We descend. The staring doesn't stop. If anything, it gets worse—more faces appearing from doorways, from behind structures, from whatever they were doing before the human with the pink chicken walked into their home. Are those all werewolves? Of course they're all werewolves. What else would they be? Normal people don't live in the middle of nowhere surrounded by trees so wide two people couldn't link arms around them. That one's missing a finger. That one has a burn scar across her neck. How do werewolves even get burn scars? Do they heal from fire differently than—right. Not the time. Nugget's basket needs adjusting, the handle's digging into my wrist, and I shift her to the other side while a gray wolf trots past us. Actual wolf. Not person-shaped. It glances at me with amber eyes before disappearing between two structures. Human one second, wolf the next. Apparently normal here. There's too much happening. "That's a wolf," I whisper to Kestria. "Walking around. Like a dog." "Mel, don't call them dogs." "I didn't call them a dog. I said like a dog." "Still don't." "Noted. Is it someone? Like, is that a person right now, or—" "It's complicated." "Everything about you people is complicated." Nugget shifts in the basket. Pink and unbothered. There's a smear of mud on her beak from earlier—I pick at it with my thumbnail while we walk, scraping at the dried edge. Half comes off. The rest is caked. I'll need water for that. Where's the water here? Stream, Kestria said. How far? Should've asked before we— "Stay close," Kestria murmurs beside me. "Wasn't planning on wandering off." "I know. Just—stay close." "You ke ep saying that. Is someone going to jump out and eat me?" "No." "That was too fast. You didn't even think about it." "Mel."
"I'm just saying, a little hesitation would've been more convincing." The structures are rougher than I expected. Built for function, nothing fancy. Wood and stone. Smoke rising from central fires—three of them, no, four, the fourth one's almost out, someone should tend that before it dies completely. Hanging racks with meat drying. Venison, probably. Maybe elk. Someone was in the middle of skinning a rabbit when we arrived—good size, clean kill—and they've stopped now, knife in hand, watching us pass. Watching me. The knife needs sharpening. I can tell from here by the way they were sawing instead of slicing. "That man's going to ruin the pelt," I mutter to Kestria. "Someone should tell him." "Maybe not your first introduction." "I'm just saying. You can see it from here. The angle's wrong too— he's cutting against the grain. You start at the hind legs and work up, not—" "Mel." "Fine. But it's painful to watch." Nugget clucks. One sharp note. Everyone within ten feet turns to look at the basket. "Shh." I tuck her wing back in. "You're not helping." That one's hostile, arms crossed, jaw tight. That one's curious, leaning forward, no visible weapons. That one—a woman with a baby on her hip—oh my gosh, she's so cute, look at those chubby thighs—pulls the child tighter against her, st epping back into her doorway. Not hostile. Scared. Of me. A young man near the drying racks elbows the boy next to him, muttering. An older woman is sitting on a stump near the far fire, gray- haired, weathered, watching me with eyes that don't blink. She doesn't move. Doesn't react. Just watches—sharp and still and taking everything in. She's been doing this a long time, whatever this is. "Who's the woman on the stump?" I ke ep my voice low—not that it matters with their hearing. "Which—" Kestria follows my gaze. "Orel." "She looks like she's deciding whether to let me live." "She looks like that about everyone." "That's not comforting." "Wasn't trying to be." Then I see him. A man st eps forward from the crowd. I don't recognize him at first. Lean. Sun-dark. Shirt hanging loose, and there's a scar across his shoulder where the fabric slips, and— Oh. Oh. I stitched that.
