"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.
Gemma felt a flicker of the blank rage, and pulled away from that train of thought,
To distract herself, Gemma put down her mug of tea on the counter beside her and bent to lift the happy little redhead up onto her lap, sucking the last of the flavour from the child's fingers, careful not to scratch her with her teeth. Rowan's natál Skye rushed across the kitchen and began to scramble up from the opposite side, jealous. Soon Gemma had two small infants struggling to push each other off her knees, and sighed, smiling ruefully across at their mother as she kept either from succeeding, her heart lightening.
Then she bent forward and mock glared into Rowan's face, "Who put you up to giving me that stupid order?" she growled. The little girl gurgled and put her fingers back into Gemma's mouth, beaming, forgetting her fight with her brother as Gemma slurped noisily on them.
"Wath up too-ni!" the small cub repeated happily. Skye laughed, and pushed his own sticky fingers in between Gemma's lips, first one hand, and then another. Gemma reared backward, pulling away when it became a fight between the siblings as to who could get more fingers into her mouth, and coughed, mind revolving over the short sentence.
The trouble was, as Gemma had discovered on other occasions, despite the fact that the words were practically incoherent, her brain knew perfectly well what the child meant and would obey accordingly. Mac had initiated this practice, requesting of Penny that she ensure that her child gave the wereem one verbal order per day: not to do something which she particularly enjoyed, nor something she would find repugnant or unreasonable. Gemma's job was to try to withstand the order. Most of them so far had been along the lines of "Stand up", "Sit down", "Open door", "Make toast", and other innocuous commands. This one was new territory.
"You guys always do the washing up," protested Gemma, staring around the circle of wolves spread around the kitchen, steadying the swaying twins who were standing on her thighs to try to reach her mouth again, ducking her head away from their seeking fingers as they giggled. "I'm busy working!"
"During the day, yes," agreed Ada evenly, lifting one of her own wriggling, whining cubs down onto the floor so that the little puppy could chase after the toy car which five-year-old Fabian had sent spinning across the floor. By day the house was now a bizarre cross between a pristine laboratory and a chaotic child-and-puppy crèche, with a wall of wolf warriors planted across the top of the stairs to prevent accidental crossover. Gemma spent most of her clear minded days in the lab with Ada as her assistant, although they frequently ventured out into the chaos for short breaks.
"But we couldn't help but notice that when we arrive every morning, it is always the Alpha's scent on the bottle, the brush, the washed-up crockery, and the dishtowels."
"And he works all day too, very hard, both looking after the Mackelds, and trying to locate and head off more of us, sometimes over several days on the trot. It is thanks to the Alpha that so many of us are now safe," continued Rowan's father Hakan as he walked in the door.
Apparently, Mac's new pack members were not Mackeld wolves, because the first of them had been too far away to convey and amalgamate with the rest of the Mackeld pack when they had circled, and now that the gensis was stronger there were too many of them, too large a force to do so. So they had formed a new pack of their own, separately on the other side of the continent. Two packs with a common Alpha; an exceedingly rare occurrence, but not unheard of.
Valerie had warned her that it would be a severe strain on the Alpha, as there would be times when both packs pulled at him from opposite directions. All members of one pack could sense each other, the gensis built through family and friendship ties, proximity, and the Alpha, and so they avoided draining him, sensing automatically when there were too many demands on his strength. But two distinct packs at such a distance had no awareness of each other, and so would overload him with their separate needs. Gemma was worried, seeing the growing strain on Mac, but she didn't know how to help, and couldn't see a way out. He wouldn't, couldn't abandon either pack.
Gemma focussed distractedly on the stocky wolf who had followed Hakan through the door, a frown on her face. Erik was also scowling at the tow-headed boy who was dancing from foot to foot in the space between the table and the door, waving his toy in the air tauntingly just above the reach of the tiny wolf puppy leaping to try to bite it. "Give Alexandra the car, Fabian," growled his father. "I told you before that if you tormented her with it I'd make you hand it over."
Over the plaintive, protesting squawks of Fabian, Hakan said to his Alfamme, "We thought - and rightly so, we notice, that the wolf within you would not get angry at an order to do what your own conscience should be prompting you into anyway."
Gemma glowered up at her chief bodyguard, her mouth opening to deliver a cutting argument about all the other hard work she did around the house once Mac shooed the Whites out when he got home.
