Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone, again, for the kind comments! Warning in this chapter for more werewolves—if you made it through the last chapter and the first scene of this, you pretty much have made it through all the werewolf weirdness. Again, I'm thrilled that everyone's been reading and enjoying! Also, a brief query: the main story arc for this first section (Grantaire's acceptance to the pack) is just about wrapped up. I've got another four arcs planned out. Do people prefer that I break each arc into a separate story, leave it all as one, or have no preference?
Part Eighteen: Forward
They run.
They run because they can.
They run because they are healthy, young, strong, together.
They run because this is their territory, their place, their land.
They run because their prey runs before them, and they are hungry.
And he runs with them, one of them, his feet hitting the ground in tandem with them, and everything is right in the world.
The center of the pack is the blond female wolf, loping at a constant speed that they could keep up for days if they had to. The female keeps his head up, scenting the air, ears flicking as he listens to the sounds of their prey crashing through the trees ahead of them.
The rest of the pack is spread out around the blond, running to the left, to the right, sprinting ahead and dropping behind. They tease at each other, at Grantaire, at the blond, nipping and swiping at ears and tails and paws with impunity. The blond doesn't stop them, but he doesn't participate in the games, his focus on their mission.
They are hungry.
Their prey is up ahead.
Those who run ahead bring the blond information. With a touch of their muzzles to his body they transfer scents, sights, smells, and the blond gives the information to the rest of them.
Their prey is weakening. The scent of blood and desperation is strong around the beast. Their prey crashes through the trees and underbrush that they run around, driven to distraction and stupidity by the scent of their pack on its trail, and soon they will run it down.
Another female wolf ranges from the blond's side to the edge of the pack and back, his scent sharp with excitement, keeping anyone in the pack from falling too far behind or ranging too far to either side or ahead. This female shoulder-checks Grantaire, demanding his attention, and Grantaire turns to him with pricked ears.
Another shoulder-check, and Grantaire knows what the female wants. He wants Grantaire to run with him, up ahead, to see their prey.
It takes no second urging, and Grantaire's large brown paws strike the icy-cold ground in tandem with the female's—Courfeyrac, that is the female's name, though his scent is easier to hold in Grantaire's mind, a sharp musk of vibrant joy and vitality coupled with a thick earthy scent and the cutting sting of a bright spring wind.
Grantaire and Courfeyrac lunge ahead of the blond wolf, Courfeyrac butting his head against the blond's shoulder as they pass. Stretching their legs to the limit, they follow the crashing of their prey.
They come upon the creature just as it breaks into an open clearing in front of a cliff. Turning, the beast lowers its head, shaking antlers at the two of them as its huge hooves dig into the frozen ground.
The rest of the pack slowly trickles into the clearing, forming a loose semi-circle around their prey, driving it farther from the edge of the forest and closer to the cliff edge. Drawing a deep lungful of air, Grantaire darts forward, yipping in manic delight as he dodges left and right to avoid crashing hooves, worrying their prey into an even more angry state. The angrier the beast is, the easier it will be for the pack to—
His right front paw suddenly slips out from under him, skidding on a shard of frozen ground, and his yip of joy turns to a yowl of pain and fear.
Teeth sink into the nape of his neck, draw him back as three other pack members dart at their prey's flanks, distracting it from Grantaire. Scrambling back to his feet, he nuzzles against the blond wolf for a moment.
Savior.
Leader.
Alpha.
The blond nudges him back, growls low in his throat to call the other pack members to reform the semi-circle. Once everyone is in their place, the blond draws a deep breath.
The pack inhales in tandem with their alpha, their minds open to him, ready to act.
The blond wolf attacks first, but the rest follow shortly. They act together, knowing where each member of the pack is, what they are doing, what they are planning on doing. Even though the hooved beast weighs almost as much as the entire pack put together, it doesn't stand a chance.
The blond makes sure the beast dies quickly once it falls. His teeth sink into its neck, and blood fountains over his fur even as the prey's eyes glaze over in death.
It's Courfeyrac who starts the pack howling. Courfeyrac's mate joins him almost immediately, the male's voice a deep counterpoint to the female's high tenor. The blond steps back from their conquered prey and settles down, bright eyes closed for a moment before they are raised to the shining light of the full moon.
Once their alpha joins the song the rest of the pack follows, a soaring, ecstatic harmony that Grantaire is a part of.
He is a part of it.
He is with a pack, a healthy, happy pack, and he is part of it.
Raising his muzzle to sing to the Lady, Grantaire allows his ecstasy to pour out of his throat and his mind and into the rest of the pack.
He can't think of a time in his life when he has been happier.
XXX
Grantaire wakes when his pillow tries to crawl away from the pack's huddle.
Giving a brief whine of dismay, he stretches out a paw to hold the offending wolf in place, trying to cling to the dream and the deep pack-connection for just a moment more.
