PAWN AMONG WOLVES CH. 15

Mac was trembling under his pelt, the fire burning through him shaking him to his core, colouring his sight with a faint grey filter: he gritted his teeth hard and refused to let it take him. It wouldn't help her if he succumbed to the wolf also.

The pines were whipping past at speed, he was steering more on scent than sight, desperately sprinting along his mate's trail through the short grass. His mind was partially occupied trying to guide the fighting Omar to survive this damn ambush. He could tell the White warrior was panicking, losing focus, not least because of the silver knife embedded in his side, but also chilled by the sudden death of his packmates. Luke, Fay, Omar: the three Whites on guard over each of the other three compass points around the hillside had been attacked simultaneously, at precisely the moment when Adam had first sprung for Gemma.

Please, picchu. Answer me. Please.

The tang of fury in his head snapped Mac into driving his koiru harder than he deserved, but Omar used the fire to spin on a yelp, and managed to bury his teeth in the throat of one more opponent before he was finally knocked off his feet by two more. Yet the warrior still wouldn't let go. Wouldn't. He would at least take this one with him too for his Alpha. And his Alfamme.

Cursing in his head, mourning and raging, teeth bared and eyes narrowed to angry slits, Mac leapt across the small stream, wincing at the pain that lashed through his head when he lost the last of the guards. His three koiru had been overwhelmed by hordes of scentless wolves, although this time the damn enemy hadn't attacked him, Mac. Oh, he wished they had; he was so furious with himself for judging this trip secure. His brain was keening inside his skull, echoing the dull, desperate fear in his heart, and he forced down the accompanying surge of nausea which was burning a track up his throat.

Gemma? he called.

Two forceful bounds took him around her brother. The shrinking werewolf was slinking into the trees on the opposite side of the narrow clearing beyond the stream, heading down the hill, the whites of his eyes rolling with an eerie mixture of feral savagery and despair. The Alpha barely noticed. Mac was speeding up, driven by the empty echo inside his skull, and he disappeared into the dense trees opposite at lightening speed, intent on the trail of his picchu.

She had already been immobilised and lifted from the trap when he reached the spot. There was no scent of the other wolves, but then, he hadn't expected to scent them; there had been no scent to the wolves who had attacked the guards.

No matter, Mac thought grimly. His vision narrowed as he angled his sprint along the trail of broken grass-stems, displaced pine-needles and occasional claw-points in the slightly moist, needle-covered earth under the trees. Scent was not the only sense worth having.

Look after him.

The words of Gemma's final conveyance slammed through Mac, an echo of the plea straight from his mate's heart, the memory jolting him. Coupled with the words surged an uneasy, unwanted recognition: the fear he had caught in her brother's scent when he had sprinted past him just now. And the glimpse of the werewolf's face, his eyes. Despair. Revulsion.

Adam had been stealing off down the steep hill, toward their parents' house. And the boy had still been so ashamed. Terrified. Compelled.

Mac's brain burst suddenly into flame to match his heart, melting him in pained realisation. Those fighting footfalls, the anguished eyes - those had been the footfalls of a werewolf trying to fight an order. He had watched his Gemma do so so often.

What else had the young werewolf been ordered to do?

No.

Mac's teeth bared in a silent snarl, his pace faltering.

Then he jolted back to utmost stretch, heart aching.

He had to reach his picchu.

Unbidden, a memory swam into his head: the warmth in the face of his mate, the contented, wordless happiness echoing between her father, mother, older brother and brother's mate as they had sat around the dinner table a mere hour earlier, joking and laughing, at ease. Family.

If her little brother was forced to kill the rest of her family, while her mate chased after her?

Mac shook his head angrily, and winced at the fight inside his head. He had to find Gemma. Had to.

She wouldn't thank him.

NO. The nausea was churning higher in him. He felt his wolf side beginning to bristle and flattened his belly to the ground while he tore around a corner where the trail meandered, snorting grimly. Far ahead, he could just detect a faint scent of her, the strength of it growing. He was homing in on them.

Mac called to every nerve, and managed to increase his pace, getting closer and closer to her.

Further and further from her brother, a voice in his head whispered. How close to the house would the boy have got by now? Look after him, she had begged him.

The rational, pack-Alpha side of his brain sifted out the logical argument even while he sprinted intently along his mate's trail. She had been captured: they did not intend to kill her.

God damn the fucking Alpha part of him. No. This was his mate.

Mac's heart twisted, bursting into flame: he knew what Grey did to captives - if it was Grey. NO. He couldn't scent the wolves ahead, but Grey did not have the shiele to turn a human. Who the hell? Tzo? The Chinese Warlord also used scentless ambush.

Almost on the thought, with no warning, the scent of his mate ahead snuffed out abruptly, leaving only the tingle of her memory, mixed with the distant, rapidly nearing smell of a road surface, the tang of petroleum residues staining his nostrils. Mac's fur ruffled in unease, and the jolt of fear propelled him into an impossible pace.

He had to find her.

Look after him, she had begged him. All her heart in the simple phrase.

Adam's feral, fighting eyes seemed burned inside Mac's brain. Gemma was already losing one brother. If he didn't save the others, would she want to live?

He knew his picchu.

Mac's heart cracked, the pain splitting him as he wrenched himself around and sprinted hell-for-leather back along the track towards her home with the almost inaudibly soft purr of a car engine seeming to shatter in his ears, bursting from silence to melt away to the south.

The fire of the nauseating shame burning through him was scorching at his insides, his chest aching with the burn, the fury, and he felt the cold rising to smother it. The old, bitter, familiar cold inching slowly higher, higher. Settling in to pollute him.

Gemma? he couldn't help calling, knowing there would be no answer, calling desperately as the cold rose within him, calling for forgiveness. Hoping.

Picchu?

A wolf protects his mate.

But he didn't.

Mac was repulsed by himself. She was so betrayed by him. How could he have let this happen to her? His stomach was aching tight, a hard, solid lump.

His eyes lit on a small white object lying on the coarse grass ahead, beside the path. No scent to it. A light stab of realisation sparked into Mac's chill, ice-burning mind as he ran toward the small patch of lighter grey in the dusky evening shadows.

He had had no time up until now to reason out how this enemy had managed to get Adam past his sentinels without them recognising the unshielded mind or scent of a new werewolf. And his Whites had had orders not to let anyone else past.

Damn, damn whoever had planned this. Viciously, fiendishly brilliant. They had outsmarted him.

Mac snatched the white baseball cap up into his mouth as he charged back down the steep slope, his teeth aching painfully as they closed on the cold taint of the silver alloy woven in the brim. Argen. His mind hardened further, recognising that he was facing a new opponent: this twisted, delicate revenge did not have the stamp of the Tzo, and he doubted even Grey was this indirect in his attacks. Who?

The chill pain of the cap between his teeth couldn't entirely smother the icy teeth in his heart.

Mac was burning in the cold, the vileness drowning up his throat with each step further away. He was betraying her. Why hadn't he seen this coming? Protected her better? Her family?

