Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 05a

The night was sill, calm, the faint shimmer of the moon dim in the sky as the pitch of night faded with the coming dawn. It was still difficult to clearly see any more than the faint outlines of the rolling hills around the hollow where the farm buildings nestled, and the dark shadow standing still as death beside the back door was indiscernible from the night.

Mac waited beside the dark gape of the doorway, motionless, his entire focus directing and channelling his wolves in the almost silent, furious battle going on inside the farm complex. One of the juniors behind him was shuddering slightly in tension, and Mac noted the lapse with the corner of here-and-now awareness that never entirely tuned out. Steady, he shot the order backward silently.

Finally, the awaited image flashed from Debbie, and Mac refocused on the black opening, poised. He seized and lifted the figure that came streaking out of the doorway before it had a chance to see him, then allowed the lycan to scream, as had most of his predecessors, before he silenced him and threw him to the crew behind. The alpha turned silently and slipped off around the building to the kitchen window, his shadows following.

The teeming seethe of images and cries in his mind were whirling, melding, dancing in their ceaseless pattern and he could feel his internal concentration balanced, braced against the melee, pulling in harmony on every fibre of his being to hold steady and sustain his calm, his control and clarity.

Mac directed Graeme over to the front door and himself took down the three lycans who tried to force a breakout through the kitchen, before moving on toward the garage, tightening the pattern of Mackeld warriors fighting inside to force the invaders back down to the ground floor. The mental images conveyed from his pack were melding into a seamless stream - Tzo's troop were making a stand, regrouping in the passageway between the living room and the garage as they didn't dare to break out of the building, knowing that the Mackeld was waiting somewhere in the dark outside.

The had heard what had happened to their packmates when they had attempted to run.

Mac halted his fighters while he conveyed the idea of yielding to the invaders, and got a silent Fuck You in response. Tzo was notoriously not at all lenient on the families of warriors who didn't fight to their last breath; there was no joy in living if your family died for it. Tzo wolves were allowed to retreat but not to surrender.

Live to kill his people another day? -- fuck that. Mac streaked through the garage and led the four poised Mackeld warriors in an abrupt charge down on the remaining eleven enemies braced in the passageway. As he leapt into the melee he could feel the burn of Will and Karl and Rebecca's exasperated fury in his mind, but he ignored the silent censure from his seconds. He had kept mainly out of the battle this far, but he was damned if he was going to send his wolves in against that formation while he hung back. So what if Tzo's fighters noticed that his skin was a bit grey, his frame gaunt, and his reflexes fractionally less fast than they should be. They wouldn't have time to convey anything back to their Alpha- he had the last bunch of them cornered now and was positively enjoying holding their entire focus.

The weak, early morning sun was gleaming on the slate roof of the old farmhouse by the time it had all quietened down. Will was rapidly cleaning and stitching closed a deep gash on Mac's left shoulder, grumbling to himself under his breath while his patient tilted back his stool and leaned tiredly on the mellow pine boards of the kitchen wall. Mac could feel his battle focus gently relaxing, the creeping guilt that always rose afterwards beginning to colour his mind. He tensed slightly as the pounding in his head from holding focus for so long began to bore into his skull, intensifying as he silently acknowledged and disengaged from each pack member in turn, assessing their wellbeing with each brief exchange, hiding his own. Yes, his responses were actually way too slow -- damned silver. He cracked open an eye.

The warm pine kitchen was a shambles, the splintered pieces of the smashed chairs and cupboards had been scraped messily into a corner to make space for the wounded, and the drying blood on the floor was mixed with flour, broken eggs, spilt wine and shards of glass. His wounded wolves were spaced around the walls, the least badly hurt standing quietly, while others occupied the remaining chairs or the long stone settle beside the doorway opposite him. Each was having pieces of shrapnel extracted, or bark antiseptic carefully coated onto various wounds, before the skin closed over and any contamination began to fester. Most were back in human form, slowing their bodies' healing in order to give the pack-mates tending to them more time to work.

