Healing of the Wolf Page 8

  “Slashed the cubs,” the healer finished for her. “Where is he now? He must be terrified.”

  “The Cosantir caught him”—Emma huffed a laugh—“by the scruff of the neck and gave him a shake.”

  Recalling the power around the Cosantir, Margery almost cringed.

  “Poor Athol went limp as a terrified kitten,” Emma said.

  Donal snorted. “Calum has that effect.”

  “Indeed.” The clipped voice came from behind Margery.

  She jumped, bouncing the cubs in her lap, looked around—and really did cringe.

  The gray-eyed, dark-haired male who’d been behind the bar at the Gathering stood right behind her. The Cosantir of North Cascades Territory.

  Her breathing almost stopped.

  “Calum, is Athol all right?” Emma asked him. “It wasn’t his fault, he was just—”

  “Panicking. I realize that. Since the Murphy brothers were returning from a run, they took him out for a lesson on being a panther. They can tell him he isn’t the only shifter to panic and lash out—Kevin Murphy’s first trawsfur was quite the mess.” The Cosantir had a deep voice with a faint English accent. After assessing the room, he took a chair, looking quite accustomed to having shifters laid out all around him.

  Then again, since he supervised Gatherings, he was undoubtedly used to casualties, even if adults rather than pups.

  His gaze landed on her boss. “Angie, might I have an introduction to your new waitress?”

  “Of course.” Angie was repacking the first-aid kit and listing which supplies had been used. She closed the lid. “Cosantir, I bring you Margery Lavelle, a Dogwood villager who lived in Ailill Ridge over the winter. I hired her as a waitress at the diner and to clean Leo’s house in exchange for permission to live there rent-free for two months. Margery, meet Calum McGregor, Cosantir of the North Cascades.”

  Margery held her breath as the Cosantir looked at her. The power simmered around him like heat waves from a fire. And the others had called him Calum.

  Uh-uh. She’d never thought twice about calling the Rainier Cosantir Pete, but this one… She bowed her head properly. “Cosantir.”

  “Margery Lavelle,” he acknowledged and leisurely studied the drowsy littermates on her lap. “It appears you have a way with cublings.”

  “And a way with first aid,” Emma said. “No panic. Knew precisely what to do. Where did you get so skillful?”

  “At the Scythe compound.” Margery didn’t explain further. No way. She wouldn’t fall into that trap again. She added hastily, “I only know the basics. It’s good you have a healer here. Really.”

  “There are times Donal needs help,” Calum mused.

  Donal had knelt beside the cub with a slashed arm. At Calum’s suggestion, the healer’s head snapped up. “No, I don’t,” he said sharply even as her own refusal escaped her lips, “No.”

  Everyone stared at her. Again.

  Her face heated. “I…I have a job. I work for Angie, and that’s what I want to do.” Her mouth tightened. She wouldn’t be forced back into being a banfasa. Maybe being a banfasa had been her life’s goal, but look how that dream had turned into a nightmare.

  Donal’s expression held all the flexibility of a granite cliff as he told the Cosantir in a curt tone, “I’m not in need of help, thank you.”

  The way the Cosantir lifted an eyebrow indicated that the healer wasn’t being particularly truthful. And she knew what that meant. Donal might need help—just not her help. The hurt of being disliked, being unwanted, was like lemon juice rubbed into a gash.

  At one time, she’d thought working with an actual healer would be amazing, but not here. Not with this healer.

  As the cublings on her lap stirred, she realized they’d caught her emotions. She pulled in a deep breath, asked the Mother for tranquility, and with her next breath, pushed away the pain.

  Two breaths and the waters of her soul were calm again.

  “Now, there’s control like I’ve never seen,” the Cosantir murmured.

  She looked away from him to fall into the healer’s silvery gaze. Once again, he was studying her. Like the Scythe had studied the shifters.

  Her jaw jutted out. Take your opinions, healer, and knot them into your tail.

  He blinked.

  And the Cosantir grinned. “Margery, if you’re pleased with your employment with Angie, then it shall be as you wish.” Even as she relaxed, the Cosantir rose and added, “Choices are not written in stone if you should change your mind in the future.”

