Page 80 of Master Wolf
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 hesawsnow. 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 wasalive. 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 him, 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.