Joan sat beside Etheridge in silence while the car jolted over a path scarred with potholes and gritty with lingering sand. He had quickly offered over a blanket to stop her shivers but hadn't looked at her since. None of them had. She was glad of it, letting their murmurs wash over her while she tried to stop feeling sick from the smells of petrol and hot metal that thickened the air inside the cab.
As the cypresses opened up into the saltmarsh, the wheels found firm road and the engine settled into the smooth roar of pistons working together. It seemed to put the enchanter and guard across from Joan at ease, with the fussy enchanter in particular brightening in the face while he listed every detail about the washed-up body that had been discovered through his spells. From the intricately tooled leather and gold stitching of his bandolier, he must have been a master enchanter.
He was also a downright bore, and Joan soon found herself glancing at Etheridge, trying to reconcile the healthy wolf beside her with the sick, silver-bitten one she had watched over.
She thought she was being sly about it until he looked back at her and winked. "Making sure I'm alive?"
Her face went hot but not from embarrassment. "I'd be pinching you, then."
The enchanter cleared his throat. "Inspector? This next part is very important."
After giving her a small smile, Etheridge's focus returned to the other wolf. "I'm listening."
Joan kept watching him even after his expression smoothed back into remoteness. It surprised her that he was so willing to be open about their shared past in front of others. But maybe it was for him just like it was for herâimpossible not to slip back to those days, back into the memories that always drew close in spare moments between thoughts or long hours at night when the past so easily bled into the present...
"They're not aware. They may struggle or try to speak, but they're delirious. Watch them to make sure they don't claw at themselves. There are restraints if necessary."
The wolf who had spoken those words, Nurse Rowan, was the very definition of grimness in her starched white uniform, her posture as stiff and proper as the ticking of the pendant watch hanging over her heart. Her cold gaze intimidated the young she-wolves who waited in a line before her, many of whom had been pulled from servant positions.
But Joan had faced rough waters that could smash one lifeless against rock, had faced the poisonous barbs of stingrays and the mauling curiosity of sharks. A frown from a city wolf couldn't shake her up after trials like those, and she only pulled down the paper mask she'd been given to wear against patients who'd taken silver to the lungs, making sure her voice came out clearly as she asked, "Aren't they getting treated with the antidote?"
The head nurse's mouth pinched shut, but when Joan's attention didn't waver, the other she-wolf gave in. "It was the entire royal court that was attacked, you silly girl. There isn't enough to go around. The ones who have been given anti-silver are in their own corridor and are being watched closely."
"Then these ones are all dying," murmured a wolf close to Joan. She withered beneath the head nurse's glare.
"A few may pull through, according to the doctor. It's our job to watch and see. Now follow me to find out which ward and which patients you've been assigned to."
Out of Joan's four, the she-wolf who had been stabbed in the chest with a silver-edged knife died first, quiet except for the tortured rattling of her breath. An older wolf whose hair still smelled faintly of pomegranate oil went next, violent and howling while Joan tried to hold him down, gritting her teeth at the sound of his spine snapping as his back muscles spasmed from all the silver buckshot in them.
Her third patient had no face at all, having been shot point-blank. Joan had helped her sea-sisters with shark bites in the past, and knew full well the raw horrors of mangled flesh, but the way this wolf's hands blindly groped at the sheets and air left bile burning in the back of her throat while she read to the ear that was still left. That one took a full week to die, and Joan felt nothing but a terrible relief while drawing the sheets over the remains of a head.
Her fingers still trembled when they were all given a short break for that day, and she remained quiet while the other she-wolves smoked and chattered. Most had their hair cut short and set in waves like human girls, their high-heeled shoes clicking against the small courtyard where they were allowed to sit and eat the ham paste sandwiches passed around in a basket. Joan didn't take one but stayed close, listening to the she-wolf who had them all in thrall with her gossip.
"They could make more anti-silver, you know. The supply of ambergris isn't all gone. The queen still has some added to her eggs every morning as part of her breakfast. Butter and cream isn't good enough for royalty."
