Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 14

She stood twisting it on her wrist now, stroking the gleaming, seamless band with a fingertip. The inner glow of happiness welled inside her as she re-read the simple engraving.

'To my Gemma, with my love: endless'

Then with her own contented sigh, she slid gently across the sheets to snuggle up to his back.

As she relaxed, Gemma's mind suddenly tensed against a melee of disturbing flashes of imagery from today. However, before they could fully surface the wolf within her surged up and pushed them back, hard, slamming a lid down on them: they needed to sleep first. Her mate needed to sleep.

His peaceful scent curled into her, melting through her.

Mac.

*

It was still dark when the cosy peace suddenly exploded. A peppering of conflicting sensations and images wrenched Gemma out of her dreams and she found herself springing to her feet in loup form before she was even awake, instinct pulling her in rage to leap across above the sluggishly stirring form of her mate, blood exploding to the boil before he surfaced.

Three unknown wolves, the leading edge of a much larger group, were diving silently from the open window to ambush her exhausted, sleeping wolfmate unawares. The first of his attackers swerved to avoid her, startled by the werewolf's sudden appearance from behind the bulk of the Mackeld, but the second merely twitched and altered course straight for her throat, clashing violently with her in mid-air, while a third swerved past the pair of them, teeth bared and angling for Mac's jugular.

The wolf within took control, and Gemma made no attempt to intervene. It seemed as though a fire was in her veins, guiding her with eerie fluency to feint, dodge and block her deadly attacker for much longer than she thought possible. However, she was bewilderingly aware of what she was doing; what the wolf within her was doing with her limbs. Their limbs. It hadn't blanked her out.

She felt oddly detached, as though she was just watching the wereem spinning desperately around the room, dancing again and again out of reach of the deadly claws and teeth, watching an actor in a fascinating film. She didn't know she could do this. Her attacker was far more skilled, she was slowly losing blood from the heavy tears he made in her limbs, losing speed. She could feel the fire of the wounds distantly through a cloud of detachment while again and again she managed to evade or deflect that killing strike. But it was a distant pain.

She knew she couldn't keep this up much longer; her breath was heaving in pants, limbs slowing in pain and bloodloss.

However, her heart was beating calmly to the orchestra of snarls resounding from the bed, warmed by the faint speck of awareness of Mac in her mind. Despite being pounced on while down, despite the never-ending stream of wolves cascading in through the window, her mate was not out.

No great surprise.

She swerved too late backwards, feeling pain explode in her head as claws speared into her neck, holding her, lifting her. She saw the vicious teeth descending lightening fast to tear out her throat, then blinked as her attacker suddenly wrenched his gaze downward on a furious growl, slashing his other claw below her vision, and ripping up into her sight a small brown mongrel, before he drop-kicked the dog vindictively across the room.

Her enemy then spun back to Gemma, still held suspended in the air by the throttling, searing grip in her throat. She raked her back claws at him just as Hakan burst through the door. Her bodyguard crashed into her attacker while the lycan spun to meet him, flinging the wereem clear, and the warriors rolled together in a deadly, unchecked battle across the carpet, slamming into the wardrobe.

Gemma blinked at the two wolves engaging, a momentary lifting of her concentration bringing a flash of awareness of the flurry of snarls around the house, recognition of the newly arriving Whites leaping on further enemy wolves both in and outside, down and upstairs. The deluge of attackers through the window had stopped.

Meanwhile her own internal wolf twisted without thought and clamped her jaws around the ankle of one of the flurry of attackers piling against the bed, surrounding and trying to overwhelm her mate.

The enemy wolf spun impossibly fast, and he clamped his left claw deeply into her already painful neck and shoulder to twist her grip loose effortlessly. He lifted one leg to rake his sharp claws across her torso and she fell onto her back, trying desperately to pull him down with her slight weight, arms protectively around her head but refusing to release the grip of her jaws on his ankle while his teeth ripped agonisingly through her arm in a painful counterattack.

Suddenly the limb in her mouth flopped as a dead weight, and the bulk of her opponent crashed to the carpet beside her. Blinking the blood out of her eyes, licking it off her nose, Gemma lay still against the body, breath heaving, watching her mate through the fur of the lycan he had just killed for her. She coughed the hairs out of her mouth disgustedly, the deep bites and claw-marks in her limbs flaming into searing pain as that eerie detachment subsided again.

