PAWN AMONG WOLVES CH. 08

Soft moonlight, filtering through the sleeping forest canopy, lit a strange scene.

Gemma was sitting cross legged behind Mac, flopped against his broad back, her legs and arms curled loosely around as much of his torso as she could manage, and her head resting tiredly on one shoulder blade. The throbbing pain of Nick's bite in her neck, together with the warm, homelike male scent of his human skin in her nostrils, muffled the tension of the scene and eased her back into boneless relaxation. She would have slumped to the ground despite the tirade washing over them, if she hadn't been jammed between the bulk of her wolf and the large tree behind her.

She also had a tingle of relief - and regret - that the insatiable urge to jump his bones every second was missing. Not that the idea didn't appeal, but it was a normal urge, the one she'd always had to subdue, living with him. Strengthened by the new knowledge of exactly how delicious, amazing, being bedded by her wolf was. If only she had the energy to do anything. She smiled lazily against his skin.

Her mate was sitting upright, cross-legged, in front of her, listening calmly, and with apparent relaxation, to the vitriolic abuse from the newly arrived Alpha. The short, stocky, slightly overweight seeming-human was gesticulating wildly as he strode agitatedly around the clearing. Mac didn't move his head, but his eyes followed the dark figure as it passed through the dapples of moonlight and shade. Her wolf remained motionless, watching the words spit out of this new Alpha's mouth, watching him prowl aggressively in front of them.

Under the calm exterior, Gemma could feel her mate's frame trembling lightly, the internal shimmer of a body too far stressed, in too much pain. He still couldn't stand, still had deep mottled bruises and angry open wounds all over his bare torso, and he needed sleep, the healing sleep. Damn this new Alpha. Mac had only broken out of his coma because of the threat to her. She herself had awoken abruptly, finding her mate crushing her to him, rolling them in a swift scatter of wolves to the trees before he swung her behind him and wedged her protectively there between himself and a large trunk just as this new arrival exploded through the wolf-ring at the opposite edge of the re-grouping circle.

Mac couldn't fight. Not yet.

Maybe he wouldn't need to.

Vanilchov - Vanil, the platinum Alpha whom Gemma had only ever seen cursing Mac, spitting into his face, or attacking him, was standing protectively in front of the pair of them. Her heavily muscled ex-suitor was staunchly facing the newcomer, alert and ready. He appeared to be fully healed, apart from two small dark holes adorning his stomach and shoulder, Gemma noted slightly sourly.

Vanil hadn't already been carrying the damn poison for weeks.

The third, unknown Alpha had a nondescript face framed by what looked in the moonlight like brown hair, broad shoulders, and a slight paunch over a powerful frame. His white teeth and whites of his eyes flashed in the darkness where he stepped through the shade of the trees, as he spewed emotion across the clearing.

"Fuck it, what's gotten into you, Vanilchov? Its life is forfeit - shooting a wolf with silver? Clearly the were is deranged already, and needs to be destroyed. Fuck it - you're one of the wolves it shot!" His voice whip-cracked the angry words around the trees and the wolves surrounding them shifted uneasily, eyes aglow.

"Grey shot Mackeld and me," Vanil replied brusquely. Again.

But his words were ignored, again, as the other Alpha made a short, impatient gesture with one hand.

"Yeah?" growled the newcomer, "That's not what my wolves say. You were in shiatz - so how the hell would you know what it was doing while you were out? It was holding the gun when they arrived, and the only scent on the weapon is the wereem's. Mac was also down, and Grey was standing over him, nowhere near the creature when it fired at him too. Why the fuck are you defending it?"

The harsh voice softened, silkily sarcastic, "Or is that it? The rut that drove Mackeld loon-loup is over, but you still fancy a piece of that tasty wereem tail?"

Mac growled softly, but Vanil ignored the insult, stating coldly, "I was awake and charging the aggressor when I was shot. Nicholas Grey shot me twice, with silver, after shooting the Mackeld. No doubt he intended to blame the human, as she would have made a handy scapegoat and there was no scent of him here to testify to his presence."

"Ridiculous!" spluttered the angry Alpha, "No wolf would use silver on another - whereas that creature, it's not even a human, it's a fucking -!!" He howled to a halt, unable to produce an abusive enough word, and heaved in another furious breath, abruptly changing tack.

"No scent? Is your nose twisted? Grey's trail is a clear blaze into the forest. My forest," he glared at the other two Alphas as he continued. "My range. My judgement, here."

Vanilchov's reply bit. "OK. Maybe I should be more clear. Grey left no scent until the Mackeld ripped his throat out. And the reason I live is because the human dug the bullets out of me."

The short, heavy Alpha facing him halted his angry pacing and swung to face them head on, snorting incredulously, "What, are you really claiming Grey can mask scent now, are you buying into Mackeld's tail-catching? Have you joined them in their feud?" His voice deepened in scorn, "What would your Natalie say to this? Mackel -."

Vanil's voice was harsh with warning, snarling an interruption. "She would ask, as I do, what the hell Grey was doing inside Mac's ruhkreis? My challenge. My fight. What was a third wolf doing there? And how did he get past the ring, unnoticed?"

Vanil's icy gaze swept interrogatively, accusingly, around the circle of waiting, watching wolves, and Gemma felt a frisson of unease, of doubt, run around the quivering pack awaiting her fate. Frowns creased many faces as, confused, the watchers surrounding them realised the significance of the Vanilchov Alpha's question, and tried to puzzle out how the Grey could have eluded them on entry. What had they missed?

Masking scent? Impossible. Yet also impossible to slip past the circle. Each wolf had been crowded by the scents of his neighbouring rivals all week. If there had been a gap, someone would have filled it instantly, desperate for space.

Into the stinging, doubtful silence, the platinum-blond Alpha standing in front of Mac and Gemma added softly, "Do you dispute my witness, Silback?"

The last words hung dangerously in the electric air, and the uneasy wolves around the clearing shuddered in increased tension, sending unhappy, awkward glances flicking between the two standing Alphas facing off against each other.

Unnoticed to any except Gemma, Mac abruptly lifted his head, as though scenting, sensing something that startled him. He turned his face to peer intently off to the right, into the dark forest, listening, his attention dragged away.

