Healer's Choice

by Jory Strong

With a laugh he interrupted himself. “My apologies for giving you needless things to consider. As the House Master and Director of Scenes for this particular dwelling, I tend toward enthusiasm when it comes to all the delightful possibilities. To be a bit more succinct, normally you’d be set free and left to your own devices. But since this is essentially an initiation into our club, we don’t want to make things too challenging for our prospective member. And yet at the same time, our rules do require you have a chance to save yourself.”

  He flipped the knife into the air and caught it, repeating the action as he tugged her into the room at the end of the hallway. It was a bedroom.

  Rebekka fought him again when he looped his end of the rope through a metal ring set into the wall next to the door. Her wrists began bleeding but she didn’t stop until her arms were once again forced into position above her head and the rope secured to a second loop several feet below and to the right of the first.

  The man shook his head and tsked. “A waste of effort on your part, though I suppose it doesn’t really matter. As I said a moment ago, we want our candidate to succeed.”

  He moved closer and touched the knife to her throat, making small, imaginary cuts there before slowly unbuttoning her shirt with his free hand. Instinctively she tried to drive him away with her knee. He backhanded her hard enough her ears rang and for a moment she was dizzy.

  “You’re safe enough from me, unless you continue to be difficult,” he said, leaning in so the leather of his mask touched her cheek. “But persist and I promise you I will have you before the prospect gets his chance to. It’s not against our rules for the House Master to enjoy the fruits of his labor before a scene runs.”

  She shuddered. Forced herself to remain passive as he used the knife to strip away her clothing and leave them in useless pieces on the floor at her feet.

  He touched the tip of the blade to the tattoo, traced the black circle and the red P. “This is unexpected.” His voice was heavy with displeasure. “It makes me wonder if you’re a discarded whore instead of a gifted healer as Allende claimed. Tell me, did he lie?”

  Rebekka hesitated, trying to work out which answer might be more to her advantage. He backhanded her again, hard enough to split her lip.

  “The truth,” he said. “There’s time enough for me to make a few discreet inquires, and time after I do it to teach you a lesson, even if it’s a short-lived one.”

  “I’m one of the gifted.”

  “Good. See how easy that was?” He was breathing fast again, excited by hitting her while she was naked and defenseless.

  She trembled, and his eyes seemed to glitter. The tip of the knife left the tattoo, snaking upward in a slow, sinuous journey that made her skin crawl.

  It finally stopped at the leather cord attached to the amulet. “I’m tempted to leave this as decoration but I’m afraid it might be an unfair advantage since it’s obviously witch-crafted.”

  He slid the knife underneath and cut, catching the amulet and tucking it into a pocket rather than letting it fall to the floor.

  “Perhaps I’d better make sure I didn’t miss anything,” he said, crouching down and quickly going through her clothing, finding the Wainwright token. “Ah, good thing I checked.”

  He tossed the garments from the room then stood. “Now then, here’s the scene I’ve arranged for you. In a moment I will escort you to the bed and retie you there, leaving enough slack in the rope to allow movement on your part. I will then place the knife at the end of the mattress.

  “If you’re careful, and even remotely coordinated, rather than kick it off the bed you should be able to use your feet and body to work it upward, toward your hands. How you approach cutting through the bindings at your wrists, I’ll leave up to you.

  “If you work quickly, you should be free before your visitor arrives. If not . . . well the failure is yours. Our rules were honored and you were given a chance to save yourself.”

  This time Rebekka didn’t fight him. She went docilely, lying down as directed and trying to blank her mind to his presence, to the possibility he’d rape her before he left.

  When he was finished arranging the scene to his liking, he caressed her cheek with the back of his gloved hand. “I’m looking forward to seeing just what your choice will be. Your gift. Or your life. Assuming of course, you free yourself first and manage to maneuver into a position where you can use the knife against your guest.”

  Icy numbness replaced a terror that couldn’t be sustained any longer. But it didn’t suppress Rebekka’s will to live. Even as he left the room, his footsteps sounding in the hallway, she was working the knife upward, losing all track of time as she raced to free herself.

  Slashes soon marked her forearms where she’d cut herself on the knife’s blade. And by the time the bloodstained rope fell away from her wrists, her skin was slick with sweat.

  Rebekka rushed from the room, anxious to get away from the bed, though she knew it didn’t matter. A lifetime of witnessing how closely knit violence and sexual satisfaction were for some had demonstrated how unimportant comfort was when it came to sating those needs.

  The shredded remains of her clothing no longer lay in the hallway. Like cold, merciless eyes, she was aware of the cameras capturing her nakedness, her every movement, and what might be the last minutes and hours of her life—all for the twisted, sick entertainment of others.

  She considered returning to the kitchen and taking a skillet but discarded the idea. Effectively wielding it in one hand and the knife in the other would be impossible.

  Her throat closed on the icy horror of the choice confronting her. When it came to what it would cost her, there would be no difference between injuring the man coming here or killing him.

  Tears formed, unwanted but unstoppable. They fell as she heard the Bear ancestor’s voice in her mind, saying as long as her gift remained untainted, she had the power to fully restore Were souls.

