Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 10

"Did you not recognise that claim?" one of them snapped. "It may be faint, but - sheesh."

The words echoed distantly outside the despair in her head. She couldn't even walk properly like this. Disgust at herself began to leach into her, sinking her further into gloom.

She hated being a wereem.

Rebecca appeared in the tent doorway, her eyes deep, unfathomable, and quietly asked Gemma to come and hold a gash closed for stitching.

Two nights later, Gemma was awoken by the heavy, inanimate bulk of her exhausted wolf rolling and wrapping himself around her on her small pallet in the hospital tent. She was dimly aware of the slightly sour scent of shock in the air, the doubtful whispers among the night staff and few wakeful patients, but it was smothered under the joy of seeing and scenting her wolf, feeling his warm, tawny fur brushing against her, burning to the tingle of excited, hopeful anticipation awakening in her blood at his delicious musk...

No chance.

Mac was comatose as soon as his head hit her pillow - or more probably before, considering the ungainly way he had landed. But her heart was singing at the sight of him, the feel of his soft fur brushing against her skin, his lycan bulk wrapped around her.

To know that this was where he wanted to be.

She lay back and began to gently groom out the tangles in his fur, unravelling small twigs and burrs, thorny bits of bramble, brushing out dust, and running her fingers against glazed patches of dried blood. It never appeared to be his. She found that her lycan claws were excellent for teasing or cutting out the hardened blood, and was pleased that she had finally mastered how to change just one hand.

Will and Rebecca had been patiently teaching her how to control her transformation, guiding her inside her head to shift just one limb whenever she needed a claw for her work for them. Cutting open a cold, shiny patch of skin stretched over a buried shard of silver was much easier if you could just transform one claw, but Gemma's limbs in general followed her mind's instructions much better if she stayed human, so she preferred a partial transformation.

Mac's sister had been impressed with the steadiness of Gemma's hand with a pair of tweezers - not surprising, after years in a lab - and had set her to the difficult task of teasing every last sliver of silver out of the wounded, shivering wolves who were brought in. It was tense, meticulous work. Every fragment had to be picked out, or the wound would begin to fester, stretch cold, and the wolf would slowly weaken to the pernicious poison. Most wolves were too nervous of silver to keep the steady hand required, but Gemma had been working with the metal for many years, and had yet to learn to fear its touch now that she was a werewolf, having so far avoided brushing against it.

The main tension came from her patients, and it wasn't all due to the silver. She could feel them growing tense as she approached, scent their wariness on the air, see them watching her out of the corners of their eyes. Although after the initial suspicion, some of the larger males instead began to puff out their chests, their musk thickening, tingling inside her nostrils. Upon which Will or Rebecca would glance up, across the crowded hospital tent, and Gemma would catch the stinging thought, Going to challenge the Mackeld for her? whispering past, causing the eager male to abruptly wilt.

Eventually finished with grooming as much of her mate as she could reach, Gemma sank contentedly back half-beside, half-under him, and closed her eyes, relaxing into his warmth.

Ten minutes later she was jerked awake again by an abrupt twinge which shook the heavy frame lying against her. It was shortly followed by a second, violent jerk of his muscles. She lay there, buzzing with tiredness and frustration, counting in her head, waiting half-asleep for the next time Mac's taut muscles would abruptly seize, cramp and relax. There would be a brief, irregular pause, and then another spasm would rock him.

Will appeared with a jar of pungent-smelling cream, explaining to her on a hushed whisper that Mac's muscles were overtired from him holding focus for too long, and they would wake him up if he couldn't relax. The physician laid his palm on Mac's forehead, looking down at his brother-in-law with gentle pride; Gemma felt a distant echo of a murmur at the edge of her own mind, and suddenly the limbs slung across her were covered in smooth, human skin rather than that beautiful pelt. They pulled off the loose clothing, and Will showed her how to massage, almost pummel the ointment into the rock hard muscles beneath. She enjoyed a peaceful, happy hour smoothing it into her mate's skin, stroking it over the clean lines, the beautiful ridges of muscle, continuing long after he had relaxed fully into a limp, boneless, deep-breathing slumber.

He was gone before she woke.

