PAWN AMONG WOLVES CH. 17

Muffled cries filtered through the double doors leading to the back of the balcony level of the auditorium: howls and the scents of thick, fresh blood and fear. The doors were slightly ajar.

On the short landing several yards ahead of Gemma, almost too swiftly for her to follow, Mac dove for the base of the entrance, twisting onto his back with a palm braced and extended over his head. As one hand slammed open the door, the other flashed blindingly quickly through the widening crack and bit into the raised, clawed foot of the leader of the wolves waiting to ambush them. His momentum sweeping him through the entrance on his back, Mac's shoulders heaved and he swung the enemy wolf in a vicious circle around the rest of the awaiting ring, the razor-sharp claws of his hapless scythe shearing through the ambush, sheeting blood.

Gemma didn't see what her mate did next. Up here, she had a clear view beyond to the events on the ground floor and her nose drew her eyes to what was happening below, near the stage entrance. The view shocked her into stillness. Nicolas Grey and Louise Faulk were standing side-by-side with their backs against the stage, a reception for ranks of chained wolf slaves who were being dragged in by several Faulk and Grey guards. Some of the chained wolves were fighting desperately. Others staggered in dazed, drugged. Either way, the efficient, indifferent claws of the Faulk and Nicolas Grey sheered through the jugular of each in turn, before the guards tossed the bodies onto a growing pile in front of the stage. A factory of slaughter - it was so efficient. Inhuman. Why?

Her heart jolted as her mate speared a savage conveyance into her head: the Louse and Grey were killing their imprisoned enemies, wolves who Gemma and Mac had hoped to free.

Rage surged in Gemma's throat, and she darted forward.

Firm hands grabbed her shoulders, and Warren hauled her back.

"No," the warrior hissed under his breath. "You insanely angry are manageable. He is not." The other four of her pack who Mac had ordered to guard her formed a tight-packed shield wall around her.

"I can't just -," spat Gemma, and then she broke off as a piercing yowl sounded from underneath the balcony. At the same time an echoing shout thundered in her head.

All warriors to me, Mac's incensed order reverberated through all her pack, together with a stark image of the slaughter in the room below. The conveyance was open, it was broadcast violently to all wolves within his range, judging from the winces creasing the faces of every wolf in the room - even the Louse flinched momentarily, and glanced up at the enraged Alpha slashing indomitably through the ranks on the balcony who were struggling to even slow his passage.

However, even as he called, Mac's mind was furrowed with doubt, racing through possibilities - why the hell this ostentatious showy killing? It would be simpler, quicker, to have the guards kill the dissidents in their cells. The reason, he feared, was to draw the rebels here, consolidate them for some sort of trap - what? He was dubious about calling them. Yet neither could he just leave the Faulk to her slaughter.

So he would just spring the trap and deal with whatever she flung at his wolves. Damn her. Damn Grey. They would regret this.

A flashing cloud of ash-blonde fur was fighting her way toward the stage below, leaping onto one of the guards who was dragging the next victim forward. Natasha was still limping, but lethal. At her back was the huge, feral-eyed bulk of the wolf who had been holding her wrists downstairs: the first wolf outside the Gems to receive the antidote. He was lumbering more stiffly than the lithe sjeste, limbs more accustomed to confinement than freedom, but no enemy came within his orbit and survived. The anger burning off the pair of them was hair-raising, even from this distance.

However, there were hundreds to Faulk wolves in the room; nearly all of the guards, all shifts, plus a small troop of Greys. The three Alpha warriors were struggling against the tide of such numbers, while the swift, brutal slaughter continued.

On Mac's call, the flickers of erratic thoughts from her pack had coalesced into one strong, coherent stream and Gemma could feel their rapid convergence on the auditorium, the pull of that command, together with the reason behind it, reeling them in effortlessly.

Moreover, the Gems had fewer opponents to fight through. The bludgeon of Mac's image of what was happening in here seemed to have floored many of the Faulk guards still fighting outside. Those who had not been selected for this duty - because they would not acquiesce with this?

Rupert burst in the doorway at the rear of the stalls, at the head of a swirling troop of furious Gems and their new allies. Seconds later Andrea and Mo leapt through the emergency exit to the right. The screams and snarls of killers and defenders escalated in a crescendo, driving the black rage higher in her head while Gemma struggled against the limbs holding her back, crying in anger.

Then a new wolf scent materialised beside her and Alan's voice snapped urgently in her ear as he slapped one hand over her eyes, the other over her mouth: "This isn't your anger. Separate yourself. One of you has to keep calm!" The scent of his vinegar-soaked fingers shocked Gemma back into reason with a shudder of revulsion, and she heaved a deep, repulsed breath as she apologetically withdrew the claws which had automatically risen to sink into Alan's arm.

Both of her second's hands lifted, and she and Alan stood side-by-side for a moment, watching the bloodbath below. The view was shocking, but not as frightening as the fury of the storm clouds scudding through her head.

Through Mac.

Her Alpha was furiously slaying his way toward the front of the balcony, directly above the murderous pair by the stage. What had happened to her Mac? His control had always been so calm, so deep, a still silent ocean which nothing had ruffled. Yet in an instant, witnessing this soulless killing had whipped the ocean into a colossal, destructive medley of emotions, howling in a grip of a hurricane. Gemma staggered where she stood, leaning back against a pillar as she felt her mate giving free reign to the tearing maelstrom of his killing rage, unleashing it, pulling all of the wolves in his battle meld to respond with the same ruthless drive while he led them into the vicious melee.

Gemma's own emotions steadied, pulling away from Mac's brutal will to retaliate. For a moment, she had been able to sense all of his wolves: both her tiny pack in the battle meld here, plus layer upon countless layer of wolves clinging from the outside. The tendrils of their vows were knotted in his mind, thousands of gossamer threads straining together to follow the spear thrusts of his searing commands. The depth and number of their knots was excruciating, smothering.

Resentment rose in Gemma as she had felt the deep-rooted, jangling pain caused by the innumerable thoughts clashing through Mac's mind. The pain of the constant tearing at him was feeding the collective fury, drowning him in bloodlust: his, and theirs.

