Chapter 3
Nugget is going to rupture something.
She's pressed against the slats of the coop, feathers puffed, beak open, screaming with a fury that rivals mine on a bad day.
Still pink.
Still the angriest chicken alive. I unlatch the door and she barrels out, hits the ground running, and attacks a clump of grass.
The coop floor is also pink now. Pink droppings everywhere. Called it.
"I know, it's been a day."
She ignores me. Pecks the grass with murderous intent.
The other two are calmer, stepping out cautiously, eyeing the blood in the dirt. I scatter feed—handful, two handfuls, that's enough for now—and they settle into pecking while Nugget wages war on nothing.
Done. Chickens handled. Blood next.
I kick dirt over the worst of it. The dark stain in front of the cottage door, the smear where Kestria collapsed, the trail I left dragging her inside. It doesn't cover completely but it'll keep the flies from getting worse.
My hands are still crusted with her blood—dried brown over the purple that never washes off.
Should wash them.
The basin inside is already pink. Need fresh water from the stream but that means leaving and I don't want to leave because Kestria's—
The deer.
I make myself look at it. Flies thick on the carcass, buzzing in a black cloud that lifts and resettles when I wave my hand. Half-prepped, meat already going gray in the warmth. Waste. Complete waste. Kestria hauled that thing for miles and now it's—
"Nothing I can do about you." I grab the edge of the worktable and shove. The deer slides off, hits the ground with a wet thud. A fox or a bear will find it tonight. Better than it rotting on my worktable. I'll drag it to the tree line later. Or Kestria will, when she's not busy being stabbed.
The clothes in the grass—Kestria's, shredded when she shifted. I pick them up. They fall apart in my hands, fabric torn along every seam, buttons scattered.
These were on her body this morning.
I toss them by the woodpile. Can use them for rags. Or bandages. The practical ones, not the good ones—the good bandages are inside and I'm going through them too fast and I need to—
Go back inside.
I go back inside.
Kestria hasn't moved. The blanket rises and falls with her breathing—shallow, too fast, but steady. Her face is gray-white against the rough wool. Sweat beading at her temples, her hairline damp.
Fever's climbing.
I press the back of my hand to her forehead. Burning. Hotter than when I wrapped her, which was—twenty minutes ago? Thirty? Time's gone strange.
"That's not great, just so you know."
I pull the blanket down and check the bandages. Red at the edges—seeping through. And the gray. The gray at the wound's edge has crept outward again, past where I pasted it. Spreading into healthy skin in thin veins.
That's not right. That's not—it's always worked. It's always—
"Okay." I'm already moving. Shelf. Jars. I grab one—second from the left now, the ones I used earlier are empty on the worktable. Crack the wax seal. Sharp green smell floods the room, strong enough to make my eyes water.
"See. This is fine. Totally fine. Maybe she's sensitive to it.
Can werewolves be sensitive to moonbright?
Why wouldn't they be. People are sensitive to stuff all the time.
Pollen. Shellfish." I scoop paste onto my fingers.
"Maybe she needs more. Maybe she needs less.
I don't know. I'm going to go with more.
More paste, same process. More paste, can't go wrong with more paste.”
I spread it thick across the gray edges, pressing it into the veins, covering everything. Same motion I've done a hundred times on wolves who were—
People.
Wolf-people?
People-wolf?
I wonder which came first—
My fingers keep working. Scoop. Spread. Press. The paste is cool and gritty against the heat of her skin. The gray retreats where I touch it, pulling back from the moonbright.
"Good. That's good. Keep doing that."
"Did you understand me? All those times I was talking to wolves in my kitchen—did you understand every word?
" I'm wrapping fresh bandages as I talk, pulling them snug around her ribs.
"Because if so, I want to apologize for about a hundred things I've said.
Or not apologize. You all should've warned me. "
Fold, wrap, tuck, tie.
"You probably thought that was hilarious."
No response.
I pull the blanket back up and check her pulse. Racing. Fever's still climbing.
"Cool cloth." I grab the rag I used earlier, dip it in the basin—wring it out, press it to her forehead. "I don't know if this helps for—for whatever you are. For werewolves. But it helps for humans and you're at least half that, so we're going with it."
She doesn't react.
"You could wake up and tell me if this is useful. I'm working with very limited information here because someone didn't mention she was a wolf for the entire duration of our friendship."
