Healer's Mate

Chapter Four: Michaela

I was deposited in my room, the door shut and locked behind him as Byron left me. As soon as I was alone, I ran, stumbling to the small bathroom that was connected to the bedroom, the one 'luxury' that was afforded me. Collapsing on the floor in front of the toilet, I lifted the seat and vomited, resting my forehead on the cold porsiline. I had little to throw up, but my body didn't seem to realize that as I dry heaved over and over. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, retching again as the stench of blood and of darker things surrounded me. Suddenly aware of the blood that surrounded me, I ripped off my gore-soaked robe and night gown, whimpering as I stripped naked and threw myself into the shower, turning the water on as hot as it would go. The water poured over me, scalding my skin, but I could hardly feel the pain as I scrubbed myself clean with a bar of soap. The water under me flowed first pink and then clear, and it was still not enough. Whimpering, I touched my chest, dropping my gaze to stare at myself. Just as I thought they'd be, there were the faintest hints of cuts along my formerly flawless skin. Another part of the 'gift,' a memory etched on my skin. I would have these marks, these bruises and echos for at least the next few days, where they would fade away into nothing. 'At least they were clean cuts...' I thought to myself. It was too much. Falling to my knees, I began to cry in big, wracking sobs.

I don't know how long I knelt there, sobbing out the pain and horror of the last hour, but it was long enough that the water began to run cold. Responding to my body's discomfort with the change, I toweled off and climbed into my bed, wrapping the blanket around my shivering form tightly. It wasn't always like this. I used to be loved, cherished. But that was before... before the gift manifested, and before my father went crazy from the Voice of God.

I developed the healing gift when I was around 6. Or at least, that was the first time I remember using it. My mother had accidently burnt her hand while cooking dinner. I went to her as she was running the offended limb under cold water and asked to 'kiss to make better.' I imagine it was cute, a young child wanting to make her mother feel better in the only way she knew how, the same way that her mother had helped her scrapes and booboos. My mother laughed and lowered her hand to me. It amazed us both when the golden light surrounded it at my touch and first the pain, and then the burn itself went away.

Unfortunately, that's when we learned of the other half of the 'gift.' As her wound healed and she stared in wonder, I cried out in pain, dropping her hand and grabbing my own. Worried, she reached out and took my hand, gasping in surprise at the slightly reddened skin, the echo of the wound that she herself had just been healed from. It was a Miracle, my father declared, a Gift from God! My mother wanted to keep the gift to ourselves, to keep it hidden from others. She understood what it would mean if others found out about this ability -- the pain that I would take into myself, and she didn't want me to live like that, to either be paraded out, healing and hurting, or worse yet, to be studied as though I was a bug. Father went along with it, for a while. I don't know what changed, beyond the fact that he started going to church more often, but around my 8th birthday, it seemed as though his position changed. I was not to allow my light to be hidden. No, God wanted more. God gave me this Gift, he wanted me to share it with the world. And he knew this, because he heard the voice of God. That was the beginning of my personal Hell. Mother and Father argued all the time after that, but to no avail, father would have his way. She knew that if she didn't follow when he began to hold tent revivals in the deep south, bringing me out to show the Mercy and the Love of God, that my mother would lose me forever. It took years before she was able to get us away. Years of pain, of confusion, of miracles. But get us away, she did. One night, when we were close to the town that she grew up in, she stole me away, heading deep into the Wolf forests to find sanctuary.

That was when I found out that the town that my mother grew up in, Sweet Springs, was on the edge of one of the oldest werewolf territories in the area. The Alpha at the time was Caleb's father, Justin, and he allowed us to come and live with his pack, to stay in the Pack House itself. He promised us safety, security, and the promise that my father would not be able to touch either of us again. In exchange, my mother took over the housekeeping duties for the Pack House, keeping it tidy and comfortable for the Alpha, his family, and his guests.

I spent the last 12 years amongst the pack, my time passing between the small werewolf-only space of the Pack House, and the nearby human-dominated town. At ten years old, I learned what most adults still do not know - that our world has a darker side and the things that go bump in the night are real, and standing right next to us.

Werewolves aren't just humans that go furry once a month. The lycanthropic magic gives them an inner wolf, a creature that's both another part of themselves and more. This connection grants them inhuman strength and speed, as well as the keen senses of the wolf. Their hearing and sense of smell is far beyond that of humans. Unfortunately, even with the ability to heal themselves down to the cellular level (effectively halting their aging in their prime), most werewolves don't live longer than 50 years after they gain their wolves.

Werewolves are born in violence. Werewolf lycanthropy is not something you are born with, or something that is passed down from father to son. To become a werewolf, you have to be brought to the edge of death by a werewolf and survive. It's said by some that the Moon’s magic fills the victim and if the Goddess deems them worthy, they gain a wolf. Then again, it's also said by others that lycanthropy is nothing more than a virus. No one is sure what the cause is, beyond the fact that you have to be brought to near death by claw and fang and survive.

From the time that people gain their wolves, they seem to always be angry. Tempers always seem to be close to the surface, which is part of the reason why werewolf society is as strict and closed-minded as it is. Every year, dozens of werewolves end up dying, victims of power struggles and wars, disputes and personal vendettas. It is a world where the strong thrive.

When my mother and I joined the Crescent Pearl, Justin had been the Alpha for almost 75 years. He led one of the country's oldest established packs for another 10 years before his death, which is when his only surviving child, Caleb, took his place. It was unusual for a pack to have a dynasty, and many thought that the fact that Justin had groomed Caleb was a good sign that the pack would be strong for years to come. They didn't realize how big of a monster the new Alpha could be.

I eventually slept.