Master Wolf

by Joanna Chambers

  Duncan was white now, staring at Francis, who was dying in front of him.

  Drew could not let his friend die alone. He tugged his wrist gently from Lindsay’s weak grip. “I’m sorry—I have to…”

  Tears gleamed in Lindsay’s dark eyes, but he nodded and let Drew go.

  “Drew, no,” Francis gasped, managing to lift one arm and hold it, palm out, fending Drew off. “Do not come closer.”

  Somehow, he managed to struggle up onto his knees. Then he reached out to Duncan.“Come here.”

  Duncan’s face was a mask of grief and rage. “You can no longer command me,” he said hoarsely.

  “I’m not commanding you.” Francis’s eyes were soft. “I’m asking you to come closer.”

  “You want to get the poison on me. Kill me too.”

  Francis shook his head. “I won’t even touch you, I promise. I just”—he panted, screwing his eyes closed for a moment before continuing—“there is something I must say to you.” His throat gave a strange rattle then and he fell to the side, hitting the floor hard, a stunned expression on his face.

  Duncan leapt forward, arms outstretched as though to belatedly catch him, then he caught himself, and stilled, suspicious. But Francis did not move and after a moment, Duncan slowly lowered himself to his knees and cautiously crawled forward.

  His eyes were wild with sorrow and fury.

  Lindsay’s fingers had crept back around Drew’s wrist as though he could hold him safely back, while Drew crouched protectively in front of Lindsay, sheltering him with his naked body.

  “What could you possibly have to say to me?” Duncan whispered fiercely. “After all this time?”

  “A secret,” Francis whispered.

  “What?” Duncan moved closer still, till he was leaning fully over Francis, their gazes locked, faces only inches apart. Drew wondered if there were fumes from the Wolfsbane that might affect Duncan. Was that the game Francis was playing? He had promised not to touch Duncan and Francis had never, to Drew’s knowledge, broken a promise.

  “You always ask me… why I won’t kill you.” Francis panted

  “I know why,” Duncan replied bitterly. “It’s because you’re a pious, cringing coward who fears for his immortal soul above all else.”

  “No,” Francis said, through barely moving lips. “It’s because—because I loved you. Because you were… my mate.”

  Duncan stared at him. He shook his head. “You… No.”

  “Yes,” Francis croaked. “I could not give you my body. But I was always—always yours.” His throat rattled again, softer this time.

  “No,” Duncan said, then more loudly, “No, it’s not true! No!”

  The last No tore out of him on an anguished roar, and then he fell on Francis, lifting up his limp body in his mighty arms and capturing his mouth in a savage kiss. He pressed their lips together desperately, then rubbed his cheek against Francis’s pale, cold one, gasping out angry, wrenching sobs.

  “You dare to leave me, coward!” he railed. “Eunuch!”

  Drew was buffeted by a wave of grief so intense, he felt as though the storm raging through his heart would break it open, never to be repaired. He felt it all—his own grief, and Lindsay’s, and the terrible, raging grief of the man who had just willingly thrown himself into the River Styx with Francis Neville.

  Gradually Duncan’s bitter words stopped flowing and his angry sobs grew quieter, till the only noise he made was that same soft rattling sound in his throat that Francis had made just a minute before. Gradually—almost gently—his powerful frame stilled. And then the arms that had been holding Francis so tightly slackened, and the big, larger-than-life body went limp.

  Duncan MacCormaic was dead. And so was Francis Neville.

  Drew turned his head to see Lindsay’s reaction. But Lindsay’s eyes were closed and his breathing was strange, his chest moving up and down too fast. Wheezing breaths came from his half-open mouth.

  “Lindsay,” Drew said worriedly, shaking him gently. When had he passed out?

  Lindsay did not respond and a surge of pure fear went through Drew. He had to get Lindsay out of here, away from whatever traces of Wolfsbane were in the air.

  Clambering to his feet, he went to the fallen wardrobe and, muscles straining with effort, dislodged it from its wedged-in position, heaving it to one side. Having cleared a path to the door, he rushed back and bent down to lift Lindsay’s frail body. He barely registered Lindsay’s weight in his arms. He felt as though his wolf was with him—not just inside him but present in his body, lending him physical strength. And as he emerged from the bedchamber and began to walk down the corridor in search of another room to lay Lindsay down in, he realised his vision had indeed greyed—he was seeing with his wolf eyes, despite being in his human form.