She shut it again. Dammit. Damn wolf noses. They knew who did what, the scent-trails were plastered over the house. And maybe she was leaving the lion's share of the boring housework to Mac. It bothered him more; she was happy to leave the washing up for the troops when they arrived in the morning; he complained that the scent got up his nose and he couldn't sleep.
A flicker of guilt crunched in her stomach. Damn the Whites. But he didn't have to insist that they leave the instant evening fell when he was home. A slightly wolfish grin teased at her lips. Mac wanted her to himself. Gemma didn't exactly mind. And they were both more relaxed without the constant ceremony.
Whites was her own name for the new pack; partly because they were ex-Grey, but mainly because of the colour of their Alpha's beautiful loup pelt. They loved the name, and had adopted it proudly.
Although right now there were other things she wanted to call the senior White. He seemed to have caught far too much smug-and-dictatorial taint from his new Alpha.
Gemma took a gulp of tea, her mutinous mutter, "I make the toast," almost lost under a wail from Fabian at the inevitable fate of his toy and the metallic scrunch from the floor. Hakan bent quickly to extract the mangled two halves of the car from the jaws of the puppy at his feet, retorting sarcastically as he licked his bleeding finger, "Well, and if you can break the order like you're supposed to, you will be able to maintain your current exhausting share of the housework, my Alfamme."
Wherever had she got the stupid idea that pack members were sycophantic yes-men?
"I'm going back to work," she replied with as much dignity as she could gargle around the small fingers that had sneaked into her mouth again, without inadvertently biting them. Then she replaced the cubs on the floor and her mug on the sideboard before stalking past her two bodyguards out of the kitchen.
As Rowan and Skye were now clinging to her cotton-clad legs, standing giggling on the moving platforms of her stiffened feet in the stupid game she'd instigated two days ago, it was a little difficult.
However, they jumped off at the top of the stairs without argument. The wolf cubs' obedience to certain rules always impressed her.
"Macmillan?" called the old waiter Mohmed as he sped between the tables scattered outside his restaurant. He smiled broadly at the tall, powerful man walking swiftly past the bistro, on up the street.
Then the Asian's eyes darted from Mac to the empty place beside him and he made a rueful moue, remarking, "But where is your lovely lady? You are surely not permitting her to work this late again?"
Mac managed to curl his lips upward, but he was aware that the smile didn't leach the sombre light at the back of his eyes.
The trouble was, he was finding it harder to hold onto his own emotions as the days passed. Four days now. She'd never been lost to him for this long before, and he could feel the fear creeping under his skin, the slow, insidious chill freezing his blood, curling into his heart, debilitating him. She had seemed better since the Whites had joined them. In between. But the rage, though it hit less frequently now, was noticeably stronger, and lasted longer.
What if she didn't resurface?
Not able to push a word out past the tightness in his throat, Mac just shook his head, walking swiftly on toward home. Toward Gemma.
"Tell her hello from me," the waiter called softly after him.
Mac nodded curtly back at Mohmed before turning the corner, still unable to smile. He wanted to get back to her.
The Alpha loped swiftly up the next street.
"Hey, man, where's your wee Gemma? I haven't seen her for days, not sick is she?" Mini, the owner of the corner shop greeted him as he strode swiftly past under the setting sun.
Four days, Mac thought again.
He shook his tawny head, eyes opaque, and brushed past the voluble lady, "I'll come around with a cup of my camomile tea," offered Mini, "It'll make her well, you'll see."
They were all so kind. They seemed to love her too - after only the few short weeks that they had been here. Every second she was herself, his mate was so vibrant, joyous, focussed on enjoying life to the full and sharing her joy. Lovable. Loving. Loving him most of all. It was as though she wanted, needed to cram all of life into her respites between the increasingly lengthy rages.
Mac's heart was burning as he swiftly wove his way through the lively evening crowds out in the streets, back to their home.
Would she be herself when he returned? She had occasionally broken out of it when alone, but much more often when he was there.
He met the eyes of Samuel as he turned the corner and started up the worn steps to the front door. The human sentinel made no sign, but gathered the few coins out of his upturned hat, and pulled himself wearily up off the walkway, preparing to leave. Mac didn't know where the man lived, or what he did with the money he earned guarding Gemma, but he knew who he could trust. After their fight, when Mac had tracked Samuel down to thank him that night after the human had dragged him off the road, he had the offered his defeated opponent a job, and the human had become fiercely, staunchly, and somewhat sarcastically loyal. He had guarded the house scrupulously for the four days that Mac had first been absent, tracking down Hakan and his cub.