Then he realizes that his ears are pinned back to his head, that his eyes are dropping away from the wolf he's attempting to pin, and he freezes.
Enjolras' fingers stroke along his head, tease at his ears for a moment before falling away again. "It was a pleasant night, Grantaire, and a pleasant dream, but dawn's come. It's time to get back to work."
The rest of the pack is stirring around them, others shifting from wolf to human form. Stretching theatrically, Courfeyrac stands, shivers, and then pounces back into the mass of wolves, gathering Combeferre's wolf form into his arms and earning a startled whine of protest from his brown-furred mate. "It's too cold to wake up yet."
Feuilly's red fur matches his red hair, and his hazel eyes narrow as he stretches into his human form and stumbles to his feet. "It's not going to get warmer until we get up and someone tends the fire. Besides, some of us have to get to work. Or to class. Including, I believe, you."
"It would be nice if time could stop for moments like this." Jehan is sprawled atop Bahorel's form, the poet's fingers buried in the black fur of Bahorel's neck, stroking the other wolf. Bossuet, Joly and Musichetta are a tangled mass of limbs next to them, Bossuet's tail under Bahorel's back, Joly's head pillowed on Grantaire's back. The poet slithers over Bahorel's body to stroke Musichetta's head, nip at one of Bossuet's ears, and eventually sprawls across Grantaire. "If we could just continue to drown in the magic, to give ourselves over to it and each other, how far would it take us? How long would it last? How tangled could we make our minds and our souls, our thoughts and our instincts, our wolves and our human sides, our knowledge of reality versus dream?"
Bahorel's human arms drag the poet back to him, and he bites down hard on Jehan's shoulder. "I like you as you and the rest of them as themselves, too. While it's… amazing when something like this happens, we have to come back to ourselves afterward. We have work still to do."
Jehan leans back into Bahorel's arms, the poet's eyes wide and shining. "And when we don't? Can we play then? Can we see how far we can go then?"
"I'll go with you, Jehan." Bahorel continues to worry at Jehan's neck with his teeth. "The others…"
Combeferre has shifted back to his human form, though he is still wrapped in Courfeyrac's arms. "So long as we're careful not to injure any pack members, I'd be quite happy to experiment with you when we've got the time and opportunity to do it safely."
A deep chuckle rumbles from Bahorel's chest. "I'm not sure Jehan's so interested in safety precautions."
"Yes and no." Relaxing finally in Bahorel's arms, Jehan heaves a deep sigh. "I don't want to have anything bad happen to any of us—you know I love you all. But there's so much potential, so much power in our people in general and in our pack in particular… we barely scratched the surface of it last night, and I'm going to be writing about it for the next week at least."
"We'll be happy to read them." Joly lays his head in Jehan's lap, and the poet's fingers immediately start stroking through the higher-ranked wolf's hair.
Jehan will be writing poems that no one other than the pack will be able to read. Grantaire doesn't know how to sort out the emotions that rise in him as he considers that. He's happy to have been a part of something that the rest of the pack clearly enjoyed so much—to be the impetus for it, his acceptance a moment of joy for all of them. He's angry, for the first time in a while, at the Pack's need to hide, at the fact that Jehan can't simply share his verses if they clearly mean so much to him.
And he's relieved, in a way, that the humans' fear will keep the verses confined to the pack, an experience just for the pack, something he shares with Enjolras' wolves.
"It was a good night." Enjolras' voice is quiet contemplation, a faint smile on his face as he studies his pack. "We'll have more of them, but for now it's important that we keep to our usual schedule, that we don't let this interrupt any of our work. Remember your meeting today, Courfeyrac. And you had said that you'll talk with some of the medical students, Joly. And—"
"We know our work, Enjolras." Combeferre's smiling as he gently disentangles himself from Courfeyrac's hold, earning a whimper of protest from Courfeyrac. "We aren't going to be distracted from our aims by what happened. We haven't ever let it happen in the past, and we won't let it happen now."
"I know." Enjolras hesitates just for a moment, his eyes closing, and Grantaire can feel it as Enjolras touches each of their pack-bonds. It's a tingle of electricity on the tip of his tongue, a thickening of the scent of power in the room, and Grantaire can watch Enjolras work his way down the pack. Combeferre closes his eyes, and both Combeferre and Enjolras smile; Courfeyrac doesn't close his eyes, but his grin widens and he wraps one hand around Combeferre's wrist, buries one in Musichetta's hair. Bahorel gives a snort of laughter; Monet sighs, his tail swishing. Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly clamber over each other, Bossuet whining happily, Musichetta growling protectively, Joly laughing joyously. Feuilly tilts his head to the side, eyeing Enjolras, and both wolves straighten. Jehan moans, closing his eyes and raising Bahorel's arm to his mouth before biting down hard on it.
When Enjolras' thoughts finally touch his Grantaire finds himself freezing, uncertain what to send, what to say, how to respond. Enjolras' probe is tentative, gentle, questioning Grantaire's mental and emotional state, asking what he intends to do.
