13. Healer Kalemon #2
Allora's heart thudded hard in her chest, fingers fumbled at her scarf before she pulled it loose, letting it fall, then pushed back her hood.
Her face, flushed from cold, dark skin gleaming like bronze in the fading light, was bare, exposed.
A rarity here. But under that rarity was a warning. A story whispered across borders.
"I need help," she said softly. "I need to understand what's happening to my body."
The woman studied her carefully, eyes narrowing, expression unmoved, offering nothing in return.
"I've been…" Allora pressed, her words spilling faster now. "...changing. I can't explain it and I can't tell anyone without risking everything."
The woman's eyes hardened. "You've got the Silver Fox on your heels."
Allora's mouth went dry.
The older woman didn't wait for her to deny it.
She leaned her broom against the wall and began to walk forward, her steps slow and deliberate.
"Do you know how many half-wrong posters I've seen with that face of yours sketched on them?
That warlord of yours is burning a hole in the world looking for you. "
"I didn't ask him to," Allora whispered.
"No. You didn't." The woman stopped a few feet away, close enough that her presence pressed like a weight against Allora's chest. Immovable, though not unkind. "You got a name?"
"Allora."
"Mm." A curt nod. The woman crossed her arms, sizing her up with the practiced eye of someone who had seen far worse walk through her door. "You know what happens to me if I help you without turning you in? If the Commander finds out I sheltered his runaway Canariae?"
Allora swallowed hard. "I know."
"Do you?" The woman's gray eyes bored into her. "Because death would be a mercy compared to what that knife-eared bastard does when he's angry. And from what I hear, he's past angry and well into unhinged."
Allora reached into her cloak with trembling fingers and pulled out a small leather pouch. The clink of coins was unmistakable. She held it out, the weight of it heavy in her palm. "I have gold coins. It's yours if you help me."
The woman's eyes flicked to the pouch, then back to Allora's face.
"Please," Allora said quietly. "I just need to know what's happening to me. That's all. Just information. You don't have to hide me or lie for me. Just help me understand and I’ll be on my way."
The air between them sat like the pause between lightning and its thunder.
Then the woman took the pouch. She bounced it once in her palm to test the weight, then tucked it into her apron with a satisfied grunt. Her entire demeanor shifted. The hard edge in her eyes softened, and the corner of her mouth curled in a faint smile.
"Well then," she said, her voice suddenly warmer, almost cheerful. "Welcome to Kalemon's. Let's get you sorted out properly, shall we?"
Allora blinked, taken aback by the sudden change.
Kalemon jerked her chin toward a curtain behind the counter. "Come on, then. VIP treatment for paying customers. Let's see what you've done to yourself."
Allora's heart slammed against her ribs. Her boots crunched softly on the wooden floor as she followed, and for the first time in weeks her hands weren't shaking.
The curtain fell behind them, sealing them into a back room even more cluttered than the front.
Jars of dried roots and bundles of twine crowded the walls.
Glass boxes held stones and tiny bones, their shadows thrown long in the candlelight.
A broad worktable sat in the center, half-covered in parchment, vials, and what looked alarmingly like the beginnings of a dissected hawk.
"Wait," Allora said, staring at the woman's broad back. "Your’e Kalemon?"
The woman glanced over her shoulder, one gray brow lifting in dry amusement. "You were expecting someone paler?"
Heat crept to Allora's cheeks. "I don't know. Maybe older and more…male? Or… less likely to snap a man in half."
Kalemon snorted. "Well, surprise, girly. I'm Kalemon. You're standing in my space, dripping snow on my rugs, and bringing me a mess to deal with." She paused, then added with a smirk, "But at least you paid for the privilege."
A laugh caught in Allora's throat, half-helpless. "Great. I'm a damn bigot now," she muttered under her breath.
If Kalemon heard, she gave no sign. She simply moved further into the room, her presence filling the space as naturally as smoke fills a chimney, and Allora had the sinking realization she had just stepped into the hands of someone who could not only see her truth—but name it.
Kalemon gestured with the tip of her broom handle toward a low stool beside the hearth. "Plant yourself there and stay wrapped up unless you're trying to glow like a lighthouse. That skin of yours makes you a target in these parts."
