Gemma hugged her arms around her knees and gazed out of the tall, deep window across the broad valley to the sun sinking beyond the mountains. A beautiful, tranquil scene that should have calmed her inner tension. Her wool-clad toes were tucked in close on the soft cushion of the window seat - it was cold up here in the mountains with the window open, but less oppressive having the gentle breeze curling around her, shielding her from the cloying opulence of the suite.
After annoying her for three days, her guards had finally stopped coming in to stare disapprovingly every time she touched the window catch.
What did they think she was going to do, jump?
she thought broodingly. Then shivered lightly. The view was breathtaking in more than one way; the first time she had looked down, her stomach had lurched sickeningly and head had begun to swim, and that had been with the window closed. On that first day, when she had still been overawed, amazed at being transported into a palatial, elegant suite in a Bond-villain mountain-crag fortress.
Three days later, her main feeling was irritated boredom. The sleek madam – Louise – had even taken her phone from her that first night. "For security," Madam had explained smoothly as she deftly extracted it with a sweet, false smile – and without permission – from Gemma's shoulder bag, before waving her involuntary, unwanted guest into the suite and leaving with a brief, "Ask the men for anything you need," tossed dismissively over one silk-clad shoulder.
That was the last Gemma had seen of her, thankfully. The silence in the back of the car on the way down had been glacial, Madam staring out into the night, and Gemma wondering what on earth had happened to her normal life, where Mac was, and what was nigglingly weird about the car they were riding in - although the vehicle suited Madam. Plush, silent and sneeringly superior. The cubs had since filled her in - apparently Madam -Gemma always drawled the title sarcastically inside her own head - hadn't appreciated Gemma introducing her to the novel experience of having a mere girl - a human - argue with her. In front of four alphas, Dr. Maynard and half the senior pack members, no less. And then Marsh himself had listened to what the girl said! The cubs couldn't hide their glee. And Madam hadn't even attempted to hide her acute, violent dislike.
Gemma wrinkled her short nose.
Mutual.
The men weren't much better. The guards. Most of the time they just rooted themselves in the knee-deep carpet in the corridor outside the door to the suite, and ignored her varied polite and less polite requests to let her out to explore. She had sensed their pleasure at the futility of her physical, furious attempts to get out – it had been like trying to squeeze between two warm, immovable rocks, or a rock and the door jam, and their warmth had made her hairs stand on end and an uneasy churning sensation pool in her stomach, making her back off abruptly.
They did fetch on demand, as Madam had stated – that's what the guards called her, "Madam Louise," or, "Madam Marsh," and Gemma had spent a bad-tempered, bored period yesterday afternoon thinking up the most bizarre and pointless fetch-errands she could inflict on them. A Frisbee. Strawberries and champagne. Ten orchids. A zebra. Her favourite DVDs. Fish and chips. Chocolate and ice cream. A piano. A Picasso. Ostrich steak (she'd never had it – Gemma thought she may as well make use of this). Her old teddy polar bear from home. A BlackBerry. One of them silently stalked off after each request, or merely stated after a brief pause, "I'm afraid Madam would prefer you not to risk your security with that, Dr. Smith."
She got the piano though, to her amazement.
She hadn't really thought she'd get a BlackBerry. But when the dark haired one had returned with her fluffy old toy, BigWhite, she'd dried up and retreated, unnerved, to her favourite seat. This one, here in the window. How the hell had they gotten into her flat?
She didn't want to know.
"Anything more, Dr. Smith?" the craggy one had drawled sarcastically after her as she'd retreated.
Gemma wrinkled her nose again. No way were those surly hulks allowed to call her 'Gemma'. Especially not when she needed anything to keep them at a distance. To keep her cool. Her courage. Her distain. Every day. Every morning.
Every morning they checked her neck.
It was unnerving, unsettling, the worst part of the day. They came in a pair each time – for protection against her contaminating human presence, it felt like, in the increasingly tense unease. They requested gruffly that she stand in the middle of the living room, loosen and fold down her collar, and let them, in turn, scent the fading mottling. Their breath against the tender spot made her skin writhe and tension clench in her stomach. She could feel the tautness of dislike oozing off them also, the shudder of their skin as they sniffed, the wrinkle of their noses, and the hardness in their eyes as they had to bring themselves to approach. And they shimmered with increasing antipathy and disappointment each day as the colour slowly faded - she could tell that they wanted her to get worse, wanted Mac tried and convicted.
