Chapter 5 #3
An elderly man behind him whacked him gently with his cane. “Chester, for the love of everything, we have a guest. Save your probing stories for Conspiracy Club Tuesdays.”
“That’s enough,” Quinn said, though I noticed him fighting back a smile as Chester reluctantly sat down, adjusting his tinfoil hat with wounded dignity. “The Conspiracy Club meets at the library at seven, Doctor,” he whispered loudly to me with a conspiratorial wink. “Bring your own tinfoil.”
“The council has a right to know exactly what chemicals you plan to inject into our citizens,” Gertrude said. “For all we know, these ‘neural stabilizers’ could be designed to make our unmated males easier for outsiders to control.”
“My treatment contains no mind-controlling substances,” I replied evenly, meeting her gaze.
“The high-level overview of the formula ingredients is spelled out in the dossier I provided to the town council. As for chemicals, I’d remind the council that everything, including the air we breathe and the water we drink, is made of chemicals. ”
“I’ve reviewed your methodology, Dr. Dhahabu,” Isabella said. “Your approach is sound. My question is about implementation. How soon could you begin treatment for our affected males?”
“ASAP,” I replied. “Quinn has told me that he’s collecting the names of the males who are interested in taking part in my research.”
“And I’d like to know if hybrid shifters respond differently than pure bloodlines to your treatment?” Bonnie asked.
“That’s inconclusive,” I said.
“Your pre-feral elixir approach fascinates me,” Freya said.
“Particularly how it simulates the calming effect of a mate bond until the real thing can be found. As the one who cast the mating spell, I can tell you we’re running out of time.
Despite my efforts to call fated mates to the Ridge, they simply aren’t arriving quickly enough.
We need your solution to bridge the gap until more mates can be found. ”
Her open support seemed to ripple through the room, shifting the energy. I noticed several audience members nodding in agreement. Having the witch who cast the mating spell acknowledge its limitations and support a scientific alternative clearly carried weight.
“Traditional methods offer proven options,” Brody said, his clinical tone betraying nothing of the tension humming between us. “My family’s brewing techniques have shown promise in managing symptoms without eliminating shifting ability.”
I turned to face him, letting ice coat every word. “Your family remedies might work, but without proper testing, who knows why? But I guess not everyone cares about proving things work.”
The barb hit home. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Perhaps Dr. Dhahabu would benefit from understanding local treatments before dismissing them,” he replied with matching coolness.
Oh, you want to play this game?
“I’m always interested in primitive approaches,” I said. “Historical curiosities can provide useful baseline data.”
Something flashed in his eyes, a brief flicker of something that wasn’t quite human, before he forced them back to normal. The reaction was so quick I almost missed it.
Around us, the audience sensed blood in the water. Heads turned between us like spectators at a tennis match, following an exchange that had nothing to do with medical research and everything to do with old wounds.
I was about to continue my presentation when chaos erupted at the side of the room.
People scrambled away as a man staggered into the center aisle, his body convulsing in what was clearly a partial shift gone terribly wrong.
“Logan!” someone shouted.
His body shifted between human and cheetah form, skin stretching and contracting as his biology fought itself.
One arm had fully shifted, deadly claws extended.
His face was a grotesque blend of human and feline features, one eye brown, one vivid gold.
Blood dripped where his teeth had punctured his own lip.
“Help him,” a woman screamed from the back.
I moved without conscious thought, grabbing my medical bag as doctor’s instincts overrode personal chaos.
“Everyone back,” I commanded. “Give him space.”
Logan’s mismatched eyes focused on me as I approached. One human brown, one feral gold. A guttural snarl tore from his throat, primal and terrified.
I’d seen this before. The partial shift wasn’t just a physical crisis; it was a war between human and animal consciousness. His animal was fighting for complete control. If the animal won, Logan’s human mind would be lost forever.
Despite the chaos, something unexpected happened. The people who’d been questioning my credentials moments ago now moved with unified purpose. Even Shane cleared the chairs to make space. Others ushered children toward exits. They were a community watching one of their own suffer.
Freya moved forward, her fingers weaving complex patterns that left gold light trails in the air. “I can create a magic binding to hold his human consciousness intact.”
