Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 12

"I may be gone days," he objected brusquely, "I can't leave you alone, and caged, for that long, you will get too - upset."

She could feel him aching at the thought, with the fear that he might lose her.

"I'll be fi-," Gemma choked suddenly, realising that they both knew that she wouldn't be fine. They knew it. But she had to persuade him to go. Please Mac.

"I'll kiss you a lot when you get back," she whispered an amended promise, staring up into his angry face, pleading eyes wet with tears.

"You already kiss me a lot," he growled back, glaring at her. His eyes were echoing with anger that she would ask this of him. And anger that he couldn't deny her when she was this desperate, however hazardous the outcome.

"Where the hell were they, what is her range?" he snapped.

The tears rolled freely as Gemma dropped her shields and showed her mate the image of the road sign the cub had sent, hope shining in her face as she slid her fingers into his hair and teased down his head to press gentle kisses of thanks to his lips, her heart swelling.

His eyes were burning with bitter anger as he pulled back out of her reach, saying, "I can track them from there, assuming his scent has revived." Then her Alpha glared down, the furious power in his eyes searing into her, making her shiver to the echo of it prickling in her veins, "You have to promise me that you will call if you feel any kind of threat, any tingle of unease, the slightest hint of the other mordeur. And check in with me every hour."

"I will," whispered Gemma, slightly startled by the shudder coursing through her from the look in his eyes. The gleam deepened, heightened, and her mind seemed to echo in battering waves of shock.

"Promise me: "I will check in every hour. I will call if I feel any unease or threat."," he insisted. She swayed, feeling her mind reeling even as a corner noted that this wasn't an order. Yet the feeling shimmering off him was shaking her, making her shiver under the force of it.

"I promise," she echoed, her eyes caught by his, and suddenly her skin tingled into alertness, body straining to the pulsing feeling within, and she realised what a promise meant to the feral wolf inside her. Her voice thickened, becoming more husky, "I promise that I will check in every hour - except when I'm asleep. And I promise to call you if I feel any hint of threat or unease."

Her brain was aching with the strain of forcing in the amendment. It didn't work.

Mac kissed her fiercely, promising in return, "I will wake you if you're asleep." The glow in his eyes was sinking as he turned away, adding pointedly, "I will also return if I think you are hiding anything from me."

The angry wolf had already marched over to the dining room table. He scooped up the lovingly prepared skewers of peanut-coated meat, and handed several to her, growling, "Eat!" as he stuffed one rapidly into his own mouth and splashed water into a glass with his other hand.

"I can finish clearing up, Mac, please get going."

His spun with the glass of water in his hands and the flash in his eyes just dared her to say any more. He was not at all happy about this anyway. Gemma tore off a mouthful without another word and swiftly chewed it down, gulping the water he handed her while he lifted a second skewer of meat for himself.

Their eyes met as he handed over more skewers, taking the glass, and his had softened slightly. Delicious, he conveyed softly, licking his lips, although his mind was still seething. Gemma blinked tears. She hated the feeling of him so angry at her. She also knew she was right.

Mac closed his hand around her fingers, where she was holding her own half-eaten skewer of meat, and guided her to lift it to his lips. His fierce eyes were holding hers, and he gently stripped a cube of tasty meat with his teeth.

I am furious, Gemma. But that does not change the fact that you are my mate. Mates share kill.

Gemma's lips quirked, slightly sadly, and she bit into the meat he was holding for her. She had been so happy making this meal for them. Best laid plans.

I suggest you make more of them next time, her mate replied shortly. He was still very angry, alert, and slightly preoccupied with his brain on full whirl as he planned what to do.

In minutes, her belly stuffed, the last, lonely piece of meat held unnoticed in one hand and a taut, brief kiss lingering on her lips, Gemma heard the door of her panic room clang shut behind her, and seconds later the echo of the front door closing and locking. Mac had swiftly dressed for a run while she'd changed into warm, comfortable clothing for her stay down here as instructed, and now he set off down the street at a fast pace.

Sudden fear creased Gemma's heart. What if he was right? What if it was just an elaborate trap, and she had sent him into it?

Please take care of yourself! the plea shot from her mind into his.

