Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 17

However, was she a good enough shot to be sure of hitting foe, not friend? As Gemma glared across the gap, eyes narrowed in assessment, another remembered warning flitted into her mind: 'Wolves lead by example.' Mac's statement.

She dismissed it.

The thought returned, stubborn as the wolf who had shared it. Wolves lead by example: Did she want her pack to start going around shooting their enemies with silver bullets?

Gemma growled under her breath, and looked down at the gun in her hand. She would use it to protect her mate, as a last resort. He wouldn't thank her. She would still do it. She glanced at Mac, clawing through the enemies in front of them, and back at the weapon. She growled again, more loudly: she wouldn't be able to carry it, once she shifted loup, she'd drop it as sure as she still did any piece of clothing; the gun wasn't wrapped around her wrist. Now or never.

This growl has heavy with frustration, while Gemma emptied the clip into the solid wood floor under her feet. Half-way through, she realised the emerging shape resembled the outline of a love heart, and a rueful smile tilted the wereem's lips as she carefully finished her picture.

Little Gem, Warren's voice whispered privately in both Alphas' heads, the tone heavy with dread. The images Warren sent Mac and Gemma conveyed a double layer of meaning. Still cramped on the gantry underneath the distant lights, the faintest click had warned the watching warrior. After a moment of pondering, the wolf chemist had licked one finger, and was now holding the sensitive tip underneath one of the tiny holes perforating the pencil-sized pipe crossing the ceiling beside him. The jet of gas emanating silently from the line was tingling gently on his wet skin.

Simultaneously, his eyes were fixed on the hundreds of newly arrived Faulk wolves, far below. The rebellious ones. Slowly, the tense shoulders were relaxing, the enraged eyes turning dull, and they fell into fighting ranks, stepping cohesively to the insistent voice in their heads.

Gemma and Mac's eyes clashed, a single dread acknowledged between them: you could not force the meld upon even a drugged wolf. But if he or she was already melded? The fix had evidently been administered to all Faulk wolves, and the key was now dragging them into obedience, killing the rebellion Mac had provoked with the knowledge of what their Alfamme was.

We are out of antidote. Gemma's heart was in her throat.

And far outnumbered, my picchu, said Mac.

Gemma closed her eyes. She had had such a little time with her wolf. It wasn't fair.

I can give more blood, he offered.

That would kill him. Gemma's heart twisted in bittersweet love: Mac would prefer to die while giving them a possibility of success. But she shook her head, thankfully.

We haven't the time to make more. We have only minutes, not hours, against this force, she said.

There is more antidote, Jorgen's voice suddenly interrupted stridently, his conveyance painfully loud.

Gemma winced, while Mac grimaced and somehow tuned him quieter for them both while advising dryly, You're out of practice sending over distance, koiru.

Jorgen whispered almost inaudibly: What the hell do you think me and Ellen have been working on? The Alpha pair received an image of their scentless chemists hidden cramped side-by-side in the confines of the lab storeroom, filling lines of pea syringes with liquid.

More antidote.

Opal appeared at Mac's elbow, eyes ablaze with determination and fear.

If I can get to the mainframe, we could disable the dosing system, then replace this key with antidote, the small female faltered. If you will lead me there, my Alfamme. Opal's heart was pounding in dread - the tiny spaces terrified her. But they had to stop this.

Only intramuscular administration will work with the antidote, Gemma reminded her succinctly, absorbed in her thoughts.

And even if they freed them from the drug, the Faulk wolves would still be held by their Alfamme's meld. Gemma looked up at Mac, angrily: Why don't you just crash her?

His eyes were deep pools of quiet warning as he shared a private image, streamed by a solitary scout watching the local wolf airstrip, a few hours' run from the Faulk centre. Gemma's link with Ada was still broken, but through her mate she watched the White wolf look out over the thousands upon thousands of wolves amassed by the field, hearing her thoughts. Since midnight, the waif had been watching this army disgorge from several planes continuously flying in and leaving. A powerful, stocky wolf warrior stood unmoving at the side of the multitude, arms folded as he watched his troops form up in orderly ranks off the strip. Gemma's heart reeled: she recognised him, from Fort Amicable.