In the moonlit break between the dark trees, Silback avoided Vanilchov's challenge, switching to attack on a different front, voice softening. "Human? I hardly think so, Vanil. The shiele has taken root - it melted wereem into the rut, and its scent only holds a hint of human now, even without the doft. It's turning. It stands no chance. Let me put it out of its misery, before its insanity messes things up any further." His glance also swept the clearing, and his voice took on an edge of scornful rebuke, "I'm surprised none of my whelps had the balls to take care of it already, while you both were in shiatz."

Vanil's back twitched, and a crooked smile lifted the corner of his mouth. "Be my guest," he responded calmly, to Gemma's shock, and stepped lightly aside. The platinum Alpha turned to keep Silback in view, eyes gleaming with amused anticipation as he watched him focus in on Mac and Gemma.

Gemma lifted her head warily to meet the fierce, clinically killing gaze of the broad, stocky Alpha over Mac's bulk, and she shivered uncontrollably. Then his eyes seemed drawn inescapably to her neck, to the multiple rows of Mac-tooth hieroglyphs nibbled and nipped into the skin over her collar bone, and even in the moonlight, she could see him blench.

Mac turned his head back calmly from whatever had been holding his attention, and met the burning eyes of the fulminating Alpha challengingly.

"Are you insane?" Silback almost howled.

"Try me," Mac growled back.

"Human - or were. Whichever. Has sleeping with the fucking enemy bewitched you?"

"Humans are not the -."

"Humans have caused this whole fucking war, Mackeld. If it weren't for humans, you wouldn't have Tzo's lot pouring over your borders, trying to smother the whole of Aster under his rule. Yet you're defending that creature. Marked with your naulu! I say again, has it infected you with its insanity?"

The squat, powerful Alpha broke off abruptly and turned to face the East himself, incredulity lighting his features, followed by awe, disbelief, and then dawning, dazed excitement. Vanil was already standing alert, trembling, facing the way Mac had first turned, his eyes gleaming, cheeks lightly flushed.

Other wolves around the clearing began to sense whatever it was. Gemma lifted her head, a faint quiver at the shimmer of feeling in the air feathering down her spine. The seething mass of anger and worry was quietening, giving way to excitement, and growing wonder. Slowly all of the noses, wolf, human or lycan, turned to point into the darkness under the trees which the three Alphas already faced. Utter silence fell, broken only by the tense, excited breathing of over fifty trembling wolves.

Gemma could feel her own blood beating excitedly in her veins; the shimmer inside Mac was deepening in response to the rising tension in the forest clearing, excitement, anticipation, and eagerness bouncing between the collection of alert wolves.

The waiting seconds seemed endless.

Silence preceded his arrival for several aching, pulsing heartbeats, and the wolves seemed to stop breathing when finally, silently, four huge males brushed into the clearing, smoothly clearing a path through the circle of trembling, excited wolves.

Then came the wolf, quietly, softly pacing.

He was tailed by a substantial following of others, male and female, who fanned out behind and beside him where he halted; all were in human form.

Yet the others were irrelevant. The wolf at the centre was small, mild-looking, slight, his silver-shot black hair topping an aged face lined with humour and wisdom. He was walking with upright, gentle grace, aided negligibly by the small cane in his right hand, and his clothes were elegant, dark, and barely noticeable except for the sense of refinement which they shrouded over him. But the air echoed with his presence; it was almost like heat against the skin, a sense of pressure, coiled power concealed, beating suffocatingly through the air.

He didn't need an entourage.

The aged wolf halted on the edge of the windbreak, beside the tree which had been wounded by the silver bullet Gemma had fired, and leaned lightly on his cane, glancing casually around. The wolves surrounding the gap in the trees were all kneeling on their forelegs, noses bent to the earth, and Vanil and Silback were already curving back out of deep bows while Mac was struggling to force his legs to steady underneath him and lift him to his feet. The seemingly slight old man shook his head at her shivering wolf, waving a friendly hand, and mildly requested him to stay seated.

"Rather, I also will sit," he pronounced, a slightly French lilt to the words, and he did so, resting upright on a small triangular camp stool which one of his followers had swiftly unfolded.

He laid his cane lightly across both knees, and surveyed the three of them.

Gemma caught a glimmer of steel under the mild look in his eye, and awareness of the edge to the situation sank into her suddenly. Silback's accusations, in comparison, had just been posturing. This wolf held real power - and the ring of wolves surrounding them had held them for judgement. Was this an audience? Or a trial?

Vanil cleared his throat. "Fealden Wolflord," he began awkwardly, his voice slightly choked in awe, and was waved to silence. The Wolflord was looking at Mac, his eyes deep pools, silently assessing, sinking into her mate. Mac lifted his chin slightly, and settled himself, his gaze steady as he kept his eyes courteously on the lined face of the old wolf, waiting to hear what he would say, perfectly still.

"You frequently amaze me, Mackeld. How did you manage to break from the silver coma and tear the bullet out yourself?"

"My mate called me for help," Mac rumbled softly over the stir in the air while the surrounding wolves turned to look at him, eyes shining in disbelief.

The black eyes of the aged wolf facing them flickered, then mellowed, softening with a hint of sadness, and they dropped a heartbeat to rest on the marks on Gemma's neck, before they lifted to meet Mac's gaze again. Then he turned them to hold Gemma's.

Hold was the word. The black pools were so deep. Way, way too deep to read, and she had a sense that is she stared for too long she would fall, and keep on falling into the bottomless, endless, depths. She was falling - nothing to hold on to, no sense of place, time, self. Falling. Nothing. No weight. No world.

Dimly, she felt the shrug of skin against hers, the hint of bitter scent curling into her - familiar - Mac, the angry acridity in the heat of his musk burned in her nostrils and made her blink, breaking away, shivering her back slowly into a sense of herself.

Gemma dropped her head, closing her eyes, and pushed her face into her mate's neck, breathing in his protective anger, trying to escape the endless, calling depths of those old eyes.

"Sorry about that." Fealden's faintly French accent was refined. "I was curious, and hadn't realised how open you are, human."

A shock of disbelief and faint resentment reverberated around the waiting wolves in the clearing. The Wolflord was a legend among their own people. Over recent decades the ancient, revered hero had only ever been seen by the small pool of Alphas on the rare occasions when they were invited to his home. Now he was here, with them, among them once again. But - had the Wolflord travelled from his retirement fastness to speak to the human?