From the envy on the faces around her, Joan guessed that none of the others truly knew what ambergris wasâthe bile from a sick sperm whale. Nothing she'd ever put close to her mouth, that was for certain.
Even while sighs rose around her over such decadence, she found herself speaking up, sensing the darker implications. "Doesn't she want to save her people? The amount you could put into a pan of eggs is probably worth one dose of anti-silver."
The question drew a look of superiority from the other she-wolf. "Don't you know how royalty works? They're the important ones, not us. Whoever dies off in those wards can be replaced, and easily. There are so many of us, but only one of the alpha-queen."
Joan glanced around, stumped. There were plenty of her sea-sisters, too, but when one found herself attacked, the rest would rush toward her yelps even if it meant risking a shark's teeth or a jellyfish's sting.
The she-wolf who had spoken now studied her. "Where are you from? You know less than even a human."
"The sea."
"Oh, I see. You're one of those divers who collect pearls and such for the royal jewels. I heard you're all barely civilized. Quite the surprise that you were brought here to nurse others."
Joan matched the she-wolf's contempt with her own. "Someone from the Mulgrews came to us and asked for a sea-wolf comfortable with city life. I'm used to dealing with all sorts. We sell our catches to any who want them, whether it's to a jeweler for your queen or at a stall in a human market."
The she-wolf raised her eyebrows. "She's your queen as well. Sea-wolves are uncivilized, not free."
One of the other wolves spoke up quickly, perhaps to soothe the rising tensions. "Is it true she's now the only royal? That the rest of the family didn't survive?"
"Yes. I've heard she's already replaced her ladies in waiting who died in the attack. Replacing her husband will be much harder, of course."
Before anything else could be added, the bell by the door rang, signaling the end of their break. Joan brushed aside the she-wolf's rudeness, yet the gossip itself remained in her mind even once she was back inside her ward, back beside her one remaining patient.
A highly ranked and highly trained wolf who'd been caught in a shootout with the assassins, or so Nurse Rowan had said. He had taken out five before three bullets finally kept him down, one right to the knee. His version of silver poisoning was the most lingering, and the most unpredictable. With all the bullets fished out, it remained to be seen whether his body could recover from the lingering traces or whether they would eat away at him as surely as an infection.
The first time Joan had been led to his bed, she'd been told he had yet to wake up and probably wouldn't at all, and to wipe a damp cloth over his face if she felt badly enough about his fever. She had and did, turning it into a daily ritual along with reading aloud in case some part of him remained aware enough to be soothed by pleasant words.
Even now, as she settled beside his bed, she reached out to see if he was still feverish. He certainly looked a little better, skin a healthier color than from before her break.
At the first brush of her palm, his eyes flickered open. She gasped, jerking back as he glanced around and winced at the light filtering through the windows.
"You're awake," she said, too stunned to say anything except the obvious.
It looked like it hurt him to even tilt his head in her direction, but he managed anyway. His irises were startling in their clarity. "Barely. How long have I been out?"
"Just over a week."
His mouth turned grim, and so did his voice. "Will I keep the leg?"
"I don't know." Her fingers wrung at the cloth she'd been about to use. She had no idea what to do with a patient who could talk.
When he tried to sit up, she leaned over with a wordless hum of warning, coaxing him to fall back against the pillows again. Even that small act on his part brought a fresh sheen of sweat to his face and left him panting for breath.
She saw how he was starting to panic at his own weakness, saw it and understood it. Once, a jellyfish the size of a thumbnail had stung her, leaving her paralyzed for a good two hours. She had thought she'd go mad, unable to do anything but lie there like a dead fish. Instincts of fight or flight had snarled against the pain wracking her body, leaving her mind to circle itself in a frenzy. Once her muscles were able to twitch again, she'd shrieked for a good two minutes to prove to the worldâto herselfâthat she still lived.
She rested her hand against his head again, running fingers over hair wet with sweat. "It's all right. You're still here and whole."