The small, short-haired mongrel at the human's feet watched the Alpha unblinkingly, quivering with eagerness while Mac fitted a key in the outer lock and turned it. As he stepped into the hallway, Mac glanced back at the dog, the skin over his cheekbones tightening as his eyes widened slightly.
A slight smile appeared in his thoughts as from the corner of his eye he saw the mutt melt down in delight at the message. His picchu had made him talk to them, initially, and some of them had proved deeply loyal, useful sentinels. The strays, the mongrels who congregated around them at a respectful distance whenever they ate down at the waterfront, or went for a wander together. Gemma had pointed out that according to many of the texts Valerie had found for her to read, she was a pet also. He degraded himself to speak to one kind, so why not another?
He smiled a little sadly as he remembered her delighted teasing in the face of his violent objection to her classification of herself as a pet. And the coaxing for him to buy her a collar and leash, when they had passed one of the sex shops down by the harbour. He was still refusing. A small smile tilted his mouth. He liked the ways she tried to persuade him.
His picchu.
Hakan touched his fingertips together in the sign of fealty as Mac stepped into the house, and the White warrior conveyed All quiet, then brushed past his Alpha to leave for his own lodging. Mac preferred his nights alone with his mate, no matter what state of mind she was in.
The Alpha extended his awareness, gently seeking stray thoughts behind the basement door at the foot of the steps. He didn't convey directly, because if she was only asleep or still, the touch on her mind often fuelled the rage.
Nothing.
His green eyes were sombre, flecked with dull black, and his skin prickling in dread, muscles tensing while he silently walked down the corridor toward the head of the stairs leading to her chamber. He descended silently and listened carefully outside the door for long, long still minutes, but could neither hear nor sense any movement. Carefully, slowly, he leant his weight on the heavy door, forcing it open a crack, and listened again, perfectly still. She had ambushed him before.
Nothing.
His nose twitched, absorbing the scent of her, the curl of recognition purring down his spine, and he felt something deep inside him relax slightly. She was across the room.
Silent as a wolf he slipped into the gap he forced wider, checked her position, then slowly forced the door to the open position, the almost indiscernible clunk of the internal metal bar locking into place the only sound of his entrance. The werewolf still twitched at the noise, a tense shiver running through her.
Mac straightened and stood still, leaning back against the wall by the door, a gentle smile lighting his eyes. There was a little heap of dark fur lying curled in a protective ball in the patch of fading sunlight from the high window. She was twitching gently, her breathing shallow, light. She was asleep. But not deeply, her senses were still on high alert.
Asleep. Finally.
The smile spread to his lips, his face lighting softly.
Slowly, soundlessly, Mac sank on his haunches, his back to the wall, peaceful eyes resting on his songmate.
He loved watching this.
He waited.
First, the twitching lessened in frequency. Her breathing deepened, and became less erratic, gentler. Then he watched as her fingers: tight, tense claws when he arrived, slowly unfurled and relaxed, softening into sleep. Her breathing deepened further into a steady, peaceful rhythm and she sighed contentedly, unconscious, rolling onto her back, limbs unwinding.
Asleep, and insane, his picchu knew his scent. At some deep, primal level, she knew who he was. That she was now safe.
Mac smiled again as he lifted silently back to his feet, stepping carefully, soundlessly closer, and sank into a crouch beside her, looking down into her relaxed features. She was a beautiful little wolf, the short dark hair across her cheekbones making her seem even more delicate.
She sighed again as the scent of his closeness surrounded her, turning in her sleep toward him, a hand reaching.
Wait, Mac cautioned himself, stopping the hand which was automatically reaching back to twine with those seeking fingers. She was still partially on the alert, the feral, wary side uppermost.
He held himself motionless while gradually her breathing became almost inaudible; deep, soft, fully relaxed, and all movement eventually ceased. The little smile rested contentedly in his eyes, his heart crooning softly in pleasure at her total relaxation. Because he was there.
