Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 02

Gemma curled herself carefully back among the bedcovers, eyes unfocussed on her book as she listened for the click of front door closing behind her parents. There. Gone. A morning alone. Well, almost. Her 19 year-old brother Adam had been left on nominal nurturing duty downstairs, but he was on his PS3, so unless she really shouted, this counted as alone. As good as. Good enough.

Time to think. It wasn't that she hadn't needed, didn't appreciate all their care, but there was never time, space to think over -. It wasn't something she could bear her parents watching her think about. Or listen to her dream about. So she'd blocked it all out, to the best of her ability - and she was quite impressed, somewhere, internally, how good the mind actually was at blocking things out.

Initially it had been a huge relief, not remembering, not dwelling on it. It wasn't that she didn't know what had happened - she thought - but the black and yellow warning "not now - do not enter" mental tape she'd stuck over the memories had worked, had held - mostly. Now the barrier was fraying, and the images and questions that shot through when she was unprepared were driving her nuts. Had that really happened? If it weren't for the wound on her neck and the other sore or raw spots, she'd begin to think she'd just imagined it all. Let's face it, she must have imagined it.

Lurid, ludicrous imagination? You should be ashamed of yourself, girl, she thought. A light tingle of unease down her spine followed her self-sarcasm. She suspected this was a bit too far-fetched even for her own fantasies. Suspected - that some of it was true. All?

She had denied rape to the police. And she hadn't appreciated the look in the female officer's eyes when she'd given the quick, nervous negative, but the assault charge had been bad enough to deal with. Gemma had had to describe that dark, elegant, predatory stranger she'd found in their flat to the authorities, and explain that Mac - it had been strangely hard to say his name - had been injured too. She hadn't mentioned a spear. Or asked if they'd found strange hairs on the rug.

And the weirdest thing was, for a split second when they initially asked how she'd got the wound on her neck, she honestly couldn't remember. Mind blank, she'd tried to find a reasonable reason. Neck? That hadn't been the centre of attention at the time, and it had all happened so fast. She'd thought she must have banged hard against something - it wasn't like she hadn't been - banging- hard-. She blushed, sitting alone huddled in her bedclothes. She still didn't really believe how good she remembered that feeling then, either, considering how that part of her had felt after.

Good? Good? Come off it - understatement of the century - it was-. She cut off her own thoughts.

Describing the stranger had been difficult, as the clearest things she could recall were the feral grace and that wild glitter in his eyes -- like in Mac's. Black eyes. Another memory that didn't make sense, Mac had green eyes, but she clearly remembered the hollow black glitter when he'd told her to go. Green usually, except when -, she slammed the mental brakes on again. She did this wearisomely often at the moment, especially around her parents. Better not to think about - stop it.

The cuts on her back and inner thigh, where the stranger had ripped her clothes off, they were healing fine. The police described them as knife wounds, but after thinking back through all the happenings of that night, Gemma had her doubts. She'd seen the claws on one huge paw only inches from her face, and they had looked fairly sharp and lethal. She shivered, and tucked the covers slightly closer around herself.

The unmentioned rawness at the mouth of her vagina was also easing, the pain not so noticeable now, the third day on. But although they'd asked her again, she still hadn't found a satisfactory explanation for the nastiest injury - the raw contusion on her neck. The doctor was pretending not to be worried, but after two days it had started to fester. And he was clearly a bit bothered that she 'couldn't remember' how she got it.

Gemma herself was a bit bothered - understatement again - remembering how she actually had got it. What she thought she did recall. The "real" version had come back to her immediately after she'd told the police that she wasn't sure what'd happened and had suggested that maybe she'd been hit with something.

Something with teeth. It's not like they'll believe me any better if I tell them what I do remember now.

No-one had commented that it could be a bite mark - it would've had to be a pretty ludicrously big dog to get his jaws that wide, and Gemma hadn't mentioned any - pets.

Enough. She shivered again.

