Author's Note: I'm sorry! :cowers: Don't kill me, please O.o Merh… I didn't mean to take this long with the update. My muses just all up and ignored me for about a week, and I've been working on this chapter for a few days o.O

Also, I'll be on 'hiatus' for two weeks from Monday 27th March, as I'll be on holiday, staying with friends in America :D Don't send me too many death threats? Heh. Alrighty. The prompt for this chapter was 'smell'.


CHAPTER EIGHT: NOWHERE FAST

She used the blonde hair to tilt his head upward, angling her own downward to see his eyes, closed as they were. His breathing had levelled out enough for it to be obvious that he was no longer conscious, though it wasn't without a struggle that he did so; the way his chest rose and fell wasn't normal… there were no regular, spaced intervals. Even in unconsciousness, he was in pain; suffering.

Annelise released the somewhat damp locks, and let his head fall again, dropped over almost to his chest. She silently admired the damage she had caused, and how the red had soaked into his shirt, making strange little patterns that only she could see. A ghost of a smile teased at the corner of her lips, and she sighed softly, dragging the sound out, before resigning herself to the inevitable.

Her fun was over.

The human had finally succumbed, after resisting the darkness for as long as he had… if she hadn't been so intent on driving him into unconsciousness, she might have been impressed by his resolve. As it was, she was almost disappointed that her 'turn' had come to an end.

She didn't have to turn her head to know who was standing at the doorway, silent though their approach had been.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" Quentin asked quietly but mischievously almost, from the doorway.

Blue eyes slowly turned from the unaware human, and met the blonde werewolf's across the room. She didn't speak in response until she had turned herself from the captive, and started walking towards Quentin, and subsequently, the exit. She still held her blade in her hand, lifting it a little so that its bloodied length caught the light. She didn't even look at the male werewolf as she passed him with an ethereal grace.

"Very much…"


The male werewolf watched the eerily quiet female — not that she was ever any different — pass him by, smelling the blood on the blade before he even saw it. He smiled crookedly, turning his eyes back into the room, and to the wounded human bound to the pillar. Pacing into the room a little, he stared at the figure, watching the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, and his eyes waned to their feral shade of cobalt blue as he stood there watching. The coppery tang of the human's blood called to him, and he bit down on his bottom lip to keep from giving in to any kind of predatory, instinctual hunger his inner animal told him he was feeling.

Despite himself, he growled.

Shaking his head faintly, he roused himself from his lupine frame of mind, and his eyes returned to their human shade as he looked the prisoner up and down, judging how he should best go about spending his time with the captive when he regained consciousness. After all, it was his turn next, and he wasn't about to throw it away by applying too much, too quickly; he wasn't like Magdalena… he knew his time was precious, and he wanted to get the maximum satisfaction out of it. Perhaps, in her own way, Magdalena had satisfied herself… she'd just gone about it in a very peculiar way.

Quentin growled again at the thought of the female werewolf having any interest in a human… particularly this one. Though he had his fair share of — if only physical — things in common with this individual, Quentin knew he was superior. By far. He was stronger, faster… better. He had cast off his human existence years ago, and would never go back; would never even think of going back… not after all he had gained. Quentin knew he was — as Annelise liked to put it — evolved.

Anyone who thought otherwise, and said as much to his face, never lasted very long.


Nemo was the last out of the cabin the brothers had apparently been staying in, but the younger sibling reached around behind him, and made sure to close and secure the door. It wasn't long after that that the group were walking away from the small building; tensions were high, and it seemed the race was on. Time was, apparently, not on their side.

Tobias and Tomas Dakar had shared, briefly, with the League, their knowledge of the 'pack' responsible for Agent Sawyer's disappearance. If their assessment of the situation was accurate, then it was much direr than any of them had previously anticipated. They had explained how they had encountered some of the unit before, and not under the best of circumstances… in fact, Tobias now bore a vicious scar down the length of his back after such a meeting. It was obvious that this group of werewolves were far from agreeable. If the brothers' explanation was anything to go by, then it was quite possible that… Tobias was right.

But Captain Nemo was not about to give up hope for his American friend. He had always been the kind of man to stick by his companions, and respect them; he didn't abandon them to their fates so quickly, and he certainly didn't give up hope until he knew for definite, one way or the other, what had happened to them. Tom Sawyer was a good friend, and one that Nemo — along with the rest of the League — was not about to leave to a grisly end. Nemo knew that Agent Sawyer would do nothing less for any of those around him now; Skinner, Mrs. Harker, Dr. Jekyll…

The League was more than just an elite team. The League was a unit… they were friends, and they helped one another; they supported one another and provided aid. No matter how that aid needed to be given, it was always offered. This was no different.