Then he slid his arms gently underneath her and lifted her to carry her back upstairs to their bed. As he turned, his eyes met the dark, troubled gaze of the aged physician watching from the screen.
"Dangerous," Valerie breathed the caution softly as he stepped past her to leave the room.
"Life is dangerous," he retorted almost inaudibly, feeling the werewolf in his arms twitch uneasily at the sound.
His songmate.
Mac was home. And it was time to help him relax. Gemma had heard the outer door opening upstairs, and stood silently, quivering, the excitement shuddering through her as she reminded herself, over and over, to wait. The last two times she'd tried this, earlier this week since she'd come round, she'd failed miserably to restrain the ecstatic wolf within from pouncing on her mate far too early, ruining the whole plan. But this time, they were going to do it. It would be so much better if they waited just a little bit.
She had scent-marked as much of the laboratory as she could. Encouraged by her mentor, to befuddle her mate with the rich doft of her arousal. And while she had planned out her route for her escape, she had again felt the fierce, angry wildness within her soothing out into a simmer; a predatory, playful peace settling through her, holding her still.
For a while.
Her body was shivering in anticipation, toes hooked into the minute crack of the door lintel, claws of her left hand curled into the small groove she had managed to gouge in the concrete wall high above the door, scraped out over hundreds and hundreds of controlled and less controlled leaps. Her fingers and hand had been so sore after attacking the wall, but they had healed.
She was quivering in excitement.
Salivating in anticipation.
Stop that, she admonished herself.
The door swung open; she saw the wedge of light, heard the soft sound of displaced air as he pushed it wide. And stilled as he caught the full blast of her doft.
Silence.
The roar of fume cabinet extractor fan hid her breathing. She smelt his musk thickening as surveyed the room, saw Mac relax slightly even as he tensed in arousal. She had to strain not to swallow, loudly, in response to the want rushing through her.
Lust pooled between her thighs, and she wanted to pounce now. Not to wait. But she soothed her wild self. Wait for him to step in.
"Picchu?" his voice was very soft, and she almost cracked under the love, the feeling in it. But he would love her plan, and his wolf needed some relaxation too. Her wolf. Her lovely, lovely wolf. She would look after him. If only he'd step into the damn room.
Come on. It was so damn hard not to broadcast her want.
Mac took one wary half-step into the room, leaning against the door to hold it open as he peered around the edge, trying to see whether she was hiding behind it.
Close enough.
Gemma dropped through the gap.
She failed to stifle the smothered laugh as she bounced off his already turning shoulders, tumbling to bound up the stairs and out into the corridor, hearing him sigh a laugh in response, relaxing as he stopped to switch off the fume cabinet fan before starting after her.
Good. She could do with a head start. The wereem grabbed the little pill that Ada handed her as she careered past, gulping it down with the glass of water Fabian held out while she ran out of the front door, opened for her by Penny.
Mac came alert suddenly in her head as she bounded out onto the front steps. Her mate was leaping up from the basement, incredulous realisation shooting into his mind, that she had left the house without him. And lycan.
Human! the reminder thundered into her, but she had already turned loup before exiting the house, and was bounding full-speed down the street, heart leaping in excitement.
I know the rules, she replied virtuously.
One of which is don't leave the house without me. What on earth are you playing at? his mind blasted at her, verging on the power of an order.
No! She felt a flicker of fury. That would wreck everything.
Then Mac spotted her bodyguard Luke, standing alert and ready at the corner of the street, and his mind narrowed to appraisal. What was going on?
'Tom Seaclaw was a wolf... who couldn't catch his mate...', Gemma recited the beginning of the nursery rhyme she'd learned from Rowan at him playfully, sprinting down the street and veering abruptly through the park gates on the corner, settling down to tear on across the grass.
She felt his realisation in her mind, the mental change in gear, then her mate began somewhat casually loping after her, also in four-legged form. Be more careful, Gemma, he admonished. We can't sprint in the city, it draws too much attention.
She lifted her tail high, then swept it in a circle back at him, the wolf version of sticking a tongue out or pulling faces. Xavi twitched in surprise at the gesture as she ran past him too. Don't worry, ickle mate, you're not going to catch me in the city.
Mac speeded up. You don't seriously think you can outrun me, do you picchu? he added. If you need a break, I'll take you up to Bracken Lake tomorrow, we can get the bikes out. But it's too far for you to run out there and chase when you get there.