His panting slowed into normal breaths, but his eyes burned at her. "I've been hearing things in the day even when I can't move. Wolves are dying left and right in here and yet there are never any doctors. This smells like a hospital, but it's only a makeshift morgue, isn't it?"
When she said nothing, he added, "Please."
The word silenced any feeble attempt at lying that she might have made. She hesitated and then wrapped her free hand around his. "There's no more anti-silver. I'm sorry."
At that, he drew in a sharp breath. He let it out again and nodded. "Then it's a waiting game to see who survives on their own."
Joan gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "Yes. I'm not even a real nurse. Just someone pulled in to help with things. I don't know how to help you recover from this."
His eyes seemed to absorb every detail of her appearance that could be seen beyond her mask and nurse's cap. To her surprise, he managed a small smile. "You're honest. You'd be amazed at how rare that is."
She had never been one to handle compliments well, and instead of a "thank you," she found herself saying, "If I'm honest, then what are you?"
"Stubborn. I'll see this through." Then his eyes winced shut, and his body suddenly twitched with muscle spasms. Joan helped him keep still, her voice a comforting murmur until he was through it. Afterward, she wiped the sweat from his face with a damp cloth, noting how the lines of pain on his forehead smoothed away at her touch even though his eyes remained closed.
"I'd call you a surprise," she murmured, more to herself than to him.
The next day, she arrived to find him awake and alert enough to ask for any news about the royal family. She told him what little she knew. "The king-consort and prince died there at the banquet."
He spat out a curse, and she wondered just how close he'd been to them. When he said nothing else, she added, "The queen survived and seems to be running things well enough. Everyone says it was the Barker Pack."
"No. They're too small and disorganized. Perhaps they were the muscle that carried out the attempt, but someone else thought up the scheme. I'd argue the Loup Moreaus. Alpha-king Moreau is ambitious enough to assassinate the entire upper ranks of a pack rather than just the royal family. Ambition is a good trait in a king, but he has too much of it. It'll kill him one day." His face had gone cold and distant. Thoughtful.
Joan found herself really looking at him, taking in more than the signs of sickness. He was striking, something that surprised her since she'd heard all city wolves had grown fat and frail from soft living. Strong, stubborn features that she suspected hid an irresistible smile, a commanding gaze that showed he wasn't afraid of a challenge... despite his dark hair, he was probably already in his thirties. Someone who had settled firmly into his role in the pack.
She wondered how much it dug at him to realize he'd been dismissed by his queen and likely already replaced at court. He didn't seem the type to cling to delusion, but he still fought to recover. Although no wolf survived silver without help, she could almost believe he had enough will to manage it.
"I suppose the Loup Moreaus makes as much sense as anything else." She checked his pillow to see if it was damp with sweat and then resettled it behind his head. "Not bad for someone fighting against so much silver."
He smiled a little. It was just as magnetic as she'd expected. "At this point, there's nothing I can do except think."
"And it's driving you crazy." Joan sat in the chair beside his bed, glancing around at the lull in background noise. A bed was wheeled away as soon as its patient died, and the room had already gotten much emptier. There were only two other she-wolves like herself, and ten other patients. Everyone was quiet; either dozing from exhaustion or suffering in silence. With no one else needing her attention, Joan's gaze flickered back to the wolf beside her. He still watched her.
She raised an eyebrow. "Puzzling me out now?"
"A little. I can't tell anything from your scent."
He sounded so put out by it that she found herself smiling, something she hadn't expected to do in such a place. "So, you're the type to bristle at uncertainty."
The mask hid her expression but not the teasing nature of the words, which chased away his frustrationâat least, enough of it for a glint of humor to appear in his amber eyes. "I'm an inspector. We like our neatly tied ends."
"Hmm. Well, you won't get anything from my scent. We have to disinfect ourselves before coming into the room." Then she cocked her head at him. "So, what have you sussed?"
"You rub Nurse Rowan's fur the wrong way. She likes deference and there's not an ounce of that in you."
"True enough. What else?"