Then a cold douche of fear followed as she realised: without those threads, Mac would be lost. Battle brought a wolf's most primitive emotions to the fore, and a wolf needed to be stable, strong, in order not to sink into berserk rage. Or he needed an even stronger Alpha to hold him in a steady meld. Her wolves trusted Mac to prevent them from breaking apart, yet gouged through the Aster Warlord himself, splitting him in two, was the loss of his mate.

Mac should be disintegrating under the primal urge driving him. He needed to let go, drop into the cold, lost paths his desolation had scored through his mind over the past months. The chasm was too deep to have healed; the fear was almost more unbearable now that he was at risk of losing her again.

Yet throughout numerous battles over the last months, her Alpha had been unable to completely submerge under his despair and anger. Then, as now, he had been incapable of dragging the massive weight of the thousands of filaments down with him into insanity - all those minds, all those wolves. Awash with pain, Mac had wavered several times on the brink. But he was an Alpha. He couldn't drag them all down with him.

Her Alpha.

Gemma could feel her renewed bond with him strengthening, her resolve hardening as she witnessed what drove this reckless savagery. Her mate was finding relief in killing, as he had done countless, countless times over the past months.

Sadness and anger churned through her, and Gemma leaned weakly on the pillar behind her.

He needed time and peace to heal. To bring him back to himself.

Mac, she called.

The effect was instantaneous.

As though seared with an electric shock, Mac suddenly kicked out of the destructive, avenging cycle with which he was leading yet one more battle meld. Reset, as though blinking in a strong light, his heart suddenly smoothed. The turbulent, crashing force of his rage was reeled in, contained, and then redirected in clear thrusts of thought, the power channelled and directed cleanly, and she could feel the answering tremor of awareness running through all of their pack. The impact of the battle meld had just multiplied with the clarity of their Alpha. No energy wasted in turbulent rage.

Stay with me, picchu. I will stay calm if you just - stay with me. Mac's mind was echoing in guilt and relief, deeply shaken. The rage was so enmeshed in him, he had not melded without it in so long, his battles were now all fought this way. Yet his mate had just reached through his shields as though they weren't there: no one could do that. No-one else had been able to even see the vicious emotion that had led them, all these months. But now - he was pulled back by the shame of what she had seen in him: his picchu.

Gemma sighed shakily, and looked up at Alan. "I will stay safe," she promised quietly, the knowledge shocking through her. She had to ensure her Alpha stayed centred; he loathed what he became now, in battle. She shared the promise with her mate. However, a wistful thought pulled at her: they were her pack, too.

I need an overview of the whole fight, Mac said. He was succinct by necessity as he caught a swell of urgent thoughts slinging at him. But Gemma melted in the emotion lacing the brief conveyance: Mac couldn't hide his relief - he was relying on her to hold him stable.

"Then I will join the fray, if you permit, my Alfamme," Alan responded formally, his sombre eyes empty of their usual sarcasm as he hovered beside her, quivering. Gemma nodded, and her second disappeared beyond her shield wall in moments.

The wereem glanced up at the banks of huge lights suspended in rows from the ceiling, and murmured to her bodyguards out of the corner of her mouth, "Any idea how to get up there?"

By the time they had scrambled as fast as they could up the access ladders onto the main gantry, the fight had changed.

Gemma lay flat on the mesh walkway, facing down, her five guards swiftly stationing themselves around her, each facing out in a different direction. Gemma linked with them and with Mac, feeling like an eagle, keenly observing every nuance of movement in the room below through six sets of eyes, holding an open stream of imagery for all of her pack.

They were in trouble: the trap had been sprung. With all of the rebels now centred here, more Faulk were pouring through the doors to the auditorium, the bulk of the main pack from above ground, reinforcements called in to separate and surround the 'invaders'. Only the superior speed, alertness and cohesive meld of the small band of rebels had kept them from yet being overwhelmed.

Plus Mac kept bludgeoning the reinforcement wolves with images of what had been happening in this hidden lair, which they hadn't even known existed. He seared into their heads graphic scenes of the murder which their Alfamme had been perpetrating only minutes earlier, punctuated with shattering stills of her ringmastering the warm-up acts at the Advent show, acts that Mac had endured while waiting for his mate's appearance. The Faulk kept trying to reinforce her meld shield, but she was not strong enough to hold Mac out and each time he punctured delicately through, they could all hear the Louse broadcasting screaming denials, warning her pack that they were being spooked by enemy propaganda.

Why didn't Mac just crash her?

There was revulsion and disbelief in the eyes of many of the Faulk. The arriving wolves couldn't deny the scents steeped into the room, and the blood of the victims lying beside the stage was smeared over the hands of their Alfamme, the chains of the fallen still looped through the lifeless heap.

Gemma watched several of the new Faulk wolves alternating between jerking into movement and staggering to a halt like characters in a badly streamed download. "What's going on?" she asked.

"They're fighting the meld," Simone answered gleefully.

"What?" said Gemma.

Warren explained: "When you cleave to an Alpha - the wolf is the one holding on. He or she can let go at any time, circle." Yeah. She could feel that. All of her wolves clinging onto her. Ow.

"Except when the Alpha melds them - expands his shield, pulls all the oaths together, into one huge shell, and it locks the oaths in place. You can't let go, not in the meld," explained Simone.

"But that lot want to," Warren said, pointing to the jerky puppets below. "They're trying to let go. No single wolf can break out of a battle meld, but if enough are fighting, all together, then the meld becomes unstable, and disintegrates."

"She's finding it hard to control them?" asked Gemma. "Is that why they stop and start?"

"You felt it, didn't you Alfamme? In the meld, we're all kind of - naked to you. Disobeying hurts, then; most of the time, it doesn't even occur to us," said Simone.

"Unanimis lupi," muttered Zeb, behind her. Whatever.

Gemma hadn't thought about it before, but when they had been running to the lab, fighting their way through the Faulk, she had never even thought of her wolves not doing as she wished, hadn't even really thought of them as them. Only us: her pack had followed her thoughts just as her arm or leg would have.

Her eyes were fixed on the jerky movements of the newly arrived Faulk wolves fighting the meld, she saw the shiver run through them each time her mate gently punctured the Faulk's shields with another disturbing image. How many rebels would it take to tip the balance?

