Healing of the Wolf

by Cherise Sinclair

  “Need a break, yeah, what I said.” Tynan guided him to a bare spot, away from anyone. Because if there was someone wounded nearby, Donal couldn’t hold back from trying to help.

  “I’m sitting, all right?” The ground felt softer than a mattress, and he slumped, his back against a tree trunk.

  “Good. I’ll stay for a while and slap dressings on people.”

  And undoubtedly keep an eye on Donal.

  Frustration at being helpless boiled up inside. Sure, he knew better than to continue when the power was gone. All healers were taught that once the Mother’s power was exhausted, the energy came from the healer’s own body. And if too much lifeforce was used, the healer died.

  Stopping, though? Hard to do.

  He would. He had to. With an exasperated huff, Donal sat quietly, running his fingers through the stubby grass. Delicate stems, but not fragile. If walked on, the grass would bend, even break, and then send up new growth. Extremely optimistic was grass.

  Reminded him of Margery.

  Despite her past, she lived joyously. Even after so much loss, she’d been willing to open her heart and love him and Tynan.

  After this mess, we’re going to track you down and find you, sweetheart. We belong together, the three of us.

  The sound of running caught his attention.

  A shifter-soldier rushed into the clearing with someone slung over his shoulder. Bending, he gently laid the wounded male down.

  It was Alec.

  Even from across the clearing, Donal could hear Alec’s strangled wheezing.

  The shifter-soldier looked around frantically. “Where’s the healer? The cahir can’t breathe.”

  Donal managed to stand, to lurch over to where Alec lay. He set a hand on the broad chest that was covered in blood. The cahir might survive the gunshot wound to the lung—but not the nicked pulmonary artery. Bleeding, inside and out.

  No power.

  No time.

  They’d been friends since the day Donal arrived in Cold Creek.

  Knowing how the healing session would end this time, Donal set his hand on Alec’s throat. “Easy, cahir, it’ll be all right.”

  Reach deep, stop the bleeding, mend the slashed artery. Then…the lung, so vascular, so torn.

  Power flowed, painfully dragged from Donal’s own cells. Almost, almost…

  The blackness hovering at the edges of his vision closed in like a raven diving for the kill.

  Growling and shouting.

  Too close. Fear ripped through Heather as she shook the fog from her head. She tried to scramble to her feet, but the ground tilted beneath her. She dropped back into the dirt.

  Where…? What…?

  The last few memories returned—along with a burst of adrenaline.

  Scythe attacking the festival, killing. Margery’s tracks. Trailing her. Seeing the small wolf charge two mercenaries. One aiming his rifle at Margery.

  Heather had leaped onto his back, but the weapon fired. Margery fell. Heather bit down on the back of his neck even as he’d rolled to knock her loose. She’d seen the rifle barrel swinging toward her head.

  More shouts. What was happening? She had to move.

  As she rolled up onto her paws, her vision blurred—and pain stabbed into her brain. So much pain. Whining, she forced herself to stand, swaying despite having four legs.

  She tried to get her eyes to focus.

  The soldier she’d attacked was fighting a cahir-sized, naked shifter. The blond cahir hit him—left, right, left. Grabbing the stunned human, the shifter broke his neck as easily as a wolf would snap a rat’s spine.

  Farther away, a panther rose from the bloody body of the other soldier and then trawsfurred. Dark hair, dark eyes, like the deadliest of night creatures.

  Heather shook her head and cringed at the pain. Where…where was Margery?

  “She’s alive.” The English-accented voice came from behind the dark shifter. Calum was there, kneeling next to a wolf. Next to Margery.

  Heather took a step in that direction.

  Cat-graceful, the dark male stepped between her and her goal. He glanced at his kill, the rifles lying on the ground, then down the road. “I believe the mercenaries were targeting your mate, Cosantir.” His voice was as dark as his hair—with a soft French accent.

  Shivering, Heather felt her legs give out. She collapsed.

  “It’s good the wolves ruined their aim.” The dark one moved toward her.

  The blond cahir frowned at Margery, then Heather. “Two little female wolves took on armed humans?”