  He had no time to consider the implications of that—he could hear voices, familiar ones. Marguerite and Wynne. And, oh God—Marguerite. When she discovered that Francis was dead she would be inconsolable…

  Drew’s human side reasserted itself and he called, “Wynne! Up here!” Exhausted, he braced himself against the corridor wall, waiting.

  Footsteps raced up the stairs towards him, and then Wynne was there, saying their names and babbling out questions that Drew couldn’t seem to comprehend, much less answer. When Wynne reached out to help him with Lindsay, he stepped back, hefting Lindsay up more securely in his arms.

  “I’ll see to him,” he said hoarsely. Every word he uttered was an effort, strange and unfamiliar in his mouth. “You will need to take care of Mim.”

  Wynne’s expression tightened with anxiety. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  Drew’s throat worked with emotion. Eventually he managed to say brokenly, “Francis is dead—Duncan too—and there’s Wolfsbane all over them. Don’t let her walk in there unprepared.”

  Wynne went white. “Leave it to me,” he said shortly. “Take Lindsay upstairs. The first door is my bedchamber—go there.” He turned to go back downstairs, then stopped, looking back at Drew. “And Drew—”

  “Yes?”

  “Please. Listen to your wolf.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Drew’s arms were trembling with exhaustion by the time he laid Lindsay down on Wynne’s bed.

  Lindsay didn’t move or stir at all. The only signs of life he displayed were occasional wheezy breaths. The bruises and dried blood on his face from Duncan’s beating were livid against his chalk-white skin.

  Drew went to the low, banked fire in the grate and lit a taper from it.

  “You are not to die,” he told Lindsay shakily as he used the taper to light the candles in the sconce beside the bed.

  Lindsay did not answer and Drew studied him, feeling entirely helpless. Lindsay was so still. So weak. Was his wolf really gone then? Gone forever?

  Had the Wolfsbane killed Lindsay’s wolf?

  Hell, the Wolfsbane. Well, he could start by getting that off at least.

  Drew unfastened Lindsay’s dressing gown with quick fingers, pushed it off his shoulders and carefully extricated his bandaged left arm before going in search of scissors. Raking through the drawers of Wynne’s dressing table, he finally settled for a small pocketknife which he set down on the mattress before filling the washing bowl with water from the ewer and taking that over to the bed too.

  Working quickly, he sawed through the stiff bandages with the small blade, scraped off the dry remnants of the poultice, bundled all the waste up and set it aside. Then he washed Lindsay’s arm, trying to be as gentle as possible.

  Lindsay’s arm was grey now. The last time he’d seen it with the bandages off, the sores had been red and weeping. As awful as that had been, it was worse now, the sores blackish and wizened, and the flesh dull and waxy. Dead-looking.

  Panic filled Drew. He had to get whatever poison remained off of Lindsay. Pressing his lips into a thin, determined line, he fetched fresh water and washed the arm again, and again twice more, his ministrations less gentle now.
It hardly seemed to matter given Lindsay did not react. But still, Drew winced when he rubbed at the raw sores, muttering words of brisk encouragement.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I daresay you have overcome worse in Duncan’s dungeon. Setting your own bones, you said—my God!”

  As he worked, Drew was distantly aware of the others in the house—of Marguerite’s grief-stricken wailing. Of voices and activity—but he could spare none of his attention for it. His universe had shrunk to this room, this bed, this man.

  Setting the water aside, Drew carefully dried Lindsay’s arm and thought what to do next.

  Listen to your wolf, Wynne had said. Back in Lindsay’s bedchamber, Drew had felt closer to his wolf than ever before, filled with a strange certainty he already missed. But he’d lost that again, after talking with Wynne and getting Lindsay settled in this room. His human self had taken over, rationally deciding what to do.

  Perhaps the wolf knew better.

