the Times offices. Lord Maccon had made the switch ten years ago, when he discovered that it was the press, not the government, that generally had a handle on what was truly transpiring around the city—political or otherwise. This particular evening, he had cause to regret his decision, as he now had to make his way through the commercial district as well as several crowded thoroughfares in order to get to his office.
He almost managed the trek without being seen, skulking through the grubby streets and around the mud-spattered corners—London’s finest back alleys. It was quite the feat, as the streets were crawling with soldiers. Fortunately, they were intent on celebrating their recent return to London and not his large white form. But he was spotted by the most unexpected individual, near St. Bride, the unfragrant scent of Fleet Street in the air.
A toff of the highest water, dressed to the nines in a lovely cut-front jacket and stunning lemon-yellow cravat tied in the Osbaldeston style, materialized out of the darkness behind a brewing pub, where no toff had a right to be. The man doffed his top hat amiably at the naked werewolf.
“Why, I do declare, if it isn’t Lord Maccon. How do you do? Fancy, aren’t we a tad underdressed for an evening’s stroll?” The voice was mildly familiar and laced with amusement.
“Biffy,” said the earl on a growl.
“And how is your lovely wife?” Biffy was a drone of reputation, and his vampire master, Lord Akeldama, was a dear friend of Alexia’s. Much to Lord Maccon’s annoyance. So, come to think of it, was Biffy. Last time the drone had visited Woolsey Castle with a message from his master, he and Alexia had spent hours discussing the latest hairstyles out of Paris. His wife had a penchant for gentlemen of the frivolous persuasion. Conall paused to deduce what that said about his own character.
“Hang my lovely wife,” he answered. “Get into that tavern there and wrestle me up a coat of some kind, would you?”
Biffy arched an eyebrow at him. “You know, I would offer you my coat, but it’s a swallowtail, hardly useful, and would never fit that colossal frame of yours anyway.” He gave the earl a long, appraising look. “Well, well, isn’t my master going to be all of a crumble for not having seen this?”
“Your impossible patron has seen me naked already.”
Biffy tapped his bottom lip with a fingertip and looked intrigued.
“Oh for goodness’ sake, you were there,” said Lord Maccon, annoyed.
Biffy only smiled.
“A cloak.” A pause, then the added grumble of, “Please!”
Biffy vanished and returned with alacrity, bearing an oilskin greatcoat of ill design and briny smell but that was at least large enough to cover the earl’s indignities.
The Alpha shrugged it on and then glared at the still-smiling drone. “I smell like parboiled seaweed.”
“Navy’s in town.”
“So, what do you know of this madness?” Biffy might be a pink, and his vampire master even more so, but Lord Akeldama was also London’s main busybody, and he ran his ring of impeccably clad informants so efficiently it put anything the government could muster to shame.
“Eight regiments came into port yesterday: the Black Scotts, Northumberland, the Coldsteam Guards—”Biffy was pointedly obtuse.
Lord Maccon interrupted him. “Not that—the mass exorcism.”
“Mmm, that. That is why I was waiting for you.”
“Of course you were,” sighed Lord Maccon.
Biffy stopped smiling. “Shall we walk, my lord?” He took up position next to the werewolf, who was no werewolf at all anymore, and they strode together toward Fleet Street. The earl’s bare feet made no noise on the cobbles.
“What!” The amazed exclamation emanated from not one, but two sources: Alexia and the heretofore forgotten Tunstell. The claviger had sat down behind the corner of the stoop to nurse the results of Major Channing’s discipline.
Upon hearing Miss Hisselpenny’s news, however, the gangly actor reappeared. He was sporting a large red mark about the right eye, which was destined to darken in a most colorful manner, and was pinching his nose to stanch the flow of blood. Both Alexia’s handkerchief and his own cravat appeared much the worse for the experience.
“Engaged, Miss Hisselpenny?” In addition to his disheveled aspect, Tunstell was looking quite tragic, in a Shakespearean comedy kind of way. From behind the handkerchief, his eyes were wide in distress. Tunstell had been mighty taken with Miss Hisselpenny ever since they danced together at Lord and Lady Maccon’s wedding, but they had not been allowed to mingle socially since. Miss Hisselpenny was a lady of consequence, and Tunstell was but a lowly claviger and an actor to boot. Alexia had not comprehended the extent of his attachment. Or perhaps the attachment meant more now that it was no longer possible.
“To whom?” Lady Maccon asked the obvious question.
Ivy ignored her and dashed to Tunstell’s side.
“You are injured!” she gasped, bunches of grapes and silk strawberries bobbing about. She pulled out her own minuscule handkerchief, embroidered with small clusters of cherries, and dabbed at his face unhelpfully.
“A mere scratch, Miss Hisselpenny, I assure you,” said Tunstell, looking pleased by her ministrations, as ineffectual as they may be.
“But you are bleeding, simply gouts and gouts of it,” insisted Ivy.