Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 16

Gemma watched the retreating ripples nervously, her stomach tightening in dread. That left her with only six humans.

Helen touched her shoulder softly again. "Can you get off this island?" she whispered again, worried.

Gemma looked straight up into the soft eyes.

"If you will all help, I can," she replied hesitantly.

Six was pushing it - especially when some, like Ramona and Jess, were so short that only their heads were above the water. But each of her friends folded her finger-linked hands against the back of her head, braced the sides of her forearms above her ears, elbows facing forwards, and took a position stoically, waiting. The heads of the women were evenly spaced across the not long, but oh, too, too long stretch of water to the trees. Stepping stones. Gemma shivered, looking down into the liquid blackness, her skin shuddering at the memory of pain, insides tightening in revolt. Silver. She couldn't do that again.

Her heart was screaming at her to go back, climb back down the shaft - she had got them this far. The rest was up to them.

They would never get over the perimeter on their own. Or even if they did, they would be hunted down immediately.

Taking a few short breaths, stiffening her nerve, Gemma allowed herself one brief glimpse of memory ; that beloved face. Asleep, relaxed: home. Mac.

She darted lightly across the makeshift stepping stones, blanking her mind to all else except getting them home. The second to last, Jess, faltered as the ball of Gemma's foot slipped on her hair, swaying sideways on uneven footing, and Gemma was falling, lurching clumsily, desperately to drive off from Alexandra's sleek blonde mop, choking back the cry as the clumsy leap was too short, the poisoned water waiting to engulf her all that she could see.

A firm hand fisted in her hair and yanked, screamingly painfully, although she swallowed the sound while Sandy whirled her by that excruciating grip on her hair onto the grass bank. Her fingers clutched automatically and she lay, panting, her scalp feeling like rivulets of blood were about to cascade down over her eyes. He let her go. Gemma clung to the grass, tears leaking from her eyes as she buried her nose into it and held back the sobs, body shaking in terror.

Her nose was delighted. Grass. The soft, sharp scent caressed through her. Green blades stroked her fingers, the touch of a friend. The tears rolled and rolled.

Mel sniffed her distain, standing waiting impatiently turned a little away from the were while the others waded ashore as silently as they could.

Sandy nudged Gemma with a foot, and she hauled herself back together, swiping a hand across her wet face as she uncurled effortlessly to her feet, still shivering. They weren't out of the complex yet.

Alan? she called silently. If you are sure you will risk this for us?

I will do this for you, came the clear reply.

Her heart thudding painfully, Gemma began to flit carefully between the trees, leading the humans toward the side gate in the high perimeter wall. Many of the patients at Faulk Medical Centre were admitted here because they couldn't control themselves, couldn't control their rage. Even the above ground, legitimate centre was built to try to help them, and contain them as they were treated.

"What are we waiting for?" hissed Mel, some quarter of an hour later. Several sets of increasingly suspicious eyes were glinting at Gemma in the faint light as they sheltered in the last of the trees, looking across the wide stretch of short-mown grass to the large, locked gate for trucks, and the smaller standby for foot-traffic. The side gate was slightly less littered with guards.

"It's not working, is it?" whispered Sandy half angrily.

"Patience," breathed Gemma brusquely in reply. Her eyes were angry, mind locked on Alan, and she lifted a finger to her lips.

It had been over a decade since Alan had last broken out of his cell and attempted an escape. The old Faulk had broken him - so they thought. Yet now her second was creeping up the main staircase by the auditorium, having disposed of the guards at the bottom. He had also managed to link in with Liz, probably the strongest of the Little Gems on duty in the auditorium, and had obtained the information he needed.

As he drew closer to the top of the steps, Alan's nose allowed him to time his arrival perfectly, so that when a silken-sheathed woman emerged from the guest bathroom at the head of the plush staircase, the naked wolf was kneeling waiting beside the male bathroom doorway like an abandoned puppy, his hands seemingly manacled behind his back, head bowed. A short chain led from the collar around his neck to a loop on the wall.

"On my," murmured the black-haired woman and halted, eyes widening. "My absolute favourite cock." She stepped forward and caressed his curly locks with a gentle hand, running it down the side of his neck before closing her long, blood-red nails on his earlobe painfully.

