Healing of the Wolf Read online

  The fridge had been emptied—thank the Mother—but the cupboards held canned goods, rice, and beans. Angie said the food was all hers.

  She wouldn’t starve.

  However, the rancid smell and debris everywhere indicated she’d be spending a lot of time cleaning the kitchen.

  She kept wandering.

  The master bedroom was dominated by a king-sized bed with a blue and brown quilt. The tall dresser and heavy nightstands were dark wood. It was a very masculine room.

  The closet was full of clothing.

  The second bedroom was small, barely big enough to fit the queen bed. No need to deal with that today.

  First things first. She needed a place to sleep tonight. After stripping the bed in the master bedroom, she found the laundry room behind the kitchen. The washer was like the one in Ailill Ridge. She sent up another grateful thought. Even if communal housing had been difficult, she’d obtained the skills to live on her own.

  She located cleaning supplies so she could clean the stinky bathroom—ew—before starting on the kitchen.

  Outside, a door slammed, making her jump, and she realized the sound came from the house next door.

  Scolding herself for curiosity more suited to a cat than a wolf, she stepped to the window and looked out. Unlike her tiny house, her neighbor had a large two-story with a wide wrap-around covered porch.

  “Demon choke you”—a skinny male on the porch shook his fist at the house—“you’re a piss-poor excuse for a healer!”

  The healer named Donal stepped out. “I’m an excellent healer, as a matter of fact. What I lack is tolerance for rudeness and stupidity.”

  “You fucking—”

  “Since you can’t be polite, tend your wound yourself. Being healed isn’t a Goddess-given right, you mangy mutt.” Donal shoved the male right off the porch.

  The male landed on his ass, lurched to his feet, and stopped. After eyeing the healer—who admittedly looked a lot more deadly than any healer should—he snarled and strode away. A blood-stained shirtsleeve indicated he was wounded.

  And the healer had refused to care for him.

  Margery stared. Is that allowed?

  After an audible snort of disgust, Donal stalked back into his house, totally a werecat whose fur had been ruffled the wrong way.

  Margery let out a sigh. He sure was compelling. His shirt couldn’t hide the lean musculature, and his jeans were tight enough to let a female appreciate the lean strength of his ass and legs. Add in the stunning self-confidence of a panther, and he was simply fascinating. Intimidating.

  And way, way out of her comfort zone.

  On top of all that, he was a healer. And…the realization made her spirits soar like a hawk catching a thermal. Since Cold Creek had a healer, the town had no need for a banfasa.

  Here, she really was free.

  Laughing, she spun in a circle, arms over her head, sending the Mother the gratitude in her heart.

  After a couple of spins, a movement caught her attention, and she halted.

  On the sunlit sidewalk, a male stood, looking into her window. With the kitchen light behind her, he could undoubtedly see her quite clearly.

  She could see him as well. His black leather jacket was open, revealing a thick black, weapons belt and a uniform shirt with a shiny badge.

  Like a Scythe guard. Memories of vicious beatings set off a firestorm of fear and anger inside her, and she stumbled away from the window.

  * * *

  Who is in old Leo’s house?

  From the sidewalk, Tynan stared into the house next to his. The movement from inside had caught his eye, but it was the female’s exuberant, whirling dance that had captivated him. Joy simply fountained from her.

  Until she saw him.

  Now, she backed away, expression frozen with rage…and fear. Of him.

  He recognized that expression. And her. The Dogwood female from the Gathering. By the Gods, what’d he ever done to her—aside from help rescue her and the rest of the captives?

  Blowing out an exasperated breath, he walked up his sidewalk and into his house. “It’s me,” he called.

  “’Bout time.” Donal emerged from the laundry room, accompanied by the faint citrusy scent of soap. “What did the Cosantir want?”

  After pulling off his old black jacket, Tynan patted the shiny badge on the new khaki uniform shirt, then rested a hand on his duty belt. “He approved of the sheriff giving me a job.”

  “By Herne’s horny hooves, I’m pleased.” Grinning widely, Donal smacked Tynan’s shoulder.

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  His littermate scowled. “As long as you’re not planning to arrest me or anything.”

