“Gods,” Petr says, laughing as he approaches the shifter still hanging from Valther’s shoulders. He’s staring right at his naked member. “Look at dat huge fat sea slug. I’s never seen one so big.”
He pokes it and the guys laugh.
“It’s prolly his wolf’s tail,” he says, smacking it lightly.
I rush over and smack his hand as hard as I can. He winces and looks at me in shock.
“Go help Edrik if you want to make jokes,” I snap.
He just holds his hand and stares at me in confusion.
“Now,” I shout, “before I grab you by your hair and launch you over the side!”
With that, he scurries over, disappearing from sight. He’s smarter than he looks.
“Bring him to my quarters,” I snap at Valther. “Lay him on my bed. Everyone else get to work. Zephan, come with me.”
Zephan is a small, round man who smells like woodsmoke and fish guts. He’s the cook and doubles as a medic whenever we need him. The man hardly ever leaves his kitchen voluntarilyand grumbles the entire time when he does, but his hands are the steadiest on the ship whether he's deboning a deepjaw or stitching a wound closed, the man doesn't shake.
He follows us up to my room, standing in the doorway as Valther lowers the shifter onto my bed.
“I should stay here for your protection, Captain,” he says, backing away. “In case he wakes up.”
“No,” I say, pointing to the door. “I’ll be fine.”
This man would never hurt me. I know it in my soul. I don’t know how I know it, but I know it like my lungs know to breathe. I’m not sure if it’s instinct or fate or intuition or destiny, but I know.
I can tell that Valther doesn’t like it, but he leaves nonetheless.
“Zephan,” I say as I pull the blanket over the shifter’s cold stiff body. The wounds are so gruesome and horrific up close. I try not to look at them as I cover him up. They’re barely bleeding, which I’m not sure is a good sign or not.
“Yes, Captain,” he says as he steps into the room. I can tell he’s uncomfortable being here, but I’m not sure if it’s because I’m his superior, because I’m a woman, or if he’s just only comfortable in his small, cramped kitchen.
“Can you help him?”
He shrugs. “He won’t last the night by the looks of him. I’d throw him overboard if I were you.”
“What kind of medic are you?” I hiss.
He shrugs again. “The kind that specializes in food and doesn’t waste his time on dying dogs.”
“Help him,” I order in a sharp tone. “That’s an order.”
He reluctantly shuffles over and surveys the man. “His body will help him more than I can. These dogs are magical when it comes to healing, although I’ve never seen one this bad.”
“He’s a wolf shifter, not adog. What can you do?”
“His natural healing will take care of those nasty wounds in a few days. If he don’t die first.”
I close my eyes and whisper a prayer to the gods in Ulissa, hoping that doesn’t happen.
“He’ll need help with that shoulder, though,” Zephan says. “It’s going to heal as crooked as a Nesalisse merchant.”
“What can we do?” I ask, perking up with eagerness to dosomethingto help.
He grunts as he thinks about it, rubbing his chin. I hope he knows what he’s doing. This man is grumpy as a malgrath in heat and his apron is covered in years of food stains, but he’s all I got.
“We’ll have to set his arm,” he says.
