Healer's Choice

by Jory Strong

  With a tightening of her fingers on Annalise’s arm, the matriarch said, “Take me to where he waits.”

  The Watcher

  ONLY a will honed over thousands of years of existence and tempered by being a healer prevented Torquel en Sahon from retreating as the old witch whose foolishness in youth had cost the Djinn one of their own approached. With each step she took he fought against retaking the form of the cardinal and escaping the presence of the ifrit—one of the soul-tainted, a being whose name was crossed through in the Book of the Djinn and whose spirit couldn’t be guided back and reborn into a new life.

  He stood his ground by reminding himself the loss of the Djinn whose name was no longer spoken had ultimately served The Prince’s vision. Only by forming alliances with those they would have seen destroyed in the past would the Djinn return to Earth.

  The Wainwright witches served as intermediaries. Even so, as the ifrit drew near, he couldn’t stop himself from turning his face away to look in the direction his daughter had gone.

  He’d taken no pleasure in her creation. In truth, he preferred not to remember any of the human women he’d lain with.

  Rebekka was the last of his children. Out of all of them, her gift as a healer held the most promise.

  He’d spent more time observing this particular daughter. Found himself caring about her fate more than was wise. But whatever the outcome of her testing, his time among humans was drawing to an end. When this was done he would return to his House and to the Kingdom set deep in the spiritlands that was both refuge and prison for the Djinn.

  “Did she give you the pages she took from the Iberá estate?” he asked, directing his attention and question at the younger witch, because for all his courage in remaining in the presence of an ifrit, he wouldn’t risk inviting a similar fate by speaking to it directly. Nor did he want to hear or see the Djinn soul tangled with the human’s.

  “Yes, and she accepted the amulet.”

  A wisp of guilt drifted through him. A private acknowledgment he’d failed to hide Rebekka well enough and Caphriel had found her.

  Torquel brushed the emotions aside. Caphriel’s games were the price for his silence about the alliances the Djinn sought and formed in this world.

  Caphriel’s gift could be countered. And in the end, both game and gift would be made to serve the Djinn.

  The necessity of the amulet added to the complexity of Rebekka’s trial, deepening her talent for healing and strengthening the blood tie between them, and with it her connection to the Djinn and the Earth that gave birth to them. He would have preferred otherwise, but when all was said and done, this daughter would succeed or fail, live or die, as the five before her had.

  “And the rest of it?” he asked.

  “Her mother never spoke to her about you but she might have encountered Abijah in the maze before he destroyed it. She didn’t deny the possibility she’d been fathered by a being she believes is demon, nor did she seem shocked by the disclosure.”

  “You guess correctly. Abijah sought her out, but I didn’t witness what occurred between them.” He felt pride in his daughter, for not easily trusting the witches, though had she, there were things they could have revealed that would have helped her.

  The decision to have Rebekka think she was a demon’s child was his, made after Caphriel found her and when it seemed likely her path might one day cross Abijah’s. Until she proved herself worthy, she couldn’t know of the existence of the Djinn.

  The witch said, “We offered to turn the Church’s attention away from her in exchange for a favor owed. She refused.”

  “Will she continue to?”

  “I believe so.”

  Torquel looked again in the direction Rebekka had gone. It was his right to mark an end to the part of her trial that had begun when she’d agreed to wait outside the maze the night Araña ran in it, not knowing she’d been made a participant in a Spider Djinn’s testing.

  This daughter had courage and intelligence as well as honor and loyalty, all of which had prevailed in the face of fear. She’d withstood both the temptation of The Iberá’s protection and the terror of being turned over to the Church.

  The desire to intercede was strong, to separate this part of her testing from what remained. It was matched by his desire to have Rebekka prove herself worthy of being known by the Djinn, her name entered in the books kept by his House.

  The fierceness of his pride in her, the depth of his will for her to succeed, gave Torquel pause. He hesitated over the words that would make Rebekka safe from one threat, finally saying, “The Church’s part in this is done after the sun rises tomorrow. See that one of our allies visits the priest Ursu.”

  “It will be as you wish.”

  Caphriel’s Pawn

  RADEK’S palms were slick. The green thermos nearly slipped as he pulled it from the knapsack.

  At the sound of rustling paper he startled guiltily, heart racing. It was only the map spread out on the ground next to him, lifting and dropping with a small breeze.

  Sweat slid down the back of his neck. He felt eyes on him.

  A glance over his shoulder told him he wasn’t imagining it. Captain Nagy leaned against the rear of the Hummer, a cigarette between his lips, watching.

  Two other militiamen wearing the Ivanov crest were a short distance away. Alert, but at ease, playing dice on the hood of the vehicle as he’d given them all permission to do when he told them he needed a few minutes to study the map and take a water sample from the small pond.

  Radek licked his lips. His heart stuttered in his chest.

  His gaze went to hoof tracks captured in the mud. Elk. He was pretty sure of it. They matched the picture he’d slipped from his pocket and studied surreptitiously.

  The thermos in his hand trembled. Inside it was the subtle movement of liquid.

  He set it down on the ground before him. Losing his nerve for opening it and emptying the smart-virus into the pond.

