Which is how Rue knew to fluff up her ruff in an attempt to look bigger. If someone had to fight for their sobriety, she would do what must be done.

Look at me, she thought. I’m joining the Teatotal Abstinence Society.

Uncle Channing tensed.

Rue, never one to back down from a challenge either, reared up. She was under no delusion as to her chances. Uncle Channing was the pack Gamma, not to mention a professional soldier. He was a tall rangy fellow who made for a big rangy wolf, but any leanness was deceptive, as in both forms he was composed mainly of muscle. Rue, on the other hand, made a tough-looking scrappy sort of wolf, but she wasn’t big, vicious, or muscly. This was not going to be a fair fight. But she might distract the pack long enough for the drones to get away.

Uncle Channing leapt, teeth bared.

And was knocked out of the way by another wolf, slighter than Channing, with dark brown colouring and blood-red chest fur.

Uncle Rabiffano!

Uncle Rabiffano was – technically – pack Beta, although he never much acted like it physically. He ran a very well-regarded hat shop not too far down the street from Claret’s.

Rue had never seen Rabiffano fight. In fact, if anyone asked, she would have said he couldn’t. He was more the type to shame a fellow into doing what he wanted. A few slow blinks of disapproval from those sad eyes and perhaps a cutting remark, and nearly any werewolf would do as Uncle Rabiffano suggested, even Paw.

However, it turned out he could fight.

He might be smaller than Uncle Channing, but he was also sober, and quick. Really, very quick!

Rue sat back on her haunches in shock, watching as the most urbane and sweet-natured of her uncles turned into a whirling dervish of teeth and claws.

Channing, surprised by the attack and by its ferocity, whined and whimpered as his tender nose and ears were savaged. He wobbled to his side and then flopped on his back, presenting his stomach as quickly as possible.

Rabiffano took this as his due with one final nip of reproach.

Channing subdued, the oxblood wolf turned his angry yellow glare on the rest of the pack.

The ones sober enough to have realised what had just happened were already backing away from the drones. Hemming, whose form Rue had stolen, was sitting at Winkle’s feet, wrapped in her striped dress like a bathing towel and looking thoroughly ashamed. Channing remained lying on his back. Which, given Rabiffano’s expression of annoyance, was a good decision.

Two of the pack, Ulric and Quinn, in human form, were too far gone on the formaldehyde. Oblivious to the fight, they were actually pushing at the drones – male ones, thank heavens; at least they weren’t so stupid as to shove a lady. But still… pushing… in public!

Rabiffano attacked them. He leapt against Ulric, teeth going for his neck and fortunately getting only shoulder. He took a bite out of the meaty part of the man’s upper arm, ruining Ulric’s coat and leaving him surprised and bloody, lying in the street.

Then Rabiffano went for Quinn. The simpleton met him head-on, without bothering to shift. Rabiffano sliced for the man’s face. When Quinn flinched away, showing his neck in sudden realisation of who had attacked, Rabiffano veered off, only to chomp Quinn’s thigh. Again he was gnawing at a meaty part that wouldn’t cause any real damage.

It must hurt Rabiffano terribly to have to enact justice. Not only because he liked his fellow pack members, but also because he disliked the wanton destruction of perfectly good clothing. It was Uncle Rabiffano, after all, who took most of the pack shopping.

He’s disciplining them, Rue realised. But that’s Paw’s job! Except Paw wasn’t there. She looked around, hoping to see her father’s massive brindled form barrelling through the crowd, but nothing disturbed the fascinated onlookers.

The whole uncouth business had taken only a few minutes, but it was a scandal so outrageous it could not possibly be kept secret. The entire London Pack had just behaved very badly indeed, and their Alpha was missing. The morning papers were going to make mincemeat out of progressive integration policies.

On the bright side, Rue thought, my transgressions will be forgotten while the three parentals deal with this mess. That’s something.

Nevertheless, she couldn’t suppress her fear. This was the London Pack, the tamest werewolves in the country. They didn’t drink, certainly not in public! Something must be very wrong for them to be so out of control. Rue had the horrible feeling it was to do with Paw. All those rumours she had tried not to hear, to deny. All those pitying looks.

She shook herself like a wet dog. No! He’s fine, simply getting a little absentminded in his old age.

It was only a matter of time before BUR appeared with the Staking Constabulary in tow. Rue would rather not be in wolf form when they did so. Supernatural creatures may be out in society but they weren’t permitted to be untidy about it. Reports would need to be filed. Uncle Rabiffano would have to explain everything. The others were clearly not capable of coherent speech. Rue thought it best – given Queen Victoria’s oh-so-recent admonition to stay out of trouble – that she make herself scarce.

She nodded to Rabiffano, who was circulating, keeping a careful eye on the remaining pack. He inclined his head in response. Then, tail high, decorum paramount, Rue relieved Uncle Hemming of her gown, leaving him bare. His dignity didn’t concern her. With a toss of her head, she flicked the dress to drape over her back so as to drag as little as possible. Holding it carefully with her teeth, she trotted towards Dama’s carriage.

Winkle, shaking his head, followed.