Chapter Sixteen
SIXTEEN
The Caledonian Pack lives in a castle. An actual castle. I should be delighted. Instead, I’m baffled and a little horrified by the audacity of it.
While we often talk about the witch hunts, the werewolf hunts came first. They weren’t nearly on the same scale, but they existed—a brief craze where every violent and brutal murder was perpetuated by a man who could allegedly change into a wolf, which explained his brutality.
Which is ironic, because Bishop acknowledges that werewolves aren’t more violent because they’re part wolf—they’re violent because their strength allows them to be brutal and their human minds recognize brutality as a form of power that humans recognize.
So how does a werewolf Pack hide while living … in a castle?
I suppose the answer is that it’s not on any major routes, where tourists might be inclined to stop and poke about.
And it’s not as if it’s filled with actual wolves.
Still, it is a castle inhabited by reclusive men, and that’s going to attract curiosity no matter what explanation they give outsiders.
As we ride in, Edwin explains that the keep has been in the family for centuries, built by an ancestor, their distant relatives having been titled noblemen before those titles became inconvenient for werewolves. They sold the titles but negotiated to keep the land and castle.
The keep is walled and gated, and as we go through, I see the main building—the castle—along with many smaller buildings that Edwin explains are primarily residences.
Having extra residences seems odd when the castle itself must be bigger than Trevelyan.
But I remind myself that the Caledonian Pack is larger and even Trevelyan had planned to reopen the closed third floor as their numbers swelled.
The outside buildings do seem … Well, they seem small, like village cottages, and not good village cottages.
But every Pack will do things differently, and these wolves might prefer having their own homes rather than the more communal arrangement at Trevelyan.
It also seems very quiet. When I remark on that, Edwin says, “Most of the men are out working the fields. That’s our primary industry. We farm raw materials and then have the facilities to process them before they are taken into the city and shipped.”
“Will we meet the men tonight at dinner?”
He pauses, the slight downturn of his lips saying he’s confused by the question. “They will dine on their own, as usual.”
“Ah, my apologies,” I say. “I know each Pack has its own traditions, and I was still getting used to those of the Albions.”
“We dine as a pack,” Julius says.
“We do not,” Edwin says. “Normally, the family and my father’s inner circle would all dine together, but for your visit, it will only be the family.
You will meet the inner circle, of course.
” A thin smile. “We aren’t trying to conceal anything from you, in case you think we’re pretending to be larger than we are.
You will hear the men when they come in, though I will ask your escort to ensure you are within the castle by then.
It will save…” A flutter of his hand. “Explanations.”
The courtyard is so eerily quiet that I might indeed think we’d been misled about the Pack’s size. But clotheslines strung between the cottages have plenty of clothing on them.
The coach stops at the castle doors, and we are led in. When Kenric and Rufus go to take our bags, Edwin waves again. “The men will do that.”
As we enter the castle, I brace, remembering when I’d first arrived at Trevelyan, the welcome I’d received, more than a dozen wolves crowding the door to see me.
But the cavernous hall is empty until two boys come running from a side room.
They’re about twelve and fourteen, and their scent tells me they’re werewolves, though the faintness of it must suggest they haven’t had their first transformation.
“We didn’t hear the coach,” the older one says, bowing. His brogue is stronger than Edwin’s, the “didn’t” more clearly “dinnae.”
Edwin’s dour expression lightens as he squeezes the boy’s shoulder. “It’s fine. Is my father about?”
“No, sir. He was needed at the carding factory.”
The older one elbows the younger, who is openly gaping at me.
“This is Bishop Danvers,” Edwin says. “New Alpha of the Albion Pack. And his mate, Cordelia Danvers.”
Bishop’s hand moves to my back at the name “Danvers,” but he did say Edwin could use either, and since it is a very old werewolf name, Edwin could simply be paying Bishop respect, ensuring no one mistakes him for an upstart from the hinterlands.
The older boy laughs and says, “You jest, sir. He’s barely older than Dennis. He can’t be an Alpha.”
Angus appears from behind us, striding to slap the boy on the back. “Clever lad, but yes, he is young and also an Alpha. In some Packs, power is passed on before the Alpha is old and feeble.”
Ouch.
A voice I haven’t heard wafts from behind us. “And in some Packs, if that does not happen, power is taken.”
I lean to see Dennis wearing that bored expression, as if the walls spoke instead.
Edwin clears his throat. “Mr. Danvers is the Albion Alpha. That is all that needs be said.”
“But who is she?” the younger one says, still gaping at me.
“His mate.” Edwin’s voice stays gentle, though he does add, “As I said.”
“What’s a mate? And why is she here? She can’t come in. She’s a girl.”
“A lady,” Edwin corrects. “A mate is a wife. It isn’t a custom we practice, but we respect the choice of the Albions.”
“Why does she smell like a wolf?”
