Jory Strong - Healer's Choice

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 gift. 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.

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.

Did she dare tell the witches what Abijah had said about her father? Or about the being who appeared as an urchin and claimed to give her a piece of himself? Did she dare reveal the cold blossoming in her chest, the tingling warmth in her fingers that had preceded the appearance of the rat?

Rebekka’s stomach tightened into a knot. The Wainwrights offered an elusive promise that she might become a healer who could make those Weres trapped in an abomination of form whole, but she couldn’t bring herself to trust them.

She might be gifted, but she’d lived among Were outcasts since she was sixteen and had absorbed their suspicion of witches. She might be human, but a childhood among prostitutes had set her apart from all society but that of the brothels.

The back of her fingers brushed against folded paper, the pages she’d torn from an old journal on the Iberá patriarch’s desk just before her escape from the estate. The pages held an account of urns said to hold trapped demons in them, and except for her soul, her life, and her gift, they were the only thing of value she could use in a bargain with witches.

Desperation kept her from turning away. And when she felt cold blossom in her chest like a hand unclenching while at the same time warmth spread through her fingers, fear for those in the brothel made her take a step forward.

She opened the sigil-inscribed gate and entered the witches’ domain. The sense of cold and warmth vanished, as if the wards set in place prevented her from drawing the sick to her.

On the porch she grasped the ring held in the mouth of a brass gargoyle. Used it to announce her presence.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught the red flash of the cardinal taking flight. She turned her head slightly, in time to see a thin boy of eight or nine running down the street.

He had the look of a street child instead of one who belonged in the area set aside for the gifted. For an instant he reminded her of the child she’d seen the previous night, shortly before she and Levi were attacked near the brothels.

The door opened and there was the familiar crawl of magic over Rebekka’s skin. Rather than usher her into the house, Annalise’s attention remained on the boy until he disappeared around a corner.

“The Church has watchers posted now,” she said. “Father Ursu still hunts for you in the hopes you’ll lead him to the others.”

Not the Weres she and Levi had helped free from the maze, but Araña and, through her, Tir, a being Rebekka now knew was more than human, just as she knew the Church sought him because they believed his blood healed and with it they could perform miracles to strengthen their hold on Oakland.

Fear tightened its grip on Rebekka at the thought of ending up in the Church’s hands. But better theirs—where death would come after torture proved her worthless to them, or they discovered she could bring plague to the city—than to learn the vice lords who ran the gaming clubs and had profited from the maze were after her.

Annalise stepped back out of the doorway. “The matriarch will wish to see you. There are allies we can call upon on your behalf, beings who can turn the Church’s attention away from you.”

The knots in Rebekka’s stomach grew worse. She made no response as she followed Annalise down a hallway lined with prewar artwork.

Paintings of glorious color and celebration hung on the walls. Depictions of naked men and women dancing, coupling in ancient rites of fertility and worship.

The sound of a baby crying loosened the bindings of fear and worry. It filled Rebekka with soft, impossible longing.

Unable to resist, she stopped at an open doorway and looked inside. A girl, no more than seventeen, picked up a tiny infant and quieted it with the offer of a nipple.

“My grandson,” Annalise said. “Born yesterday.”

There was love in her voice. Its presence and the sight of the baby held against its mother’s breast sent an ache through Rebekka’s heart.

She wanted a child of her own, a family that included a husband at her side, a helpmate and partner to share her life with and serve as a safety net so no son or daughter of hers ended up living in the street or selling themselves to survive.