Why hadn't he just fucking left her alone, human, happy in the first place?

Damn himself.

***

At the foot of the hill, Adam was still struggling desperately. He had heard the request from his sister to the powerful wolf, her heartfelt entreaty echoing on the edge of his own trembling mind. He was fighting his hardest, internally, fighting the sickening new order in his head yet he still couldn't prevent himself from staggering towards his home. He couldn't even kill himself. His mind was reeling. What was happening to him? Was he insane? The memories that had blasted into his head when he had first seen Gem were unreal. Unbelievable. Impossible. All of this was impossible.

And - why couldn't he stop himself?

He could only hope, pray that the other wolf would come. The blast of the energy which had exuded from the white one as he'd sprinted past after Gemma had knocked him staggering on his feet. If the white wolf would just come and stop him, begged Adam silently. Kill him. Anything, please.

His wolf eyes could see the dark outlines of his father and older brother standing together at the top of the long, gently sloping lawn, just outside the block of light filtering through the living room curtains. They were peering up at the darkening hillside opposite, obviously trying to work out what was going on. His heart began to pound painfully, the terror heavy on his skin. His hind foot scraped the wooden fence at the bottom of the garden as he squirmed in mid-air, trying to slow his staccato, uncoordinated rush toward the dark silhouettes. The revolting urge to obey surged at the sight of them.

The densely packed fruit bushes to the left of the path tore at him; he tried in flashes of terrified misery to run headlong into each, get immobilised by the gooseberry briars in his fur, but each time, despite the ungainly stumbling of his movements, he tore through, despairing, saliva panting from his wretched jaws, mind echoing in the thunder of the repeated order to kill kill kill.

His family were peering toward him, uncertain, trying to make out what was approaching through the darkness, making the noise, and he saw his father swing toward the garage and his rifle, his brother laying a hand on his arm to halt the older man a moment longer.

No. No. Please. Go get it. Adam begged silently.

Then he burst from the bushes, jaw agape, eyes aflame and awash with the pain in his heart.

A heavy blow hit him squarely between the shoulders just as he did so, knocking him sprawling onto the smooth, clipped turf, and the thankful water streamed from his eyes when he felt a painful wrench in his skull and saw his naked, human hands clawing at the earth under him as he landed.

With the heavy weight atop his back holding him down, the anger in his head spiked, the screaming voice cursing him to kill his family, and he obediently wrenched at the grip holding him, fighting against it with all his might, snapping at the air.

Uselessly.

The wild scent smothering him was accompanied by a heavy, charged feeling beating against his skin: the white wolf. A warm little light deep in Adam's chest glowed with bittersweet relief even while he struggled against the increasingly tight, painful grasp that was twisting his arms behind him. He yowled, and heard a deep voice snapping out a muddle of words over his head as his father and brother surged into movement toward them.

There was a bitter edge to the harsh order barked, "Stay back! I suspect he is rabid - he attacked Gemma, tried for me and -," there was a brief pause in Adam's understanding as the voice in his head screamed a furious repeat of the order to kill, the fire of it seeming to ignite every particle of him, but Mac again forced the fighting young werewolf back to the ground, holding him in his human form. "- coming for you."

The order screamed repeatedly through Adam, burning through him, jolting him fiercely again and again, tearing at his mind.

Something flickered in the corner of his rapidly melting brain as he saw a pair of women's feet clothed in a light pair of sandals burst out into the block of light streaming from the patio doors. The twinkling sequins on the leather bands held his eyes as they darted forward toward where he was held raging to the turf, but then they jerked to a halt, slipping slightly on the grass. The werewolf's eyes travelled up to where the woman's slender wrist was trapped in that of the older man, held back from approaching closer.

Kill them.

Mr and Mrs Smith stood frozen in shock at the edge of the light, staring at the snarling, writhing figure on the ground , fighting madly to free himself from the unshakeable grip, snapping at the air, spittle flying from his jaws as he raged.

Adam's heart was aching, but his brain felt fuzzy, melting between fury and pain. The pain was burning through his stomach, curdling at the look in their eyes.

Dimly through the relentlessly drumming order he heard his father whisper, "Rabies?" his face white.

The heavy figure holding him down slapped a white baseball cap down onto the werewolf's head, tugging the brim forward so that the rim of cold metal woven through the inside of the brim was pressed against his skin.

"Light aversion," Mac growled the terse explanation, his own eyes bleak, lost.

The human couple watched in painful silence as the boy relaxed slightly now that the voice in his head was abruptly cut off. He was still struggling to obey the order, but less violently now it wasn't being ruthlessly drilled into him.

"Where's Gemma?" whispered her mother, swaying and white.

***

"I'll go and find her," Jamie snapped, some minutes later, turning sharply toward the path down the garden. "She may be in shock, hurt."

"She's my fiancée," Mac growled back, getting to his feet astride the prone werewolf.

"Yes, both of you go and look for her. Now that Mac has tied-," Maureen Smith gulped on the word, and continued shakily, "Tied Adam up, you had both better go and help Gemma. And you, Dan." She turned worried, tear-streaked brown eyes on her husband, whilst advancing with the rug she had brought to wrap around their naked son.

"No, we have to get Adam to hospital. Now," responded the older man, his face still pale, but stern. "And uh -Mac - you need to come too, since you've been wrestling with him. You had better hold him, keep the contamination confined to you. We have to go now." Dan Smith strode into the living room, calling over his shoulder, "Jamie can go get Gemma and bring her after us in their car - if Jess'll stay in the house in case she turns up at home before he finds her. Keep us posted."

Mac grimaced, his inner wolf snarling as he realised yes, he would have to accompany her damn family to the hospital. He would have to be touching the werewolf to keep him from shifting if the writhing teenager dislodged the cap, and there was no way of knowing what new orders he would receive if that happened, either.

Look after him. The anger, shame and nausea were writhing on his skin. But he promised her, silently, yes.

The scent of the vehicle that had taken her would already be tangled, meeting others on the road surface. What would they do to her? What was happening to his mate?

Mac's eyes were bleak, and his fingers tingled on the band inside the rim of the baseball cap as he carefully fitted it more snugly over Adam's hair. The boy had quietened, although he was still fighting the bonds at his wrists and ankles, sweat running off him as he strained. The Alpha just managed to keep his lip from lifting.

The human scent to the boy remained constant, but was slowly being fused with a strong wolf-scent, the disquieting mixture growing sharper by the minute. Mac's eyes narrowed. Adam had obviously been scent-masked, but the scent-mask drug worked only on wolves, not humans. Ten minutes ago, he guessed the boy would have smelt wholly human, when he had walked past the guards, and attacked Gemma. It was just damn fortunate that the still-human part of Gemma could scent a wolf through the masking drug even now, or the ambush might have succeeded.

Maybe they had meant to kill her.

But if so, why the trap? No, he guessed they had known that a new werewolf would not defeat a seasoned month-old one.

Damn them. Damn them.

