Healing of the Wolf

by Cherise Sinclair

  Heather returned in wolf form. Ears forward, she bobbed her head in a thank you, then trotted toward the festival grounds.

  On the parallel trail, Donal went the same direction.

  A minute later, gunfire and screaming broke the silence of the night.

  Gods, Gods, Gods, how many had she killed? The taste of blood was like a foul paste in Margery’s mouth.

  Gunfire and screams echoed off the mountains and tree trunks, seeming to come from everywhere. Her sensitive wolf’s ears rang until she felt half-deafened. The acrid stink of gunpowder created nose-wrinkling eddies in the air.

  The ugly sounds and scents revived memories of the attack on Dogwood, over and over. Her muscles twitched, wolf instincts ordering her to flee. Run away! Far, far away.

  She couldn’t.

  Here, on the east perimeter, she was one of the ground fighters for several treeway cubs. Stationed on branches above, the young shifters followed her, waited until she was positioned near the enemy, and cast their big rocks.

  While she attacked from below.

  Her nose caught the stink of another, and she sank lower. Saw the human’s uniform, weapons. Again, she fought against panic. Again, she won.

  The man’s camo clothing blended into the foliage and shadows…but foliage didn’t move in a straight line. And even when a human tried to be silent, hard-soled boots made noise.

  She stalked him. Assessed his equipment—helmet, the goggles that let him see better at night yet hindered his peripheral vision. A rifle.

  From where should she attack?

  Her stomach twisted. I’m not a killer.

  But she was now. Deep within, bonds ached where some had been broken. Members of her pack were dead. Grief firmed her resolve, even as her wolf instincts surfaced, and she bared her fangs at the cub-killer.

  Because above her, a tree branch creaked under a young shifter’s weight. Athol. Hector was in another tree. And Jamie.

  The cubs were prepared. This part was hers to do. To keep them safe. Ignoring her fear, the pain in her side, the soul-deep sickness, she moved her tail.

  Ready.

  A rock hit the soldier’s jaw from the side, two more struck his bizarre goggle things.

  He grunted—“Fuck!”—and staggered back. His rifle barrel dropped down as he grabbed his face.

  Springing upward, Margery ripped his throat open, pushed back, and darted away.

  Never stop moving.

  The first human she’d attacked had stabbed her. Only her ribcage had kept the knife from finding her heart. The long painful slice along her side still burned. Still bled.

  Behind her, the mercenary hit the ground with a thud as he choked on his own blood. The body spasmed, gurgled, and went still.

  Panting, sickened, Margery dragged the body off the trail.

  Leaving her kill, she moved farther—enough she couldn’t scent the blood—and sank beneath a thimbleberry bush. If she’d been human, she’d have been sobbing. I’m supposed to heal.

  She barely kept from whining.

  Slowly, she regained her composure. The cubs would be waiting—and if she didn’t do this, they would.

  A scent drifted to her. A panther—adult male. No, two of them. Approaching her hiding place.

  The brush moved as the two shifters joined her. Owen and Ryder. Owen shifted, edging close enough to whisper into her ear. “Good technique with the cubs but let us take the groundside part now. Go deeper into the bushes and stay safe. There are injured, banfasa. We need you alive to help them.”

  He stroked a hand down her fur, and she almost whimpered at the sense of companionship.

  When she nodded, he shifted back to panther and moved out. As he and Ryder split up, several treeway kits followed each male.

  Leaving her alone.

  She squirmed deeper into the brush and simply…stopped. Everything stopped. The black haze of exhaustion engulfed her. How long could someone be terrified and sick and angry?

  Paws quivering, she lay there, feeling the cold dirt under her belly. Wanting only to be home, to be lying in bed, Tynan’s arm over her waist, Donal’s shoulder under her head, surrounded by their scents.

  Instead, she heard the rustle of clothing. The crunch of conifer cones and needles being crushed underfoot.

  Humans on the trail. Two of them.

  How could they not smell the stench of blood? Of death?

