A Hunt By Moonlight (Werewolves and Gaslight Book 1) (8 page)

“I care little for what people say of me, else I would be spending my time bored to tears in drawing rooms, not brewing in my alchemy lab. And as for prosecution, let them try. I have a fine solicitor— he’s worked for my family for years. I think he’d enjoy the challenge.”

Richard squeezed her hands. “Your courage is one of the many things I love about you, but sometimes it scares me. Sometimes I wish, for your sake, that you continued to refuse my suit. I was selfish to pursue you.”

“You think I would be better off a spinster?” She tightened her lips in irritation at his misguided chivalry. "For I would never give up my interests for marriage, nor play the simpering fool to feed some suitor’s ego.”

“I love you for who you are, loved you almost from the beginning. Surely I am not unique among men.”

She smiled. Dear, dear Richard. How could he not see how extraordinary he truly was? “Rare enough that I’d rather not spend my life looking for another.” She laced her fingers with his. “We are together in this, love. My eccentricities and your wolf.”

***

Nearly a month passed with no resolution to the case, and on the morning of the full moon the papers said a girl had been reported missing by her employers.

That night, in wolf form, Richard sat on his haunches in the shadow of Scotland Yard, waiting. He used to dread the change when he'd had no choice, ashamed at his descent into near-animal. But in the months that had passed since his last change, he’d forgotten how keen the night felt when every breeze carried a story written in scent and the muscles that slid beneath his skin were made for long, wild runs. And what a joy it was to run, bounding forward in great leaping strides, claws digging into soft earth.

This time, he’d chosen the change and had forgone the elixir that she brewed. His love feared for him, but she had a stronger conscience and a greater spirit than any that he knew, and she had given him her blessing.

Catherine had improved her formula over the last year, so that he didn’t have to start taking it until the day of the full moon, allowing for this last-minute decision. If the missing girl was not yet dead, then her life could depend on his wolf senses this night.

Richard was not the only one of his kind abroad—he caught the scent of a female on heat maybe a half-mile distant with another male in close attendance. A few streets over, a fish-and-chips shop dispensed its wares alongside one that dealt in sheep’s trotters and another that sold sausages. A horseless carriage rolled past, sleek black and gleaming chrome, billowing steam. His nose stung from the smoke of the coal-fire that boiled the water. His sharp wolf ears caught the hum of a dirigible moving high above the cloud-cover.

Richard still had misgivings about accepting the transformation. The last time he had changed, the wolf had taken over.
Bone and sinew crushed between his jaws, hot, human blood in his mouth.
Richard’s stomach lurched at the memory. The hysterical public insisted that a ’wolf who had killed would develop an uncontrollable lust for mayhem and murder. In his case, they couldn’t be further from the mark.

He could not regret what happened that night, as it saved Catherine’s life. But he never, ever wanted it to happen again.

It was well after moonrise, and the light still burned in Jones’ office window. He certainly could not fault Jones his dedication to his job. Richard couldn’t imagine a less efficient method of engineering a meeting than sitting in the shadow of the Yard and waiting for the man to come down. But to send a note ahead would have given the man concrete proof of what Richard tacitly admitted by being here.
 

“Hey, you! What are you up to? No good, I’ll warrant.” A constable leaving the Yard stalked toward him, billy club raised. “Get off, or I’ll have you locked up.”

Richard broke no laws merely by being here, in wolf form or otherwise. But as long as he was in wolf form, the law would scarcely matter. Werewolves who stood up for themselves always met bad ends. At the least he would be locked up until dawn brought transformation. Even if he wasn't recognized, he would have to identify himself before they released him. He’d be forever ruined, as would Catherine by mere association, and their marriage would be impossible.

He flattened his ears and dropped to his belly in a display of submission that even a human should understand, and then he slunk off, cowering from someone who would scarcely dare to address him if he were his human self. Around the corner and out of the sight of the bully, he stopped, a sub-vocal growl of frustration vibrating in his throat. From this direction, the wind was all wrong. It wouldn’t carry Jones’ scent to him should the detective leave the building. He’d have to circle around the back and hide at the other side, and even then it would be chancy. If only he could find a place where he could watch the door unobserved.

“Hey, you! ’Wolf!”

Dear God, not again. He paused and crouched, head lowered.

“It’s alright, boy, come on. I’ve got a little something left over from my lunch. Hungry, boy?”

No, he wasn’t. The people who treated werewolves like they were stray animals to be fed bothered him only marginally less than those who treated them like wild animals that should be shot. But for the majority of ’wolves, those without family or friends that had the means and desire to hide them and support them, handouts meant the difference between a mean, poor life and a slow death by starvation.

Aberrant behavior in a ’wolf would be noticed. Maybe even investigated, even though the young constable holding out half a sandwich had a kind face. He approached, head still low, tail wagging, making every effort to appear both grateful and non-threatening.

“My, but you’re a nice, big brute,” the constable said as Richard neatly swallowed the offering; (salted meat, coarse-baked bread made from flour adulterated with sawdust, really, they should pay these poor fellows better for risking their lives as they did). “Some widow feeding you up right?”
 

Richard wagged his tail harder, spared the need to lie outright. The constable gave him a pat on his shoulders and went on his way.
 

As he rounded the corner, Richard stopped cold. A vaguely familiar scent caught his attention. Jones? He couldn’t be certain. He’d only encountered the man once before, and when he was in human form his scent-memory wasn’t nearly so acute. If he were wrong, he’d miss his chance to meet Jones coming out of the Yard. But if he were right, he’d be waiting here all night and lose the opportunity. Hugging the corner of the building, he watched the door a few moments more and gave a low whine of indecision. At last he turned, nose down, and followed the scent.
 