  Tynan snorted. “Like Alec would let me. Law or not, Daonain don’t mess with healers.”

  “This is as it should be.” With a smirk, Donal dropped down on the couch and set his feet on the coffee table.

  Oh, scat. Tynan recognized that smirk. No matter how much time they spent apart, he’d always be able to read his brother. And that was Donal’s I-did-something-I-shouldn’t-and-I’m-okay-with-it expression.

  Stalling by detouring to the kitchen for a glass of apple juice, Tynan settled into his favorite armchair. Fuck, it was good to be home…even if it meant dealing with a werecat littermate. “All right, I’m ready. What’d you do this time?”

  Donal gave him an innocent look. “Nothing.”

  At Tynan’s disbelieving stare—the one every cop mastered—his brother sighed. “Relax, brawd. I just kicked a mouthy mutt out of the clinic without fixing his lacerated arm. Nothing to arrest me for.”

  “Will the mutt be all right?” He knew the answer. Donal wouldn’t refuse to tend anything truly serious.

  “Aye. Eventually.” Scowling, Donal waved his hand in the air. “Some mangy-tailed mongrels think they can be fucking rude, and a healer is still obligated to care for them.”

  “You know, I kind of thought that was how it worked, too.” Their mother had never refused to heal anyone.

  “’Fraid not. Admittedly, the Goddess wouldn’t gift someone who lacked a strong moral code. But the Mother doesn’t direct our actions. Doesn’t say we have to do anything at all. Healing is a calling, not an obligation.”

  “Huh.”

  “Exactly!” Donal pointed a finger at Tynan as if his grunt had been agreement. “If the flea-brained idiots are allowed to be rude, healers will soon be putting up with all kinds of scat. If we don’t demand respect, we won’t get it.”

  “Bet the mutt will be more polite next time.”

  “One can only hope.”

  Tynan frowned. It’d take someone with a brain smaller than a pixie’s to be rude to a healer. Then again, Donal could set off even the most placid of shifters. He wasn’t exactly tactful.

  Their neighbor Leo had openly enjoyed the drama of living next to a healer…but someone else might not feel that way. Like the intriguing female in Leo’s house who’d looked at Tynan with fear in her big eyes.

  “Cat.” Tynan eyed his littermate. “Did you do your shouting inside, or did you upset our new neighbor?”

  “What new neighbor?” Donal sat up, glanced to the right as if he could see the adjacent house that held three males, their mate and cublings. His gaze turned left. “Old Leo’s house? Someone’s living in that stench-filled cave?”

  “I don’t know if she’s actually living there.”

  “A female?”

  “Aye. One of the Dogwood villagers.” A female who didn’t seem to like him—and worse, might even be afraid of him. The knowledge hurt somewhere deep inside him. His job was to defend the pack, not frighten little females. “She looks interesting.”

  “Interesting, eh?” Donal grinned. “I’m feeling the need for a cold draft, oh, my brother, along with the latest rumors.”

  “Fecking feline.” Cats reveled in gossip. “Right then, let’s go get a beer. I’m sure the Cosantir will know what’s going on. If he doesn’t, Angie will.”
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  An hour later, they’d learned that Angie was out of town…and that Calum hadn’t heard about the new shifter moving into the vacant house.

  Or into his territory.

  Chapter Five

  Cold Creek, North Cascades Territory - waning gibbous moon

  * * *

  “Margery, don’t leave yet,” Angie called.

  On her way out of the diner, Margery stopped in the doorway. Her first shift as a waitress had gone well. She wasn’t fast—yet—but she hadn’t messed up any orders. It’d been a good morning. “Sure, boss. What’s up?”

  A line appeared between Angie’s blonde eyebrows. “We need to visit the Wild Hunt.”

  “The tavern?” Like tiny ants, anxiety prickled over Margery’s nerves. “Why?”

  “The Cosantir called to ask about you.” Angie motioned Margery out the door and headed down Main Street, slowing her pace to accommodate Margery’s limping gait. “I can’t believe you didn’t speak with Calum about moving here.”

