Healing of the Wolf

by Cherise Sinclair

  Or maybe Pete had lied to her.

  She took a big gulp of her coffee. And her determination crystalized. “I am leaving this place.”

  She’d go somewhere—anywhere—else. Out of Pete’s territory. When she found a new town, she wouldn’t tell people she was a banfasa. There were other jobs in the world, ones that let a person be normal. She would be normal.

  Well, mostly normal. She’d still have a weak ankle and—she drew a fingertip over the long scar on her cheek—a less than attractive face. But she’d be like other shifter females who worked at jobs and got paid and lived where they wanted.

  Or would leaving be stupid? Anxiety tugged on her nerves like stitches being removed. Food and a place to live were necessary for survival. If she left, she might starve. Die.

  The Cosantir was clever the way he’d trapped her in this cage. She growled. “I’m a shifter. I don’t do cages.”

  A female laughed. “That’s good to hear.”

  Margery’s head snapped around so quickly her neck muscles protested. A lanky redhead stood at the foot of the steps.

  Caught talking to herself, she could only grin ruefully. “Hey, Heather. What brings you to Ailill Ridge?”

  The wolf ran a business in a nearby town and occasionally showed up for pack runs. “I was visiting my littermates’ ranch and swung by to say hi to your neighbor.” Heather gestured to the house next door.

  “Oh. Well. Want some coffee?”

  “Nope, I’m good. But I’ll join you for a minute or two.” Heather came up the steps and took the chair next to Margery. “So, what cage are you in?”

  “Um…”

  “Yes, I’m nosy as a werecat.” Heather grinned. “No, I’m not ashamed of it.”

  Margery hesitated. Should she ask Heather for help? No, that would be unwise. Heather’s loyalty was to the Cosantir and the pack alpha, not a newcomer. Giving up the momentary hope of escape, Margery settled for a bland response. “I guess you could say we’re all in cages when it comes down to it, right?”

  “Wrong. There are cages and there are cages. I’m guessing whatever one you’re in is making you miserable.” Although Heather looked to be in her mid-thirties, her assured manner said older, maybe fifties. The Daonains’ slower aging made it difficult to guess.

  “I can’t promise I have answers,” Heather added, “but I can promise what you say will go no further.”

  “I…” The longing to be heard was impossible to resist. “It’s like this: Although I work as a banfasa and clean the communal house, I only get room and board. No money.” Her mouth twisted. “I don’t even get to choose what I eat.” Not since Portia had arrived.

  “Room and board and no money?” Heather straightened. “And you’re stuck cleaning and being a banfasa. Girl, that comes to less than even minimum wage.”

  “What’s a minimum wage?”

  “Oh boy, I forget sometimes that you were a captive.” Heather shook her head. “We’ll discuss minimum wages another time. What I’m saying is that your recompense seems unfair. Have you talked to the Cosantir?”

  “Yes. He disagreed and…” Margery pulled in a breath, unsure how much she should share.

  “Keep going.”

  “I overheard Roger say that not paying me is deliberate. It’s a way to ensure I can’t leave.”

  “A crow-cursed cage is right,” Heather muttered.

  “I don’t know all the rules though. Am I allowed to leave?”

  “Of course you are. You’re an adult.”

  “I know they assigned us, the Dogwood villagers, to specific towns,” Margery offered in case she was missing something.

  “That was to make you harder to find, especially at first.” Heather put her feet up on the railing. “Right now, if too many of you congregated in one place, the Cosantirs might ask you to spread out, simply as a precaution. But there’s no reason you can’t leave this town and find one more to your liking. You’re no different than the unmated males who sometimes wander for years before settling. Or the ones who think they should visit every Gathering in the country.”

  Oh Goddess, there is a Gathering tonight.

  Margery’s stomach tightened at the thought. Like all fertile female shifters, she’d go into heat with the rising of the full moon. Each territory held a monthly Gathering for unmated shifters where the males would vie for the females—and the females chose those who interested her. With the Daonain population so low, the Gatherings mingled the genes and increased the birthrate. Multiple males increased the odds for twins or triplets, with each baby from a different sire. “I’d forgotten it’s full moon.”