Fealden answered the tension in the crowd, calmly, "Peace, my wolves. This is a wolf friend." A frantic shock rocked through the clearing at that simple phrase, wolves scrambling to their feet in protest, snarls, whines erupting, echoing from all sides. Mac stiffened, his head shooting up in amazement, and Silback yowled a note of discordant dissent, but Fealden continued without pause, seemingly without noticing the reaction to his declaration, talking softly over the seething mass of wolves who settled uneasily back into silence. His eyes were fastened on the dark crown of Gemma's head, just visible above her mate's shoulder.

"She is a remarkable creature. Did you know that on the rut, on the run, she halted and centred herself enough to devise an antidote for the poison which is currently eating into the Mackeld? Maynard has had his people perfect it, and he successfully used it to treat Amy the night before last. She awoke yesterday afternoon, weak, but clear of all silver."

The dark gaze switched to Mac, and the Wolflord added dryly, "You will require longer treatment. You must find the time, somehow, despite the growing threat on your north west borders."

What? thought Gemma. Of course. She had forgotten Dr Maynard. And his likely interest in this, his internal knowledge which would allow him to decipher and use the formulae she'd posted on the faculty website. And he'd been successful!

A wash of relief swamped through her, a hard little knot of tension deep within her, that she hadn't even been aware of, relaxing. Mac would be alright. She snuggled against her wolf, hugging him in intense relief, tears starting in her eyes.

But Mac was not relaxing. The opposite. Gemma could sense the tension inside him growing, feel his tightening skin, radiating outwards, and she realised that Fealden was now on his feet, treading softly towards them. He stopped a foot away, and she could feel the shiver break through her wolf as he met that dark, powerful gaze again.

"Your naulu will not save her from the shiele in her system, Ulf Mackeld," the Wolflord stated quietly. "I would not see such a spirit go to waste." He sighed. "Yet, much longer, and she will not be redeemable."

"Moreover, these new bites I do not recognise, although yours were the first. A new Alpha I have not yet met? Who is he? Is she his or yours? Who will she look to once turned?"

A heavy shudder of revulsion shook through Mac, the reverberation echoing through Gemma, and she lifted her head painfully, abruptly, caught by the soft words of the aged wolf, staring back at him, loathing scorching her own skin at the realisation.

Belong to Nick? She would rather die.

She would die, first.

"You have not yet the strength to heal her, Mackeld," continued Fealden, "Not with the silver in your system, and these other wounds." He paused, an ugly sting to the brief silence, then continued, promising softly, "And I will not touch her with your naulu. But it is now urgent, with the fresh bites festering - will you accept my shiele, to do what must be done yourself, to try to save her? As close as she is, we haven't the time to soften it. Can you channel my essence for your human?"

Mac's breathing deepened in tension while he continued to hold the fathomless gaze of the upright old wolf, shivering under the power battering against him. But he nodded, and gently eased Gemma out from behind him, pulling her around in front and folding her in his arms, despite her protests at his own wounds.

"Let me," he breathed the plea, eyes burning into hers, and Gemma fell silent at the feeling in his glowing eyes. She nodded. He kissed her softly on the shoulder, away from Nick's bite, but his breath burned over the fire of the open sore. Then slowly the tremor in Mac grew, unbearably, shaking Gemma with the pain she could feel beating against his skin from the inside, pain which erupted into an uncontrollable shudder when Fealden leant over and gently placed a finger on her mate's temple.

A hiss of sympathy shimmered in the air. The watching wolves around the clearing gritted their teeth, and braced themselves to just watch in awe, to witness the Mackeld Alpha melting down under the force of shiele passed from the Wolflord.

Gemma was on fire, the stinging pain of previous healings a candle to the meltdown of this supernova inside her, agony screaming from her lips. She was aware of the power wracking her mate, shaking his body uncontrollably while his tongue moved gently over her wound. The full incinerating force was battering against her, barely held in check by Mac as he fought to throttle it back, feed her just enough, just the amount she could survive.

The fire of Nick's bites torched into an inferno of white-hot pain, lightening sheeting through her, spreading torture through the rest of her, eating into her skin, burning through her blood, her loins, her heart. Every pore was screaming, the agony unbearable, and she was evaporating, dissolving under the firestorm which burned into her, unable to escape. Dimly she was aware that she would never take a free breath again, never move, live, think without the pain that now burned into her. She was crumbling, disintegrating.

Abruptly the deluge cut off, Mac slumping to unconsciousness beside her, and she collapsed panting hoarsely against him, the shuddering shocks of the pain in her muscles lessening, loosening, as she slowly became aware of the rawness of her throat where the screams had torn from her.

Breaths heaving, Gemma bent over her mate, worried, but his chest was rising and falling to slowly easing gasps while he sank farther, deeper into unconsciousness. Abruptly her head shot up - pain-free - and she blinked accusingly up at the silver-haired wolf standing over them. What had he done?

Fealden met her eyes briefly, the power pulsing between them, then he glanced down at Mac himself, gaze unreadable.

"A powerful wolf. Stubborn," he paused.

Yes, she knew that.

"There are not many, especially that injured, who could channel my shiele, hold it back, for that space of time." His eyes lifted back to Gemma's, appraising her. "It should be enough. It has halted the spread, and you will almost certainly have time to heal fully before your next blood heat."

The dark gaze was cold, boring into her, and with a shiver Gemma became suddenly, sharply aware that her protector, her mate, had pushed himself, injured, to his limits and was now deeply, exhaustedly unconscious. Unable to resurface. Unaware.

Unless someone threatened her, a little voice in her head whispered.

That didn't seem to be what the Wolflord intended.

"It was you I came to speak to, human," the smart little man addressed her calmly. She stared at him, warily. She'd thought so.

Of course Mac had done what was best for her, regardless to the consequences to himself. Tricked, trapped by his own care for his mate - his picchu. This wolf had known that her wolf would put her first. She glared into the black eyes, and saw a glimmer of amusement shimmer in the depths.