Mac didn't need any assistance. Gemma felt a little shimmer of awe warming her, despite the pain of her wounds, as she watched the tawny figure cutting a deadly swathe through the score of lycans who were desperately trying to down him. He was so graceful.

Well, when she had first looked there had been about twenty enemies left around him. There were less than ten, no, seven or so still moving now. No, five. Four.

Then Mac winced above her, panting harshly, eyes seeming to briefly lose focus. A split second later the black gaze flared and he spun and tore down another opponent, flinging the body across the room even as he shuddered to a halt a second time. Gemma lay panting, watching his flaming, distant eyes as he twisted again on a jerk to face his last three attackers.

She winced herself, hearing a distant howl resonating inside her mate's head, hearing the sounds of battle throughout the house, seeing him hesitate, his mind pulsing with a searing pain as he halted again. The three leapt on him, and Gemma was back on her feet, the wolf within firing back to the front of her mind.

But Mac, even on autopilot, was unstoppable. His mind was a burst of searing pain, she could feel the Mackelds pulling at him - why now? -hauling from the opposite direction to the White meld he was already locked in. He had braced himself, holding himself back and just communicating with his distant pack when suddenly that second, all-out call had slammed through him and he was now being torn apart by the seething, opposing forces of both melds. The Mackelds were under full attack.

She had never felt this edge of pain, desperation almost raging through him as thoughts pulled from all directions and he swayed, fighting to keep his mind clear enough to also defend himself while still maintaining the links with both packs enough to sustain his wolves.

Mac' eyes snapped back to dull semi-focus as the three enemy fighters descended on him and he raked a clawed fist across the throat of one of his attackers, killing her instantly while he spun to dodge the two others, without thought.

His mind was swiftly reburied under an avalanche of desperate calls from all directions, even as he spun. Gemma was shaking just in the edge of the torrent of conveyance bombarding her mate. She tried to field some, tried to answer the cries from the beleaguered, battling Whites but half the time their thoughts flickered past faster than she could catch, and those she did catch were sickening, bewildering mid-attack alerts and awarenesses she didn't understand, or couldn't react to fast enough. She hesitated, and Mac pushed her urgently out of the way with his mind, snapping at her to stay out of it.

Blood in her mouth. Her teeth were clenched into the shoulder of the wolf who was diving past her to kill her beleaguered mate, slowing his trajectory, and the next second the attacker was lying dead across her while Mac wrenched his teeth back out of his neck. Gemma shrugged the body aside and crouched at her mate's feet, chest heaving, lungs panting for breath after that mad, unthinking leap while her Alpha trembled above her, eyes again unfocused. Her wolf within had reacted again without thought, engaging her mate's attacker while he was focused elsewhere, giving him that split second he needed to return to himself.

She could do this.

Gemma kept a steady eye on the final, huge opponent. His proud face was unreadable, but she thought that she could read in his stance, in his hesitation, wary reluctance to approach closer, despite the glazed look in the eyes of the shuddering Alpha.

Then suddenly another, different scream wracked Mac's mind, the cry rebounding on her also just as the attacker pounced, succeeding in clamping his jaws around the neck of the Mackeld from the side while Mac faltered in the shattering pain, and Gemma leapt too late to intercept.

Natasha. She could feel the agony tearing at her mate, leaching him with unbearable loss, sucking him dry, but it was internal pain, and she impatiently speared through his connection with her own mind, driven by rocketing fury and indignation that this was so unfair, grabbed, yanked it off him and wrapped it tightly inside her own thoughts, slamming down a resolute, rock-solid barrier to block it off from her overstressed mate. Taking it on herself.

Her mind seemed to explode in pain. Searing, swelling, unbearable.

It was hauling at her, hauling her slowly, inexorably toward the end. To let go. Let go of this unbearable, unstoppable excruciating drag. Dragging her to the end of feeling. The edge of life. Blessed oblivion. This was too much. Let it end. Let it end. The pleading to just let go echoed strangely, pleading from the tortured wolf she was distantly, desperately clinging to, pleading bloated by the pain.

