Two months old and adorable, he gurgled and chewed on his fingers. Freed, his little fat legs kicked up in the air. The tiny pink toes made her smile, despite her dissatisfaction. “I love being a wolf—and you will too when you’re twelve or so—but I wanted more than this.”
Housed in Ailill Ridge for a time after their release, the Dogwood villagers had come to her as usual with their health problems and injuries. The local shifters followed. She thought her childhood dreams were coming true. She would tend the sick, be part of a community, make a difference. Would be loved and needed like Grandmama in Dogwood, whose grateful patients were always bringing edible gifts—apples, tomatoes, a rabbit. Cookies were the best. The villagers had loved their wise woman.
Margery’s hope of belonging had died all too soon.
Last fall, a quorum of Cosantirs decided that keeping the Scythe’s ex-hostages in one location was dangerous. As the Cosantirs were the God-called guardians of their territories, their word was law—and the Dogwood villagers were relocated to various towns.
Pete, the Cosantir of Rainier Territory, insisted on keeping Margery in Ailill Ridge.
Trapping her here.
Was it wrong to be discontented when her life was so much better than as a captive? She had adequate food, a warm bed, a wolf pack. No one hit her. It was just… The shifters in town didn’t value her, perhaps because she wasn’t a God-called healer, but merely a banfasa. Banfasas had no magic, only skilled hands, and the knowledge of what to do for injuries and for health.
In the Scythe compound, the captives had been grateful for her care. Here in Ailill Ridge, the townspeople treated her like a slave.
Like a slave, she received only room and board. Other shifters had paying jobs. Why didn’t she get paid for what she did?
When rescued, the villagers had been given secondhand clothing, but that was the last clothing Margery had received, aside from a coat when it started to snow. With a sigh, she ran her hand over her faded, patched flannel shirt. Her jeans were ripped at the knee. She had no money to buy anything else.
Trying to take control of her life, she’d told the Cosantir of Rainier Territory that since being a banfasa didn’t pay, she would find something else to do. Pete’s face had turned dark with anger. He said tending to injuries and cleaning the communal house was her job, and she should be grateful to get a free place to live and free food. The conversation went downhill from there—and she left his house feeling guilty.
Her lips twisted. He’d manipulated her.
He’d also left her at a loss for how to escape this new prison.
As she carried the babies out of the nursery, the front door burst open. The wolf pack alpha, Roger, rushed in, shoving Jens out of the way.
Jens hit the wall with a low yelp of pain.
Margery growled under her breath. The alpha and his two betas were as violent and uncaring as Scythe guards. I hate this place.
Shoving his unkempt, yellow hair out of his face, Roger looked around the living room. “Where the fuck is Margery?”
“Here.” Holding the two cubs, Margery didn’t move from the nursery doorway.
“We’ve got wounded coming in. Get prepared,” he snapped.
“What happened?” Portia called.
“Bunch of our young wolves brawled with a couple of fucking cats.” Roger’s dislike of werecats was well known. “All the injured are coming here.”
It sounded like there were quite a few. As her adrenaline kicked in, Margery handed the cublings to their mother. “They’re all changed.”
Holding the babies to her chest, Portia scowled. “I suppose you’ll take over the entire living room. Make everything bloody and dirty, and I’ll miss my TV show.” The female’s self-absorption was appalling.
Margery half-smiled. “You’re right—this house isn’t a good place for sick and injured. You should tell Pete to give me my own place.”
Being in the communal house made sense when she first arrived. She’d needed to learn independent living—cooking, washing, shopping. But that’d been months ago.
Portia sniffed and walked away.
Hearing car doors slamming, Margery hurried into the laundry room to fetch her bag of medical supplies.
When she got back to the living room, the injured were being settled on the floor and the chairs. Whining, growling, crying. Young males weren’t nearly as stoic as older shifters.
Pulling in a breath, she studied the situation. Before beginning, determine who needs you the most, Grandmama used to say.
That one by the wall was bleeding heavily. As was the one next to him. One was groggy and throwing up. She turned that young male onto his side so his airway would stay clear.
“Banfasa…” Gretchen, a statuesque blonde, grabbed Margery’s arm. “Help Caleb right now!”
Margery looked at the beefy male who was one of Roger’s betas. Parallel slashes cut across Caleb’s upper and lower arm. Shallow. Nothing spurting. “Help him wash off the wounds in the bathroom sink. Then use these.” She handed gauze packets to Gretchen. “Others need my help more.”
Gretchen threw the packets into Margery’s face. “You help him, you scarred-up bitch.”
The insult barely registered as Margery finished formulating her triage plan.
She knelt beside an unpopular shifter who was bleeding out. Even as she worked on him, she snapped orders to the uninjured. Pressure to the wounds, blankets to prevent shock. Cleaning. Although the Daonains’ immune system was far better than humans’, infections occurred if debris remained in a wound.
Shifter after shifter, she cleaned and closed slashes with stitches or glue. The werecats had been savage. She also treated the cats who were suffering from deep wolf bites. It had been a nasty battle.
She talked with Roger about one wolf with a gut wound. He needed a hospital if he could be trusted not to trawsfur when in pain. Since a dazed shifter in pain would always trawsfur to his animal, he’d need an escort to ensure no sedatives were used.
After she’d handled the seriously injured, she moved to the less damaged.
Approaching Caleb, she saw Brett, Roger’s second beta, had joined Gretchen. The beta snapped his teeth at Margery as if he was in wolf form and told Gretchen, “Fuck, she’s slow.”
“I know, right?” Gretchen curled her lip at Margery. “About time you got here, gimpy.”
I don’t care what these stupid people think about me. Yet she did, and humiliation formed a cold, hard stone in her chest. This was her pack; nevertheless, to them, she was just a crippled, scar-faced wolf who was only useful once in a while.
She knelt beside the injured male. “Caleb, I’m going to clean the wounds and get them closed up.” She spoke low and soft until the shifter relaxed.
Ignoring the slighting remarks from Brett and Gretchen, she concentrated on her job.
A little while later, she finished with the last injured shifter.
Jens and an elderly female were handing out broth and raw beef to help with the blood loss. Some of the wounded had already left. One older male who lived alone would spend the night so she could keep an eye on him.
With an effort, she pushed to her feet, wincing at the painful throb in her ankle…and at the work still to be done. The living room was a mess and had to be cleaned.