  For decades Drew had fought his wolf as though it was his enemy. Perhaps he should have put his trust in it. Let it guide him in those matters where human rationality was of no earthly use—like now. If there was anything that could be done to restore Lindsay’s wolf, or at least ease his suffering, Drew’s wolf would surely know better than Drew himself. The wolf had given way to Drew earlier, when he’d needed to be human. Now Drew would do the same.

  Rising from the bed, he settled himself on the floor on his hands and knees, closed his eyes and tried to open himself to his wolf, the way he did at full moons. This time though, he didn’t do it reluctantly, as though waiting for a wild, unpredictable beast that might bite him at any moment to approach. This time, he opened himself fully and invited the wolf to come forward. Opened his heart and begged it for help. And when it came to him, it did so with a quiet grace, not trying to push him aside and wrest control, but melding with him, the two of them occupying the same heart, the same soul.

  Drew had never felt closer to his wolf than he did in this moment. In truth, he had resented it since his very first shift. If he’d been asked before this night what he would do to be rid of it he’d have replied “Anything”. But now, perhaps for the first time, he was conscious that his wolf was not some separate entity to be feared and resented but was fully part of him. Another aspect of Drew himself.

  It took a while to complete the shift. His body had been through so much already this night and he desperately needed food and rest—neither of which he had time to indulge in—but eventually, he was wolf again.

  Jumping onto the bed, he padded over to Lindsay’s left side and nosed up and down the length of his arm, whining softly. He began to lick it then, bathing the poor, tormented flesh with his tongue. While his sensitive nose assured him that the poison had all been washed away, the scent of deeply rooted sickness was distressing. Even worse was the complete absence of any sign at all of the wolf within. Drew hunted for any tiny thread of scent, nosing Lindsay all over, but there was nothing.

  In despair, he lifted his head, arching his throat to howl—and then he felt it.

  It began as an uncomfortable, twisting sensation in his chest that seemed to swell and spread uncommonly fast, licking up his throat and along each of his limbs like flames. His teeth began to ache with a pulsing need to bite. His intent gaze turned to Lindsay’s pale throat and he slowly stalked closer, staring down at the tender, exposed flesh.

  There was a storm inside him. A swirling vortex that was tearing him apart inside. If Lindsay died, his heart was going to splinter into a hundred thousand pieces, scattering him to the winds.

  He had to… bite.

  Distantly, it occurred to him that this feeling overwhelming him was the Urge, but it in truth, he didn’t much care what was causing it, only that he was filled with an unshakable belief that biting Lindsay was what he must do. Perhaps it would restore Lindsay’s wolf, perhaps not. Either way, he was now bound and determined to do it.

  Tenderly, he scented Lindsay’s collarbone, then pushed at Lindsay’s chin to expose more of his soft, vulnerable throat.

  He waited a moment more. And then he bit. He bit hard, savagely, relishing the flood of Lindsay’s warm blood into his mouth, thick and coppery. Lindsay twitched beneath him, his throat gurgling a weak protest, but Drew only bit deeper, the Urge spurring him on.

  Growing light-headed, he closed his eyes. His heart was racing, impossibly fast, impossibly hard—hard and fast enough to burst out of his chest. His vision went white. White like the silver-pale moon. White like snow.

  And then he opened his eyes—and he saw snow. Snow and a bright, sharp-edged moon above his head. He was standing at the edge of an icy crevasse so deep he couldn’t see the bottom of it. And when he looked up, Lindsay’s wolf was standing on the other side.

  It had been years since Drew had seen Lindsay’s wolf. He wasn’t much changed, lean and silver-grey, but he was sick, no doubt of that. His body was too thin and his coat was bare in places. His left foreleg was scabbed and bleeding. But despite all this, Drew’s first reaction was a rush of unbridled joy. Lindsay’s wolf was alive. Hurt, yes, and terribly diminished, but unmistakably alive.

  When Drew looked closer, he saw that behind Lindsay there was… nothing. The ice petered out a few feet behind him, disappearing into a strange violet-shadowed darkness. And in front of him, there was only the deadly crevasse—an impossible, unbridgeable gap. As for Lindsay himself, he wearily paced the same small patch of icy ground, up and down, his head hanging low. He seemed so isolated, cut off from everyone and everything—he didn’t even seem to see Drew, as though there was an invisible barrier between them.

