Healer's Choice g-3

by Jory Strong

  In the center of the challenge circle the fire flared at first blood and the heat grew more intense. Around the circle the elders responded by increasing the tempo of their strikes against the hide-covered drums, driving the combatants’ heartbeats into a faster pace.

  Aryck’s blood mixed with sweat, no longer a sheen coating his skin but drops pouring off him like sacrificial rain.

  Nahuatl began chanting welcome to the ancestors, and Daivat struck again.

  This time Aryck was ready. He deflected the attack, ducking and swiping across Daivat’s unprotected belly before moving out of range.

  Fear flashed in Daivat’s eyes at the opening of his skin. He came at Aryck fast and hard.

  Aryck scored another hit, raking claws along Daivat’s forearm but sustaining an injury as well.

  The silver burned as it cut through the skin over Aryck’s collarbone. He hissed in reaction, bared his teeth against the pain.

  His heart thundered in time to the nonstop beat of the drums. His blood poured down his chest in a tide of red.

  Heat from the fire siphoned strength and will. Aryck fought the effects of it and attacked.

  Daivat snarled and leapt at the same time as Aryck did.

  Talons grazed Aryck’s cheek, leaving a clawed trail. He twisted, savaging Daivat’s side.

  The fire flared higher, drinking the spray of blood and demanding more of it.

  Nahuatl’s voice rose, moving from welcome to a prayer for judgment.

  Aryck and Daivat circled each other, and as they did Daivat’s form changed. Fur replaced the skin on his arms and face and chest, turning him into something neither man nor beast.

  Chant and drumbeat ended, the abrupt silence signaling the fight was over.

  There was no sound other than the crackle of flame and the panting of the combatants.

  Around the circle the pack members’ expressions were grim, condemning. Nahuatl stepped forward, hands out to accept the gloves. When he held them he said, “Change,” and Aryck did so, accepting the sharp pain with welcome as his bones and organs reorganized and he became Jaguar.

  In front of him Daivat remained standing, trapped between forms. Judged so all who looked at him would know the ancestors had sundered Daivat’s eternal soul, casting it out of the shadowlands as unworthy to live among them.

  Koren spoke. “I name you outcast. Leave Jaguar lands before sunset or be hunted and killed.”

  A cry followed the pronouncement. Not one of protest but the terrifying wail of a cub in grave peril.

  The circle dissolved immediately. And as Caius came into view, horror filled those gathered, pulsing and vibrating in the air like a living thing. The Tiger cub was in human form, the skin on his arms and torso and face an open, hungry wound.

  The smell of vomit and raw, exposed muscles reached Aryck even as Caius crumpled to the ground before the first of them could reach him. In a thready, pain-filled voice the cub whispered, “I tried to help them.”

  He succumbed to shock and unconsciousness before he could say more. But Aryck knew by them Caius meant the four Jaguar cubs he so often trailed.

  At a caution from Phaedra, the healer, Caius was left where he lay until a blanket could be brought to serve as a stretcher, and leather gloves put on in case his skin was contaminated.

  Around Aryck others changed form to lend their noses in retracing the cub’s route. Lead, Koren said. Others can follow with blankets and gloves. I will remain here with Phaedra so you can report what you find and she can advise you on how to proceed.

  Aryck loped out of camp in answer, his fight with Daivat forgotten.

  Addai

  CLOAKED in light, Addai witnessed events unfold among the Jaguars. In thousands of years of existence he had yet to tire of the beauty and the savagery of those this lush planet gave birth to.

  In the challenge circle the fire burned and the shaman chanted softly in supplication and sorrow as he reached out and placed his hand over his son’s heart, ceasing its beat with a spoken word. Preferring to halt the stain he feared would only deepen and spread outside of Were lands.

  He knelt next to the son he’d slain, a father who’d administered harsh punishment, hoping to gain salvation for his child’s soul in the wake of what the ancestors’ judgment meant, what Addai knew to be truth.