He said, "You may still be counted as human - though you have been teetering on the edge. Time should be enough to heal you. May I call you Gemma?" The polite question was incongruous, and she stared at him, eyes burning, before brusquely jerking her chin in acceptance. She didn't feel she had a lot of choice here.

"Well, Gemma, as I said, you currently have a reasonable chance of healing back to fully human." The lilting voice softened in sympathy as he continued, "But if you receive one more drop of shiele - one nip, one mating - maybe even one kiss, at any time, it will tip the balance."

She swallowed, feeling as though he had just punched her in the stomach, staring into the deep eyes of the silvery-haired wolf. Sorrowful memories echoed in the depths of the dark gaze.

"The wolves of this generation know too little of the change," the old wolf explained softly. "They forget - if they ever learned - that although the shiele of the bite is the most infectious, there is potent power in the seed also. You have slowly been turning all week, despite his holding back from the morde. Then, with that second wolf's bites, you were on the very edge."

He paused, and sighed. Then gently delivered the final blow.

"You know a wolf's life is forfeit, if he changes a human."

Minutes later, Gemma started out from the unnatural stillness brought on by Fealden's words, sensing the woman leaning over her, pushing a warm mug against her hands. Cold, cold - the chill was internal, spread with the unhappy sense of fatalism. She felt her warm rug dropped around her shoulders, and looked up slightly into the smooth, calm face of the tall, short-haired woman smiling gently down at her, then peered over the rim at her companion as she took a sip of the hot chocolate. The drink and the rug were comforting, giving her a pretence of internal warmth while the Wolflord softly explained further.

If Mac - or anyone - turned her into a werewolf, the whole stakes of this war would escalate. The worldwide taboo on changing humans since the second invasion was so strong that not even Tzo had broken it, despite the many underhanded and downright illegal tactics he was using to support his advance. If there was the slightest hint that even one werewolf had been created by the Aster allies, then the Chinese ex-warlord would indisputably use it as an excuse to follow suit, and enlarge his own already vast force with as many hapless humans as he could bite.

She had to stay human, or numerous members of her own race would be dragged involuntarily into a war they didn't even know existed. And die.

Throat dry, Gemma listened to the quiet distaste in the voice of the Wolflord. He succinctly, unnecessarily, described the decimation that would occur among any ex-humans who were brought into the war. Male werewolves were the wolf version of cannon fodder, most of them in past combats had never learned to use their new limbs, senses and strength fast enough to survive to the point where they went insane. He knew, he stated starkly, dark eyes fathomless. He had fought many.

She could not become were. The truth behind the human's werewolf legends had become buried in disbelief, cynicism, time. The truth was much worse. The end of the human bronze age, the time of the wolf fire wars, should, must remain dark, history, time long past.

Gemma's heart seemed to be shrinking inside her with every quiet word, a painful burn tightening, tightening in her chest while her skin grew colder. She had always known, suspected, that Mac, her glorious Mac, just wasn't, couldn't really be for her. Her hand drifted instinctively up to her throat, hovering gently over the tooth-marks patterned on her skin, eyes shadowed. Frozen in time, she tried to drive her mind into thought, to think beyond Mac. There was nothing. Nothing.

"He needs you human." The aged wolf was now sitting cross-legged with her in the moonlight, underneath the tree which sheltered the still, shadowy bulk of her unconscious mate. She realised that the fingertips of her other hand were gently sliding over the velvety skin of Mac's shoulder. Smooth, human skin - she missed his fur. But she loved the smooth contours of the toned muscles, clear to the eye, the touch.

She looked up into the deep, immeasurable depths of the quietened eyes of this powerful wolf, and felt her lip wobble involuntarily under the understanding in the dark pools. Gently she caught the skin under her teeth to hold it steady. Those quiet, sad eyes. She looked away sharply from the sympathy, unable to bear it. For some reason, the feeling in those eyes was ... true. Her companion was hurting.

The faint accent to Fealden's voice seemed slightly stronger as he continued his explanation. Dimly, beyond the pain spreading inside her, Gemma felt a light relief at finally knowing what was going on, hearing the long, detailed description. The Wolflord wasn't trying to exclude her, wasn't trying to keep her ignorant. He just wanted to keep her at a distance physically. From Mac. The cold inside was arctic, and she seemed to hear everything whispering beyond a thick shield of ice.

"Mackeld pack have been shoring up their defences under his brother Karl, preparing for this attack, but their worry is expanding daily with the increasingly violent skirmishes, especially in the absence of their Alpha. The scentless ambushes are too unpredictable, the sentinels are beginning to fear patrol. Mac has guided them so far by convey, but they need him there."

She understood that Mac was needed, desperately needed, by his own people, now that the war was reaching and intensifying on his borders. And she knew her mate. She loved him for his deep, unstated commitment to them. Her wolf would tear himself in two, trying to look after both his people and his mate, unable to keep a vulnerable human in his war-torn Range, unable to concentrate fully if she was in any danger. And she would be, possibly from both sides, the Wolflord explained.

Many wolves like the Silback Alpha deeply resented, even hated humans, blaming them for the increasing pollution of their Ranges and the steadily diminishing freedom to roam. The shrinking living space for wolves was one of the drivers in this war. Warlord Tzo had had to leave China when his ancestral Range was flooded, bisected by the construction of the Three Gorges reservoir by the humans. He had initially settled quietly on the small Range in the Northwest offered to him by his old allies, but the loss of space, status, and his home had rankled. He had been quietly amassing more and more of his people in the new territory offered to him, until his expansion had become inevitable.

The Aster could hold even against the superior force, if it weren't for the new weapons, explained the Wolflord. Argen rope was debilitating but not new, the Alphas knew how to guard against Argen ambushes, even though the tactic hadn't been seen in centuries.

But the silver-etched weaponry that made any infected wolf grow mysteriously sicker, the symptoms worsening with each cleansing - that had been deeply worrying, sending shock-waves throughout the defending wolf leaders and council. Only thirty or so wolves had been tainted so far, but a handful of them had died within a short period. Mac had been one of the first infected, and had by far the worst wound, but being the stubborn, proud, irrepressible damn creature that he was, he was somehow, god knew how, still on his feet, still functioning, seemingly indifferent to the poisonous abscess eating into his stomach. And since the Mackeld chief physician had passed on her warning against using the standard silver treatment last week, no more wolves had died.