He responded with a mock groan and then looked up at the ceiling. "Give me more time. I'm half-dead as it is."
"I'll try to be patient." Then she reached for the book of poetry that she'd been reading from and found where she'd left off, her voice soon settling into the rhythm of the words while he dozed off.
It became a game of sorts, with her measuring how good or bad he felt by how much he talked before his embattled body demanded sleep. He figured out she was left-handed. That with her calluses, she worked in hard labor of some sort. She teased him by holding back any details about her life, making him guess everything.
"What about your name at least?" he said, one morning while she changed the bandaging around his ribs. Exasperation fought with humor in his voice.
She grinned in response, pleased that her teasing had distracted him from the task. He took pain with bravery but was always ashamed of his weak state. After a quick check on the nasty gash along his side, she said, "And why do you want to know that?"
She began wrapping sterile gauze around the wound. His skin felt normal in temperature. His sweat smelled clean. He might truly recover from the poisoning.
He even turned enough to face her while she tied off the bandaging. "I want to know that you're real. It's easy to believe this is all a final hallucination while I die from the silver."
At the hint of despair in his voice, she found herself removing the silly paper mask to reveal her full face. The warm amber of his eyes brightened into a deep gold as he studied her. He seemed thunderstruck into silence, and his expression had lost all reserve. Gone was the guarded, thoughtful wolf who tried to puzzle her out while revealing nothing about himself. In his place was a wolf charged with emotions that held all the power and passion of a storm at sea.
Strangely, she felt breathless while taking his nearest hand into hers. "This place is real and so am I. You'll get better and get out of here. Believe me."
His fingers laced with hers, as easy and comfortable as if they had known each other for years. "Maybe I'm a fool for believing in anything after what happened at court," he murmured, still intent on her. "Yet it's easy to believe in your words."
Distant coughing shattered the moment, an ugly reminder of where they were and what was happening around them. His expression tightened again, but he relaxed back against the pillows. His gaze didn't leave her face until he closed his eyes. Even once he was asleep, she kept holding his hand. Anchoring him to the rest of the world.
What she did was dangerous and she knew itâseeing him as someone alive instead of a body not yet dead. She tried to keep her heart from jumping in her chest every time he looked at her, and refused to ask anything about his life or even his own name. But her attempts to stay aloof were feeble and fruitless. She found herself eager to visit the hospital even as more patients passed every day. The room had already dwindled down to her and one other she-wolf looking over those who struggled for every breath, but she no longer waited for her remaining patient to die. Instead, she counted the hours until she could see him again.
It sent her hunting for ambergris in the hazy evening hours, hoping to find a precious lump washed ashore. She had no doubt that anything she gave over to Nurse Rowan would be taken away and used on those that had already been deemed worthy of survival. Her patient wasn't one of those. But the sea-wolves had their own healer, their own herb witch who could make anti-silver. If she could just find some ambergris...
Then one afternoon, as she walked over to his bed while trying to tie her mask in place with hands still shaking from the morning's abalone diving, she found him fighting to breathe. His eyes looked at her without recognition, and the first purple veins of silver rot snaked along the side of his neck.
For the rest of her shift, she sat beside him and talked, threatening to kill him herself if he didn't improve right away. She tried to get him to answer back, and when he didn't, to even just squeeze her hand. By the end of her shift, his breath had started to bubble in his chest.
She stayed half an hour longer than she was supposed to, roused from her place only by Nurse Rowan's frowning presence. Her jaw felt tight with held-back tears all the way back home, but she kept her expression stiff until she was there on the shore, the glittering lights in the cliffside guiding her over the sands while Izzie and Nora whistled for her attention and bounded her way.
She looked at her sea-sisters, absorbing their eagerness to hear how clever her patient had been that day and how she could tease him, and felt herself crumple into tears, the rush of waves smothering her voice even when it rose to ragged heights.
"He's dying," she managed, as sympathetic arms wound around her. "They put him in that horrible place to die."
