8. Chapter 8

Time seems frozen in the moment. He can hear all the heartbeats around him, the pack of wolves breathing and in some cases holding their breath. The alpha’s voice is still ringing out pronouncements of victory and war and power, but Peter tunes that out to dial in on one heartbeat, one single person who is the one he wants to hear last in his life.

He wonders if Amanda is waiting for him. She was never the jealous kind; she will make fun of his love for Chris, call him fickle and kiss his chin like she used to do, Jacob held between them...

Or maybe he will just end up in Hell like everyone expects.

He waits, and then it all falls still around them. Chris’s heart is thumping hard and steady and Peter focuses on that one sound, that one last link he has to anything he ever loved. He appreciates the irony.

The alpha pulls in a deep breath. Peter imagines he can feel the air being cut by the knife as it swings down.

He hears a clicking noise, and something small but heavy lands on his naked chest, over his heart. The knife collides against it with a too-loud clang of noise, more like it was bouncing off a steel shield, although Peter doesn’t feel any vibration at all. His good eye snaps open and he sees Lydia’s ruby bracelet sitting on him, fallen open. There is a bright, fiery energy pulsing out of it, holding the knife frozen just a few inches above him...and then he feels a warmth seeping from the bracelet and into him, not the heat of fire but a sensation more like being drawn into a loving embrace.

The magic swirls through his body, curling around organs and moving in a way that blood never could: against the currents of his body, as if searching out every cell of his being. He takes in a deep breath but there is no pain or shock or fear. Then his mate mark flares to life, an explosion of passion that is beyond love, more powerful than the sun, and it whites out Peter’s brain with the sensation of being overcome by a boundless, magical force.

When awareness returns, it is a pure, painless fire that flows through him as the rubies dissolve and the magic begins to swirl into a form, a shape that is familiar and yet strange. He has no control and is barely conscious but still, he recognizes it. How could he not? He’s been brooding over it for a week now.

The phoenix blooms above him, drawing its magic up from the open wounds decorating Peter’s body as if in revenge for them.

The alpha is staring at the apparition in fury, frozen in place by the magic as surely as Peter is, while the beast manifests itself in fire and fury. Peter feels nothing but the overflowing sense of being bound by the bracelet’s magic, his own soul channeled through his body and bound tightly to it. He laughs, and laughs , with the joy of being a part of something so unworldly and unwieldy and unknown.

This is not a real creature, Peter knows — it is too ephemeral in appearance, not quite see-through but close. Nonetheless the red and orange feathers of its magnificent plumage glitter like the rubies it was born from, sparkling with light and power.

So much power.

In his state of peaceful suspended animation, Peter wonders idly whose power it is channeling — Lydia? Or maybe Stiles? Surely such a feat would drain their life force dry. And then he wonders why they would do this for him.

It pulls its head back, tilting its blood-red crystalline beak toward the bright morning sun, and screams out pain, wrath, and revenge. Its scream is a physical thing, the shock wave of it bowling over the emissary and many of the betas ringed around them. The alpha is held tight in one of the mythical beast’s claws as its wings unfold, his expression turning from rage to horror and then, ultimately and most satisfactorily, fear .

Around them, the Korhonen pack is howling and gearing up to attack. The emissary and several betas recover from the sonic blast and make a run at them, but are hurled away as if by powerful ocean waves and end up tumbling ass over teakettle across the ground. The emissary isn’t dead but doesn’t get up, her magic clearly over-run by the power of the spectre encompassing Peter and the alpha, its wings protectively — defensively? — curled around them.

“I warned your emissary.”

Peter blinks at the unexpected sound of Chris’s voice, magnified and deep and filling up all the air around them. Chris has not gotten any closer but his hand is out with his fist clenched like a claw, mimicking the hold the phoenix has the alpha locked in. One wing’s edge brushes against Chris’s body, streaks of gold flaring out from the connection. When he speaks his mouth moves but the words are amplified through the phoenix, a wall of sound so powerful that most of the wolves around them cringe and cover their ears.

“I warned her that you got your one chance to threaten my mate without consequences.”

“What...what is this!?!?” The alpha roars but it is muted, as if he is miles away instead of frozen still, clutching the knife that hangs over Peter’s chest.

“I asked Derek why it was so important to send a mated pair on negotiations,” Lydia answers, calmly walking around the tableau of the three men with a curious expression. “He said it is because there is no natural magic more powerful than a mate bond. It dies when one or the other of the pair dies, but until that precise moment, it is unbreakable by outside forces.” She stops and looks around at the betas, who are all wolfed out and growling but not daring to come closer, even to save their alpha.

She then turns to the alpha with a ruthless grin. “But only the strongest bonds, forged within the strongest packs by the strongest emissaries, can manifest the love between mates.”

Chris steps a little closer and the alpha flinches. His voice, still displaced, is eerie and calm in ways that unsettle even Peter. “You have acted in bad faith. As a hunter, I know that you have broken no laws I can execute you for. But you have stolen and tortured my mate. My soul sees into your corrupted heart, and we — I — cast judgment.”