"Thanks to you, they are no longer getting worse. He is no longer getting worse. Even Mac could not withstand more." The dark eyes brightened slightly, sinking into her, looking past the surface, assessing. "And thanks to you, it seems he will recover completely."

Gemma felt as though she was still sinking under that gaze, under his words. She knew, somewhere inside, that she should, did, feel a kernel of pride, happiness that she had helped to keep him alive, that she had devised the antidote that would cure him, cure all of them. She felt a deep curl of peace that Mac would survive - even if - without her. Her mind wisped along, wondering indifferently whether she would survive. Could she, survive this parting? Why?

She had not realised that her mate had bitten so deep into her heart.

Gemma had known the Wolflord's intent since he had first induced her mate to drive himself unconscious, while healing her. Yes, she had needed the Wolflord's shiele to heal, and would definitely not have survived a more concentrated form of it, but Fealden had also used the force of it to overcome her injured mate so that he could speak to her, Mac's human, alone, privately.

Mac would not leave her, not again, not now, not with that marking he had given her, the slight old wolf explained quietly. He would take her with him, to protect her, and so endanger both her, and his pack, in his endeavour to protect both.

She would have to leave him.

Gemma had always known that this harmony would end. But not now, not yet.

Not yet.

Not with her wolf unconscious, abandoning him.

He was going to war, a war she had no part in, she reminded herself.

But she couldn't leave him like this, to return to her empty, silly, superficial human life and pretend that it mattered. Pretend that he hadn't. Her heart was burning, inside her frozen chest.

She could barely hear the soft words through the ringing in her ears.

"Argen rope we know, and the new silver poison we can now defend against. But the scentless ambush - we rely far too heavily on our noses, especially in combat, and this weapon is one we, he cannot find an easy guard against, scent is too instinctive. Mac obtained a small amount of what we believe is the concoction used almost two weeks ago, but Maynard cannot get any handle on how it works, or even what it is made of, we know too little of silver. And we dare not ask the wider community, the knowledge would be lethal in the wrong hands."

Gemma was staring into the dark eyes, a faint glimmer of life lighting deep within her. Mac did need her. She could do this, at least, for him.

"I know - this is unfair. But could we ask for your expert help again, Dr. Gemma Smith?"

The next six weeks were unbearable. The hollow emptiness echoed inside her, a constant, gnawing ache. She couldn't bear to think about him. She couldn't not think about him. The only way she could function was by concentrating on her work, but there was no satisfaction there, she wasn't getting anywhere.

There were some little comforts. Just before she had been numbly drawn away from the clearing by the hulking escorts Fealden had assigned to her, her bodyguards, she had seen the wolf doctor William apply the first coating of her new silver-antidote to the raw, vile black oozing wound in Mac's stomach. She hadn't seen the injury since before she went to Marshmont, it had always been covered, but the ease with which he'd moved, jumped on her, laughed it off, she hadn't expected this - eugh. Ouch.

She should have known he was lying about being fine.

She had known.

Anger and fear shivering through her, she'd spoken quietly with William Bancroft, a lump in her throat, but Will had assured her that Mac would recover fully. The crooked little smile at the corner of the Mackeld doctor's mouth as he'd carefully smoothed the ointment onto the raw flesh had soothed her most. Will explained that the hideous colour was only where the old silver treatment he'd been using had leached into the flesh in Mac's stomach and reacted with it and the silver, discolouring it. He'd promised that although the stain was permanent it would be innocuous once the silver was removed by her new medicine.

He would get better.

And then, later, when her small procession had reached the road through the forest where the Wolflord's limousine was waiting, Jasmine had appeared. The lump in Gemma's throat had been too heavy to force words around, but they hadn't been needed. The wolf-girl had silently slipped a hand into Gemma's and slid into the back seat beside her friend. They didn't speak on the whole, long journey into the dawn, just keeping the contact of that warm handclasp. Gemma spent the hours in the car staring dry-eyed out of the window, her other hand clutched around the small phial of colourless liquid that the Wolflord had entrusted to her, mind circling endlessly over the last short weeks.

She glared at what remained of the colourless liquid now, brow furrowed. What the hell was it made of?

Concentrate.

She had learned, again, that fierce concentration was the only way to distract herself from the constant ache. A different ache, but worse, harder to deal with.

But oh, she was never free of the craving to see him again, touch him, surround her senses with his intoxicating scent. Even if they could never mate again, she was longing to just hear his voice. She loathed her bed, spending most of every night turning fruitlessly, restlessly, seeking. But he was at war. His pack was being driven increasingly away from their homes, at bay, fighting, dying, shored up by his presence, his skill. He couldn't keep dividing his attention, worrying about her, sprinting down to see her. She understood this.

Maybe understanding did make it easier. At least - it made it less raw.

But it hurt. So much. Bittersweet - he hadn't even tried to contact her, and she knew he shouldn't, but wished that he would.

She was the one who had left, she reminded herself.

She wished that she had at least been able to say goodbye. While he was conscious. Without an audience.

Although maybe that wouldn't have been a good way of staying human.

She wouldn't be able to kiss him even now.

Apparently, wolf shiele was a bit like some other human infections. Once the pathway had been burned, so to speak, any future contamination of the same would catch and spread like wildfire. As close as she had been to the edge, it would take only a token amount to turn her. Any wolf, of any rank, probably had enough shiele to overcome her human immune system now, now that it had become attuned to the contaminant.

To prevent anyone from turning her, and protect her as she worked, Gemma had returned to her human life with two wolf bodyguards - or three, if you counted Jasmine. Jeremy and Augustine Fealden were the Wolflord's grandsons. She quite liked the boys, distantly, although it was hard to feel anything deeply outside the numbness and fierce concentration covering the deep internal knots. She spent every possible waking minute fiercely concentrated in her lab. It was the only way she could function, could keep the longing at bay.

Concentrate, she ordered herself again, she only had another hour while the lab was free. But she might as well give up here, she thought to herself glumly. Back to the drawing board - pencil and paper, and looking for a new extraction process in the journals that might throw some light on this concoction. This method hadn't worked. If only she could get some clue as to how they made it.

