Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 11

They both shared a spine-chilling, simultaneous thought: The meld was apparently the only thing that Grey had not been able to force on his pack. If he had...

Mac's mind was resonating with dread. There was something much worse here than that which had already been uncovered. Worse than even he had suspected. Something that struck at the very heart of wolf life, threatening all of his people. Threatening the freedom of every wolf.

They ran in silence.

Eventually, Mac calmed enough to answer Gemma's question obliquely, by explaining what had happened during the fight. The soft words inside her head were careful, his thoughts held rigidly under control:

Nigel has fought infinitely more often than I, and was melded with the wolves of the hunting pack. I was losing. And so -.

He paused, and she could feel him clamping down on a spike of rage and revulsion. They were terrified of the power I would wield over them, hated me inside their heads, but several of the senior ex-Greys melded with me anyway. So that I could defeat Nigel.

Mac halted again, and Gemma could feel his mind reverberating while he swallowed convulsively. She could not feel, see what he had seen, linked with the damaged wolves, her mate would not share this, but she could scent his deep, rippling distress.

Those from the time of the last Grey Alpha, those who remembered, they forced themselves to meld their shields into mine, and so lent me enough strength to outweigh the hunters.

Mac's mind was echoing in shock, he couldn't believe that the ex-Greys had done that. Had been able to bring themselves to do that. After all that Nicolas had done to them.

Gemma asked softly, awed, But they trusted you to let them go?

There was a moment of bleak silence, then: They have met me before. The older ones. Mac's mind was clipped, hiding deep anguish.

Gemma felt a rush of pride in her mate. But he clearly could not deal with this, so she dashed along a different train of thought, the meld - I thought wolves fought one on one?

Only during the defasio or mortefio, Gem. Otherwise wolves fight in packs.

So your pack - and his?

They are both too far away, his tone was easing slightly. I can communicate over this distance, but it requires very tight proximity to battle meld.

Gemma felt a surge of anger that he had issued that challenge solo, while ordering her to run. The anger was swiftly smothered by guilt at the thought of the Mackeld pack, bereft once again of their formidable Alpha in wartime. Because of her.

Mac drew in a sharp breath and halted beside her suddenly, turned human, and swept her up in a bear hug. Gemma found herself shifting human, crushed in his arms, hugging him back as hard as she could, feeling his blood pounding just under the surface of his skin, his heart shuddering. Her mate lifted her further and buried his head against her shoulder, face hidden in her hair while he breathed deeply, raggedly. Gemma soothed his scalp with softly massaging fingertips, crooning gentle whispers of how much she loved him.

His heartbeat slowed gradually.

"You're going to make one hell of an Alfamme, picchu," her mate murmured eventually into her skin. His face was dappled dusky shadows, eyes gleaming in the darkness when he lifted his head to look down at her. "Don't you worry about the pack, we are in a ceasefire. And the senshal are deeply suspicious of Tzo's use of Nick's scent-masking chemical, they will not be easing up on him for a while."

Mac tone turned distracted on the last words, his mind flickering with the worry over those weapons. Gemma ran the fingers of both hands back through his thick, tawny hair, pulling lightly to tilt his head so that she could look deeply into his eyes. She said seriously "Alfamme matches Alpha, Mac." Jeremy had used the phrase to Jasmine, and it seemed to resonate among the wolves. "Those deeply scarred warriors trusted you. They were able to bring themselves to open their minds, meld, give you that hold over them. My Alpha mate."

Mac smiled softly, slightly crookedly. In answer he conveyed a picture from his head, not something he had seen himself, but a relayed memory, a message sent by one of his impromptu ex-Grey meld just before he'd released them.

The memory was of this same valley bathed in golden sunlight. The watcher was focusing on a young wolf cub, she thought female, pouncing on a second cub out of a stand of thick meadow grass. Both of the sets of young eyes were alight with glee as the pair clashed with mock snarls and rolled across the sun-dappled grass in a playful fight. There was pride and hope in the bitter-edged determination of the protective watcher, and an overlay of thanks: The cubs would grow free of this shame.

"They fought with me. But they fought for you, my picchu."

