Competitive instinct. Werewolves had a strong competitive instinct; Sophronia played on that. “Mrs. Barnaclegoose wants me.”
“Mrs. Who?”
She tried another one. “Lord Akeldama has already given me patron gifts.”
“Has he, indeed?”
That was a name he knew.
The dewan appeared to be considering everything that had happened recently—the fact that Sophronia had kidnapped a train and scared off a duke. But he was no fool. Only a cautious werewolf could have survived so long a loner and sit in the queen’s shadow. “It’s a fair offer. But you understand our deal will stand whether my bite is successful or not?”
Hope sprang in Sophronia’s chest. Hope and fear and horror, but mostly hope. “I understand Soap’s survival is not a matter of your ability. It is a matter of his soul.”
“Or lack thereof. And you are willing to risk his life and your future on such a small chance?”
Soap was limp and silent now, his eyes heavy lidded. They were running out of time.
Sophronia took a breath, face still tingling with the strain. “I am.”
The dewan nodded, decided. “Very well, then, I will try. It would be better, ladies, if you were not present. This is not a pretty undertaking. Captain, if you would?”
Captain Niall limped around and forcibly picked Sophronia and Sidheag up, one under each arm, and carried them away. Meekly, Dimity followed, carrying Bumbersnoot under her own arm in a similar manner.
Captain Niall deposited them down near the track, far enough away so they could not turn to see what happened, but not so far that they could not hear.
It was not a pleasant symphony. There were slavering growls and groans, crunches and slurps, moans and cracks. Soap made barely any noise, too weak. There was no doubt he would have screamed if he could. Sophronia knew it was painful. Captain Niall said it hurt every time but it was worse at the beginning. It was an awful way to die, trying for immortality, and most people did die.
Sidheag was sick all over the rail. This was a little startling, because she was the only one to have seen or heard such a thing before. Captain Niall held her steady and soothed her softly. Perhaps that was the problem, perhaps she knew too much of what was happening. And Soap was her friend, too. Sophronia tried not to think about it.
Sophronia only sat, shaking. Had she damned Soap to a gruesome death, alone at the jaws of a beast? Had she made everything worse? Had she the right to make such a choice for him at all? Even if he had claimed that this was what he wanted. She had sworn she wouldn’t help, and now she’d made it happen. My word is worth nothing. Dimity huddled next to her, patting her futilely on one shoulder, telling her over and over again that it would be all right. Everything would turn out for the best, in the end.
Eventually, the sounds stopped and the quiet of night descended and there was nothing but stillness.
SESSION 16: THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
He will have to stay with me.” The dewan spoke softly over Soap’s sleeping form.
There was blood smeared about the dewan’s mouth and down into the hair of his chest. He was trying futilely to wipe it off with a rag. It helped to think that he was a very sloppy eater and they had just finished a tomato soup course. Sophronia suppressed a hysterical thought—a Soap course!
She was sitting with Soap’s head in her lap. It might have been awkward or embarrassing, particularly in public—although after everything that had happened, what did Sophronia care two figs for that anymore?—except that Soap’s head was that of a wolf. So was the rest of him. His fur was very thick and coarse and pitch black, like the coal for his beloved boilers. He’ll never float again, thought Sophronia. He lay in the deep sleep of an exhausted puppy, but his wounds were healing. Right before Sophronia’s eyes the bullet wound was closing and new fur growing over it. And his savaged neck, a gift from the dewan, was knitting back together like cloth under the invisible hand of an expert seamstress. The dewan had explained that newly made werewolves stayed in wolf form for the entirety of their first night. Soap had better do so, anyway, to accelerate his healing.
“Stay with you? While you deal with the Kingair Pack?”
“No, Miss Temminnick, I don’t believe you take my meaning. He’ll have to stay with me for a long time. I’m a loner, I have no pack, neither does he, but as I’ve shifted him”—there was pride in the dewan’s voice; to metamorphose a new werewolf successfully was rare—“he must stay with me to learn control. It’s my responsibility to teach him.”
“How long will it take?” Sophronia was simply glad Soap wasn’t dead. Separation seemed a paltry price to pay.
“Years, even decades.”
That is a long time.
“It depends on who he is.”
That part, Sophronia could answer. “He’s a good man, my lord. You’ll like him. Smart and capable and hardworking and funny and fun and a leader, in his way, and…”
“I understand, Miss Temminnick,” and he sounded as if he understood more than he let on, more than just her words, “but sometimes men are different as wolves.”
“Not my Soap.”
“We shall see.” The dewan finished with the rag and tossed it aside. If the cold night air gave him any trouble, he didn’t show it. “I might have to keep him a secret, for a while.” He didn’t explain the statement, but Sophronia smelled werewolf politics all over it. “I trust you and your friends will be discreet?”
Sophronia arched a brow at him. “Intelligencer trained, my lord.”
He chuckled as if at a joke, then sobered. “I won’t hold you to our bargain. A new werewolf is gift enough. It happens so rarely.”
Sophronia was honestly surprised and even a little touched. “I keep my word, my lord. In this, if nothing else. If you’ll only allow me to finish my schooling first?” Plus, I have Picklemen to thwart. Like it or not, with one bullet Duke Golborne had decided Sophronia’s position. Every part of her was now bent on undermining his plans. She no longer cared what the Picklemen intended, she was going to stop them. No one shot her Soap!
Captain Niall said, from where he was sitting with Sidheag nearby, “I’d take her up on it, my lord. You’ll be a good fit, all three of you.”
The dewan nodded. “Very well. Patronage it is. And don’t think I’ve forgotten your commitment, Captain. We need to get back on the run as soon as this new pup has mastered his paws.”
Sophronia asked, too casually, “Why do you need Captain Niall, sir?”
“No hidden agenda there, little spy. He’s to take over as Alpha of Kingair. Always was the intent. I can’t leave them leaderless, not as I’m shipping them out with the Coldsteam Guards in a month. Exile as punishment for attempted treason. India is the best place for them, fighting on the front. Keep them distracted from their little plots. Keep them away from Lord Maccon.”
Sophronia was confused. “But much as I respect the captain, he told us he isn’t a real Alpha.” He’d said as much to the students on several occasions, without any shame. Some werewolves were Alphas, some weren’t. Only Alphas think it matters. Frankly, I prefer not, he’d said. Alphas tend not to live all that long.
“No, but he’s the best loner I’ve got in England right now. And he is a passing good military captain.”