However, three of the wounded were still lycan, leftover tension from the battle or the pain of their injuries not allowing them to relax enough to make the shift. Mac centred himself and conveyed to each of the three, the calm he had mastered over the years leaching into them with the quiet words he sent, settling them, and they in turn slowly shimmered to human, briefly meeting his gaze in thanks. He felt the wince in one of the minds he spoke to. Helen had never been in a battle before, never had to hold her focus so hard for so long, and it hurt. Many of the wolves moving quietly around the kitchen were frowning, the assorted grimaces twisting their features testimony that the piquant, the battle headache, was grating through their minds in the aftermath.

Then the slight shudder of an unsteady intake of pained breath drew Mac's eyes to the tableau in the centre of the room.

His cousin, Katherine Mackeld, was standing over the sturdy pine table with his sister Rebecca, tears rolling slowly down her face as they gently, silently cleaned and groomed the blood and dirt from her mate's body. The heavy lycan form seemed smaller and older in death, a quiet copy of a boisterous wolf. Katherine's youngest son had an arm around her shoulders, staring down at his father, expressionless, as his quiet, tired voice continued to describe the ambush in the middle of the night, then the ferocious retreat they'd fought while holding on for the Alpha to answer the distress call. Four of the ranch fighters had died in the failed ambush, and six more with his father Michael as they held the retreat, but they'd defended the stairway, with the non-warriors safe on the upper storey. There was quiet pride mixed with the pain in the hoarse young voice, and silence fell as he completed his report.

Mac tried to fully release his own focus, but a tenuous thread of tension held. There was nothing further he could do here. He could feel Karl out of sight, directing the rest of the crew, Mackelds from this ranch and the main Range quietly clearing up the signs of the battle throughout the rest of the complex. Damned scentless ambush -- Tzo was now using the stuff as well as the Grey, and he had to find out how they were masking scent. It had to be silver, there was no other block that effective. And as far as he knew, Mackeld pack was still the only target they used this weapon against. The Grey was cunning - the MacKeld-Grey feud was now so deep that the council would not credit the reports Mac had sent, and there was no point collecting any of the enemy fighters to try to prove the lack of scent again - by the time they were transported to the council centre, they would just smell of death. There was nothing he could do.

Tzo still hadn't won any major ground, yet. Mac checked all of the outer watchwolves across the Range, still uneasy. Something, somewhere was wrong, but he couldn't pinpoint it. All clear. All perfectly clear. Dammit, he was just spooked by what Gemma had told him before Michael's call. Relax, he ordered himself, mind skimming the whole circuit for a third time. Nothing. His smothered the tension and slowly felt his control sink, still not convinced that there was no longer the need to maintain it.

A distress call shot in with the lowering of his focus, and Mac winced at the jolt of panic rebounding in his mind at the conveyance. Will's hand gripped his uninjured shoulder hard and the doctor growled softly, "Whatever it is, you can't do any more right now, boss." The wolves in the room all glanced uneasily over at the grey, gaunt hulk of the Alpha, he could see the concern in their eyes, the fear for him. There was also a warm buzz of disbelieving, fear-tinged awe from his seconds - all that silver and their Alpha was still fighting.

Mac ignored them as he absorbed Sharon Fealman's message -- something was wrong at Marshmont. He sat up, abruptly alert. This was it. Her son James had managed to convey a panicked yelp to her hours ago, but she couldn't reach that far without Stephan to find out why, and Stephan had been in the fight at the ranch. She hadn't been able to breach Mac's battle focus to let him know. Yes, she'd conveyed to Peter but the Range second couldn't reach the cub either. It was too far.

Mac snapped his mind from the ranch kitchen, and tuned to the distant cub. As soon as he felt the Alpha contact his thoughts, James cringed with terrified apology, dropped, and rolled onto his back as shame and guilt raced through his mind, tangled with images of his pounce on Gemma, and the raging arousal still evident at the trace of her unforgettable, intoxicating scent. Mac's skin bristled tightly as his blood began to rage, while he absorbed the realisation and controlled his own arousal at the recognition of that doft. How the hell was that possible?

