Chapter 2 #2
Werewolf.
Kestria is a—
The deer has wolf teeth marks—she brought me the deer—she bit the deer—no, stop it, focus—she's bleeding—did I close the coop this morning—
She's bleeding.
"Kestria." I press my hands against the wound. Hot. Wet. Soaking through my fingers immediately. "Kestria, can you—"
The wolf shudders. Changes. Bones reshaping with cracks that make my stomach turn, fur receding, skin surfacing underneath—horrible to watch, can't look away—and then Kestria's lying there naked and human and bleeding.
Red blood.
Human blood.
"Stay with me."
Her eyes open. Slow. One before the other. Brown. Human. The same eyes that were laughing at my pink chicken an hour ago.
"Mel." Her voice is rough, scraped raw. "Sorry. I didn't—"
"Stop talking." I press harder. Blood wells between my fingers. "I need to get you inside."
I get my arm under her shoulders. She's heavy and naked and my hands are slick with her blood, can't get a good grip. Halfway to standing, her legs give out.
"Sorry." She's shaking. "I can't—"
"Stop apologizing and help me drag you."
We stumble to the cottage. I shoulder the door wider—get her inside, lower her to the floor near the hearth. Grab a blanket from the chest—not for modesty, for warmth, because she's shaking hard enough that her teeth are chattering. My back is already screaming. I'm going to feel this tomorrow.
The wound is still bleeding. And the edges are turning gray.
I've seen this before. A dozen times. In the wolves.
In the—
The gray edges. The spreading. Wounds that won't close no matter what I do. I've been treating this for years and I never—
Werewolves.
Are you fucking kidding me. Seriously?
My hands are shaking.
Stop it.
I grab the basin. Water from the bucket by the door.
Clean cloths from the shelf—second shelf, left side.
Moonbright paste—I grab two jars, three.
This wound is deep. Going to eat through my stock.
Need to harvest more this week. Bandages.
Everything I've used for years. Everything I've used on them for years. Focus.
Kestria's watching me. Her face has gone white, bloodless, sweat beading at her temples.
"Hold still," I tell her. "And don't pass out."
"You've done this before." Her voice is fading.
"Yes."
"On... on us."
"On wolves." I kneel beside her—knees on the hard floor, should've grabbed a cushion, too late now—and dip a cloth in water. Pink blooms in the basin. "I didn't know."
"I know." Her eyes are wet. "I should have told you. I wanted to, so many times—"
"Later." I pull the blanket aside, exposing the wound. Long. Jagged. Deep enough to see muscle. "Hold still."
She holds still.
I work.
The wound is deep, edges rough where the blade tore instead of cut.
The gray is spreading—I can see it creeping outward into healthy skin.
Same thing I've treated a hundred times.
The wolves come in with it and my paste fixes it and I've never known what causes it.
Doesn't matter. I know how to stop it. My stomach growls—loud, inappropriate.
I ignore it. The candle on the shelf is guttering. Should replace it. Not now. Focus.
"You're not allowed to die." I press harder at the wound edges. "I'm not done being angry about the lying."
"Noted." Her voice is thin. Barely there.
"This is going to hurt."
"More than getting stabbed?"
"Probably not. I just felt like warning you."
I spread the paste into the wound. Thick. White. Sharp and sweet and rotting all at once. Kestria's body goes rigid, every muscle locking, a sound escaping through clenched teeth. I keep going. Cover every edge. Work it deep.
Running low after this—I'll need to harvest more flowers soon, assuming I'm still here, assuming everything isn't completely—
"Almost done. Three seconds. Two. One. There."
She exhales hard.
"Told you." I grab the bandages. Blood under my fingernails—that's going to take forever to scrub out. Always does. "You're doing great."
"I got stabbed."
"And yet here you are, handling it beautifully."
"You're a terrible liar."
"I'm an excellent liar. You just can't tell because you're busy bleeding."
I wrap the wound. The gray edges are stabilizing, pulling back from the paste. Her skin's too hot—fever starting—but that'll break once the paste works.
If it works.
It's always worked before.
On werewolves.
On my best friend, apparently.
Were they all werewolves?
When they're wolves, do they know they're wolves? Did they know they were coming to me? Did they—
Stop.
"You need to rest." I set the paste jar down. "Don't move. Don't shift. Let your body heal."
"Mel—"
"What?"
She grabs my hand. Weak grip, but her eyes are clear. Focused.
"I'm sorry. For not telling you. For all of it."
I'm wrapping the last bandage. Muscle memory. Kestria. Who brings me rabbits and makes fun of my chickens and helps me sort herbs even though she finds it boring and apparently turns into a wolf. Who brought me a deer with wolf teeth marks in its throat and told me she found it.
"You're still you."
Her eyes go wet. "What?"
"You're still Kestria. You just have a lot of explaining to do when you're not actively dying."
She laughs. Wet. Closer to a sob. "Okay."
"Good. Now rest."
I pull the blanket up to her chin, stand, and walk to the door. My back aches. I still haven't eaten.
The clearing is a mess. Half-prepped deer attracting flies in a black buzzing cloud—total loss, I was right. Torn clothes in the grass, shredded beyond repair. Blood in the dirt, dark and spreading. Nugget's still screaming, probably traumatized for life.
My hands are covered in blood.
Werewolves are real.
Kestria is one.
The wolves I've been treating for a decade are people.
I need more moonbright paste.
The chickens need feeding.
There's blood in my garden that's going to attract every predator in the forest.
And Theron's going to come back.
I right the water bucket. Fill it from the rain barrel. Set it by the coop.
One thing at a time.