  Was it better to die than live without being able to use her gift? For so long, it was how she’d defined herself.

  The final scene with Aryck played out in her mind, the choice she’d made then, sacrificing the role of mother and mate for that of healer.

  I can have that kind of life with someone else, she told herself, though a part of her doubted she could ever trust another man enough to open her heart to him.

  She brushed away the tears and steeled herself against shedding more of them. First she had to survive long enough to escape.

  The door was locked, as she expected it to be. From there she moved into the living room to look out the window.

  She tried to think as her attacker would. To consider what he would expect, how his own nervousness and excitement and fear might be used to her advantage.

  Would he be told she was one of the gifted? Would he expect pleading and discount the potential for violence?

  A hot wash of bile crawled up her throat as she imagined his thoughts, his feelings, his desire to rape a woman then kill her afterward. Her heart felt as though it would leap out of her chest when she heard the sound of a motorcycle.

  Through the window she saw it approach, the masked man driving while another, younger and barefaced, rode in the sidecar. They slowed to a stop, though the driver didn’t turn off the engine or dismount.

  The club prospect got out of the sidecar. He stood next to it, body vibrating with excitement as he listened to the other man give final instructions, or remind him of the rules.

  Rebekka’s mind raced, panic getting the better of her, freezing her at the window until she saw the driver lift his arms and remove the velvet ribbon with the key on it, passing it to the younger man.

  She hurried to the stairs then, climbed just far enough to gain momentum, knowing she couldn’t hesitate, couldn’t falter. Surprise was her greatest weapon. Her only chance lay in a quick, unexpected strike, one deep enough to sever an artery.

  Outside the sound of the motorcycle engine grew fainter as it drove away. Her
would-be rapist and murderer entered the house cautiously, as she’d expected him to.

  He reached the foot of the staircase, eyes going to the knife, her grip on it so tight her fingers paled against the dark hilt. There was no need to feign fear, to force it into her voice. “Please don’t do this,” she said, taking a step back as if she intended retreat. “I’m a healer.”

  A sneer formed when his gaze moved to the tattoo. His body telegraphed his intention to charge a heartbeat before he did it.

  Rebekka leapt forward with only one thought, one emotion. To do whatever it took to survive.

  They collided. The knife held low, already thrusting forward between his thighs, her knowledge of anatomy making her accurate.

  His expression went from surprise to shock to terrified understanding in the instant before he grabbed her, pushing her away from him instead of to the ground beneath him. Blood already soaking his pants.

  He tried desperately to staunch the flow. But it pulsed through his fingers with the pounding of his heart.

  “Please, help me,” he begged. “Please. My family has money. They can make you rich.”

  Rebekka stood motionless, watching in frozen, sickened horror as he bled out, his panic growing and his pleading little more than sobbing at the end.

  Despite knowing there was no other choice, that he intended far worse for her, she threw up when he ceased breathing. Continued to retch until the instinct for survival kicked in, urging her to get out of the house, to get as far away from it as quickly as possible, before the man wearing the mask arrived.

  She liberated the key. A shudder went through her at the thought of wearing the dead man’s shirt, but without it she’d be naked.

  It took effort to get it off him. She was panting, hearing the phantom approach of a motorcycle by the time she escaped the house and ran for the forest, seeking refuge in the thick press of trees so anyone who pursued her would have to be on foot.

  Healer

  UNSEEN, Tir watched as Levi approached the Iberá estate. Days ago thoughts of retribution would have dominated; now he found irony at events playing out here, between a family that had once paid coin to purchase him and prolong his enslavement, and a Were who’d left him free but shackled by chains in the woods.

  Behind the high, gated walls of the compound, lions began roaring as if scenting a being who could take their form. On the walkway along the top, men stopped patrolling and pointed automatic weapons down at Levi as others emerged from the gatehouse with pistols drawn, witch-amulets glowing in the presence of a Were.

  “What brings you here?” one of them asked, his eyes going to Levi then skittering away, searching the area behind him as if fearing a surprise attack.

  “I’m here to speak to the Iberá patriarch.”

  “And you are?”

  “My name won’t mean anything to him. But the healer Rebekka’s does. And maybe, if the guardsman Captain Orst mentioned it since returning from a salvage operation in Were lands, the patriarch might know the name Aryck.”

  The guard’s expression remained suspicious despite obviously recognizing at least one of the names Levi used. He returned to the guard-house, not bothering to close the door as he placed a call and repeated what Levi had said.

  A moment later a heavy door swung open, offering a glimpse of manicured lawns and a magnificent house. Levi was motioned through it and escorted to the front door by guards. The butler took over, inviting Levi in and leading him to the patriarch’s study.

  Tir followed, lips curved in dark amusement. So Addai spoke the truth even if he didn’t elaborate on it. In the end, Caphriel’s game had been turned to their advantage.

  The patriarch sat behind his desk. At the corner of it, a militiaman wearing the stripes of one in command stood at ease, as if there to listen rather than guard.

  “Why did you come to me?” The Iberá asked.

  Levi’s hands clenched into fists. “Rebekka forgave you for holding her here against her will because she believed you were sincere in your desire to see the guard cleaned up and the red zone made a thing of the past. I’m here on her behalf.