However it happened, it happened. He felt himself shift to lycan, trembling, but didn't even try to hold it, focussing on preventing the fury that washed through him from gaining mental control. Her Marsh guards must have scented it coming. Cool it. That won't help her. His skin was cold, tingling with the physical manifestation of a held-in snarl as he pulled himself back in, fighting his thoughts as they tried to tear free in rage. He'd been in battle focus since just after the call from Gemma. What if -- had someone caught his picchu? She was human. She couldn't withstand -- he'd torn her himself when he'd first taken her. Mac shook his head as he felt the howl rising, gritting his teeth and forcing down the rage. He focused back on the messenger.

The MacKeld cub was out of doors somewhere -- James was rolling on stubby, dry grass coated in pine needles, and Mac's mind followed the whelp's through a deluge of rapid thoughts and images. They were slinking back up the mountain to the Academy -- all three of the Mackeld trainees, illegally, and very dangerously, awol, as they'd been tracing the mating-hunt of his human for him, trying to stay out of the way of the exceedingly highly strung wolves chasing her. James' ear throbbed painfully, part of it had been torn away when they had run into one of the slower hunters; they'd bellied to him when he'd attacked, and he had let them go with a savage, snarled reprimand, before the hunter had refocused on Gemma's scent trail. Mac bristled at James' memory of the glazed, heated lust in Jerome Marsh's eyes, the growl rolling from in his throat.

Yet the cubs had still, later, circled back to trace Gemma's scent down to the stench of the main road, even more careful to remain well out of the way of the dangerous pack of hunters. They liked the human, her notes to them had made them laugh, especially those about Madam. Incongruously, into James' mind flashed the joyfully savoured memory of when he'd met Lee - the Marsh prime hunter, three-time winner of the NA Circuit- stalking up the stairs at Marshmont towards the fifth floor with a fluffy white polar bear toy clasped in one huge hand, his eyes darkly daring the cub to say anything. Mac smiled wryly, despite the rage and fear shuddering through him. That was his Gemma.

She'd better not be hurt.

James' mind was tumbling on; the cubs knew that the girl was the Alpha's -- they kind of thought of her as one of their own pack. When she'd gotten to the main road she must have found a lift in some vehicle, there was the scent of another human where her trail had disappeared, and the hunters had all headed northeast, following the roadway, in pursuit. Mac could feel the echo of awe in the cub's mind that a human girl had managed to evade the elite of the Marsh wolves that far. Mike and Tapio had caught up with her but she'd still gotten away from them, somehow. Wow.

Mac's blood was shuddering hot and cold through his veins. Yes, he knew how resourceful, how stubborn Gemma was, but she couldn't evade the rut for ever. Her blood would start to call her back -- the run was only the first stage. Let her be changed enough for the male rut doft to subdue her once she was caught, a small part of him prayed. Let her not be hurt. The majority of him hated the idea. She was his. He wanted to kill every one of the fuckers -- and he wanted her to fight.

She couldn't win.

He could feel the heat of fury rising in his throat again, and smothered it automatically. God, it was hard.

First things first. Mac forced his mind to focus again, to calm, and returned to the young wolf, writhing, throat vulnerable, on the edge of a pine forest hundreds of miles away, waiting for his punishment. Mac told him to be still, and listen, then in clipped words conveyed congratulations and deep thanks to the scared cub for his resourcefulness, both in rescuing Gemma from her idiotic escapade halfway down the Marshmont cliff -- he was going to have a few words with her -- and for leading the others in tracking her as far as they had, and conveying the knowledge back to their Alpha.

If he hadn't been in this damn fight , he'd have got the message a lot earlier.

James was still trembling, waiting, motionless on the ground. Mac surveyed him coldly, and then sighed. 'You are only fourteen, still striving to learn control,' he reminded the cub sternly, then directed him to Harrison's Ways to Survive in the Marshmont library, assuring him that the assault on the Alpha's human would be forgotten as soon as he'd mastered the exercises in the chapter on sexual restraint. Mac could feel the grateful fawn of relief echoing back at him as his focus splintered.

The control gained from those exercises would still give the cub no chance against alfamme mating doft, but it was a start. Hell, most alphas found it nearly impossible to withstand that scent. Dammit. The rage was getting harder to contain.

"Alfie!" Mac heard his brother's voice calling his private nickname through a fog of far-focus and rage -- the earlier calls had barely registered while he was tuned to James, but as he pulled fully back into himself, the sound was a full-volume worried bellow above his head.