Happy.
He should probably try to come up with something else to send to Enjolras, but it's the emotion ringing true and strong through every fiber of his being.
He is one of Enjolras' pack. The truth of that is written into his scent now, stamped deeper than his skin—deeper than their skin. Enjolras' magic is the core of the pack-scent, but every member of the pack has their scent mixed in with it, and Grantaire's scent is tied into it now, coming from each of the pack members.
Drawing another breath, Grantaire allows the new pack-scent to linger on his tongue and in his nose and corrects the word for how he feels.
He is ecstatic.
Enjolras smiles and nods, his thoughts pulling back from Grantaire. "All right, then. I have to go, but I'll see you all later tonight at the Musain."
With that Enjolras is gone, Feuilly ducking out the door a moment later.
The rest of the pack begins to sort through the fabric scattered across the floor, Courfeyrac throwing articles of clothing toward their owners with apparent glee.
Shifting reluctantly to his human form, Grantaire picks up the shirt that Courfeyrac had tossed over his back. As the fabric falls open, he remembers again why he doesn't ever Change while he has his clothes on.
"Uh…" Holding the torn shirt up in front of him, Grantaire smiles at the other pack members. His pack members, his people. "I don't suppose anyone could recommend a good place to buy shirts… and lend me one in the meantime?"
XXX
Marius tries not to look too nervous as he slinks onto neutral territory.
He should probably try not to slink, either. He needs to not attract attention to himself. He needs to be calm.
It's hard, though. He's felt safe, the last few days. Even if he hasn't been, even if he knows in his mind that he was trespassing on another pack's territory, Cosette's garden had begun to feel like his. Well, like it's theirs, his and hers, their very small, very beautiful territory that's safe from the rest of the world.
The rest of his world, at least, the rest of the Pack, and that's who he's frightened of now.
He needs to find a place to stay. The best place for him to look now is around the university, trying to find lodging near the edge of neutral territory… preferably away from the territories of the packs that had been the most determined to kill him when driving him away.
He wants to run. He wants to slink back to Cosette's garden and simply ignore the rest of the world.
He has to do this, though. To make Cosette happy, to really have a chance at doing what he's considering doing—abandoning the Pack as surely as they've abandoned him—he's going to need to find a den.
Squaring his shoulders, Marius lifts his head and meets the eyes of everyone around him.
All the humans turn away from him, and he nods to himself before striding further into neutral territory, his jaw set and his head held high.
XXX
"Thanks, Bossuet." Grantaire follows the other wolf as they head toward the university. "I appreciate the loan of the shirt and the assistance in getting some new clothes."
"No trouble." Bossuet smiles, shrugging his bag with his books into a more comfortable position on his shoulder. "Other than Combeferre I'm the one closest to your size, and I somehow think you're more comfortable in my clothes than in Combeferre's."
Offering a wry smile of his own, Grantaire nods. Sniffing surreptitiously at his own wrist, he mulls over the scent of the pack's beta that rises from his skin with every beat of his heart. It's a cool smell, calming, ice in early spring, but with a spicy undertone that Grantaire's wolf wants to spend more time musing over. "I… am much more comfortable in your clothes than in our beta's, yes. Not that I dislike him, but…"
"But he's Combeferre." Bossuet nods. "Don't worry, I understand. Though it's a bit odd, having our lambda being as big as our beta and bigger than our alpha or gamma."
"That's me." Grantaire shrugs, grinning, unable to help himself. Yesterday talking about his oddities might have stung, but not today. Nothing can hurt him today, because he smells of a pack… of the best pack. "A mass of contradictions. A submissive who's bigger than some alphas and can't remember to keep his head down."
"Our submissive." Ruffling Grantaire's hair with one hand, Bossuet presses just slightly on the nape of Grantaire's neck, tilting his head down. "And we're very glad to have you, Grantaire."
Grantaire knows that it's true. He can feel the truth of the statement, sliding along the pack-bond he shares with Bossuet as Bossuet's fingers graze his scalp. He knows the bond works both ways, that his giddy ecstasy will flood Bossuet, but habit forces his mouth to move. "You know that I'm glad to be here."
Pulling his hand back with a sharp indrawn breath, Bossuet nods. Swallowing hard, the mangy wolf offers Grantaire a shaky, warm smile. "Have you thought about what you're going to do? I know it's probably been rather hard for you to think for the last twenty hours or so, but…"
"But it's something I need to figure out." Grantaire studies his feet as they walk, still smiling. Every movement wafts the smell of the pack to his nose, and every sniff of that scent brings joy boiling through his veins. "I think… I'd like to see what being a student is like."
"It has its perks." Bossuet smiles. "Any particular type of student?"
"Law? Maybe?" Shrugging, Grantaire scratches behind his own ears, slitting his eyes in pleasure. "It might help me figure out what you guys are talking about when you're planning things. It's what Enjolras' studying, after all."