Mac clenched his fists slowly, shaking as he held in the fury, the pain, and turned brusquely away from the white, tear-streaked face of his mate's mother. The still-beautiful oval face was strained, staring at her son, and she was biting her lip in an achingly familiar way. His mouth twisting grimly, the Alpha hoisted the tall, slight werewolf up in his arms and strode to the garden gate at the side of the house as he heard the car approaching.

Who? Who? Who?

Mac's raging mind slammed into sharp focus as he caught a muddled image from the hound.

While he had been sprinting back down the hill following Adam's erratic trail to the house, Mac had sensed the dog sniffing around peacefully in the neighbour's garden, and had conveyed for help. The old beagle, delighted to assist the visiting Alpha, had squirmed under the fence surrounding his home before bounding up the hill, passing Mac, and backtracking his trail through the forest. Now the hound was trying his eager best to communicate in patchy images, which was difficult enough dog-to-wolf, even over this distance.

Wolf smell gone!

Smelly smell now!

Mac slid onto the rear seat of the car with the werewolf writhing in his arms, and heard another suppressed sob from the woman holding the door open. Not now. He tuned back to the dog standing at the roadside on top of the hill, while holding the werewolf down across his knees with one hand. Carefully, he also clicked one of the small glass phials out of the intricate wristlet circling his left wrist, twisting off the cap and coughing slightly as he swallowed the faintly bitter white powder inside the tiny tube. A travel case for the travel drug - a present from his mate.

Smelly smell? he conveyed curtly, while he glanced down at the struggling boy: no way he'd get the werewolf to swallow a dose -Adam would just have to cope with the nausea.

It was very hard to get scents through conveyance; the beagle had no idea what he was smelling and so there were no accompanying images as he fumbled to reply. Mac scowled as the vehicle he was in began to move.

Car? He offered, trying to convey the smell of petrochemicals for the messenger, but the old scenthound snorted in reply. He knew what cars smelt like.

The bloodtests will show rabies, the disease is a mutation of the change, a different voice broke into Mac's concentration. The humans will not suspect any more if you can just keep him from shifting. I'll meet you there. You say you have some Argen on you?

Amy Waring, chief physician of the continent, had just flown within the range at which she could convey to him. Mac had called to her for advice too, while overhauling the raging werewolf, but had abruptly cut the connection when the old beagle had been let out for a last sniff before bed.

The Senshal wasn't under Fealden's flying veto because her helicopter had been with her while she was working in the far south, making it almost impossible that it had been sabotaged, and she had plenty of spare fuel aboard.

Now Dr Waring was on her way. Retrieving a werewolf before the humans realised what he was was vital; the only other method to prevent them finding out was to kill Adam while he was in human form. And Amy was almost as reluctant to resort to that as Mac.

Thanks, he replied brusquely, then pulled his shields tighter, tuning her out.

Smelly smell? Mac queried the beagle again urgently. He caught a vague impression of tyre rubber and asphalt and something chilling which unhinged the dog's spine while he stuck his nose into it in an attempt to show the Alpha. Mac smothered the growl which was choking him; no petrochemicals, but some kind of tyre: a wolf vehicle? And Argen-lined: no wonder he hadn't been able to scent Gemma even faintly, once she was inside. Someone from a very powerful pack.

Mac felt a different shimmer run down his spine, lip lifting again in a silent challenge.

He met the impotent, miserable fury in his mate's father's eyes in the reversing mirror with an equal, wretched glare of his own. Stronger. Because, unlike Dan Smith, he knew that this was deliberate. And aimed at him. But who?

And how was he going to chase the fuckers down while he had to babysit her little brother?

Mind flashing with a cold, sharp shot of an insane idea, Mac's eyes narrowed abruptly. He sat in silence as the car purred swiftly through a network of tree-lined country roads, deathly still. Then abruptly the Alpha leaned forward and began to whisper into the ear of the Argen-shielded werewolf lying across his lap. Adam grew quieter as fresh, cool words slowly penetrated his seething brain.

***

Dr Waring sighed as she carefully lifted her air ambulance from the pad on the hospital roof into the clouded grey sky, a little guiltily saluting the human couple standing forlorn in the whipping wind, arms around each other. It had not taken a huge amount of time to persuade them to agree for Adam to be admitted to her hospital on the west coast, to join the experimental programme to combat late-stage rabies. Before she had arrived, the attending doctor had broken the news of their son's chance of survival without it, and she had explained that time was vital.

She had hated having to lie to them. It was not that the rabies programme didn't exist, or that she wasn't a senior consultant attached to it. But their son didn't truly have rabies, just something very close. To which there was no cure. Adam had already turned.

The physician glanced over her shoulder, the legs of the now quiet werewolf strapped into the stretcher just visible in the corner of her vision. He had quieted as soon as his parents were out of sight and scent, no longer tormented by the residue of the order to kill them. Amy scowled as she pondered where to take him. Picking up the poor kid had seriously delayed her already urgent schedule, packed with preparations for the escalating war.

Dr Waring growled softly to herself as she straightened out the controls, keyed in the bearing and altitude, and flicked on the autopilot. Mackeld? she conveyed searchingly. She had seen the Alpha only for seconds at the hospital; he had delayed his departure until she had arrived by taking a completely needless anti-rabies shot, but had left to search for his mate as soon as he had handed the were over to her.

"Yes?" she heard a soft voice answer inside her headset, and nearly had a heart attack.

Her chest was still pounding painfully as she spun to face the tall, tawny figure approaching from the rear of the cabin. The Mackeld was carefully checking over a parachute held between his large, human hands. There was a spare set of headphones over his ears - the fifth set she hadn't been able to find while fitting a pair for the werewolf.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she cursed him. Then, distracted, the physician asked curiously, "Is this the fabled scent-masking drug in action?"

The Alpha's lips curled faintly, and he paced closer. For some reason, her spine tingled and blood began to seethe with tension. Pity he had chosen a lifemate. There was so much purpose in that lithe lope.

"Yes," the Mackeld replied softly. "Gemma's. It only works for a short while, but long enough." So saying, he pulled the physician up out of her seat, spinning her so she was facing forwards, and slung the parachute around her shoulders.

Amy laughed, her skin tingling where the simmering male touched her. "Thinking of stealing my chopper, Mackeld? Dream on. I am a senshal, and your pack is miles away. I need this vehicle to prepare the field hospitals for the war."

She was twisting easily out of his grip as she spoke, then stilled abruptly in surprise as a second set of arms locked around her torso from behind, pinning her elbows to her sides. Her brain jolted as she caught a very faint, fragile whiff of wolf blended with the human scent of her new assailant, and the realisation that the werewolf was free and this close unhinged her spine briefly. Amy snarled, wrenching and twisting nimbly to free herself of the grip, but her distraction allowed the Mackeld to thread one of her arms into the parachute and spin her again to hold her immobilised with her back to him, when he murmured quietly, "The scent-mask works only partially on weres - but I was counting on you not registering a human as a threat; we rarely do."

Then he added to Adam, "Put her other arm in. I will hold her, but watch the claws."