Then a halo of fine, ash-blonde hair dancing far below drew Gemma's eyes off to one side. Natasha Vanilchov was alone in the centre left of the ground-floor seating, swirling unceasingly, holding back a raging tide of combatants, never still for a moment, leaping, lunging and dodging in deadly grace.

Gemma's eyes widened as she realised why the Vanilchov Alfamme seemed closer, spotlighted among the other wolves teeming below. She was fighting on the chair backs. Stunned, the wereem's gaze dropped to the flashing, slender legs - Tasha's feet were misted by a cloud of white fluff ripped from the upholstery as her rear claws bit into chairback after chairback while she danced effortlessly across the rows of seating among her enemies.

A stab of furious terror from her mate presaged the sight which Mac had feared as soon as Gemma had focussed on Tasha: Nicolas Grey, poised in his flight through one of the side doors near the fighting sjeste, was lifting his gun toward her prominent figure. Gemma heard a heavy, double-echo of Get down! hit the Vanilchov Alfamme just as a press of Faulk warriors surged forwards and forced the blonde to sway towards them, unaware of Grey levelling the weapon at her back.

Gem! Mac called, pulsing a frantic image. His mate found herself already diving head-first from her perch, his plan clear in her mind. The tight mesh of their thoughts held no room for doubt, and the distant floor beyond the balcony rail was not drawing her as urgently as his eyes. Then she flashed past him, Mac's hands locked around her ankles, and Gemma swooped in a wide arch, suspended upside down in his grip while her mate looped dizzyingly upside-down under a heavy-duty camera pole protruding from the balcony front, his rear claws locked together behind the strut. They were a beautiful pair of acrobats, perfectly choreographed, in complete harmony. When Gemma neared the nadir of their swing, the sharp blue eyes of the Vanilchov sjeste looked up as though to a sharp call, clashing with hers. Tasha leapt to meet Gemma, hands reaching like a small child for a parent.

It felt so right.

The wereem grabbed the Alfamme around the waist and with the force of hers and Mac's combined momentum, half-swung, half-flung her, claws outstretched, across the gap into the face of her startled enemy. Nick stumbled backward, his head snapping up from the sights of the gun he had been focussing along, face turning white.

Complete harmony. Of all of Grey's victims, one stood out. This kill was Tasha's.

Mac had already let go and was somersaulting upright, flipping his mate above him and spinning her so that she landed breathless on one of his shoulders just as his legs absorbed their momentum as they hit the carpeted floor, one of his hands swiping out to swat away the closest enemy wolf at the same time.

Gemma had twisted automatically to look over her shoulder at where the Vanilchov sjeste had landed on Nicholas Grey, leaving her own safety to Mac. Natasha's limbs were whirling almost faster than Gemma could follow, her opponent shadowing in hurried defence: a rake to the neck - blocked; spinning kick - blocked; drop and spring upward back inside his defence, led by a lethal, outstretched hand - Gemma's heart jolted as she watched Nick slam backwards with blood suddenly spurting from his throat, then jerk a second time as he fell, punctured in the chest by five razor-claws, his legs folding like wet cardboard.

Damn. In the end, it had been so fast.

The wereem's eyes rested stunned on the limp figure of the dark-haired, elegantly dressed bane of her last year, lying sprawled on the floor underneath his former victim. Tasha was already tearing into the Grey wolves still centred around their late leader, her fury seemingly unabated.

But Gemma couldn't drag her eyes away from the ungainly sprawl of stilled limbs. Was that it?

Then the wereem's eyes flashed angrily as one of the Grey wolves reached for the dropped gun. A heartbeat later, Tasha's slender foot lashed out in a kick, and brown gaze met blue again on a second moment of clear understanding as the gun flew unerringly through the air towards where Gemma was still sitting on her mate's shoulder. She lunged to catch it, slipping from her perch, and was grabbed and swung around Mac to land lightly on her own two feet among the members of her pack who had run up beside him. A horde of enemies was closing in on them.

Gemma's eyes, burning with a cold light, were drawn beyond, to where Madam Faulk was fighting by the stage. Adam's mordeuse. The gun was heavy in her hand, and she barely noticed as the ring of wolves standing protectively around her engaged.

'No wolf would use silver on another,' her memory of the Silback Alpha's accusation whispered.

She was not a wolf.

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.

No, she overruled them all. Yes, she also wanted revenge on her brother's mordeuse, but not like this. Yet Alan was right - the deepest, most abiding emotion shown by the otherwise chillingly detached Faulk Alfamme was self-adoration. Gemma was almost deafened by the strident arguments rising from her pack, barks slammed at her from all sides during short gasps for breath as her warriors fought desperately in the tight corridors.

No, she repeated more forcefully.

'Silver corrupts both foe and kin', growled her mate in agreement, reinforcing her conveyance as he rose swiftly to his feet, pulling his mate up after him, and the dissidence subsided with a few grumbles. The resentment in Gemma's pack's thoughts was edged with a faint tingle of relief and shame, coloured by pride. It took a strong Alpha pair to overrule the whole pack. They needed a strong Alpha pair. They had them.

Mac drew their private shield tight, quivering with the need to run back to the aid of their beleaguered warriors, and suggested an amended plan to Gemma. It required someone small, with an incredible burst of speed, so she would be best to do it if she promised not to get too close.

Gemma's head ached. She lay in the broken duct looking down at the Faulk, trying to still her breathing, trying to see an opening. Her mate was so closely melded to her that she couldn't feel the seam, and she waited, trusting him to spot the moment and move her limbs. This had been the only way to get close enough.

The look in the Faulk Alfamme's eyes was clinical as she coldly commanded her troops closing in on the laboratory stores from the main corridor. Louise Faulk joined in the fight herself at times, but desultorily, cutting down any stray member of the motley group of rebel allies without actually putting herself out at all. Madam led from behind.

Mac was down in the lowest level defending the top security cells from the poisonous gas attack which the Faulk wolves kept trying to flood into the small area to wipe out the powerful wolves still imprisoned there. Opal hadn't yet been able to break the codes to open the cells, and the doors had naturally withstood claws and teeth. But the Mackeld was ensuring that the enemy couldn't reach them either, to kill the inmates - the in-cell vents had been disabled with the dosing system, but the Faulk were still trying to break through with mobile canisters.