  Dread tightened Margery’s stomach as they walked. Was she supposed to have gotten permission? Silently, she considered her conversations with Heather about moving to the North Cascades. No, Heather hadn’t said anything about getting permission from the Cosantir.

  “Angie.” Up the hill, they turned off the road into the parking lot. The big log tavern seemed darker than normal. Ominous. “Am I in trouble?”

  Hand on the tavern door, Angie glanced back. “No, no, girl, don’t look like that. The Cosantir’s not going to claw you. You didn’t break the law. It’s simply tradition to introduce yourself to a Cosantir before moving to his territory.”

  “Oh.” Margery let out a relieved sigh. “Is he angry that you’re letting me use the house?”

  “No, not at all. He gave me charge of that problem.” Angie pulled open the door and waved her through.

  Into chaos.

  Screaming cublings. Bleeding cublings. A lushly curved female was trying to calm things. A younger slender female dashed from the back, carrying a first aid box. Skidding on a patch of blood, she fell. The box rolled across the floor.

  “By the Mother’s breasts.” Angie pushed Margery farther inside so she could enter.

  After a second of shock, Margery pulled in a slow calming breath.

  “No matter what, dear child, keep it together. If the nurse panics, so will the patient.” Phyllis, the Scythe nurse, had repeated that advice over and over until the understanding was buried deep.

  Moving forward, Margery grabbed the dropped first-aid kit while doing a quick visual survey. The injured were all children. Two had deep parallel slashes on the torsos and were bleeding heavily. Looked like werecat damage. There was a slashed thigh. Another had a scraped arm. A cut over a boy’s eye was trickling blood—as head wounds would do. All cubs were conscious and breathing with no obvious broken bones.

  “Well, then.” She used a volume loud enough to get attention without scaring the cubs more. She turned to the big-boned female with honey-colored hair who stood in the center of the children. “Can you put pressure on the one with a scraped forehead?”

  “Can do.” The blonde took the gauze packages from Margery and turned to the little dark-haired child.

  “Angie, can you check on that cub?” Margery pointed to a youngling with a cut thigh.

  “Got it.”

  Dropping down between the boy and girl with torso slashes, Margery smiled at them. “Hi there. Let’s get you fixed up, shall we?” As she pulled more gauze from the box, she stroked the quieter cub’s back in a comforting movement.

  He stopped crying, big blue eyes full of tears.

  Unbuttoning his ripped-up shirt, she smiled. “I have a job for you. Take a big breath and say fart really loud.”

  As he giggled and yelled, “Fart,” she quickly pulled the fragments of his shirt from the wounds.

  She stared at the torn flesh and long ugly gashes.

  What kind of a werecat would hurt a cubling? With an effort, she pushed her anger aside.

  “That was nice and loud. Good job.” She laid the gauze over the wounds and applied pressure.

  Behind her, the girl started to scream.

  A quick look showed the pup hysterically shoving away the hands of the young adult who pleaded, “Robena, please.”

  Tiny Robena wasn’t hearing any of it.

  “Hey there.” Margery put a reassuring hand on the dismayed adult’s shoulder. “I’m Margery. How about we trade places?”

  “Nia.” Nia’s gaze swept over Margery’s calm patient, and she gave a shaky laugh. “Please, yes. I’ll take Kinnon.”

  They switched, and Nia settled beside the sweet little boy who was asking if he should yell fart again.

  Young males, old males—they were all alike.

  Robena couldn’t be more than four, reminding Margery of when the captives were that age.

  “Come here, sweetling.” Ignoring the ear-piercing screams, Margery gently drew the flailing little girl into her arms. So light, so young. Oh, childling.

  First calm her, then deal with the blood.

  “Shhh, I have you, lambkin. Shhh.” In her mind, she settled at her still mountain lake, breathing in cool, moist air, feeling the peace grow deep—deep enough to share with the tiny soul in her lap.

  After a second of struggling, the cubling quieted and nestled closer. “Hurts,” she whispered, her cheek against Margery’s breasts.

  “I know. I’m going to fix it.” Margery reached for more gauze, covered the ugly cuts on the girl’s belly, and pressed firmly enough to slow the bleeding.