  Daivat lied when he said the woman was willing. He lied in saying she died first and at the hands of the human male.

  The wind brought the scent of brewing infection and the raw smell of a living creature turned into meat. Addai watched the still form of the injured child being carefully placed on a blanket and the makeshift stretcher lifted so it could be carried to the healer’s home.

  As the boy and those attending him disappeared from sight, leaving only the shaman and the corpse in the clearing, speculation edged out Addai’s pity. He contemplated the possibility the Djinn were responsible for the child’s condition. They were capable of great cruelty in the ruthless pursuit of their goals.

  A smile of amusement curved his lips. Then again, his kind was capable of an equal ruthlessness.

  Addai looked toward the path the Jaguar, Aryck, had taken. He paused long enough to wonder if the other children survived and if the enforcer would prove himself worthy in the days ahead. Then he descended, taking flesh, the essence of light becoming the form of a man.

  Nahuatl gave no sign of being aware of his presence at the edge of the circle. The shaman’s song to his ancestors continued, rising and falling, pitching higher with each new refrain until it reached a crescendo and ceased with the plunging of a ceremonial knife into his dead son’s chest.

  Bone and muscle gave way with the force of the thrust and the sharpness of the blade. A new song began as Nahuatl pulled the heart from its mortal cavity and threw it into the flames.

  The taste of blood and fire coated Addai’s tongue.

  He laughed silently, appreciative of the drama, the rite.

  The passion of faith.

  When the heart had been consumed in a hungry blaze, the shaman turned, Jaguar cape swirling, the snarling headdress hiding everything but the dark eyes of a man who spirit-walked among the dead.

  “You asked for a sign that the things revealed to you in the shadowlands, and the part you will play in their unfolding, are true,” Addai said, letting all Earthly pretense fall away in a spread of white wings and a haloed show of angelic glory. “I am that sign.”

  Five

  REBEKKA slept, and blissfully it was free of dreams and fears. Free of demons and doubts, and worries.

  Hunger finally woke her, making her stir from the warm cocoon of blankets. She opened her eyes, breathed in the scent of herbs and familiarity.

  This was home. More so than the house she’d homesteaded in the area set aside for the gifted. More so than the brothel she grew up in, and yet less than what her heart craved.

  She rose and dressed, closing her mind to wishes and hopes that seemed impossible. She had time only to eat before one of the prostitutes summoned her to the front door.

  A street child stood there, a girl who was ten at the most, her eyes already far too old for her face. Small feet in worn-out shoes stayed in motion, barely touching the ground before lifting again as if in readiness to sprint away at the tiniest hint of danger.

  She used her thumb to point to the right, sending Rebekka’s attention to a parked car. It was a silver sedan with dark windows. A flag bearing the Iberá crest fluttered from the antennae.

  “Your services are needed,” the girl said, not able to hide the hint of revulsion in her voice. “When you’re done, they’ll bring you back.”

  Indecision held Rebekka in the brothel doorway. She’d promised Levi she wouldn’t leave, and yet despite the street child’s assumption, there was only one service she performed and if she was needed …

  Rebekka couldn’t ignore the request. She left the brothel doorway, thinking how odd it was that now she hurried to a car flying the Iberá flag, when for days
she’d wanted to escape their estate after being held there in the hopes she could be used to find Tir, and Tir, in turn, could be used to heal the dying Iberá patriarch.

  The driver emerged to open the door for her. Instead of finding the backseat empty, Annalise Wainwright waited inside the car.

  With her presence came the crawl of magic over Rebekka’s skin, like a hundred tiny spiders. She’d felt the same thing the first time she’d met the witch.

  Annalise said, “The child was sent with the truth. Your services are needed but not at the Iberá estate. We thought it best to let anyone watching believe that’s where you’re going. The person who sought our aid is known to the Iberá patriarch. The terms are set and you will be paid by my family. Your silence is required. Do you agree?”

  Rebekka trusted the witch enough to say, “Yes.”

  A strip of cloth lay across Annalise’s lap, her hands on the ends of it. “I need to blindfold you.”