Her mate had explained twitchily that he would have to stay distant - the Faulk would be too wary, if he was within scent range. Gemma had soothed him, reminding him just how seamlessly they had melded last time. He had pretended to be soothed.

Her mind open, Gemma was almost startled when suddenly she dove from the gaping vent. Three springing bounds from leg to leg wove her beyond the two foes standing guard by their Alfamme, the enemy too slow to react to the scentless werewolf in their midst, and she was facing the angry, sneering face of Madam, heart steady.

Gemma flung the contents of the glass laboratory beaker she was holding straight into her enemy's startled expression.

As Gemma leapt away, Louise screamed, a shrill note of terror, and instead of lunging for the werewolf, frantically swiped the liquid off her face. Collective anger surged and Gemma felt a wince shudder through all the nearby Faulk wolves. Chaos descended in the tight pack beyond the Louse, Faulk fighting Faulk.

The Faulk battle meld had shattered.

Gemma skidded to a halt and spun back to watch as the dark Alpha allied to her and Mac charged past with a troop of scentless rebels. The Louse had stilled, her nose an inch from her wet hand, and she wasted a split second glaring at the wereem as realisation struck too late.

Did you see her face? Alan broadcast, sharing his glee with his delighted packmates. Brought down by a glass of water.

Brought down by her own corrupt mind, Andrea corrected with satisfaction.

The Louse turned and disappearing behind the small core of Faulk wolves still fighting to defend her.

*

Nearly an hour later, Gemma was massaging her scalp as she stumbled wearily around the last corner of the stairway down to the foyer in front of the main doors to the auditorium. The change in the atmosphere sweeping through the wolves packed underground was electric.

She was weaving through a tide of Faulk and ex-Greys. Their former enemies had nearly all circled to Mac and herself, those who hadn't had either been killed, or exiled, depending on their complicity. Now the warriors were regrouping, slightly dazed, eating the cold remains of the festive foods prepared for the show guests hours earlier, before wearily making their way out of the underground complex to take up positions along the Faulk centre perimeter wall and try to sleep as they awaited the arrival of Warlord Tzo with his army. Alan nodded politely to her as he passed at the back of the group of Faulk wolves who were grimacing slightly at the piquant headaches, looking shamefaced and slightly sad.

Gemma stared after him, startled and a little disturbed. Alan being formal was - unsettling.

Standing in the doorway at the back of the stalls, her eyes were distracted by the chaos of wolves teeming in all directions, and the piles of ungainly, unmoving shapes scattered around the vast room. One dark puddle of limbs slumped between the corner of wall and floor not far to her right was Nicholas Grey, the handsome face seeming to stare straight at her, incredulous at his own death.

He looked so small.

Her eyes lifted. She stiffened. A stream of fighters were evacuating through the far door by the stage. Standing just a little out of their way, a tall, tawny-haired figure was fiercely hugging a smaller figure to his chest. An untidy tangle of platinum blonde hair was just visible around the bulk of Mac's shoulders. Natasha was pressed as close as she could get in his protective arms, her face buried against his neck. They were both completely motionless, although the fierceness of the embrace made clear how strongly they felt.

A flash of rage shot through the wereem.

She stomped on it.

Natasha had been through hell. Gemma was planning on hugging her own brother later. Grow up, she admonished herself. He is just offering her comfort.

After a long, silent moment, Natasha's head lifted from Mac's neck, her eyes met his, and gently they began to share little, loving kisses.

Gemma's eyes shot wide in shock. Too much comfort!

Her mind was incredulous, the disbelief battering in waves against the truth of what her eyes were telling her. But it wasn't true. Mac loved her, Gemma. This was wrong.

Through the dinning of blood in her ears, Gemma could vaguely hear a wolf behind her murmuring something. Then the scent caught her - what? Who? - and she managed to tune in to the words he was rumbling.

"... watch you do that to someone else without ripping his head off."

Mac's voice was behind her right shoulder.

Gemma spun from where she was leaning weakly against the door jam, her suddenly wobbly legs almost giving way, and was supported by a steadying pair of hands. Furious, she swiped them away.

It was Mac.

Dazed, she twisted her head to look back across the room, and an automatic snarl escaped at the sight of her mate kissing the dishevelled-yet-devastating platinum blonde so passionately that he lifted her off her feet.

Correction: her mate's double.

"I'm sorry, love, I couldn't tell you until Tasha was safe," Mac said, voice subdued. "The key to her resistance was that Nick did not know that all these years, despite the many times she was moved, Ulf has always been able to quarter Grey range and close the distance enough to meld with her. To donate his shiele - and mine, bolster her strength before Nick could break her and force her to bear his cubs. Twin has been hiding in Grey range, hunting for her ceaselessly, helping her."

Mac sighed, half a growl, and continued: "Had he known, Grey would have moved Tasha far, far away, where we would not have been able to support her. It would have killed them both had Nick succeeded." His voice was a thread of apologetic sound.

Stunned, Gemma glared up at the tawny-haired wolf looming over her, his features sombre as he looked over her head at the entwined couple. She twitched wide eyes across again to the tawny-haired wolf still wrapped around the Vanilchov sjeste.

Tor and Ulf Mackeld.

Identical twins.

"You're dead," she breathed, voice hoarse and eyes wide. Tor Mackeld.

Mac closed his eyes and sighed, "I was afraid you'd take it like this."

Gemma snorted an angry huff of breath and punched her mate's arm: That comment wasn't a prediction! Yet.

I'm just as dead as you, Mac challenged. Although, unlike you, I had been slowly poisoned with chronic doses over months, so it was a tiny dose which cut me off, killed all connections.

Gemma's heart curdled in anguish, her skin alight with anger and pain: Mac had been experimented on by Nicholas Grey and his father. He had obliquely referred to this before, but she had never thought - months? Little by little, day by day. What she had seen in here -.

Connections. Her mind jumped away from the thoughts that were pulling the berserk fury into her mind, and latched onto a safe point of anger: So were you ever damn well betrothed to her?

The green eyes were swirling in a mixture of contrition and amusement as they reopened, and Gemma's heart jolted again, almost bursting on a sudden surge of joy: he was hers. No rivals. He always had been. Bastard!

"Gem, I never said I was betrothed to her..."