With a flick of his other wrist, the spectre’s wings flap over them. The alpha gives a strangled cry as the knife he had been holding disappears out of his grasp and then appears instantly in his chest, sticking out from where his heart has been cleaved. He is dead so fast he does not even have time to stumble, crashing off to the side.

The phoenix dissipates like mist.

Peter is staring at the body of the alpha and misses seeing Chris crumble to the ground, although the impact is loud in the deadly silence. Lydia cries out and runs to Chris, but turns to look at Peter with steely determination as chaos breaks out around them.

“The bracelet! Quick!” She is pushing up the sleeves of Chris’s jacket and shirt to where the mate mark used to be.

He pauses for a brief moment, not too proud to admit he is afraid of moving because of the agony that will result. But he realizes just as quickly that he is seeing out of both eyes again, and that nothing particularly hurts other than an odd rock poking at his shoulder blade. He curls up easily, then rolls into a crouch. “The bracelet?”

Check that: his voice is wrecked and painful, as if he’s been screaming for hours.

“Yes!” Lydia snaps and holds up Chris’s arm.

The bracelet fell off of Peter when he moved and is inert on the ground, as if it were nothing more than a bauble from Tiffany’s. He hesitates for a moment, his hand hovering over it.

“Peter!” Lydia hisses. “Only you can touch it now! Get it over here!”

Peter picks it up gingerly, and feels a distant echo of power flaring through his mate mark, but otherwise nothing. He shuffles on his knees over to Lydia and holds it out to her. She rolls her eyes.

“No, you idiot. You have to put the mate mark back.” She holds out Chris’s arm.

“If I burn alive again, I’m coming back for you. Again,” Peter growls. Lydia is not impressed, and just nods firmly at Chris’s arm.

The bracelet is still open, it’s two hinged halves swinging easily around Chris’s arm. Peter snaps it closed and quickly pulls his hands back as Lydia drops Chris’s arm.

The bracelet swirls and twists for a moment before dissipating just like the phoenix apparition did, but this time the fiery energy is absorbed by Chris’s skin. The mate mark, as vivid as ever, reappears, and Peter’s own mate mark flairs with sympathetic magic. Peter automatically reaches out and grabs Chris’s forearm, his hand covering the renewed mate mark, bright red sparks literally flying from beneath his fingers.

Chris groans, his eyes fluttering open, his own hand jerking oddly before clamping down on Peter’s forearm, hand over his mate mark, closing the circuit of energy between them as they clasp each other’s arms tightly. Its is the same power that Peter felt from the phoenix, pure unconditional love flooding his senses and making him lightheaded.

“P’ter?”

Peter stares down at Chris, into the bright eyes of the man he loves, and he wonders how he will ever let go of this. For once, he has nothing to say. Chris’s expression is dazed, as if he has been drugged to the gills, but he gives Peter a slow, languid smile before passing out again.

“What the hell,” Peter snarls as lucidity returns and he yanks his arm back. He looks over at Lydia. She’s standing and dusting off her skirt, looking over his shoulder. Instinctively he spins and puts himself in a protective crouch over Chris.

“Banshee Martin.” A bloodied young woman walks up and bows slightly. She’s vaguely familiar, slight and willowy with bright red hair.

“Emmy?” Peter stands up, but doesn’t disarm himself, claws at the ready.

The kids grins, her eyes flaring bright red, and this time her hair is loose and falling over her shoulders in wet, blood covered curls. “Alpha Korhonen, if you please.”

At that, Peter looks behind Emmy and sees a few bodies on the ground, obviously the remains of a fight for power that went down just after the old alpha was killed by the...the thing.

(Peter’s not ready to name stuff yet. Not yet.)

“You took care of business quickly,” Lydia says.

“Some of us have been waiting a while for that old bastard to overreach himself.” At that proclamation, a large portion of the betas move to stand behind their new alpha — most are young, few any older than Peter himself. A small number, though, take flight and run into the woods.

“Changing of the guard?” Lydia asks with a steepled eyebrow.

The new Korhonen alpha shrugs dismissively. “They kept wanting to live in the twelfth century.” She motions at Lydia. “Like trying to score a pet banshee. We told him it was a bad idea.”

Lydia harumphs at that, but looks down at Chris for a moment. “We have safe passage out?”

“For fuck’s sake, we’re not getting in the way of a banshee and a mated pair who are both aligned with another pack. I’m happy to call us even if you are.” She looks at them expectantly.

“We’re good,” Peter offers with a cough.

The kid — alpha — nods and points down the driveway. “Go.”

Peter does not need to be told twice. He bends down to pick up Chris’s limp form into a fireman’s lift, because he’ll be damned if he does the whole bridal carry thing out of this disaster. He gets to the roadster and manages to fold Chris into the backseat without braining either of them, then buckles himself into the passenger seat.

His mate mark is burning again, low and hot. Peter wraps his hand over it and glares out the windshield, determined to ignore it with every fiber of his being, and planning all the many, many ways he’s going to bitch slap Stiles for whatever the hell he did to make this happen.

Lydia glances at him suspiciously for a moment, but then fires the car up and glides away from the scene of the crime with as much grace and speed as she drove into it.