  Rebekka acquiesced, leaning forward so the soft material could be tied around her head.

  They drove for an indeterminate amount of time. Longer, Rebekka guessed, than was truly necessary.

  A radio tuned to a news channel was the only sound in the car. The chauffeur’s presence prevented them from speaking freely.

  Eventually they slowed to a stop. The chauffeur got out rather than roll down a window. In the brief instant the door was open, Rebekka heard nothing, though the scent of flowers flooded the interior of the car.

  Annalise made no movement, nor did the back door open. Rebekka imagined armed guards and a gate with a distinctive crest on it. She’d already guessed whoever had sought out the witches was wealthy and powerful and didn’t want it known they had dealings with the gifted. It was easy to picture the chauffeur waiting outside to gain entrance to the estate, so there’d be no risk of her hearing a name.

  Long minutes passed before he returned to the driver’s seat, bringing with him another burst of flower-scented air. The car began moving, traveling in a straight line before making several turns as if going to the back of the house, to a servant’s entrance maybe, or one where absolute privacy was guaranteed.

  They stopped again and this time Annalise placed her hand on Rebekka’s forearm. “I’ll guide you.”

  The door on Annalise’s side opened. The air was cool and smelled of diesel and hot car. A private entrance, Rebekka thought, a garage probably.

  “This way,” a female voice said, the sound of her voice telling Rebekka the woman was old.

  They traveled in silence, leaving the firmness of concrete to walk first on wood, then plush carpet. The flower scent was present, blending in with the smell of wealth and power.

  Until her involuntary stay at the Iberá estate, she’d never considered that either had one, but now Rebekka knew differently. Wealth and power smelled of rich fabrics and subtle perfume, of wood polish and an immaculately kept home, of time and luxury and freedom from the everyday struggle for survival.

  The texture underneath her feet changed again. Annalise halted her.

  Doors closed, a whisper of sound broke the silence. They rose with a low hum, the motion revealing they were in an elevator. When it stopped Annalise urged Rebekka forward and they were once again on plush carpeting.

  Even with the ever-present smell drifting in from what Rebekka imagined must be extensive gardens, she knew the moment they’d arrived at their destination. Sickness tainted the air, the scent of medicine and age, and something else—the unexpected smell of reptile.

  She’d healed only a couple of them before, women with exotic scales on sections of their bodies instead of skin. Snake outcasts were rare. Rebekka guessed they were probably as rare as those who could shift purely between two forms—at least here in the United States with its lack of rain forests.

  It explained the secrecy. She would never have imagined a Were among Oakland’s elite. Then again, despite the association with the Iberás and the drive, they could just as easily be in a vice lord’s home or that of a magic practitioner who didn’t dare live outside the red zone.

  Behind them a door closed firmly and a lock clicked into place. “Can you heal without having the blindfold removed?” Annalise asked.

  “I don’t know. I need touch at least. I need to know the nature of the injury.”

  “May I?” Annalise asked, her question directed to the left, telling Rebekka they were positioned at the unknown person’s torso or lower body.

  The answer was given silently, revealed in the rustle of bed clothing.

  Annalise guided Rebekka’s hand to rough, ridged, and creviced skin. “You’re touching a woman’s leg. The other is the same, covered in what looks like alligator skin. Until days ago she had a severe infection, something like gangrene. Are you familiar with it?”

  “Yes.”

  “She was under a doctor’s care, a man who would never think to seek help from the gifted. Some combination of the drugs he used in his efforts to combat the infection compromised her immune system. When that happened, genetics lying dormant in her were triggered. It is not so rare an occurrence as you might think. The Last War and what followed created millions of orphans and erased knowledge of their heritage.

  “Amulets used to detect shapeshifters would not have reacted in her presence before this happened. Now they will. The amulets can be countered, but only you can restore her to a completely human form.”

  Rebekka’s mind spun with the implications. She wondered how many of the brothel prostitutes had started out life fully human, only to have something happen to change them, trapping them in a nightmare of shape and a life no one would freely choose.