"You fucking implied it!"

"... just explained why the Mackeld Alpha couldn't be seen panting after another female," he clarified. "Ulf is the true Mackeld Alpha, I was just filling in."

This time she really punched him. It made him smile.

"You're not the Mackeld Alpha?" she snapped. "You're the Aster Warlord! You let me think you were Mackeld Alpha. Everyone thinks you're Mackeld Alpha - including your own damn pack!"

"I was just pretending." He wrinkled his nose at her. Damn, she wished her thumps would wipe that grin off his face. Every time she thought of extending her claws to cause some real damage, his happy scent would catch her, together with twitches of conveyance, and she found herself, infuriatingly, melting. Mac had hated keeping this from her, knowing that it was causing her pain. The insouciant relief he felt now was burning off his skin. Together with a deep, melting pride that she had trusted him.

She was an idiot.

"No-one could know who I really was, in case it got back to Nick," Mac explained further. "Luckily, me being dead, the possibility never even crossed most of their minds."

Irritating reason marched across Gemma's seething mind: as a human, she had been desperate to turn into an easily-controlled werewolf. Since she'd become one, one of her mordeurs had been Nick's son. Who knew what the kid would've been able to read in her head without her even knowing?

But oh, she was still mad at him.

"How much were you pretending?" Gemma hissed. "Tor Mackeld - how much of what you've been feeding me can I actually believe?"

He stilled, and the conveyance he shared in reply was different. It was like when she had reached behind his battle shields earlier, and seen the angry vengeance riding him. Except this was deeper. And voluntary - no words, he just showed her the place in his heart where his picchu lived. Complete empathy, conveyance without words.

She could feel how raw that area was, how the edges were ripped and cracking, ulcers leaking pain into so deep love. Gemma tightened the arms that had somehow crept around him and snuggled closer, sighing as his scent tickled her nose

Her wolf. He was here. He was hers. She would have plenty of time for to be mad at him another day.

A twinge of worry hit. Hopefully.

There was one stab of hurt within him that she could assuage now. Gemma growled into his fur, the words soft: "No-one. I was rising to mate at Halloween, yes, but the poison smothered it." I carry only one scent. Only you.

The tremor inside him deepened, and he lifted her up so their faces were level, swirling eyes searching hers for confirmation, hoping, more fearful of her scarring than mere contaminating male rivals, he could wipe their taint out.

Gemma rolled her eyes. "I'm not a liar," she taunted. Relief flashed in Mac's eyes and his lips dove in to shut her up.

Aren't you supposed to be busy? Gemma asked hazily some moments later as his head lifted slightly and kisses began to drift, exploring her soft skin.

I've given my orders. Everyone knows what to do, to prepare, Mac replied. Her mate began to nibble tender little bites down the side of Gemma's neck. He added virtuously, And it's important for a warrior to get what relaxation he or she can, when he can. The tremble inside her was increasing to match his.

Later again, Mac was sitting on one of the guard's seats just outside the auditorium doorway, stroking his tongue sensuously inside the mouth of the melting wereem perched on his knee. They were ignoring the wolves coming and going from the siege preparations in the auditorium, wholly intent on each other. Pack kept walking past, although few of them were rash enough to stop. And none idiotic enough to interrupt.

Gemma yanked her hand back from where it was sneaking down toward that bulge pressing against her thigh. The violent movement broke their latest kiss and, mind swirling, she tried to haul herself under control, latch onto anything except the feel of him pressed against her, the scent of his rising arousal, the tingling awareness of the power of him dragging at her shimmering skin. Power.

"What do you mean, you're not Mackeld Alpha?" she gasped once more, straining to drag her mind out of the This-Might-Be-Your-Last-Chance fire surging in her blood. "Aren't they cloven to you?"

Mac tilted his head and nuzzled her nose lovingly, licking lightly over her lips. Yes. But we don't really know how - we were a bit surprised, ourselves.

They clove to Ulf after I died - well, you know what I mean, he said. When he enlisted me to take his place during his exile, so he could guard Tasha, he held the links for me at first and they just kind of - morphed. All the Mackelds had, after all, been cloven to me before the bonds ripped, apart from a few of the youngsters, and the links just re-established. Healed. A bit like ours. They are cloven to us both - like to Alpha and Alfamme, but they didn't know that, there was never any secondary pull to confuse them until Will came and forced me to shunter to Twin.

Gemma sighed and leaned her face into his shoulder fur, smiling as she breathed in his rich, delicious scent. Another wolf word to learn.

Her mate kissed her gently under her ear, chest rumbling on a half laugh.

Shunter: one of an Alpha pair passes the battle meld to the other, he explained. Only one can lead it or it will shatter if they think anything different, but with a tight-bonded pair, if the Alpha's about to collapse, he shunters to the Alfamme, and vice versa. Because of the distance I was from Mackeld pack, Will came to help by forming a bridge to Ulf. Once you are trained, Gem, you will be able to take that burden yourself, at need. That's what an Alpha pair does. So you can stop being so grouchy at Will.

Gemma lifted her head back and stared balefully at her mate. "Will was being grouchy at me," she corrected.

Mac sighed, reached down a claw and pronged a cube of meat from the savoury bowl of stew by their feet, which Gemma now vaguely remembered Andrea bringing to them some minutes ago. He offered it to his mate. "They were upset that I had another pack, especially seeing how - overstretched - I was."

Gemma almost crossed her eyes, focussing on the fragrant food presented in front of her lips, and wrinkled her nose. "Did you wash your claws?"

Her mate glared at her, popped the piece of meat into his own mouth, then made a show of scraping clean his extended claw with his very sharp teeth, sucking noisily at it. He pronged a second piece and presented it to her. Gemma grimaced in disgust and refused to open her lips.

You never really got my hygiene standards, did you? she said.

"Gemma, wolves don't have fragile stomachs - that includes you, now," Mac said, exasperated. "I've told you before, very few poisons affect us. We eat our meat raw off the forest floor. And a warrior has to eat."

Stupidly, she shut her eyes as she pulled an even broader grimace of semi-real revulsion, tongue protruding between her open lips as she savoured the pleasing familiarity of arguing. A second later she clamped them closed, biting down on her mate's fingertip as the piece of stew was forced through onto her tongue. Her damn blunt teeth had never regrown, all she was doing was chewing on the end of his finger. Her eyes opened on a glare.