Bossuet laughs, a startled, bright, pleased sound. "Oh, you're going to need to do a lot more reading and studying than what they'll give you in class if you want to keep up with Enjolras."
Grantaire's smile falters. "You think it's a bad idea?"
"Bahorel will tell you it's a terrible idea, but I won't." Glancing his fingers across Grantaire's shoulders, Bossuet sends him a pulse of calm and peace and uncomplicated happiness that brings Grantaire's smile back with a vengeance. "I'd still like to pass the examinations, and we'll need as many of us as possible to have a solid grasp of legal issues when we're trying to design our new government. It was more your… idolization of Enjolras that entertained me."
"He's our alpha." Grantaire shrugs, trying not to feel too awkward. There's no censure in Bossuet's emotions, not yet, just a mixture of amusement and bemusement. "And I want to do what will make him happy."
Bossuet smiles, though he shakes his head in mock-dismay. "So smitten. I can help you start your reading. There's a lot of political theory that you'll need if you want to talk with Enjolras on an even footing, and that's what he will want from you, eventually."
"Even though I'm lambda, he'll want me to talk with him." Grantaire knows that it's true, though it shouldn't be. Having seen what he did of Enjolras yesterday, he can't help but know that it's true. "Did you know our pack is too good to be true, Bossuet?"
"I've had the thought cross my mind." Bossuet's grin is guileless, an expression of pure joy, and Grantaire can't help but return it. "Joly and Musichetta and I would be quite happy to help you with your studies. Feuilly knows a ridiculous amount, and he's largely self-taught… it means he sometimes connects ideas that those of us with a more standard education don't. He'll be a good resource for random pieces of information. Perhaps you can discuss politics while you're discussing painting."
Grantaire bites down on his lip to keep from howling or yipping his pleasure as he considers painting with Feuilly, discussing politics with the human-turned-wolf, both of them pack.
"Courfeyrac, of course, is always happy to talk and to teach." Bossuet's smile manages to widen as he watches Grantaire's reactions. "He tends to be very enthusiastic and sometimes he'll tie your mind in circles, but he knows almost as much as Feuilly and Combeferre and Enjolras. Despite your understandable reservations about him, Combeferre's also a remarkably good teacher. He and Feuilly were almost inseparable when Feuilly first joined the pack."
Licking at his lips, Grantaire nods. "You don't suggest Enjolras?"
"If you wanted, he's quite knowledgeable and quite capable of teaching. Certainly listen when he's talking to the humans. He's got a way of articulating our ideas and ideals that makes them… tangible, that makes them so beautiful and so close…" Sighing, Bossuet shakes himself, his thoughts coming back from somewhere far away. "If you just wanted to learn, I'd say he would be a fine pack-member to talk to. But you're not just trying to learn. You're trying to impress Enjolras. He's the end-goal, isn't he?"
Grantaire hesitates a moment before nodding. There's no point in trying to lie, not now, and he doesn't want to. Not to a pack member. "Yes. I want to make him happy. I want to show him that he made a good decision taking me into the pack."
"He has faith in you. He thinks you'll be a good addition to the pack, a good resource for us, or he wouldn't have accepted you." Bossuet's smile is gentle as his hand rests for a moment on Grantaire's shoulder. "And the rest of us wouldn't have voted for acceptance, either, if we didn't think you had something worth accepting in you."
He doesn't know how to respond. Most of him thinks that it can't be true—that it's impossible for it to be true. He's spent the last eight years being told that he's nothing but a liability, a danger, a stress for the packs that he's attempted to join. How is it possible that these wolves, these amazing, wonderful wolves, led by the greatest alpha Grantaire can imagine, would want him?
It's true, though. There's no way for him to deny that it's true, not when their scent slides from his skin with each movement he makes, not when he slept cradled among them last night, not when he dreamt with them, not when he can feel Enjolras and the rest of the pack tied to his magic.
It's a contradiction that he's going to need time to work through, so he simply nods and presses closer to Bossuet for a moment.
Bossuet's arm slides around his shoulder, pulls him closer to the other male for a few steps. "So are you going to follow me to class, or…?"
"Will I have any idea what's going on?"
"Probably not. That doesn't stop some of my classmates from attending, though." Clapping Grantaire on the back, Bossuet pulls away again. "Or you could simply enjoy your newfound status as pack and wander about the university. Or you could head home. Do you know how to make it to the Musain for the meeting tonight?"
"I know how to get there. I'm never going to forget that place." Grantaire considers what he'd like to do. "How do I get signed up for classes?"
"Due to our… position… as Pack members, I'd suggest talking to Enjolras. He'll talk with Armand, and between the three of you a schedule and payment plan will be worked out." Bossuet tilts his head to the side, considering. "You probably won't be able to start for a few months, not until the new term… but that's fine. We'll be able to get you started studying with our old books, make sure you've got a solid footing."