Mac's thoughts were calm as he replied, the tumult of emotions settled now that he had made his plans and was en route, Don't worry about me, picchu, I am not easy to trick. Just keep letting me know you're safe, and then I will be able to focus on the task in hand.

His tone soothed her worry. Mac was not concerned about getting caught in a trap; he was worried about her safety and sanity, locked in that little room without him on hand. Determined to return as soon as possible. Gemma stuffed the last piece of meat into her mouth, wiping her slightly greasy hand on the wall, for want of anything else, and then stopped as the flavour exploded in her mouth, savouring the rich taste, chewing slowly.

This tastes almost as good as you, she told him.

Mac wasn't amused. Look after yourself, my picchu. His mind was aching with half-hidden worry, and Gemma felt guilt roil in her stomach that she had made him leave.

I promise, she replied.

She was sober as she sank down in front of the screen and poked it to make it come on. But she noted internally that Valerie was right. Putting time aside to indulge her mate soothed her. This new tactic didn't prevent the rages from enveloping her when something dramatic happened, but she seemed to be calmer in between times, thankfully.

The smile grew a little impish.

Maybe the best way to look after herself, and so look after her mate, would therefore be to work on her secret plan while he was out.

Gemma managed to hold the rage at bay well into the second day, with Valerie's help, concentration and anticipation overriding the increasing worry, hunger, the itchy, confined feeling on her skin, and the reek from her small latrine in the corner.

The strict, controlled concentration required for creating the wolf travel sickness medication she was working on secretly with the French physician helped immensely. Valerie had been intrigued at the idea for the drug; wolves had never bothered to invent any such remedy, as they rarely saw any need to use vehicular transport. Yet humans had travel sickness pills, and had also adapted similar products for their pets.

Gemma's inner wolf was getting very excited at the idea of using the drug to evade her mate on the run for as long as possible, and her mentor was highly supportive of her indulging in a little "rut-evasion practice," to release some of the tension in them both. But Gemma would have to make it out of the city to turn it into a proper chase, and there was no way she could evade Mac long enough to get even out of their suburb on foot, never mind the whole metropolis, without an extra sneaky tactic.

He he he. In some ways it was good she had this time when she couldn't work on the scent-masking.

"And when he catches you, do not disappoint him by not putting up a good fight," the French physician advised absently, writing down their latest amendment to the travel-sickness drug for her ex-students to mix together and test.

"How do I fight off an Alpha? I can't fight at all," Gemma told the woman on the webcam tetchily, while looking again over the results of the latest skin samples from the ex-Grey wolves. And Mac's skin, as the only control she currently had. She was scowling slightly; she still couldn't work out what bound the damn scent-masking concoction to them. Hers just disintegrated in seconds, although there was a brief, scentless period.

"Yes you can. He's been training you while you're in the rage," Valerie replied calmly.

Gemma looked up. "He what?"

"Didn't you know? That's when you want to fight, so he shows you how. He trains you while you are raging, awake, and angry with him. Often for hours. He prefers to spend the time with you, and your wolf side is very physical, very ready to attack. It often seems to soothe you, then when you calm down and you're not angry with him - well, you often resurface at that point, you must know what you prefer to do with him in harmony."

No wonder she always came around absolutely ravenous.

Gemma's mouth was still open. He fought her! But - that was dangerous!

She spluttered, heaved a sigh, and then calmed down. Valerie wasn't the one she wanted to talk to about this stupidity. And she couldn't reach Mac at this distance. He was now the one who instigated the contact, and checked in with her.

"This conversation is just proving that I can't fight him off," she gritted to her mentor instead.

"Don't mistake not being able to injure him in a rage with not being able to fight him off, sane," Valerie replied. "A male who cannot run down and subdue a mate without harming her is unworthy to mate. If Mac did hurt you during the fight, even inadvertently, he would probably be so ashamed he would be unable to sustain an erection."

Gemma blushed even at the medical phrase, but remembered the four wolves fighting Mac when she'd been on heat, remembered their frozen, shocked reaction to the sound of her yelp. Ah.

"This is necessary, for male wolves are generally larger, and stronger, but if a sjeste truly does not desire one who catches her, he cannot subdue her. She may bite him. And if he will not listen, she may bite him anywhere she wishes, which works."

