"I'm an excellent liar. You just can't tell because you're busy bleeding."
I wrap the wound. The gray edges are stabilizing, pulling back from the paste. Her skin's too hot—fever starting—but that'll break once the paste works.
If it works.
It's always worked before.
On werewolves.
On my best friend, apparently.
Were they all werewolves?
When they're wolves, do they know they're wolves? Did they know they were coming to me? Did they—
Stop.
"You need to rest." I set the paste jar down. "Don't move. Don't shift. Let your body heal."
"Mel—"
"What?"
She grabs my hand. Weak grip, but her eyes are clear. Focused.
"I'm sorry. For not telling you. For all of it."
I'm wrapping the last bandage. Muscle memory. Kestria. Who brings me rabbits and makes fun of my chickens and helps me sort herbs even though she finds it boring and apparently turns into a wolf. Who brought me a deer with wolf teeth marks in its throat and told me she found it.
"You're still you."
Her eyes go wet. "What?"
"You're still Kestria. You just have a lot of explaining to do when you're not actively dying."
She laughs. Wet. Closer to a sob. "Okay."
"Good. Now rest."
I pull the blanket up to her chin, stand, and walk to the door. My back aches. I still haven't eaten.
The clearing is a mess. Half-prepped deer attracting flies in a black buzzing cloud—total loss, I was right. Torn clothes in the grass, shredded beyond repair. Blood in the dirt, dark and spreading. Nugget's still screaming, probably traumatized for life.
My hands are covered in blood.
Werewolves are real.
Kestria is one.
The wolves I've been treating for a decade are people.
I need more moonbright paste.
The chickens need feeding.
There's blood in my garden that's going to attract every predator in the forest.
And Theron's going to come back.
