Margery frowned, looking more closely.
Another injured male had froth on his lips, and each labored breath made a whistling sound. A pierced lung? The other young male stood over him, obviously at a loss for what to do.
Dear Goddess. The healer was down. And the helpers weren’t trained.
She took a step forward. Would they be angry if she offered to help?
Her chin went up. Too bad. The males had been injured saving the Dogwood villagers. Some might be brothers of the hostages. They might die here, bleeding out from lack of skillful tending.
She walked over, still carrying the bag of dressing supplies.
Stopping beside the lung injury, she said to the uninjured young male. “Let me take care of him.”
“You?”
Irritation with his surprise shoved away her fear. “Yes, me. You need assistance, and I can do it.”
He hesitated, then called, “Tynan, this female wants to help.”
The big male in charge looked over. His clear blue eyes held hers in an impersonal assessment that made her shiver. Every instinct told her to back away, but the wounded shifter was fighting for every breath. He needed her.
“Let her help.” Tynan turned to Thorson, who was standing by the loaded SUV. “We’ll bring her with us when we leave. Get the rest of them out of here.”
“Aye.” Thorson gave her a thin, appreciative smile.
She didn’t bother to respond. Kneeling close enough that the injured shifter could feel the soothing warmth of her leg, she dug through the supplies for an occlusive dressing. “Easy there, it’s going to be all right. Breathe out for me,” she said and applied the dressing, pressing down the three sides.
Once he was cared for, she moved to a gunshot wound, a dislocated shoulder, a stab wound. More injured appeared.
As she splinted a fractured arm, a pair of wolves padded into the garage and changed into human forms.
Wolves. Mama had been a wolf.
As she watched them, she remembered that Darcy had been able to shift. Would leaving the prison mean the rest of captives might be able to trawsfur, as well?
Will I?
The question stayed with her, even as she knelt beside the next injured male.
And somehow, despite the blood and smoke and screams in the night, hope rose inside her, as irrepressible as the rising of the moon.
Chapter One
Ailill Ridge, Rainier Territory, Washington - day before full moon
A bitingly cold wind off the high mountains ruffled Margery’s fur as she ran the trails with the other wolves. The light from the golden moon streamed over her in a palpable caress from the Goddess.
Every breath she took brought her new information, and after nearly five months of freedom, she could identify each scent.
There—that was the luring fragrance of prey. Deer had used the path in the last few hours. The musty odor of fowl was from an owl perched high on a branch. The metallic tang of blood came from a spot where a coyote had killed a rabbit in a clearing. Every sniff and every sound held meaning.
Finally.
The month following her first shift in December had been overwhelming, painful, and often embarrassing. Her ears and tail had operated independently. Her legs had tangled when she tried something new. And her messed-up ankle still caused problems, especially when running on uneven ground or leaping over logs or boulders.
After her first trawsfur, while in an Elder Village to re-learn Daonain traditions, she’d stumbled over her forepaws and almost knocked over a frail centenarian. So embarrassing.
Yet being in wolf form was…amazing. Despite her unreliable hind leg, she felt as if she were dancing on the forest duff. Four legs were so much better than two. More importantly, she was strong now. Healthy.
All her fellow captives had recovered once out of the city. Getting the birth control implants removed had probably helped, although the medical person said the implants were almost empty.
There had been no one to give them new ones.
Sadness slowed Margery’s paws, and she stopped on the trail.
After the hostages arrived at the Scythe compound, the nurse practitioner, Phyllis, discovered thirteen-year-old Margery could calm hysterical younglings and care for the ill and injured. In Dogwood, Grandmama, a banfasa, had tended the villagers’ health, and Margery had been in the clinic every day, learning and helping out.
After taking Margery as her assistant, Phyllis taught her human medicine—and they became friends. A few years ago, Phyllis grew too outspoken, insisting the captives weren’t animals. The Director called her into his office, and she never came out.
Grief—and guilt—flattened Margery’s ears. In a way, her friendship with Phyllis had caused her death.
A twig hit Margery’s tail, making her jump.
Chittering came from up in a tree.
Yanked from the ugly memories, she looked up.
A scowling tree fairy swung on the end of a high branch. Margery huffed a wolfy laugh and got another twig thrown at her. Pixies were grumpy as bears when awakening after hibernation.
The winter had been long. Now, in April, the mountain valleys were beginning to lose their blanket of snow.
In bounding leaps that hurt her leg but still felt great, Margery caught up with the rest of the wolves. Shoulders brushing against the others, surrounded by the scent of pack and forest, she lost herself in the joy of feeling like she belonged.
Eventually, the alpha wolf led them back to Ailill Ridge. Some wolves veered off to the pack house where they’d left their clothing. More headed for their own homes. With two others, Margery trotted toward the south of town where she lived with several shifters in the territory’s communal house. Forest surrounded the back yard, and they did a quick check to ensure they were unobserved. After trawsfurring to human, Margery dried the mushy snow off her feet, dressed in the clothing she’d left in a storage case, and followed Jens through the back door.
“By the Gods, Margery, I thought you’d never get back.” Stomping into the kitchen, Portia shoved both her babies into Margery’s arms. “They’ve been bawling their heads off, and I’m ready to claw them.”
A werecat, Portia was so self-absorbed, it was surprising she’d even learned Margery’s name. However, she used it often enough when demanding help.
As Margery cuddled the cublings, her nose told her what the problem was. “They’re both wet and dirty. That’s why they’re crying.”
Coming in, Jens growled under his breath. “Even I can smell it. You’re the dam, Portia. You should change them.”
The werecat gave a dismissive sniff. “That’s why Margery gets free room and board. She’s supposed to work for it.”
A growl escaped Margery. “I get free room and board for cleaning the house as well as working as a banfasa. You get room and board for being a mother, which means you’re supposed to tend your cubs.”
Portia lifted a hand in a yah-yah-yah gesture and walked out of the room, leaving Margery with the cubs.
Lost that one, didn’t I? Margery ground her teeth together. But she was stuck. Unlike Portia, she wouldn’t leave kits in need.
A few minutes later, with one cub all washed, she wiped the second. “Honestly, this wasn’t what I thought life would be like when I left Seattle,” she whispered to him.