I was twelve. He was bleeding in a ditch, leg caught under a branch, barely conscious, and I didn't know what I was doing but he was going to die if nobody did something and nobody was going to. So I did. Thread boiled three times because once didn't seem like enough. Hands shaking the whole time. I remember the shaking. He was the first wolf I ever treated. I didn't know he was anything else. He's walking. Toward me. Into the open space between me and everyone else, and everything goes quiet, and everyone is looking, and I'm holding a pink chicken. "Melori." "I—" My voice climbs. "I didn't know your name." "Rhen." "Rhen." My fingers are picking at dried mud on Nugget's feathers because they need something to do and I can't stop them. "You look— better. Than the ditch. Which I realize is not saying much, because the ditch was—the ditch was a low point for both of us, honestly." "I'd hope so." "The scar healed—mostly okay, I can see from here the lower edge is a little uneven, but the tissue took, and considering I was twelve and—" "Melori." "Sorry. I'm—sorry." He turns. Looks at the crowd behind him. At the hostile faces and the wary ones and the scared woman in the doorway. When he speaks again, his voice carries. "Your stitches were terrible." I choke out a laugh. "They were not. They held." "Barely." "You're alive." "By accident." "You're being dramatic." "You were twelve." "I was a thorough twelve-year-old." The woman with the baby loosened her grip. Just a little. Not much. But the whispers around me have shifted— still wary, not as sharp. Someone actually nodded at me. One person. It's something. The hostile ones are easier to spot. A big man near the back. Dark hair, permanent scowl, built like he could snap me in half and not think about it afterward. He's staring at me with a hatred that didn't start today. I just gave it a place to go. Another woman, arms crossed, jaw tight, fresh scratch across her cheek. A cluster of younger ones whispering to each other, eyes flicking between me and— Keer.
He's stopped walking. We've reached the central area—a cleared space with benches, fire pits, structures arranged around it in a rough circle. The biggest fire pit has a cooking setup I don't recognize, some kind of spit mechanism. Clever. The rotation joint—is that a socket hinge? I should look at that later. Figure out the counterweight system, because if the spit's balanced wrong the meat cooks unevenly and you end up with one side charred and the other—three wolf pups are wrestling near the far edge, tumbling over each other, too young to care about the human invasion. One of them yips and the others pile on. Keer's standing in the middle of it all. And I haven't really looked at him. Not since we got here. Too tired, too flustered, too focused on not dying and ke eping Kestria from dying and carrying Nugget and my bag is heavy and my wrist hurts from the basket and I should check Kestria's bandage when we stop because she's been holding her side for the last ten minutes and won't admit it— I look at him. He's massive. I knew he was massive. But seeing him surrounded by his own people is different—he's bigger than most of them, easily. Shoulders wider. Neck thicker. Black hair loose, gray threading through it at the temples—I forgot about that, how did I forget about that— The scars are worse in daylight. Across his arms, disappearing under the too-small tunic—everywhere. The missing eye. The torn ear. The tunic is too small. I noticed that before, definitely noticed that before, I noticed it for hours during the walk while the seam under his arm threatened to quit. But now I'm noticing it again—straining across those shoulders, riding up his thighs— Don't look at his thighs. I look at his thighs. There's a hole near the hem. Small. I could fix that. I have a needle in my bag and thread—no, the thread's in the bottom under the herbs, I'd have to unpack everything, but if I had the thread I could reinforce the whole hem because that fabric's on its last legs and one more branch is going to— Why am I planning alterations to his clothing right now. Because the alternative is thinking about what's underneath the clothing and my brain WILL NOT be doing that. Someone near me inhales. Sharp. Another one a second later. Heads are turning—not toward Keer anymore. Toward me. The woman with the scratch on her cheek wrinkles her nose. The scowling man's face somehow gets worse. Kestria makes a choked sound beside me. "Mel." Her voice is barely there. "They can—we can—" "What?" "Smell." "Smell what?" I glance down at myself. "Did I st ep in something? Is it the chicken? Nugget's clean, I bathed her last week—" "No, not—" Kestria's face is red. Actually red. "We can smell when someone's—when your body is—" "When my body is what? Sweaty? I've been walking for hours, of course I'm—" "Aroused." The word comes out choked. "We can smell arousal." What. "What?"