“I’m a lycan,” I say. “My father was the former Albion Alpha. Some daughters of werewolves inherit secondary traits. I cannot change forms, but I have a few extras, along with my scent.”
The boys have not yet been introduced, and I’m trying to determine their relationship to the main family.
There isn’t a strong resemblance, but they are of an age to be Edwin’s sons, maybe even Angus’s.
While both men seem fond of them, that’s also the werewolf way.
The Albion Pack had no boys under the age of transformation—a result of having all their young wolves leave—but from the stories I’ve heard, boys raised in the Pack were treated like children in a large and close-knit family, growing up with endless “uncles” and “cousins.”
“The bags are coming,” Edwin says. “You can help the men with them while we show the Albions to their rooms.”
“Oh!” Julius says. “Forgive my rudeness. Introductions are usually my job. I’m Julius … Danvers, Bishop’s cousin.”
“And advisor,” Bishop adds.
Julius grins. “Still getting used to that title. This big fellow here is Rufus Cain, Bishop’s enforcer, and behind him is Kenric MacDonald, who came along because he has kin in your Pack.” Julius looks at Kenric. “Bruce, yes? Bruce MacDonald.”
Kenric nods, but the boys’ looks are blank.
“He works in the fields,” Edwin murmurs.
A nod, as if this explains everything, and Edwin seems ready to carry on, completely missing the fact that Julius’s introductions were a nudge.
Julius tries again. “And these young fellows might be…?”
“Our pages. If you ring the bell in your room, they will be the ones to attend to you. We call them pages, but together with a few other boys, they fulfill the duties of both pages and parlormaids.”
That’s right. The Caledonians don’t have outside staff. I’d taken that to mean a communal sharing of chores, but it seems they assign such tasks as regular jobs … including to the children.
That’s very odd. While children should have some chores, this seems more like putting them in service.
We leave the boys to help with the bags, and Angus and Dennis veer off shortly after that, vanishing into other rooms as we pass.
There are a lot of rooms, and the whole castle is as quiet as the town house I’d shared with my aunt. Trevelyan had been very different, and I’d thrived on the endless noise and bustle, as if it were energy that fed me, making me feel safe and connected even during the worst times.
At Trevelyan, I’d smiled at the endless shouts and laughter and thudding of running feet and bodies slamming into walls in rough play. It was what I’d imagined a house of young men might be like.
This is also a house of wolves, and yet I could hear the proverbial pin drop.
“It’s much quieter than Trevelyan,” I say, mostly to break that deafening silence.
“Yes,” Edwin says. “You can expect peace and quiet for your visit. You may hear the men this evening, but they will all be out of doors, and they have been told we have guests and will attempt to keep the noise to a minimum.”
“Oh, I don’t mind noise,” I say. “I grew accustomed to it at Trevelyan.”
“The castle is always quiet,” he says. “The thick walls help with that.”
“How many wolves live in the castle?” Julius asks.
Edwin’s lips twitch in a smile. “Wolves? No, we ask that all transformations be done in the forest.” He lifts a hand. “I know what you mean. I’ve heard the word is widely used in other Packs. We simply call them men. As for the castle, it’s reserved for the use of the family and the inner circle.”
I try not to gape around at the endless corridors with equally endless doors.
Stop judging. Stop comparing it to the Albion Pack.
The majority of these rooms are probably communal when the wolves aren’t at work.
Just like at Trevelyan, where the massive main floor was all communal space.
A library. A billiards room. The main dining hall and a smaller breakfast nook.
Multiple sitting rooms. If you have nearly four dozen men here, you need spaces for them beyond sleeping quarters.
That’s what most of this castle must be.
“There is a guest wing,” Edwin says. “Three bedrooms and a sitting area. It’s cozier than you might expect in a castle, but most living areas are small, which was historically useful for heating purposes.”
Julius engages in a bit of small talk on that—the challenges of castle life—and then, as we reach our wing, he says, “We won’t wander, of course, but might we know who we could meet, if we are out?
You said the inner circle have rooms here?
Advisor, controller, and enforcer? You have two enforcers, yes? ”
“We do. One attends my father at all times, and one stays outside the castle and watches over the men. With all the men, it’s like having a small village and it helps to have someone to keep the peace.” A tight smile. “A sheriff, if you will.”
“And the family? Three sons and your father, of course. Forgive our ignorance, but are there grandsons as well?”
It’s a very innocent query, but Edwin’s jaw works before he masks it.
“I understand that happens in other Packs—sons sire grandsons to ensure succession. As you said, that is what Silas hoped for. But Silas had no sons of his own. My father has three, and so he has decided that grandsons would only muddy the waters, so to speak.”
Julius smiles. “Understandable. Silas’s situation was unique. All right then. We won’t take up more of your time.”
Edwin bows his head. “It is no bother. Your rooms are right up here. The lads will bring tea and coffee and a midmorning repast, and then your escorts will arrive to show you around.”