Healer's Choice

by Jory Strong

  Rebekka’s mind spun with the implications. She wondered how many of the brothel prostitutes had started out life fully human, only to have something happen to change them, trapping them in a nightmare of shape and a life no one would freely choose.

  Beneath her hand the leg moved, drawing her back to the task she’d come to perform. She gathered her will, but even knowing the details, her gift remained dormant. “I need to see.”

  In response there was the sound of a sheet being pulled up. It was followed by the feel of Annalise untying the blindfold and removing it.

  Rebekka blinked against the brightness. Sunlight glinted off fragile crystal flowers, a vast collection that sparkled in rainbow hues of light and artistry.

  Nothing of the woman who owned them was visible, save for where human skin turned into dark alligator hide at the thigh, and human feet became reptilian claws.

  One glance was all it took. Rebekka closed her eyes, her will and gift combining, tugging at the exposed skin, pulling it downward and forcing the retreat of anything nonhuman in its path.

  When it was done Annalise replaced the blindfold and they retraced their steps, taking a circuitous route until they were once again parked near the brothel entrance and the strip of cloth covering her eyes was removed.

  “You have a choice of payment,” Annalise said. “Between gold coins and the favors we can call in, enough to buy the freedom of several prostitutes, or this.”

  She lifted a leather-bound book from her lap and offered it to Rebekka. “Take a moment to examine it before deciding. It was written toward the end of The Last War, after chemical and biological weapons had been widely used. It belonged to a healer who was also Were. He didn’t have your gift, nor was he a medical doctor. He treated any who came to him regardless of whether they were human or his own kind.”

  Rebekka carefully opened the book and scanned the neatly printed index. The script was small and concise, written by a man who lived in the days before the supernaturals made their existence known.

  There were entries for salves and potions that aided in healing, as well as those used to reduce pain—and worse, to counter the effects of weapons she prayed no longer existed.

  Her hands tightened on leather, instinctively resisting the urge to touch the hated tattoo. The Last War had been started by religious zealots, by people determined to cleanse mankind of sin. When terror and mayhem didn’t achieve their goals, they let loose a virulent strain of a sexually transmitted disease.

  Millions had died as result, and with countries fighting for their survival and governments descending into chaos, there was no money for research or cure. Only time and the mutation of the virus had ended it. But even so, for years afterward, any human who was labeled a whore or a prostitute was marked, not just as a warning to those they lay with, but so they could be gathered up and exterminated like vermin should the engineered disease return. All this, when the weapons let loose in the name of ending war had nearly destroyed the world.

  Rebekka forced her thoughts away from a past that had played out well before her birth. She paged through the book, reading the healer’s accounts of his work. If they were to be believed—and she did—then many of the salves and potions he’d discovered and recorded were better than what she left in the brothel for those times when she wasn’t there.

  “Have you reached a decision?” Annalise asked.

  A fist tightened around Rebekka’s heart at the choice between helping only a few, Feliss among them, versus easing the suffering of many, of gaining knowledge that could be shared and passed on and didn’t depend on her presence or her gift.

  For long, agonizing moments she tormented herself with remembered images of the horrifying damage done to those prostitutes she called friends, the repeated healings. But in the end, despite the raw, jagged ache in her chest, she said, “I’ll accept the book in payment.”

  THE mewling sounds of acute distress reached Aryck as he cleared the weed-covered metal fence and collapsed walls of what had once been an exclusive residential development. He shifted form, urgency making the change so fast and smooth that between one leaping bound and another he went from four-footed to two.

  All of the cubs were in jaguar form. One lay still while the crying of the other three grew more piteous when they realized help had arrived.

  Great patches of fur had been consumed, just as Caius’s skin had been. The scent of raw muscle and blood was heavy in the air, and, underneath it, infection.

  A glance told Aryck what had happened. Debris had shifted, fallen, creating a pit and tumbling the cubs into it.

  They’d struck a canister left over from the days of war, crushed through rust, and let loose a portion of the contents. Small, bare footprints and drag marks revealed Caius’s presence, probably emerging from a hiding place to help the others since Aryck doubted the older cubs had invited him to explore with them.

  “Don’t touch them with your bare skin,” Aryck reminded the Jaguars shifting into human form around him. “Wait for the blankets and gloves to arrive.”

  He crouched next to the still form of the oldest cub, hands clenching into fists to obey his own orders and keep from using them to determine the extent of the damage. Along the mental link with his father he sent images and a request for instructions.

  Take them to the stream. Whatever weapon this is, Phaedra has determined it’s safe to touch the skin after it’s been washed off.

  It would mean taking the boys farther from camp, extending their suffering before it could be relieved. Are painkillers being sent?

  Yes, with instructions on their use.

  How is Caius?

  Phaedra has done what she can for him.

  His father’s mental voice held no inflection, but it still conveyed a truth Aryck already knew. There was no guarantee any of the cubs would survive.

  The Jaguars who’d followed with blankets and gloves arrived. Aryck felt his horror mount when the unconscious cub was lifted. The entire side he’d been lying on, including the fur on his face, had been eaten away.

