Jory Strong - Healer's Choice

A smile of amusement curved his lips. Then again, his kind was capable of an equal ruthlessness.

Addai looked toward the path the Jaguar, Aryck, had taken. He paused long enough to wonder if the other children survived and if the enforcer would prove himself worthy in the days ahead. Then he descended, taking flesh, the essence of light becoming the form of a man.

Nahuatl gave no sign of being aware of his presence at the edge of the circle. The shaman’s song to his ancestors continued, rising and falling, pitching higher with each new refrain until it reached a crescendo and ceased with the plunging of a ceremonial knife into his dead son’s chest.

Bone and muscle gave way with the force of the thrust and the sharpness of the blade. A new song began as Nahuatl pulled the heart from its mortal cavity and threw it into the flames.

The taste of blood and fire coated Addai’s tongue.

He laughed silently, appreciative of the drama, the rite.

The passion of faith.

When the heart had been consumed in a hungry blaze, the shaman turned, Jaguar cape swirling, the snarling headdress hiding everything but the dark eyes of a man who spirit-walked among the dead.

“You asked for a sign that the things revealed to you in the shadowlands, and the part you will play in their unfolding, are true,” Addai said, letting all Earthly pretense fall away in a spread of white wings and a haloed show of angelic glory. “I am that sign.”

REBEKKA slept, and blissfully it was free of dreams and fears. Free of demons and doubts, and worries.

Hunger finally woke her, making her stir from the warm cocoon of blankets. She opened her eyes, breathed in the scent of herbs and familiarity.

This was home. More so than the house she’d homesteaded in the area set aside for the gifted. More so than the brothel she grew up in, and yet less than what her heart craved.

She rose and dressed, closing her mind to wishes and hopes that seemed impossible. She had time only to eat before one of the prostitutes summoned her to the front door.

A street child stood there, a girl who was ten at the most, her eyes already far too old for her face. Small feet in worn-out shoes stayed in motion, barely touching the ground before lifting again as if in readiness to sprint away at the tiniest hint of danger.

She used her thumb to point to the right, sending Rebekka’s attention to a parked car. It was a silver sedan with dark windows. A flag bearing the Iberá crest fluttered from the antennae.

“Your services are needed,” the girl said, not able to hide the hint of revulsion in her voice. “When you’re done, they’ll bring you back.”

Indecision held Rebekka in the brothel doorway. She’d promised Levi she wouldn’t leave, and yet despite the street child’s assumption, there was only one service she performed and if she was needed . . .

Rebekka couldn’t ignore the request. She left the brothel doorway, thinking how odd it was that now she hurried to a car flying the Iberá flag, when for days she’d wanted to escape their estate after being held there in the hopes she could be used to find Tir, and Tir, in turn, could be used to heal the dying Iberá patriarch.

The driver emerged to open the door for her. Instead of finding the backseat empty, Annalise Wainwright waited inside the car.

With her presence came the crawl of magic over Rebekka’s skin, like a hundred tiny spiders. She’d felt the same thing the first time she’d met the witch.

Annalise said, “The child was sent with the truth. Your services are needed but not at the Iberá estate. We thought it best to let anyone watching believe that’s where you’re going. The person who sought our aid is known to the Iberá patriarch. The terms are set and you will be paid by my family. Your silence is required. Do you agree?”

Rebekka trusted the witch enough to say, “Yes.”

A strip of cloth lay across Annalise’s lap, her hands on the ends of it. “I need to blindfold you.”

Rebekka acquiesced, leaning forward so the soft material could be tied around her head.

They drove for an indeterminate amount of time. Longer, Rebekka guessed, than was truly necessary.

A radio tuned to a news channel was the only sound in the car. The chauffeur’s presence prevented them from speaking freely.

Eventually they slowed to a stop. The chauffeur got out rather than roll down a window. In the brief instant the door was open, Rebekka heard nothing, though the scent of flowers flooded the interior of the car.

Annalise made no movement, nor did the back door open. Rebekka imagined armed guards and a gate with a distinctive crest on it. She’d already guessed whoever had sought out the witches was wealthy and powerful and didn’t want it known they had dealings with the gifted. It was easy to picture the chauffeur waiting outside to gain entrance to the estate, so there’d be no risk of her hearing a name.

Long minutes passed before he returned to the driver’s seat, bringing with him another burst of flower-scented air. The car began moving, traveling in a straight line before making several turns as if going to the back of the house, to a servant’s entrance maybe, or one where absolute privacy was guaranteed.

They stopped again and this time Annalise placed her hand on Rebekka’s forearm. “I’ll guide you.”

The door on Annalise’s side opened. The air was cool and smelled of diesel and hot car. A private entrance , Rebekka thought, a garage probably .

“This way,” a female voice said, the sound of her voice telling Rebekka the woman was old.

They traveled in silence, leaving the firmness of concrete to walk first on wood, then plush carpet. The flower scent was present, blending in with the smell of wealth and power.

Until her involuntary stay at the Iberá estate, she’d never considered that either had one, but now Rebekka knew differently. Wealth and power smelled of rich fabrics and subtle perfume, of wood polish and an immaculately kept home, of time and luxury and freedom from the everyday struggle for survival.

The texture underneath her feet changed again. Annalise halted her.

Doors closed, a whisper of sound broke the silence. They rose with a low hum, the motion revealing they were in an elevator. When it stopped Annalise urged Rebekka forward and they were once again on plush carpeting.

Even with the ever-present smell drifting in from what Rebekka imagined must be extensive gardens, she knew the moment they’d arrived at their destination. Sickness tainted the air, the scent of medicine and age, and something else—the unexpected smell of reptile.

She’d healed only a couple of them before, women with exotic scales on sections of their bodies instead of skin. Snake outcasts were rare. Rebekka guessed they were probably as rare as those who could shift purely between two forms—at least here in the United States with its lack of rain forests.

It explained the secrecy. She would never have imagined a Were among Oakland’s elite. Then again, despite the association with the Iberás and the drive, they could just as easily be in a vice lord’s home or that of a magic practitioner who didn’t dare live outside the red zone.

Behind them a door closed firmly and a lock clicked into place. “Can you heal without having the blindfold removed?” Annalise asked.

“I don’t know. I need touch at least. I need to know the nature of the injury.”

“May I?” Annalise asked, her question directed to the left, telling Rebekka they were positioned at the unknown person’s torso or lower body.

The answer was given silently, revealed in the rustle of bed clothing.

Annalise guided Rebekka’s hand to rough, ridged, and creviced skin. “You’re touching a woman’s leg. The other is the same, covered in what looks like alligator skin. Until days ago she had a severe infection, something like gangrene. Are you familiar with it?”