“My dear cousin,” Mrs Iftercast pressed, as they steamed back home in the privacy of the family’s Isopod, “I shouldn’t ask, of course, but his attentions were very marked. And now they are anything but. Was there no formal understanding at all between you? I thought that we had cause to hope. Did you put him off somehow?”
Teddy jumped in, glaring at her mother. “We all know the major is not the type to marry, Mums. Perhaps it is none of Faith’s doing.”
“Of course, my dear, of course. How thoughtless of me. It’s simply that we of the ton have never seen him behave so, not towards an unmarried girl. We thought, perhaps, that he was making an exception in your case. That you were somehow different – special.”
Foolish of me, thought Faith, I believed that, too. I believed I understood him – a hundred-year-old supernatural creature. And I blithely made a play for passion. I wouldn’t have minded if nothing more materialized beyond that. At least, I think I wouldn’t have minded. And he was there, with me. I know he was. He was mine. I made him burn. Except I lost him, and I’ve no idea why.
STEP SEVEN
Remember: Either You Are At Dinner or You Are Dinner
Major Channing had taken to coming home very late, or very early in the morning, whichever way you care to look at it, to avoid encountering the rest of his pack. This was not uncommon behavior, especially since the household had accidentally obtained two small children. But he had become more pointed about it.
He had an excuse, as there was a lead in some important BUR business. Those missing Sundowner bullets had, it appeared, been sold to a vampire. So, his professional attentions were now focused on England’s hives. This entailed paying formal calls and making very delicate inquiries himself, as none of his agents had enough social standing to visit vampires with impunity. So, it had to be Channing, much to his annoyance. He was, to put no small claw on it, uncomfortable around vampires. Unfortunately, nothing more had come of even his best, most polite enquiries, which drove Channing to distraction. It was beyond frustrating that he’d been driven to socialize with vampires and still nothing. He’d been polite, for goodness sake. Polite!
Channing was beginning to think that if the blood-suckers had sunk their fangs into his bullets, he might never get them back. He tried to be a little happy that at least the assets were in supernatural hands, and not in those of the Separatists. Nevertheless, he would have liked to have had some assurances one way or the other.
Major Channing hated dealing with vampires – they smelled abominable, were more arrogant than he was, and unconscionably sadistic. It put him in a terrible temper. He had a propensity to bite heads figuratively, because he could not do so literally (not without causing a great fuss, too much paperwork, and no little indigestion). His favorite vampire memories were those abroad, when his old Alpha, Lord Vulkasin, had given him free rein to tear his way through Europe, where hives were ostracized and it was open season on vampires (quite rightly). They tasted awful, vampires did, but Channing still loved to hunt them. As a wolf, he was never happier than with his jaws around the white neck of a blood-sucker, especially a French one. Even as a moon-mad beast, Channing remembered being caged like a dog. For that alone, he would never forgive them, but he had further reason to hate.
Oh, he had learned to bow and scrape and suck up (not like that) with the English vampires, because he must and because they were different from those on the Continent. London vampires dictated high society’s rules, so Channing played nice by default. But French vampires? Or Italian? Channing imagined tearing into their necks with such ferocity, he might sever heads from bodies. He imagined it in great detail because he knew the exact particulars of such a maneuver, because he had done it, once, to a vampire queen. The rush of satisfaction had been so all-consuming, it was as close to a sensation of real joy he had felt since he’d been turned into a werewolf.
All this to say that Channing hated vampires. Dealing with them made him even grumpier and more sarcastic than usual. And his feelings of annoyance were certainly not exacerbated by a blue-eyed American girl with stones in her heart and honey in her mouth.
God, she tasted sweet. And forbidden. She had yielded with such willingness. As though she knew he needed her surrender almost more than her embrace. He wanted to consume her. Instincts cried out to inhale her – blood sweet and rich, skin soft and warm, the smell of rum and raisins and sugar all around him. She was exactly everything a vampire queen was not, and in that profound difference he might find peace. He’d spent so long wallowing in petty thoughts of revenge – he was all sharp points, harsh and churlish. Sometimes, he wondered what he might become if that did not make up the lion’s share of his personality.
Channing had come over all lily-livered, choosing to investigate missing bullets and visit hives (which he loathed) over social engagements (which he had once loathed but now craved).
Not strong enough to entirely resist her presence, Channing slipped into the hat shop on occasion, simply to smell her. Knowing he could control his baser instincts with his Alpha present, but parched for the raisins in her breath and the lapis in her eyes.
Biffy was waiting for Channing as he closed the front door of Falmouth House behind him. Channing snorted at him. It was close to dawn and the Alpha should be in bed with his Beta like any decent Biffy.
“I worried that perhaps you would not make it back in time.”
“I always make it back.”
His Alpha was sitting in the drawing room, curtains drawn against the rising sun and everything dark around him. He was strong enough to take daylight if he must, even with his youth, but he could not stand it for very long.
Channing could barely withstand a moment of sun and rarely bothered to test himself anymore.
“The Iftercasts are coming to dine here, the night after next.”
Channing said nothing in response to this and did not move to join his Alpha in the drawing room.
“Faith will be with them.” Biffy answered the question Channing had not asked.
Of course she will. That is why you invited them.
“You will be there, Channing. This is not a request. It is an order from your Alpha. If nothing else, you owe the girl common courtesy, as you have not dignified her with an explanation for your erratic behavior. Your hot-and-cold treatment of her has been shabby in the extreme.”
Channing hung his head and still said nothing. There was no excuse. His Alpha was correct.
“Tell her what was done to you, Channing, all those years ago. She has suffered her own version of abuse – she will not be unsympathetic. You need not protect her from it. Then, when you leave her because you are not strong enough to stay and fight to overcome the past, she will at least understand that it was not her fault. You owe her that much. Tell her.”
“Or you will?” Channing’s tone was bitter.
Biffy stood and walked to him, fine-boned and refined. A dandy. And a werewolf. And an Alpha.
My Alpha.
“You know I would never betray a confidence, even though your history was told to me by others. But I cannot make promises for the rest of the pack.”
“Lyall,” growled Channing. “You will have Lyall do it.”
Biffy straightened, proud and commanding. “It should come from you.”
Channing left him then, walking slowly through the hallway and up the stairs towards his quarters.
Biffy said to his retreating back, “You will be at this dinner, Gamma.”
“I will,” whispered Channing, to the shadows of the staircase. Knowing his Alpha would hear him no matter how softly he spoke.
Accordingly, the Iftercasts and their American cousin went to dinner at Falmouth House, in Greenwich.
This was widely remarked upon.
The London Pack did not keep an Isopod steam conveyance, so when one pulled up and disgorged a family of mortals, one of whom was noted to have been courted by a pack member, bets were placed.
A reporter, haunting the street nearby, took note of the elegance of the dinner dresses and number in the party. Mr Iftercast was in attendance, a clear sign pointing towards marriage negotiation. Miss Wigglesworth looked very fine, if a tad pale, in her gown of peach silk. That fact would appear in the Mooning Standard gossip rags the next day as “peach, clearly indicating anticipation and eagerness on the part of the young lady.”