The churning tension in her stomach was growing worse with the passing weeks. The struggle was growing more desperate - the ingredients to the solution which made wolves scentless were eluding all her efforts to isolate them, and without them she couldn't find a cure, something to counteract it. Couldn't help. Useless.

Concentrate.

Today, it was proving particularly hard to focus, the events of this morning kept replaying in her mind.

Every morning, two of the wolves escorted her across town on the bus, and then across the university campus to her lab in the soil science building. She knew that while she was inside one of them hung around in the trees outside the side door watching everyone who entered the building through either entrance. A constant guard. But she had always assumed that the third, absent wolf got a morning in bed.

Wrong.

They had been walking along the secluded footpath through the trees by the outer fence of the campus park, Jasmine and Gus bantering about his repeated attempts to flirt with the pretty redheaded girl who worked in the coffee shop by the library. Gemma had, as usual, been barely aware of their conversation, thinking through the avenues she would pursue today if the dilutions she had left to steep overnight didn't reveal anything upon analysis.

Abruptly, with no warning, both wolves had spun and leapt to the right, shimmering in midair to land as lycans upon the ambush of five large werewolves sprinting toward them. The aggressors had been bounding soundlessly, at breathtaking speed, down the slight hill from the dense woodland by the perimeter fence. And they had smelt rank to Gemma, like Nicolas Grey. Evidently they were Grey wolves, attempting a scentless ambush. But her guards were not relying on scent.

Behind the main group, Gemma's dazed eyes had noted a lycan with the features of Jeremy rolling upright off the corpse of a sixth attacker, lunging seamlessly into a blur springing upon another enemy from behind. Meanwhile, his hulking brother had ripped out the throat of one opponent with a clawed fist, while whirling in a roll under the stampede of vicious feet to leap and clamp his jaws around the throat of the largest member of the attacking force from beneath, dragging him down. Jasmine had spun so fast between the last two that before Gemma's shocked eyes had been able to turn in her direction, the attackers had dropped to the ground in a fountain of blood. It had all been over in seconds.

Bloody hell.

Heart pounding, Gemma had stood frozen on the path, eyes wide. She hadn't had time to move. Her brain had only just been catching up -stunned by the speed of the ruthless bloodbath that had suddenly descended, and as suddenly lifted. Stunned by the recognition of how easily, silently and neatly, her gentle companions could kill. Without pausing for breath, Jeremy and Gus had grabbed three of the corpses each and started hauling them off the walkway up into the trees. Jeremy had been growling something about the insult of Grey sending only six, to which Gus had suggested that maybe they should write him a formal letter of complaint. While Gemma had still gaped, trembling faintly, she had felt Jasmine, returned to human and with no hint of blood on her jaws or skin, slip a hand into hers and give it a soft squeeze.

"Sorry," the wolf-girl had breathed softly while she tugged the human back around and got her moving on towards the soil science building, toward her lab, her haven. "We couldn't leave them time to convey a report. Have to keep you safe."

Safe.

Gemma's slightly dazed mind kept replaying the bloody images from this morning.

She realised that in all the weeks she had spent among them, the encounters she had seen, she had never before witnessed a wolf fight to kill. The attacks had all been careful. The formal challenges of the defasio were obviously constrained to drive one wolf to yield without permanent injury. The unknown Mackeld wolf who had challenged Nicolas Grey not far from this spot had only been intending to delay him, and had been more intent on staying alive than on trying to defeat the larger wolf. And that time she had seen Mac fighting Grey himself - with no Argen rope, and no silver bullet - her mate had been careful in his movements, using delicate control to recover the bottle of this little drug from Nick intact.

Why hadn't Mac just killed him then? Her ex-flatmate moved even faster than her guards, she remembered being unable to even focus on the blur of his movements at all. And she had seen him out-think, out-move the Vanil Alpha, that beautifully choreographed dance in the forest. Surely he could have ripped Nick's throat out in seconds, that time in her bedroom back at her parents', and recovered the phial easily from the corpse?

Why hadn't he?

Long, long ago now, back at the beginning of this, Mac had mentioned a hold that Nick held over him - the reason for his exile. What hold? She felt dazed, stupid to have never thought this through before. Mac had never said that the hold no longer existed, just - what had he said? That Nick had overstepped the mark, setting Mac up to bite her, or something like that. That the exile was over.

What hold?

Having learned so much from the Wolflord, it was easier to see the missing pieces. And without the burning ache of mating lust distracting her.

Her blood pulsed briefly, a curl of heat burning through her, reminding her. Rut-doft was not required, she was quite happy to pounce on Mac without it.

No. She reminded herself sternly, and felt the aching agony clenched like a fist around her heart. She couldn't believe that never again ... she wrenched her mind away, forcing it back to the current question, and scrunched up and flung away her latest working sheet in frustration. Someone had doodled the word Mac all over it.

That evening, when the four of them returned to her flat, there was a note from a local courier company telling Gemma that someone had tried to deliver a package for her while she was out. Bristling with suspicion, Jeremy shot off around to the courier company's office before it closed, while the rest of them cooked dinner.

Gemma ate a lot more meat at the moment than she usually would, with three wolf flatmates. Well, officially the boys lived across the corridor, having providentially acquired the suddenly vacant flat - wolves seemed to have their ways of pulling strings even in the human world, or at least, the Wolflord did. Somehow, within three days of her return, the Hart couple she had known for two years had left, and the boys had moved in. They still slept there, although it was growing quite apparent that Jeremy would prefer to sleep over here. In Jasmine's room. It was harder to tell what Jasmine thought of the idea, although the pair of them were often laughing together, and Gemma had established that outside the rut, wolves picked mates much in the same way humans did. Jeremy was delicious to look at, a tall, craggy wolf, active, intelligent, and as the Wolflord's grandson, assigned as one of her guards, he had to be pretty powerful as well.

Kate and Bethan couldn't believe that Mac been substituted by two new young men who were almost equally gorgeous. Gus was huge, a hulking, dark giant, very softly spoken and a little diffident, his massive figure making even Mac's tall, strong frame seem almost slender. His twin brother Jeremy had the same colouring but the opposite build; tall, lean, rope-like muscles moulded under the smooth skin. Her girlfriends had instigated quite a few discussions straight after her return, trying to judge who was the most attractive of the three male wolf flatmates, past or present. She had a feeling that Jasmine had shut her human friends up, although whatever she had said hadn't stopped them from coming around to flirt outrageously with the boys almost every evening. Hers had turned into a party flat.