  “Hear that?” one whispered as a rifle fired: crack, crack, crack.

  The gunfire was distinctive. Heavier. Purposeful.

  “Sniper,” the other whispered. “Probably on the road to pin down our reinforcements.”

  “Take him out, and we’ll get a bounty.”

  They moved away, not toward the festival grounds, but southward toward the road.

  A sniper? Vicki was guarding the road on this side. In human form so she could shoot.

  Margery slid out of the bushes and moved silently after the mercenaries.

  They circled to the east of the crack-crack-crack noise. They’d be behind where Vicki was aiming.

  Fear trickled like icy water into Margery’s veins. She had to stop them, but…two armed soldiers. No help to take them down. Not even the diversion of a cubling in a tree. Gods, how could she do this? She was a small wolf, not a panther or bear.

  But it was Vicki…

  Her memory held up the picture of Vicki cuddling her tiny cubs. Laughing about drunken sex. Standing beside Margery to face Pete.

  Margery growled, low and deep. No one was going to kill her friend.

  The Scythe had attacked. So many, many of them. Fear iced Heather’s veins, even in wolf form. All she wanted to do was flee the area.

  On the way to the grounds, she and Donal had attacked and killed two more mercenaries.

  The second time hadn’t been any easier than the first, and she’d thrown up again.

  How could anyone do this for a living?

  Then they’d come across a wounded werebear. The bear had killed its target, but apparently the human had gotten off a shot first. After she and Donal pulled the bear off the trail, the healer shifted to human and went to work on the appallingly gory bullet hole.

  Heather rested a hand on Donal’s shoulder and leaned down to whisper, “I’m going to circle this area to make sure there’s no Scythe nearby, then join the perimeter guard.”

  He gave her an assessing look, undoubtedly seeing the blood streaking her skin and face, the bruises from where a fist had caught her. The horror in her eyes at having killed.

  How she was barely holding on.

  But he simply gave her a half-smile of acknowledgment. They’d do what they had to do.

  The werebear was conscious and almost healed. She caught his gaze, then motioned to Donal.

  The bear nodded a silent agreement. Once the healer finished, the bear would guard his back. Because bears were exceptionally good at that sort of thing. And healers were precious.

  Shifting to wolf, Heather moved out to circle around Donal.

  East. Clear.

  North. Clear.

  West. Clear.

  South…not. There was a faint scent of gun oil, sweat, chemicals. Human.

  She followed a tiny trail through the brush, sliding up behind a Scythe mercenary. He hadn’t found Donal. No, he was kneeling at the edge of the festival grounds, rifle to his shoulder.

  Planning to shoot across the grounds at the shifters on the opposite side.

  To scat with that.

  She attacked him from the side, going for the throat—the only quick way to kill. He threw himself back, so it wasn’t a clean bite, but her fangs punctured an artery.

  She darted away, wary in case he went for his rifle that he’d dropped. But, blood spurting between his fingers, he was only half-conscious. And then dead.

  Sickness churned in her guts, but this time she held it down.

  By the Mother… She’d always considered herself a tough bitch, but this was ghastly.

 
; Panting, she gave herself a shake.

  No time to have a breakdown. She could see and smell the mercenaries. Too many of them closing in on the festival grounds.

  Fine. They might have fancy technology to use at night, but she had a nose and good ears.

  Silently, she worked her way through the forest, pleased for once to be on the smaller side. There was better cover lower to the ground.

  On the way around the perimeter, she heard a struggle and found a mercenary grappling with a male wolf. She lent a hand—well, her fangs—and the human lost.

  The wolf flicked his ears in thanks, and they went their separate ways.

  On the west side, she caught Owen’s and Ryder’s scents, and her tail made a wagging motion. If they were here, Emma and the young cubs they’d escorted were away and well hidden.

  Sniffing out the trail toward the children, she hesitated. Minette was there with the feisty small pups. Maybe she should guard the trail that led to them?