Damn, Amy cursed to herself silently, struggling against the implacable grip of the Alpha holding her, battering against his unyielding mental shield. Where the hell did he get all this power?

The pair of hijackers had managed to fasten the parachute when suddenly the Mackeld was driven to the floor with a grunt of pain, head roaring with the rebuke yelled at him.

Fealden Wolflord.

Amy began to rip open the parachute fastenings, backing up away from the pair, cheeks flushed furiously red. It had been damned embarrassing for a Senshal, backed by every damn phys on the continent, to have to call for help against a single, unmelded Alpha with only one measly werewolf to help him. The blood was pounding so hard in her ears that she barely heard the hoarse words that the wolf on the floor gasped.

"Touch me with the rim of your cap: but hold onto it yourself too."

Angrily trying to loosen the over-tight buckles, the Senshal recognised too late what the short phrase might mean and glanced up, startled, to see the Mackeld leaping back toward her with the werewolf in tow, clinging to his arm: Damn.

Seconds later the physician was immobile again on her back on the floor behind the seats, glaring up at the Alpha as he carefully checked over her chute. Mac was holding her easily now that he didn't have to dress her as well, one hand imprisoning both of hers above her head, one leg hooked to hold her down while his face was frowning seriously down at the fastenings he was re-tightening.

"Damn, I wish I was your mate," the female wolf snarled. And then she flinched, wincing away from the look in his eyes as he lifted them fleetingly to meet hers. She stilled. Oh.

"Mackeld, the best thing we can do to find her is to pursue Tzo; it doesn't look like they're going to kill her. This is insane, you can't steal my chopper. What do you think you're doing?"

The tawny wolf wasn't listening. Her voice sharpened.

"We are at war, Mackeld! The Wolflord is furious, even if you've blocked him out for now. Three Alphas dead! We need this, our only safe air transport, to deal with the most important logistics for -."

She broke off again as his eyes flashed up to hers, the look in them drying the words in her throat.

"You can't do this," she whispered hoarsely, uncertain, feeling herself hauled to her feet and pulled toward the door, the werewolf keeping pace, keeping the cap clenched in his fist pressed against the side of the Alpha's cheek. "Fealden will straff you."

Her heart ached for the look in the Mackeld's unnaturally still face, and she felt a shot of doubt flash through her. She had never met the little wereem. But - songmate? A werewolf?

She sighed into the wind that side-blasted her when the Alpha wrenched the door open. He murmured, "Sorry," just before he pulled her headset off.

"I hope you find her, you bastard," she growled in answer, knowing he wouldn't be able to hear above the noise. Then she pulled a vicious snarl at him, and jumped.

***

Adam couldn't believe he was doing this. Life was insane.

But at least he was able to do something. Some form of atonement. However dangerous.

Thank-you, Mac.

He squinted his aching, tired eyes into the faint glimmer of light signalling the advent of the sun, focus narrowed on the pale white blur sprinting along a short distance ahead of the chopper's nose, the white wolf streaking, nose-to-ground, along the small road curving between stubbly fields below.

There had been three tracks branching off the road beyond the last small cluster of houses, and the Alpha had just reached the third of them. His nose was almost touching the battered asphalt as he slowed, and carefully checked the trail. Ten yards past the junction, he turned and Adam caught the blare of cold black eyes in the spotlight. Heart hammering, the uneasy novice pilot held a steady course, and felt the jerk as the wolf on the ground leapt to grab the trailing winch cable. The teenager waited a second to make sure that the weight was stable, then pressed the rewind button and breathed a heavy sigh of relief, the tension inside his skull lightening as he pulled back on the control to raise them gently higher, easing above the treetops before the road wound back into the forest.

Adam was still sweating, though, his mind echoing incredulously, despite allowing himself to relax his death-grip. He was flying a real helicopter! This wasn't like his flight simulator, where if you went wrong you had another go. He had only had a brief half-hour of training before his first solo flight, and even now after a whole night of it, he was terrified. Exhilarated.

But the terror was worth it. He wasn't skilled enough to sift out the slightly unusual scent of the specific car they were following from the others which criss-crossed at each junction, but he could follow with the chopper. He could help find Gemma.

Hoarse, heavy breathing rasped to his left, and the sweating, tawny wolf slid into the pilot seat next to him and took over the controls, tipping them forward into speed to trace above the narrow grey strip below. Adam relaxed fully in a surge of relief. Made it once more.

"How far to the next exit?" Mac's voice was barely audible, the words between the sharp, heaving breaths distorted by the piece of Argen from Adam's cap held within one cheek. The werewolf glanced over and watched, fascinated and tense while the wolf spat the fragment of wet metal-woven cloth into his palm and flashed human in the split second that the Argen was flying through the air, before settling back more comfortably into the small seat whose design could only just accommodate a large human, never mind a wolf. Pilot and co-pilot breathed out slightly harder in relief, because once again the Wolflord hadn't caught Mac unshielded, and the wolf casually inserted the Argen back beside his teeth, grimacing slightly at the tingling ache in his jaw.

The werewolf reached down to pull the map back up onto his knees with a trembling hand, idly stroking a palm over the slumbering beagle who was slumped against his feet and snoring. Adam had no idea why the neighbours' dog had been running along a small road in the middle of nowhere, how Mac had found him, or why they had stopped to pick him up, but then, nothing made sense right now anyway. He just followed instructions and hoped.

"About ten miles," Adam answered, walking his fingers across the paper, then he checked the bearing, adding, "Roughly South by East will cut quite a bit off." His hand was waving at the side window, then he bent down to stroke and soothe old Riley again as the helicopter banked sharply to veer off above the treetops.

Nothing had made sense since his attention had been caught by those beautiful, lush curves, the flattering invitation in those amused, cynical eyes. Adam winced inwardly.

He choked back a gulp. Damn the fucking orders echoing in his head; the jangling was quieter now that he was away from his family, and Mac had stopped demanding answers that he'd been forbidden to give. God, he hated her. His hand was on his own head, pressing the cap firmly down against his skull, fingers white with tension.

Then he glanced sideways at the powerful, simmering figure in the pilot's seat and he felt a flash of hope, the first clear hope since he'd fallen like a drooling idiot into the damn bitch's bed.

*

Some time later, as the sun was just beginning to peep through the tops of the trees away to the left, the helicopter suddenly seemed to lurch in mid-air. Adam grabbed at his seat, white-faced while they plummeted toward the ground.

A yelp escaped and he turned frightened, questioning eyes to the figure beside him, thinking they were crashing, then he blinked as he recognised the colossal new seethe of explosive tension barely contained within the coiled frame. He winced away involuntarily from the murderous expression on the wolf's face. Jet black, burning eyes were intently scanning the fields below, and the chopper levelled out just above the ground, swaying dangerously at the abrupt change in angle, then thumped down onto the stubbly earth, skidding haphazardly along on the blades through the slightly damp mud.

Heart pounding in shock, the werewolf heard the screech of the metal door slamming back against the side of the cabin even before the craft stopped moving, and he gaped after the glimpse of white fur already disappearing at incredible speed into the trees at the edge of the field.