  What if the scientists were wrong? What if the virus mutated into something that affected humans?

  Radek took several deep breaths. He pulled the map over in front of him, pretended to be concentrating on it, but instead of seeing elevation markings and penciled-in notations of where man had once built, he looked into his memory.

  The laboratory was exactly where the file he’d recovered from the safe and decoded said it would be. It’d taken less than a day for the convict workers to get to it, and none of them had seen him remove something from the site.

  So far he’d uncovered three canisters, unmarked except for a symbol indicating the virus’s ultimate target. Each coming with a sealed data file containing information on how the scientists planned to use the weapon they’d created in the event the Weres emerged from hiding.

  Radek picked up the thermos. His stomach churned.

  Activating the virus had been relatively simple. The scientists had factored in lack of technology and the possible collapse of civilization when they designed their postwar weapon.

  Having the courage to use it was more difficult than Radek had envisioned in the safety of his private quarters. He closed his eyes and sank into a dream that had changed from one involving discovery and riches to one of glory.

  The tightness in his chest eased as he imagined the crowds chanting his name. Heard again his father calling him a hero to the human race.

  Courage returned. Nervousness became anticipation.

  Radek opened his eyes and got to his feet. He knelt next to the pond. By his calculations, the smart-virus targeting werewolves by using elk as a vector should reproduce and be present in every mouthful of water by nightfall.

  He uncapped the thermos. Submerged it in the pond so the watching militiamen would see what they expected to.

  Fear returned with the irreversibility of his actions, the possibility he might be unleashing another plague on mankind.

  Vomit rose in his throat.

  He swallowed it down.

  Dr
ew strength from the golden dream of power and wealth and glory.

  “I’m doing what needs to be done,” he whispered.

  Seven

  THE smell of slow, horrifying death drifted through the dense foliage of trees hiding Phaedra’s house. It blanketed the Jaguar camp in a noxious, unseen cloud of puss and raw flesh, exposed muscle and the scent of voided bodies.

  Anywhere other than a Jaguar’s lair the smell would have drawn every scavenger in the forest. Already, some of the pack members couldn’t be trusted not to lash out, driven by an instinct at the core of their being that said none but the strongest deserved to survive.

  Only those wearing a human form could enter the house and be in the presence of the cubs. And had the five boys been allowed to emerge from their drugged, pain-free cocoons, their mewling cries would have been unbearable, adding to the helpless torment, the edge of violence seething in the Jaguars.

  Aryck knelt next to the pallet where one of the cubs lay. The slow spread of whatever was eating through skin and into muscle, devouring them while they still lived, put them at risk of greater infection if they were moved to their own homes.

  They were like burn victims, only nothing Phaedra had tried, no potion or salve handed down in the oral tradition of their kind, worked. Nothing known by the Lion healer had helped either.

  Locked in their furred forms, the four cubs were denied the chance to talk to their parents, to find comfort in words where touch was increasingly denied as their injuries worsened.

  Rage ate at Aryck but he had no way to strike out at the long-dead humans who had created such a horrible weapon. His fury was fueled by a helplessness to change the course of events, by the heartrending knowledge that ultimately, when all hope of survival ended and they could no longer be shielded from the pain, the cubs would be killed to end their suffering.

  He moved to the pallet were the Tiger cub lay still as death. For his bravery, for changing into a human form so he could help the others, Caius’s condition worsened more quickly than that of the others, probably because whatever was eating him alive had been keyed to and designed for mankind, with animals just collateral damage.

  Grief welled up inside Aryck, obliterating his rage and bringing guilt with it. He should have recognized Caius’s quiet courage and the strength of spirit allowing him to rebound despite repeatedly being left out of Jaguar play. He should have made more of an effort to befriend this lone Tiger cub and in doing so help him fit more quickly into the pack.

  It was rare for Weres to mate outside their species, but because they shared a human form, it was possible. Caius’s mother had done so, disappearing when Aryck was a teen only to come back recently with a white Tiger cub at her side and no mate.

  Aryck reached out, pushing the boy’s hair off his forehead. He should have done more for this cub who’d lost his father to death and his mother to her grief.

  Given time, the Jaguar cubs would have accepted Caius, but now . . .

  A hand touched Aryck’s shoulder. He looked up into Phaedra’s age-lined face and saw compassion there.

  “Leave,” she said. “Don’t come here anymore or torment yourself. There is nothing any of us could have done to prevent this. I played in those ruins as a child; so did you, so did your father, and his, and the ones before, all the way back to the claiming of this land for the Jaguars. It is in the hands of the ancestors now.”

  Aryck rose from his crouch. As he did so, his father’s voice sounded in his mind. The council of elders gathers in the circle. Tell Phaedra we meet, then join us.

  Seven old men and five old women sat on seats made from the branches of the trees in the sacred place where the Jaguar dead were placed. They were the oldest members of the pack, seemingly ancient and feeble in body but with minds that were an immense library of Were history.

  They had no authority. But an alpha would be foolish not to ask for their opinion on important matters, and heed it unless there was a compelling reason to do otherwise.