The burning fury rose in Gemma and tears lodged in her throat, behind her eyes. Black flecks were dancing in her vision. She wanted to curl up and sob, rage for the damage done to the watching adult, mourn for the wary sourness of mistrust, fear and self-loathing that curled around even that golden picture. She wanted to attack someone. Not just anyone. Nicholas Grey.

Her mate snarled, low, in agreement.

Then he sighed, "But for now, Gem, we have to focus on the matter in hand. Nigel has been driven back, but I know him, he is a stubborn, proud bastard. And he's furious with me. He believes he is trying to free me from some lust-induced insanity, and was trying to convince me to give you up during our fight. No-one believes that a wolf can have a songmate who is a werewolf - yeah, right. I was probably equally furious that our best tracker is wasting time hunting us when Grey is still on the loose. But he has given up on finding Grey, there is no scent. Instead, to prove himself, Nigel will hunt us down. He will circle the ex-Greys and pick up our trail further on."

Mac read the somewhat bemused, questioning picture in Gemma's mind that had arisen at his words, and his mood lightened, distracted. Gemma was thinking of the pair of them, loups, sitting on a rock together, tails entwined, baying to the moon. Songmate?

"Not quite, picchu," he murmured with a hint of amusement. "There are many types of mate: a lovemate for a short-term relationship, lifemate or bondmate when permanently or officially joined, rutmate when the female is on heat."

Mac paused, then continued softly: "Songmate is the term for the wolf who makes your soul sing with happiness, mates with the rare bond so tight that not even silver can block it. No-one would expect a wolf to do anything less than fight to the death for his or her songmate."

His mind shimmered with the intense feeling behind the words. There was another moment of silence, and Gemma felt them welling up inside her. Her head sank back into the crook of his shoulder as she recognised the truth of the description, her heart - no, her soul singing to the warm echo of recognition in his head. Her songmate. Her wolf. Just as she was his.

They stood quietly together for a long moment, Gemma's legs wrapped loosely around Mac's waist, both sets of arms hugging tightly. Their heads were tucked into each other's necks, a stolen moment of peace on the moonlit hilltop.

Eventually, Mac sighed. His tone was gentle, sober when he conveyed the soft words: My picchu, the ex-Greys have just risked themselves, their already precarious autonomy and safety, to help us remain free. To honour it, we must use their gift wisely. Run with me.

Always, the reply melted out of Gemma's heart.

Mac lowered her to the ground, kissing her deeply before breaking away and dropping back into loup form. Gemma followed suit easily, then she broke into a trot beside her mate, pride and love lifting her tiredness, determination burning in her veins. She would honour their gift. Her wolf bounded against her, curling his tail around hers and stroking his head along her neck and cheek, rubbing affectionately against her for two short paces before they separated. They steadily notched up their speed until settling into a smooth, fast lope, racing through the trees in the moonlight side-by-side.

The Wolflord believes that you could be my songmate, Mac added quietly. He also believes that we owe you more than a vote of Deadwolf. Which is why we could fight our way free in the Fort: although he would not directly act against the majority vote of the senshal, the weight of his disapproval was smothering most of the wolves in the room. He is a sneaky bastard.

Gemma felt her heart lightening in hope. The feeling of rejection, the displacement of no longer being human, yet not being accepted by the wolves, eased faintly. She also felt a little tingle of pride in her veins as she realised that after all of Gus's training, she could run like this for several more hours. Minimum effort. She could run like a wolf.

Several more hours? If only!

The sun was well over the horizon two days later when Gemma stumbled wearily and rolled, strategically angling her course underneath a thick bush and collapsing in a heap, back pressed against the trunk. Seconds later, a tawny-furred, black-clawed fist reached in and clamped on one of her forepaws. She bit it viciously and Mac cursed softly as he dragged her out. He clouted her sharply on the head, hissing, "They are only hours behind us again, Gemma," and she let go.

Let me lie still! she snarled grumpily.

No, he growled back.