  “And kept my mate from getting shot in the back.” Calum’s British accent was sharper than normal. Vicki was going to be in trouble.

  With a sigh, Heather laid her muzzle on her paws. Moving was way too much work.

  “I think I like your country, Cosantir,” the dark one murmured.

  The blond cahir laughed. “Good mountains, lots of danger, courageous females. What’s not to like?”

  Calum gathered Margery up in his arms. “The healing area is north of the grounds. If you could assist?”

  The blond cahir walked over and stroked a hand over Heather’s fur. “Come, little female, it’s to the healer with you.”

  Although he was so incredibly careful as he picked her up, the movement shot daggers into her head until she could do nothing but shiver and try not to whimper.

  The dark one joined them, easing one of her paws to a more comfortable position. He ran his hand down her side. “She’s covered in blood.” He sniffed and made a huffing sound. “From several humans.”

  The blond chuckled and started walking. His voice was a low rumble under her ear. “Been busy, have you, pretty wolf?”

  His arms were like iron bands, holding her tightly to his huge chest. He radiated heat. And his scent, oh, his wild, masculine scent played havoc with her senses.

  She bent her head to his forearm and gave him a little lick. Salty, sweaty, wonderful male. She licked him again.

  Even as the dark one laughed, the blond strolled along beside the Cosantir. His deep rumbly voice was quiet and assured. “Calum, the little female licked me. I think that means she’s mine.”

  The dark one chuckled. “Ours.”

  “Bloody Canadians.” Calum huffed. “No.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Unclaimed territory - one night before the full moon

  * * *

  Something hurt. No, everything hurt, but something hurt worse than the rest.

  The intense, aching pull in the center of Margery’s chest felt like someone had roped her heart to drag it through a too-narrow opening.

  Fuzzily, she blinked. Why was she lying on the ground? In the dirt. When she moved her head, her skull felt shattered.

  She whined. Had a grizzly bit her, trying to crack her head like a walnut?

  Trying to check, she lifted her hand—no, her paw. That wouldn’t work. Panting, she trawsfurred to human.

  Even shifting hurt.

  Her hand shook as she gingerly touched the burning area above her right eyebrow. The flesh was all swollen around an incredibly painful furrow. Sticky, half-drying blood covered the side of her face.

  What…? Flashes of memory strobed her brain.

  Two mercenaries aiming at Vicki. She’d charged them. And, Gods, one of them shot her. That was a bullet furrow.

  No wonder her head hurt.

  As she pushed to a sitting position, nausea roiled in her belly.

  Was Vicki all right? And wait, a reddish wolf had attacked the one who’d shot her. Was that Heather?

  By the Gods, her memories were messed up worse than Breanne’s jigsaw puzzle.

  What about the pain in her chest? Had she been shot there, too? She ran her hands over her sternum, breasts, and ribs. Aside from the long knife slash—and a lot of bruises—she was just bloody and dirty.

  Carefully, she looked around, sucking in air against the stabbing in her head.

  A clearing. Moonlight shon
e into the center. The tree-lined edges were in shadow. Bodies lay and sat everywhere.

  Captives? Terror froze her until she sniffed and found only the wild scent of shifters, blood, and pain. No firearms or armor or humans.

  She wasn’t a prisoner.

  She was surrounded by the wounded.

  If the injured were here, where was Donal? There was no healer moving around, no deep calming voice—or ranting.

  The pain in her chest grew, inexorably dragging her attention to her right.

  Tynan was kneeling next to…next to Donal who lay so very still.

  No. No, no, no.

  The ache in her chest was from him. Her bond to him strummed with agony. She tried to stand, failed, and shifted to wolf so she could stagger on four paws between the injured to get to Tynan. To Donal.

  Tynan lifted his head before she reached him. “Meggie?” He stared at her in disbelief.

  She collapsed next to Donal, whining her questions. Her fears.

  “He did too much.” The grief in Tynan’s voice bit at her with sharp fangs. “I tried to give him power. So did Francesca who should have a bond with him. Nothing helps. His breathing is…” His voice went ragged. “Is slowing.”