The streets of London were malodorous in the extreme. Richard’s nose might be a wolf’s, as were, to some extent, his instincts, but his human mind rebelled at this close examination of streets reeking of horse manure, discarded food, and tobacco ash. Through it all, he kept to the trail of hopefully-Jones, and it led to a section of two-up-two-down row homes in a slightly run-down working class neighborhood.

He sat on his haunches, contemplating the knob on the exterior door and missing the miracle of opposable thumbs. He wanted to scratch at the door and whine, but that was wolf instinct talking, not his rational mind.

On the other hand. . .

He doubted anyone would come to the door and let him in. But if Jones were, in fact, living here, wouldn’t his neighbors appeal to the nearest representative of the law to deal with the unsavory problem of a werewolf on the doorstep?

Only if it wasn’t Jones he’d followed, but someone else who worked at the Yard, he’d again be facing lock-up until dawn and discovery.

He sniffed the air and swiveled his ears, gathering information. Both lower flats were occupied by young families, crammed full of noisy, squabbling children. The ones on the left were most likely Chinese immigrants by the scent of their cooking. The top left apartment was still and empty. The top right. . .

Movement, possibly a single form, possibly a man. Richard snuffled, but it was impossible to get details from this distance. Any moment now someone was going to notice the lurking werewolf. It was a warm night. The figure upstairs opened the window. Jones. Richard suppressed a yip of excitement.

He moved out into the street, to be better visible in the moonlight, but Jones turned away from the window without looking down. A howl would bring attention he didn’t want.

He circled the building.

The storage shed at the back had a gently angled roof about seven feet off the ground at its lowest point. From its highest point, he could reach Jones’ small back window if he stood on his hind legs. Seven feet was a difficult jump, even for a ’wolf in his prime. He trotted up the back alley far enough to get a running start, turned, and charged, gathering speed with each stride. He launched himself at just the right spot. Claws scrabbled on the wooden roof as he landed and started to slide backwards. Gravity was winning, but then he found his footing and crept carefully forward.

The noise he’d made brought Jones to the window. Good, that should make things easier. Jones thrust up the window. . .

And pointed a revolver straight at him.

Six

It had been a long, horrible day of worthless leads and citizens with crackpot theories, and Jones wanted nothing but dinner and the oblivion of sleep. Then something crashed onto the shed roof, too large to be a clumsy pigeon or even the neighbor’s acrobatic cat. Jones pulled out the revolver and opened the window, turning the element of surprise on his would-be attacker. He’d expected a burglar, or a criminal bent on revenge. . .
 

The ’wolf loomed huge in the window, black against the black sky. Primal fear ran through his blood, but behind the fear his mind raced. That was one hell of a jump for a ’wolf, which meant the ’wolf had targeted Jones directly. He could think of only one ’wolf that had any interest in making his life worse than it already was.

The ’wolf wagged his tail once, and gaped his mouth in a panting, wolfish grin.

“If you are who I think you are, then you have a lot of nerve coming here,” Jones said. “You got what you wanted; you toffs always do. I dropped the subject and left you alone. There’s another girl dead and one missing tonight who is probably being tortured to death as we speak, if she’s not dead already, and there’s bloody nothing I can do about it. But that’s no concern of yours. Just working class girls, no one who matters.”

The wolf stopped wagging and grinning. He lowered his muzzle and looked away.

“So, you see, I really, really don’t need you coming here tonight with more threats to make my life miserable. I’m already there.”

The wolf cocked his head for a moment, brow furrowed. Then he stretched his front legs forward and bowed, universal canine language for ‘I mean no harm, come, let’s play’.

Jones put down the weapon. The ’wolf demonstrated no immediate physical threat, and he could not kill in cold blood, no matter that the courts couldn’t care less about the life of a trespassing werewolf. “I don’t understand what you want. I don’t suppose you could have come and talked to me in human form. No, that would have meant admitting that I was right about what you are. God, I hope you
are
who I think you are, not just some beggar looking for scraps, or this is the most foolish conversation I’ve ever had sober.”

The ’wolf gave a yip, acknowledging his identity in a way that would never hold up in a court of law.

“I’m probably going to regret this. But you’d best come in. My mum would say it’s not right leaving a toff like you sitting outside begging entrance—even if most polite guests come to the door.”

He stepped away from the window, giving the ’wolf room to squirm his way in. It was a tight squeeze. His shoulders stuck, and he spent a moment with his front paws comically dangling above the floor before wriggling free to land in an undignified heap at his feet.

He smiled unkindly at the ’wolf’s awkward landing. “Good doggy. Sorry I don’t have any biscuit.”

The ’wolf glared.

“So, right,” he said. “I suppose the proper thing would be to offer tea, but under the circumstances. . .”

The ’wolf carefully took Royston’s sleeve in his teeth and tugged him toward the door. What game was Bandon playing? “So, changed your mind about helping?”

The ’wolf gave a definitive bark and wagged its tail like a dog that wanted to be taken for a walk.

It felt like some sort of a setup, only Royston couldn’t work out what it might be. And, damn the ’wolf and his lady both, he couldn’t pass up anything that might help him catch the monster stalking his city. “Right, then. We’ll go her workplace first so you can get the scent, and then we can go by where she disappeared and see what you can pick it up.”

***

The girl used a strong, cheap perfume that smelled of violets, so it was easy for Richard to pick up her trail from the bakery shop where she had last been seen over the traces of warm, homey sugar and vanilla still wafting from the bakery door. Richard caught traces of a more subtle scent alongside hers, a male scent that stung his nose with anger, excitement, and dark arousal. The overlay of tobacco gave pause, brought back memories, but it was not of the type Blackpoole smoked, and the scent was not his. Both the girl’s trail and the man’s were a few days stale, crisscrossed here and there by random, fresher trails.