And it had also had a complete change of décor, courtesy of the wolves, who spent hours redecorating the rooms energetically while Gemma worked or slept. They were relentless. She realised that they were trying to distract her, re-arranging furniture, knocking down part of the wall between the kitchen and living room to add a lot of brightness, slopping paint around.

Like she was going to forget him just because his old bedroom was now a dusky rose. Although the colour was a beautiful foil for Jasmine's strong colouring.

Jeremy was very unsettled on his return, carrying a bulging plastic-wrapped package the size of his torso. The other wolves' heads shot up when he walked down the corridor to the kitchen, and they met him in the doorway, eyebrows raised as they stared at the package.

"What is it?" asked Gemma.

Restless, prowling, hackles slightly raised, Jeremy paced back and forward in front of her, holding the bulky object delicately in front of him, uncertain. The way he held it, it didn't look as though it weighed much, although with the definition of muscles in his forearm, it was hard to tell, she doubted he'd have been bothered if it was a block of gold. All three wolves were staring at the parcel with furrowed brows, she could see their minds working furiously.

"I think we should get rid of it," Jeremy stated softly.

"What is it?" she repeated, a slight edge to her voice. It was her package.

"I don't think we have the right," countered Jasmine, and her eyes flickered across to Gemma's momentarily.

She got it, then.

"It's from Mac, isn't it?" Her skin was shimmering, and it was quite scary, the wave of feeling which swamped her just at the thought. "What is it?"

Gus wordlessly picked the package out his twin's hands and passed it to her, murmuring softly, "You tell us."

Her hands were trembling lightly as she cut open the plastic, and she felt her skin flush warm, then pale, then warm again as she recognised the pale golden fake fur of her rug. The rug that Mac had brought to her in the forest, where they had spent many long, blissful hours entwined together inside its silken folds. Shaking, she pulled it out and hugged it quickly up to her face, pressing it against her eyes, engulfed in the warm, clean scent of him, throat burning with held-back tears. She couldn't do this without him.

"There is a note with it," Jasmine said quietly. Gemma couldn't pull herself back out of the rug. Not yet. Not with the salt water leaking into the folds from her eyes.

"But - Fealden told him not to write, text, phone, no communication." That was Gus, sounding a little ruffled.

"It's to us," the wolf-girl responded.

There was a silence, and Gemma heard the boys cross the kitchen to join her flatmate. There was a short, pregnant pause. Then one of them snorted indignantly.

"What does it say?" she mumbled into her rug.

Jeremy snorted again, "It's nothing, just -."

But Gemma could hear the smile in Jasmine's voice as she cut across his dismissal, "Just says what Mac will do to us if we let anyone get that close to you again."

That brought her head up, heart clenching in renewed feeling as she met the dark eyes of the half-Indian wolf across the small space. The boys shuffled uncomfortably at the sight of her tearstained face, but her friend smiled crookedly and tilted the postcard in her hand so that Gemma could read the front. It was one of the stark, artistic cards, large white letters on a black backdrop, and simply said, 'Every war must end.'

She stared at it, heart hammering. He hadn't given up. But he couldn't - they couldn't, he couldn't change her. Not if it meant his death. She couldn't let him. But what else was there? How could they?

Drawing in a shuddering breath, seared by emotion, she turned and shuffled dazedly back to her bedroom to slump on the bed, wrapped in the soft folds. It felt comfortingly like being wrapped in Mac. Mac. Every war must end. Mac. Her mind drifted, wondering what he was doing. What he meant.

She was startled awake hours later by Jeremy knocking perfunctorily on her door, entering on the heels of his knock to sniff deeply at the air. While she blinked sleep out of her eyes and wondered whether to be affronted at his abrupt entry, he scowled worriedly around, then glanced at her rug-wrapped figure on the bed, muttering, "Sorry," and swung back out. Indignantly, she sat up, hearing him calling softly, "No, nothing in there either, nothing except that damn rug."

She could hear the other two wolves prowling around ill at ease, and glanced at the clock. Nearly three a.m. - what on earth had gotten into them?

Moments later, lying curled inside her warm, Mac-scented cocoon, wondering vaguely what had the wolves so unsettled, and if she could get back to sleep again in this comforting rug, Gemma's thoughts were interrupted by a gently tapping on the window. The sound was familiar, and she sat up abruptly, peering at the orange glow reflected up from street level below, where she hadn't drawn the curtains. A pale reflection gleamed briefly, and in seconds she had the window open and was unhooking the message from the karabiner on the end of an almost invisible fishing line.

Mackeld mail. Trembling lightly, she smiled to herself and unfolded the short, hastily-scrawled note.

"Picchu. Your guards will scent me if I come any closer, and I don't want anyone to know I'm here. My pack have enough to worry them without terror that their Alpha is about to run off with a human again.

If you trust it's me, tug on the line and I'll lower a harness for you.

DO NOT DARE TO CLIMB OUT WITHOUT A HARNESS, STUBBORN HUMAN.

As proof, something I would never tell anyone else about you:

Duck a l'orange. Me. From behind, pinned on all fours."

Gemma stared at the short note, blood pounding excitedly through her veins, heart shimmering. A little blush infused her cheeks at the last line, and she gritted her teeth at the tease. No communication for a month and a half, and now this?

Even if he wasn't allowed to bite her, maybe she could bite him?

She had known he'd liked her reply to his lazy roll of questions one morning at breakfast: what was her favourite food, favourite possession, and favourite place? But dammit, there was no need to reproduce it in writing. She'd been eating the duck and orange that he'd cooked for her at the time. And guess how she'd been nudged awake at the crack of dawn that very morning? By whom? Damn smug, horny wolf.

Actually, she didn't need any more evidence that it was him than the dictatorial shout about not climbing out without a harness. Who would be that rude and autocratic if they were just pretending to be her mate?

She smiled ruefully. The Wolflord had explained thoroughly, she knew why she shouldn't see Mac.

She tugged on the line.

