Jory Strong - Healer's Choice

“I’m here to speak to the Iberá patriarch.”

“And you are?”

“My name won’t mean anything to him. But the healer Rebekka’s does. And maybe, if the guardsman Captain Orst mentioned it since returning from a salvage operation in Were lands, the patriarch might know the name Aryck.”

The guard’s expression remained suspicious despite obviously recognizing at least one of the names Levi used. He returned to the guard-house, not bothering to close the door as he placed a call and repeated what Levi had said.

A moment later a heavy door swung open, offering a glimpse of manicured lawns and a magnificent house. Levi was motioned through it and escorted to the front door by guards. The butler took over, inviting Levi in and leading him to the patriarch’s study.

Tir followed, lips curved in dark amusement. So Addai spoke the truth even if he didn’t elaborate on it. In the end, Caphriel’s game had been turned to their advantage.

The patriarch sat behind his desk. At the corner of it, a militiaman wearing the stripes of one in command stood at ease, as if there to listen rather than guard.

“Why did you come to me?” The Iberá asked.

Levi’s hands clenched into fists. “Rebekka forgave you for holding her here against her will because she believed you were sincere in your desire to see the guard cleaned up and the red zone made a thing of the past. I’m here on her behalf.

“Since she was sixteen, Rebekka has been a healer in the Were brothels. We were working to help those we could to escape life as a prostitute. The vice lord Allende learned of it. Now the buildings are locked down and he plans to make an example of anyone who intended to leave or turned a blind eye to what was going on. He’ll sell their contracts to the Pleasure Venture when it arrives in port. Will you help the Weres Rebekka cares about? Or do you care only about the fate of humans in this city?”

In answer The Iberá picked up a slim phone. His hand trembled slightly, the effects of disease rather than emotion as he touched a button and spoke to someone on the other end. “Use what contacts you have to reach the vice lord Allende. He plans to sell some of the contracts he holds to the Pleasure Venture when it reaches port. Find out if he is willing to sell those same contracts to me. Let him know I intend to remove the shapeshifters from the area.”

The patriarch set the phone down. To Levi he said, “Often victory is more easily achieved using money instead of soldiers. While we wait for Allende’s answer you can accompany Colonel Peña to the planning room. If force becomes necessary—”

He stopped speaking as a dark-haired beauty appeared in the doorway. She frowned, either at having caught his mention of force or at finding he had a visitor. But when Levi turned, her eyes widened and her mouth formed a small O in seeming recognition.

There was a flash between them. Physical attraction and something else, an inevitability reminding Tir all too well of the first time he’d seen Araña.

“Isobel,” the patriarch said, the sharp crack of his voice enough to divert her attention and raise a blush to her cheeks.

“I’m to tell you everyone is gathered for the birthday party.”

“I will be there momentarily.”

“I’ll let them know,” she said, careful not to look at Levi as she turned away and retreated down the hallway.

“As I was saying,” The Iberá continued, “while we wait for Allende’s answer, you can accompany Colonel Peña to the planning room and provide information about the layout of the brothels as well as security measures. If force becomes necessary to extract those who wish to escape, then you—and any other ally you can personally vouch for—will need to go with the colonel and his men. I won’t risk having them killed by the very ones they’re attempting to rescue.”

“I understand.”

The patriarch’s hand settled on the controls operating the wheelchair. A motor hummed to life quietly in a signal of dismissal.

Colonel Peña moved to Levi’s side, and the two left the room. Tir waited, allowing The Iberá to maneuver the chair out from behind the desk before materializing, blocking the old man’s path in a display of angelic glory, of power and shimmering, unfolded wings.

If the patriarch guessed the being now standing before him was the very one his grandson had offered coin for, there was no sign of it in his face. He paled but didn’t cower as his good hand grasped the crucifix worn beneath his tailored shirt.

Restoring the old man to good health would once have required Tir’s blood. Now, free of the sigil-inscribed collar, it required only his will.

He felt Araña’s presence in his mind a heartbeat before her voice whispered through it like a caress. Addai says it’s time to finish this and go to Rebekka.

“Your fate is bound to the healer’s,” Tir told the patriarch, amused by the subtle, dual meaning contained in the words. “You have proven yourself worthy of being called an ally.”

He bent forward and touched The Iberá’s useless hand where it lay on the arm of the wheelchair.

“Be healed,” he said, willing it so.

And so it became.

ARYCK smelled death moments before he saw the house. The scent of it escaped through a barred window, blood and bowel and urine.

Flies were already gathering for the feast. Their buzz seemed loud in the sudden, oppressive quiet of the forest.

Instinct urged caution even as man and Jaguar raged, feared. Screamed silently at the prospect of finding Rebekka inside, always and forever gone from their lives.

The weight of it nearly crushed Aryck. The knowledge he’d failed her yet again felt like a mortal blow.

He tucked the witch’s pathfinder into the clothing collar he’d fashioned upon entering the woods and left the cover provided by the trees. His ears told him there was no one alive in the house but he still approached it carefully. The isolated location, the barred windows, the cameras mounted near the roof, all made him think this could be a trap.

Rebekka’s scent slammed into him like a fist to the gut when he neared the front door. It made her presence real, overrode the tiny, flickering hope the witch-produced tool was wrong, the hint of suspicion they had betrayed him—either of which would have been preferable to finding Rebekka inside.

Two men had been here before him. Aryck crouched, committing their scents to memory before picking up a handful of twigs and going to the door.

It was unlocked, adding to his sense this was somehow a trap. He stepped to the side and opened it, alert for any change in sound, for movement at the edge of the forest.

The smell of death intensified.

Aryck wedged the twigs under the door, holding it open as he cautiously entered the house. The Jaguar part of him raged, wanting a form that lent itself to ripping and slashing in a venting of fury.

Reason prevailed up until the moment Aryck saw the man’s corpse. In a glance he read what had happened by the blood pools and spatters on the stairs and walls, knew Rebekka lived, and, regardless of the cameras perched in the corners, changed .

He left the house at a run, following her path around and into the woods. It became easier the farther he went. She was barefoot, her feet bleeding.

Pride filled his chest when she came to a stream and began traveling in it. Making it more difficult to be tracked by humans. Not for him.

The water was shallow and the bed rocky. But the breeze carried her scent and it grew stronger with each step he took. He loped, his heart pounding not from exertion but from anticipation, from the knowledge he was only moments away from her.