It was all so ridiculous. Unlikely. Impossible. The police and the doctor and her mother had all spoken to her about counselling, but what was the point when the counsellor would clearly think she was a lunatic? Gemma wasn't absolutely sure she hadn't just been injected with some strange hallucinatory drug. The needle entry point could be hidden among the cuts and scratches - it was feasible. Much more feasible than the idea that -, her mind threw up the last, the clearest image. That white wolf on the hearthrug.

Hah! she scoffed inwardly. An uneasy, automatic reaction. As if.

But why wouldn't her neck heal? It wouldn't even close over, the nurse re-taped it every day and it looked and felt worse now than it had two days earlier - swollen, seeping, fiery red and aching, despite the palmful of antibiotics she was bolstered with every mealtime. The blood samples they'd rushed through had so far come up completely negative.

Should I tell them to look for werewolf saliva? How?

Gemma huddled deeper into the covers as she thought things through again, yet another fruitless search for sense, reason, rationale -- in the effort to hit upon what her reaction and response should be. She was so out of her depth here. She was staring blankly at her palms, trailing her inattentive gaze idly along the lines, her book dropping unnoticed to the floor.

What was she supposed to believe nowadays? That was what was most bothering her. Was it true? Was it all true, what she remembered? And the other legends - the stories about werewolves - about - victims - after. What about what happened to people bitten by werewolves -?

Despite huddling in her duvet, Gemma felt cold, with a deep inner tremor that wouldn't go away. It was impossible. But the whole thing was impossible. Was she going to become a danger to her family? To her friends? All humans? Did she need to leave, now, before it happened, to protect them from herself? And go where? Why the hell was she even thinking this?

What the hell had Mac done to her?

The image of him wouldn't be banished this time. Him trembling, straining, sculpted, growling "Go." Yeah, so the fact that I didn't go - does that mean it's all my fault it turned out my flatmate was a - a - werewolf-. Gemma snorted to herself in disbelief even as she stuttered over the word in her mind, and I've been bitten and think maybe I'm turning into a - rabid maniac? Hah. How come he wasn't a rabid maniac himself? Usually. I'm sure I'd have noticed if he disappeared once a month.

Stupid legends.

It was ironic. She could see that her mother couldn't voice her inward concern, her worry that Gemma might be pregnant. Gemma couldn't care less about that right now, but she felt some sympathy - she couldn't voice her own overriding concern either: that she might be becoming a bloody rabid werewolf. Her hand strayed to the aching sore on her neck. Fingers hovering protectively, millimetres above the fresh gauze. OK, yeah, so I kissed him. But I don't think the punishment fits the crime - the sex, yeah, that was down to me too. But this?

Hah. There's no chance your idiotic wolf fantasies are true. Don't get so hysterical, girl.

Yet this morning, when she'd woken abruptly, she had known her mother was outside the door before she even opened it. And she could smell her across the room. Alright, so her mother wore what she was beginning to realise was an overpowering floral perfume, but she'd never been knocked over by it from yards away before. An overactive imagination? Psychosomatic smell enhancement? What - if anything - was happening to her? It was all idiotic, but it was also driving her nuts. She had to keep the window open because of the smell of the carpet freshener, and it had never bothered her before. And the cold air from the window didn't seem to bother her much either. She hated this. It wasn't real. It couldn't be.

In some ways she wished she could talk to Mac. At least he could bloody explain. She wouldn't be shocking him with her questions - she hoped, or she truly was insane if she really had just imagined it all. Was that worse than the memories being true? But when she'd selected his number in her phone, she'd just stared at the picture on the screen: Mac grinning happily, flourishing her birthday cake, and then quietly closed the handset. No. She couldn't deal with him. No.

Green eyes in the photo, she'd noted absently, sadly.

This was why she felt so alone in her parent's home. In their care. Because this thing was separating her off from them. This thing in her. It might do so permanently if the legends were true and-- no, she bit the word at herself, savagely cutting off the thought.

But her mind kept circling back. Inevitably.

