Healing of the Wolf

by Cherise Sinclair

  Limping. By the Gods, no shifter should be handicapped in that way. When her injury occurred, there must have been no healer to make it right. Now, it was too late to fix.

  When she moved around his table, their gazes met again. Her big hazel-brown eyes held a greenish tint reminiscent of deep summer forests. Lovely eyes. And haunted.

  She seemed familiar, but from where? A Gathering, maybe? No. Although he pushed himself to mate with many females, he’d never been so uncouth as to forget someone he’d been with.

  They’d never mated. More’s the pity. Perhaps—

  Beside him, Sarah deliberately rubbed her breasts over his arm and growled at the little female. A canine warning off another.

  “Sarah,” Donal warned and moved far enough to create space between them. Territorial behavior wasn’t permitted at Gatherings, and Sarah had no reason whatsoever to act possessively. As a healer, he would never attach himself to one mate, even if he could find someone who appealed to him and Tynan.

  The lovely stranger pulled open the door. For a second, the light from the wall sconce gleamed off the sun-lightened streaks in her rich brown hair, and then she was gone.

  Sarah crossed her arms over her breasts and scowled. “Where did that female come from? I never saw her before.”

  “She’s from Ailill Ridge, as it happens.” Followed by a big, over-muscled male, Sarah’s sister, Gretchen, sat down at the table. Tall, fair, and blonde, Gretchen was nothing like her sister…except in personality. The Daonain usually birthed males, and more than one female in a litter was exceedingly rare. As a result, the sisters had been thoroughly spoiled.

  “Good morning,” Donal said politely. He didn’t know the male. Or Gretchen either, despite her flirting at Gatherings. He saved his time and efforts for local females—the ones who would be available to donate power if an emergency arose.

  “Healer, this is Caleb, one of the beta wolves from Rainier’s pack,” Gretchen said. “Caleb, this is Donal, the healer in North Cascades Territory.”

  “Good to meet you,” Donal said, getting a nod from the male who was built like a beefy bull.

  “So, Gretch”—Sarah pointed toward the door—“who was the female?”

  “Margery Lavelle,” Gretchen said. “She’s one of those Dogwood captives.”

  Ah, perhaps that was why she seemed familiar. A shame that night was such a haze in his memory.

  “She’s the female assigned to Ailill Ridge,” Gretchen said. “More’s the pity.”

  Donal frowned. “Why a pity?”

  Having treated Darcy, Donal knew something of the horrors the hostages had suffered. If the little stranger was having problems, maybe he could intervene.

  “She’s as nasty as a weasel,” Gretchen said. “Like how she pretends she’s a banfasa, only we all think she’s lying.”

  A banfasa? Donal stiffened. Although healers and banfasas worked well together in some territories, sometimes, one or the other grew territorial. Although his birth town had lacked a banfasa, he’d run into them later. Like during his apprenticeship. There, the local banfasa, Gil, had not only been incompetent, but he’d hated Healer Quany—all healers, actually. Donal winced, thinking of the damage the banfasa’s lack of skill had caused.

  “Gretch, what else?” Sarah leaned forward. “Go on.”

  “This week, Caleb almost bled to death because Margery insisted on caring for her friends first.” Gretchen scowled.

  Caleb nodded. “Even though Gretchen asked her to see to me first.”

  “That’s not good.” Playing favorites was unethical. Wrong.

  Gretchen’s mouth twisted, turning her platinum beauty into something hard. “You’d think she’d be good for the town, but she’s always disappearing—like today.”

  “Doesn’t she tell Pete or someone when she’s going to be unavailable?” As Cold Creek’s healer, Donal had taught the sheriff’s dispatcher—another Daonain—where to send the injured for first aid when he wasn’t around. Leaving town without warning, especially during a Gathering night, was deplorable. With tempers and testosterone high, a full moon was the worst day of the month for injuries.

  “She didn’t talk to Pete,” Caleb said. “Fuck, he’s going to start shredding things.”

  Rainier’s Cosantir had the temperament of an annoyed badger.