Salt from tears smells different from the brininess of seawater, and soon more of the sea-wolves slipped over, whining softly at one of their own in distress. A name was murmured while they gathered close, first from one voice, then several, growing in strength and surety.
Old Bess.
Old Bess, the wise crone of the sea-wolves, their healer and leader. The closest thing to a mother for the ones who'd never known theirs. Surely she would know where to find ambergris even when the tides washed nothing up. Yes, to Old Bess.
They all bounded up the steep steps cut right into the rock, breathless and intent while passing their own rooms for the one highest up and enshrouded in fog. They grew more tentative after reaching the curtain of woven red seaweed that marked the entrance, milling around each other. Sometimes, she threatened to turn anyone who annoyed her too much into a sea slug for a few days. No one knew for sure if she ever had, but as a witch she could.
Finally, Joan tugged at the curtain, jingling the tiny brass bells woven into the seaweed. A grumble came from the other side, and in the next moment Joan found herself facing snarling teeth.
"It's after dusk, you wretched little minnows. What do you want?"
The rest of her sea-sisters shrank back, but Joan only said, "You were awake. I could tell by your breathing." When Old Bess growled, she quickly added, "I need your help. Bad. Let me in and I'll explain everything."
"Let all of you in, more like. Hurry up, then, and don't knock anything over."
They all squeezed inside, careful to ease past the glass jars tucked on shelves and the clusters of candles that lit the room, careful to duck the jawbones of sharks and the leafy plants hanging in fat-bottomed glass containers. As they settled on their haunches, Old Bess took the only chair for herself, revealing herself in the candlelight. Age had left her withered and leathery, but she still sat proud and strong, bird skulls woven into her thick grey hair and driftwood bangles clacking together around her wrists.
She listened in silence while Joan spoke about what had happened, picking at her teeth with a fish bone as a strange sort of amusement grew in her eyes. Once Joan finished, the old wolf sighed and said, "There's a place where you can find some. And of course I know how to make anti-silver. Do you think those city wolves ever knew about ambergris before we came along? The real problem is whether you can put the poultice on a wound of his without anyone else seeing. I don't want guards storming my door and demanding I give over the rest."
"I'll be sly about things."
"Hmm." Old Bess didn't sound convinced by any means, but then her face took on that amused look again. "Do you love him?"
There was a chorus of she does from the rest of the sea-wolves even while Joan flushed and muttered, "I've only known him for two weeks and he's been half-dead throughout it. You can't call that love."
That drew a cackle out of Old Bess. "Aren't we sure about things? Maybe it's the rare grain of sand that'll turn into a pearl with enough time."
"What's this got to do with finding ambergris?" said Joan, cheeks still hot while her sea-sisters giggled.
"Just making sure you're ready to still feel a loss after he recovers. If he was at court, then he's with the royal family through and through. They're more like dogs at this point, little minnow. Obedient and loyal to whoever they're taught to be."
"I understand."
"Of course you do." Old Bess chuckled again before pushing herself up with a wince. As she hobbled over to one of the bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, she added, "Ambergris can take years to wash up, depending upon the will of the tides. So go where no one's been for years."
"I don't understand."
That drew a long-suffering sigh from the old she-wolf. "If you truly mean to find some no matter what, then look to Spearhead Cove."
Those last words drew a hush among the sea-wolves. They all knew of that coveâa remote spot along the shore surrounded by jagged, steep rock. It could only be reached by canoe, and the cove itself was only big enough for one boat to land. The danger, though, was in how close it was to Bloody Rock, the tiny island that was home to seals year-round. For wherever seals settled, so did sharks, and the water surrounding Bloody Rock teemed with them.
Not the shy lamp sharks. Not the annoying little sucker sharks. The great whites.
Joan swallowed hard before asking, "There's nowhere else?"
"You know the answer to that. I've seen you poking in all the usual places." Then Old Bess held out a bundle of herbs, the dried, pointed leaves still bearing traces of their original blue color. "They're spelled. Shake 'em into the water when you start smelling the seals and they'll light up everything around you. Stab the nearest shark and then hope the blood is enough to start a feeding frenzy."