Twenty or so silver-convalescing Aster wolves were gathered, watching her with extra hostile suspicion the next morning as she made her way across the glade to the food tent. One huge, hulking brown-and-white male stepped into her path. Gemma felt wary anger rising as she searched the serious, greying features of the wolf blocking her way, looking for a hint of his intentions. Then he had suddenly grinned, and handed her the mug of coffee in his hand.

"The A looked a lot better this morning," said the old wolf. He answered the rumble of aggressive disapproval from the other warriors with a snorted growl, and turned and brushed his way through his disgruntled packmates and allies. Gemma realised that Rebecca had appeared swiftly at her side while she watched the retreating back of the speaker, and she cautiously sniffed at her coffee.

It was coffee.

They were not all against her.

"Mac shouldn't have joined me last night, should he?" she murmured sadly, watching the flickers of distrustful anger glowing in the eyes of the dispersing wolves.

"He needed to rest," replied his sister quietly. "He is most at peace with you. And all of our patients last night were Mackeld; whatever they think, they would never betray his actions to the Koschuk or the Vanilchov."

Not exactly the reassurance she'd hoped for. Gemma sighed softly.

She and Mac were summoned to Fealden Wolflord's home, Fort Amicable, two days later.

Fort Amicable was actually a castle. The turreted, buttressed battlements would have looked really out of place to any humans who found it: a vast, European-style stone keep, with layer upon layer of additional building work expanding the original building, complete with an outer rampart curving back to the step mountain cliffs. Reportedly only two humans had stumbled over it in the centuries that it had been here. The huge grey walls were hidden away in the crook of a small V-shaped valley high on the mountainside. The formidable structure faced across a wide glacial vale, perched on the edge of the almost sheer drop where the long ago glacier had sliced through the short, high river valley. It was shadowed and hidden by the looming peaks behind of the same grey stone, and sheltered by a thick forest which crept close to the base of the massive outer walls. The sheer mountains at its back meant that the only way up to the fort was via a very steep, indistinct series of pathways, and tree-falls were designed to put the rare humans off.

Gus told her some of the background, once he'd finally gotten through the interminable scolding and was talking to her normally again.

Helicopter or small plane was the other way in, and how Gemma and Mac had abruptly arrived nine days ago. Mac had been in shock, mostly silent while he piloted the small plane through the grey clouds in the early hours of the morning. He had explained to Gemma in brief sentences that she had to drag out of him.

The senshal had been so shocked and unnerved by what they'd found at the Grey lair that they'd unprecedentedly stepped in to halt an inter-pack territory dispute. They'd ordered a ceasefire, and demanded that the Tzo come and explain what he had known of his ally's underground activities, and how the hell he'd thought that that scent-masking drug had been invented. They had also demanded that the Mackeld bring his wereem along and explain what the hell he was doing creating one. Or setting one up to be created.

Mac had been seething. Gemma had been scared - she knew the penalty for a wolf, for creating a werewolf. She'd shivered until they'd reached here, and in the large, packed audience chamber the werewolf expert, Dr Coulter, had verified that there were the healed bites of seven different wolves on her skin. Seven. Fealden's testimony, and those of his grandsons and Jasmine had proved that it was one of the last five who had turned her.

Cub bites. Cubs from the pack of the Deadwolf, Grey. Tzo's ally.

Now there was a raging argument going on about who she belonged to, whether the Mackeld was to blame for biting her in the first place, and how to prevent this ever happening again. Mac spent most of each day in the audience chamber.

Gemma spent most of each day being batted in a series of bruising rolls across the coarse grass of the practice field.

Until she ended up lying on it. Groaning quietly, internally. Like this.

But werewolves heal almost as fast as wolves.

"If only Fealden and Waring are senshal of this continent, how did others cross the ocean?" mused Gemma suddenly, opening her eyes. She stared down past the turrets to the glowing rays of the sun reflected on the sheer, huge rock cliffs lining the opposite side of the broad glacial valley. They were lying together in the short grass of the practice field, above and behind the main buildings, but within the circling protection of the outer rampart and mountain peaks.

The Fealden wolf chuckled, "WolfAir."

Gemma turned incredulous eyes up to him, "You're kidding me?"