Gemma blushed again.

"Most sjeste love the fight, and find it very exciting if a strong male can overcome them," said the physician. "We rarely have to injure a would-be mate, they are very sensitive to scent, and realise if their attempts to subdue the female are not being successful. However, this is exceedingly rare with an Alpha. Most females just keel over at the scent of an aroused one, lifting tail and presenting their rump eagerly."

Valerie concluded, with a sigh, "An Alpha finds this tedious. We are hunting animals. The fight excites them too."

Gemma suddenly looked up, intent, her eyes on fire. "You mean - he is getting a lot of practice in on how to subdue me, while I'm crazy?" She was fuming now. Talk about unfair!

Valerie smiled. "He's the Mackeld Alpha. He has subdued all of the senior wolves of his pack, both times he fought the succession. I think it is you who is learning, not him."

Gemma was distracted. "So, what about Warlords and the Wolflord - how did they get their positions?" she asked. She'd been wondering about this. "Did Fealden fight every warrior on the continent? Or everywhere? He's the only living Wolflord, isn't he?" Gus had proudly told her this about his grandfather.

Valerie blinked, her eyes shadowed as she pondered her reply. "The Warlords - the Alphas of a region, if they need to work together against a common threat, will band together. A Warlord is chosen either because one Alpha clearly has knowledge which surpasses all others to combat that threat, or yes, by the defasio, but only among the Alphas."

"So Marsh beat Mac in a fight?" Gemma was a little surprised. From something Jeremy had once said, she didn't think they'd ever fought the defasio.

"I believe not," replied Valerie. "Your mate's natál, Tor, was Aster Warlord before he was killed, but then Jon Marsh took over as his second while Ulf was returning from Europe. I believe Ulf never even challenged Marsh, they were in the middle of the second invasion by then, it wasn't the moment."

So maybe her wolf could beat the Marsh. Not that she really cared. But she was secretly sure that he could.

"And the Wolflord?"

Valerie sighed. "A Wolflord only arises in extremes, there have only been a score or so throughout our history. He is a wolf whose battle meld gradually grows to the point where he can encompass several packs; even several Alliances."

Gemma was looking puzzled, so the French physician continued, "An Alliance is just that; the Alpha's agree to work together. Each pack still holds to its own Alpha, and the melds are separate, although the Warlord then links with the other Alphas, so he can direct all operations, albeit through relay, which delays things a little. The Warlord also has the double whammy of having to maintain the links outside his battle meld. It is very difficult to do, as the meld is basically a lock-down within each pack. He has to maintain pack meld and keep a series of communications open, but only through himself. That is why the senior wolf or Warlord often becomes the focal point for attack, his shield cannot be at full strength and allow conveyance outside the meld."

"So only the Warlord melds with the other Alphas?"

"No, it is not a meld, any Alpha can break free if needs be."

Gemma digested that. She wasn't quite sure what Valerie meant, but it sounded complicated. And difficult.

"And the Wolflord?" she pursued.

"A Wolflord. Hmm. When one Alpha will not only meld with anther, but releases his pack to meld directly also, all of the wolves together, then technically that creates a Wolflord. But the title has only been bestowed where overwhelming numbers of wolves join together under one Alpha, often repeatedly. The title is not hereditary, it is a rank, given to the lynchpin of the mass meld which occurs only when a threat is intense, and annihilating, a challenge to our very existence. No Alpha readily relinquishes his wolves to another."

No, she could bet they didn't.

"The power is colossal, but the strain also," Valerie continued. "It has often killed the Wolflord who held the meld, breaking him." Valerie's voice trailed off, her face brooding.

Gemma's face was surprised, and a little awed. She had felt the edge of Mac's battle meld once or twice, the strain of it. She couldn't imagine a wolf being able to hold more than one pack; to hold multiple times that number of connections in his head.

Ouch.

"It is over a century since Fealden last had to hold such a meld, but the wolves of your continent do not forget what they owe him," Valerie finished gruffly.

The Frenchwoman looked up suddenly above the top of her screen, and quickly pressed the camera off button. Gemma's skin prickled alert and she fell silent, listening to the sudden liquid ripple of French, and the sounds of other wolves moving around her mentor's living room. She got back to reading the last results of the scentless tests, silently.