"I'd like that." Grantaire grins, scanning the other students scurrying around them—currently all humans, that same scent mixture of books and ink and beer and joviality that he had noticed in the café still predominating among them. "As for now, I think I'll let you get to class and I'll just… wander around the university for a little bit. I just want to move right now, to explore, to… to…"
"To show off?" There's a teasing lilt to Bossuet's voice and a knowing glint in his eyes. "To let others scent what's happened to you?"
"Perhaps. Maybe." Grantaire grins, spreading his arms out and spinning. "I'm not sure I even know right now, Bossuet. I just… want to be, in this land that you're all familiar with. Being inside a classroom doesn't sound very appealing right now."
"No, it doesn't." Sighing theatrically, Bossuet gives a brief bow. "But some of us have commitments that we shouldn't shirk, not today. I'll see you later tonight, unless you find yourself in need of me or one of the others before then. You should be able to alert any of us to danger through the pack-bonds."
Grantaire pauses, blinking in surprise. "You think they'd still attack me? Even smelling like him?"
"I think I'd rather make sure that you know what you can do in case of trouble." Shrugging, Bossuet turns away with a brief wave. "Trouble can always find us, Grantaire, no matter who we're connected to. Enjoy your afternoon."
"You, too." Grantaire waves to Bossuet and then stands still for a moment, his hands buried in his coat pockets, noticing the bite of the winter wind for the first time all day.
The wind whips the scent of the pack around him, though, and the uncertainty that Bossuet's comments had raised fades again.
He's pack.
He's Enjolras'.
He's going to have fun today.
XXX
"You're drinking again."
Grantaire finishes his drink and turns, grinning widely. "Geroux! Slumming with the omega again, your majesty?"
"You're not quite omega. Lambda, if I'm not mistaken." Sliding into a seat at the bar next to him, the female alpha studies him steadily with intent hazel eyes. "I'm surprised to see that he's already acted, though I suppose I shouldn't be. Once he decides to do something, he doesn't hesitate."
"They accepted me." Grantaire can't control his grin as he thrusts his open palm toward the other wolf. Dropping his voice to the faintest whisper, so the humans won't be able to overhear, he tries and fails to keep his hands from trembling. "You can tell, can't you? I'm not a stray anymore. I'm a pack wolf."
"You are. Congratulations, Grantaire." Geroux's fingers briefly cover Grantaire's hand, a firm pressure of the female's hand against his. "My sincerest congratulations to you. Though I am surprised that your response to joy is so similar to your response to fear."
"It's not. I was really drunk when you and the other two scared me out of a decade of my life." Grantaire forces his eyes to drop down to the scarred wooden top of the bar. "This is a celebration. Just a glass or two. Maybe three. I was going to buy a drink for any others who would come talk to me, but so far they seem to be staying away from me. I think because you're all afraid of him, which is silly because I'm not him, and we should talk about that dominoes theory at some point in time."
"If he ever extends an invitation for me to come play dominoes with him, I will most likely accept it." Smiling, a bemused but pleasant expression, Geroux shakes his head and goes to stand again. "Just be careful, Grantaire. Getting yourself accepted into his pack means that you're now part of the most politically volatile situation in all of France. Never forget that. Never allow yourself to forget it. His pack, his people, can't afford mistakes. So have your drink or three, but never do again what you did after I talked with you. Never be a liability for your alpha."
"I'll never hurt him." Grantaire's voice is low and gruff. "I swear, I will never do anything that could hurt him."
"I think you'll try not to." Relaxing slightly, Geroux nods and smiles. "I think it's going to be harder than you expect, because hurt and pain are things that he's currently courting, but I think you'll try."
"He's courting change, not pain. The Lady, not the Night." Grantaire pushes his empty glass away and goes to lift his hand for a refill.
His eyes catch on the way Geroux watches him, expression suddenly sad and hesitant, and he slowly forces his hand back down to the counter.
After a moment Geroux nods. "He's courting the Lady, yes, but all change comes with pain. It's… a part of the price for changing. Our people, out of all people, should know that."
"You think I shouldn't be a part of his pack? You think I'm too dangerous?" Swallowing hard, Grantaire forces his gaze to drop from Geroux's to the female's hands. "You don't agree with what he did?"
"I never said that. I congratulated you, didn't I, Grantaire?" Geroux's hand reaches out and shoves strands of ash brown hair back from Grantaire's face. "I mean what I say. And I wanted to tell you that Armand's watching you. Closely."
Grantaire finds himself freezing, drawing a deep breath through his nose. He can't scent the other male, though. "Why?"
"Because you're happy. Because if it's possible, I'd like to see some of Enjolras' plans succeed. Not all of them, hence why I warned you before when we talked, but some of them. I wanted to make sure you were fully aware of your situation, though I find it hard to imagine he'd accept a new member without telling them exactly what they were getting into." Geroux stands, smiling and flicking a coin onto the bar despite not having bought anything. "If you want to know why Armand's watching you, I don't know. I just thought you should have the warning. When you tell Enjolras that I talked to you, you can tell him that the main reason I approached you was to congratulate you. I don't know if he'll believe me or not, but it's true."
