To Harry it appeared that the cart was doing an about turn, which meant its direction of travel was exactly the opposite from where he desperately wished to go. He blinked furiously as a little sweat trickled into his eye, as his heart thundered louder and louder still. All the while the crowd chittered on and the dominant atop him breathed gently into his hair.

Immediately thoughts of escape flooded his mind, but he was kept silent and pinned by the familiar stranger. Harry's mind, as if strengthened and focused by his dire circumstance, grasped the edges of all the strange events that had befallen him so recently and tried to tug them together.

He himself had been poisoned with Nictam… The Priestess was nowhere to be seen… Her sister Marylla appeared to have possession of the mating anklet… Richard and Marylla… Rook, poor and gentle Rook!… This familiar dominant… And the cold flesh glancing against his own at his side…

With growing horror, Harry grasped the icy object bumping innocuously against his left hand as the cart swayed onward, ever onward. His fingers explored the fingers of another, clearly dead beyond his help. Harry realised this man above him meant to kill him. Clearly, he was not the first victim.

Although Harry had been kept low his whole life and even now was facing a cruel trick of love, he suddenly and brilliantly knew he wanted to survive. He wished for a chance to live happily. He couldn't only have lived so stunted a life.

The cart trundled on and on, the sounds of the mating crowd growing ever fainter as they drew further into what Harry knew to be the marshlands found all around this coastal area. His brow knitted in terror as he remembered the Alpha's kindly warnings of the dangers of the marsh, where a foreigner could easily become trapped and stuck. Where a corpse could easily be sucked down into the earth and water, Harry realised.

He could only breathe steadily through his nose and think.

When all was silent around them except for the snorting of the mule and the juddering of the wheels, when all had been silent for long, long moments, the cart came to a stop.

The dominant raised his head and looked down at Harry with black eyes. Harry knew it was futile but could not help but wish for mercy, begging for it with his eyes.

The dominant only raised himself up on his knees, dragging Harry up by his shoulders as he did, and swept the burlap away from them. Immediately Harry looked to his left upon the face of the dead woman beside him. It was Shete, the Priestess' servant. He looked upon the dominant's blank, black face and realised that he did know him. This was Shete's mate. And with total clarity, Harry knew that he had murdered her.

He decided then that there was no use thinking or waiting, this man was mad, truly and deeply insane. If he had murdered his own self, then there was no hope for him.

Shocking the dominant who held him so loosely, Harry exploded outwards, screaming and spitting and throwing himself with no grace over the side of the cart. He slipped from the wooden lip and fell in a heap upon the ground, immediately springing up and scrambling on three limbs, on four, into the marsh.

As he fought for his life, Harry felt that suddenly his strength was manifold, allowing him to tear forwards through the terrible grip of the mud. He could hear the curses of the driver and the murderer behind him as he wrenched his legs upwards and forwards over and over, grasping this tiny tree and that lonely rock to drag himself further and further away.

Behind him, the murderer had followed him only a beat behind, stepping deeply into the marsh as well. The driver stopped him with a hand on his arm, judging with a calmer mind than the predator that his prey was much too light for them to catch him in the marsh.

"He'll die just the same in the mud as if you'd broken his neck, and his body will sink and rot in just the same spot. If you go after him you'll only end up much like him."

The murderer reluctantly looked away from the fleeing submissive. "Are you sure? She wanted him dead for sure."

"He is dead for sure. Here, dump your prissy bitch while we're at it."

The murderer frowned, defensive. "She wasn't a bitch."

The driver snorted, "She obeyed that fucking Priestess and not her rightful dominant, that makes her a lowly bitch and that's for sure. You did the right thing."

The other spat on the ground and huffed. "Look, we'll all be dead soon enough. I only killed her myself because she was getting in the way before time."

The driver curled his lip in amusement and surprise. "What makes you think we're all done for, eh? I'm doing this cause I'll be rewarded as I was promised! And I believe the man."

The murderer glanced away, embarrassed by his naivety and his greed. Rueful and a little patronising, he chuckled, "Nah, McLeod. We won't make it out of France before Marylla has us killed."

The driver screwed up his face in disbelief, puzzling.

"McLeod, you believe she'll leave anyone alive who knows what's happened here?" He spat again, laughing.

The driver turned to him, furious, "And why in the hell did you agree to any of this if that is what you really thought would happen?"

"Because I believe in the plan." He turned an icy eye upon his companion. "I won't see a fucking turned wolf invite his human scum family into our land."

The driver's eye were wide as he grasped the backing of the driver's seat to pull himself up.

"Dump her and let's go. That sub is long gone and a goner too."

The murderer had watched the submissive sink deeper and deeper into the same spot for a moment now, paralysed by the grip of the mud.

Satisfied that his job was accomplished, he moved around the back of the cart and pulled the dead woman by her leg towards him. He would have liked to gather her softly in his arms and gently lain her to rest in the clasp of the marsh. He really would have liked to. But the rigour mortis had stiffened her whole body like a terrible cut-out woman and he couldn't stand the cold meat where a soft, brown lover had been. He slung her briskly through the air and did not look to see where or how she landed. He only wanted to leave this place behind. He would try to make for Britain if he could, far to the north. Spain was closer but Rafael's hold was strong there and he would not last the week, he was sure.