Kelley Armstrong - The Gathering

We started with the snake, dumping in a couple of live slugs. Serena used to argue that killing one creature to save another made no sense. We’d have long debates about that. Not arguing, just working it through. I agreed she had a point, but the snake was rare and the slugs weren’t, so it made sense from a conservation view.

But if you pushed her argument even further, you could say that no predator should be saved, because even if I feed them roadkill and hunter leftovers, they’ll kill other animals when they get out. Then there’s the argument for letting nature take its course with every living thing, and so we should leave wounded animals to their fate. I don’t mind it when people say stuff like that. I just don’t happen to agree.

After the snake, we fed the fledglings. Again, I dropped the food in, using gloves. Hand-feeding them is only done in an emergency. With the birds, letting it fall into the nest also mimics the way Mama Eagle would do it.

“They look ready to leave soon,” Daniel said.

I nodded. “Dad said we might take them to the wildlife center next week.”

The birds were almost ready to fly, meaning they had to go to the center, because I wasn’t equipped to help them learn that. Someday I would be, but for now I stuck with nursing duty.

“This guy looks ready to go soon, too,” Daniel said as he peered into the marten’s cage. “Wow. Has it really only been a week?”

“Less. Believe me, she has a long way to—”

I stopped. The marten had woken and reared up against the side of her cage, nose wriggling madly. When she saw me watching, she chirped, then started racing laps as she waited for food.

Daniel laughed. “Someone’s definitely feeling better.”

“That’s not—” I peeled off the gloves. “That’s not possible. It should take days before she’s even walking.”

“You’re just too good a nurse. You need to go visit your grandma, let your dad and me take over, slow things down.”

It’s true—the animals don’t heal as fast when I’m not around. That sounds like bragging, but we saw it every time I went away. Daniel knows how to do all the stuff. So do my parents. But when I’m gone, the healing process slows.

Dr. Hajek, the Salmon Creek veterinarian, says some people are just natural healers. She sometimes calls me into town to help with pets that’re in a lot of pain—I calm them down so she can do her thing, and in return she volunteers her time with cases of mine that need serious medical attention.

Still, as good as I am, there was no way the marten should have been racing around her cage. When I said that to Daniel, he only shrugged.

“Obviously she wasn’t as badly hurt as you thought. Hate to break it to you, Maya, but you can be wrong.”

“Dr. Hajek did the diagnosis.” I leaned over the cage. The marten reared up again and chirruped at me. “That bolt went into the right haunch and—”

I stared at the marten’s haunch. The skin was bare, where Dr. Hajek had shaved it. Underneath, the only sign of injury was a pale scar crisscrossed with dark stitches. When I’d checked the marten yesterday morning, I’d thought she was healing fast. But the wound had still been there.

I reached into the cage.

“Um, Maya?” Daniel said. “Gloves? Those teeth and claws are like needles. You’re the one always telling me …”

I didn’t hear the rest. It was as if my hand was being pulled into the cage against my will. The marten didn’t even flinch, just sat there and waited, dark eyes on mine, calm and trusting.

I touched her wounded flank. Pain ripped through my leg and I stumbled back.

“Maya!”

Darkness enveloped me. I inhaled the scent of pine needles. My leg throbbed. My heart raced so fast, I panted for breath.

“Pop goes the weasel!” a boy yelled.

Another guy laughed. Footsteps pounded the dry earth so loud they sounded like an oncoming locomotive. A single thought filled my head. Escape . I pulled myself along, dragging my injured leg over a carpet of dead needles—

“Maya!” A warm hand grabbed my chin. “Come on, Maya.”

I gasped and blinked. I was sitting on the floor. In Daniel’s lap. I bolted to my feet so fast, I elbowed him in the stomach.

“Thanks,” he wheezed. “Next time I’ll let you hit the floor.”

“What happened?”

“You fainted.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “I believe swooned is the correct term. It’s not nearly as romantic as it sounds, you know. More like a deadweight collapse. With drool.”

I wiped my mouth and looked around, still getting my bearings.

Daniel’s voice softened as he stepped closer. “Are you okay?”

I nodded. He asked what happened, but I couldn’t tell him, because I wasn’t really sure myself. I just stared at the marten, watching me now, head tilted. When I wrenched my gaze away and went to get her dinner, I realized my hands were shaking. Daniel took the meat from me, donned the gloves, and fed the marten.

With his back to me, he said, “So I spilled my guts already. Your turn. If you won’t tell me what happened just now, at least tell me what happened at the tattoo place.”

I did. I was tempted to joke that his dad was right—apparently I was evil—but he wouldn’t appreciate that.

When I was done, he stood there, his broad face screwed up in disbelief. “So this old lady, who’s never met you before, sees your birthmark and says you’re a witch?”

“Sounds like something from a TV movie, doesn’t it?” I hummed a few bars of suitably sinister music. “Should have been a fortune-teller, though. The teenage girl goes to the fortune-teller, whose gypsy grandmother says she’s cursed.”

“Maybe that was it. Like one of those reality TV shows. You got pranked.”

“In Nanaimo? Must be a low-budget Canadian production.”

“Is there any other kind?”

I laughed and took out a little more meat for the marten, who spun in her cage, chirping. At least someone didn’t think I was evil incarnate. Not if I had food anyway. I dropped it in.

Daniel said, “If the woman has Alzheimer’s or whatever, her niece should keep her out of the studio before she scares off more customers.”

“I know.”

I closed the marten’s cage. She narrowed her eyes and chattered, scolding me for not giving her more.

I shook my head. “We can’t have you getting too fat to run when we let you go.”

“We’re done talking about it, then?” Daniel said as I shut the food locker.

I shrugged. “Nothing more to talk about. It wasn’t exactly high on the scale of enjoyable life experiences, but I can deal with it.”

“You just fainted, Maya.”

“That has nothing to do with—”

“No? Good. Then you won’t mind me telling your parents, so they can get you to the clinic tonight and check you over.”

“I’m fine,” I said as I double-checked my charges. I couldn’t hang out and play with them after they were fed—minimal human contact was the goal, however tough that was sometimes.

“I fainted because I missed dinner and I’m starving. And, yes, maybe I’m kind of stressed. But my parents are already worried about what that woman said about my birth mother. You know how they get about that. They’ll decide it’s opened up a Pandora’s box of conflict over my adoption and my racial identity and blah, blah, blah. I really don’t want to spend the next week on Dr. Fodor’s couch, thank you very much.”

“All right, then. I’ll forget it for now, but if you pass out again …”

“I’ll tell someone.”

“And you’ll make sure you aren’t in here by yourself. Get your mom or dad to help you. Say you’re worried about the fledglings imprinting on you or whatever.”