"Thank you." Grantaire smiles, keeping his eyes from meeting the female wolf's hazel gaze directly. He doesn't want to insult or challenge Geroux. "If I hadn't found him, I might have tried—"
"I couldn't, Grantaire." Geroux shakes his head, shrugging nonchalantly. "Being around you for a few minutes is enough to unsettle me. I couldn't make you pack even if I wanted to, not without risking the stability of my pack."
"But he can. They can." Grantaire draws a deep breath, and the scent of the pack is still there, strong and unmistakable, overpowering the scent of alcohol. "And you can be happy for me, for having found them."
Geroux inclines his head just slightly. "Be careful, Grantaire. Be happy, because I like to see our people happy, but be careful, and tell your alpha to be careful as well."
It's all the dismissal Geroux gives before simply walking away.
Grantaire stares at the door to the street for a moment before forcing himself to stand and walk away from the bar.
It's hard. It's so tempting to turn around, to order another drink, to pretend that nothing just happened with Geroux.
But he mustn't. The female warned him that he's being watched. The female warned him that he's being foolish with his drinking.
He needs a chance to clear his head. Lifting his wrist to his nose, he inhales deeply, steeling his resolve and steadying his feet as he forces himself to walk away from the alcohol.
He will not endanger Enjolras' reputation, not less than twenty-four hours after Enjolras accepted him.
He's just starting to smile, pleased with his self-control, when the sound of flesh striking flesh is followed by the low whine of a human-form wolf who is suddenly in pain.
Turning toward the sound of the whimper, Grantaire finds himself baring his teeth.
Who's daring to attack one of the Pack on neutral territory?
And what would Enjolras want Grantaire to do about it?
XXX
Marius reels forward as a fist connects with the back of his neck. His vision wavers, and he finds himself staggering forward and down to one knee despite his every instinct telling him to run, to turn, to fight.
"Look what we found here." The female wolf's voice is a rough purr as he prowls around Marius.
"Why, it smells like a stray." The male wolf's voice is contemplative. "A familiar stray, wouldn't you say?"
Lunging forward, Marius tries to make a break to the right. He might be able to fight both of these wolves, but it—
A foot catches him hard in the side as he's trying to get both feet under him and he falls to the icy ground, the breath driven from him in a long, low whine.
The male wolf's fingers tangle in his hair and jerk his head up while he's still trying to draw a full breath. Marius finds himself blinking into the older male's face. The female's fingers close hard on Marius' left wrist, twist his arm up behind his back, making it impossible for him to run without hurting himself.
The female leans closer to him and draws a deep breath. "Definitely a familiar stray. If I remember correctly, we told him that if we ever caught up to him we'd kill him. Is that what you remember?"
"That's what I remember." The male laughs deep in his throat.
Marius finally manages to draw a breath in, tasting the pack-scent of the two wolves holding him. They're members of a pack who drove him away over a month ago—a pack of six adults, if he's reading their scent right.
"And yet here he is, trespassing once more!" The male slides in front of Marius, staring him in the eye with mock dismay.
Marius doesn't submit to the male. The female is higher-ranked than him, but not the male, and neither is alpha of their pack. Staring straight into his eyes, Marius bares his teeth in blatant challenge. "This isn't your territory. This is neutral ground. I've got a right to be here."
"A right?" The male wolf laughs low in his throat again. "Did you hear that, Du? The little stray thinks he has rights. I think he's been listening to the wrong people."
The female pulls Marius' arm up higher, and another low whine of pain slips from Marius' throat without his intending it to. If the female puts much more pressure on his arm, it's going to break or dislocate, and then he's going to really be in trouble.
"Definitely listening to the wrong people." The female's words are an angry hiss in his ear, far angrier than Marius expected them to be. "Is it Enjolras' pack you've been listening to or the humans? Because we've found that we're not terribly fond of either recently."
"I don't…" Marius swallows another cry of pain and tries to rearrange his feet so that the pressure on his shoulder is less. Every move he makes is matched by the female wolf, though. "I don't know Enjolras. I don't know anything about the humans. I just meant that this is neutral territory and—"
The male's fist connects with his jaw and Marius snarls, blood dripping from his lips as he lunges forward, heedless to the pain that it causes.
The female laughs, his feet tangling with Marius', knocking them both to the ground with the female on top of him.
Dragging Marius' face out of the snow by the hair, the male smiles down, a smile that somehow manages to express absolute hatred. "A brazen stray who's trespassed on our territory without permission and who speaks dangerous words. I think there's only one thing we can really do with him, don't you, Du?"
