Healing of the Wolf Read online

  She walked over, still carrying the bag of dressing supplies.

  Stopping beside the lung injury, she said to the uninjured young male. “Let me take care of him.”

  “You?”

  Irritation with his surprise shoved away her fear. “Yes, me. You need assistance, and I can do it.”

  He hesitated, then called, “Tynan, this female wants to help.”

  The big male in charge looked over. His clear blue eyes held hers in an impersonal assessment that made her shiver. Every instinct told her to back away, but the wounded shifter was fighting for every breath. He needed her.

  “Let her help.” Tynan turned to Thorson, who was standing by the loaded SUV. “We’ll bring her with us when we leave. Get the rest of them out of here.”

  “Aye.” Thorson gave her a thin, appreciative smile.

  She didn’t bother to respond. Kneeling close enough that the injured shifter could feel the soothing warmth of her leg, she dug through the supplies for an occlusive dressing. “Easy there, it’s going to be all right. Breathe out for me,” she said and applied the dressing, pressing down the three sides.

  Once he was cared for, she moved to a gunshot wound, a dislocated shoulder, a stab wound. More injured appeared.

  As she splinted a fractured arm, a pair of wolves padded into the garage and changed into human forms.

  Wolves. Mama had been a wolf.

  As she watched them, she remembered that Darcy had been able to shift. Would leaving the prison mean the rest of captives might be able to trawsfur, as well?

  Will I?

  The question stayed with her, even as she knelt beside the next injured male.

  And somehow, despite the blood and smoke and screams in the night, hope rose inside her, as irrepressible as the rising of the moon.

  Chapter One

  Ailill Ridge, Rainier Territory, Washington - day before full moon

  * * *

  A bitingly cold wind off the high mountains ruffled Margery’s fur as she ran the trails with the other wolves. The light from the golden moon streamed over her in a palpable caress from the Goddess.

  Every breath she took brought her new information, and after nearly five months of freedom, she could identify each scent.

  There—that was the luring fragrance of prey. Deer had used the path in the last few hours. The musty odor of fowl was from an owl perched high on a branch. The metallic tang of blood came from a spot where a coyote had killed a rabbit in a clearing. Every sniff and every sound held meaning.

  Finally.

  The month following her first shift in December had been overwhelming, painful, and often embarrassing. Her ears and tail had operated independently. Her legs had tangled when she tried something new. And her messed-up ankle still caused problems, especially when running on uneven ground or leaping over logs or boulders.

  After her first trawsfur, while in an Elder Village to re-learn Daonain traditions, she’d stumbled over her forepaws and almost knocked over a frail centenarian. So embarrassing.

  Yet being in wolf form was…amazing. Despite her unreliable hind leg, she felt as if she were dancing on the forest duff. Four legs were so much better than two. More importantly, she was strong now. Healthy.

  All her fellow captives had recovered once out of the city. Getting the birth control implants removed had probably helped, although the medical person said the implants were almost empty.

  There had been no one to give them new ones.

  Sadness slowed Margery’s paws, and she stopped on the trail.

  After the hostages arrived at the Scythe compound, the nurse practitioner, Phyllis, discovered thirteen-year-old Margery could calm hysterical younglings and care for the ill and injured. In Dogwood, Grandmama, a banfasa, had tended the villagers’ health, and Margery had been in the clinic every day, learning and helping out.

  After taking Margery as her assistant, Phyllis taught her human medicine—and they became friends. A few years ago, Phyllis grew too outspoken, insisting the captives weren’t animals. The Director called her into his office, and she never came out.

  Grief—and guilt—flattened Margery’s ears. In a way, her friendship with Phyllis had caused her death.

  A twig hit Margery’s tail, making her jump.

  Chittering came from up in a tree.

  Yanked from the ugly memories, she looked up.

  A scowling tree fairy swung on the end of a high branch. Margery huffed a wolfy laugh and got another twig thrown at her. Pixies were grumpy as bears when awakening after hibernation.

  The winter had been long. Now, in April, the mountain valleys were beginning to lose their blanket of snow.