  He must have been first to fall into the crater, and if not the one whose body landed on the rusted canister and opened it, the one who’d been closest to it, with the others following him into the pit, perhaps landing on top of him so when it came time to drag him out, Caius’s strength had been drained.

  There were teeth marks on the cub, indicating at least one of those wearing fur had helped. But given the damage Caius had sustained, and the fact he was in human form, with hands to grab and lift, he’d done much of the work.

  Shock could account for the unconsciousness, as could concussion. Or there might be more serious injuries.

  Aryck wrapped the blanket around the cub before scooping him up and standing.

  Thanks to whatever painkiller they’d been given, the other cubs were now silent bundles in the arms of pack members.

  “They need to be bathed as quickly as possible. We’ll go to the place were the stream pools in the cedar grove.”

  “And the Tiger cub?” one of the Jaguars asked.

  “He remains alive.” For now.

  Caphriel’s Visitation

  PROPPED up by pillows on her bed, Rebekka became engrossed in the journal. It was more than a healer’s collection of cures. It was a window into his soul, a view of a world where bombs might just as likely hold contaminants capable of slowly eating a person alive as be constructed to kill anything living while leaving buildings untouched.

  She shivered, glad she hadn’t been alive in the final days of The Last War. And when reading about them became too much to bear, she closed her eyes, preferring a fantasy where she healed the Weres fully, allowing them to shift and escape the brothels and the red zone.

  Sleep came, leaving her defenseless. It held her under with an unnatural awareness, a disjointed sense of being awake even while dreaming.

  In that state she looked up from the journal and saw the urchin standing next to the bed. He was thin a
nd scabbed and pale. His clothing nothing more than grubby rags.

  Her heart raced in terror at the sight of him, its frantic beating beyond the fear of seeing a stranger in her room. He smiled then, making his face beautiful as he reached out and touched her before she could scramble away.

  “Tag, you’re it,” he said, laughing, his voice following her as she tumbled into a nightmare she’d suppressed since she was eight years old, his touch ripping away the shield hiding the memory of her first encounter with him.

  It was before Oakland, when her mother was a caravan prostitute. They were in the San Joaquin, sweltering in the heat, as nearby the drivers and guards worked on the broken bus.

  She was hot and sweaty, but curious, so curious about a world she never got to explore. When they camped her mother made her stay in the old bus that served as a bedroom for the prostitutes.

  At eight she already knew to stay out of sight of the men who snuck away to visit the brothel trailer. She’d already learned she’d be beaten, or her mother would be, if she let herself be found when the policemen came around to collect sin taxes.

  With the bus broken down, the prostitutes sat under shade trees, some of them beading jewelry to sell, others sewing clothing or, like her mother, sleeping, while a couple of the teenage girls splashed happily in the deeper portion of a wide stream.

  No one complained about the delay. They were all content to miss a day’s work underneath sweaty farmers and self-righteous businessmen.

  Rebekka hoped the bus stayed broken. So far she’d seen a rabbit with a little white tail, two black squirrels, a deer with a spotted fawn, and five lizards.

  She stepped into the stream and crouched down, turning rocks over and squealing in delight when a tiny crawfish darted away. A yellow salamander followed, then a frog, which she gently scooped up in her hands.

  The joy of each new discovery made her unaware she’d wandered out of sight until she felt someone watching her. She looked up then and saw the urchin.

  He stood on the bank, gaunt and ragged, a rat perched on his shoulder. With amusement dancing in his eyes he reached up and stroked his pet. His smile and her own curiosity held her in place despite the trembling of her limbs.

  “Looks like I found your hiding place,” he said, his voice beautiful and terrible at the same time. “Welcome to the game.”

  The rat jumped, sailing across the distance to land on her bare arm. Its claws and fur were ice-cold and the feel of it touching her skin filled her with nameless dread.

  In her sleep, Rebekka’s heart sped up as visceral terror swept through the younger version of herself, so strong it freed her from the spot she’d been rooted to and sent her running back to where the prostitutes were rising, returning to the bus so they could be under way.

  That night she dreamed of plague, of thousands dying of infectious disease, of whole cities filled with the dead. She woke screaming so many times the others insisted she be drugged. And the next day—

  A shudder nearly woke the adult Rebekka. In her sleep she whimpered, remembering herself as a child climbing out of the hiding place that was also where she slept. She’d been groggy from the drugs. Otherwise she would have made sure it was safe to leave the bus.

  The police from a nearby settlement were there, four of them collecting the sin tax. They saw her before she could retreat. Caught her before she could escape.

  It was an area where the ultraconservative and the religious ruled. They followed the old laws, requiring prostitutes to bear a tattoo, not so much because they feared disease, but because it was a mark of shame meant to deter patrons and protect the unwary from marrying a whore.

  She fought them as they tugged her clothing aside to look for the tattoo. And when they didn’t find one, their leader ordered her marked.

  Her mother struggled, the caravan guards holding her back. She pleaded with the policemen, begged them with tears streaking down her face. Told them her daughter was no prostitute.