  Then she caught a different scent, a wolf moving away from the trail. Margery. Dropping her nose to the ground, Heather made a circle as she smelled out the information.

  Margery was trailing two humans.

  By the Gods, what was the banfasa thinking? Girl, you can’t take on two armed men by yourself.

  Heather followed the trail.

  Carefully, quietly, Tynan walked through a dense thicket of brush to the flat area within the deep cover. With a grunt of effort, he lowered Warren to the ground.

  The lad was groggy, still bleeding sluggishly from the knife wound to his chest.

  After the first wave of kills, the mercenaries had realized wolves were attacking from behind, and they’d lain in wait.

  Warren had blundered into a soldier crouched behind a tree, surprising them both. Even as Warren attacked, the soldier stabbed him. Tynan had been a second too late.

  But the young wolf was still alive. He had a chance.

  Tynan bent and caught the wolf’s muzzle in his hand. “Warren, listen. Stay here. Stay silent until the fighting’s over. If we win, we’ll be looking for survivors. You be one of them, you hear me? Hide and hold out. Promise me.”

  Warren sighed. His ears flickered agreement.

  Leaving his packmate was one of the hardest things Tynan had ever done.

  The fighting was close to the festival grounds now. The packs had killed many, if not most of the humans coming from the north.

  Wolves had died.

  Tynan rubbed his chest over the ache. Some of those killed were from his Cold Creek pack. And three were from the wolves he’d led. There was nothing he could have done for them or to keep Warren from being hurt. His head knew that.

  His emotions said there should have been something.

  After assigning his wolves to maintain the line, he headed east and found Patrin and Fell, then Shay and Zeb. They moved into a copse of trees to talk.

  “Sounds like some mercs arrived from the road. It’s time to get rid of them all.” Shay motioned toward the open meadow.

  The festival perimeter was active with the sharp crack of rifles. Growls. Groans. Screams. No one was foolish enough to venture onto the open grounds.

  Tynan nodded. “They must know their attack from the north failed. At this point, they’re probably hoping to capture a few shifters and retreat with what they can get.”

  “They’ll get nothing.” Patrin’s gaze was dark. “And we can’t let any get away to report back.”

  Tynan pulled in a breath. It was an ugly truth. Yet these mercenaries had come to capture females and cubs. For the good of the whole, they must be sent back to the Mother.

  “In that case, the road needs to be secured to prevent them from escaping,” Tynan said.

  “Agreed.” Shay eyed the south. “Since the cats and bears are handling the east and west, let’s leave half our wolves here to keep the north safe, then move through the other shifters to take the road. Patrin, Fell. Take your wolves on and deal with the roadblocks.”

  A minute later, they were moving again.

  As Tynan joined his wolves, heading south, he sniffed and watched for his littermate who was undoubtedly trying to keep people alive.

  Tynan rubbed his chest, feeling the intact bond to his brother. Stay safe, Donal.

  There’d been no opportunity to attack the two mercenaries before, and now Margery was out of time.

  Hidden off the trail, she watched as the soldiers knelt behind waist-high boulders on the roadside.

  Not nearly far enough away, gunfire sounded from a cluster of tall, wide-trunked redwoods on the south shoulder. The shooter was short and slender and dark haired.

  Vicki.

  The female directed her fire at a transport vehicle parked behind another one in the road. The second vehicle still had soldiers inside—who couldn’t get out without being shot.

  They were shooting back at Vicki, who changed positions frequently.

  More gunfire came from farther down the road to the east. And Margery could see more vehicles there. Wells must be there.

  Between pinning down the soldiers in the transport and dodging return fire, Vicki couldn’t watch her back carefully enough.

  With all the gunfire, screams, and shouting, she wouldn’t hear a yell of warning. She wouldn’t realize the danger until the two Scythe mercenaries shot her.

  There was only one way to keep the brave female safe. Margery shivered. Two mercenaries. No diversion.

  She wouldn’t survive this.