Magic. Freya was working actual magic.
“But it’s temporary,” she added. “We need someone he trusts to reach his human mind before it’s completely submerged.”
“He knows me,” Brody said quietly, his professional focus overriding whatever personal chaos simmered between us. “I’ve been supplying him with tonic. It helps prevent episodes where his cheetah fights for control.”
And then we were working together. Despite years of suppressed fury.
The three of us snapped into coordinated action like we’d rehearsed for this exact scenario.
Freya’s fingers painted glowing sigils in the air, golden light weaving around Logan in intricate patterns.
I prepared the neural stabilizer with practiced precision, measuring the exact dosage for his body weight and severity of symptoms.
Logan’s half-shifted form thrashed against invisible restraints, a guttural snarl tearing from his throat as his cheetah fought for dominance. He lunged suddenly; claws aimed at my face with deadly precision.
I didn’t have time to react, but Brody was there, moving with supernatural speed. He inserted his body between us, his hands catching Logan’s wrists mid-strike. The sound of bone meeting bone echoed through the suddenly silent room.
Our eyes met over Logan’s shoulder, and something wordless passed between us. Instinctively, I knew what he was planning before he moved. Where he would alter his grip and exactly when to advance with the syringe.
“Easy, Logan,” Brody murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble. “It’s me. You’re safe. We’re going to help you.”
He shifted his grip on Logan’s wrists, exposing the vein I needed with a subtle movement that synchronized perfectly with my advance. We moved like dancers who had practiced the same routine for years, my body anticipating his movements before he made them, his strength complementing my precision.
“Look at me, Logan,” Brody commanded, his voice carrying the unmistakable weight of an alpha predator. “Focus on my voice. Remember who you are.”
As I moved in with the neural stabilizer, my arm brushed against Brody’s. Even in that fleeting contact, the mate bond flared to life with such intensity that I nearly dropped the syringe. His eyes flashed to mine, pupils dilating in response to the same rush of sensation.
For a heartbeat, we were locked in each other’s gaze, years of separation collapsing like a house of cards. Then professional training took over, and I plunged the needle home with perfect accuracy just as recognition sparked in Logan’s mismatched eyes.
“Brody?” Logan gasped, his voice hoarse from the strain of fighting his animal. “Can’t… control it. Hurts too much.”
“I know,” Brody replied, and the raw understanding in his voice revealed more than words ever could. “Let Dr. Dhahabu help you,” he continued, still holding Logan steady. “She can stop the pain.”
We worked in harmony, our bodies remembering a connection our minds had spent decades denying. For those few intense minutes, there was no past between us, only the shared purpose of saving a life.
As the neural stabilizer took effect and Logan’s convulsions subsided, the professional walls between Brody and me rebuilt themselves brick by brick. I stepped back, putting deliberate distance between us.
Something clicked in my mind as I watched him with Logan. The too-careful precision in his movements, like someone compensating for something. Whatever was happening with Brody, it was more than just stress or fatigue. Something was wrong.
I caught myself leaning forward, the doctor in me already formulating questions, potential tests, diagnostic pathways. I forced myself to lean back, crossing my arms over my chest like a physical barrier against my own curiosity.
Not my problem. Not my business. Not my fated mate.
But as I repeated these mantras in my head, my treacherous eyes kept drifting back to his left hand, the way he subtly steadied it against his thigh when he thought no one was looking.
My focus moved back to Logan, blowing out a breath when his form slowly settled back into fully human. The relief in his eyes was almost painful to witness.
“I thought I was going to lose myself,” Logan said. “I could feel myself slipping away, like watching through a window while someone else controlled my body.”
“You nearly did,” Freya said, the magical binding dissolving into golden motes. “Another minute and the damage might have been permanent.”
We’d saved him. Together.
Despite everything between Brody and me, we’d worked like the perfect team we could have been years ago.
My inner cheetah, usually so reticent, purred with such satisfaction I could feel the vibration against my ribs. See how perfectly we move together? she crooned. Natural. Right. Mate.
It’s just science, I countered internally. Two trained professionals with complementary skills. Anyone with medical training could have done the same.