"Sean…" The female's voice is hesitant for the first time since the confrontation began. "Roughing him up is fine, but—"
"Take a whiff of his scent. There's something wrong with him, even aside from his words. He's a danger, just as surely as Enjolras and his people are a danger. We don't let dangers continue to run around free." Standing in one fluid motion, Sean keeps his eyes fixed on Marius'. "I know I can't order you to, but I'm quite certain that our alpha wouldn't have a problem with us disposing of this little problem."
Marius renews his struggles, knowing that he won't get any quarter from this male, knowing that if he doesn't escape this male intends to kill him.
The female grabs Marius's hair close to the scalp and slams his face down onto the street once, twice, three times, Marius can't keep count, and the world goes red and hazy around the edges.
Eventually the beating stops, but it doesn't matter. He's not capable of moving, the world spinning around him, his vision fractured and fragmented.
As the two wolves haul his aching, semi-conscious body up between them, Marius realizes that he's going to die.
He also knows that there's absolutely nothing he can do about it.
I'm sorry, Cosette.
He doesn't allow himself to say her name out loud, because he doesn't want them to even consider going after her.
He just hopes that she'll forgive him for not coming back.
XXX
Help me!
The words are a panicked demand that Grantaire sends spiraling along his pack-bonds to the others. The two pack wolves have dragged the stray away from the street, into a quiet alleyway where no humans can see them, where no one will interfere with what they're planning on doing. He needs to act soon if he's going to act, but he doesn't know what to do.
Bahorel, Monet, and Combeferre are all close to him, have been getting closer since his first tentative call for assistance and suggestions when he noticed the problem. His sense of them improves as they approach, and he knows that other pack members are coming, too—Enjolras is on his way, and the power he feeds through the pack-bonds makes it easier for Grantaire to read the others. Courfeyrac and Jehan are coming, too, but they're even farther away.
Having Enjolras focused on their conversation should also make it easier for the others to understand him, and Grantaire briefly centers all of his attention on the concept of stray, of blood, of danger.
Bahorel's response is easy to read—eagerness for a fight, eagerness to protect.
Monet is less certain, but still sends a pulse of calm and reassurance toward him.
Combeferre's response is a mixture of a command to act and a command to be still, to gather knowledge, and Grantaire frowns in confusion, his feet pausing.
Do as you feel you need to. Enjolras' command is clear, far clearer than anything the others are sending. We'll discuss when we're able to.
It's all the reassurance Grantaire needs that it's all right to act, and he flings himself at the female wolf without any hesitation.
These wolves are threatening to kill this stray, a young wolf doing no one any harm.
They're threatening to kill this stray partly because they're afraid of Enjolras' pack.
That's not something that Grantaire will allow.
Both the female and the male are smaller than him, and Grantaire's attack throws them into confusion. It's the female who recovers first, rounding on him and delivering a flurry of vicious blows aimed at his head. Grantaire's prepared, though, falling back, waiting for an opening.
An opening that doesn't come, and he finds himself retreating farther as the male joins the female in attacking him. Their magic doesn't touch him, but they aren't depending on it. Though they're more dominant than him, these aren't alpha wolves; they're used to fighting with their fists as well as their magic, and they fight well. They're both older than Grantaire, the male by at least a decade if not two, the female by only a year or two, and it's clear that they've been in fights before.
Grantaire regrets the drinks that he had as the female's fist slides through his guard and connects hard with the side of his throat.
Suddenly gagging, trying not to wretch, feeling his heart beating far too quickly, Grantaire can't do anything to dodge the male's knee connecting with first his stomach and then his groin.
"He took another one." The male's voice is full of furious disdain as he kicks Grantaire in the stomach once more despite his already being down on the ground. "How many does the monster need?"
"He attacked us." The female wolf wipes a bit of blood from his nose, licking his finger contemplatively. "Without any provocation."
"No better than a rabid dog." The male kicks Grantaire hard in the side of the right knee when he tries to stand, and Grantaire can't keep a whimper of pain from escaping. "So why don't we treat him like that? Enjolras won't be able to complain, since his wolf started it."
Kneeling down next to him, the female tilts Grantaire's head up briefly, expression contemplative. "How bad do you think he'll take losing one of his wolves?"
"Don't know." The male's smile is vicious. "But I hope it hurts them bad. Maybe it'll break their pack, and then we won't have to deal with them and their ideas any more."
"We don't break that easily. And you'd find our ideas even harder to kill." Combeferre's voice is strained, his breathing rough and ragged from running, but his eyes are icy calm as he advances on the two wolves. "Now, if you would be kind enough to back away from my subordinate…"
"He attacked me." The female wolf raises his bloody fingers toward Combeferre. "Your pack started this. There's no fighting on neutral territory."
"Stray." Grantaire spits out a mouthful of blood and swallows hard, trying to get his voice to work properly and his feet back under his body. He's pretty sure it's not supposed to be this hard. "They were… planning on killing the stray."
"What stray?" Combeferre's eyes flick around the narrow street, and Grantaire realizes that the stray's gone.