Hah.
Tom Seaclaw was a wolf
Who couldn't catch his mate,
So she ate a four-score rabbits
Her speed to thus abate.
Gemma recited the whole verse impudently, settling into a rhythm as she increased her speed gleefully with each bound. She'd been practicing a lot recently, galloping around their small house while he was out rescuing Grey wolves.
Elated, she sensed her mate speeding up to tear along after her, shaking off his other thoughts, and sinking into enjoying the chase; he had been way too tense recently.
So it would be good for him to run a long, long way.
Oop! There was the bus! Gemma tore across the main road on the opposite side of the park, swerving around a stupid car, and bounded full out into the back alley where Hakan was standing with her backpack. She only had a minute to dress!
If you run out into a road like that again Gemma, I'm going to order you back to the house and spank you until you're blue, however furious it makes you. Her mate was livid.
Gemma felt her insides melting, and hardening simultaneously at his anger as she hauled on the loose clothes, immune to being naked in front of her pack. It happened so damn often. Besides, she knew she could trust Hakan. She felt a tingle of almost fear. God, Mac was angry. He didn't know how much practice she'd been putting in at moving on four limbs recently. She yanked on the jacket, pushing her feet into the loose plimsolls.
Sorry, but I'm fine, she replied slightly absently, her mind on her plan. And added, with a slight edge of apology: I'm sure a proper Alpha wouldn't cheat on the chase and start giving out orders just coz his quarry's an obedient werewolf.
The bus hissed to a stop, and she dove back out of the alleyway, pulling the prepaid ticket from her jacket pocket and stamping it in the machine at the entrance as she stepped onto the open platform at the back, breathing hard.
Part A according to plan. More or less.
Hakan stepped up beside her at the last second, shivering lightly, his nose wrinkling, and murmured, "The trackers still didn't find any new trails. So the A is free for the time being."
Gemma smiled and glanced back down the road toward her mate while the vehicle rumbled back into movement.
Her heart jumped. Mac was only five meters away, not looking as though he was running fast, when the bus pulled back out into the faster-moving traffic, accelerating away and coughing diesel fumes into his astonished face.
Watch it! He thundered, speeding up, fear of her losing her grip on her wolf under the sickness of the motion surging through his mind.
Oh, sorry love, replied Gemma contritely, I forgot to tell you about this wolf travel sickness drug Valerie and I have invented. I'll be fine.
She grinned back at him as he stopped, staring.
Just way, way ahead of you, she added.
He was still just standing, dumbfounded. Maybe he needed some more encouragement. Gemma playfully recited for him the second verse of the to her mind somewhat overly-informative cub's rhyme:
Alas for poor Tom Seaclaw!
He couldn't catch her yet,
And her lively, swift-toed litter
Were of Alan Whitefoot's get.
Mac straightened, his eyes blazing with a hot, dangerous look of amusement, and he growled, Not a chance. Then he added a soft, Well done, picchu, touched that she had gone to this much effort to give him a worthy chase, excitement beginning to tingle through him. The white wolf glanced up at the number of the bus, and turned to saunter casually back to the bus stop and look at the route map. You might get a whole half hour head start from Coughton, if that's where you get off, he concluded. Use it well.
Gemma grinned at Hakan, who smiled back, slightly woebegone under the motion of the bus. The rest of the not otherwise occupied Whites had been out in the hills all day, thoroughly surveying the largest human-free area they could find, and setting up a watch-ring around the perimeter.
Just beyond Coughton. She could run there without an escort.
And be careful. The second conveyance was to both her and her bodyguard while Mac turned away.
No sprinting in the City, Gemma virtuously reminded her Alpha in return.
A sarcastic look followed the bus. But she could feel the eagerness revving up in him, happiness as he abruptly pushed aside all other considerations to focus on hunting down his teasing mate. Mac set off loping down a side-street toward the river, and their bond narrowed to a faint thread in her mind; she couldn't hear him, and could barely sense him. Whoops! He was trying to work out what her plan might be. While not giving away any hint as to his thoughts.
Whoopee!
Valerie had warned her that this would happen when her wolf went into hunt-focus.
Gemma could feel her blood and breathing speeding up in response, her skin awakening with a heady feeling of excited anticipation, stomach beginning to tighten.
She had never felt less like disintegrating into rage.