  No. No, he couldn’t die.

  Fear shook her and the beginning of grief before Tynan’s words truly registered. Francesca had tried to give him power. A female he’d mated with.

  Margery had mated with him…and there was love there. They had a bond. A bond big enough to hurt like fire right now.

  Lying next to him, she rested her muzzle on his bare chest. His skin was cool. His ribcage barely moved with each breath.

  Closing her eyes, she found her lake of calm, turned it into a river…and poured power into him.

  * * *

  Donal had fallen into a universe of cold darkness.

  He woke to sunlit warmth.

  He took a breath, then a deeper one, feeling as if his lungs were stretching, as if he’d been moved out from under a massive boulder.

  Scents drifted to him. Tynan was close. There was the soft fragrance of flowers. Margery? Was that her weight? Her furry head lay on his shoulder, her paw on his chest.

  No, he knew better. She was headed for Canada.

  Yet he didn’t move. Right now, he’d prefer the fantasy to reality.

  Then he realized the smell of blood that filled the clearing included the scent of her blood.

  His eyes snapped open, and he sat up so quickly his head spun. “Are you hurt? Where are you bleeding?”

  On his other side, Tynan gripped his shoulders and steadied him. “There you are. I wasn’t sure you’d come back to us.” Tears glinted in his eyes. “Don’t do that again, mo deartháir.”

  Donal pulled in a breath as he heard the pain. “I’m sorry, brawd.”

  Slowly, he looked down—and yes, she was there. Margery. Obviously dislodged when he moved, she gave a pained whine and shifted to human. Slowly, carefully, she sat up.

  She really was there.

  In fact… The realization came slowly. She was the reason he was alive at all. “You shared power with me.”

  Her hand was on her forehead. Her face was bloody, and her brows were pulled into a pained frown. Yet her lips tilted upward into a smile. “You’re welcome.”

  By the Gods, he loved her. Gently, he pulled her closer and chuckled. “That’s what I meant to say. Thank you. You saved my life, you know.”

  Her curvy body stiffened. “I know.” She gave him a dark look. “Like Tynan said, don’t do that again.”

  He wanted to talk with her, tell her how much he loved her. But this wasn’t the time. “We’ll talk later, cariad.” Donal rubbed his cheek against hers. “Just don’t leave us again. Aye?”

  “Aye.”

  She’d come back to them. His heart felt swollen with the knowledge.

  Even as he grappled with the emotions, he frowned and moved her hand from her head. The long furrow was too clean to be from a branch. “By Herne’s holy prick, what is this? No, don’t bother to try to snow me with pixie dust; I know what that is. You put your brain-pan, you know, where your brains are, in front of a Gods-benighted, buggered-up bullet.”

  Even as his mouth kept moving, he laid his hand over the wound and healed the bruised, bleeding tissues inside her brain, the cracked skull, then the furrow.

  “There are others who are worse off,” she protested.

  As if he’d ever let her be in pain if he could help it.

  But she wouldn’t accept that answer, so he gave her the other truth, the harder one. “I need you able to move. To help.” Frowning, he healed the knife wound over her ribs.

  “Oh. Of course. What do you need?”

  And he could only smile because the response was simply…Margery. If she could help, that’s where she’d be.

  Tynan chuckled and kissed her hair. “I’ll find you some clothes, then go back to search and rescue. You okay now, cat?”

  “I am.” Donal did a quick internal assessment and felt his eyes widen. “In fact, I’m full up.”

  Margery snickered. “Healer, that sounds more like a car than a shifter.” Rising, she looked around the tent, eyes narrowed. Assessing. Triaging.

  She filled his heart to overflowing.

  As Tynan pulled him to his feet, Donal exchanged smiles with him. Their mate was back where she belonged.

  Hours later, Tynan and his crew carried the last of the wounded to the dining tent on the festival grounds.

  The battle was over. Was won—but at such a cost. His chest ached where bonds to several pack members had been severed by violent death. Dread lingered inside him because he didn’t know who’d survived…and who hadn’t.