  “Since she was sixteen, Rebekka has been a healer in the Were brothels. We were working to help those we could to escape life as a prostitute. The vice lord Allende learned of it. Now the buildings are locked down and he plans to make an example of anyone who intended to leave or turned a blind eye to what was going on. He’ll sell their contracts to the Pleasure Venture when it arrives in port. Will you help the Weres Rebekka cares about? Or do you care only about the fate of humans in this city?”

  In answer The Iberá picked up a slim phone. His hand trembled slightly, the effects of disease rather than emotion as he touched a button and spoke to someone on the other end. “Use what contacts you have to reach the vice lord Allende. He plans to sell some of the contracts he holds to the Pleasure Venture when it reaches port. Find out if he is willing to sell those same contracts to me. Let him know I intend to remove the shapeshifters from the area.”

  The patriarch set the phone down. To Levi he said, “Often victory is more easily achieved using money instead of soldiers. While we wait for Allende’s answer you can accompany Colonel Peña to the planning room. If force becomes necessary—”

  He stopped speaking as a dark-haired beauty appeared in the doorway. She frowned, either at having caught his mention of force or at finding he had a visitor. But when Levi turned, her eyes widened and her mouth formed a small O in seeming recognition.

  There was a flash between them. Physical attraction and something else, an inevitability reminding Tir all too well of the first time he’d seen Araña.

  “Isobel,” the patriarch said, the sharp crack of his voice enough to divert her attention and raise a blush to her cheeks.

  “I’m to tell you everyone is gathered for the birthday party.”

  “I will be there momentarily.”

  “I’ll let them know,” she said, careful not to look at Levi as she turned away and retreated down the hallway.

  “As I was saying,” The Iberá continued, “while we wait for Allende’s answer, you can accompany Colonel Peña to the planning room and provide information about the layout of the brothels as well as security measures. If force becomes necessary to extract those who wish to escape, then you—and any other ally you can personally vouch for—will need to go with the colonel and his men. I won’t risk having them killed by the very ones they’re attempting to rescue.”

  “I understand.”

  The patriarch’s hand settled on the controls operating the wheelchair. A motor hummed to life quietly in a signal of dismissal.

  Colonel Peña moved to Levi’s side, and the two left the room. Tir waited, allowing The Iberá to maneuver the chair out from behind the desk before materializing, blocking the old man’s path in a display of angelic glory, of power and shimmering, unfolded wings.

  If the patriarch guessed the being now standing before him was the very one his grandson had offered coin for, there was no sign of it in his face. He paled but didn’t cower as his good hand grasped the crucifix worn beneath his tailored shirt.

  Restoring the old man to good health would once have required Tir’s blood. Now, free of the sigil-inscribed collar, it required only his will.

  He felt Araña’s presence in his mind a heartbeat before her voice whispered through it like a caress. Addai says it’s time to finish this and go to Rebekka.

  “Your fate is bound to the healer’s,” Tir told the patriarch, amused by the subtle, dual meaning contained in the words. “You have proven yourself worthy of being called an ally.”

  He bent forward and touched The Iberá’s useless hand where it lay on the arm of the wheelchair.

  “Be healed,” he said, willing it so.

  And so it became.

  Thirty-six

  ARYCK smelled death moments before he saw the house. The scent of it escaped through a barred window, blood and bowel and urine.

 
Flies were already gathering for the feast. Their buzz seemed loud in the sudden, oppressive quiet of the forest.

  Instinct urged caution even as man and Jaguar raged, feared. Screamed silently at the prospect of finding Rebekka inside, always and forever gone from their lives.

  The weight of it nearly crushed Aryck. The knowledge he’d failed her yet again felt like a mortal blow.

  He tucked the witch’s pathfinder into the clothing collar he’d fashioned upon entering the woods and left the cover provided by the trees. His ears told him there was no one alive in the house but he still approached it carefully. The isolated location, the barred windows, the cameras mounted near the roof, all made him think this could be a trap.

  Rebekka’s scent slammed into him like a fist to the gut when he neared the front door. It made her presence real, overrode the tiny, flickering hope the witch-produced tool was wrong, the hint of suspicion they had betrayed him—either of which would have been preferable to finding Rebekka inside.

  Two men had been here before him. Aryck crouched, committing their scents to memory before picking up a handful of twigs and going to the door.

  It was unlocked, adding to his sense this was somehow a trap. He stepped to the side and opened it, alert for any change in sound, for movement at the edge of the forest.

  The smell of death intensified.

  Aryck wedged the twigs under the door, holding it open as he cautiously entered the house. The Jaguar part of him raged, wanting a form that lent itself to ripping and slashing in a venting of fury.

  Reason prevailed up until the moment Aryck saw the man’s corpse. In a glance he read what had happened by the blood pools and spatters on the stairs and walls, knew Rebekka lived, and, regardless of the cameras perched in the corners, changed.

  He left the house at a run, following her path around and into the woods. It became easier the farther he went. She was barefoot, her feet bleeding.

  Pride filled his chest when she came to a stream and began traveling in it. Making it more difficult to be tracked by humans. Not for him.