Warlord Tzo.

What is he doing here? the wereem demanded.

You said he hasn't the formula for the control drug? Mac replied obliquely.

Gemma almost started hyperventilating. No. The Tzo wasn't allowed to get it. Why the hell is he coming to get it now?

Mac's face twisted with anguish before he snapped it away, toward their foes, eyes burning in fury. Grey was the broker: Tzo didn't know who actually manufactured it, where to find the formulae, before - the Faulk was too cunning, he answered. But Tzo tracked me here, after I followed you. His army will be here by dawn. He evidently is tired of having the drugs doled out piecemeal, at no doubt extortionate prices.

Gemma stared at the back of her mate as he dove recklessly back into the fray, her heart faltering at the feeling he was smothering. Her Alpha had elected, against his Alpha judgement, to come here to rescue his songmate. The Tzo had followed him, to find the Faulk laboratories. Mac's people, their civilisation, the free choice of the wolf to circle, might be wiped out as a result.

What could she say? You can't crash the Faulk? she faltered.

We will need her wolves to stand any chance of holding the Tzo out - the majority have not been a party to this, Gem, do not deserve this taint. Yet if I crash their meld, they will be incapable of fighting again for some days. I will only do so as an absolute last resort. We need to defeat her, alone.

Her mate had conveyed the impression that Fealden Wolflord was also on his way, but with only one air transport, his progress would be so slow. The old Wolflord had teams working around the clock to create enough of Gemma's travel drug for his entire army, but in the meantime, only a few advance warriors were barrelling their way across the country on human transport.

Mac had to hold back the Tzo with the resources he had here. Or die.

He would rather die than fail.

*

Now! called Alan sharply, sending Gemma an image of the adversaries his small troop of fighters were facing in the packed confines of the corridor.

Not long after she and Opal had left the auditorium, with the increasing numbers of subjugated Faulk falling into ranks of unswerving attack under Madame Faulk's command, Mac had lead his forces out and split them up to harry the advancing enemy in small groups, holding the corridors for as long as they could as the Faulk tried to force their way through to the now disabled control room.

Gemma sprang out of the ventilation shaft behind the two lines of advancing Faulk, her wolf eyes narrowed on the route she had chosen, to keep it clear for her companions. She bounded forwards on a burst of lightening energy, swerving past the legs of their foes, slapping tiny bulb-injectors to each calf. In her periphery she noted with satisfaction that Simone and Mo were faster this time, almost managing to keep pace. Her attention was jerked fully ahead again. Despite the lack of scent to the stealth ambushers, the Faulk wolf in front had been alerted to her approach through his packmates and spun.

But she was too close to him when he swiped at her, he had misjudged both her speed and where she was aiming for. The warrior, like nearly all of them, wasn't expecting his new assailant to simply slap him on the calf as she bounded past, causing a sharp prick of negligible pain. The Faulk wolf completed his spin, dropping to a crouch to shear his rear claws after her but the wereem was already rolling underneath the leaping legs of the defensive wall of her allies, and sprang back to her feet in relative safety behind them, turning swiftly to watch with satisfaction as her two koiru also skidded to safety.

You can't keep doing this - they are becoming aware of your tactics, swore Mac, the last word cut short as his attention was yanked elsewhere.

Gemma gritted her teeth. It had taken her long enough to badger her mate into letting her lead this third ambush squad, only the awareness that they were losing, every wolf rebel having to do everything they could, swaying him at all. And then he had seen her run. He had seemed to calm down for a while, after that.

Gemma breathed out a raw breath, while Ellen ran up behind her, holding out a bag of replacement injectors.

"Here," the stockier female panted. "Lars, 'drea and that skinny Faulk have injected another two dozen too, but Lars was injured. The A says you need a break, to eat and change your tactics - this is getting too predictable. Walter and Shirley are bringing some food"

Gemma snorted. The A says. But she slanted an eye at her two panting packmates and noted the slightly drawn edge to their quivering frames. Sometimes, maybe, she should listen to the A.

Walter? she called the young wolf.