  Beneath her hand the leg moved, drawing her back to the task she’d come to perform. She gathered her will, but even knowing the details, her gift remained dormant. “I need to see.”

  In response there was the sound of a sheet being pulled up. It was followed by the feel of Annalise untying the blindfold and removing it.

  Rebekka blinked against the brightness. Sunlight glinted off fragile crystal flowers, a vast collection that sparkled in rainbow hues of light and artistry.

  Nothing of the woman who owned them was visible, save for where human skin turned into dark alligator hide at the thigh, and human feet became reptilian claws.

  One glance was all it took. Rebekka closed her eyes, her will and gift combining, tugging at the exposed skin, pulling it downward and forcing the retreat of anything nonhuman in its path.

  When it was done Annalise replaced the blindfold and they retraced their steps, taking a circuitous route until they were once again parked near the brothel entrance and the strip of cloth covering her eyes was removed.

  “You have a choice of payment,” Annalise said. “Between gold coins and the favors we can call in, enough to buy the freedom of several prostitutes, or this.”

  She lifted a leather-bound book from her lap and offered it to Rebekka. “Take a moment to examine it before deciding. It was written toward the end of The Last War, after chemical and biological weapons had been widely used. It belonged to a healer who was also Were. He didn’t have your gift, nor was he a medical doctor. He treated any who came to him regardless of whether they were human or his own kind.”

  Rebekka carefully opened the book and scanned the neatly printed index. The script was small and concise, written by a man who lived in the days before the supernaturals made their existence known.

  There were entries for salves and potions that aided in healing, as well as those used to reduce pain—and worse, to counter the effects of weapons she prayed no longer existed.

  Her hands tightened on leather, instinctively resisting the urge to touch the hated tattoo. The Last War had been started by religious zealots, by people determined to cleanse mankind of sin. When terror and mayhem didn’t achieve their goals, they let loose a virulent strain of a sexually transmitted disease.

  Millions had died as result, and with countries fighting for their survival and governmen
ts descending into chaos, there was no money for research or cure. Only time and the mutation of the virus had ended it. But even so, for years afterward, any human who was labeled a whore or a prostitute was marked, not just as a warning to those they lay with, but so they could be gathered up and exterminated like vermin should the engineered disease return. All this, when the weapons let loose in the name of ending war had nearly destroyed the world.

  Rebekka forced her thoughts away from a past that had played out well before her birth. She paged through the book, reading the healer’s accounts of his work. If they were to be believed—and she did—then many of the salves and potions he’d discovered and recorded were better than what she left in the brothel for those times when she wasn’t there.

  “Have you reached a decision?” Annalise asked.

  A fist tightened around Rebekka’s heart at the choice between helping only a few, Feliss among them, versus easing the suffering of many, of gaining knowledge that could be shared and passed on and didn’t depend on her presence or her gift.

  For long, agonizing moments she tormented herself with remembered images of the horrifying damage done to those prostitutes she called friends, the repeated healings. But in the end, despite the raw, jagged ache in her chest, she said, “I’ll accept the book in payment.”

  THE mewling sounds of acute distress reached Aryck as he cleared the weed-covered metal fence and collapsed walls of what had once been an exclusive residential development. He shifted form, urgency making the change so fast and smooth that between one leaping bound and another he went from four-footed to two.

  All of the cubs were in jaguar form. One lay still while the crying of the other three grew more piteous when they realized help had arrived.

  Great patches of fur had been consumed, just as Caius’s skin had been. The scent of raw muscle and blood was heavy in the air, and, underneath it, infection.

  A glance told Aryck what had happened. Debris had shifted, fallen, creating a pit and tumbling the cubs into it.

  They’d struck a canister left over from the days of war, crushed through rust, and let loose a portion of the contents. Small, bare footprints and drag marks revealed Caius’s presence, probably emerging from a hiding place to help the others since Aryck doubted the older cubs had invited him to explore with them.