  Be a banfasa? Work with the healer? Never, ever happening. “Thank you, Cosantir.”

  “Be welcome in the North Cascades Territory, Margery Lavelle. I’m pleased you’ve joined the clan.”

  Warmth swept through her at the genuine acceptance in the Cosantir’s words.

  As Calum walked away, the healer resumed tending the last few scratches.

  Settling down beside Margery, Angie let out a laugh. “Most people meet the Cosantir more formally. Not sitting on the floor, covered in blood and younglings.”

  “Oh, well.” Margery blew out a breath. “Lucky me.”

  A snort drew her attention, and she saw the healer’s lips twitch in a second of amusement.

  A sense of humor, gentle with younglings, blessed by the Mother with the talent for healing. The kind of person she’d always wanted to work with.

  Instead, somehow, she’d earned his dislike. Or maybe he was just extremely territorial? If so, no problem.

  You can go ahead and piss all over your boundary lines, healer. I’d already planned to stay far, far away.

  After Donal healed the younglings, he escaped down the tavern stairs into the caves below. Bonnie was on dispatch at the sheriff’s station, and he called to warn her he was taking some time for himself.

  “Have a good time, Donal. Sounds like you need a break after that mess.”

  “At least no one was seriously injured.” By the Gods, it broke his heart when cubs were hurting. He hung up, tossed his phone on top of his clothing in the hollowed-out cubby, and shifted.

  The wave of love from the Mother swept through him like a sun-warmed breeze, and he chirruped his pleasure. Stopping to rub against the cave opening, he left his scent and scratched off the last itch of trawsfurring. The scent of the forest drew him outside, and he bounded along the first trail, letting the movement stretch out pinched muscles.

  Patches of the trail were slushy with melting snow—an annoyance to panther paws—but who could resist the call of springtime? Up he went, veering off to one of his favorite noon spots. The trail disappeared, but a quick squirming through underbrush let him exit into a sunny clearing with rock outcroppings.

  After taking a moment to flex his claws on an available tree, he leapt to a smooth-topped boulder. Nice and dry. Perfect for a nap in the sun.

  It had been a long winter.

  But a satisfying one. His littermate was home where he belonged. His absence had been an ache in Donal’s heart for over ten years. He’d wondered if they could even live together again, but it felt as if they’d never been apart.

  Mostly. Donal turned on his side so he could lick the annoying mush from between his paw pads.

  Tynan had changed. Well, that was normal enough. Living among humans. In a human city. Alone. Aye, that would have been the worst part. His littermate was quieter now, thought before speaking, his emotions more difficult to read.

  The humans had changed him.

  Humans had that effect on shifters. Donal switched to the other paw, extending his claws to get the irritating dirt out.

  What about the pretty hazel-eyed female—the banfasa? What had she been like before the Scythe? Margery looked to be about Darcy’s age, mid-twenties maybe. Had been captured before her first shift. The thought of Daonain cubs being imprisoned hurt his soul.

  He tried to imagine her as a bouncy twelve-year-old cub. As an adult, she had incredible control over her emotions. Even Calum had commented
on it. What had the Scythe done to her that she had to learn such restraint?

  But she’d survived. Perhaps even grown stronger for the ghastly experience.

  The scene in the tavern had been exactly what Bonnie had called it—a mess—but could have been worse. Apparently, Margery had straightened things out with concise directions. She hadn’t done anything wrong medically speaking…not that cat scratches called for much knowledge.

  The kits trusted her. Had clung to her. Because of that, although banfasas made him wary, he might’ve chanced working with her…if he hadn’t been warned.

  Uneasiness made him change position on the boulder. It wasn’t often that his instincts about a person were wrong.

  Nonetheless, considering that the banfasa had worked in Ailill Ridge all winter, the residents must know her well. He wouldn’t put it past Gretchen to deal in rumors, but what she and Caleb had said was far past rumor and quite simply damning.

