Chapter 59: Reviewing the Troops
In Which Philippe prepares another attempt to bring Miss True under his domination, and meets his new allies
What a difference a day made. Just the night before, Philippe had been nursing a blistered face, brooding over his humiliation at that True woman's flat, and staring into a flat pint of Guinness that he wasn't drinking and which wouldn't intoxicate him even if he did. Tonight he was all healed up, feeling healthier than ever, and ready for another go. This time she would not escape; this time she would be his. And if anyone tried to interfere, this time he had an army.
His army was waiting for him at the rendezvous point: about a half-dozen werewolves in lupine form, skulking impatiently in the vacant lot just on the edge of the Little Kingston district, and maybe a handful more in human form. The former would be members of the Reaver Pack, easily identifiable by their silver collars; the latter, lone wolves and renegades. This was the back-up Taylor had recruited for him? And where was that treacherous bastard, Taylor, anyway?
A veteran Reaver with grey about his muzzle and a ragged patch taken out of one ear loped up to him. “Pack Sergeant Razor Willis,” the wolf growled. “Third Group, Reaver Clan.”
One of the human-form wolves came up behind the wolf and repeated, “He said he's--”
“I know what he said,” Philippe snapped back. “We of the Kindred can understand the speech of wolves.”
“Oh. I thought it was just bats and rodents and such.”
Philippe bit back the impulse to make a sarcastic remark. He had to make the best of the allies he had. “Other creatures of the night as well.” He turned his attention back to the grey wolf.
“Where's the rest, Sergeant? I was told there would be more of you. Aren't they coming?”
“We've been here for over half an hour. We've been waiting for you. I have the rest of the team forming a perimeter around Bellman House. The target is inside.”
Philippe frowned at the implicit criticism in the wolf's reply. It wasn't his fault he was late. To begin with, he had waited until the sun had completely set before venturing from his home. After the previous day's fiasco, he wished to leave nothing to chance. Then he stopped to visit Gwen, one of his regular thralls, to feed, so that he would be at the peak of his power. That took longer than he wanted. Gwen wanted to know why he hadn't come to see her in so long and was he seeing other girls and blah, blah, blah. That was one of the few things Philippe missed about being mortal: you didn't have to waste time assuring a hamburger that you loved it before biting into it.
He wasn't about to tell the wolf that, though. Don't offer excuses. Never make excuses to a minion, that's what old Sir Hugo always said. They'll come to expect it. “Very good,” Philippe said. “Is she alone?”
The Sergeant lowered his head. “Three wolves showed up a little while ago. The sentries thought they were with us and let them pass unquestioned. One is a Reaver who hasn't been around lately; one's a Tinkerbell who pretends to be a wolf, and the third is that mad parson from the soup kitchen down on Foxglove. They walked right up to the front door, and were let in, them and this local witch who joined them. They should have been questioned.”
“This witch, was it the Jamaican?”
“No. I have a squad stationed outside the Friendlee-Mart to make sure she doesn't interfere – what is it?”
Another wolf had just come dashing into the parking lot. “Sergeant!” he panted. “The Jamaican! She's left the store! She and one of her whelps!”
“You were supposed to keep her inside!” the Sergeant snarled.
“She slipped past us! She did some voodoo stuff or something and caught us off guard! They went straight for the house.”
“Voodoo my arse! You cocked up, you did!”
“I can handle the witches,” Philippe said. He had given Gwen a bit of his precious vial of Fae Essence before he fed on her, and he could already feel the power of the transformed Essence within him. He'd tested the witch's wards before. They would pose no difficulty. “As for the rest, even with the witches, our team outnumbers them.” Another thing occurred to him. “What about Taylor? Where is he?”
The wolf wrinkled his nose in disgust. “He said he was attending to another matter, and that you would be leading the strike force.”
Philippe smiled. That sounded just like Taylor. But that didn't matter. He was in charge now, just as it should be. “Place the rest of your men around the house. Cover all the exits, but stay out of their sight until I give the command.”
The grey wolf nodded. As he turned to obey, Philippe said, “One question, Sergeant. You don't particularly care for our friend Taylor, do you.”
The wolf gave a curt growl.
“Then why are you involved in this business? Did Bianka send you?”
“Blanka sent no one. Bellman killed a member of our pack.”
“Bellman? The cripple?”
“Don't underestimate him. I hear he's not as poncy as he looks. Some of us wanted retribution, but Blanka ordered that he was not to be harmed. Political reasons.” The Sergeant’s deep-throated disapproval was as close as he was going to get to insubordination. “We're not harming Bellman. Bellman's woman is a different matter. He took one of ours, so we'll help you take one of his.” The wolf loped off to join his troops, standing with their tails at attention. Then he paused, and looked back over his shoulder. “Some things are deeper than politics.”
NEXT: Council of War