If the impossible was happening - if she was turning into - one of them - how long did it take? She'd had to know, and had looked up the next full moon on the internet. Two weeks. Did she have two weeks before she'd go insane? More insane than now, anyway. She suspected she was fairly nuts already the way her thoughts just kept spinning in her head.

The hairs on the back of her neck were prickling.

Scared of yourself already? Gemma thought sarcastically. Then slowly became aware that her attention wasn't entirely focussed inwards any longer. Something, something that was nothing to do with the self that she knew, was pulling it away.

Her heartbeat was picking up and skin starting to tingle. This new, unwanted, inhuman sense was telling her that something was coming. Outside.

Like, yeah, you now have extrasensory perception.

Edgily, annoyed at herself for being so - irrational - and despite her own, internal, sarcasm, Gemma lifted her head and scanned the hillside outside her bedroom window. Nothing.

Told you.

Her goosebumps weren't entirely laid by the empty view, however. She was feeling - anticipation? Eager anticipation? What on earth -?

See? she snapped at herself. This is what comes of sitting in your room brooding over idiocies. Frustrated, Gemma decided to go down and sneak herself the golden opportunity to make her own sandwich for the first time in three days, while Adam was preoccupied stealing cars or whatever on his machine. Normal life.

A feeling of tension started to filter into the anticipation. Fear -? What was this? Where was it coming from? What did it mean?

The tension was growing stronger; fear and happy anticipation, melding into an incomprehensible churn in her stomach.

Stop being such an idiot. It doesn't mean anything.

These new feelings were so annoying. It was like being two years old and first falling two feet out of a tree - the rush of gravity's pull, not knowing what it was, how to react, screaming, embarrassingly, for fear that it might be really bad. How did she judge what these stupid new instincts were shouting at her - was she just being hysterical? A minute ago they had been telling her to dance with joy. Now they were telling her to run. Run fast. That way. And dance with joy. She was quivering on the bed, trying to make sense of it, trying to hold herself still. She was being bludgeoned by a new bit of herself that she didn't understand, couldn't interpret, rationalise or control. She hated it, it wasn't her.

The fear ratcheted up another notch, making her muscles tense and sending her eyes darting, combing every inch of the opposite hillside. Her heart was beating faster, faster, but there was also a strange shimmer of - delight? - starting to quiver in her belly. What on earth was she thinking? Or not thinking, actually, just feeling, being, blindly?

Furious, she decided that this was stupid. She was letting her own thoughts terrify her, unnerve her, bewitch her. Sitting brooding on the bed. Shivering. Do something, she ordered herself.

"Adam!" she hollered abruptly, mouth dry. Pride had its place, but this wasn't it, she wanted her annoying little brother in here bugging her, teasing her, allaying all these irrationalities by being incorrigibly irritating. Normal. Human. Then a twinge of fear spiked at the thought of Adam in here too. What had she just let him in for?

The door opened, just as she caught a flash of movement in the trees at the top of the hill. Straining to see, Gemma lifted her chin off her knees, scowling out of the window. Then, sharply, her skin prickled to an urgent warning and her head snapped around to the figure in the doorway as that new awareness screamed a warning in her ear. The wrench shot a jolt of pain through the wound on her neck but she barely felt it as her eyes focussed on the figure in the doorway. Her heart stopped.

Lean, elegant, horrible. Him.

What the hell? What is he doing here? Why is he following me?

Then abruptly, rending her, Where was her brother? Panic overrode fear and Gemma's heart suddenly started pounding again, urgently. "Adam?" she questioned the intruder on a barely controlled breath of sound.

Her former attacker stepped into the room and closed the door softly behind himself, with a casual ease which made Gemma's fear ramp up further. The ripples of tension over her skin were almost shaking her, and her jaw clenched. She became angry at her own fear. Angry at him for causing it, and she unfolded swiftly, jerkily, to slide to the floor on the opposite side of the bed, trembling.

Ignoring the twinges in her abused flesh, she faced him in a fighting crouch. The fear was cold in her weak limbs, but she had clear control of it now. She knew she couldn't stop this guy, but that didn't mean she wouldn't try her damndest. And - what had he done to her little brother? The thought kept the fire of anger burning despite the clamminess of her skin.