"Your scent changes when you're attracted to someone. We can all smell it. Everyone here can smell it." Oh. Fuck. Fuckidy fuck. Just my luck. "That's not—I wasn't—" I grip the basket handle so hard my knuckles go white. "I was thinking about paste ratios." "Your body wasn't." "My body is a liar. My body is a lying traitor and it doesn't speak for me." "Unfortunately it kind of does. Here." My face goes hot. Half the crowd is looking at me. And it's not the fact that I'm aroused that's registering on their faces—it's who. The scowling man looks like he's been personally insulted. The woman near the front goes still and stares. Two of the younger ones exchange a look, eyes wide. The woman with the baby turns her head away fast, like she walked in on something. It's Keer. They know it's Keer. Ugh. There's a bird calling in the trees behind me, cheerful and oblivious. Lucky bird. Lucky stupid fucking bird. Orel on the stump tilts her head. Just slightly. And Keer— Keer's head has turned. That single brown eye finds me. Not disgust. Not amusement. His shoulders draw tight. His nostrils flare, just slightly. He knows. They all know. Every person within earshot knows that I just— I look at the ground. There's a beetle crawling across the dirt near my foot. Shiny black shell. Nugget would eat that if she saw it. Nugget is clucking under my arm, completely oblivious to the fact that her owner just humiliated herself in front of an entire werewolf pack. Great first impression. Top of the list. Beats the time I mixed up a sle ep tonic with a laxative and Kestria didn't speak to me for a week. "Can we talk about something else?" My voice is climbing. "Anything else. That fourth fire pit is dying. Someone should bank it with hardwood." "Mel."
"I'm serious. Softwood burns too fast. You lose all your coals." Keer looks away. When he speaks, his voice is rougher than before. "Listen." Not gradually. Not one by one. Every single person here stops what they're doing and looks at him, and nobody told them to. The young men near the drying racks straighten. The woman in the doorway shifts forward. The permanent scowl loosens into attention. Even the pups stop wrestling. Rhen, who was leaning against a post a moment ago, goes still. "Kestria was attacked." His voice carries across the crowd. "Humans from Blomstradal. The Forest Warden and his men." Someone makes a low sound. Anger, maybe. Fear. I should be paying attention to this. I should be figuring out who's sympathetic, who's hostile— "The human treated her wounds." He nods toward me. Brief. Hmph, the human. Not looking directly at me now. "Moonbright poison. She had the cure." More murmuring. A different sound this time—less surprise, more oh, it's her. So they'd heard about me. Great. I've been the subject of werewolf gossip, apparently. "The cottage isn't safe anymore. The humans know what happened there. They'll come back." His eye swe eps the crowd, and people are straightening, responding. Adjusting their weight, squaring their shoulders. "The human stays here until the situation is resolved. She's under my authority." Under his authority. His voice drops on that word and—Nugget. Nugget breaking the pink dye pot. Yup. The woman who was hiding in her doorway nods. A man near Rhen drops his chin. Even Orel on the stump gives a single, barely-there dip of her head. "You're ke eping a human here?" The voice comes from the back. The big man with the permanent scowl—has to be—pushing forward through the crowd. He looks even more disgusted than before, and I have a horrible feeling it's not just about me being human anymore. "Into our territory?" He's not quite shouting, but close. His hands are fists at his sides, knuckles white. "After everything they've done to us? After—" "She saved my sister." Keer doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't change his posture. "That's the end of it." Silence. The hostile man wants to argue—I can see it in every line of his body, his weight shifting forward, teeth bared—but he doesn't. He stares at Keer for a long moment, then st eps back into the crowd. Not satisfied. Not convinced. Just overruled.