"You weren't on the menu tonight, it's been most disappointing," she sighed, stepping in closer, her legs widening so she could rub her crotch against his face, twisting it up with the hard grip on his ear.

Suddenly she leaned over him, smothering his face between her thighs with a hand on his head and whispered into the back of his neck, "And I've got that very special something for you in my car, like I promised. I'm sure you would find it a spectacular ride."

Her low laugh was not pleasant, and Alan found it simple to mask his tremble as a shiver.

The predatory woman shot an angry glance at the closed men's room door. She hated men. Why should some man have been allowed to purchase the big one, when she had been told that he wasn't on offer?

Alan waited, his heart beating steadily. He could but try - Lady Cruel was a little intoxicated with testing his pain boundaries and had been taunting him about taking him for a ride in her "special car" for months, although he had known it would never happen. The Faulk weren't lulled enough to let him above ground, however heavily drugged. He burned it off too quickly to be entirely predictable, they never let him beyond the monitors which registered the level in his sweat.

The monitors didn't register who the drug was keyed to.

The woman drew back with a snort, and he heard a lipstick unstoppered. Alan watched through his lashes, heart exulting, as Lady C casually scrawled an I.O.U. on the solid oak door to the ladies' washroom, unclipped him, and led him away toward the lobby.

This wouldn't work. It wouldn't. But it would get him further, create more mayhem. His glazed eyes fixed on the back of the woman leading him, Alan was nevertheless aware of the slightly suspicious glances that the smattering of guards placed around the ornate hallway were casting him. The monitors remained silent. Lady C stopped the approaching pair of Faulk with a scorching glance, and tugged her toy into the waiting lift.

"Which floor, my lady?" asked the young wolf brightly as the doors began to close. The youngest guards were always posted furthest from the shows. Watching was one of the perks they had not yet earned.

"Dungeon," drawled the woman, scoring a nail harshly down the crease between Alan's pectoral muscles.

The young Faulk swiped his cuff-pass across the reader to silence the wolf alarm which had sounded as soon as Alan had stepped in. As the doors closed, the woman tapped the youth smartly on the shoulder and said, "But first take me up to the car park - I have left my new present for this toy in the car."

The Faulk wolf hesitated, staring at the woman, and her eyes narrowed dangerously. Lacy C was one of the wealthier clients, and did not like being crossed. Especially by men.

The young guard then glanced up at Alan, who was doing his best impersonation of the angry, drugged shiver that had plagued him for so many years.

"He can't leave the lift," insisted the wolf.

Lady C sighed, "Silly boy. You can have him suck you off as you wait if it's that important to you."

The young wolf sighed and pressed the button for the entrance hall.

*

The floodlights within the hospital grounds suddenly swerved from their usual beam on the beautiful clock face in the central watch tower, and swiped in to focus on a lean figure sprinting flat-out towards the base of the gatehouse. There was an upheaval at the side gate, guards sprinting off into the darkness toward that zigzagging light. Gemma snapped "Now!" sharply, and led her small group in a running crouch along the waist-high hedge toward the gate. Despite leaving no scent, the humans were incapable of running quietly, with heavy footfalls and thunderously heavy panting.

She hadn't thought of that.

"Wait!" Gemma growled, and pulled ahead, tearing full speed across the gravel driveway to leap onto the startled guard turning to face the sound. His partner also spun a little too late from where he was staring out trying to see what was happening around Alan, and after finishing him, Gemma beckoned urgently to her friends.

She would not think about what she had done, the bodies lying twisted at her feet.

Sandy was the first across, knowing what they had to do, and he heaved the second guard up so that they could place his still-warm palm on the door pad. At the bleep, a green light appeared, and Gemma swiftly typed in the four digit code that Opal had decrypted from the mainframe downstairs.

The gate cracked open, the screeching alarm which burst into the night as it did so drowning out a unified gasping sigh from the whole group.

"Gem!" Helen embraced her in delight, disbelief.

The wereem let out a long, unsteady sigh of relief.

Then a howl of fury sounded from the darkness under the central watch-tower, jerking them out of their momentary inaction as they all squinted across at the light. The floodlight was still zipping around, trying to focus on a whirl of breathtakingly swift bodies.