  In bounding leaps that hurt her leg but still felt great, Margery caught up with the rest of the wolves. Shoulders brushing against the others, surrounded by the scent of pack and forest, she lost herself in the joy of feeling like she belonged.

  Eventually, the alpha wolf led them back to Ailill Ridge. Some wolves veered off to the pack house where they’d left their clothing. More headed for their own homes. With two others, Margery trotted toward the south of town where she lived with several shifters in the territory’s communal house. Forest surrounded the back yard, and they did a quick check to ensure they were unobserved. After trawsfurring to human, Margery dried the mushy snow off her feet, dressed in the clothing she’d left in a storage case, and followed Jens through the back door.

  “By the Gods, Margery, I thought you’d never get back.” Stomping into the kitchen, Portia shoved both her babies into Margery’s arms. “They’ve been bawling their heads off, and I’m ready to claw them.”

  A werecat, Portia was so self-absorbed, it was surprising she’d even learned Margery’s name. However, she used it often enough when demanding help.

  As Margery cuddled the cublings, her nose told her what the problem was. “They’re both wet and dirty. That’s why they’re crying.”

  Coming in, Jens growled under his breath. “Even I can smell it. You’re the dam, Portia. You should change them.”

  The werecat gave a dismissive sniff. “That’s why Margery gets free room and board. She’s supposed to work for it.”

  A growl escaped Margery. “I get free room and board for cleaning the house as well as working as a banfasa. You get room and board for being a mother, which means you’re supposed to tend your cubs.”

  Portia lifted a hand in a yah-yah-yah gesture and walked out of the room, leaving Margery with the cubs.

  Lost that one, didn’t I? Margery ground her teeth together. But she was stuck. Unlike Portia, she wouldn’t leave kits in need.

  A few minutes later, with one cub all washed, she wiped the second. “Honestly, this wasn’t what I thought life would be like when I left Seattle,” she whispered to him.

  Two months old and adorable, he gurgled and chewed on his fingers. Freed, his little fat legs kicked up in the air. The tiny pink toes made her smile, despite her dissatisfaction. “I love being a wolf—and you will too when you’re twelve or so—but I wanted more than this.”

  Housed in Ailill Ridge for a time after their release, the Dogwood villagers had come to her as usual with their health problems and injuries. The local shifters followed. She thought her childhood dreams were coming true. She would tend the sick, be part of a community, make a difference. Would be loved and needed like Grandmama in Dogwood, whose grateful patients were always bringing edible gifts—apples, tomatoes, a rabbit. Cookies were the best. The villagers had loved their wise woman.

  Margery’s hope of belonging had died all too soon.

  Last fall, a quorum of Cosantirs decided that keeping the Scythe’s ex-hostages in one location was dangerous. As the Cosantirs were the God-called guardians of their territories, their word was law—and the Dogwood villagers were relocated to various towns.

  Pete, the Cosantir of Rainier Territory, insisted on keeping Margery in Ailill Ridge.

  Trapping her here.

  Was it wrong to be disco
ntented when her life was so much better than as a captive? She had adequate food, a warm bed, a wolf pack. No one hit her. It was just… The shifters in town didn’t value her, perhaps because she wasn’t a God-called healer, but merely a banfasa. Banfasas had no magic, only skilled hands, and the knowledge of what to do for injuries and for health.

  In the Scythe compound, the captives had been grateful for her care. Here in Ailill Ridge, the townspeople treated her like a slave.

  Like a slave, she received only room and board. Other shifters had paying jobs. Why didn’t she get paid for what she did?

  When rescued, the villagers had been given secondhand clothing, but that was the last clothing Margery had received, aside from a coat when it started to snow. With a sigh, she ran her hand over her faded, patched flannel shirt. Her jeans were ripped at the knee. She had no money to buy anything else.

  Trying to take control of her life, she’d told the Cosantir of Rainier Territory that since being a banfasa didn’t pay, she would find something else to do. Pete’s face had turned dark with anger. He said tending to injuries and cleaning the communal house was her job, and she should be grateful to get a free place to live and free food. The conversation went downhill from there—and she left his house feeling guilty.