After a few minutes, the screen flashed back on, and Valerie was smiling in satisfaction. "They managed a five minute journey on the bus, without significant symptoms," she announced proudly. "They did not test if for longer, but will do so tomorrow. However, I still think we should add a little more ascorbic."

Gemma grinned back, nodding, "It shouldn't do any harm, from what you say. You're the expert."

Valerie smiled again, "I do not do drugs like this. This was your idea, mon petit garou. But I believe that it is well worth pursuing. To make you well worth pursuing."

Gemma smiled slowly back.

A car alarm bleating stridently, incessantly in the street that night drove her frustration higher and higher until she was pulsing with the need to tear from the room and rip the damn thing to pieces. She tried to coolly remind herself that all she could was wait it out, but even the satisfied conveyance from Mac that he had both evaded the expected trap and caught, subdued and accepted father and daughter didn't block out the grating sound beating the black waves higher in her head.

"Oh, come off it," exclaimed Gemma indignantly several days later, looking down at her small Mordeuse in disbelief, "You don't even know what half of those words mean!"

Sometimes she wished that Mac had never rescued the damn ex-Greys.

Rowan wasn't paying attention. Having delivered her message, the cherubic little toddler was trying to climb up onto her favourite werewolf's knee, smearing spaghetti sauce on the lower half of Gemma's jeans. The little cub had forgotten her fear of the wereem soon after she and her father had arrived. And now none of the ex-Grey cubs showed the slightest fear of Gemma. A few of the adults emitted wisps of it, but those ones were not encouraged to hang around the house. That still left a respectable, growing crowd of ex-Grey adults and cubs who came and went all the time while the Alpha was out, a selection of whom were now cramped together in Gemma and Mac's kitchen, chattering happily over cups of coffee.

No-one knew how many of the ex-Greys had been recalled by Nicolas, because the pack had begun to disperse in chaos, to flee incoherently from Fealden's range as soon as they had begun to notice. A significant proportion had been on their way toward Medway when Mac had intercepted each, and fought them to a standstill. Most had then circled to the Alpha, suspicion overridden by a deeper fear, and a deeper instinct. Others such as Penny and Skye, Rowan's mother and natál, had since circled to him directly, alerted by family.

All of those who Mac been intercepted had had a small puncture wound, usually in their flank. They didn't recall being stung or injected. They just remembered the sudden, urgent, compelling order to return to their hated ex-leader.

Thank god Mac was stopping them. And now, his new warriors were helping him to widen the net, to assist their Alpha in redirecting many of their former packmates. Those warriors who weren't assigned as her guard, that is. Mac found it much easier to focus on the task of tracking down ex-Greys knowing that he could leave Gemma roaming freely in the house, free to work and socialise, while he was away. There were easily enough koiru - wolf warriors - here who could overpower her when she lost it.

Because the ex-Greys weren't scared of her. They were more scared of Grey, of being recalled. And fiercely loyal to both Mac and Gemma. Her head now constantly ached from each of the sore, cramped points in her mind where the ex-grey wolves had cloven to her, and Mac had shown her how to accept them. Each wolf's connection felt like a tight, tender knot in her mind. As though her hair was being grasped tightly: not quite painful, but aching. A constant, quiet mesh of constrictions.

At least they didn't convey to her. Mac had warned them not to except in extremes, and they preferred not to share thought, and so reveal some of their vile memories. Gemma was aware that her mate fielded the occasional sudden rush of feeling blasting towards her, usually an echo from one of the kids, but Mac kept her shielded. He was right, she couldn't deal with any further emotions just now, the pack gensis, mind mesh, made her grip on reality feel shaky. Although it also seemed to keep her slightly more grounded, the feeling of being part of a tightly knit, loyal group.

But she wanted to shield herself. Mac needed some kind of respite. He was constantly looking after her, and now the needs of the ex-Greys were making more and more demands as the pack grew. Attacks on outlying or remote Mackelds also commanded his attention increasingly frequently, so he worried how to keep them safe also. And Natasha needed strength, almost daily. Nick was trying a constant, slow pain to wear down the Vanilchov sjeste's will.