"Nope," he returned, grinning. "A small airline that runs charter flights between a handful of the world's major airports -- they have two bases here, one on each coast, with probably two aircraft in each. The senshal frequently commandeer them."

WolfAir. She squinted up at the clouds from her prone position on the turf, trying to imagine the logo.

"If you're recovered enough to start chattering Gemma, then it's time for you to get back to practice."

A long groan echoed in the air.

What her sneaky wolf hadn't told her about their trip to the Fort was that the Wolflord was furious with both Jasmine and herself, for endangering Gemma. And as she was now a werewolf, she was subject to wolf law.

And his discipline.

Strictly speaking, Gemma's training wasn't a punishment. She hadn't been a wolf when she'd made her pact with Jasmine to find the Grey lair. But now. It still felt like a punishment, even if the regimen made painful sense. Fealden was having her trained, ruthlessly, relentlessly, in the use of her new limbs. Gus had been assigned to train her, and was subject to discipline himself if her progress wasn't satisfactory. It frequently wasn't.

The Wolflord had not been in the least impressed by his grandsons either. The fact that they had allowed Jasmine to guard Gemma alone had rendered him momentarily speechless, glaring at the pair in incoherent disbelief at their inadequacy. Jeremy, because his attraction to Jasmine had clouded his judgement; Gus, because he rarely stood up to his natál.

The other pair were somewhere about. Jasmine always looked much more exhausted than Gemma was herself, completely drained, but doggedly determined to survive this Alpha-training-by-fire. Her insubordination had been worth it; her natál was recovering. As much as he ever would be able. Jeremy, when he joined them for the evening meal, was also trembling, tight-faced, and both snappy and brooding with Jasmine, feeling betrayed by her. Yet the pair were being trained together in a relentless series of sessions with the Mackeld, the Marsh and the Wolflord himself. They could barely stagger into the great hall every evening.

Gus shifted to loup and bounded to his feet with a snarl, propelling Gemma to stagger back onto her own four trembling limbs.

"You think no-one will ever attack when you're tired?" he sniped.

If she didn't run fast enough, he nipped her. If she didn't make it around the obstacle course better than last time, he nipped her. And boy, did it hurt, even if it healed quickly.

Ow. Ow ow ow.

Stumbling down the grassy slope to the lighted side entrance that evening, once her tormentor had finally left her collapsed face-down on the grass in the twilight, Gemma walked into her mate.

Cranky complaints began to tumble from her tired brain, reeling from her mouth, and she pleaded with Mac to get Fealden to stop it, or to at least let her have a day off - eight solid days, she was going to die. She fell silent, noticing his stillness. Her wolf just stared at her for a long moment, face expressionless, before he returned dryly, "Gemma, if the Wolflord hadn't pulled rank, I would be disciplining you myself." His voice dropped, and he added silkily, "I would go and thank him, if I were you."

She shivered a little at the look in his eye and then a spark of anger snapped through her - who did he think he was, telling her what to do?

Warm hands clasped her wrists before she could move, and he swiftly kissed her before she could get out of the way. Her anger was swamped under lust. And love.

Cheat.

"Discipline -" he began.

"- is a vital part of being a wolf," she finished the phrase on a quiet sigh, having had it drummed into her often enough by her trainer. "And physical discipline builds mental." She knew. "But -"

She fell silent again, frightened by the daily notching up of the anger within her. The number of times she had turned, raging in mindless fury, on Gus. He even had two small scratches, which his natál had laughed at him for. Jeremy and Jasmine were covered in scars, but then they were being disciplined by an Alpha, a Warlord and the Wolflord.

But she hated it. Losing control. Losing all sense of herself.

It was also getting more frequent. The cold sense of fatalism in the pit of her stomach was growing.

Then again, here in the Fealden stronghold they were again separated by his alliances, his betrothal. She had so little time alone with Mac, stolen moments like this only. Why waste it whining?

Gemma sighed, turning to lean back against her mate while his arms encircled her waist, "Well, if you want the humiliation of not being able to catch your mate in future, you just leave them to it."

Mac laughed, sliding backwards onto a perch on the rock wall which lined the path around the rear of the building, pulling her onto his knees. Tears leaked into her eyes. She was so tired. Tired and missing him. Why did they have to waste what little time she had? Couldn't they just let her enjoy him while she was still sane?