  He wouldn’t—couldn’t—work with an incompetent banfasa or an irresponsible one. Admittedly, he might be fussier than some healers. After all, he’d been at this a long time. The Goddess had woken his healing abilities when he was young, and he was yanked right into the clinic to help. Mother had been a dedicated—almost fanatical—healer with extremely high standards.

  By the Gods, he’d envied Tynan for getting to play rather than suffer through anatomy lessons.

  As for Margery, well, she obviously knew her skills weren’t up to par. She’d refused Calum’s suggestion, choosing waitressing over being a banfasa. So that was that.

  He frowned, remembering the word Tynan had used about her: “Interesting.” His littermate rarely pursued the shifter beauties. No, Tynan was drawn to intelligence, courage, warmth. Surely, he wasn’t seeing that in this incompetent banfasa.

  The memory of the two cubs nestled in her lap made Donal pause. She’d shown an abundance of warmth then. In fact, her concern for the kits had almost radiated from her. So very, very appealing.

  Cat-scat. It would be extremely awkward if Tynan pursued her.

  Really, they both needed to avoid her, so she didn’t get any ideas about working with him.

  He snorted. As if that would happen. She’d been very vocal about not wanting to help him out.

  Be honest, gnome-brain. He needed to avoid her so he didn’t get ideas.

  Because she was as tempting as his favorite patch of catnip.

  Chapter Six

  Cold Creek, North Cascades Territory - third quarter moon

  * * *

  Cold Creek was a wonderful place to be.

  Margery stepped into her backyard and reached for the sky in a long, painful stretch. And groaned. Her arm and shoulder muscles ached from carrying heavy trays of food at the diner. Her feet were swollen and sore from the hard floors. Her left ankle felt like a bear was chomping on it for lunch. And after a week of cleaning everything in the entire house, her joints throbbed like she was a hundred-year-old granny.

  Ow.

  None of it mattered…because her heart was happy. The soreness was simply from exertion, not from being hit by a guard.

  Besides, working at the diner was fun. People were in great moods when they went out to eat.

  Everyone had been kind—and she’d received generous tips. Real money.

  Tilting her head back, she smiled up at the faint hint of a moon in the daytime sky. “Thank you, Lady, for the town. For the job. For the house. And for the bicycle, too.”

  She’d found a bicycle in the garden shed. With a bit of oil and pumping up the tires, she had transportation. ’Twas a good thing since, whenever her limping grew too pronounced, her boss got worried.

  Getting fired for her own good would be infuriating.

  Yes, she’d exhausted herself. Been on her feet too much. She’d been a bit frenzied about getting the house cleaned.

  She glanced back inside with a sense of satisfaction. The windows and back door were open to waft away the last of the cleanser smell. She’d washed the floors, walls, even the ceiling, scoured the oven and fridge, cupboards and counters. The bathroom was spotless. The steam vacuum she’d borrowed from Angie had turned the dark, dingy carpet to a light brown.

  Almost everything from the closets had gone to the Cosantir’s stock for shifters in need. Angie had made her keep a couple of coats and raingear—all a bit too big—and then dug through the Cosantir’s hoard to find jeans, sweaters, and shirts in Margery’s size.

  It was amazing how nice it felt to have unripped, unstained clothing that actually fit.

  Life was going well.

  Several days ago, Heather had returned from visiting her mother. Delighted Margery was staying, she’d offered to bring Margery’s belongings here.

  But…her offer hadn’t been needed.

  “You didn’t leave anything in Ailill Ridge? Girl, you only brought a daypack.”

  “Mmmhmm. It held everything I owned.”

  “That little thing couldn’t have held more than a couple of changes of clothing and a few toiletries.”

  “I have clothes now—and I’m earning money.”

  When Heather’s face turned an angry dark red, Margery patted her arm. “I’m here. And I’m happy. Thank you for bringing me, Heather. I really, really appreciate it.”

  “The God needs to wake his furry ass up and appoint a new Cosantir in Rainier.” Heather muttered the blasphemy before giving Margery a hard hug. “You call me if you need something—anything. I’ll see you at the next Gathering.”

