Twenty or thirty-sothing prisoners huddle together by the eastern wall of the compound, all of them looking as if they’ve been captive for weeks. Maybe months. Every single one is handcuffed.
The rare pair clutch at each other’s hands, but otherwise they all stand a little apart from each other, as if they’re strangers. They’re calm as they watch my people stack dead bodies in the center of the compound, unfazed by death. This isn’t surprising, considering the majority of them are shifters.
More unsettling is their lack of relief, until I realize they aren’t sure if they’ve been saved or brought into a worse situation. They’re suspicious and on edge.
What really throws is the two standing slightly apart from the others. Even filthy and starved, there’s no mistaking their ethereal features and pointed ears.
Heize tugs at my sleeve, clearing his throat. "Luna Ava, do you mind if I speak with the them? They don’t seem to understand English. Most Fae have little exposure to human languages. Only those who intend to visit the human realm bother to study it. It’s..." he pauses, struggling to find the right words, "not considered worth the effort for most."
My brows arch; we haven’t given them much direction, but there’s a very obvious sense of confusion surrounding the two. Unlike the others, who have silver handcuffs, theirs are made of rusty iron.
I wave him forward. "Go ahead."
Heize motions the pair to step a little further from the group. The language he speaks is gentle and lodic, and for whatever reason, I keep thinking of a gentle stream as he speaks.
, too. They may have an affinity to water, perhaps, Grimoire muses.
The Fae prisoners blink in surprise, then respond with rapid, anxious-seeming words. It’s hard to tell because it all sounds equally lyrical, but their faces are pinched and eyes wide, hands gesturing with more energy than the entire group of captives combined.
As they speak, I ponder the implications of the Fae’s explanation. If these two don’t understand English and had no intention of visiting the human realm, then...
Sothing tugs in my chest and my head jerks up as Lucas erges from one of the buildings. He’s dressed in only a pair of pants, blood staining his chest and arms. It’s clear he shifted and then pulled on whatever he could grab after all was said and done.
He looks like so sort of dieval warrior god, and it would be a lie to say my heart doesn’t skip a beat or three.
But then my eyes narrow as I scan him over for injuries. There’s a lot of blood. His walk seems steady, but Lucas would probably stride confidently with half his organs hanging out just to prove he’s fine.
He’s fine. None of the blood is his.
My shoulders relax slightly. Thank the Goddess for Selene’s wolf nose.
It’s genetics, she says humbly.
I can feel Grimoire rolling his eyes, even if I can’t see it.
Since the people we’ve saved still look as if they think we might be enemy number two, and everyone else seems to be busy gathering bodies and looking for evidence, it’s clear no one’s about to explain anything and the responsibility’s fallen on my shoulders.
I look back at the trembling prisoners, then to the building they’d been kept in. Selene, co in here and help assess them all and see if they’re stable enough to make the trek back to Wolf’s Landing.
Got it. She’s been pacing the periter with Clayton and his people; everyone’s convinced reinforcent is coming, but we haven’t seen any sign of them yet.
* * *
Surprisingly, it doesn’t take much to put the captives at ease. A simple explanation of who we are and why we’re here does it all, and sighs of relief echo from the various prisoners.
Two of them seem to have taken over the de facto leadership of the captives. One, a stunning young she-wolf with short blonde hair and brown eyes, is friendly the mont she feels safe. The other is a grizzled, one-ard shifter with stringy gray hair and dark blue eyes.
Turns out he lost his arm during his capture; it’s never been properly treated, and I’m not exactly sure how he survived without proper dical care.
"My healing’s pretty fast," he says calmly, solving the mystery pretty quickly.
"I see. You’re lucky, then." As soon as the words co out, I want to kick myself in the face for saying them. Who am I to say a one-ard man is lucky? It’s a tragedy for him.
"I am," he agrees. "Most aren’t as lucky as I am. So, you’re the Westwood Luna, huh? Didn’t know there was one."
"It’s a relatively new arrangent," I murmur, motioning for him to pull his shirt back on. I convinced Lucas to let bring all the captives indoors for a quick dical exam, wanting to keep them out of the cold.
It especially helps when I order them to remove their clothing for a more thorough exam of injuries.
Selene sneezes as one of the captive Fae pass by her, flattening her ears. Can we send those two outside, at least?
"No. Don’t be rude."
"Excuse ?" the grizzled captive—his na’s Bob, apparently—asks, raising both eyebrows.
"Sorry, not you." My ears feel a little hot as I flush, but I don’t feel like explaining Selene’s existence to these shifters yet. Most of them look at her with curiosity, and a few with disdain. No one seems to realize what she is. "Is anyone here particularly worse off? Wounds, infection?"
"No. The humans aren’t bothered much, and the rest of us heal pretty well on our own. I’m probably the worst of the bunch." He moves his stump with a faint grin. "For obvious reasons."
I’m not sure how to respond to his humor and chuckle awkwardly.
The blonde-haired girl cos up from behind him with a friendly smile. "The guys your friend is talking to are probably the weakest, actually. What did you call them again? Fae?"
"Yes, Fae."
"Never seen ’em before. They look like elves, don’t you think?"
"Yeah, I’ve always thought so, too."
"Hmm." She stares at their backs for a little longer as they continue speaking with Heize, who’s gesturing animatedly in my direction. "Well, they’re not very strong. Weaker than even the humans, I think. How far is this Wolf’s Landing place?"
"Far enough to be trouble," I admit calmly. "There aren’t enough vehicles to take you all in one trip. We need to figure out who needs a ride and who can make the march."
"I can help with that." She sticks her hand out, and her fingers are thin and cold as they wrap around my palm. "The na’s Tee. It’s actually Theresa, but I prefer Tee. I’m from the Midsumr Pack, on the east coast. I’ve never heard of Westwood, so I guess I’m pretty far from ho."
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