A harness slithered almost soundlessly down the wall, and knocked gently at the window, another piece of paper clipped to it, fluttering the words "Bring the rug" in the light breeze. Gemma's heart jumped as she heard padding footsteps down the corridor stop again outside her bedroom door, and she hastily stomped across her room, pulling open the door to snap at the hovering wolf, "What has gotten into you lot tonight?"

Gus loomed in the stark light of the hallway. "I dunno," he murmured slightly irritably. "Something's up. Not a real threat but - something. We just can't quite pinpoint what."

Mac. These guys were good.

"Well, can't you prowl a bit more quietly?" grouched Gemma, "I thought you wolves were supposed to be stealthy?"

He crooked a little, sheepish grin, and replied, "Sorry - we won't keep you awake any longer, Gem."

"Thanks," Gemma responded with sarcastic sweetness, feeling slightly guilty at the subterfuge. "Night." She gently closed her door again. This time, despite listening intently through the panels, his footsteps were undetectable on the carpet of the hallway. But she did hear the faint creak of the kitchen door when it swung wider. She relaxed.

Mac.

A little smile curved her mouth as she turned back to the window.

Moments later, she was wrapped in Mac, in her rug, in his arms, curled up on the flat roof of the extension at the back of the corner shop five doors down. They hadn't said anything, after he had hauled her up the wall faster than she could have fallen back down. Mac had just wrapped her in his embrace and sprinted down across the roofs to this sheltered little bower he'd prepared between the chimney stack and the wall, dropping gently down to lie flat on his back, pull her into his arms and cradle her against him. Gemma rolled to bury her face in his shoulder and just held on loosely, breathing in his scent.

She could feel his heart beating under her head. She'd missed it. Sighed softly to herself, feeling the rise and fall of an echoing sigh leaving his chest.

They lay together, quietly, while the stars revolved overhead. Being here, she realised that she didn't have to say anything. Nor did he. She knew, he knew.

Just quiet. Peace.

It was almost an hour later when the echoing siren of an ambulance shrieking down the main road off to the left stirred Gemma, lifting her out of her drifting comfort. The sky to the east was slightly less dark, presaging the coming of the sun. She felt a shiver run through her. He would have to go.

Light, familiar fingers began to brush over the skin of her shoulder. The warmth tingled through her, a rush of heat simmering into life in every pore. Yet it was so much more powerful - he was so much more powerful. Living in the flat, he had always been banked down, laid back, off duty. Hiding. Afterwards, he had been drained by the wound in his stomach, the silver leaching his strength. Now - she could feel the burn of him across her skin ever where they were not touching, there was a sense of him in the air, beating against her.

Her Mac was well. He was exhilarating, radiating power.

Ow, did she want to jump his bones.

She heard him chuckle beneath her, and then sigh.

"We can't, picchu. But thanks for joining me out here. I had to check you were all right."

She rolled over, laid her fists on his chest and gently rested her chin on them, feeling him tuck the rug back around her. She gazed up at him, teasingly.

The warmth in those green, green eyes.

"We can't even kiss," he murmured, eyes holding hers.

"I can kiss you," she retorted. "Just not on the mouth."

A gleam shot into his eyes.

"Oh, I could kiss you, picchu, so long as I avoid moist tissue. I think Valerie got very suspicious when I grilled her about this."

Eyes twinkling back, she lifted her head and parted her hands, tilting her head to admire the hard muscle of his chest before she bent and softly kissed it. And again. Again. Mmm. Over here. Mmm. Again. Maybe here. She missed his fur under her fingers, but she loved the feel of his skin under her lips, the slight give to the surface, the hard-packed muscle underneath and the rising tremor in his body at the feel of her lips. The taste of him. She had missed this human skin during the mating. A blush fired her skin as she recalled that the only bit of hairless skin he had when he was lycan was his groin, but it had seemed to feel different to this under her lips.

Maybe she could persuade him to shift so she could test it.

Abruptly she was lifted and swung, and landed gently cradled against his shoulder, head to head. His lips were only inches away as he sighed deeply, and she leaned forward in urgent need to fasten hers to them. He twisted his head, and they weren't there, she was whimpering against his throat, bereft, sliding her tongue over the warm skin, tasting the light tang of salt lingering from his sprint down here.

"Gem. You mustn't - not even kiss my skin. You lose control too easily."

Angrily she nipped at the skin of his neck under her lips, and saw the amusement in his eyes as he effortlessly twisted out of the grip of her teeth, lifting her so he could look into hers.

"I could kiss you, picchu. I would love to. But I know you hate it when I touch you and you're not allowed to touch me."

She pulled back, sliding down to sit cross-legged on his stomach and glare back at him. "You think you can control yourself better than me?"

"I've had a lot more practice," he said diplomatically.

Who was this she was sitting on again? Mac being diplomatic? That was a real insult!

"I thought you said you lost control around me," she returned brusquely.

A shadow crossed his eyes, but Gemma wouldn't let him look away. His voice was softer when he replied, "I know when I'm getting near that level, Gem. I wouldn't be able to mate my delicious mate, now your scent is human, without the loup taking over, but I could stop myself at any point while kissing your delicious skin."

A gleam of hope shot across his face, the crinkles around his eyes tightening. "Are you going to let me?"

"If you let me kiss yours."

Another sigh. Exasperation, "No, Gemma. You haven't the control."

Hah! Well. Maybe. Her frown deepened.

"Alright." She breathed deeply, and again, before continuing, "If I were to admit the possibility that you just might - currently - maybe, have the slightest fraction of a teensy-weensy smidgeon more control than me. Perhaps. Then -."

His hand lifted, and Mac laid the back of it against her forehead, checking for a raging fever while his eyes laughed up at her. She batted it away. Well, she tried to. He obligingly removed his hand when hers bounced off it.

"Pay attention," she growled down at her wolf.

He pulled his face into a more sober expression, but didn't bother to smother the amusement shining in his eyes.

"I've never really tried to control myself around you, Mac," she stated, adding under her breath, "And I've never heard you complaining about it before."

A smug smile crooked his mouth while she continued, "So how do you know I couldn't? How do I know I couldn't? What makes you think I have less control than you?"

He stroked a gentle finger along her cheek. "I wasn't born this controlled, Gem. It takes a huge amount of training, discipline, and self-denial to attain this level."