Dogs.
She hated them for that. Her skin was so tight, tense even at the thought of the impending inspection tomorrow – made worse after another long, lurid night of Mac visiting her dreams and whispering to her skin what he'd like to do to her in that damned massive four poster in the luxurious bedroom, rolling her under him, pressing her down into the soft mattress. She knew they could smell it on her – the heat from the dreams. Eugh.
Damn him. Damn she missed his touch. Missed it more every day.
She used the opportunity, their enforced interaction, to question the guards – it was also a useful distraction from the revolting, real reason they were there. But they never said any more than they absolutely had to, never answered her questions about Mac or the trial, infuriatingly, which was why she'd ended up playing that stupid fetch game with them like the dogs they were. They liked keeping her in the dark. Madam liked it.
Luckily, Mac didn't.
Here it came.
Silently, twirling on the breeze, lowered on the spindly, almost invisible fishing line, today's offering spun gently into sight. She grasped the line, tugged lightly, and it stopped. Swiftly, sparkling with pleasure, Gemma unclipped it from the karabiner on the end of the line, hooked in place her own reply, and then tugged twice, gently. She breathed more easily as she watched the little packet disappear silently back up the cliff face. The guards came in at any moment and she really did not want to get the kids into trouble. They were so proud of themselves for working this out. Even if they couldn't get her a replacement mobile phone, which would've been a damn sight easier. Apparently wolves didn't use cell phones much, and they had no chance to buy one, especially without any of the Marsh wolves noticing.
A small smile was playing around her mouth. Megan, the youngest of the trio, had explained in her first note. Mac knew why Madam Marsh had taken Gemma's phone, but he'd wanted to check that she was OK himself, not rely on the reports, so he'd set up this relay with the MacKeld trainees at Marshmont.
There were three of them, up there in the dusk, perched on the wall of the roof terrace, the two boys hanging onto the legs and waistband of Megan so that she could lean out far enough to get the fishing line lowered past the rocky outcrop above this window.
They loved doing this, the excitement was evident in their scrawled messages – and the pride, the pride that the Alpha had given them this assignment, trusted them to work out how to get a message to Gemma. Which they had. He'd been right.
Today's package held four notes. The one dictated from Mac she saved until last. James, the eldest of them, had drawn her a meticulous, detailed map of the fourth floor – the floor below – to go with the one sent yesterday of this floor, with the position of her suite. She'd explained in her first note how frustrating she found it, seeing only these four rooms when she'd been dazzled by the bewitching array of lights shimmering down from above as the car purred its way up the valley on the night of her arrival. So he'd decided to map the place for her.
Kyle drew people, mainly pictures of her guards, there was one today of the two hulks who'd been outside her door at midday – he didn't have great talent, but she could tell who they were, and appreciated the short notes underneath."Lars – he's a bit irritable, but not bad. Teaches us restraint." "Mike – he works in the North quad usually, but I've never seen him come in empty handed, he can run like the wind." Kyle's notes left a lot of questions, but apparently all of her guards to date – they rotated three pairs during the day, and someone new had been substituted in yesterday – all were high-ranking and awesome and seemed to be snappy about being dragged in to guard a human.
Megan was the chatty one, explaining all about them, their classes, extra training, the Marshmont and how hard it was to get into the academy here. She reminded Gemma of her cousin Tina's daughter, and her notes had her smile with their joyous enthusiasm for life.
Then there was Mac's.
"Picchu, please try not to take out your irritation on the guards by making highly skilled warriors run after candy, flowers and teddy bears. It might come back to bite you someday. Although your demanding errands are already legendary and there was some joking around the council that I've obviously gotten you pregnant.
Before you panic, that's impossible.
I've been acquitted of endangering you, as the evidence clearly shows that you are healing. The Argen charge is still open but I've been released on condition that I leave you in Marsh custody and don't come near you. I said some slightly disrespectful things to the council in response to that, and they got snippy and demanded I promise to stay on the Range until you're fully healed or they'd stick me back in a cell. Wish you'd been there to shut me up – you excel at it."
That was it. Her hit for today.