And nobody questions that. Nobody says wait, let's discuss this. He said it's done and it's done. Because he said it. I'm going to need a cold stream. Nugget's basket is crooked and I straighten it, tuck the flap down, very important the flap, essential really, chicken containment is a priority right now— "Dara." A woman st eps forward. Sturdy build, dark hair braided back, capable hands. She's almost smiling. "Show her the empty dwelling by the eastern ridge. Make sure she has what she needs." "Yes, Alpha." Dara gestures for me to follow. I adjust the basket—Nugget's been quiet through all of this, probably plotting revenge for later—and start to move. "Mel." Kestria catches my arm. Her face is pale, but she's fighting back a smile. I can see her fighting it. "Don't," I say. "I didn't say anything." "You're thinking it." "I'm thinking many things." She's losing the fight. "We'll talk about them later." "We absolutely will not." "Mel—" "You need to go rest. Keer's making you. Go rest. Stop almost dying. I'll be here when you wake up." "Are you okay?" "I'm fine. Totally fine. I'm a professional. I'm a healer who is here to heal people and do work and not—" I wave my free hand. "I'm fine." "You don't look fine." "I look like someone who just embarrassed herself in front of a group of people with supernatural noses. Which is exactly what I am. Go rest." She hugs me—quick, careful of her wound—and pulls me close, mouth against my ear. "For what it's worth, I think you surprised him." "I hate you." "No you don't." "I'm reconsidering." She pulls back, grinning despite the exhaustion. "Come find me tomorrow. We'll talk." "About anything exc ept this." "We'll see." Then Keer is there, one hand on her shoulder, steering her away. He doesn't look at me. His shoulders are rigid.
I watch them go. The back of his neck above the tunic collar— Have I not learned my lesson yet? "Human." Dara's waiting, eyebrow raised. "Melori." I hitch the basket higher on my hip. "My name's Melori." "I know what your name is." She walks. "This way." We're halfway up a ridge—ste ep, my calves burning, basket banging against my hip with every st ep—before Dara glances back at me. "You really had no idea." "About what?" She just looks at me. "I don't want to talk about it." "It happens." She doesn't slow down. "The scent thing. It's just biology." "So I've been told. By Kestria. Just now. While I was dying." "You're not dead yet." "The night is young." She snorts. "We can't control the scent—it's just what the body does. But we learn not to let ourselves feel that way. Not around him." She glances back again. "You don't look at the Alpha like that. You don't let your mind go there." "And I didn't know that." "You didn't know anything." Not cruel. "You looked at him. Really looked. And you didn't know to stop yourself before—" She gestures vaguely. "Before I announced my—" I can't finish the sentence. My free hand finds my bag strap and twists. "Fantastic. 'Hello, I'm Melori, please enjoy knowing exactly what I think of your leader while I stand here holding a pink chicken.'" "No one's going to kill you for it." "That's really not the comfort you think it is." "Wasn't trying to comfort you." But her mouth twitches. "No one's done that around him in years." I stop walking. "What?" She stops too, turning. "What?" "Years? No one's—" I wave my hand, unwilling to say it again. "No one's looked at him like that in years?" "He's the Alpha." Same voice. Same certainty. End of sentence, end of explanation. "But he's—" I stop myself. He's what? "That's a lot of pressure. For him, I mean. Being that. All the time. Not having anyone who—" I stop again. The bag strap is going to snap if I ke ep twisting it. "Never mind." Her eyebrows go up. "Most people don't think about it from his side." "Most people are exhausting."
She laughs—short, surprised. "You're strange." "I get that a lot." "I bet you do." She turns and ke eps climbing. "Dwelling's just up here." I follow, my neck still prickling. The way everyone turned. The way Keer's nostrils flared. The way he looked at me before he looked away. Years. No one's looked at him like that in years. The dwelling is small. Smaller than my cottage— I cut that thought off. The cottage is gone. This is now. One room. A sle eping pallet against the wall, frame made of rough wood, pile of furs that have seen better days. A table with two stools, one wobbling—the left leg is shorter than the others. Wedge of scrap wood would fix it, or I could sand down the other three legs if I find something rough enough. Fire pit in the center, stones dark from old fires, no ash. Dust on the table. Cobwebs in the corner near the ceiling. A crack in the wall by the door, patched with mud that's crumbling at the edges. I set the basket down. Nugget immediately es capes and inspects. "Water's from the stream at the bottom of the ridge." Dara leans in the doorway. "Communal meals at the central fires. Cook your own if you want, but you'll have to find your own food." "Where do people get food?" "Hunt. Forage. Trade with each other." She's watching me look around. "You cook?" "Yes." "Properly? Or just enough to survive?" "Properly. I've been feeding myself for ten years." I'm already righting the wobbling stool, testing the short leg with my palm. Definitely a wedge. "Do you have scrap wood anywhere? A thin piece, about this wide?" She blinks. "You've been here thirty seconds." "The stool wobbles." "Most of us don't bother with real cooking." She ignores the stool question. "Eat things raw or barely heated." "That's inefficient." "It is." "And bad for you, probably. Nutritionally. Raw meat's fine for wolves but in human form your digestive systems have to be at least partially—" I catch her expression. "Sorry. Do you have the scrap wood or not?" "I'll find you something." She leans against the doorframe. "You're the healer. The one who's been treating wolves for years without knowing." "I didn't know they were people." "So I've heard. You just found injured wolves and decided to fix them."