"This stray." Bahorel's voice is cheerful as he rounds the corner at the opposite end of the street, dragging the staggering, bloody male stray behind him. "I'm assuming, at least, because he's the only bleeding wolf I've run into so far. I'm sure we can rectify that quickly."
Snarling, the male and female wolf back toward one side of the alley, the female keeping an eye on Combeferre, the male on Bahorel.
"Really, father?" Monet's voice is scathing disappointment. "This is what your pack's come to? Attacking strays on neutral ground?"
Oh.
Well.
Drawing himself back to his feet, trying not to bend double despite the debilitating ache in his lower body, Grantaire allows his eyes to flick between Monet and the male. He can see the resemblance, now that it's been pointed out to him. That would at least explain part of why this male seems to hate Enjolras' pack.
"We could do this several ways." Combeferre's breathing easier now, and he takes a step toward the two other wolves. "We could let you walk away now, no more blood spilled. Your alpha can talk with Enjolras about what happened. We can even have it brought up for general discussion at the next alpha meeting. Or…"
Bahorel's grin widens, and he drags the stray another few steps closer to the rest of the group in his eagerness.
Combeferre smiles faintly. "We could see who has the stronger pack. I'm sure you've called for assistance. Perhaps they'll get here in time to make this fight not quite so unfair. Or perhaps they won't. Perhaps our compatriots will get here first. What would you like to bet on?"
The male and female are pressed back to back now, keeping their distance from Combeferre and Bahorel, the male's eyes intentionally avoiding Monet.
They don't say anything before they run. They simply snarl, a weak, pointless threat, and disappear.
Sagging down to the ground, Grantaire groans and spits another mouthful of blood out into the snow. He's fairly certain he didn't get into fights this often before he joined Enjolras' pack.
He wouldn't have dared interfere in something like this before joining Enjolras' pack.
Lifting his head, he slits his eyes and stares at the stray as Bahorel hauls him over and drops him in the snow next to Grantaire. The male's face is a mass of blood and rising bruises, his eyes wild and nervous. His scent places him as high-mid-ranked, the type of wolf who would be beta or gamma in most packs. He doesn't have any pack-bonds, though, and he doesn't have a mate-bond…
Or does he?
Grantaire sniffs again, trying to find the elusive scent that's giving him trouble. It's hard, over the scent of his blood and the stray's blood and the stray's fear and nervousness. There isn't a proper mate-bond, but there's a ghost of a scent that flicks and fades around him, a scent that could almost be a mate-bond except that there's no one attached to the other end.
Strange.
Interesting.
Combeferre kneels down in front of the stray, holding out his hand, his expression grave but not threatening. "I'm with Enjolras' pack. These are some of my pack-mates. Can you tell us what happened?"
The stray shrinks away from Combeferre's hand, though he glares a challenge at Combeferre before his instincts drop his eyes to the ground and his head forward on his neck. "They didn't like that I'm a stray. They chased me off their territory last month. Since I didn't learn my lesson…"
Combeferre inclines his head slightly, pulling his hand back to his side when it's clear the stray has no intention of taking the offered limb or even sniffing at him. "Are you looking for a pack, then?"
"No." The stray glares around the small circle of wolves. "I'm not. I was looking for a place to stay, but I don't want a pack. I don't need a pack."
Grantaire winces, pity and sympathy rising in his as he studies the young male. He can't be much more than two decades old. It's too young to give up on finding a pack. "Just because things haven't worked out so far, don't stop looking. Enjolras' pack might…"
Grantaire trails off as both Combeferre and the stray glare at him. What did he…?
Oh. Right. Combeferre had told him before that Enjolras might not be able to hold too many more wolves. He already has eleven in his pack. Making an offer to this stray is probably not a good idea.
As if in answer to his thinking of the man, his pack-bond with Enjolras flares bright and hot again, Enjolras' curiosity and concern burning through his mind.
Grantaire sends a wave of calm and safety back to Enjolras, as well as his sense of Combeferre, icy control with a wild undercurrent.
Grantaire's sense of Enjolras fades, and seconds later Combeferre's head tilts just slightly to the side, his eyes slitting.
Whatever passes between Enjolras and his beta, it seems to set Combeferre more at ease. A slight smile on his face, Combeferre turns back to the stray. "You're hurt. You're bleeding. It's a cold day. Would you like to go with some of our pack to a place where you can get cleaned up? My alpha would like to speak with you before you leave, but unless it's direly urgent he needs a few more hours before he can join us."
The stray considers the question. "How do I know that you're not going to kill me?"
"Because we just saved your life." Combeferre stands, backing away from the stray deliberately. "Because I could kill you now, if I wanted to. And because you're not our prisoner. If you want to leave, you're free to. I would recommend staying and talking to us, though, especially if you've already attracted this much… negative attention from other packs in the area."
Drawing a deep breath, the stray glances between the four members of Enjolras' pack before slowly, reluctantly, nodding.