Nothing.
I settle beside her, back against the wall, cloth in one hand, the other resting on my knee. The floor is hard and cold through my skirt and I should've grabbed a cushion but I'm not moving now. Not until her fever breaks.
The cottage is quiet except for her breathing and Nugget screaming outside. That chicken is never going to forgive me for today.
My hands have nothing to do.
Werewolves are real. That's—established. Kestria shifted in my front yard. I watched bones crack and fur grow and my friend disappear into an animal that fought five armed men. It happened. It's a fact now. Right next to "water is wet" and "Nugget hates mornings." Werewolves are real.
Fine.
"The strangers." I'm talking to her again because the silence is worse.
"The ones who showed up two years ago. Three?
Four of them. They dragged logs and cleared brush and helped me build the back wall of this cottage.
I left out food and they ate it and I thought they were just—travelers. Passing through."
I refresh the cloth. Her forehead is burning through it.
"Those were your people, weren't they. You sent them."
She doesn't confirm or deny. She's very committed to being unconscious. Most annoying thing she's ever done, and the competition is steep.
"I made them stew. Rabbit stew. They ate three bowls each and I thought, well, they worked hard, big men, big appetites, perfectly normal. They were wolves. Werewolves. And I was standing there in my apron feeding them rabbit stew and chatting about the weather..."
My stomach growls. Loud. Loud enough that Kestria would laugh if she were awake.
I ignore it. She needs me here more than I need bread.
"And the wolves I fed. The actual wolves—the ones in wolf shape, who came to the edge of the clearing and waited. I'd leave out scraps and they'd eat and go. Every few days. For years." I press the cloth harder against her forehead. "Those were people too. People I was feeding table scraps."
"I hope the stew was better than the scraps. For your sake."
Wring the cloth. Check the wound. Same—gray holding, not spreading, not retreating.
"Also—" I shift against the wall, trying to find a position that doesn't make my spine hate me.
"—who decided I was the one to come to? Was there a meeting?
'Attention, everyone, there's a short human with a squeaky voice who lives in the clearing, and she'll patch you up if you sit still and look pathetic.
' Did someone give that speech? Because someone must have given that speech. "
I'm gesturing at an unconscious woman. This is what my life has become.
"You know what the worst part is? It worked. I fell for it every single time. A wolf would show up looking pitiful and I'd drop everything. 'Oh no, you poor thing, let me help.' Every time, Kestria. I am a very easy mark."
The gray has stopped spreading. The paste is holding it. Not healing it yet, just holding.
"Come on," I mutter. "Work. You always work."
The light through the window shifts. Past midday. Maybe later. I should eat. I'm not going to eat. The perimeter needs checking—Theron said he'd come back, and he didn't seem like the bluffing type.
Blood still on my hands.
Deer carcass attracting everything bigger than flies. And the paste stores—how many jars left? Do I have enough petals to make more?
I don't move.
"The thing is," I tell her, "I'm not even angry about the werewolf part.
Not really. The werewolf part is—it's a lot, obviously, it's a whole situation, but people don't get to choose what they are.
You didn't choose to be a wolf any more than I chose to be five foot nothing with a voice that makes dogs tilt their heads. "
I wring out the cloth. Dip it. Wring it again.
"I'm angry about the lying. Years, Kestria.
Years of you watching me treat your people—treat you—and never saying a word.
You watched me talk to wolves about their day.
You watched me scold them for chewing their bandages.
You sat right there while I told a wolf he needed to stop getting into fights, and the whole time you knew. "
My throat is tight. The words come out thin.
"Was it funny? Did you go home and tell everyone about the little human who thinks she's a wolf doctor? Because I would have laughed too, honestly. It's objectively hilarious. I just would have liked to be in on the joke."
I stop. Breathe. Press the cloth to her forehead.
"Okay. I'm a little angry about the werewolf part too."
The afternoon crawls. I check her wound every time I refresh the cloth—every twenty minutes, maybe thirty. The gray edges are paler now, retreating slowly. Healthy pink underneath. My paste is working. It's just working slow.
Slower than usual? Or the same? I've never timed it. Never had to sit with a patient this long. The wolves—the people—always came to me, got treated, and left. I never watched the full process. Never sat through the hours while moonbright fought poison inside someone's body.
"You could heal faster," I tell her. "As a personal favor to me."