"They were hurt. I could help." I crouch to check Nugget's feet— pink but healthy, nails need trimming soon, I should make a schedule—and my hands feel better with something to do. "Why wouldn't I?" "Most humans would run." "Most humans are stupid." She laughs, real this time. "You're very strange. For a human." "You mentioned." "It bears r epeating." She's quiet for a moment. Then: "The scars don't bother you? On the Alpha?" I look up at her. "Why would they?" She blinks. "He's missing an eye." She's being careful with this. "Half an ear. Covered in old wounds. Most people—" "Then most people aren't paying attention." I stand up. "He survived. That's not ugly. That's just what surviving looks like." She stares at me. "What?" "Nothing." She shakes her head. "Someone will bring you food tonight. After that, you're on your own." "Thank you. For showing me here." "It's what the Alpha ordered." "Still." She pauses at the door, looking back. "You really cured the moonbright poison." "For years." "And you just do things. Fix things. Don't ask permission." "Asking permission takes time. People are usually bleeding." She nods once, jaw setting. "We'll see how long you last." "That's ominous." "It's honest." She holds my gaze for a second. "Good luck, Melori." The door closes. The room gets smaller. I stand in the middle of it and let out a breath. Nugget has found a large beetle in the corner. Full predator mode, pink feathers ridiculous against the dirt floor. "At least one of us is thriving," I tell her. She ignores me. The beetle matters more. Right. Unpack. Three jars of moonbright paste—one almost empty, need to make more. Half a roll of bandages. Change of clothes. Small knife. Waterskin, nearly dry. A handful of herbs I grabbed without looking—chamomile, good for tea, and rosemary maybe? I'll check in better light.
I arrange everything on the shelf. Paste on the left, bandages beside it, knife on the table within reach. The paste jar is dusty—I wipe it with my sleeve. Outside, someone laughs—sharp and sudden through the thin wall. I go still. Is that about me? Of course that's about me. What else would it be about? The bandages need to be re-rolled tighter—I sit on the pallet and start rolling, fingers moving, have to ke ep moving because if my hands stop — The clearing. Everyone staring. His eye finding mine across— Rolling bandages. Very important. Essential, actually. These wraps are loose and if I need them for a wound the tail end will unravel and I'll lose six inches of clean fabric and that's six inches someone might need and I should check whether the paste jar seals are holding because wax cracks in cold air and if the seal on that second jar fails the whole batch oxidizes and I've only got five treatments total and the moonbright field is back near the cottage which I can't get to and— Years. "Don't." I look at Nugget. Hold up the bandage. "Rolling. That's what I'm doing. Rolling bandages." Nugget clucks. More clucking. Judgmental clucking. "You're a chicken. You don't get to judge me." She catches the beetle and eats it. I finish the bandage. I set it on the shelf. Neat. Tight. Good. I've got a dwelling. I've got Nugget. I've got paste and bandages and hands. The heat's still there. Every time I think about him directly, it comes back. So don't think about him directly. But I'm tired. So tired. My hands are still holding the last bandage, half-wound, and I should finish it but my eyes are closing and— Nugget makes a sle epy sound from her corner. "Yeah." My eyes close. "Me too." The bandage unspools against my chest. I don't fix it..