In trying to wrench herself free of his grip, the wereem somehow only ended up on her back on the floor by their chair with her mate plastered down on top of her, his head bent and tongue thrusting the food further into her mouth. Gemma struggled under his heavy weight, trying not to burst into giggles as they played their old, familiar game of futile wrestling. Futile from her viewpoint.

It ended as it always did, with Gemma stilled, heaving short pants under the weight pinning her to the ground. Ignoring his arousal, Mac lifted partially onto one elbow, and dipped his right fingers into the bowl of warm, soapy water that Ellen had just placed at his elbow, rolling his eyes at his mate. She rolled hers in return, chewed, and swallowed, before intoning with suitably sarcastic solemnity, if a little short of breath, "Thank-you, oh my most beloved Alpha."

"Oh-oh. Don't you dare mock that phrase, little mate," Mac grinned.

Later still, her Alpha pulled himself away, declaring gruffly that they had to eat. After a quick scrub, sitting cross-legged opposite each other they used the chair seat as an impromptu table, savouring feeding each other what remained of the large bowl of stew.

Gemma's mind started whirring again. "So when Will came to our place in the city, he made you hand over the Mackeld battle meld to Ulf?" she asked, smiling as she posted the last morsel in between her mate's lips.

Mac nodded as he chewed, his eyes darkening. He and Twin between them pulled them from me.

"And since that shunter, the Mackelds have known who you are?"

The pack would never betray either of us, Gem. Yes, they've been in shock, and a little angry, but also - jubilant.

A little smile curved her lips. She could bet. But Ulf always knew you weren't dead?

Not at first, no - like you, all ties were ripped apart. But Twin - he thought he was going mad at first, when he started hearing me in his head again, years back. Mac scraped the chair out of the way, leaned forward, and bit her shoulder gently, sending a shiver down her spine. Then he began to kiss her better.

That's what gave me hope, picchu. I know you're as strong as me, and I just - hoped against hope.

The kiss moved to her lips, becoming deeper, serious. Mac pulled her onto his lap.

It took some time, later again, for indignant words to penetrate the fog of lust and love enclosing Gemma. The speaker was striding across the foyer: "I know you two are identical, but would you quit with the synchronised smooching, Mac?"

The familiar voice shot a jolt through the wereem, and she almost got whiplash as her head snapped around. Gasping, Gemma struggled to free herself from the arms holding her, ignoring the lips nibbling at her neck. As well as she could.

Her younger brother was jogging nonchalantly across the bespattered floor towards them, his lean figure looking tired but alert, a filthy grey baseball cap tied over his hair shading his over-lined face. At his side was a short, lean don't-mess-with-me looking wolf.

Adam's grouchy voice continued as he approached: "The others can't track the Louse, now she's masked herself. But I have found where she has escaped the perimeter, out into the forest."

Mac jerked his head up from where he was nuzzling Gemma's neck. Blazing eyes met those of the approaching werewolf.

"She got OUT?"

"Scent masked and secret passage. Nils wouldn't let me track her further without letting you know, and he said you weren't listening." Adam's tone was distinctly disgruntled as he stopped beside them and glared at the wolf accompanying him, who shrugged and rolled his eyes.

"I volunteer for this hunt, Mackeld," offered the short, lean wolf at Adam's side, terse and keen.

No. Gemma was uncompromising, and she turned Mac's face back to hers with a gentle, insistent hand under his chin.

This is my hunt. Gemma was sliding off her mate's knee as she said it, turning to hug Adam fiercely. They both knew the probable fate of her brother. And whose fault that was. Besides, only she or Adam could track the scent-masked Louse.

The Alpha paused briefly. He was hiding some thought from her, while he pondered her demand.

"Hunt, yes, but - ideally, we should capture her and bring her to trial. You are not skilled enough to subdue her yet, picchu," he replied aloud.

She half-smiled at the word 'yet', despite the tingle of suspicion at the ease with which Mac seemed to have acquiesced to her leading the hunt. She swung back to face her mate, her eyes burning into his.

I do not wish to subdue her. I wish to bring her to justice: lead those to her who can subdue her.

Mac's eyes narrowed suddenly, and she caught the edge of his worry before he whisked it out of her sight. Too late: her mate did not want her chasing the Faulk. But even less did he want her to remain here, with the Tzo advancing.

The Aster Warlord stood up, sending out an arrow of a call without lifting his eyes from Gemma's. The hum of preparation of the wolves surrounding them meshed into gear in his head, and he began to catch, consider and resolve the stream of questions and reports that poured in from all side. Back to work. He stood still for a long moment, then sighed and nodded quietly to her.

"Both werewolves would be better," the Alpha said.

Their dark Alpha ally was approaching behind Gemma, from the auditorium.

At times I may need to draw your focus to the fight here, to help me, Mac said. So Adam will hunt also, and take the lead when I need you. Yet if she somehow gets hold of him - or that cap disintegrates - he still would not be able to break her mental hold, so we cannot leave him to lead it alone. We have to stop her. The Faulk cannot be allowed to escape, to spread this poison elsewhere.

Gemma nodded quietly, eyes burning. Adam sighed.

"You two will find her. Lee will subdue her. I will allocate three more warriors, to be on the safe side," Mac finished quietly. The silent Alpha to whom Gemma had administered the antidote downstairs nodded, once, as he stopped at her right shoulder. Lee.

Gemma's eyes crinkled sadly as she looked up at her mate. She had to leave him yet again. Leave him to this war, to keep Tzo from breaking in until Fealden Wolflord could arrive with reinforcements. Her lips were swollen from his kisses, eyes burning. She so wanted to share peace with her Alpha. Long, long years of peace.

But this tactical parting was different. The Alpha would stay to lead the battle. The Alfamme would hunt the fleeing enemy leader. There was a fluent surge of bittersweet joy and pain in her veins as Mac bent and kissed her full on her soft lips, a lingering kiss.

"May your hunt be successful, my Gemma."

Despite his calm reasoning, she could feel the urge still raging within her mate to just throw all this damn responsibility over and run off with her: keep her safe.

He was the lead Alpha. The Aster Warlord. Not a chance.