  Their leader quoted the scripture of Exodus. “He doesn’t leave the guilty unpunished. Unto the third and fourth generation, He punishes the children and their children for the sin of the parents.”

  Rebekka screamed as they held her down. The needles pierced her flesh repeatedly, until the pain and horror were too much for her young mind.

  She escaped into her memories, leaving her body behind to wander through the woods where she’d seen the deer and rabbit and squirrels. And when it was over the police collected the sin tax for the “new whore.”

  Her mother gathered her up, held her tightly as they both cried. But where the child Rebekka had thought her mother’s trembling and tears were like her own, the dreaming adult saw terror on her mother’s face.

  She looked around and saw the black dog, remembering it now. It came from the woods, sickness radiating from it, and something inside her unfurled. The desire to ease its suffering, the first stirrings of her gift.

  The settlement police saw the dog, too. They fired on it with their guns, killing it, but not before it had bitten one of them.

  “You brought the rabid dog here, little healer,” the urchin said, suddenly there, standing next to her mother though no one else seemed to see him.

  He smiled and stroked the rat on his shoulder. Leaned forward and laughed when she struggled wildly, her mother’s arms preventing her from escaping.

  “I’ve given you a piece of myself,” he said, his ice-cold lips touching hers, breath tasting of disease slipping into her mouth as his words slid into her mind. Forget now, until it’s time for you to join the game.

  Rebekka woke retching. Shivering. Coated in cold sweat.

  The healer’s journal tumbled to the floor as she rolled off her bed, disoriented, shaken by the dream.

  She bent down and picked up the book. Smoothed a bent page with a hand that trembled before closing the journal and putting it into the pocket of her pants.

  “It was only a dream,” she whispered into the silence of the room, telling herself the horrors she’d been reading about before falling asleep had triggered the nightmare memories of being held down and tattooed, telling herself the encounter with the demon and his talk of games had woven the image of the urchin into her dream.

  She told herself that, and yet the scent of disease filled her nostrils. The taste of it coated her tongue, driving her to the bathroom to brush her teeth and rinse her mouth.

  In the mirror above the sink her face appeared haunted, frightened. A hard pulse beat against her throat, visible evidence of a heart that wouldn’t stop thundering in her chest.

  Knowledge pounded in her skull even as she clung to denial. There were diseases with no cure. There were others where survival was possible only for those with enough money to pay for the cost of doctors and hospital care.

  She shuddered, remembering the nightmare within the nightmare, the images of thousands dying from plague, of whole cities full of the dead. It was like some of the scenes from the healer’s journal, she argued with herself. But she couldn’t shake the need to escape her room and clear the images from her mind with fresh air.

  Thinking of the men who’d attacked the night before, and her promise to Levi to stay in the brothel where it was safe, she paused long enough to stop by Feliss’s room and borrow a distinctively patterned cloak, hooded so its wearer could shield hair and face.

  It was a ploy used by the Weres to routinely wear something identifiable when they left the brothel, so other times they could slip away unnoticed by wearing a concealing garment associated with another should overinterested clients or those with grudges be watching for them.

  Rebekka used the private exit, first checking to make sure no one loitered in the alleyway between brothels before stepping through the door.

  The smell of warm dirt and brick filled her lungs. Relief poured into her but it was short-lived.

  Cold blossomed in her chest, while at the same time her fingers warmed, tingled in the same way they did before she used her gi
ft. A small cry of denial escaped when a rat entered the alleyway. Bile rose in Rebekka’s throat along with horror at the sight of the open sores on its body.

  It came toward her as no normal animal would have, so intent on reaching her it didn’t notice the scrawny feral cat that rounded the corner seconds later to pounce and kill and carry away its prize while Rebekka was still wrapped in the horror of a nightmare made real.

  Without conscious thought she turned and fled. Terrified of remaining in the brothel and bringing death to the Weres trapped by both their forms and their debts to Allende.

  Six

  THE blood red of the cardinal’s feathers drew Rebekka’s attention like an omen waiting for interpretation. It perched where a raven had on her last visit to the witches’ house, a glossy black bird of death that had shifted into a supernatural being so powerful at masking his nature not even Levi could see beyond the human facade.

  The conversation she’d had with Annalise Wainwright on that day swept into Rebekka’s thoughts like an icy wind.

  There’s a war brewing between supernatural beings, not unlike one occurring at the dawn of human creation. It will be fought and, depending on its outcome, the world as we now know it may change again. As alliances are forged, healers will emerge who can make those Weres trapped in an abomination of form whole. You are one of them.

  If I’m willing to pay the price.

  There is always a price to pay.

  Rebekka’s hand closed on the engraved pentacle in her pocket. It was the Wainwrights’ token, given to her first in summons, and then as a sign of alliance.

  She’d come here instinctively, without conscious decision. Being able to call the diseased to her would be a death sentence. If the humans didn’t kill her, then the Weres trapped in the brothels would. But now Rebekka trembled as she forced her gaze away from the cardinal and to the house in front of her.

  Dark stones absorbed the sunlight. A myriad of small windows, each with elaborate glyphs carved into their frames, made her think of soulless eyes looking out on the world.