“Since you can’t be polite, tend your wound yourself. Being healed isn’t a Goddess-given right, you mangy mutt.” Donal shoved the male right off the porch.
The male landed on his ass, lurched to his feet, and stopped. After eyeing the healer—who admittedly looked a lot more deadly than any healer should—he snarled and strode away. A blood-stained shirtsleeve indicated he was wounded.
And the healer had refused to care for him.
Margery stared. Is that allowed?
After an audible snort of disgust, Donal stalked back into his house, totally a werecat whose fur had been ruffled the wrong way.
Margery let out a sigh. He sure was compelling. His shirt couldn’t hide the lean musculature, and his jeans were tight enough to let a female appreciate the lean strength of his ass and legs. Add in the stunning self-confidence of a panther, and he was simply fascinating. Intimidating.
And way, way out of her comfort zone.
On top of all that, he was a healer. And…the realization made her spirits soar like a hawk catching a thermal. Since Cold Creek had a healer, the town had no need for a banfasa.
Here, she really was free.
Laughing, she spun in a circle, arms over her head, sending the Mother the gratitude in her heart.
After a couple of spins, a movement caught her attention, and she halted.
On the sunlit sidewalk, a male stood, looking into her window. With the kitchen light behind her, he could undoubtedly see her quite clearly.
She could see him as well. His black leather jacket was open, revealing a thick black, weapons belt and a uniform shirt with a shiny badge.
Like a Scythe guard. Memories of vicious beatings set off a firestorm of fear and anger inside her, and she stumbled away from the window.
Who is in old Leo’s house?
From the sidewalk, Tynan stared into the house next to his. The movement from inside had caught his eye, but it was the female’s exuberant, whirling dance that had captivated him. Joy simply fountained from her.
Until she saw him.
Now, she backed away, expression frozen with rage…and fear. Of him.
He recognized that expression. And her. The Dogwood female from the Gathering. By the Gods, what’d he ever done to her—aside from help rescue her and the rest of the captives?
Blowing out an exasperated breath, he walked up his sidewalk and into his house. “It’s me,” he called.
“’Bout time.” Donal emerged from the laundry room, accompanied by the faint citrusy scent of soap. “What did the Cosantir want?”
After pulling off his old black jacket, Tynan patted the shiny badge on the new khaki uniform shirt, then rested a hand on his duty belt. “He approved of the sheriff giving me a job.”
His littermate scowled. “As long as you’re not planning to arrest me or anything.”
Tynan snorted. “Like Alec would let me. Law or not, Daonain don’t mess with healers.”
“This is as it should be.” With a smirk, Donal dropped down on the couch and set his feet on the coffee table.
Oh, scat. Tynan recognized that smirk. No matter how much time they spent apart, he’d always be able to read his brother. And that was Donal’s I-did-something-I-shouldn’t-and-I’m-okay-with-it expression.
Stalling by detouring to the kitchen for a glass of apple juice, Tynan settled into his favorite armchair. Fuck, it was good to be home…even if it meant dealing with a werecat littermate. “All right, I’m ready. What’d you do this time?”
Donal gave him an innocent look. “Nothing.”
At Tynan’s disbelieving stare—the one every cop mastered—his brother sighed. “Relax, brawd. I just kicked a mouthy mutt out of the clinic without fixing his lacerated arm. Nothing to arrest me for.”
“Will the mutt be all right?” He knew the answer. Donal wouldn’t refuse to tend anything truly serious.
“Aye. Eventually.” Scowling, Donal waved his hand in the air. “Some mangy-tailed mongrels think they can be fucking rude, and a healer is still obligated to care for them.”
“You know, I kind of thought that was how it worked, too.” Their mother had never refused to heal anyone.
“’Fraid not. Admittedly, the Goddess wouldn’t gift someone who lacked a strong moral code. But the Mother doesn’t direct our actions. Doesn’t say we have to do anything at all. Healing is a calling, not an obligation.”
“Huh.”
“Exactly!” Donal pointed a finger at Tynan as if his grunt had been agreement. “If the flea-brained idiots are allowed to be rude, healers will soon be putting up with all kinds of scat. If we don’t demand respect,