  Gretchen shook her head. “Really, although she knows one end of a bandage from another, she’s not very good at the job. I don’t think she had any real training at all.”

  “Of course not.” Sarah shrugged indifferently. “She was in that Scythe place during the years she should have been an apprentice.”

  True enough. The poor female. Sympathy softened Donal’s tone. “Tell Pete he can send her up here, and I’ll train her.”

  Donal wasn’t about to go to Ailill Ridge. Years ago, looking for a home, he’d paused there, but the town had an unhappy atmosphere. Pete had never forgiven him for walking away.

  “You’re so wonderful, Donal. But it wouldn’t work.” Gretchen gave him a sweet smile. “Margery resents the God-called—and says healers are stupid and lazy. She’d never be willing to work with you.”

  Donal’s mouth tightened. She sounded more and more like old Gil. How many times had he and Healer Quany needed to fix the incompetent banfasa’s mistakes? Or worse, see scarring that wouldn’t have happened if the banfasa had sent the shifter to a healer. “In that case, I hope Pete can find a different way to train her.”

  While help would be nice, it was just as well that no banfasa had decided to live in Cold Creek.

  Chapter Four

  Cold Creek, North Cascades Territory - day after full moon

  * * *

  Cold Creek was a charming town, Margery decided as she stopped on Main Street’s center island.

  With a relieved sigh, she sat on one of the wood-and-iron benches to give her aching ankle a rest. Touring a town on foot was hard work.

  Earlier, in the B&B, the owner, Rebecca, had served a great breakfast and lingered to gossip with Heather. The dining room had been filled with shifters who’d come to Cold Creek for the Gathering. Heather knew most of them and had introduced Margery before leaving for her mother’s Elder Village. They’d all been so welcoming.

  As Margery walked around downtown, the people she passed greeted her with nods and smiles. It was so different from Ailill Ridge.

  Looking around, she smiled. Rather than being all concrete and buildings, the downtown had tall shade trees, antique streetlights, and benches everywhere. Flower beds on the island and sidewalk planters were bright with yellow daffodils and pink hyacinths.

  The town was…pretty.

  “I want to stay here,” Margery murmured.

  Could she? Pete would be angry, but in the note she left, she hadn’t said where she was going. Just that she wouldn’t be back. Even if he knew she was here, what could he do? Surely Cosantirs didn’t chase down shifters who left their territory.

  Okay, then.

  Step one: Find a job. Not as a banfasa, even if that was where her experience and talents lay. She wouldn’t venture into that trap again—not until she found out if Rainier Territory’s treatment of her was normal or not. No, she’d do something else for a job. She was good with people, and really, anything that let her work with others would make her happy.

  Anticipation filled her until her blood felt as if it was zinging in her veins. Rising, she headed for the first place Rebecca had mentioned.

  Yes, the sign was there. Pushing open the door to Angie’s Diner, she walked in. Gleaming wooden floors and chairs, blue checked tablecloths, and wooden ceiling fans created a welcoming atmosphere. A couple of customers were drinking coffee and eating pastries.

  A middle-aged blonde woman stood behind a glass-fronted display and counter on the left. “Hi there. Take a seat anywhere.”

  “Um…” Catching the scent of the wild, Margery realized the female was a shifter. She straightened her shoulders. “Actually, I’m not here to
eat. I saw the Part-time Help Wanted sign in your window.”

  “You’re Daonain.” The female gave Margery a slow scrutiny, before smiling. “I heard a Dogwood villager was at the Gathering last night—one of the captives.”

  Margery tried not to tense. Was being an ex-captive good or bad? “That would be me.”

  “Do you drink coffee?”

  Margery blinked at the way the conversation had veered. “Uh, yes?”

  “Well, then, let’s talk. I’m Angie O’Neal, by the way.”

  “Margery Lavelle.”

  Picking up two cups and a pot, Angie led the way to a table in the corner. As Margery sat, the female poured the coffee and handed over a cup. “Where have you been living this winter?”

  “In Ailill Ridge.”

  Lifted blonde brows asked for more. For why she was leaving.