Wait for me! he thought belatedly.

Old Riley, whining, was already jumping in a cautious, half-awake stumble down to the ground when Adam lurched into movement after the pair of them. He was caught by his harness, fumbled with the belt buckle, and just managed to swing himself down from the vehicle before the beagle vanished into the trees in the wake of the Alpha, nose to Mac's trail.

*

Zaban's hackles suddenly yanked alert and he spun around, the thick scent of blood landing heavily in his nostrils. Even as he dropped automatically into fighting stance, his eyes widened and heart thudded in shameful fear at the incredible trail of torn bodies being scythed through the vast throng of his wolves waiting to fight among the sparse trees lining the narrow valley. A spray of blood sheeting through the air marked the passage of the intruder descending the small hill just across the gravel road; the path shorn through the warriors was powering straight toward the two cars he was standing beside. The white crest at the forefront was cutting ruthlessly, unstoppably through to the small group hastily transferring from one vehicle to a second, newly charged car.

Zaban's eyes widened with realisation.

"Hurry up!" he barked to the wolves carrying the unconscious wereem, fuming, startled and angry with himself at the struggle it was to pull himself together from starkly frightened awe. How the hell had the Mackeld followed the kidnappers so damn fast? Found them? He could hear and scent the rumble of similar fear running among the ranks stationed waiting in the trees, and the public shame centred him. The stocky, seasoned warrior snapped to full height and began to bark orders, striding forward, calling his koiru into battle-meld.

A new command blasted in from his Warlord, words echoing around his skull, exultant. The Mackeld couldn't defeat a whole army. The Tzo general's blood tingled, his customary impassiveness overlaying the shame: he would have some other news to convey tonight, beyond the mere subjugation of this Alphaless pack.

*

Her scent in his nostrils was tearing at Mac, pulling him on, despite the faint awareness of the insanity of what he was doing. As the scent strengthened when he drew close, a shiver tingled down his spine, settling him back into himself, and he blinked back into sharp focus, awareness of the hordes of wolves teeming across his wider surroundings swamping through his burning brain.

Oh well.

He spun between the dense ranks of his enemies, shearing his way through toward her, brain seeking forward for a way to get them both back out, after he reached her.

Then the scent purring through him cut off to the slam of a heavy door, only the echo lingering in the air. Mac let out a vicious sound of fury - not again, NO! - as he sprang forwards, simply barging the next line of wolves out of his way to burst through and spear his claws into the rear of the accelerating car. There was a frantic roar of the engine as the driver slammed his foot on the gas pedal in terror, an excruciating shriek of claw through metal, and five deep scores shredded across the trunk where he clung, just as seven heavy koiru pounced on the infuriated Alpha.

Mac shifted human, twisting his smaller shape onto his back to escape the hands and arms grasping at his torso and limbs, keeping the fingers of his right hand clamped through the sharp grooves he had made in the body of the trunk. His arm was stretched back over his head while the vehicle began to drag him by his heels along the roadway. Without a moment's pause he flipped off the ground, springing off one leg, flashing back wolf to cut a z-shape through the air and shear a rear claw across two of his pouncing opponents' throats. He finished the twist with his knee clamped chokingly around the neck of a third wolf, cutting off the enemy's breath, then used the purchase from his already collapsing enemy to drive a forth warrior to his knees, breathless and coughing blood from a ruthless, puncturing punch of the Alpha's other foot.

Meanwhile, enemy claws were carving deeply into the arm stretched above his head where he was clinging implacably to the torn truck of car carrying her. Mac head-butted viciously to his right, his head exploding in pain where he smashed his skull into the koiru's teeth. Almost simultaneously his free palm slammed hard onto the wolf's exposed ear, hearing the yelp as he burst the drum while with the rebound he back-struck a further wolf who was attacking from the other side.

Yet still the seventh damn attacker had time to cut the small piece of car body that Mac was clinging to free, a claw screeching through the metal.

The Mackeld and his enemy rolled together in the wake of the accelerating car, Mac howling full-throttle in fury as he downed the last damn idiot, leaping back after the vehicle taking her away just as a second torrent of warriors piled onto him, flattening him momentarily to the earth.

The heap heaved, a tawny figure whirled free and was snatched at by a second ring of wolves that had now closed around the flashing golden-and-white centre.

Zaban watched impassively from the hillside above the road as more dense rings of his koiru formed into close-packed ranks around the spinning Alpha. He felt a twinge of regret as he followed the swift, deadly skill of the centrepiece, pierced by the knowledge that the slow grinding of implacable numbers would eventually still even those flashing limbs. The quiet flick of his fingers before he turned away back to direct the main battle was respectful: honour to the formidable warrior that was the Mackeld.

*

Beyond the short line of hills hiding the road was a second, deep valley cut through by a steep, narrow stream. On the opposite flank of the second valley, Chris O'Connell faltered suddenly, his heart thudding in sudden recognition and eyes flashing as he leaped backwards, giving ground to the damned unending swathe of deadly invaders they were fighting. His ears echoed with the distant howl: the simplest, ancient form of communication. He recognised that voice, even though he had never heard that level of pure fury.

What the hell was Mac doing here?

Heart flooding with a sudden renewal of hope, Chris drew his small group of remaining warriors closer about him as he leapt into a small corner of space among the trees, flung his head back and howled an answer: a full, anguished howl for succour.

Then he dove back into the fray, limbs sweeping with replenished fervour as he began to urge his friends and kin to break a halting path through the enemy across toward the valley of the road. Eve called a howling question from further beyond the hills, and Chris simultaneously conveyed and yowled a general call to regroup to all the surviving O'Connells within range, his packmates battling in scattered little bands around their central valleys and hills. Fighting without an Alpha - none of them had the skill to meld, the damn enemy were separating them and picking them off in small batches.

But there was an Alpha here. Colouring his howl, Chris directed them all to try to get to Mac, meld. He had only seen Ulf a handful of times since they had both left the academy, but now the Alpha was here, far to the south of his own range, just when he was desperately needed. Miraculously. If they could just hold on long enough to reach him.

*

Twenty minutes later, Zaban's head snapped round where he fought to hold the hillside between the two valleys, a harsh sound chopping through the air penetrating his absorption despite the furious battle-meld he was holding. Luckily only one of the O'Connell wolves seemed to know the Mackeld, and the Tzo general was concentrating on deploying his well-trained troops to keep any of the O'Connell from breaking through. He was wary of letting them anywhere near the valley where the Mackeld was still fighting; although the Alpha had no pack within range to bolster his shiele, the Tzo general had heard stories about his personal strength, and was not sure at what range Mac would be able to form a meld with unfamiliar wolves. He wasn't going to risk underestimating him.

Incredulous, he watched a lurching helicopter appear above the road and advance hazardously to where he had left almost half of his warriors surrounding the Mackeld. The chopper was swaying dangerously through the air, too close to the dense trees, a long winch cable extending as the craft advanced unsteadily above the mass of wolves still fighting to overwhelm the Alpha.