  “That’s right.” Heather tilted her head in a wolf-like movement. “A couple of my friends were raised by humans and found Gatherings uncomfortable at first. Since you spent the last decade with humans, how do you feel about full moons?”

  “Uncomfortable is a good word.” Margery drew her legs up and rested her chin on her knees.

  The month after getting out of Seattle, she’d experienced her first full moon heat, and her body simply took over. “It was amazing to actually feel desire. The sex was fun.” A little overwhelming, too. “It’s just…the Gathering house gets so crowded, and the males are rather aggressive.”

  Too many of them reminded her of the brutal Scythe, although the shifters eventually backed off if they couldn’t capture her interest. Some were rude about it—especially the pack betas, Brett and Caleb, who acted as if her lack of desire for them was an insult.

  There was always a lot of shoving, yelling, and brawling too. “I don’t want to sound pathetic, but in the Scythe compound, if a male raised his voice, it meant a female would get caned.” Or beaten right into the ground.

  “Oh, scat, I get it. The Gatherings here in Rainier Territory have turned rougher than they used to be. Too violent for someone with your history.” Heather tapped a finger on her chin, thinking.

  As the silence lengthened, Margery sipped her coffee and watched a pixie in a nearby tree. It’d found a patch of spring sun to enjoy while nibbling on a leaf bud.

  “Okay.” Heather pulled her feet off the railing. “First of all, not all Gatherings are as bad as here in Ailill Ridge. I don’t like fighting, either, and since the Gatherings in the North Cascades are calmer, I time my visits to my mother in that Elder Village and mo leanbh in Cold Creek for the full moon.”

  Her baby? “I didn’t know you had cubs.”

  “Sorcha isn’t the baby of my blood; I was given the honor of serving as her caomhnor, her guardian-protector.” Heather’s smile showed the baby was very loved.

  “Darcy, one of our Dogwood villagers, is in Cold Creek.” Or she had been last fall.

  Despite not being allowed to talk in the Scythe compound, the Dogwood captives had still grown close—and Margery missed them.

  Having her brother nearby might have helped, but around the New Year, all the shifter-soldiers were sent to winter in the remote Elder Villages to amend their violent reactions and relearn shifter traditions and rules. She’d returned from her two weeks in the Elder Village a few days before Oliver was sent there. They’d barely had time to talk, share experiences, and show off their animal forms to each other.

  It was spring now. Would Oliver ever come back to her?

  Pushing the pitiful thought away, Margery asked, “Do you know how Darcy is doing?”

  “Incredibly well, actually. She got lifemated to two wonderful males and has started a repair business.”

  Lifemated? Darcy? Margery blinked, remembering the two males who’d hovered over her friend when she was shot. Had that been them? “Good for her. There’s no one who deserves happiness more.”

  “Want to go see her?”

  “What?”

  Heather grinned. “Let me rephrase. Would you like to attend the Gathering in Cold Creek tonight and stay there a couple of days?”

  The air grew thin all of a sudden. “Really?”

  “Why not? This evening, I’m driving t
o Cold Creek for their Gathering. After seeing Sorcha, I’ll visit Mom’s Elder Village for a couple of days. Meantime, you could stay in Cold Creek, see Darcy, and decide if you like the town.” Heather lifted her eyebrows. “Yes?”

  Margery hugged herself as excitement tingled in her blood. She could leave this place. And never come back.

  Yes. Whether she liked Cold Creek or not, she wouldn’t return to Ailill Ridge. In fact, she’d leave a note for Pete with the grocer, so he’d know she was gone for good.

  “Yes,” she told Heather. “Absolutely yes.”

  Chapter Three

  Cold Creek, North Cascades Territory - full moon

  * * *

  The North Cascades Territory Gathering was very different from Rainier’s. So much better, Margery decided. Quieter. Friendlier.

  Despite her limp and scarred face, she’d been fairly popular with the males.