Get moving! One of them yelled at her silently. Alan was now attacking the guards who were swerving back toward the open gate.

Gemma quelled her surging impulse to go and help her warrior. No. She first had to lay the false trail. Had to.

"Get going!" Gemma hissed to the humans, folding her nurse in a swift hug. Heart burning, she herself shot out into the darkness beyond the gate, her feet crunching loudly on the loose pebbles. A second alarm screeched out as the wereem ran between the posts, and a new shout went up from the walls.

A searchlight suddenly flashed down over the parapet, zigzagging in violent, searching swipes of movement before it blazed onto her form, running low across the open grass towards the forest. The spot was burning on her skin, semi-blinding her as Gemma sprinted flat out. Good: they wouldn't be looking for another trail.

Behind her, under the still shrieking alarm, she could just faintly hear a separate patter of stealthy crunching as the humans tiptoed off in the opposite direction.

Gemma ran with all-out abandon to give her friends as much of a head start as possible, and then the scent of the trees was about her, the dense underground catching at her ankles. She tried to pass silently over the muddy ground, but could hear the rattling of briars as she burst through, the snapping of twigs underfoot. There was so damn much to learn. She wanted to learn. Here, alone in the forest, her tears overcame her as she sprinted with a burning heart: she wanted to get home to Mac. She had just killed two wolves.

Run.

Not far into the forest, four skilled warriors overtook her and pounced, tangling her in a net that burned against her skin and brought the icy, retching sickness surging into her throat. Her limbs faltered, trembling as she struggled, panic crashing over her until her energy was sapped away and she faded to the chilling touch. Dimly she could feel the Faulk lugging her somewhere, panting. The crunch of gravel, shadow of the gateway, then she was dumped back onto grass, lying in a sharp, bright light. The net was stripped off her and two of them pinned her flat on her back to the ground while a third twisted her head sideways by the hair so that her face was dazzled.

What the hell are you playing at? screamed Alan in her head. She could smell him not far away.

She didn't answer, mind still spinning in the sickness, although her blood was beginning to beat more strongly now that they had lifted the net off her. A new scent caught her and her eyes cracked open. Sharp, black stiletto heels were approaching her face, gemstones flashing along the edges of the leather upper. The shadow of their wearer fell across her.

"Well, well," murmured a sleek, cultured voice, the tone delicately chilling. "Look who we have here."

The Louse crouched, and taking Gemma's chin in a firm grip, turned her face so that the wereem's bared teeth were inches from the Faulk's nose. Angry, predatory eyes glared down.

The scent cascading over Gemma raked her with the memory of Adam - this scent, polluting when she had last seen him: his tortured eyes. Her teeth snapped painfully on air as she lunged without thought, and a howl ripped from her as the warriors pinning Gemma down snorted with laughter and easily quelled she struggles.

Madam Faulk stroked a gentle finger over her cheek, trailing revulsion, then traced it down toward her heaving breasts. "Such passion," she purred. "Such - resilience."

Then the Faulk Alfamme unfolded gracefully back to her feet and murmured, appraising Gemma, "I must get back to our guests. Take them to the basement, and prepare the wolf for punishment." She paused, pondering, "The were - prepare it for a photo shoot: no damage. I want to get the adverts up tomorrow."

"Adverts?" echoed the guard, respectfully.

Madam Faulk slanted a malicious smile down at the pinned wereem, and purred, "A new act for the Advent Show. I think we'll call it, 'The Taming of the Shrew'."

**

The show was on.

As the Louse had promised, Gemma had spent the last two days being rigorously, exhaustively prepared for the presentation. Her hair had been cut and styled, skin buffed and waxed and lightly tanned, teeth whitened, and their continued bluntness verified.

There was no punishment as yet, no drugs. Madam had apparently ordered that Gemma be left untouched, just readied for the act. The Faulk Alfamme was intending to break the insubordinate wereem publically, as the mainstay of their biggest annual event, in order to demonstrate her mastery and renew the Faulk reputation.

Gemma teetered upwards one more step, the ball of her sandaled foot landing on soft, thick carpet pile. This was it. The last run of the stairs that bent around the back of the auditorium, rising up to the rear doors.