If the brothers' account was correct, then they were potentially facing almost a dozen werewolves, all with the kind of fierce, natural prowess and wolf-forms that they had seen in Tobias out in the woods. But if it meant saving Agent Sawyer, then Nemo knew he wasn't alone in his determination; they would all do everything in their power to save him.

Even if it was only so they could give him the burial he would deserve…


How much time had passed since his losing consciousness — again — was something that escaped his knowledge. He'd been in and out of awareness so many times since being overpowered in the burning building that he wondered about the effect it could have on him, beyond the obvious. Of course, if there was one area where Tom Sawyer's expertise was seriously lacking, it was in any and all things medical. He knew how to dress a wound in an emergency, certainly, and he could assess damage in the field, but he was no doctor, by any means of the word. And then, of course, it was perhaps always more difficult to assess the damage inflicted upon your own body than upon someone else; your own body could lie to you… either that, or stubbornness clouded judgement.

Tom only lifted his head when he had 'stood' there, more or less awake, for about five minutes. If there had been anyone else in the room, they would have announced themselves by now, one way or another. He knew how fond they were of making entrances, or frightening him, so it was progressively, and carefully that he dared to lift his head at all. He made sure to check the ground in front of him for feet; he still wasn't sure how he'd managed to miss Annelise standing in front of him, silent though she had been. Had they really affected him so much already?

Idly, he wondered who was next to take their 'turn'… and if any of the others would be as bad as the one who had just essentially knocked him out. As he took a cautious deep breath, he felt the aching, stinging wounds in his body, and grimaced heavily, not entirely sure he wanted to look down to try and see how bad it was. He had, initially, been trying to keep count of the injuries Annelise had been inflicting upon him, but not long into the session, he'd lost count — he had been too overwhelmed with his reactions to keep his mind on such a task. Leaning back — not that he had much choice — against the hard, cool pillar, he closed his eyes, and breathed through the discomfort. Or at least he tried to do so… at this point, it was entirely possible that there was too much for him to 'breathe through', as he'd taught himself to do some time ago. It was a somewhat stubborn trick many agents taught themselves so that an injury in the line of duty wouldn't completely ruin a mission. Tom was such an agent, and of course, his time with the League had helped him develop this 'skill'… but then, he'd never had this kind of experience with werewolves before. He wasn't sure he wanted to know how many people, spy or otherwise, had had this kind of experience, with werewolves or otherwise.

It was several more minutes before he built up the courage to try and loosen his bonds again, fighting against the burning pain in his hands and impaled shoulder to do so, shifting as much as possible in his struggle. He kept himself as quiet as he could, glancing to the door frequently as he worked, to make sure that he hadn't been discovered. Despite knowing he wasn't making any progress, he kept trying… if he didn't keep trying, then he knew he would be giving in, and he couldn't do that. Giving in… would mean admitting defeat, and that was something he had never been able to do. Not well, at least.

Gasping quietly when he aggravated the break in his left hand, he bowed his head over, and kept trying, gritting his teeth against the building pain. Breathing heavier as the discomfort built, he kept his eyes closed, focusing on the task, no matter how useless it seemed; he had to keep trying, no matter how wasted the effort might turn out to be. Then again, even if he could get a hand free, he knew there was still the rope around his arms behind the first pillar binding him, which would make any attempts to untie himself all the more difficult… especially with broken bones in the hands he was trying to use to do so.

"Shit…"

The curse was quiet, and more gasped than actually spoken, Tom's body screaming at him to stop twisting and straining, and all too quickly, he had exhausted himself. He slumped back against the pillar, brow furrowed miserably as he panted, the silence of the room making the sounds seem all the more harsh. Leaning his head up and back against the solid wood behind him, he swallowed the bad taste, and let out a quiet groan. Opening his eyes slightly, he checked the door. It was still closed and, presumably, locked. Sighing heavily, he let his gaze wander the room, no longer trusting such 'obvious signs'; just because he hadn't heard the door, that didn't mean it hadn't opened and permitted an enemy.

It was only after a thorough scan of the area in his range of vision that Tom could 'relax'; he slumped back against the pillar again, sighing once more, shakily, as he closed his eyes.

He was alone.


Large paws padded stealthily over the dead leaves, barely making a whisper of a sound as the sizeable animal wandered. Its tailless form moved with such astounding grace and predatory agility that Mina couldn't help but watch it. The dark brown hair bristled every few moments as a breeze played through the trees, and the black nose would lift and angle into the draught. Tall ears would twitch, amber eyes would narrow, and then the search would continue without further hesitation.