The Tzo general was already spinning, howling a challenge and a warning, but even as he yelled he saw the red-matted, tawny figure at the centre of the fight in the valley below leap. Then the tiny figure was clinging to the trailing cable while Zaban was calling furiously to his wolves to pull them down.

A swathe of his warriors leapt to snag the end of the line, but with one flash of the Mackeld's hind claw the metal sheared, and the group of Tzo still clinging on to the end plummeted to the earth while the chopper bounced on a mad rush into the air, swirling out of control. The flashing blades sheared through the branches of a tree as it teetered out of control.

But the black speck clinging onto the trailing fragment of cable was already almost at the cabin. Zaban's heart shrank, and yet also pulsed in a strange, sad pride as he saw the helicopter suddenly stabilise, straighten and then streak past at full speed straight above him, aiming for the densely wooded hilltop where Sha-li's warriors were holding the majority of the O'Connell trapped in the opposite valley. Two dark specks dropped from the cabin moments before the craft exploded into the Tzo ranks packed on the hillside, the blazing flames of the wreckage hiding what happened to the pair of evacuees, but Zaban knew. There was no way the Mackeld couldn't fight his way through those last few yards.

There was a wolf! his heart exulted silently, while he held his stoic demeanour.

The Tzo Alpha spun back to his own warriors, mind whirling, calling in the final reserve, conveying orders urgently, consolidating his fighters. They still had the advantage of numbers, and a meld kinohth, especially with wolves the Alpha had never even met, was very difficult to sustain. The O'Connell would not meld with the unfamiliar Mackeld seamlessly, if at all.

Zaban's heart was hollow, aching and electrified. He had always thought that the tales of the Mackeld were exaggerated. Until now. Now he had seen him fight. Silently he acknowledged the fierce, steady pride within him - joy that the Mackeld had escaped the death-pit in the valley. He had hated that order. Now they would now fight as equals.

He was proud to face such a wolf. Win or lose, this was how a wolf should be.

***

Light rain was drifting down through the darkness the following night, hissing where it hit a double line of large bonfires flaring in the darkness. The fires lined a smooth, grass airstrip centred in a wide break between the dense fir trees, and many fur-edged figures were visible moving tiredly around the edges of the flames, some murmuring to each other, sharing food and touch, others standing quietly or swaying in a dazed fashion, talking to the shadows huddled within a long line of tall, wide canvas shelters beside the fires. On the hillside beyond, the frame of a large, many-gabled wooden house was visible, glowing eerily as dying flames flickered along the blackened skeleton of the demolished O'Connell grange.

Fealden Wolflord was standing beside the last bonfire, leaning heavily on his cane, his breath harsh as he held back his internal anger and steadily, calmly countered the snapped grievances of the Southern Warlord. The fierce 'discussion' that they were holding over the torn, unconscious heap of blood-matted fur, all that was left of the Mackeld, had been going on for over two hours. It was growing increasingly tedious. And ungrateful.

The tall, heavy silhouette of the Warlord Gardner was quivering, he was sweeping one arm through the air in a gesture eloquent of anger and frustration while he snapped a repeated accusation, then he nudged a foot disparagingly towards the warrior lying at their feet.

Fealden's French accent was stronger than usual when he replied. The irony of having to defend the damn insubordinate Mackeld to the southern Warlord was infuriating.

"So what would you have had him do once he heard the howl?" growled the aged wolf pointedly.

"Aster do not lead Southern," repeated the Gardner. It was infuriating - the Wolflord was not taking this matter seriously enough. But if Aster started trying to take over down here, then - there would be more than one war on this continent. The Southern would answer to the Wolflord, but no-one else. These were their lands.

"He called you instantly," countered Fealden austerely. "Alerted the Marsh pack through me, so that Karim has been able to defend against a similar stealth attack at Marshmont. The Marsh are under siege, but safe within their fortress."

"But what on earth was the Mackeld doing down here? How did he get here? Alpha to three packs, now? - the Aster Warlord cannot lead a Southern pack," iterated Gardner, his voice harsh with hostility.

Fealden Wolflord decided that he was tired of this repetitive argument. Moreover, he definitely did not want to have to explain how the Mackeld had gotten here. He wasn't about to divulge publically that the damn Alpha had hijacked Amy's helicopter. And then crashed it.

"Enough!" The Wolflord's shiele flashed as he growled challengingly at the Gardner, and the looming Warlord abruptly fell silent, reeling backward slightly in the burn of that glare. "Listen."

The aged wolf pointed down at the barely-breathing, shredded Alpha lying comatose at their feet.

"The Mackeld has not yet been elected as Aster Warlord," Fealden stated succinctly.

The Southern Warlord snorted quietly, and the Wolflord decided to let that pass. All wolves knew who would take over from Jon Marsh leading the Aster, the other Aster Alphas were practically queuing up to beg him to now that he was no longer deadwolf. Official acceptance would only be a formality.

"And the O'Connell haven't cloven to him: a meld kinohth for a single battle is not expansionism," the slight, aged wolf continued on a stronger note.

The Gardner opened his mouth to argue - yes OK, none of the O'Connell had cloven to the Aster Alpha before the battle, but -. He snapped his jaw shut again without a sound, shuddering, when the Wolflord's glare scorched a warning into him through the damp night air.

"Between them, the O'Connells, led by the Mackeld, managed to survive the Tzo surprise attack until you got here, and they captured one of the enemy's light aircraft intact," continued the Fealden. Which went partially toward mitigating stealing and crashing the damn helicopter.

"He let Zaban go!" Gardner snarled the complaint, nudging his foot again at the unconscious heap of fur at their feet. "We could have obliterated these damn Tzo once I got here!"

The Wolflord's reply was soft, yet steely: "Zaban gave safe passage to the O'Connell cubs and asage cornered in Ridal gap, before your wolves reached the battleground." He shut his mouth with a snap and glared probingly at the tall Warlord.

Fealden was pleased to see a slight flicker in the burning eye of the Southern, and the faint nod to his head. Wolf principles - Tzo displayed few of them, and Grey none; they seemed to be dying out. Yet this Tzo general had given safe passage to the cubs and their mothers. And so the Mackeld had treated him with equal honour: if an invading wolf will admit defeat, and yield, withdraw - even an Alpha leading a whole pack - then it is dishonour to the victor to kill him. They were too small, fragile a race to risk escalation of inter-pack hatred by wanton killing.

Moreover, all wolves understood the reason for this war. They all understood the need for a pack range; it was the principle reason why wolves fought, and had continued fighting, throughout the centuries as the humans had expanded. The need to find space enough for all.

Yet Gardner still growled, "It was not the Mackeld's call - it was the O'Connell who were attacked."

"They agreed," countered Fealden softly.

"Of course they agreed! He's a fucking Alpha!" exclaimed Gardner. "And they don't have one of their own to argue with him - half of them want to cleave to him!"

The Wolflord's voice was a growl as he answered, "But they cannot. The Mackeld will return North in the plane you sent for me. I will stay, briefly, to hold them together while the candidates are gathered and the succession fought. Who you choose as challengers is up to you. Up to them."