Her stomach was churning lightly, tension beginning to tighten as her two guards drew her carefully on, toward the hum of sound echoing from the theatre. Towards that reek of anticipatory lust: cloyingly human, with some faint hints of wolf. Each equally disturbing.

She could do this, Gemma reminded herself, seeking the calm which had enveloped her as she had reassured her pack earlier. Her stomach quivered, and she deliberately smothered the glimmer of fear with a self-congratulatory reminder: the Faulk were still hunting her human friends. They could not yet have escaped the forest, but her hope grew with every passing moment.

The ripple of noise grew louder as they approached the closed doors at the back of the room, the rustle of movement, clatter of voices and laughter and chink of glasses easily audible. A wild image flashed into Gemma's head of a huge mouth waiting to swallow her.

Calm down, she ordered her seething blood, her clenched stomach. She shivered, saw the guard holding her right leash smile and took a deep breath to calm herself as they halted just outside the double doors.

That was a mistake. The thickness of the scent unhinged her spine, little ghostly touches of aversion swirling discordantly across her skin, breaking her into a convulsion of shuddering. Revolting: the warm, damp, pushing smell of male and female lust. Tendrils of the cloying fumes seemed to slide across her exposed flesh, making her clench her teeth on a sudden surge of revulsion.

Show no emotion, she admonished herself fiercely.

The guards had stopped too, making her wait excruciatingly outside the doors. She shut her eyes, and the one of the left stepped in behind her, pulling her naked shoulders back, straightening her spine. Displaying her.

Gemma tried to block out the knowledge of what she was wearing. Wasn't wearing. The short black embroidered corset covered more of her than a bikini would, although the way it accentuated her full bust, it was a danger to her walking on these ridiculous heels, overbalancing her so that she was likely to fall flat on her face.

Her attempts at internal humour were getting more and more feeble, shaken by the stark reality of what she was facing.

Her slender, athletic legs were shimmering in sheer gloss fishnets, attached to the base of the corset by fine strings of tiny black rosebuds. Most humiliating of all, a small rectangle of black gossamer looped between her thighs, her 'panties' attached by further clips to the corset. For ease of removal.

Her wrists were tied behind her. Gemma held her head high, and kept her eyes fixed unfocussed ahead. This was her plan. She had to succeed. Over the last few days she had cultivated an air of bored, slightly detached disdain. It was farcical, considering the way she couldn't stop shivering, but she would keep pretending.

The doors opened.

There was a moment of blindness as a spotlight hit her, blinding her, burning against her naked skin and heating the black corset. But the scents told her, without her looking. Both Madam Faulk and Nicolas Grey were here tonight, down on the stage, waiting to restore the Faulk reputation for ruthlessness and dominance.

Yes.

Her eyes scanned the boxes on the balcony above, and there was Ginger, kneeling submissively by the side of her current purchaser. Gemma triple blinked the agreed signal, and saw her sjeste close her eyes as she conveyed to the others.

Here we go. Gemma swallowed, her spine stiffening as she obeyed the light tug on the leashes attached either side of her Argen collar, and began the long descent to the stage. Another shudder shot through her. She felt criminally negligent, being cut off from her pack, unable to sense or guide them at this crucial moment. Damned Argen. She could feel the collar clearly, like a buzz of weak acid against the skin, nauseating.

There was a rustling murmur as hundreds of people turned to follow the spotlight heating her path down the shallow stairs. Eyes gleamed at her in lust - lust for both sex and pain, the reek of their anticipatory enjoyment pulsing on the air.

Disdain. Disdain. Her heart was panicking.

A murmured request, and her guards stopped her, turning her to face the sea of dimly seen faces to the left of the walkway. The left guard stepped behind her again and pulled her shoulders back again sharply, causing a drawl of soft comments and some quiet, unpleasant laughter.

The stench of sadistic arousal rolled over her, pulling her back into this room, her personal danger. Gemma's heart was thundering erratically, her stomach churning with bile. She hated the feeling of fear, but hating it didn't subdue it, so she glared out above the gleaming eyes, focussing on the walls behind, breast rising and falling rapidly.