  It wasn’t only wolves. The cats. The bears. They’d died fighting for their people. Their clans.

  With a sigh, he bent, eased the groggy panther off his shoulders and onto a blanket. He stroked the cat’s fur and murmured, “I’ll get someone over here to see you.”

  Looking around, he spotted one of the injured, and his heart lifted. “Warren.”

  “Uh. Hey, Beta.” The young male was curled up on a blanket. Bandages around his chest were bloodstained, and he winced when he tried to sit up. “You made it.”

  “As did you. I went back for you, but Donal said Ben found you first.” Tynan looked away until the stinging in his eyes diminished. “You looked pretty bad when I left you.”

  Warren gave him a rueful smile. “You told me to hide and hold out. Figured you’d bite me if I fucked that up.”

  “You figured right.” The words came out a growl Tynan hadn’t intended.

  Warren’s gaze dropped. “I wasn’t watching close enough. I almost stepped on that human.”

  “What happened was simply the way things go sometimes in a fight.” Tynan shook his head. “What no one ever tells you is how fucking exhausting a battle is. We ran for miles. Stalked, fought, killed—for hours. That kind of fear, the intensity of fighting for your life—it’s draining.”

  “Oh.” Warren rubbed his face. “I guess, yeah, I was dragging. Still…”

  “Pup, we took out six well-armed, experienced soldiers. If you hadn’t been doing an excellent job, the first one would have killed us.”

  “Six?” Warren’s mouth dropped open. “I…after the first couple, the rest are kind of a blur.”

  “You did good; You can be my battle-mate anytime.”

  The worry cleared from Warren’s expression. After helping the lad lie back down, Tynan started across the tent, looking for Donal.

  Instead, he spotted Patrin and Fell who were teasing Joe Thorson for being wounded.

  Tynan almost smiled. When the two shifter-soldiers had blundered badly upon first arriving in Cold Creek, Joe was assigned to teach them. It seemed they’d learned the werecat’s gruffness covered a caring heart.

  “Tynan,” Patrin greeted, and Fell nodded. The two looked tired but…satisfied. How much anger had the shifter-soldiers stored up for the Scyth
e in a decade of captivity?

  “Road blocks gone?” Tynan asked.

  “Yeah.” Patrin shrugged. “It got a bit dicey, but we got it done. No one escaped.”

  “We wondered…” Fell frowned. “Are we sure we got all the mercs in the forest?”

  “Calum asked the bears to spiral outward and around the area,” Tynan said. Bears had better noses than other shifters. “They’ll sniff out any human still in the forest—and ensure we have no wounded left out there.”

  Patrin smiled. “Perfect.”

  Tilting his head at the white dressing on the old werecat’s side, Tynan asked, “You all right, Joe?”

  “Caught a bullet. Donal repaired where it’d nicked the intestines, and Margery slapped a dressing over the hole. They’re a good team,” Joe said.

  Tynan looked around.

  Meggie was teaching a younger shifter how to elevate a leg and apply groin pressure to control leg bleeding until Donal could get there. A young shifter stood at the wounded female’s feet. Doing…nothing.

  To Tynan’s surprise, he spotted Donal on the other side of the tent. The cant of his head showed he was healing someone. “He’s still moving? Even with Meggie’s help, I thought he’d be flat out by now.”

  “I saw him reeling, but the banfasa hugged him, and he was all right again,” Patrin said.

  “She’s done that a few times,” Thorson agreed. “And she got this tent organized faster than a brownie on cleaning day. When the treeway cubs came in, she nabbed them for assistants and—see the one at the foot of the bed? In the red shirt?”

  “Yeah, just standing there.”

  “He’s the flag-pup. Shows Donal which shifter to heal next. Got a red one and a yellow, and Margery rearranges them so the healer never wastes his time figuring out who’s the worst off. She has it covered.”

  “That’s brilliant.” Tynan smiled. “Knowing her, she’s also keeping everyone calm, too.”

  “I thought that was my imagination.” The werecat’s eyes narrowed. “When she sat next to me to patch me up, it was like I knew everything would be all right.”

  “She has a gift.”