  Anxiety set up a twisting ache in Margery’s gut. She didn’t want to present herself as a pitiful survivor of abuse who’d been taken advantage of by a town. That wasn’t how she wanted to see herself either. Her tone needed to be relaxed when speaking about the past months.

  “Yes. In Rainier Territory.” She sat back in her chair. “I learned a lot from living there, but I’m ready for a change. Heather recommended Cold Creek.”

  “Heather Sutharlan? She brought you to the Gathering last night?”

  Margery nodded, hearing the pleasant change in the diner owner’s voice. Heather was known here—and liked.

  “In that case, have you ever waited tables before?”

  “No, ma’am. But I learn quickly, and I get on well with people.” Usually. Except for some of the Ailill Ridge shifters who turned every interaction into predator versus prey. By the Goddess, no matter what the mangy wolves thought, she wasn’t prey.

  “That’s a good start.”

  Margery offered her best smile. “I have an excellent memory, and I’m good with numbers. I work hard, and”—the Ailill Ridge grocer had complained about his late-arriving help—“I know how to show up on time.”

  Angie laughed. “Sold.”

  The rush of victory made Margery want to leap and dance.

  “The job is five days a week. You’ll work split shifts to cover the lunch and supper crowds. Part-time at first, possibly full-time, eventually.”

  As Angie spoke about waitressing, Margery’s smile widened. She could do this job. The amount of time on her feet would hurt her ankle, but there was nothing new about that.

  “Where will you be staying?” Angie asked.

  “I-I’m not sure. I was hoping Heather would have suggestions.”

  “Do you like communal living or—”

  Margery shook her head. Yet how fussy could a pauper be? “I…don’t really like living with others. Maybe with being so isolated from each other in the compound, I got used to being alone. My goal—eventually—is to rent a really inexpensive house or apartment.”

  “Huh. Here I’d pegged you as a wolf.”

  Wolves were supposed to be sociable, but the last thing she wanted was to be dumped in with unfriendly strangers again. If she admitted to being a wolf, that would happen. Roger had insisted wolves didn’t live alone—especially not female wolves.

  But Daonain customs said a shifter didn’t have to divulge her animal and asking directly was considered rude.

  “Do you know of any non-communal places?” Margery asked, ignoring Angie’s hint.

  Rather than taking offense, the female huffed in amusement. “The territory provides temporary housing for shifters moving here—ones who’ve obtained a job—but the houses are shared.”

  Margery’s hopes dropped.

  “However, a shifter recently returned to the Mother.” Angie’s eyes showed her grief at the death. “Leo was old and ill and left his little house a mess. It’s too dirty to sell as is. However, it still has all his furnishings, dishes and linens and everything. Would you want to clean the house and yard in exchange for free rent for a couple of months? It would give you time to figure things out.”

  “As it happens, I’m an expert cleaner.” The Scythe, her nurse mentor, and her communal house duties had seen to that. “I’ll take it, no matter how much of a mess it is.”

  “You jump right in, don’t you?” Angie grinned. “But good enough. I’ll tell Calum you’ll take the house. You can start work here tomorrow at six a.m. sharp.”

  Yes, yes, yes.

  Angie held out her hand. “Welcome to Cold Creek.”

  Margery grinned and shook firmly. She would be the best worker ever.

  Tynan stepped back to survey their kitchen—all rearranged. Plates, bowls, glasses in this cupboard. Food items in that one. Logical enough. Well, logical to him, anyway. His littermate apparently thought canned soup should be kept beside the bowls—or maybe he’d simply been bored and shoved everything up there last time he’d shopped.

  When Tynan moved in a few months ago, he learned that Donal hadn’t changed a bit since they were cubs. The healer kept everything neat in his clinic, but the house? By the Gods, he was still messier than a garbage gnome.

  Smiling, Tynan shut the cupboard door. He didn’t really care about the disorder. It was too fecking great to be back where he belonged—with the Daonain and with his brother again.

  After helping rescue the Scythe hostages last fall, Tynan resigned from the Seattle police force. In the mountains, he’d lived in wolf form until the wildness crept back into his soul. Gradually, he’d spent more time in Cold Creek and with Donal, getting to know his littermate again.