On my way. The Alfamme winced at the eager reply. Nearly all of the younger Little Gems bellowed while conveying over distance; how long was it going to take them to learn that they no longer had to shout?

She brooded, as she calculated how long it would take Walter to make it up here - the image he had flashed had showed him running past the lower cells. OK, the other two needed a break. They were slightly slower than she anyway, she worried about them. But meanwhile, every second passing, more of her wolves were under attack, being driven back by superior numbers. And Rupert's lot were really in trouble: Mini and Tate were both heavily injured.

Gemma sprang and caught the edge of the beam above her head, swinging to kick her legs easily up and delicately spear a hold with her rear claws, before spinning herself back into the void space so familiar to her.

Gemma! cursed Alan.

Wait for us! exclaimed Mo, leaping after her but falling back as his claws missed the tiny hold.

Back in five, she replied shortly to them both. If Walter gets here, don't eat it all, keep some for me.

*

When Gemma cautiously poked her head out of the broken vent above the laundry double doors, her breath was caught by the whirlwind of claws and teeth holding firm some twenty paces away down the corridor. Mac's tawny fur offset Natasha's ice-blonde beautifully, the colours blurring and blending together as they spun around each other in ceaseless, flawless music , holding back the Faulk. Mesmerised by the perfect choreography of their deadly war dance, Gemma watched for timeless seconds, spellbound. The pair were moving as one wolf, two parts of a whole. A memory glided into her mind, of Will Bancroft and his mate Rebecca working together silently, seamlessly, and breathtakingly swiftly to clean, staunch and heal an impossibly punctured Mackeld warrior back at the range. They had moved like this, as though one brain were directing all sets of blurringly fast limbs.

Gem? choked Rupert, blood splattering across his nose as he and Zoe fought to keep the corner clear where a pair of their injured packmates were curled, desperately licking across deep, mangled wounds, but too drained to heal with any speed.

A jolt shot through the wereem and, angry with herself, she shot unnoticed across the corridor, swinging back up into the main parallel vent to take her beyond the wall to where her koiru were struggling to stay alive. This was how she had developed the burst of speed which even Mac had to admit was faster than any wolf he had seen: her sprint as she had transitioned from vent to vent over the past months had kept her undetected by the Faulk guards.

Past the wall and down on the ground again, running, unease flashed across her skin and Gemma skidded silently to a halt just before the last corner leading to the double doors, behind which she could hear the desperate fight between her wolves and Faulk warriors.

Skin prickling, the wereem drew in a long, gasping breath through her half-open mouth. A fragment of metallic, rank scent teased at her nose. A pair of scent-masked wolves were poised, silent, just around the corner, this side of the doors.

Ambush.

Gemma's heart was thudding in despair. She couldn't take on two wolves. Not when they were waiting for whoever ran around that corner, not when they were ready. Mac was right, the Faulk wolves would know by now that the rebel ambushers were scent-masked too.

But Rupert's lot needed help!

I think you may have located Bikhal, Mac cautioned. No-one has seen him for some time, and it is unlike him to keep out of a fight - I wondered where the Louse had sent him.

Bikhal. The Faulk champion. No way.

Both of their hearts were keening, together. The Alpha pair could feel Rupert and Zoe shredding under the relentless onslaught. Arlene, Simone and Pete were running up the side corridor to join the main route behind Gemma, also coming to aid their packmates, but they had little more chance than she to get past the waiting ambush. Bikhal and who?

The Alpha made a decision. He detested it. But he had seen his mate run.

Can you lead the pair down here? Now, so that they will be beyond the turning before our other three reach the main corridor?

How the hell had Mac gotten down to the shower corridor already? Damn her wolf moved fast.

Gemma was already skidding around the last corner to the ambushers, rolling half on her side to slap her palm against the nearest ankle, pushing off in panic as the warrior pounced faster than she had thought possible.

Sharp claws scored lightly across her buttocks as she sprang away, to a pulse of fury from her mate: he had not meant her to try to inject them. RUN! The blast of conveyance punched her into full flight as she heard a second medley of claws screeching across the stone flags where her foot had pushed off a fraction of a second earlier.