The League walked behind Tobias, who, in turn, walked not far behind and to the side of the large lupine form. Tomas had transformed some twenty minutes ago, telling them that the heightened senses of his wolf form would give them the extra advantage. Jekyll had asked how much difference there really was between a werewolf's human and animal form, in terms of senses and their accuracy, and he had simply received one of Tomas' quiet, knowing smiles. And then the youthful-looking lycanthrope had transformed. Now, he led them through the trees almost like a hunting hound, muzzle browsing over the ground in search of scents and tracks to follow. Skinner, for some reason that would not be questioned at this point in time, had had something of Tom Sawyer's on his person; namely, a handkerchief. Mina hadn't even known the spy carried them until the thief had insisted it belonged to their American friend. Tomas, in wolf form, very much like a hound, had used the item to get a scent, and was currently trying to catch that as they moved along.

Suddenly, his form tensed. He backed up two or three paces on large paws, hunched down, and pushed his nose through the leaves intently; focused. Mina heard him take in a deep, concentrating breath through his nostrils, and then his head lifted. A kind of rumbling growl sounded, and Tomas's wolfen head turned to Tobias as the older brother closed the distance on the transformed lycanthrope. Crouching, he looked his brother in the eye, and Mina listened, fascinated, as the brown wolf made low noises. He was communicating…

Not long after, Tobias stood, turning his eyes on them. He looked from one member of the League to the other, settling finally on Mina. "We've got a scent."


Green eyes lifted at once at the sound of the door handle, and Tom felt something in his chest tighten. He wasn't afraid… he had to tell himself that. If he admitted to the fear, he would giving in to it, and that would only give the werewolves something more to use against him. Clenching his jaw, and feeling the ache of the bruises on the left side of it, he watched the doorway as the portal presented itself, permitting a figure.

It was the male blonde who entered. It was the one who had been 'nonchalantly' toying with a flick-blade when Tom had 'met' the pack. It was the one who had helped Felipe, by holding the spy's head back to the pillar, and gagging him at the same time.

It was Quentin.

"I hope you're well rested," the male werewolf said, almost jauntily, as he closed the door behind him. He had an odd bag in one hand as he waited for the affirming click, before he paced casually across the room. Setting the back down on a nearby table, he glanced to Tom. "If you're not, well… I'd hate it if you robbed me of some of my time." He shrugged somewhat broad shoulders beneath a light shirt. "I'm fairly easy to get along with, I like to think, but… I'm not a morning person, and I'm a very sore loser." He chuckled after saying this, as if he had just told a very witty joke. Tom could only watch him, wary and suspicious of his intentions, which he already knew to be less than savoury; he couldn't help but wonder what was in the bag… and he told himself that it was perhaps better if he didn't know.

Quentin wandered closer to him, looking him over. He inhaled through his teeth, shaking his head before laughing quietly. "I told you about her, didn't I?" He smiled at Tom, looking into his eyes with a quirked brow. The spy couldn't quite decipher it… was it pitying, or mocking? Perhaps both?

Tom tensed when the male werewolf reached up to the first fastened button of his shirt, and breathing a little quicker all of a sudden, he looked down at the hands, and then to Quentin himself. The other blonde man didn't waver in what he was doing. He simply unfastened each button, tugging the fabric roughly from beneath the binding rope around Tom's waist, before turning his back without an explanation, and leaving the fabric hanging open.

His attention was back on the bag, dragging Tom's focus with it. The lycanthrope's actions had him even more on edge now; why had he done that? He was fairly certain he didn't want to know that either. He watched as Quentin opened the bag, removing something he hadn't quite expected. In fact, what was it? It looked like a bowl, but… Tom couldn't quite understand the significance. The lingering haze in the back of his mind wasn't helping either. He watched, confused, as the werewolf poured something clear into it, smelling the bottle afterwards; he pulled a face, and then chuckled to himself, glancing briefly to Tom, as if to check he had the captive's full attention.

Reaching into the bag with one hand, he gestured with the other to Tom's now-unfastened shirt. "I'm not worried about ruining it," he shared, smiling as he continued, "… well, Annelise took care of that, already." Removing something else from the dark confines of the satchel, he opened a little box, pulling something from it. He glanced at it with a shrug, and Tom's eyes widened slightly, before he'd even heard the strike of it.

Quentin held the lit match over the bowl. "But you see… if the shirt sets on fire… well… I wouldn't want to kill you, would I?" He dropped the match towards the bowl. It hit the liquid, immediately igniting the entirety of the contents; bright, hungry flames rushed to the edges of the container, coiling upward and casting wicked shadows over the werewolf's features. "Not yet, anyway." His eyes turned on Tom… and Tom saw the now-blue glow. That was no mere trick of the firelight, he knew.

Tom closed his eyes, clenching his jaw again as he took in a deep, aching, shaky breath. When he opened them again, he could only stare at the flames.

To Be Continued…