Gemma tilted his head down and returned a full, deep kiss.

"May your home be at peace, my love."

Mac replied forcefully, tormented eyes burning into hers: That is you.

She smiled and promised: I will track her only. I will stay safe.

The firm mouth crooked faintly. Your idea of what constitutes safety doesn't always coincide with mine, Gem.

Gemma rolled her eyes: I'm not a big hairy liar.

She got another kiss.

***

The Zaban pack were keeping as quiet as possible as they strained under the rising sun to manhandle several pieces of trebuchets through muddy woodland in the wake of Tzo's army. The heavy war machines had been built at Marshmont, then disassembled and flown in pieces after the army, to be ported through the forest and reassembled at the new siege site.

The pack's silence was not due to fear of enemy scouts; the wolves could sense the turbulence in their Alpha.

Loyalty, Zaban Liu was brooding. At what point does loyalty become blindness?

He knew why Warlord Tzo was keeping Zaban pack in the rear. The Tzo mistrusted his loyalty.

And yet - if mistrust were the sole reason for the disquiet that was creeping along his spine, Zaban would bear the shame. No, this unease had been growing steadily over months. Growing as he had witnessed the darkening tactics Warlord Tzo had been embracing in his obsession to lever wolves into war with the humans.

Today the disquiet had solidified into full turmoil: the Tzo had marshalled his forces, every last one, to force an entry at all costs into the Faulk complex. For what purpose? The Warlord had not told them.

The scouts reported that the Mackeld was at Faulk. He had marshalled any forces he could, down to the last sjeste, to defend a range not his own against the Tzo's vast army, and was standing resolute with a weak string of wolves who could not hold, but would not move. What were they defending so desperately?

All Zaban Liu had was his knowledge of both wolves: knowledge gained from years of following the Tzo, set against one single encounter with the Mackeld. Now he feared, he very much feared, that he was on the wrong side.

Yet what was right? Loyalty was paramount to his wolves: true wolves. The Zaban had fought alongside the Tzo for centuries, and the Warlord had led them to a new home after their ancient range had been destroyed, building pride back into a scattered, homeless people. Without the Tzo they would have nothing.

The Chinese Alpha wavered in doubt as he paced slowly alongside his straining warriors. His pack were tasked with deploying the catapults only. They didn't transport the ammunition with which the trebuchets would be loaded. Zaban's hackles had been ruffled since he had realised. Where was the ammunition? What was it?

The stocky warrior straightened abruptly, turning his eyes toward where a slender grey loup was gliding silently down from the trees opposite. A feral glow lit his black gaze - Yun Yun was limping. She halted before her Alpha, shifting wolf and wincing silently as she extended her trembling left hand, palm open, so that he could see where the fur had burned away all around her fingertips and down along the front of her fingers. The underlying skin was blackened, shining in the weak sunlight.

You found the ammunition? Zaban asked as he ran a finger lightly over the cold, tight scarring on his niece's skin. He suppressed a shiver at the light residue of silver tainting the glossy surface.

Small barrels, still at the airstrip, Yun Yun clarified with an image, I managed to break into one without being seen, thinking to bring you some of the contents. She shivered, conveying the scorching feeling of dipping her hand into the liquid, yanking her fingers back out as the acidic, icy touch had sizzled agony through her skin.

Well done for keeping silent, her Alpha conveyed. The small sjeste straightened proudly. You are sure no-one noticed?

I pushed the lid back on again, with the nails. The young sjeste was shivering as she replied, she couldn't seem to halt the tremors, and cast a doubtful look up into the face of her uncle.

Death rain, thought Zaban. Not seen since the fire wars, when according to their clouded history, wolves had nearly wiped themselves out. The Mongol Alpha was no longer brooding, his mind clear with purpose, the unease crystallised into angry revulsion. This was abhorrent. He knew now which side a true wolf should fight on.

The barrels are at the airstrip? Zaban demanded, mind sifting through possible tactics.

They were, Yun Yun's eyes brightened in relief, but they were being strapped to carry poles, for portage. I can track them, she volunteered, shifting loup on the thought, bounding one pace backward to give herself space to turn. Yun Yun stilled as the fierce, sad eyes of her uncle caught hers.

You will carry a message to the Mackeld, Zaban corrected her. The Mackeld had to trust him, or this would never work: that he sent his sister's child as messenger was the best hope he had of gaining that trust.

*

Gem? Mac called.

Well before sunrise, Gemma had escaped the Faulk lair through the secret passage Madam no doubt thought she'd left undetected behind her, leading her motley little crew of fellow hunters: a werewolf, three koiru, and an Alpha. The Louse's trail was burning in her nose and easy to follow.

Mac had called twice since, once to ask where her notes on the composition of the wastewater lagoon were, and once simply to ask if she could remember if he'd been wearing his wristlet of drug phials when they'd shared their meal. The latter had made her snort: Mr Alpha had the memory of a sieve. She'd sobered quickly on recalling that his mind currently was a sieve, pierced into tatters by the grasps of the thousands of wolves cloven to him.

This call was different: his mental voice combusted in her mind, stubbornness gritted against the rage rising through him, rage fuelling a violent, all-possessing urge to kill. Gemma was smothered with what was pushing at Mac; the tactics the Tzo had attacked with just after dawn were base, vile and working. An answering surge of violent, all-encompassing need to retaliate, slaughter the Tzo wolves indiscriminately was pulsing more and more strongly through her mate with each death in his small force.

Gemma slammed to a halt. Adam, immediately behind her, ran into her hind legs, toppling her to the ground, and causing a ripple of coughing through the small hunting pack as the wolves tried not to laugh.

The Alfamme felt no such urge. Mac was drowning in the black, unthinking rage. Help me, he called.

Instinctively, copying what he had done for her oh-so-many times, Gemma opened her awareness, lifting it away from the immediacy of the Louse's trail. Mac was so closely linked with her he could feel the ripple of the wind in her fur, scent the clean birch and grass and the little, fluffy birds in the branches.

Mac drew a deep, unsteady breath, the rising storm in his head wavering in face of the peace in hers.

Dimly, Gemma was aware of the large, black-haired Alpha running past her, muttering quietly to Adam, "Take the trail," as he nudged the werewolf to his feet. The others followed.

