Waistcoats & Weaponry

“I begged Gramps to go home.” Sidheag’s Scottish accent was thick in her distress, or perhaps from arguing copiously with her great-great-great-grandfather recently.

Dimity hadn’t the strength in the face of such distress, so Sophronia said what they all knew had to be true.

“It’s treason, Sid. You know he can’t. They betrayed him as well as the queen.”

“But the pack should stay whole. He killed… he did what had to be done, let that be an end to it. Why can’t he forgive the others?” Sidheag adored her pack; she only wanted it to stay together.

“You know he won’t,” said Sophronia softly.

Frustrated out of her sadness, Sidheag snarled, “Of course I bloody know it! Worse now, he can’t. He did as he said he would! He up and challenged for the Woolsey Pack and won. He’s garnered himself a new family! A replacement pack.”

Sophronia’s mind whirled. “Lord Vulkasin is dead?”

Sidheag nodded, her anger abated and the tears returned.

Sophronia was strangely relieved. She’d only seen the werewolf Alpha of the Woolsey Pack a few times, and had never been introduced, but he seemed cruel and unhinged. Knowing the world was without him was oddly cheering. But it didn’t solve Sidheag’s problem.

“And now he’s lost to me. I had to choose.”

Sophronia’s eyes widened as she grasped Sidheag’s meaning. “Are you saying you had to choose between the Kingair Pack and your grandfather?”

Dimity’s face was white with distress. “Whyever would you have to do that?”

Sophronia felt faintly ill. Poor Sidheag.

“I canna maintain a relationship with both—Gramps killed his Beta. Killed him! Yet the pack betrayed Gramps. I just…” Sidheag paused, struggling to explain why she was rejecting the only father she had ever known. “It’s up to me to fix it, don’t you see?” Normally so taciturn, she became loquacious in her despair. “No matter what they tried to do, I love them. Someone has to look after them. Hold them together.”

“Oh, dear Sidheag.” Dimity fairly crumpled in sympathy.

Bumbersnoot, having been set on the floor by Sophronia, bumped up against Sidheag’s ankle, his tail tick-tocking slowly.

“So if it’s not Lord Maccon with you, who is the other werewolf?” Sophronia asked.

“Don’t you recognize him?” Sidheag seemed to think his identity obvious.

“No. All the werewolves I’ve ever seen were in human form, except for Captain Niall.”

Sidheag looked inquiringly at Dimity, who also shook her head.

“That’s the dewan.”

“The dewan!” Sophronia and Dimity said it together, shocked. Only the werewolf in charge of all other werewolves. Only the queen’s personal adviser. Only the werewolf representative on the Shadow Council. Only the man who saw to werewolf assignments in the army itself!

If Mumsy knew who she just called an animal she’d be mortified.

The door opened and in came Captain Niall, decidedly too tall for Gresham’s clothes. The trousers were short as a cockle-hunter’s and the shirt was basically cuffless. Still, the important parts were covered. The captain, who was a bit of a fancy lad, for a werewolf, was uncomfortable in his shrunken getup, but presentable enough to be among humans. He came to crouch next to Sidheag, his handsome face deeply concerned, his trousers straining alarmingly. He put his back to the fire and placed a hand on the arm of the couch near Sidheag’s repulsive tweed skirts. His fingers twitched slightly, as if he would like to stroke her hand in sympathy. Sidheag, for her part, leaned into his presence, taking reassurance there. Neither had the courage to actually touch.

They exchanged a single brief yet deep look of… sympathy? Something more?

Sophronia couldn’t pinpoint what, but something significant had occurred between them on their recent journey. A connection had shifted, as if they saw each other as equals now.

Then Captain Niall said, as there was no point in hiding the fact that both werewolves had overheard the conversation, “If I may present the gentleman in question?”

Sidheag said, airily, “Oh, of course, no secrets here.”

“There are always secrets,” corrected Sophronia softly.

The dewan entered the Temminnicks’ shabby family parlor. Oh, how chagrined Mumsy will be. Then again, perhaps not. As silly as Captain Niall’s appearance was, the dewan looked sillier.

He was a large man who had been metamorphosed somewhat late in life. He had dark hair tinged with gray, and a wide face with deep-set eyes. His mouth was a little too full, reminding Sophronia of Felix. He had a cleft in his chin, and his mustache and muttonchops were quite bushy. For a werewolf who was at least a hundred years old, the facial hair was stylishly modern. Unfortunately, Gresham’s clothing was stretched to indecency. It was doing little to disguise the necessary, and looked as if it might stop doing that at any moment. All the protruding parts, of which there were a great deal, were covered in such a quantity of hair as to make the young ladies present wonder if the dewan were not partly wolf all the time.

Sidheag did not show the leader of all English werewolves any deference. She didn’t even bother to stand, merely saying, “Lord Slaughter, may I present my dearest friends, Miss Temminnick and Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott?”

The dewan, with great dignity for a man so experimentally dressed, answered with, “Young ladies, how do you do?”