  Margery smiled. Having a friend like Heather was amazing.

  Inhaling the spring-scented air, she looked at the backyard—her next task in the house renovation process.

  It was quite the mess. A five-foot-tall board fence surrounded the backyard with a small garden shed in the back corner. Old leaves, winter-killed tall grass, and dead weeds lay in ugly piles over the barely sprouting lawn. The forest came right to the other side of the fence, and she could hear the gurgling creek that paralleled the line of houses. The dark line of bare deciduous trees forked several times, running up into the mountain wilderness. Angie said her Daonain neighbors used the creek side trails to visit the mountains.

  Maybe she could go for a wolfy jaunt soon.

  A quiver ran through her. She hadn’t shifted since coming to Cold Creek, mostly because she didn’t know the area or rules or anything. Rainier’s pack alpha, Roger, hadn’t been forgiving of mistakes. What if the alpha here in North Cascades Territory was even nastier?

  Her jaw tightened. Well, she didn’t give a sniff. She’d be careful—and would keep to herself. Not every wolf needed a pack.

  Turning away from the forest, she set her hands on her hips and surveyed her messy domain.

  Time to pick up some groceries and a pair of gardening gloves.

  The green scent of produce mingled with the faint odors of meat products and cleansers in the grocery store. Margery waited patiently as Albert Baty rang up her groceries. Short with stringy gray hair and drooping jowls, the grocer had tried to hide his kind nature under bluster, but she’d figured him out.

  “There you go, Margery.” He handed her two small shopping bags. “I think you’ll like the meatloaf recipe. It was my mum’s favorite.”

  “I’ll try it tonight.” The inexpensive meat dish should keep her in leftovers all week. She grinned. “I’ll invite you over after I’ve made it a few times. I’m good at messing up even basic dishes—it’s embarrassing.”

  “You’re still learning.” He snorted. “When I was a pup, I destroyed quite a few impossible-to-ruin meals.”

  “Really?” In the Ailill Ridge communal house, most of the dinners were slow-cooker style—the easiest way to deal with charity-meat like venison and rabbit. Meat with beans or rice or potatoes. Difficult to ruin.

  Cooking on her own without a slow cooker was much trickier. “I was starting to think I lack a cooking gene.”

  “No, child.” He patted her hand. “Cooking simply requires
a decent recipe, paying attention—and practice. Go forth and practice.”

  “I will. Thank you!” She headed outside to her bike, her feet lighter than when she’d come in.

  After setting the bags into the rear rattan baskets, she unlocked the chain securing her bike to the streetlight and started to wrap it around her waist.

  “Margery.” A gratingly hateful voice made her spine go rigid.

  She tossed the chain over the handlebars and turned.

  Roger, the alpha of Rainier Territory’s pack, stood way too close with Brett, his beta, behind him.

  Cat-scat. If she had more room to escape, she could tuck tail and flee on her bike.

  Keeping her expression cool and unreadable, she folded her hands at her waist. “Hello, Roger. What are you doing in Cold Creek?”

  Big-bodied and thickly muscled, he invaded her personal space to loom over her. With scraggly yellow hair, winter-pale skin, and almost colorless eyes, he looked like the brutal Viking in a movie she’d once watched. “The question is: What are you doing in Cold Creek?”

  “I live here now,” she said coldly.

  “No fucking way,” he growled. “Every village got a Dogwood female—you’re ours.”

  “Yours?” Anger rose inside her. She wasn’t a meaty bone for a pack of coyotes; she was a person. “The Dogwood females were scattered for the winter for orientation and less chance of detection. My orientation is complete, and there’s only one other villager here. It’s my choice where to live.”

  “No, it’s not. You might not be a healer, but you’re better than nothing.” His fingers closed around her upper arm. “You’re coming back with us.”

  As she tried to jerk away, her ankle wobbled, and his grip tightened painfully.

  Brett grabbed her other arm. “You can’t run fast enough to escape us, gimpy bitch.”

  Her anger boiled over. “Leave me alone!” Grateful for her hard boots, she kicked Bret’s shin with all her strength.