  “Let me find you a table.” The shifter who’d escorted her down from the mating rooms had his arm around her shoulders as if unwilling to let her go. They’d had a pleasant mating, and to her delight, he had a sense of humor. It was really fun to laugh during sex.

  Spotting an empty table, he guided her across the tavern and pulled the chair out for her.

  “Thank you.” She sat and smiled up at him.

  “Thank you.” The werebear patted her shoulder and took himself off.

  Margery leaned back, straightening the pretty top that Heather had given her.

  Looking around, she tried to spot the redhead in the crowded room. No success, which wasn’t a surprise. Since Gatherings were all about matings, females didn’t stay together, especially at first.

  But the moon was setting, and the Gathering was almost over. If she didn’t find Heather, she’d head back to their bed and breakfast room by herself.

  For the first time tonight, she wasn’t surrounded by males and had a chance to examine her surroundings. Rather than in a house, the North Cascades Gathering was in a huge tavern, which was owned by the Cosantir. The shifters were well-behaved on the whole, although a male would occasionally burst out with a masculine challenge to all comers to gain a female’s interest.

  Fighting, however, was taken outside. Unlike Pete, this Cosantir supervised the Gathering and didn’t tolerate brawling inside. In fact, the werebear said the Cosantir himself was tending the bar.

  She turned to look.

  Dear Goddess…

  Leaning on the bar, the dark-haired Cosantir surveyed the crowd. A terrifying amount of power shimmered around him. His gaze landed on her, pinning her in place, stealing her breath, and then he nodded politely before turning his attention elsewhere.

  She carefully turned her chair so she wasn’t facing him before letting out a soft, “Whew.” Don’t stare at the scary Cosantir. No wonder there were no fights when he was around.

  Still…scary Cosantir or not, she far preferred this Gathering to Rainier’s.

  “Who are you looking at, Donal?” A well-endowed brunette sat down beside the single male at a nearby table. “Seriously? That stumpy one? She looks like something a werecat wouldn’t bother to drag in, even if the cat was starving.”

  Margery hoped she wasn’t the stumpy one in question.

  But the female was staring right at Margery. Ouch. Well, all right. The rude statement wasn’t a falsehood. Margery was short, not particularly pretty, and the scar didn’t help.

  She glanced at the male and blinked. Tall and lean with cheekbones sharper than knives—the mesmerizing healer from the Scythe garage, the one who’d taken their trackers out. Donal. No wonder his name was familiar.

  The way his thick black hair spilled over his pure white shirt made her fingers curl with a desire to comb through the strands.

  When the brunette wrapped her hands around his biceps, clinging like a burr on a wolf pelt, the oddest pain sliced deep into Margery’s heart. Talk about stupid.

  Margery Lavelle, why would you think you could ever attract a male like him?

  His silvery gaze met Margery’s for an infinite, stomach-tightening second before he responded to the female tugging on his arm and turned away.

  Without saying anything to Margery.

  No recognition had shown in those eyes she would never forget. The way he’d tended to her and the other captives left an impression on her, but to him, she must have been just another face among many. No one memorable…which shouldn’t bother her as much as it did.

  Margery noticed the female was scowling at her.

  As the animosity sent a chill down her spine, she rose. No need to stay where she was uncomfortable.

  On the far side of the tavern, a cheerfully crackling fire drew her. Ignoring the shifters seated near the stone fireplace, Margery remained standing, holding her hands toward the flames.

  Two salamanders danced in the fire, their sinuous red bodies twining and spinning in a celebration of their element.

  “You guys are gorgeous,” she whispered.

  Hearing her, they blinked black eyes like cold coals and leapt higher in a fountain of flickering sparks.

  “Aye, I’m going to have to look for work soon.” A male’s compelling baritone came from the shifters behind her. “It’s resting I’ve been, but the itch is on me to do something.”

  The Irish accent was familiar. He sounded like the male who’d bossed the shifters in the Scythe garage. The one named Tynan.

  Warily, she checked over her shoulder.

  It was him.