Even as fear coiled in her belly, Joan nodded and took the bundle without hesitation, feeling her sea-sisters press in close around her.
They all followed her to the shore, even Old Bess, carrying lamps to light the night and guide them back homeâthem, for Izzie and Nora had decided to go, too. Old Bess held each of their heads in turn, blessing them with speed and safety under the heavy, bright moon.
All howled while Joan pushed her canoe into the water, Izzie and Nora following along in their own, all of them taking a lamp to keep an eye on each other and a spear to protect themselves. In silence, they paddled quick and sure into deeper water until they could safely follow the rocky coastline.
The moon had risen in the sky when Joan caught the first whiff of the seals, their barking as faint as a half-remembered dream. That meant Spearhead Cove was only a few minutes away. Heeding Old Bess' advice, she shook the herbs into the waves and watched a blue glow bloom throughout the water, spreading like ink. The darkness around them was suddenly lit, suddenly as clear to their eyes as reflections in a mirror.
Shapes glided all around them, sharp fins and pointed noses cutting through the brightened water in utter silence. Sharks.
When one longer than Joan's canoe slid by, the jaws working busily in the empty water, Izzie gulped and said, "How handsome did you say he was?"
It drew shaky laughs out of them all, and then Izzie and Nora readied their spears. They would wound one of the sharks to start a frenzy and then fall back while Joan sped ahead. If all went well, she could reach Spearhead Cove within a few minutes, find some ambergris, and return while the sharks were still distracted with eating their own.
After they all nodded at each other, Izzie struck first, slicing into the side of a shark half the size of her canoe. The dark shape thrashed in response, whipping around with an open mouth, but then Nora stabbed in from the other side, giving Izzie enough time to pull her spear free and paddle to safety. In the spelled brightness of the water, the shark's blood looked black.
As the other sharks closed in, jaws already gaping wide, Joan pushed ahead, heart racing as fins swept past her. One bumped into the side of her canoe, nearly upending it, but she threw her weight in a desperate attempt to balance herself and kept paddling. She glanced back only once, making sure her sea-sisters were safe, and caught sight of them waving her on. The narrow entrance of Spearhead Cove waited ahead, stark beneath the moonlight.
She forced her breath into a calm rhythm while dragging the canoe up the strip of sand, but her hand still trembled as she grabbed the lamp to take it with her. In her haze of adrenaline, it took a few moments for her senses to clear. Then a delicate scent rose above the brine of the seaârich, musky, aged. She yelped even while scenting the air again, unable to believe what her nose already knew.
It was weathered ambergris, the rarest type. The best for making anti-silver with.
Joan howled her delight and heard the answering cries from Izzie and Nora while her lamp flashed its light upon a waxy, grey lump the size of her fist. It went into a pouch of sealskin that she'd already tied to her waist, the heavy weight knocking against her thigh with every step.
She smelled yet more, years' worth of it, but didn't want to risk her sea-sisters' safety any longer than necessary, and ran for her canoe. As she paddled back, keeping her strokes away from the sharks that still whipped the water around the body into a froth, hope and fear fought in her heart until it felt ready to explode. She'd found ambergris, and no one was better at healing poultices than Old Bess. But even someone with witch powers couldn't bring back the dead. He had to survive one more night while Old Bess made the poultice. Just one more night...
She didn't sleep a wink, even after Old Bess chased her away for hovering too much. Instead, she sat with the rest of her sea-sisters, who made her swear to tell them word for word whatever he said once he woke back up. They kept her from thinking too much, kept her laughing, but worry deepened the sick pit in her stomach.
The next morning, her heart pounded against her ribs as she filed into the hospital along with the other makeshift nurses, the anti-silver stored in a hidden pocket of her dress. Would she find an empty space where his bed had been? Would she be left with nothing except burning eyes?
But he was still there and still fighting, although his skin had taken on a greyish tone and the veins of silver rot had spread. His eyes were closed, and remained so even when Joan lightly touched one hand.