But the searing pain was punctured briefly with a faint, fiery echo ricocheting past the anguish to spear her with an adamant, burning spark of defiance, also from the tortured wolf. Don't let him win. If she let go, he had won. The pain could not win. Gemma braced with all her might, agony redoubling at the effort, straining to prevent the drag but she was dissolving in the pain, losing way, losing strength, resolve.

And then Mac lifted it off her, nipping the connection out of her reach with a power she had no hope of counteracting, slamming an echo of fierce strength from the pack meld back along the line of pain. Trembling, almost retching sobs, Gemma collapsed against his shuddering form and felt it all stop as a soft shield cradled her mind.

Mac's limbs heaved as he shoved the last of the bodies off the bed, and he folded down to lie beside her, around her, lifting her off the sticky mattress, cuddling her against his chest, panting harsh breaths in time with her sobs.

The night was still.

Mac was still, his mind calm. No Mackelds; no Whites; no Natasha. What had happened?

"Don't do that again, picchu," he said softly. She knew he meant the last, helping his adopted little sister. Unceasing tears swam from Gemma's eyes at the rawness of his betrothed's pain, it was burned into her mind. Together with the indomitability of the exhausted, embattled sjeste's enduring defiance of Grey. Still. After all this time. More tears flowed as she recognised the long, solidary fight, respect steeping through her reluctant heart.

"It is too much for you yet," her mate added, his tongue licking gently over the deep, sore bite on her muzzle, healing her, and she felt him snuffle a little kiss on the tip of her nose when she shifted human to a nudge of his mind.

He rolled over to sit up cross-legged, pulling her onto his lap to allow him access to her other wounds, tongue brushing lightly, lovingly.

Gemma drooped in a huddle across his folded legs, the tears still running silently down her cheeks, her throat choked. Natasha Vanilchov - it was too much for her either. Too much for anyone, solo. So much pain. Her heart was keening inside her. Natasha needed Mac.

Mackeld, she heard the Wolflord call her mate peremptorily, voice harsh with power, and Mac stiffened, lifting his head, his eyes abruptly losing focus again.

Gemma opened her own wet eyes and sat up to keep guard over him. But her brain caught up with her nose just as she did so. It was unnecessary.

They were surrounded by the rest of the Whites, wolves packed densely around the room, more stretching out of sight in the corridor, on the stairs, the other floors. Her heart skipped a beat as her mind pulsed with the awareness - there were so many of them. She never saw them all together, but now that they were here, they barely fitted into the house. This was not a small pack any longer.

The Alpha had been busy.

Her eyes travelled over the senior wolves, the ones who she knew best, who were ringing the bed. Their flanks were still heaving from their mad sprint back through the city to aid their Alpha and Alfamme, and the subsequent brief, vicious fight in and around the house. The ring of eyes were shining back at her, staring in disbelieving awe at the mounded heaps of torn wolf bodies strewn around the bed. Gleaming eyes were flickering back and forth between the dead and their Alphas, counting the numbers in increasing, amazed pride.

Don't blame me, thought Gemma faintly, incredulously, as she avoided meeting the stunned looks from around the room. She looked down instead and scratched at the itching patch on her human wrist. All I did was to distract a couple of them to give Mac a few extra seconds.

A smile warmed Hakan's face, and he shook his head, pausing in licking clean a new, healing tear on his forearm. His only other visible wound was the small, round hole on his abdomen where Grey's silver bullet had burned an entry into him last night.

"Idiot," he snorted. "You can't take on a fully trained koiru yet." But his fingers flickered, heart to lips, in the fleeting, reverent salute of wolf to Alpha as his eyes met hers, while Soledad handed her Mac's discarded shirt.

What a surprise - she was naked.

"I can take one on," retorted Gemma, her face hidden in the brushed cotton she had pulled over her head. Her stomach was squirming at the undeserved sign of respect, and her cheeks a little red. "Just so long as someone else takes him off me again, quickly."

She wrinkled her nose at her chief bodyguard as she emerged, smiling, and added, "Thanks."

A chuckled rolled around the watching pack.