They couldn't get away, Gemma thought fatalistically. The world's best tracker was on their tail, and although the endless wilderness was now being broken by more and more frequent roads, they didn't stand a chance. Gemma had realised the truth of Jasmine's words about the petrochemical stench the first time they had sprinted across the asphalt, her empty stomach heaving at the stain of diesel on the surface. She had thought that Mac's plan might be to stow away in a car, but no way. There was no way out.

Mac nipped her smartly: Run. Angrily, wearily, she broke back into a stumbling lope.

And trust me, he added.

Mac wouldn't, couldn't tell her his plan. Early the day before yesterday, then again late yesterday evening, her mind had been gently read, and diverted by one of her mordeurs. Mac was pretty sure it had been the boy. Orders had stroked into her mind; gentle, insidious messages for her to look around carefully, cataloguing the view, especially the direction that they were running in, and then to run from Mac towards a landmark or the sun. She had obeyed without thinking, without even realising that the suggestions came from without.

Mac had attacked her both times, and her fear and anger at the relentless nips of his sharp teeth had pushed her into berserker rage, breaking her free of the hold on her mind as she had turned to chase her tormenter deeper into the wild forest. Her mate had only pinned her down and cajoled her back into calmness once he had felt the cub lose his hold on her, when they were outside the yip's short range. Mac told her that the cub was being driven around in a car, by those trying to locate them. How did Mac know? He wouldn't tell her. The cub could read her too easily.

Eugh, thought Gemma, revolted.

You're getting stronger by the hour, picchu, Mac reassured her. Give it a few weeks and you'll be able to break free of him anyway: all werewolves grow free of their mordeur eventually, and most mordeurs are Alphas, with much greater mental control than that obnoxious little creature.

Isn't that when I go totally insane? she snarled back at him tiredly. She was running again. Her pads were on fire. Her joints felt like they were disintegrating. Her head ached with tiredness. Her stomach was sour and trembling in sick emptiness. Bossy didn't even begin to cover the descriptions for Ulf-the-Implacable-Insufferable-Alpha-Mackeld currently seething through her head. Bossy, domineering, officious, overbearing, autocratic bastard of a dictator. She didn't care if he heard her.

Especially since I'm a female, like you said?

He'd said it way back when he'd first healed her. And she'd noted since that the only two feeble contenders for 'sane werewolf' in their legends were male.

I've been thinking about that, he replied, not in the least bothered by the stream of insults she kept conveying. So long as she kept running while she thought them. My guess is that wereem went insane more readily because they couldn't say no to sex. Even the few who weren't created as sex slaves would encourage anyone to mount them. And as their scent was Alfamme until they grew free of the shiele of their mordeur, almost any male would, given the chance. If the wereem wasn't naturally promiscuous, maybe it would have driven her mad. It seems to be what annoys you most, although there isn't a hope in hell of me letting another male get to you.

She knew that he was trying to distract her from the damn running. And she was partly distracted, but more by the slight hitch in his thoughts, which she was beginning to realise meant he was hiding something from her mid-sentence. Maybe she could find out what.

So male werewolves weren't so fuck-anything-that-moves? she asked.

Hell, yes, they too smelt Alpha, and had orgies of sjeste presenting to them. But I never heard of it bothering any of them.

Typical double standards.

But don't I smell of that disgusting little cub's shiele, not yours?

You still have not completed the change, picchu. Just as it takes time for the wolf shiele to overcome the human immune system and turn one, it then takes more time to totally eradicate the human. Your current scent is a mixture - your remaining human scent, the shiele of your mordeurs - including me, and the growing scent of your own wolf shiele.

She was still partially human?

Dammit, he had distracted her. But she had realised what he'd probably avoided sharing with her when mentioning wereem sex-slaves. Nastily, she sniped, So until I go insane, if that little slime orders me to, I'll roll over and open my legs even to his Dad?

Eugh. The memory of herself naked on her back underneath the aroused Nicholas Grey shivered revulsion through her tired brain for an instant. She wished she hadn't voiced that disgusting idea, but couldn't seem to stop griping at her mate.