Both sets of eyes flickered toward the shadows of the surviving wolves who were moving slowly and carefully around the other camp-fires, keeping at least three fires apart from the Fealden and the angry Gardner. Gleaming, worried eyes kept catching in the firelight whenever the O'Connells glanced over toward the huddled shape of the Mackeld Alpha on the turf. The worry then increased as the watchers shifted their gaze to the two powerful figures fuming on either side of him. Even over the distance, through the drizzle, the strength of the anger was colouring the air.

"That decision should be your primary concern," the Fealden dismissed his companion softly, straightening to stand erect and stare hard into the Warlord's eyes. Gardner shivered at the gentle rebuke from the aged wolf half his size, and stepped backward slightly, blinking and dropping his gaze. He flicked his fingers in jerky respect before swiftly turning to stride over toward the firelight, back still stiff with outrage.

Damn the Mackeld for putting him in this position, thought the Wolflord furiously to himself.

But Fealden's anger began to sink under pity as he looked down again at the comatose Alpha at his feet. He watched while slowly, very slowly, one of the deep wounds on the blood-soaked back began to sluggishly stop seeping; the mutilated wolf was healing at human speed, even in his natural form. Mac was completely drained, and would be in shiatz for several days at this rate.

Fealden glanced up at the scent of the young, tired physician who was approaching hesitantly with a small pot of charcoal grease, eyes wide from the shock of what he had seen today. As a result of this onslaught, there were only two physes remaining in the whole O'Connell pack; the new Alpha would have to send some more for training. If anyone survived this war. Fealden shook himself irritably, dismissing the pessimistic thought, and sighed as the youngster froze just outside of his reach.

"I am not angry with you," the Wolflord told the young wolf dryly.

His eyes gleamed with fire as he dropped his gaze back again to the barely breathing semi-carcass at his feet. The anger surged. Just because the Mackeld had stumbled inadvertently into being a damn hero, saving this pack and crippling the Tzo's stealth advance, such actions didn't absolve him from his mutinous theft and helicopter destruction.

And now what was he going to do? Gardner was right, the Mackeld couldn't hold three packs. Two were already tearing him apart. So this damn insubordinate Alpha would have to be removed from the area before the O'Connells started to cleave to him. Yes, he, Fealden had shut the Gardner up for now, but both leaders were able to scent which way the O'Connells' allegiance was blowing.

No Alpha could hold three packs.

Unless -.

A flicker of pain crossed the Wolflord's face, and the fire in eyes sank slowly. Poor Mac.

He remembered. Oh yes, he remembered the belief he had had in his own mate. The belief that had slowly, reluctantly melted into hope after their one, beautiful year of perfection. And then the painful, relentless fragmentation of that hope. Yearning, stubbornly clinging to wisps of it, unable to accept that something so perfect could be ... so fragile.

And he remembered welcoming the heavy, tearing pain of the multiple melds, the sharp pinions of the overwhelming thoughts scarring through his screaming mind being the only thing that had offered faint distraction from the smothering, leaching agony of her slow, bitter loss. The only breath of worth that had remained within him had seeped in from ruthlessly protecting his people.

His Rosie had fought as hard as she could; she had experienced flickers of sanity even in those later years, briefly, and his primary drive had been just to keep her safe for those moments. The second invasion had just been a distraction. However, by the time she had died, just before the start of the third, there had been so, so many wolves depending desperately on him. Abandoning them to serve his own release would have just been a second, bitter betrayal of those who trusted him.

Condemned to survive.

Fealden's eyes were dry, burning with the ancient, stabbing ache as he watched the young physician at his feet carefully cleaning and coating each of the chaos of seeping wounds hacked through every limb of the stubborn Alpha. The phys was relaxed now that the acrid anger in the air had dissipated, and Fealden sighed as he squatted beside the desperately wounded Mackeld and reached out a finger to bolster the Alpha's shiele with his own. By rights he should kill the mutineer. But the Wolflord sadly suspected that the wolf at his feet would suffer beyond anything even he could inflict anyway.

And they would need this warrior in this escalating war.

There was a sombre shadow in the depths of the bleak old eyes while he watched the raw wounds begin to close and knit.

*

MAC!

The desperate call burst into his head, slamming a rush of unstoppable feeling to swell through him while his mind pulsed instantly awake, hurtling back along the thread of the call, locking to her, barely conscious of the incredible force of shiele he was able to draw on.

Fealden Wolflord flinched, his finger almost lifting from the Mackeld's shoulder when he was hit by the painful drain. Then he realised just whose call would pull the Alpha from shiatz, even as shattered as Mac was. Fealden's eyes narrowed, and he gritted his teeth as he settled in to hold the link for the Mackeld, trembling lightly. He should not be partisan among the Alphas, but this was a personal matter. He, the Wolflord, would donate his strength to bolster a wolf he was proud of. For this.

Gemma: Mac was melded with her. Revulsion was fighting through the shame in her head, and deep, deep sane anger as she snapped from the rage into a bewildering pummelling of sensations. There was a sickening taste on her tongue, from a thick, solid object clenched between her teeth, forcing her jaws wide, and they realised together that her teeth had been filed as she swam further into reason.

Simultaneously, instantaneously, Mac and Gemma recognised the repulsive scent of many aroused male wolves surrounding her: smothering, a stifling wall of bludgeoning lust. But it was the deepest musk, the reek of the closest, too-close, too-vile male pressed against her head, in her mouth, swamping her senses, which had her keening internally with a single, repulsed desire: the cool, collected, razor-sharp desire to kill.

Nicholas Grey.

Gemma, bewildered, found that she was human, naked, on all fours on a smooth, black-lacquered platform surrounded by cameras. In the distance, invisible beyond the bright lights searing her sight, was the oppressive, humid taint of human desire, male and female, blending with pain and sex and more wolves.

Pain: there were searing stripes of fire crossing her naked back and thighs, burning under the fierce lights. Her buttocks were blazing pain, but she couldn't remember what had happened, how she had got here, where here was: anything. The blankness of the rage cut short her memory.

Always, before, she had broken out of it to Mac; now her first thought seemed to have been seeking him.

Move! Driven by her mate, Gemma twitched around on her hands and knees, jaw still clenched, dodging and partially blocking a half-sensed blow from above her. From Nick. Dizzily, she reached to shift and found that she couldn't.

Lingering in her head was the burst of rational anger which had thrown her to the surface: anger at the aroused scent of him, Nicholas, on her skin, the vileness of his rampant, eager cock brushing moistness over her welted buttocks while he had pulled them apart with his hands, revealing the small, puckered entrance within. The disgusting intrusion of that reek had pierced her with a truth, even deep within the rage: there was only one wolf allowed to mark her with his musk. Gemma had spent every last ounce of her strength calling to Mac while she had surfaced, even as she had spun and lunged with her teeth at the intruder.