Mac was shuddering, head down, and Gemma could feel him communicating with several others at a distance, a kind of council. She looked up at him, the little bubble of contentment purring despite her burning, healing limbs. Her mate looked - refreshed. Alert, angry, covered in blood and sweat, but fully energized. The burn off his skin was exhilarating.

Then she paused as her eyes travelled around the room again and lighted on the brown fur of the small dead dog lying in an ungainly heap hanging half-off the chest-of-drawers, sprawled amid a shattered mash of small dishes. A puzzled, distressed expression creased between her eyebrows.

"The dogs defended the house as best they could, until we arrived," Hakan explained softly, following her gaze past his packmates to the small brown scrap. "This one must have been small enough to hitch a ride in through the window with one of the attackers." His fingers flickered, tapping his heart and then holding his palm out to the small, deflated scrap of fur.

"Bravely done," he added softly, "They are as loyal as we - more loyal than some. She died defending her Alfamme." A respectful murmur rang through the ring of powerful wolves.

Gemma's head sank, and she stared at the carpet, eyes burning. But the crumpled body by the door was etched into her mind, and the tears welled. Whenever she tried to help, whenever she interfered, she made things worse.

After a long, silent pause Mac raised his head, eyes on fire and lip lifting to the words in his head. The ring of Whites now waited silently, some still licking or wiping an astringent liquid over wounds, while Hakan took a silent poll of injuries, and enemies killed. Eyebrows climbed around the room with the increasing tally: whoever the attackers were, they had been determined not to underestimate the deadly skill of the Mackeld.

Yet they had. The fierce pride in the room was almost tangible.

Finally the Alpha drew in a long breath, eyes refocusing, and he straightened where he sat, surveying his wolves. His audience stilled completely, facing him in alert silence.

"This was a coordinated assault," Mac began abruptly, softly. "I was not the only Alpha attacked by scentless wolves tonight." His eyes flickered towards Gemma, there was something in them that she couldn't interpret. "We have lost three."

The ring of listeners held their breath.

"O'Connell was overwhelmed while hunting his own range." An unsteady breath was drawn in, but the stance of the watchers remained alert, quivering as they waited for the rest.

Mac's voice grew softer, "Johnson, Silback, Evans, Kohn and Vanilchov were all attacked but fought off their aggressors." He drew a breath and continued steadily, "And the Wolflord was set upon by overwhelming numbers within Fort Amicable." An almost inaudible gasp rang through the small pack, Gemma could feel the sudden increase in tension as her own heart bounded. What?

But the Wolflord had called him just now, hadn't he?

Mac's body was trembling lightly as he continued, his voice harsh, but even, "Fealden was ambushed by guests within his own stronghold. They had masked their scent, and attacked him while he was grieving for his grandson." His voice wavered slightly as he continued softly, "Marsh and N'gula were killed defending him, before the majority of the attackers were torn to pieces."

Marsh? Gemma shuddered, feeling the pain in her mate. Marsh and Nigel. His old tutors.

"Who were they?" snarled one grizzled wolf, while Ada called, "And Fealden Wolflord?"

"The Wolflord lives," Mac answered, his voice ringing with a soft, implacable note. "Despite this cowardly, unprovoked, unlawful attack by Warlord Tzo and the Senshal Kiang-Lu with their retinues; despite his age, and his grief, the Fealden has once again confounded his attackers." His voice hardened, rising above the collective murmur of relief, outrage and shock, a ringing challenge to his next words, "While Lu was killed, Tzo escaped."

The Alpha paused, and his voice was grim: "This is no longer a territory dispute: we are at war. The Wolflord has dismissed the senshal, lifted the unjust DeadWolf from my mate, and he now calls all his wolves: Aster, Green and Southern."

Gemma was stunned. Can he do that?

We are now under military law. He can do as he wishes, on this continent.

The Alpha held up a hand, palm out, to quiet the discordant, howling note that circled the room from the pack.

His voice had softened again, slowed, and the wolves stilled to catch his explanation.

"A number of oddities are beginning to add up. The Mackeld and the Marsh packs have been reporting the thinning of numbers of Tzo's troops outside the Aster front line over the last month; we thought they had leave to return home while Tzo was under investigation," he explained, a finger from his left hand coming to point at the tip of the little finger of his right palm, which he held open, facing the pack.