The panic in her heart took wings, and tears were streaming from her eyes at the speed with which she was hurtling loup through the grey corridors. But she couldn't shake her pursuers, she didn't do sustained speed. Terror helped: the pounding footfalls closer, closer, the harsh pants seeming to breathe down her neck. Gemma's alarm congealed as the top of the stairs arrived too early; she tried too late to halt her all-out flight and ended up tripping down them in a breakneck roll. A dark shadow was soaring over her, sailing down the short flight, and her surging pulse burst her into another leap sideways around the corner as long claws raked deeply through her flank, shearing ribs.

She had lost one of her pursuers, only Bikhal was still with her.

Only.

Gemma's heart was thundering frantically as she sprinted on, trying to keep to her peak pace. Too much time had elapsed: the antidote must have kicked in by now, but there was no change in the intent behind her. This damn Faulk wolf was not coerced into his sadism.

Her breathing was becoming frothy.

Frothy with the panic in her veins? Gemma's mind was tumbling faster than her feet.

Then they both caught the hammer scent of the Alpha ahead, powering towards them.

With a screech of stone, her pursuer raked his claws deep into the wall to halt his headlong plunge, spun, and dove away back the way they had come.

Heart bursting in anger, Gemma spun and pounced, ripping her teeth across his exposed hamstring then snapping back out of his range. Too late. Claws raked excruciatingly through her nose and eye even as she yanked painfully away. Gemma blinked, unable to see past the blood pouring from her eyes and muzzle, swinging blind towards the burning-furious Alpha scent which burst upon them.

Safe.

She rolled into the corner of the wall and the floor, trying to keep from screaming at the agony in her head and ribs while the grunts of the combatants sounded behind her. The noise ceased. Then the frightened, angry scent descended, looming over her, and she heard a gruff, Hold still and keep that eye closed, before a rough tongue began to lick lightly over her nose.

She whined and licked her tongue out to swipe over his.

There was an angry grunt and the next second Mac's heavy weight flattened her into her corner and one palm was between her ears, holding her head immobile while he licked her head wound closed.

Will you never fucking do as you're told? he asked.

If it means I'm not allowed to kiss you? Duh, let me think, she said.

Once the pain of both wounds subsided, the heavy weight pressing her into the stone floor rearranged, and Mac's arms closed uncomfortably around her loup form. Gemma shifted to match him, spooning back into the curve of his hips, sighing in a happy moment of contentment.

"With all your runners' work, the Louse's meld is wavering," Mac growled in her ear.

Gemma felt a leap of hope in her veins, which swiftly died. "But she is still holding them. And we are nearly out of antidote," she replied.

"We need to shock her, personally. I believe they would then burst the meld, while her resolve wavers."

"Shock her?"

"Shock her into personal fear - some deep instinct, so her shield may vacillate. I have been considering options, but can't see the best way. There is only a slim chance it might work, because the self-before-pack instinct is trained out of an Alpha."

I somehow doubt that training really gelled with the Louse, Gemma thought caustically.

What didn't? Alan suddenly joined the conversation, and Gemma realised she had broadcast her sarcasm. She shared Mac's planning, asking her second what Louise Faulk's weakness was - arachnophobia? Small spaces? Perhaps -?

Disfigurement. Gemma was shocked by the venom behind Alan's terse interruption.

I will fling silver nitrate in her face, he declared. Nothing is more important to her than her own perfection. The rancour in his thoughts curdled in Gemma's mind

You cannot let him live that wish, picchu, Mac advised sombrely, privately. Revenge is a toxic weapon, the stain ineradicable. It is not a tool with which a wolf can build a road to true freedom.

Gemma agreed. You are holding the Faulk back from the lab, she reminded her second quietly. We need you there - they cannot be allowed to gain access to the remaining stocks.

The rebels hadn't been able to break through into the vault to destroy those drugs either, so now they had to guard the vaults from the Faulk.

I'll do it, then, cut in Andrea. The barbed eagerness motivating even this most gentle and sensible of her wolves sent a shiver down Gemma's spine, and her blood chilled further as a chorus of offers from other vehement volunteers bombarded her mind, each demanding she let them do it. Her pack all wanted revenge. Understandably.