  Drew had to get to him.

  He peered again down the endless, rocky crevasse. It vanished into murky shadows that, for all he knew, went on forever. Perhaps if Drew fell down there, he would just keep falling till the end of time.

  It was clear that he would need a good run up to have even the slightest chance of making it across and he began to jog back from the edge, trying to ignore the fear that had begun gnawing at his belly.

  Once he had retreated far enough, he stopped, pausing for a few moments to gauge the distance. And then he took off, his heart hammering with effort and terror as he ran. Part of him wished he could do this part forever. The run towards the edge—committed to being brave but not yet having to leap—and then, too soon, the edge was approaching and he had no choice but to throw himself headlong across the breach.

  He leapt into… nothingness.

  Into cold, thin air.

  Into eerie, empty silence.

  Everything was still for a fraction of a moment—and then the opposite edge of the crevasse was rushing towards him and he panicked, scrabbling with his legs in mid-air so that when his front paws finally met the ground, he skidded and stumbled. His rear legs didn’t land well, his right paw slipping on the icy edge so that his whole rear quarter slipped down the chasm a few inches. He scrambled up and forward with all his strength, mindless panic filling him as his nails scratched desperately at the ice, seeking purchase. Somehow, miraculously, he managed to right himself, dragging his body up and over the top and flopping down into the snow on the other side, panting with exhaustion and relief.

  Lindsay’s pacing slowed, and his head lifted, and finally, he saw Drew.

  He gazed at Drew, eyes wide and silver-bright. Then he whined—a tiny, heart-rending sound—and began limping forward, stumbling a little in his haste. Heart pounding, Drew staggered to his feet and bounded forward to meet him and suddenly, they were together, pressing up against one another, rubbing their heads against each other’s necks as they gave soft yips of welcome.

  Lindsay.

  His scent—dear God, that fresh, just-rained smell. Unmistakably Lindsay. His love. His mate. After all these barren years.

  After a few moments, Drew realised that Lindsay was trembling—with cold, and maybe with exhaustion and hunger too. Drew urged him to lay down and settled his larger body behind hi
m, pressing close and burrowing his muzzle into the fur at the back of Lindsay’s neck.

  Closing his eyes, he thought, Never again.

  He would stay here on this tiny, bare stretch of ice for eternity with Lindsay rather than be parted from him for another moment.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  When Drew opened his eyes, it was morning. Hazy light played around the edges of the curtains in Wynne’s bedchamber.

  At some stage, in the night, he had shifted back to human. But it was not a man who lay beside him.

  It was a silver-grey wolf.

  Drew stared at Lindsay—Lindsay in his wolf form—afraid to breathe.

  Slowly, he levered himself up, careful not to wake Lindsay, who looked peaceful and content for the first time since Drew had arrived back in Edinburgh. He was too thin, yes, and his coat was indeed as patchy as it had been last night during that—vision? But as ragged and sorry as he looked, Lindsay’s wolf was alive. He had returned. It was amazing. A wonder.

  Drew sat watching Lindsay in silence for a long time while Lindsay, unmoving, just slept on, his lean, compact body neatly tucked in on itself, the silver and black tail covering the lower half of his face. It was a deep, healing sleep that he was in.

  As Drew watched Lindsay, he tried to piece together what had happened the night before. He could not explain what he had experienced, even to himself. The icy mountainside and the rocky crevasse had felt quite real—not even remarkable at the time—but now that he was fully awake again, it struck him that the blank nothingness behind Lindsay and the formless shadows swarming at the bottom of the chasm had been the stuff of nightmares. A vision of a kind of hell—an isolated, meaningless existence, cut off from everything and everyone.

  The thought of Lindsay’s wolf trapped there made his heart hurt so much he had to rub at his chest with the heel of his hand to ease the pain. As he did so, he realised something: he could feel the bond again. Except… it was different now. Previously, their bond had been one of maker and made, with Drew firmly in the subordinate role. But now? Now… he wasn’t sure. He didn’t feel like a made wolf anymore, one that might be compelled at any moment, but nor did he feel any sense of mastery over Lindsay.