"I think chasing you will be more fun, once you can actually run on your four feet," he replied.

That reminded her, "Why didn't you bite me when we last mated, after the battle in Medway?"

He stilled, and sighed. She could feel him thinking, and the words came slowly, the realisation surfacing in Mac as he shared it with her: "I seem to have lost the need, the unstoppable, instinctive demand to bite you as we mate, now that you are a wereem."

Then he added, "Which is all to the good, I could stay human; it is not good to mate cross-species, the loup would have torn you again."

"So you only bite as a wolf -um- loup?" She knew that wasn't true. Her skin had lots of proof.

"The loup bite is most potent," he replied. His voice was slightly unsteady, she could hear him thinking dark thoughts, scent his anguish in the air.

Enough of that gloom. Time-waster. Turning on his knees, Gemma began to nibble kisses on his taut-pursed lips.

"As I'm new to this, I think you should give me a head start," she whispered. His body was trembling, and she felt his mood lighten slightly at her teasing beginning of arousal.

Then he heard someone coming, and she was on her feet, on her own, her lips burning with a brief, hard kiss by the time two young cubs tripped around the corner, snarling in a tugging, raging war over the piece of hide clenched in their teeth.

Bereft.

They fell silent as soon as they saw her, stumbling to a halt, and their eyes rounded in shock. Usually none of the cubs dared to get this close to her; they had evidently been warned about werewolves and their mad rages. Gemma smothered her anger at the interruption, and smiled tentatively at them, uncertain what to do. But they could still scent her irritation; a sad sigh escaped as they suddenly turned and tore back around the corner.

It was a brave wolf who dared speak to her. Watchful, wary eyes followed her everywhere, this was much worse than the Aster field hospital - she had usually been too busy there to notice. But Jasmine and the Fealden twins were regarded in surreptitious awe: the brave wolves who joined her every evening at her solitary bench for the meal, and proceeded to blatantly tease the volatile monster.

Mac didn't get the same looks whenever he stopped to speak briefly, formally to her in public. He was an Alpha. Of course he was safe.

Dr Maynard was the only other wolf to speak to her apart from the Wolflord. She tolerated his acrid, wary scent in her nostrils, because he provided a very welcome, brief respite from her endurance training, having persuaded Fealden to allow him two hours with her every day. The professor needed help to try to decipher the reams of formulae captured from the Grey lair, and was gleeful that they now had a metals expert on the premises, so he could pick her brains. But they worked in public, at twin workstations set up on one of the benches to one side of the great hall. He didn't quite dare take her up to his private office.

Despite the constant reminder in his musk, the hours of hard, mental work every day also helped to soothe the rage trying to take hold in Gemma's brain. But the insidious scent grated against her hackles, and it seethed from almost every wolf. Thank god she spent most of every day outside, with Gus. The constant scent of fear was feeding her rage: it was a consistent reminder that no, she did not belong with wolves. Her first wariness, back in the park, had been right.

She was no longer a human. But she was not a wolf either.

The following afternoon, Gemma was with Mac again, a public appearance. They were sitting on upright wooden chairs beside each other in what Gemma thought of as an office; a small, circular room high up in one of the towers. Behind the desk a tall, robust woman was carefully pouring tea into the first of three tall, bone-china mugs. Her short, grey curls were untidy, and her face lined with humour. She looked like anyone's idea of a fun, slightly bohemian Grandmother. Dr Coulter. The werewolf expert.

Gemma had no idea why they were here. Gus had simply delivered her to the door without explanation. She was still covered in grass smears, sweat and healing nicks, and her limbs were trembling. Unfortunately they were not trembling for the usual reason that they did around Mac.

What a waste.

A small smile flickered across her mate's face.

The desk was just visible under the jungle of plants standing thronged upon it, and the tea-tray was precariously balanced on a thick pile of books in the centre of the desk. Biscuit barrel, sugar-bowl, tongs, milk jug and the three mugs thronged around the tea-pot, gently steaming under its tea-cosy. Evidently they had been expected.

"Milk, dear?"

The woman's eyes were dangerously dark, pulling. Although not as deep as the Wolflord's.