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“Aiden said you’d say that,” Jak interrupted cheerfully, “and he gave us strict instructions to ignore you.”
“And,” Zak added, as he climbed out. “The only way you’re going to get up there is if we carry you. Otherwise, we’ve orders to keep you here, and the medic will be called down.”
“I’m going to have a serious word or two with that man when I get the chance,” I muttered crossly.
Jak grinned and offered me a hand to get out. “He also said you’d probably say that.”
Aiden might not yet know me on an intimate level, but it certainly appeared as if he’d otherwise gotten my measure. I carefully climbed out of the truck, but couldn’t put a whole lot of weight on my leg. I might not want to admit it, but the damn man was probably right about my inability to walk very far.
Zak stopped on my other side and, in very little time—and with very little fuss or effort—they were quickly chair-carrying me up the narrow path. It soon began to flatten out, but the trees and the rocks remained prolific. In amongst them, buildings began to appear, some of them hewn out of the earth, and many of them built around both the trees and the rocks. There was nothing basic or crude about any of these structures, however. Their design might be unusual, their construct might be from nature itself, but there were also necessities such as windows and heating—if the many chimneys were anything to go by—as well as the latest in green technologies such as wind turbines and battery storage. The farther we moved into the encampment, the larger and grander these houses became, until we reached a vast clearing. In the middle of this sat a huge wooden hall that very much looked like a relic from medieval times. Around the perimeter were a number of buildings both ornately decorated and huge; not so much in height—although some were a good thirty feet tall—but rather in square footage. Though I suppose large residences would be needed if generations of werewolves lived together.
The door to the old hall opened as we neared, and we were quickly ushered in. The building looked as old on the inside as it did outside. The frame was built of sturdy tree trunks that curved toward each other, and rather looked like a series of connected wishbones. A long ridge beam ran the length of the building. The outside walls were braced with more wood, and the rooftop—at least from the inside—looked like shingles, and was held up by more wood and braced. The only part of the building that wasn’t wood was the far end—it was a massive rock construction that held a fireplace big enough to party in. Or, as it was currently doing, roast a kangaroo in.
Seats ran around the three other sides of the building, and a smaller selection of seats clustered in a semicircle around the fireplace. Aiden stood in front of the fireplace, facing them, and the woman I presumed was Larissa was beside him, securely bound to a metal chair.
The elders—seven men and five women—glanced around as we entered, but they didn’t offer a greeting, and their expressions gave little away. Only Aiden gave me a quick smile, but it did little to ease the tension I could see both in his aura and his stance. There was a large bloodstain on his leg, another on his left arm, and a newly gained but almost healed scratch that ran from the edge of his right eye to his chin. Larissa had obviously put up a hell of a fight.
I was deposited in a chair to the left edge of the semicircle, not far away from bound Larissa. She glared at me balefully, her golden eyes narrowed and glittering with anger. Anyone who didn’t know the true situation might have presumed that I’d done her wrong, not the other way around.
Once Zak and his brother had left, the door was once again closed and a thin, elderly man with thick gray streaks at his temples rose and walked toward me. “I’m Harry Marin, the healer around here,” he said. “How’s that leg of yours?”
“It's sore, naturally enough, but it’s really only a flesh wound.”
“I think I’d better be the judge of that, young woman.” He knelt in front of me, put on a pair of glasses, and then pulled on some gloves. “You want a painkiller?”
I hesitated. “If you’re going to sew it up or something, yes. If you’re just going to inspect and treat it, no.”
“I can’t say what I’ll do before I actually look at it.”
His tone was tart, but I held back my smile. Given the stern atmosphere of the room, I didn’t think it would be appreciated.
As he started unwinding the hastily wrapped bandage from my leg, I glanced over at Aiden. “Has she said anything?”
“The only things to come out of her mouth are obscenities.” Aiden’s tone was annoyed, even if his expression was as controlled as everyone else’s in the room. “I was hoping you might have a trick or two up your sleeve that might loosen her tongue.”
“There are a couple of spells I could try.” I switched my gaze to hers. “Anyone know if she’s afraid of spiders? Or maybe even rats? I dare say a nibble or two from either might loosen her tongue.”
“You’re talking shit,” Larissa all but spat. “You’re a psychic and charm seller. You ain’t no witch.”
“Actually,” Aiden said, “Ms. Grace does have some magical abilities. I can assure you, having researched her background, that she is quite capable of spelling rats to obey her orders.”
“Maybe so, but I’m betting the elders wouldn’t appreciate an influx of rats.”
“That,” a deep voice said, “very much depends on which elder you're talking about. I, for example, could think
of nothing better than watching you be smothered in rodents who eat away at you piece by tiny piece.”
The man who spoke was of average height and looks, but there was something in the way he held himself that was not only dignified, but also spoke of someone used to being obeyed. Combine that with the vehemence in his words, and I had no doubt this was Rocco Marin—Aron’s father.
Larissa didn’t say anything, but her expression remained thunderous, and her aura was basically all red. While it was often a color associated with passion, success, and strength, it was also nature’s warning color and could represent negative emotions just as much as positive. And that was the case here—the red in Larisa’s aura represented a mix of rebellion, aggression, anger, and hate.
All of which was to be expected from the person who’d just tried to shoot me. And yet, despite the anger in her aura, it didn’t feel murderous—at least, not when she was looking at Rocco anyway.
“It would appear you’re right,” Harry said. “It is only a flesh wound. I’ll wash it down and rebandage it, if you’d like.”
He proceeded to do so without waiting for the go-ahead. Once he’d finished, he added, “Just don’t be running any marathons for the next few days.”
I grinned. “I can absolutely guarantee I won’t be doing that, Doc.”
