She started collecting bloodied gauze and rags.
The last two wounded stopped on the way out. “Thank you for the tending, banfasa.”
His littermate nodded. “Aye, thank you.”
Warmed, she smiled at them. The rest had left without any thanks. It wasn’t surprising, since that was how the Cosantir and the alpha of her pack treated her. No matter how much she did, she had no value.
As she stepped outside to dump the rags, the cool, fresh night air whipped around her, blowing away her frustration, leaving her free to think clearly.
This wasn’t who she wanted to be. A frustrated, unhappy person. But if she stayed, they’d continue to treat her like a stray cur. Because they could.
No, it was time to make a change. To find out how much more she could be.
Chapter Two
Ailill Ridge, Rainier Territory - full moon
“I don’t want that stupid banfasa living here…”
Ignoring the complaints coming from the other room, Margery smiled at the older shifter who’d spent the night and unwrapped the dressing on his arm. “Bleeding has stopped. No sign of infection. It’s going to heal up well.”
Having come to help the shifter get home, Roger and Brett were in the kitchen getting coffee—and had been cornered by Portia. Bits and pieces of their conversations drifted out.
“…hurt shifters showing up all the time…missed my TV show…” Typical Portia complaints.
Margery sighed and picked up a fresh roll of gauze. “Hold your arm out, please.”
Portia’s voice rose enough to be clear. “Give her someplace else to stay.”
“Pete said no,” Brett growled. “The banfasa stays in communal housing so she’ll get room and board without any money. If she’s broke, she can’t take off like the healers did.”
Margery’s mouth dropped open. They didn’t want her to have money? Was that why Roger had snapped at a shifter who’d tried to pay her?
“Fucking high and mighty healers.” Roger growled. “It sucks that all we got now is a stupid banfasa. An ugly crippled one, no less.”
She knew better than to take his insult to heart, yet…it still hurt.
Beside her, the older male heard. “Margery, Roger doesn’t mean—”
Margery shrugged, trying to push away the ache. “I’ve heard worse.” A decade’s worth from the Scythe guards and staff.
She hadn’t expected to be eviscerated by her own people.
His sympathetic look spurred her to ask, “I don’t suppose you’d drive me to a different territory?”
He shook his head. “I won’t go up against our Cosantir. I don’t got a car anyway. Sorry, banfasa.”
“Me, too.” Seeing his regret, she patted his hand. “It’s all right.”
An hour later, with everyone gone, she considered going for a run, but her ankle still hurt. Instead, she took a cup of coffee onto the front porch and settled in a wooden chair. On a Thursday, the end of the small cul-de-sac was quiet.
Coffee in hand, she inhaled slowly, closed her eyes, and sank into the sense of the Mother. Here in the land of the Daonain, the presence of the God and Goddess was as close as the air she breathed.
Eventually, when her heart was peaceful, she opened her eyes. In the deep blue sky, puffy clouds drifted slowly toward the mountains. A breath of a breeze teased the tree branches. The squirrel-ear-sized light green leaves indicated spring had arrived.
It didn’t feel like spring in her heart. Not after what she’d heard inside. Her shoulders sagged.
During her argument with the Cosantir, when she had said she’d leave Ailill Ridge, Pete told her flat-out she wasn’t allowed to leave.
Now, considering what Brett and Roger had said in the kitchen, she had a few questions. Like…had Pete lied to her? Surely a Cosantir wouldn’t be dishonest. Yet the betas said their healers had moved away. Possibly healers or males were allowed more flexibility.
Or maybe Pete had lied to her.
She took a big gulp of her coffee. And her determination crystalized. “I am leaving this place.”
She’d go somewhere—anywhere—else. Out of Pete’s territory. When she found a new town, she wouldn’t tell people she was a banfasa. There were other jobs in the world, ones that let a person be normal. She would be normal.
Well, mostly normal. She’d still have a weak ankle and—she drew a fingertip over the long scar on her cheek—a less than attractive face. But she’d be like other shifter females who worked at jobs and got paid and lived where they wanted.
Or would leaving be stupid? Anxiety tugged on her nerves like stitches being removed. Food and a place to live were necessary for survival. If she left, she might starve. Die.
The Cosantir was clever the way he’d trapped her in this cage. She growled. “I’m a shifter. I don’t do cages.”
A female laughed. “That’s good to hear.”
Margery’s head snapped around so quickly her neck muscles protested. A lanky redhead stood at the foot of the steps.
Caught talking to herself, she could only grin ruefully. “Hey, Heather. What brings you to Ailill Ridge?”
The wolf ran a business in a nearby town and occasionally showed up for pack runs. “I was visiting my littermates’ ranch and swung by to say hi to your neighbor.” Heather gestured to the house next door.
“Oh. Well. Want some coffee?”
“Nope, I’m good. But I’ll join you for a minute or two.” Heather came up the steps and took the chair next to Margery. “So, what cage are you in?”
“Um…”
“Yes, I’m nosy as a werecat.” Heather grinned. “No, I’m not ashamed of it.”
Margery hesitated. Should she ask Heather for help? No, that would be unwise. Heather’s loyalty was to the Cosantir and the pack alpha, not a newcomer. Giving up the momentary hope of escape, Margery settled for a bland response. “I guess you could say we’re all in cages when it comes down to it, right?”
“Wrong. There are cages and there are cages. I’m guessing whatever one you’re in is making you miserable.” Although Heather looked to be in her mid-thirties, her assured manner said older, maybe fifties. The Daonains’ slower aging made it difficult to guess.
“I can’t promise I have answers,” Heather added, “but I can promise what you say will go no further.”
“I…” The longing to be heard was impossible to resist. “It’s like this: Although I work as a banfasa and clean the communal house, I only get room and board. No money.” Her mouth twisted. “I don’t even get to choose what I eat.” Not since Portia had arrived.
“Room and board and no money?” Heather straightened. “And you’re stuck cleaning and being a banfasa. Girl, that comes to less than even minimum wage.”
“What’s a minimum wage?”
“Oh boy, I forget sometimes that you were a captive.” Heather shook her head. “We’ll discuss minimum wages another time. What I’m saying is that your recompense seems unfair. Have you talked to the Cosantir?”
“Yes. He disagreed and…” Margery pulled in a breath, unsure how much she should share.