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The front door flew open as though the occupant was expecting us. We must’ve tripped a ward on the way here.
“Sage, we need help,” West called.
A woman emerged from the cabin in a T-shirt, shorts, and bare feet. Her unkempt blonde hair was streaked, and her face was round and cheerful, the kind of youthful face that made it difficult to guess her age. She took one look at Arthur in West’s arms and motioned them inside.
“What happened?” she asked, still groggy from sleep.
“An attack.” West carried the limp werewolf across the threshold and into the cabin. The interior was surprisingly bright for a cabin in the woods. Every surface gleamed like it had been scrubbed by a small army.
Sage guided them to an adjacent room where a long table took center stage. West set Arthur down and backed away to give her space, bumping into a row of jars in the process. He quickly straightened them.
Her gaze flicked to me. “I don’t know you.”
“Lorelei Clay.”
“I’m Sage; it’s short for Savage.”
“It is not,” a voice croaked from another room. “You were named after the herb.”
“Hush, Gran. This doesn’t concern you.” She rubbed her hands together and placed them on Arthur’s body. “He’s fighting an infection. Was whatever attacked him poisonous?”
“The fangs might’ve been venomous,” I said.
“What’s the difference?” Magda asked.
“It’s considered poisonous if you inhale or swallow the toxin, or it’s absorbed by the skin. It’s venomous if it’s injected,” I explained.
“Seems like a minor distinction,” West said.
“Not if you’re the one dying from it,” I remarked.
Sage examined the wounds. “You don’t know the type of creature that did this?”
“A big snake,” Magda said. “Huge.”
“Supernatural,” West added.
Sage opened Arthur's shirt and inspected the marks. “They’re bright red.” She turned away from Arthur and began to collect materials. She sniffed a jar and quickly put it back. “I need to restock that one.”
“Try the poultice I made last week for Maisie,” Gran yelled.
“No back seat healing,” Sage shouted. She bit her lower lip in concentration. “That won’t work. Let me try another combo.” Her hands moved so swiftly that they blurred.
“Smells like burnt coffee,” Magda observed.
“I don’t care if smells like sulphur and acid, as long as it saves Arthur,” West said.
Sage applied the mixture to the wounds. Arthur remained motionless. Even his soft moans had stopped.
“I’m sorry,” Sage finally said. “Nothing’s working.”
“We should take him back to Arrowhead,” Magda said. “At least let him die comfortably in his bed.”
“He’s a wolf,” West said. “We’ll take him outside. If he’s going to die, let it be in the place that’s brought him the most joy.”
A shriek pierced the quiet of the forest. The alpha’s body reacted instinctively; he seemed on the verge of shifting.
Their companion shot to the nearest window. “What in the hell was that?”