  Her lips twisted. He’d manipulated her.

  He’d also left her at a loss for how to escape this new prison.

  As she carried the babies out of the nursery, the front door burst open. The wolf pack alpha, Roger, rushed in, shoving Jens out of the way.

  Jens hit the wall with a low yelp of pain.

  Margery growled under her breath. The alpha and his two betas were as violent and uncaring as Scythe guards. I hate this place.

  Shoving his unkempt, yellow hair out of his face, Roger looked around the living room. “Where the fuck is Margery?”

  “Here.” Holding the two cubs, Margery didn’t move from the nursery doorway.

  “We’ve got wounded coming in. Get prepared,” he snapped.

  “What happened?” Portia called.

  “Bunch of our young wolves brawled with a couple of fucking cats.” Roger’s dislike of werecats was well known. “All the injured are coming here.”

  It sounded like there were quite a few. As her adrenaline kicked in, Margery handed the cublings to their mother. “They’re all changed.”

  Holding the babies to her chest, Portia scowled. “I suppose you’ll take over the entire living room. Make everything bloody and dirty, and I’ll miss my TV show.” The female’s self-absorption was appalling.

  Margery half-smiled. “You’re right—this house isn’t a good place for sick and injured. You should tell Pete to give me my own place.”

  Being in the communal house made sense when she first arrived. She’d needed to learn independent living—cooking, washing, shopping. But that’d been months ago.

  Portia sniffed and walked away.

  Hearing car doors slamming, Margery hurried into the laundry room to fetch her bag of medical supplies.

  When she got back to the living room, the injured were being settled on the floor and the chairs. Whining, growling, crying. Young males weren’t nearly as stoic as older shifters.

  Pulling in a breath, she studied the situation. Before beginning, determine who needs you the most, Grandmama used to say.

  That one by the wall was bleeding heavily. As was the one next to him. One was groggy and throwing up. She turned that young male onto his side so his airway would stay clear.

  “Banfasa…” Gretchen, a statuesque blonde, grabbed Margery’s arm. “Help Caleb right now!”

  Margery looked at the beefy male who was one of Roger’s betas. Parallel slashes cut across Caleb’s upper and lower arm. Shallow. Nothing spurting. “Help him wash off the wounds in the bathroom sink. Then use these.” She handed gauze packets to Gretchen. “Others need my help more.”

  Gretchen threw the packets into Margery’s face. “You help him, you scarred-up bitch.”

  The insult barely registered as Margery finished formulating her triage plan.

  She knelt beside an unpopular shifter who was bleeding out. Even as she worked on him, she snapped orders to the uninjured. Pressure to the wounds, blankets to prevent shock. Cleaning. Although the Daonains’ immune system was far better than humans’, infections occurred if debris remained in a wound.

  Shifter after shifter, she cleaned and closed slashes with stitches or glue. The werecats had been savage. She also treated the cats who were suffering from deep wolf bites. It had been a nasty battle.

  She talked with Roger about one wolf with a gut wound. He needed a hospital if he could be trusted not to trawsfur when in pain. Since a dazed shifter in pain would always trawsfur to his animal, he’d need an escort to ensure no sedatives were used.

  After she’d handled the seriously injured, she moved to the less damaged.

  Approaching Caleb, she saw Brett, Roger’s second beta, had joined Gretchen. The beta snapped his teeth at Margery as if he was in wolf form and told Gretchen, “Fuck, she’s slow.”

  “I know, right?” Gretchen curled her lip at Margery. “About time you got here, gimpy.”

  I don’t care what these stupid people think about me. Yet she did, and humiliation formed a cold, hard stone in her chest. This was her pack; nevertheless, to them, she was just a crippled, scar-faced wolf who was only useful once in a while.

  She knelt beside the injured male. “Caleb, I’m going to clean the wounds and get them closed up.” She spoke low and soft until the shifter relaxed.