Suddenly her whole being clenched in fear at the vicious scent which invaded her nose and she felt herself swung through the air to land forcefully back against a tree trunk, the clawed lycan hand at her throat tight and threatening, holding her suspended. She'd seen another wolf held by Mac in this pose, once, and now realised why that wolf had panicked as her feet scrabbled in the air, powerless. Her mate's scent was boiling with uncontrolled rage, and there was no hint of green in his eerily glowing, raging eyes.

His long teeth millimetres from her nose, he hissed into her face, "Until you can control yourself, Gemma, then I will fucking control you. There isn't a rabbit's chance in the ring - I will rip that pup apart if need be."

The shroud of black rage rising in Gemma's mind was smothered under the wave of intense relief which flooded through her suddenly, and she tasted the wild tang of him on her tongue as she spontaneously loup-kissed his nose in thanks. Until this moment she hadn't even recognised the deep fear lurking in her own mind and heart. Fear that the cub could make her do that. Mac's eyes blinked suddenly back to green, and then she was in his arms, lycan, and he was hugging her so tightly she could barely breathe.

"Oh Gem," he murmured against her hair. "Trust me. There is no way I would ever let him. I will look after you."

She kissed his throat, his collar bone, feeling the tears rising in her throat as she clenched them back.

The next second, he had dropped her back onto her feet and the Alpha loomed over her again. So fucking run, he glared, his teeth nearing her shoulder and she shied swiftly away, shifting loup and breaking back, impossibly, into a lope on all four throbbing paws.

Damn obnoxious, overbearing, outrageously bossy wolf!

Oooh, touchy, he responded.

Will you stop listening to every grouch I think?

Well, if you'd shield your thoughts, I could, he replied softly.

She slammed that thought back at him, and felt him wince slightly.

Got to stay awake.

Stay awake.

Easier ordered than done. Now that the black rage that he'd fucking given her another order had worn off, the shimmer of exhaustion at the corner of her vision kept closing in. So far the exhaustion had been beaten back by the damn command he'd conveyed before running off into the woods. To fetch her some clothes.

Stay here and stay awake.

Damn his bossiness.

Her eyes lit on the small black metal object lying beside her where she was slumped cross-legged on the grass, leaning back against a tree. Her shoulders were slowly sliding closer to the ground.

Stay awake.

Yeah, right.

Eyes almost horizontal, she recognised the shiny black back of his BlackBerry. He'd left her his phone. He'd mentioned it, something about it being safe, but she'd been too angry to listen. Angry because he'd been about to leave her behind.

Why did she have to stay awake again? - oh yeah, the obnoxious kid. Apparently her mordeur would be able to subtly nudge her to sleep-walk, but she'd still be asleep, and unaware of what she was doing. Mac would have no way of knowing that she was moving, if that happened. Any more than she would. So she had to stay awake.

The slight tingle of fear at the idea of what the kid could whisper in her sleeping brain drove back the fog of exhaustion, sharpening her tired mind. It made sense to stay awake. A languid hand reached down and picked up the phone. Gemma watched dopily. She was aware that it was her hand, but it didn't seem to be really attached to her.

They were close enough to some human place for Mac to run off shopping, so maybe there was a signal, and she could check her email. Try to spark some life into her brain.

There was something wrong with the world when the guy went clothes shopping and the girl was ordered to stay behind.

Five minutes later, Gemma was sitting bolt upright, quivering for a different reason, hunched over the small screen.

Finally, she thought. It felt like a rocket had exploded in her head. It was expanding, burning brighter, more fiercely, firing energy through her tired mind.

This was it.

She could kiss Craig, however irritating and pompous her somewhat unethical colleague was. Bless his probably overdue for a wash cotton socks.

All of the wolves had forbidden her to seek help from anyone else in searching out the ingredients for the scent-masking drug, too worried about the formula getting into the wrong hands. And she hadn't. This was something else, and a complete fluke.

Three months ago now, she had been snatched from her lab and taken to Marshmont, leaving in the laboratory fridge a set of unlabelled samples from her analysis of the cream which Mac had rubbed into her then-human back to leach out the silver. The samples had been thrown out by the time she'd gotten back, and she hadn't been surprised, it was lab policy. She'd just dismissed the matter from her mind.