  As cubs, he and Donal had always known they’d live together. Even with Tynan stuck in the city, their plans hadn’t changed. So they’d bought this house together, one big enough for them both, a mate and cubs, and Donal’s healing clinic—even though it’d taken years for Tynan to finally leave Seattle.

  He was here now.

  He smiled, remembering when he’d fostered with relatives in Ireland. As police officers, his uncles were an essential part of the village—saving lives, protecting, making things better. And they were heartily loved by their mate, cubs, and grandcubs.

  Living with a littermate, sharing their mate, having cubs, enjoying fulfilling work. His uncles had shown him what truly mattered in life. What he wanted for himself.

  A noise caught his attention.

  Donal was escorting a male shifter from the clinic to the front door. He handed the limping shifter over to a female waiting on the porch, turned, and saw Tynan in the kitchen.

  “Finished for the day?” Tynan asked.

  “For the moment, at least.” Donal rolled down his shirtsleeves and pulled the leather band out of his black hair. “It’s spring. Surging hormones mean stupid shifters having fights, or falling off mountains, or running into trees, or leaping into ice-filled creeks.”

  Tynan snorted. “You mean like that time you tried to out-jump another panther and landed in a ravine?”

  “For Herne’s sake, I was thirteen.”

  “And clumsier than a drunken dwarf on ice.”

  Donal thumped an elbow against Tynan’s ribs as he walked past. “Is there anything in this place to eat?”

  “I made you a sandwich when I made mine.” Tynan pointed to the fridge. “Why don’t you have a female around to cook for you?”

  Even as he said it, he grinned. In the human world, his female officers would have walloped him for such a question.

  “More hindrance than help.” Donal opened the fridge and got his sandwich. “Cooking isn’t what I’m after in a female.”

  Tynan leaned against the counter and studied his brother.

  Healers were called by the Goddess to channel Her energy and heal the Daonain—and females chased the God-called like coyotes after a hare. It really was odd that Donal hadn’t found anyone.

  All the years Tynan lived in Seattle, he’d feared Donal would find a mate just for himself. Normally, littermates lived together and shared their female—but normally, one of them wasn’t sent to live i
n a human city for a decade.

  “All right, I’ll bite,” Tynan said. “What are you after in a mate?”

  “Wrong question. I don’t want a mate.” Donal sat down at the table with his sandwich and a glass of water. “I simply need females who have an ample amount of power.”

  Energy for healing came from the injured and the healer—and a healer could easily drain himself and die. However, shifters who had a mating bond with the healer could offer their energy.

  Tynan stared, unsure whether to admire or be appalled by Donal’s reasoning. “Is that why you exhaust yourself mating with so many females during the full moon? To use them as batteries?”

  “Judgmental much?” Donal scowled. “Yes, that’s why I mate with multiple females at Gatherings, even when I’m not particularly interested.”

  If the female gave off an aroused scent, a male could usually perform. The thought was unappealing. “You’re stronger than most healers. Do you come up short on power a lot?”

  “No, but more often in the past year or so.” Donal pushed his plate away. The lines around his silver-gray eyes, the same color as their mother’s who’d also been a healer, deepened.

  “What changed?” Tynan opened the window over the sink to let the spring breeze in.

  “Human towns are moving closer, and hellhounds come with them. I used to heal mostly clumsy shifters who jumped the wrong ravines or ones who fought over a female. Now, every month or so, I get cahirs savaged by a hellhound. And fucking car accidents. Multiple patients with life-threatening wounds.”

  A healer’s energy was finite. “I see the problem.”

  “Aye.” Donal’s shoulders sagged. “It’s not only the hellhounds and human technology, brawd. The Scythe are after us. At that compound last fall, I emptied myself healing—and still almost lost people.”

  Tynan’s mouth tightened. After passing out, Donal had roused and tried to keep healing. If Tynan hadn’t yanked him away, he would’ve died. “You’re catching a scent of the future in the wind?”