Pawn Among Wolves

PAWN AMONG WOLVES CH. 15

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

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

Please, picchu. Answer me. Please.

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

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

Gemma? he called.

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

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

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

Look after him.

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

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

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

What else had the young werewolf been ordered to do?

No.

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