  Regret washed through her—and anger. She’d barely found her life, found love. She almost whimpered as the ache of wanting to be with Donal and Tynan squeezed her heart.

  But her time had run out.

  The tallest merc leaned forward, his rifle coming up. Vicki was rising for her next shot.

  With a howl of fury, Margery charged the closest soldier. Her shoulder struck, knocking him sideways. She lunged at the one with the rifle.

  He wasn’t braced against her, and her weight hit him in the side. He landed on his back.

  Spinning, she dove for his throat.

  “Get clear, man!” the other soldier yelled.

  Even as she ripped at her prey’s neck, he rammed a knee into her ribs and threw her back.

  She saw the other human’s rifle pointed at her.

  Something sprang at him. The muzzle of his rifle flashed.

  The crack of the gunshot accompanied her into darkness.

  The night was interminable. By the Gods, time seemed to flex and contract, seemingly only breaths between healing one wound and when another shifter was brought to him.

  Earlier in the night, Donal had followed the scent of blood to find each wounded shifter and healed them there. But a while back, Tynan had found him and helped set up a healing station a short way north of the festival grounds. The clearing was surrounded by densely packed trees, so the injured were somewhat protected from stray bullets.

  After positioning wolves to guard the area, Tynan had returned to the fight.

  Donal scrubbed his hands over his face. There were too fucking many injured. They kept coming, and he had little power remaining, even though he was healing only the most critically wounded, leaving the less serious damage for others to bandage.

  Nia, a female he’d mated last moon, carried in a young wolf, then frowned at Donal who was moving to the shifter. “Goddess bless, you look terrible, Donal. You need energy.”

  He nodded, but…she wasn’t the first to try to help. He had no hope.

  And, when she hugged him, he tried again, seeking the bond that should be there from the mating. There was no bond. None at all. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he said gently, not willing to tell her she hadn’t helped.

  She kissed his cheek, shifted, and headed back out into the fighting. Mother of All, watch over her. Over every shifter.

  And while you’re at it, the gift of some extra power wouldn’t hurt, he thought cynically.

  Groans and whimpering came from the wou
nded lying on the ground around him. This was his worst nightmare—not having enough power to save everyone.

  He went down on one knee beside a rough-looking werecat from eastern Washington.

  “Sounds like the gunfire’s moved.” The shifter turned his head to hear better. “Gone farther away to the southeast and southwest.”

  As Donal put a bandage on the bleeding thigh wound, he listened. “My littermate said the wolves plan to attack any Scythe roadblocks.”

  “Ah, that’s it. Good.” The male’s voice was weak. Too weak for only that knife wound.

  Donal frowned. “Roll over.”

  With a groan, the male tried, needing help for even that.

  Donal ran his hands across the male’s back. Ah, there. “You got struck here?”

  “Rifle butt.” A smile. “Before he died.”

  “He got revenge. Your kidney’s hemorrhaging.” Hands positioned over the area, Donal concentrated, repairing the intricate blood vessels and tubes of the kidney. Normally, he’d mend the damaged flesh over it as well.

  Not this time. “You’re going to piss blood for a day or so, but you’ll live.”

  “Thanks, healer. The North Cascades is lucky to have you.”

  Luck? It seemed in short supply this night. “Get the cubs to bring you water and drink it before you sleep.” With an effort, he pushed to his feet, although his knees felt like stems too thin to support his weight.

  His shoulders sagged as moonlight revealed all the wounded in the clearing. Some lying on the ground, some sitting. He wished to hell Margery was here to help with first aid, to calm them, even to tell him which one to see next.

  Each few minutes, he had to reassess the injured and assign priorities. And take the time to give instructions to the uninjured on how to help the ones he couldn’t see yet.

  Given the way he felt, he doubted he’d get to them all.

  He staggered toward the one he thought was most urgent.

  Tynan’s hand under his arm kept him from falling.

  “Where’d you come from?” Donal muttered.

  “Stubborn cat, take a break or you’ll be dead and no use to anyone.”

  “I just…”