Allora lowered herself onto the stool, tugging her cloak tighter but pushing her hood back again. "I'm not staying. I prefer to avoid any attention my way, last thing I need is trouble."
Kalemon snorted, busy striking flint to light a thick resin stick in a copper bowl.
A ribbon of fragrant smoke curled upward.
"You've already stirred the whole damn continent.
Trouble's wearing your name like perfume.
" She gestured toward the examining table with a jerk of her chin.
"Now get yourself up there and undress so I can examine you properly.
" She moved to the basin to wash up and prepare.
Allora sat at the makeshift medical examining table, fingers fumbling slightly as she unbuttoned her coat.
The air in the back room was warm, heavy with the low hiss of burning resin and the defined scent of thyme and clove.
She shed her layers piece by piece, folding her trousers over the stool.
The moment the fabric left her skin, cold air kissed her exposed flesh and goosebumps rose along her arms and legs.
She shivered, suddenly aware of how vulnerable she was, half-naked in a stranger's back room with nothing but trust and a bag of coins between them.
She stretched out on the worn wooden table, the surface hard and unforgiving beneath her back.
A wool blanket draped over her lower body for modesty.
Weeks of hiding had kept her skin covered, but now the flush was unmistakable.
Her complexion appeared warmer than it should have been, heat clinging to her like a fever that refused to break.
Kalemon moved with practiced ease, pressing the bell of an old stethoscope against Allora's chest, listening with the focused patience of long practice. Her calloused hands were steady, impersonal, but not unkind.
"Heart's racing like you just outran a bear," Kalemon muttered.
"Probably because I just walked through snow with a duffle that could kill a man," Allora replied.
Kalemon's mouth tugged upward into the faintest smirk. "Can't argue with that logic."
Her hands moved lower, fingers firm but careful as they pressed along Allora's abdomen. She hummed once, low and thoughtful. "Talk to me. When did the symptoms start?"
Allora shut her eyes, breath shaky. "I noticed maybe a month and a half ago but to be fair I have been preoccupied with an obsessive, over-bearing male constantly up my ass. I had been suffering from body shakes and nausea. I also somehow sucked the energy out of one of those Awyan medallion thingies. Exhaustion, like the bone-deep kind. Then my period hasn’t come in maybe three months, I thought it was stress at first. And I started gaining weight even though I barely eat.
" She paused, swallowing hard. "There was spotting. A few weeks back."
Kalemon hummed again, noncommittal, her fingers pausing over the soft swell of Allora's abdomen.
Allora hesitated, then forced the words out. "Also, I had a direct blood transfusion."
That made Kalemon still. She straightened slightly, her pointed eyes lifting to meet Allora's gaze. "How direct are we talking?"
Allora's throat tightened. "He cut his hand, then cut mine, pressed them together and then he said some words in Awyan I've never heard before."
Kalemon did not look shocked, her expression darkened into a quiet, measured worry.
"Well, that's not ideal," she said softly.
Allora stared at her. "You're not surprised?"
"Surprised would be overstating it."
Allora's stomach dropped. "You knew something like this was possible?"
Kalemon moved back to her tools, unwrapping a small kit from a waxed canvas pouch.
The metal glinted dully in the low light, worn with use but tended with care.
"Many Canariaes have had to be cured using blood vials. Awyan-made antidotes, drawn from select bloodlines. Not direct transfusions like what you're describing, but close enough to make me nervous. I don’t think Awyans have quite figured out where infections come from but somehow they make it work.”
Allora frowned, her brows knitting. "And the side effects?"
Kalemon shrugged, her thick shoulders rolling beneath the apron. "Varied as hell. Some gain stronger immune systems. Others experience hormonal shifts that make them want to climb the walls. Heightened strength. And there have been cases of extreme change in libido."
Allora groaned softly, grimacing. "Of course that's a thing."
“But no physical changes like what you're describing.” Kalemon’s voice dropped, thoughtful now, troubled. “A direct transfusion, though? I’ve never seen that recorded in any text I’ve read. It could be triggering a deeper reaction in your biology that we don’t understand yet.”
A chill swept through Allora, sharper than the draft sneaking under the door.
Kalemon's storm-colored eyes cut back to her. "Take the blanket off. I want to do a cervical check."