"What?" he snarled back, the full weight of fury of knowing that he was probably already too late, that Gemma had probably already been caught, been torn and savaged by some damn uncaring, undisciplined soon-to-be-dead cur, rolling out in the word, and all movement in the kitchen shimmered to a breathless halt.

Karl's eyes were wary, worried, as he looked down at his Alpha, his older brother, absorbing the explosive level of anger simmering just below the surface in him. He murmured softly, "Whatever it is, you're already over-extended, too tired to ..." then broke off at the look on Mac's face. He sighed and changed tack and tone, "What do you want me to do, boss?"

"Finish up here," replied Mac tersely, swatting away Will's hand as it smeared a cream over the stitches on his knitting shoulder. "And get me fast transport to Huxley County." He sprang to his feet and turned past the doctor, flipping up his shirt to briefly bare the aching scar on his stomach, ignoring the hisses and gasps from his audience. "Will, you're going to have do whatever obnoxious stuff you have planned in the car." He ignored cries of protest from Will and Rebecca and his brother's sigh as he stepped over to the table, "And find me some speed."

Karl flitted out of the door and the room fell silent as the Alpha looked down at the body of his old ally, his friend and his father's before him, cold and motionless on the scrubbed pine boards. Mac traced a finger gently over the familiar, loved contours and touched the soft fur on his temple, drawing himself back into focus, collected, for the farewell that was deserved. "We'll win this somehow, Michael," he promised him softly, then lifted his head and met Katherine's eyes. For one moment, tightly controlled, he lowered his shields and conveyed to the widow the full weight of his feeling for her mate, wordlessly raging in shared sorrow the depth of his regret for this loss, this wolf, fiercely loyal, the kindest he had known.

Her head drooped as fresh tears ran silently down her cheeks, and she sighed a breathless, broken sob as she swayed on her feet. Then she stepped forward to lean into the hollow of his shoulder, face pressed into the cloth. Resting, seeking comfort. Sharing.

Mac's hand lifted and cradled her to him for a long moment.

There was a wet sheen of tears in Ben's eyes as he met Mac's over the top of his mother's head, and he blinked as he conveyed fiercely, 'Don't you leave us again.' Mac nodded in acknowledgement of the rebuke for the strain of his three year exile, as the lanky wolf teen turned his mother back within his embrace, and hugged her convulsively against him. She sighed, and shook her head, stepping back and straightening as she smiled at her son, wiping her eyes, before turning back to Mac again.

They smiled at each other, gently, sadly. Conveying shared emotions.

"May your hunt be successful, Alpha." Katherine said the words of the traditional farewell clearly, her smile filtering through tears, wavering as the phrase ended.

"May your ..." the words of the reply choked him, and Mac turned abruptly to the door, striding out to the car waiting on the gravelled driveway.

...

May your home be at peace.

'Look after them,' he conveyed fiercely to Karl.

'Look after yourself,' his brother replied equally fiercely, "Don't you dare drop alphaship back on me, you malingerer." Mac snorted as he slid onto the back seat beside Will, slumping back against the cool leather. God, he needed Gemma. She relaxed him, lifted his strain in this whole fucked-up, silently screaming war. A smile tugged at his mouth as he remembered her breathless teasing last night. Then abruptly his brows snapped to a frown as he recalled where she'd been at the time. Leaving her scent. In those rooms.

'Marsh,' he conveyed harshly as the car purred into motion, his fury at his warlord thundering through the far-reaching call. The silence echoed back. Marsh was focussed. Hunting.

*

Sorry all, it's nearly impossible to find the time to write in the summer holidays and Chapter 6 keeps being wrong and rewritten again and again just to help. Yesterday I changed the ending in my mind for about the fifth time, and am finally happy with it, but I haven't written it yet and we're just off on holiday so I'm posting the beginning as an extra intermission chapter 5a to let you know what's going on and that I haven't disappeared.

In answer to someone's question (sorry, not online to check who), I am almost half way through the whole plot so there should be between 12 and 15 chapters all in all. I promise not to stop until the end unless there is a signed petition from at least 100 of you begging me to please shut up. J