"I don't know if you can hear me," she murmured. "But if you can, I've got something to help you. Old Bess said it wouldn't hurt, and she never lies to make people feel better."
After a glance around to make sure no one else was near, she pulled out the anti-silver, which Old Bess had stored in a cleaned-out clam shell. It had a blue tinge and smelled like lavender and salt, but Old Bess had sworn it would sink in without leaving a trace.
She found the nasty stab wound that had slipped between two of his ribs. The flesh around it looked purple and leaked black fluid as she carefully spread the salve along the cut as Old Bess had instructed. He didn't flinch at her touch, didn't even stir, and she watched closely for any sort of reaction while tucking the clam shell back into her pocket and wiping her hand clean.
Worry tasted sharp and sour on the back of her tongue as she covered the wound with fresh bandages and then pulled the sheets back over his unmoving body. Had she been too late? Was he too far gone?
"Heal, damn you," she murmured, reaching out to take his hand in hers. "Heal, and I'll tell you my name."
His fingers twitched in response, and his next breath was deeper and slower. Maybe even less guttural?
Just then, the door opened. She recognized Nurse Rowan's scent easily enough, but there was another with her. Joan turned and blinked in surprise as both visitors approached, gazes scanning the remaining she-wolves acting as nurses.
"Girls. Outside if you please."
Joan gave his hand a final squeeze and murmured, "You better look improved when I get back, or Old Bess will never forgive you for proving her poultices aren't the best in the bay."
Then she slipped away with the others as they were led out of the wards and into the main corridor. A thin line of dread ran through her thoughts as their feet shuffled against the polished tile, and she was distracted enough that one of the others had to bump her shoulder to get her to file in line with the rest while the two higher-ranked wolves waited with slight frowns.
Nurse Rowan didn't waste time. "Well, you did what you were told and the pack is better for it, but it's time to return to your normal places. The Treadwell Pack has been kind enough to send reinforcements, and Nurse Fern and her girls will take over from here."
Joan sucked in a breath, mind reeling over the suddenness of it all, but the announcement was all the other she-wolves needed to curtsy and leave, their steps turning light and eager as they hurried away. Standing there alone, she was aware of the foolishness of what she was about to do, but still approached the two nurses while they murmured to each other over their clipboards. They looked at her in surprise.
"Can I stay and help? There's a patient whoâ"
"No," said Nurse Rowan, her gaze already back on her clipboard. "You've done your duty. Now go home."
Joan felt her mouth turn stubborn, and tried to keep her voice polite. "Reinforcements, you said. Does that mean there's anti-silver to give them?"
The Treadwell nurse eyed her as if her mere existence was an insult. Nurse Rowan sighed, her pen tapping in irritation. "Of course not, you silly thing. If the Mulgrew Pack is out of ambergris, then all of the city is."
"But I canâ"
"Enough." A snarl had appeared in Nurse Rowan's voice.
It didn't scare Joan, but she did fall silent, realizing the other wolf had no patience left.
Nurse Fern murmured, "The Mulgrews are much more lenient. We would have brought out the whip two outbursts ago."
"She's a sea-wolf," said Nurse Rowan, speaking as if Joan wasn't even there. "And she's going back to the shore where she belongs."
Joan locked her jaws together to stay quiet, and kept her hands clenched into fists to avoid struggling as she was ushered outside. The clam shell brushed against her leg with every step, reminding her of what she left behind, and when she was shoved into the cab along with the other she-wolves who lived on the edges of the city or outside it, she sat there trembling, a low whine escaping her throat as the car took them all away.
A jostle startled her. Then the smell of salt slid into her senses. Joan blinked, realizing she had slipped deep into memories, and that this was a different car with different people in it. With him in it.
She glanced at Etheridge, hardly able to believe it even now. He was still listening to the enchanter's prattle, still sitting calm and easy in his seat. And she was still confused as hell about what was going to happen to her and how he would be involved.