Why couldn't she shift? Constant pain now throbbed at her nipples, a heavy weight pulling them downwards and the wereem was distracted, bewildered by the soft chime of twin bells ringing beneath her torso in time to the swing of those weights while her mate nudged her to twist again sharply sideways, dodging a second heavy blow to the head from the Grey wolf who was hunched half-disabled in increasing pain over her crouching form.

His cock was in her mouth. Eugh.

But Mac didn't allow her time for revulsion either, and her arm snapped up around the thigh to her right, clamping her head against Nicholas' upper thigh, twisting her neck slightly to angle the cold metal of the collar around it to press tightly against the naked skin of her enemy's groin. That collar was tingling like a mixture of ice and weak acid against her skin.

Gemma almost vomited, drowning in the nauseating scent, the taste, as the movement drove his cock deeper. Then Nick's strong fingers clenched into either side of her jaw, trying to force her to let go and she clenched her blunt teeth tighter, refusing to release her bite. Beyond the revulsion, there was also a little, vicious smile in her thoughts.

Yes, they had filed her teeth. And the collar burning around her neck was Argen, repressing her in her human form. But Nicolas Grey's main weak point had always been that he really didn't believe that a mere human could inflict any damage on a wolf. With her teeth filed, her bite was as blunt, as useless as any human's. Ineffectual. So he had thought.

Depends what you bite, she thought vindictively. But the shamed misery rose at same time, while she continued to dodge blows coming from all sides, led by Mac in a swirling dance, jerking her assailant after her. She hated this.

Tears were rolling down her face, but Gemma felt a bittersweet pride in herself. She was soothed by the calm touch of her mate in her head, the feel of him weaving order through her staccato mind. Fighting was fighting, Mac agreed calmly. She had gained an advantage in an impossible situation - she should be proud.

His anticipation of the movements around her far outstripped hers, she was distracted again, fascinated. A faint flicker at the corner of her senses, and automatically, guided by her mate's impulse, she scuttled backwards to avoid a third, ineffectual blow from the human-form wolf jerking in frantic little hops after her. She was distantly enjoying the howls of pain echoing above her head - Nicholas couldn't shift either, so long as she kept her collar touching him.

Clever Mac.

In this strong, seamless mind-meld, she realised that could read her mate clearly. Deep inside, beyond his sharp battle focus, Mac was so - bereft. Appalled that he had lost her. Deeply ashamed, revolted by himself? That he had saved her brother and not herself? NO! It had been her fault that she had run, and she had begged him to look after Adam.

Her own guilt at his pain was nauseating, causing her to falter.

Concentrate! the calm admonition drew her back into absolute attention to the moment.

Gemma felt herself spin swiftly away from the easily anticipated lunge of one of the other wolves on the stage, rolling her yowling would-be rapist after her, his blows toward her head growing weaker as his limbs began to shudder from the pain. She was no longer guiding her movements at all.

Feinting, dodging, Gemma watched from inside her own head in awe, slightly envious. This was what it felt like; looked like, to be Mac. To be this attuned. Every move that the wolves surrounding her made seemed obvious to him, predictable, and they were stumbling around clumsily, so slowly. But- how did he notice so much? The faintest twitch to a shoulder, and he was rolling her out of the way before the following lunge came. Then seconds later he spun her to avoid a faint shadow that was blocking the heat of the lights falling on her naked back.

I love you, she whispered to him, in wonderment.

Not now, picchu, he replied distractedly, his concentration on her enemies absolute.

Hovering around her periphery was a vague awareness of the ripple of titters and advice from the audience, sarcastic catcalls to the human-seeming wolves attempting to corner her. The derisive noise increased in volume and scorn as she rolled and scuttled away from each pounce, yanking increasing shrieks of pain from Grey at each evasion, until eventually he stumbled and fell to his knees in front of her.

Suddenly, all the lights went out. The smothering, angry wolf scents closed in with inhuman speed, and although Mac continued to dodge several blows, using the whimpering, kneeling Nicholas as a shield, finally a heavy, metal object smashed into the side of her head and knocked her into oblivion.

Back on the grass in the O'Connell valley, Mac lay still, flat on his back. They he rolled over and curled abruptly to sit up cross legged, his torso hunched over, trembling as he drew a long, shaking, breath. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he squeezed them shut, clenching his fists to them, barely aware of the stabbing pain of the violent piquant headache slashing through his head again and again.

Found - and lost again?

He HAD to get her out of there. Now.

Where?

A hand touched his quivering shoulder lightly, and he knew the scent, but couldn't speak, couldn't even move to physically acknowledge the Wolflord - if he opened his gritted teeth he would howl.

Zaban didn't know where they were taking her? asked the Fealden. His head was also aching.

Tzo didn't tell him. He doesn't entirely trust him. Zaban is too honourable. Mac's answer was disjointed, his mind reeling from what she had just gone through. Where she was. What was happening to her?

Jian-Xi Tzo is besieging Marshmont, the Wolflord replied succinctly.

Mac barely heard him. Then he recognised what Feladen had said. His eyes cracked open. His head jerked up , the burning ire in his gaze so scorching that even the Wolflord blinked.

Jian-Xi Tzo would know where she was.

The Marsh? They are holding? Mac asked.

So far - but Karim is outnumbered and outmatched. They need a seasoned leader, replied Fealden.

Mac unfolded painfully to his feet, hissing at the half-healed wounds on his back and limbs. How soon can you to get to Marshmont? he asked.

The new Aster Warlord is going to Marshmont, replied the Wolflord gruffly, just before his hand shot out and collided with the side of Mac's head more swiftly than the Alpha could move, knocking him off-balance into a crashing roll across the grass.

Mac lay for a second, and then uncurled carefully back to his feet, ear throbbing painfully, head slightly bowed in acknowledgement. His blood was on fire with a separate, distracted urgency. He knew that he had deserved that blow, deserved worse than that in fact. He was an Alpha. They were at war. He knew how tightly they had to hold discipline, knew what he deserved - but not yet. His heart was burning. He deserved death, but not yet.

"Can you leave me alive until I get her out?" the Alpha croaked painfully, needing to verbalise such an important request. "I need to hunt - find her first."

"I will defer your punishment - unless you again put your personal needs before those of your war-striken people," gritted the Wolflord. "For now you are needed at Marshmont."

Mac suddenly realised what Fealden was implying. NO. He had to find her.

Aster Warlord? he cursed. Me? Silback will never follow me!

Silback does not doubt your prowess as a war leader. They are unanimous. You cannot hear them, this far south, but I can, retorted the Wolflord.

Dammit, Mac cursed internally. He had other matters more important.

Then he paused. Still, if it got him to Marshmont - he could overpower Jian-Xi himself - and he could divert the Whites and the Mackelds to meet him there. With both packs he could free her.

All Aster packs will meet you there as soon as they can. You are to hold the fort until they get there, commanded the Wolflord. The rest of us will head to Medway.

I'm going to do more than just bloody well hold the fort, thought Mac to himself, eyes hooded, body trembling in fury.

Mac looked away sharply when the Fealden met his eyes.