"Adam?" she queried again, a hoarse sound through dry lips.

His voice was again soft, cultured, dispassionate, yet with a harsh edge, "The boy is asleep. I drugged his drink. I have no interest in him." She remembered the coldness from that night, 'I told you not to say no,' was all he'd said then. Well, I'm going to say no as clearly as I can, thought Gemma grimly, anger and pride straining through the fear. Cold knowledge on her skin. It wouldn't work.

"What is your interest in me?" her whisper shook, despite her best efforts, and the sick feeling of dread sank deeper into her stomach as she watched the intruder pace coolly around to the foot of the bed. Smoothly. That instinct to run had been so right. There was now only one corner between them and she didn't want, she really, really didn't want there to be less space between them than there was now. But he wasn't stopping, and the uncanny fluidity of his movements made the fear on her skin colder. The tight glitter of enjoyment in his expression as he watched her increasing tension was worse. This creature was just wrong, really wrong.

He smiled, baring his perfect teeth. It looked like a snarl with the complete lack of warmth in his eyes, and an uncontrollable shudder ran down Gemma's spine as she flinched backwards. The smile widened, a snake enjoying the mesmerised fear in its prey. Horrible.

"Let me show you what I want from you," he murmured with an inflection of dark anticipation, eyes gleaming as he advanced gently around the foot of the bed.

She could smell him, smell that horrible, tainted tang from that night, and hear his rapid, light, revolting breathing, feel the hot stir of it on her face as he stepped in, too close, and she found that, after all, she was unable to move. She was screaming invectives at herself inside her own head to shake herself out of the paralysis, but the look in his cold, glittering eyes overrode her mental orders, instinct warning her to stay still, very still. Frozen in revulsion and terror, she watched the gleam in his eyes deepen to an eerie glow, the light reflecting deep under the surface.

"I'm afraid I will have to hurt you a little," he continued, purring with pleasure, the crooked smile at the corner of his - its - mouth setting fear writhing in her belly. "But in time you will come to see that my satisfaction is of greater import than your pain." A tiny corner of Gemma's brain queried the strange cadence, the choice of period-drama words further unsettling in their incongruity. She was still also furious, behind her fear, that this bastard was enjoying this. That she was letting him enjoy this. That she couldn't seem to make herself do anything, couldn't move against her instincts, which were still screaming at her to stay still. Perfectly still. Prey still.

The predator was now smiling in deep pleasure as he watched the anger and rebellion within her struggle against the frozen terror. Perfect. He lifted a hand and slowly, delicately, picked open the top button on her soft cotton pyjama top. Watching her watch him. Her shivering increased and she felt a whimper rising in her throat.

Damnit, I may not be able to make myself move, but I am not going to let myself pathetically whimper at him.

"You have lovely, lush, breasts," he commented, eyeing them in detached assessment as they heaved against the material in time to her short, staccato pants. He smiled down into the fear in her face. "Excellent curves." Words, gaze crawling over her skin. This was wrong. So wrong. It wasn't her curves that were exciting him, it was her fear.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No, the word was whispering like a prayer, a mantra in her head. Frozen. She couldn't stop him. Couldn't fight, couldn't run, couldn't even seem to move, no matter what he was going to - No. Please, no. At least I liked Mac. He didn't want to hurt me. Unlike this sick - no. No. No. No. Bastard.

The whimper was rising against the back of her gritted teeth despite her fury, and she flinched slightly as he peeled apart the material to the next fastening. But she remained on the spot, glaring, unable to move her feet, as his hand drifted down to the second button. His smile widened further, stained teeth now clearly visible.

Tremors were lightly shaking Gemma's frame, and they increased as the second button was carefully undone. The eerie glow of vicious, vile, predatory enjoyment deepened in his eyes, and his excitement rang in the short, quick breaths that fouled her skin. She refused to stop glaring stubbornly through her immobility, but could feel the tears starting in her eyes. Damn him.