The blanket had remained wrapped around her, and she pulled it even closer while glancing out the window. They were driving past the edges of the saltmarsh, now, facing the glittering city ahead. The road was still rough, and she still felt sick, doubly so from the lingering memories of how she'd thrown up in the cab on that final drive from the hospital.
She kept quiet about itâeveryone else had stopped talking, tooâbut Etheridge must have been watching her, because he suddenly said, "Loren. Give her a few of your ginger drops. I know you always carry them for motion sickness."
The enchanter drew himself up, flushing at the ears. "It's been years since I've even turned green during a ride, and that was from exhausting myself with spellwork. She's merely too provincial to handleâ"
"The stabbing case we worked on together was only a month ago, you performed two spells, and you still owe me a new pair of shoes. Hand some over." Etheridge's voice sounded amused, but he didn't look away from the enchanter until the other wolf reluctantly shook a golden-colored candy into Joan's hand.
"Thanks," she said, and put it in her mouth to be polite, hoping it wouldn't push her sickness over the edge. To her surprise, sweet spiciness bloomed on her tongue, sinking down past her throat as a soothing warmth. By the time they passed the first of the industrial warehouses that protected the urban core of Mulgrew territory, her stomach felt stable even with the fresh bout of nerves spiking through her.
She remembered enough glimpses to know when the car turned down a road that would lead into the right into the areas that shared borders with no man's landâlawless land. The other wolves tightened with tension as the front wheels rolled over a yellow line to carry them out of the safety of their pack's territory. It was as if they expected an attack at any moment.
Joan glanced at Etheridge, wondering if he was just as concerned. To her surprise, his gaze was fully on her face, reminding her of the day in the hospital when he had asked for her name. Now his eyes looked dark with determination, not despair. She was so intent on him that she noticed the deliberate way his fingers shifted against his cane. His thumb rubbed over the Mulgrew insignia stamped into the polished, ebony top.
In the next breath, smoke rushed into the car despite their closed windows. Shock jolted Joan out of the blanket as thick, grey clouds filled her senses. A yelp could be heard from the enchanter. The rest of the wolves spat out profanity, but their tongues already sounded slurred. Sluggish. As the car shuddered to a stop, suggesting something had happened to the driver, a hand caught her own to keep her calm.
Familiarity seared through her at the touch, stopping her instinct to attack, but her voice still came out as a growl. "Etheridge, what the hell is going on?"
"I'm trying to save you."
The smoke was already beginning to clear, and when he opened the nearest door, it vanished entirely. She swallowed at the slumped bodies all around; she and Etheridge were the only conscious ones.
His attention was still on her, and his fingers briefly squeezed hers before letting go. Then he got out, moving quickly despite his bad leg. "We have to hurry. They'll only sleep for fifteen minutes, just long enough for us to steal the car and reach the human parts of the city."
She got out as well, already glancing back toward the saltmarsh and the distant murmur of the ocean. Even if she made it back to the shoreline, some city wolves might still be there, possibly too many to fight through.
Etheridge noticed her hesitation while pulling the driver out and dumping him to the ground. "Joan. This is all to get you to safety. Please believe me."
Hearing the same words she had once told him now cut through some of her shock. There were no good choices to make. There hadn't been any since discovering those pitiful remains on the shore. All she could do was follow her gut. "All right. I'll trust you."
As she helped him pull out another unconscious wolf, she added, "But I need a plain answer. What are you saving me from?"
Silence stretched out between them, long enough that she wondered whether he would ignore the question. Then he sighed. "You didn't get into some trouble by stumbling over that body. You got into a lot of it. If the she-wolf's identity is as we expect, then the manner of her death must never come to light. She wasn't just murdered, Joan. She was murdered by the queen herself."
"Which means?" said Joan, her skin already prickling.
He dumped the final body into the weeds and turned to her. Despite his composure, his eyes burned into hers. "It means Alpha-queen Mulgrew will decide to have you killed, and I need to figure out how to save your neck before she even tries."