Gemma rolled onto her own paws and absent-mindedly loped in the wake of the galloping line of hunters. Rays of pale sunlight cut almost horizontally through the bare branches, gleaming through twinkling spiderwebs and ice-veined leaves. The frosted beauty recalled a memory of their last night on the boat, before she'd pounced on her wolf. The starlight on his white fur had been so beautiful, haloing the powerful physique, light-painting the graceful lines.

Don't get distracted, admonished Mac with grim humour. There was a fierce, burning rip in his right bicep but he was fighting magnificently, racing to bolster warrior after warrior along the sparse line defending the Faulk walls, while fighting the berserk fury rising in his blood.

Gemma's paws padded on the slightly crisp, frosted grass. There was a tingling coldness on her nose, but her thick pelt sheltered her against the frozen air. A whiteness ghosted above the trees that dropped away into the valley to her right, pulling her eyes to the beauty of the barn owl coasting silently into the treetops, away to roost.

Thank-you. Her mate's mind had stabilised, she could feel his will solidifying, the keen strength of it building controlled blocks of the rage and using it to shore up the desperate, diminishing group holding off the Tzo's forces. Mac leapt sideways on the rampart above the side gate, pitching one Tzo warrior into a second, the combined weight causing the ladder with which they had scaled the walls to teeter just as Mac's rear claws sheared free the strut holding the ladder firm. A small group of his koiru hurtled forwards to thrust it backwards towards the ground while Mac landed on the last two Tzo who had reached this part of the rampart.

Keep in touch, picchu. Mac pulled his focus wholly back to the battle.

The second wolf had fallen too swiftly, before his claws had touched her, and Mac slashed a hind claw down at her throat, only the ingrained pulse of thousands of hours' training recognising her stance and pulling the blow just before he sliced off her head.

That pose.

The small female at his feet was in full submission, throat exposed, but more, her teeth were bared in a grimace to expose the gap where her left upper incisor was missing. The Warlord's eyes fell automatically to the blood-smeared tooth proffered in her open palm. The young wolf waited, shivering.

Blood tooth. A truce offering.

Was this just an attempted distraction?

Who are you? the Alpha demanded harshly, yanking the female up by the throat as he turned to tear back along the wall to the latest call. With his palm closed around her throat, he forced her human, less of a threat.

In reply, she opened her shields, and Mac dropped her, stunned at the message from Zaban Liu. His heart blanched in dread as he glanced out over the rampart, away into the forest where the deadly rain was slowly advancing towards the defenders. On autopilot he shredded the ladder top which landed just to his right against the stonework, and noted that the Zaban sjeste had killed one of the three attackers who had landed with it.

The sjeste returned to stand beside him and extended her hand, palm up, still holding the tooth she had pulled out herself to prove her sincerity.

Twin! Ulf barked the harsh demand, and Mac closed his hand around the Zaban sjeste's palm and towed her after him full speed down the stone steps behind the main gate. They reached ground level, and Mac watched his natal bound up the opposite steps toward the west side. No longer needing to defend himself, the Warlord sank into the meld, bolstering the communication between his disparate pack, tuning their limbs with his own fire.

It was only the short northern stretch of wall that they truly had to defend. The western and southern faces were built out into Lake Shona, foundations deep under the water, where ladders were impractical. Mount Aratop formed the eastern flank, a sheer rock face looming several hundreds of yards above the white buildings of the hospital. The hospital was the ostensible reason for the defensive structure: the specialists here treated dangerously unstable 'people', so the grounds had been built to enable them to enjoy fresh air and sunshine without endangering the outside population. And the wide wall had been designed with a walkway, so that the inmates could enjoy the view.

Absently, Mac smiled at the challenging howl his natal emitted when he reached the rampart. A shudder of fear rippled through the front ranks of Tzo invaders who had fought their way over the parapet. Ulf spun under an attack and tore with terrible fury into the enemy wolves, who flinched back: was the damn Mackeld inexhaustible?

Mac's eyes were shimmering with the thoughts tearing through him as he painfully cleared a tiny corner of his mind, feeling his side beginning to knit, and turned to the young wolf at his side. "Does the Zaban have a plan?" he queried, need pushing aside exhaustion.

The dim winter light was beginning to fade again, the wind dying, when the Tzo withdrew his attack force, to form up in ranks on the far side of the road.

Grimly, from the battlements, Mac observed the enemy wolves wedging ballast inside the base of the last of the reassembled trebuchets, lined up behind the warriors on the cleared stretch of ground between the high defensive wall and the forest. The buckets of all but the last of the catapults had already been winched to full stretch, and two impassive Chinese wolves were jogging forwards over the uneven ground toward the second to last, hefting a wooden barrel strapped between two poles laid across their shoulders.

Stationed along the top of the wall, the sparse line of remaining defenders had also reformed. They watched, expressionless, as the barrel was carefully loaded into the bucket. Behind his left shoulder, Mac heard Jorgen's hoarse tally. "Eight. One third exactly."

Faulk laboratories had shipped the deadly caskets to Warlord Tzo almost a month ago, when he had been besieging Marshmont. Now they had come home.

From a small huddle at the edge of the forest, a stocky, powerful figure was slowly pacing forward, followed by an honour guard of four tall wolves. Warlord Tzo stopped on the roadway winding around to the gate and looked up at his enemy impassively. The Mackeld had stymied him again and again over the past months, but still.

"Will you not withdraw, Ulf Mackeld?" the Tzo said. "You have your wereem, and this is not your range - not your fight. I have no wish to destroy you - I have never wished to fight wolves. Go freely, taking your companions. I guarantee you safe passage."

In the stillness that followed, the air seemed to press heavily.

"Not my fight?" replied Mac, pondering the phrase.

His voice began to thicken with anger. "Not my fight?" he demanded again. "Kiang-Lu was torn to pieces at your side in Amicable, forced into an ambush against his will. Should we not fight against being enslaved to you?"

The wolves surrounding the Tzo remained motionless, but Mac sensed a flicker run through one of them.

"You no longer wish to fight wolves for supremacy?" the Mackeld bit. "Of course not: you are here to take by force the drug to ensure that no wolf could ever fight you again."

A ripple, swiftly quashed, ran through the forces stationed below the wall.