  Aryck took up his position next to his father. Phaedra sat on the ground beside one of the elders.

  Nahuatl stood with his back to a small fire. It crackled in the center of the circle, signaling a meeting of importance. He was dressed in the light loincloth he favored but he carried a staff made of Jaguar bone and skull, signifying his position and that he would speak as a representative of the ancestors.

  Beyond him, members of the pack gathered, called there by curiosity instead of the alpha. Melina appeared, shifting easily from jaguar to human form and placing herself so Aryck couldn’t avoid seeing her naked breasts and the tuft of pubic hair arrowing down to draw attention to her vulva.

  Several males jostled into position next to her, touching their bare skin to hers. Aryck turned his head to look at his father, wondering at the purpose for being called here.

  Koren addressed the elders, saying, “Nahuatl came to me with a vision sent by the ancestors. They have shown him a face and given him the name of a woman capable of healing our cubs.”

  Outside the circle, murmurs met his announcement. Like a fever, hope sped through those gathered. Inside the circle, the elders remained stoic, waiting as Aryck did, knowing there was more to the vision.

  “She is human,” Koren said. “Gifted.”

  Hope became edged with fear and distrust. Whispers held anger and hate but were silenced with a glance from Koren.

  “And the cost to us if we bring this human into our midst?” one of the elders asked, his voice querulous.

  Nahuatl tapped his staff on the ground, drawing every eye to him. “The ancestors have bid me to say this: The decision must be made quickly, and it is the enforcer who must be sent for her. They also issue a warning. If she does not agree to providing aid, then Aryck will die before returning to Jaguar lands.”

  Those gathered in the circle weighed what was said, to what lengths they should go to save the cubs, but for Aryck the decision was easy. “I will go for the healer.”

  Murmurs met his declaration, but none of the elders objected. Koren placed his hand on Aryck’s shoulder. “It will be done then, and the cubs healed because of it. Melina will accompany you.”

  REBEKKA emerged from the thorn-lined path and onto a broken, cracked sidewalk a block away from the Wainwright house and on a different street. Hidden beneath her shirt, the dream catcher-like amulet was warm against her skin.

  She reached up and touched it, grateful for its presence. The cold blossoming in her chest hadn’t reappeared when she passed beyond the wards protecting the witches.

  Fear gnawed at her stomach at the thought of returning to the brothel. Denial continued to scream through her with the witch’s claim she was fathered by a demon.

  She wouldn’t believe it. Couldn’t without seeking answers from her mother.

  A glance at the sky confirmed it was too late to cross the Barrens. Even if she had the courage to enter the wasteland of burned and collapsed buildings by herself, she’d never reach the Fellowship settlement where her mother lived before nightfall.

  She couldn’t return to the brothel, not until she knew she wouldn’t draw disease there. And she didn’t dare go to her homesteaded house in the area set aside for the gifted while she was being hunted.

  Rebekka glanced at the sky again. If she hurried she could make it to Levi’s lair in the woods.

  It could be secured at night. And at least she wouldn’t put anyone else at risk there.

  She began running, part of her recognizing the danger of it, how moving quickly would draw more attention to herself. But the intense desire to escape the nightmare that had begun with the demon Abijah’s appearance, and grown worse with dreams and memories of the urchin, rode her.

  Where it was possible she remained in shadow, using vegetation and the piled debris that had once been houses to shield her from the street and the places reclaimed by humans.

  Sticker bushes tore at her clothing, scratching at bare skin. Still, she hurried. Driven, hoping to
outrun her thoughts and fears.

  Over the pounding of her heart she heard the rumble of an engine drawing closer. It could be anyone, she told herself. In Oakland the rich and powerful often sought out the gifted.

  They bought the services and products of those they required to live apart, just as easily and openly as they entered the red zone, arriving in chauffer-driven cars to indulge in their chosen vices.

  She forced herself to slow long enough to look around, and cursed herself for a fool when she saw the darting movement of a street child taking cover, this one older than the one she’d seen watching the Wainwright house.

  Renewed fear spiked through her, bringing with it a surge of adrenaline. For enough coin to pay for a meal or buy shelter for the night, the boy would point her out to anyone hunting her then turn away, uncaring what his actions meant for her.

  Rebekka pressed a hand to her side. Ran again, lungs and muscles burning with the effort.

  She reached the place where the gifted section bordered that of the non-gifted instead of the red zone. Despite what the witches said, she couldn’t discount the possibility it was the vice lords who had benefited from the maze who now hunted her.

  Piles of stone and rusted metal hidden by curling, tangled vines made it treacherous to stray too far from livestock paths used by those who took their animals to graze during the day. She did it anyway. Taking cover when the sound of an engine drew closer like a hungry mechanical bloodhound on her trail.

  The street boy came into view, panting. She became aware of her own harsh breathing and pulled her shirt away from her body, pressed the material to her mouth in an effort to mute any sound that might give her away.

  Moments later a sleek silver car drew alongside the boy. The backseat window rolled down, and Rebekka stifled a gasp when she saw the man’s profile. The port-wine stain on the left side of his face made him unforgettable. He was one of the men who’d attacked near the brothel, the only one to escape.