There followed a long, too-hot period of alternating sleep and half-wakefulness, shot through with the ever-present throb of pain from his wrist. At least the latter mostly drowned out the pain from his lesser injuries, though an incautious movement still sent a vicious pang shooting up his thigh to remind him that one set of teeth had gone into the muscle there; and certainly for a time he made many incautious movements that never seemed to be quite within his control, earning himself irritated nips that taught him to be quieter, at least for a while.

He dreamed, too. Odd dreams, even more senseless than usual but startlingly vivid. Sometimes he dreamed of a dour, lined face that he'd rarely glimpsed since the visit in the hospital, though he knew that the mind behind it had remained aware of him. Other faces came and went, swooped close from the darkness and mouthed words at him that he couldn't understand, though the nagging idea persisted that he should be able to. At one point he turned over and put his arms around Deborah with sleepy desire, burrowing his head into the angle of her neck; but when he raised his head again to kiss her, it wasn't Deborah but Arabella, and even as she said 'I always get what I want, Malcolm' her face mutated and elongated, turning into the long growling muzzle of a wolf.

He screamed that time, but the sound was feeble and the echoes told him it had bounced off what sounded like a low roof. This made no sense to him, but he was thirsty, so thirsty he could think of nothing else.

From time to time fruit had materialised in his dark world, alerting him by their smell, which soon came to represent survival as he devoured each luscious juicy globe to the stone; but for a while now no fruit had come, and his fever-ridden body had once more become dangerously dehydrated.

For some time now he had been aware of other noises in the darkness beside him: very small noises that aroused in him dim feelings of both anxiety and protectiveness. Within the last day or two he had also begun to notice that very small creatures with furry muzzles occasionally licked his face, and as this was invariably accompanied by thunderous growls of warning out of the gloom he took care to lie absolutely still until they blundered away again.

The mists of confusion thinned enough to let through the word pups. It didn't mean much to him except an increase in anxiety; for some reason, instinct told him that he was in an extremely dangerous place. But associated – inextricably associated – with the word pups was one that in his present plight held even more significance for him.

Milk.

His limbs didn't obey him as thoughtlessly as they should have done, but they managed to shuffle him around very slowly. A smear of light from somewhere brought his surroundings a point away from complete darkness, but he'd had days in which to become accustomed – however vaguely – to them. He was in a cave, almost a scoop beneath a rocky overhang, perhaps three metres deep and a little more than one high. The entrance was hidden from them by what looked like an old rockfall, around one side of which the cave's inhabitants could come and go.

The pool of absolute blackness a metre away from him opened two blue moons. The familiar warning growl echoed through the cave.

Dorcha was lying on her side. The pups were lying in a row, busily nursing.

Moving with as much care as he could manage, he crept very gradually closer. Finally he was within touching distance, and lay still. The bitch watched him for a while and then put her head down again.

Five puppies ... one a runt. Even in the gloom, he could see that much.

Only the strong survive.

In another life he'd have agonised over it; after all, he'd been 'the runt' since before he was old enough to know what the word meant. Even now, in the midst of his sickness and confusion, he knew a moment's hate for what he had to do. But his hands acted for him, and seconds later there was a surplus milk supply.

He put the little body gently to one side, muttering an absurd word of apology.

He crept forward again, keeping himself as small as possible. None of the remaining pups took any notice as he pushed in among them; his smell was familiar.

His upbringing rose up in a single keening sob of revolt, which he stifled savagely.

Survive.

Dorcha lifted her head again briefly, but the minor disturbance among the pups at her flank had subsided.

Everything was quiet.

She put down her head again and went back into a doze.


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