  Standing, Tynan had one foot resting on the coffee table, his forearms crossed on his raised thigh as he spoke to his friends on the couch. A big-boned Gaelic male with fair skin and blunt features, he seemed even taller and more broad-shouldered than last fall. His square jaw looked purely stubborn—and somehow sent a low hum, accompanied by a wave of heat, through her body.

  No. Absolutely not. He might be wearing jeans and a T-shirt here, but the memory of him in a uniform shirt and weapons belt chilled her.

  As if he felt her attention, his head lifted. When his intent gaze met hers, his head tilted slightly. If he’d been in wolf form, his ears would have turned forward. After saying something to his friends, he straightened and walked toward her.

  No, no, no, no. He even moved like a guard, shoulders military straight, head high.

  She tensed, anticipating a blow from his cane.

  But he wouldn’t—of course he wouldn’t. What in the world was wrong with her? Nevertheless, even though she knew—knew—he wasn’t a Scythe guard, she fled.

  Safely out of reach, she glanced over her shoulder.

  His gaze trapped hers. He wasn’t following, merely watching her intently, his eyes a clear, clear blue that filled her world, leaving no room for fear or anger.

  Then his gaze released her, and he turned to rejoin the others.

  He wouldn’t come after her, not here, because, unlike in the human world, here, the females chose. Whatever had attracted his interest in her was over.

  Good. This is good.

  So why did she feel the oddest sense of disappointment?

  * * *

  Frowning, Tynan returned to the sitting area where he’d been talking with Nia, a giggly little female he’d mated earlier, and Kevin, one of the Murphy brothers.

  Kevin grinned. “The female didn’t like your scent? That’s a first.”

  “Not a first, no.” But rare enough he’d been surprised, especially since her scent had initially indicated interest. “I have a feeling her head and her hormones weren’t in agreement.”

  “Yeah, I get that sometimes.” Kevin slapped his hefty chest, then tugged on his shirt. “The females, they like the muscles, but they see my old clothes and decide richer is better.”

  Nia frowned. “I don’t know her. She doesn’t live in Cold Creek.”

  Watching the female cross the room toward the door, Tynan shook his head. “Her scent was familiar.” And appealing.

  Where had he seen her before? Short and curvy, wi
th breasts and an ass that would overflow his hands. She had a long pale oval face with a pointed chin that said stubborn, and a full lower lip he wanted to nibble on. He wouldn’t have forgotten if he had touched her in the past, held her close, and looked into those eyes as her wariness turned into passion.

  A scar marred one side of her face.

  His eyes narrowed. She was limping.

  Ah, aye, that was it. He’d seen her the night they rescued the Scythe hostages. When he almost lost his brother. Poor Donal had almost no memory of that night—or perhaps his brother was lucky. Tynan still had nightmares, especially of the humans he’d killed. “She’s one of the Dogwood villagers.”

  In fact, she was the one who’d stayed to tend the injured males.

  She looked better now. No bruising on her face. No longer emaciated.

  “I thought Darcy was the only Dogwood villager in Cold Creek,” Nia said.

  “She is.” Tynan considered. “The captives had all winter to adjust to being free and living as shifters again.”

  “Eh. Betcha a bunch will want to wander after being trapped for years,” Kevin said. The Murphy brothers were more known for brawn than brains, but they had tender hearts for the females.

  “Sure they will. It couldn’t have been an easy winter for them.” Tynan dropped into a chair, feeling a tug of sympathy for the little female. “Merely living in the city for so long affected me. I can’t imagine being kept captive and raised by humans.”

  Nia’s gaze was sad. “Darcy had a hard time. Still does sometimes.”

  “Aye, I’ve talked with her about the differences between human and Daonain culture.”

  In Tynan’s veins, the low mating hum faded away. It was morning. The full moon had set, and the Gathering was over. Time to go home.

  As the little Dogwood villager headed toward the tavern door, Tynan had the oddest desire to go after her.

  Which was obviously the last thing she wanted.

  * * *

  Still at the table near the door, Donal watched the petite, curvy female returning from across the room. Unfortunately, not to join him. Shoulders tense, movements stiff, she was headed for the door.