  Before she could do anything else, a big warm hand covered hers.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got here.” At the sound of a male’s smooth, deep voice, Margery looked up into silver-blue eyes.

  Black hair, lean face. The healer.

  Donal gave her an unreadable look, before his gaze shifted to the pup in her arms. His smile lightened his eyes, and his voice changed to a smoky croon. “I’m going to fix you all up, Robena. As the scratches go away, it’ll feel all sparkly inside. Like stardust.”

  Margery blinked. Really? That sounds so cool.

  Robena pushed at Donal’s hands, starting to panic. “No, no, no, I don’t—”

  “I like stardust,” Margery murmured. “Maybe Donal should do the other cub first, and I’ll go watch Kinnon getting stardust.” She rocked as if to move.

  The girl latched onto Margery tighter than a baby possum. “No, me first. Stardust,” she demanded of the healer.

  His lips twitched before he lifted the gauze to expose sluggishly bleeding cuts. “Ah, not very deep at all.” He pushed the edges of one laceration together, as if gluing them shut, but as he held the wound, his other hand traced over the pinched line—and the skin melded together. The wound closed.

  Tears prickled the backs of Margery’s eyes at the wondrous sight. No hurting for days, no scars for this little one. Thanks to the Goddess—and the healer.

  “It sparkses in me,” the girl whispered…although her grip on Margery didn’t relax.

  The healer’s deep chuckle was like dark velvet. “Excellent. Let’s do another scratch.”

  Slowly, he healed the long ugly gashes until nothing was left. “There we go.” After giving the cub a smile, he turned to the boy. “Kinnon, your turn.”

  The boy cub scrambled away from Nia to dive at Margery. She barely had time to free an arm to grab him.

  Now she had two cubs in her arms. Big blue eyes, freckles dotting flushed faces, red-brown hair. She was holding littermates.

  At the silence in the room, she looked up.

  All the adults in the room stared at her.

  As her face heated, she murmured, “Cublings like me,” and turned her attention to the little boy. With some repositioning, both younglings were settled and comfortable on her lap.

  Thumb in his mouth, Kinnon stared up at her, big eyes heartbreakingly worried. With his other hand, he took one of her fingers an
d rubbed it against his cheek.

  The curvy blonde had a melodious laugh. “That’s what Minette does with my hair. I bet he’ll be a cat when he grows up.”

  “Any comfort I can give is good.” Margery bent to whisper to the boy, “The healer gave your sister tummy-sparkles. Do you want some too?”

  Leaning against Margery’s left side, the girl cub was half-asleep, her tiny fingers still gripping Margery’s shirt.

  Oh, she’d missed having little ones in her lap.

  After eyeing his sister, Kinnon nodded.

  Margery looked up. “We’re—” The healer was frowning at her, the warmth gone, his gaze assessing, and her words stuck in her throat. If she’d been unencumbered, she’d have moved back.

  He turned his attention to the cub, and his tanned face gentled. “One helping of stardust coming up.”

  As he repeated what he’d done before, Margery watched. It was fascinating how the flesh, then the skin, grew back together. When he was done, the only remnants of the slashes were blood streaks and pale pink lines.

  “That is so wonderful,” she whispered.

  He made an acknowledging grunt and ran his hand down the cubling’s soft red hair.

  Yesterday, he’d eviscerated the arrogant male patient with his words. Today, he was so tender with the pups that her heart ached. And the way he could heal…

  She thought of the wounds she’d stitched at the Scythe compound, leaving the inevitable scarring behind. The broken bones that she’d not had the equipment to ensure would heal right. Sorrow over what could have been fixed was a river, pulling her down into its depths.

  Eyes stinging, she looked up.

  A line had appeared between his dark brows as he studied her. After an intimidatingly long second, he went to sit beside the blonde adult. “What happened here, Emma?”

  He examined the redheaded cub’s wound. Red hair, freckles—another of Robena’s littermates, Margery guessed.

  Emma hugged the boy. “I was teaching scales on the piano, and a teen shifter ran in. Naked.”

  “It was Athol,” Nia said.

  “They crowded around him to say hi,” Emma continued, “but a car peeled out in the parking lot, and Athol panicked and trawsfurred and—”