  Ignoring the slighting remarks from Brett and Gretchen, she concentrated on her job.

  A little while later, she finished with the last injured shifter.

  Jens and an elderly female were handing out broth and raw beef to help with the blood loss. Some of the wounded had already left. One older male who lived alone would spend the night so she could keep an eye on him.

  With an effort, she pushed to her feet, wincing at the painful throb in her ankle…and at the work still to be done. The living room was a mess and had to be cleaned.

  She started collecting bloodied gauze and rags.

  The last two wounded stopped on the way out. “Thank you for the tending, banfasa.”

  His littermate nodded. “Aye, thank you.”

  Warmed, she smiled at them. The rest had left without any thanks. It wasn’t surprising, since that was how the Cosantir and the alpha of her pack treated her. No matter how much she did, she had no value.

  As she stepped outside to dump the rags, the cool, fresh night air whipped around her, blowing away her frustration, leaving her free to think clearly.

  This wasn’t who she wanted to be. A frustrated, unhappy person. But if she stayed, they’d continue to treat her like a stray cur. Because they could.

  No, it was time to make a change. To find out how much more she could be.

  Chapter Two

  Ailill Ridge, Rainier Territory - full moon

  * * *

  “I don’t want that stupid banfasa living here…”

  Ignoring the complaints coming from the other room, Margery smiled at the older shifter who’d spent the night and unwrapped the dressing on his arm. “Bleeding has stopped. No sign of infection. It’s going to heal up well.”

  Having come to help the shifter get home, Roger and Brett were in the kitchen getting coffee—and had been cornered by Portia. Bits and pieces of their conversations drifted out.

  “…hurt shifters showing up all the time…missed my TV show…” Typical Portia complaints.

  Margery sighed and picked up a fresh roll of gauze. “Hold your arm out, please.”

  Portia’s voice rose enough to be clear. “Give her someplace else to stay.”

  “Pete said no,” Brett growled. “The banfasa stays in communal housing so she’ll get room and board without any money. If she’s broke, she can’t take off like the healers did.”

  Margery’s mouth dropped open. They didn�
�t want her to have money? Was that why Roger had snapped at a shifter who’d tried to pay her?

  “Fucking high and mighty healers.” Roger growled. “It sucks that all we got now is a stupid banfasa. An ugly crippled one, no less.”

  She knew better than to take his insult to heart, yet…it still hurt.

  Beside her, the older male heard. “Margery, Roger doesn’t mean—”

  Margery shrugged, trying to push away the ache. “I’ve heard worse.” A decade’s worth from the Scythe guards and staff.

  She hadn’t expected to be eviscerated by her own people.

  His sympathetic look spurred her to ask, “I don’t suppose you’d drive me to a different territory?”

  He shook his head. “I won’t go up against our Cosantir. I don’t got a car anyway. Sorry, banfasa.”

  “Me, too.” Seeing his regret, she patted his hand. “It’s all right.”

  An hour later, with everyone gone, she considered going for a run, but her ankle still hurt. Instead, she took a cup of coffee onto the front porch and settled in a wooden chair. On a Thursday, the end of the small cul-de-sac was quiet.

  Coffee in hand, she inhaled slowly, closed her eyes, and sank into the sense of the Mother. Here in the land of the Daonain, the presence of the God and Goddess was as close as the air she breathed.

  Eventually, when her heart was peaceful, she opened her eyes. In the deep blue sky, puffy clouds drifted slowly toward the mountains. A breath of a breeze teased the tree branches. The squirrel-ear-sized light green leaves indicated spring had arrived.

  It didn’t feel like spring in her heart. Not after what she’d heard inside. Her shoulders sagged.

  During her argument with the Cosantir, when she had said she’d leave Ailill Ridge, Pete told her flat-out she wasn’t allowed to leave.

  Now, considering what Brett and Roger had said in the kitchen, she had a few questions. Like…had Pete lied to her? Surely a Cosantir wouldn’t be dishonest. Yet the betas said their healers had moved away. Possibly healers or males were allowed more flexibility.