Elijah. Jacquelyn Frank
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be honest, this included her own species as well.
Though Lycanthropes were often considered by themselves and others to be more animal than human, they were still a society with flaws, laws, and free will. These ingredients, while bold and productive in many ways, could be a volatile combination as well.
For example, the race war between her changelings and his elementals. Had this been but two decades earlier, the idea of her helping to aid a Demon, especially this particular Demon, would have been not only inconceivable, but traitorous. Truthfully, there were some who still felt that way, even though their Queen clearly did not.
The previous war between Demonkind and the changeling race had been her father’s doing. It had been an aggressive display of manhood that had begun over a small matter of principle and quickly escalated from there to an almost genocidal hatred toward Demonkind. A feeling that, over decades of provocation, the Demons began to reciprocate wholeheartedly. Unfortunately, Lycanthropes were as long lived as Demons, so her father’s warring ways had plagued her people for centuries, giving birth to generations who did not understand that there actually had been a time when changelings had not actively despised Demonkind.
This had begun to change the moment she had been elevated to the throne.
Siena had publicly rescinded the declaration of war against the Demon race the moment the collar of her office had been latched around her throat. It had not been a popular decision at first, old and hostile feelings held to heart for so long proving a difficult barrier to overcome. It very well could have caused a massive rebellion.
Perhaps this was where being the female leader of a matriarchal society had its advantages. Her voice had the power to appeal to the large number of females who had never truly wanted to be a part of living and dying in battles that made so little sense. Their Queen had only needed to remind them of that, slowly, surely, day by day. And as peacetime went on, Siena’s people began to remember what it was like to live life for something other than preparing for the next battle.
Siena could not, in good conscience, have done anything less. Even though she herself had been raised to mistrust Demons, lectured by a prejudiced parent and the tutors he had chosen for her, teaching her to hate them for the “evil, lawless creatures” they were, fate had intervened, sending her a very powerful lesson that had dramatically changed her perspective on Demons. Her morals and her feminine sense of right and wrong would not allow anything else but a full armistice once she had the power to demand it.
She could not truthfully blame her father’s masculinity for all their troubles and poor behavior as a species, but his aggressive nature had done them no justice and she was now the one left to manage the results. Fourteen years of truce was a pittance of time when compared to almost three centuries of altercations.
Peace was an arduous task that could only be done in piecemeal, mincing steps of advancement. Any action done without the proper wisdom of contemplation could lead to an upheaval of the fragile harmony that was just beginning to bud in earnest betwixt them. And frankly, with all the Nightwalker races currently being besieged by these misguided, tenacious mortals seeking their extinction, they could not afford to waste resources fighting each other.
Saving the Captain of the Demons’ warrior forces wasn’t exactly a delicate step to take. But she would not allow petty politics to dictate whether this champion lived or died. Siena expected no gain and hoped for no ramifications. All she wanted was a cool, dark place to tend his wounds.
She found the cave she was looking for about an hour later, her speed greatly reduced by then because of not only her cargo, but the morning sunlight streaming through the bared limbs of the trees.
Almost immediately after the entrance, the cave sloped dramatically downward, the rock smooth, cold, and damp beneath her bare feet. It took all of her balance, strength, and even her claws to keep from skiing down that slippery surface and landing in the chilled underground lake of mineral water that began at its end. She quickly navigated the thin ledge that rimmed the water. The minute she left a wet footprint on a dry surface, she relieved herself of her burden by gingerly laying him down on the clean stone.
She sat down beside him, more than a little out of breath, drawing her knees up so she could rest her aching arms on them. She needed to help him, the urgency of that was beating at her, but she also needed to give herself a minute to shake off the blinding headache the sun had given her. She was nauseated from it, her eyes and her fur itching from their solar photosensitivity. She was lucky. She could bear it better than most because her strength and power were unparalleled among her people. By all rights, she ought to have been violently ill at that point. Now, if she ventured out too soon after this, she would be even more susceptible.
The Werecat padded on all fours to the lake, sniffing around herself cautiously for life forms before finally using padded fingers and palms to splash water onto her fur. Feline or not, Siena loved to be clean and perfectly groomed, and that meant water and lots of it. She fussed long enough to lick clean a stain of Demon blood from her fur, but left the rest of her grooming until later. She stood up to her full height this time as she lightly leapt over the Demon and headed into the depths of the cavern.
The soft click of her claws on stone heralded her return. She dropped a sack on the floor and then filled a bottle with water from the lake before turning at last to kneel beside him and tend him.
She ripped his shirt off, what was left of it, even being forced to carefully pull out shredded bits of it from scorched skin. The worst wound, the one over his heart, was already cared for and healing. Clotting and anesthetizing agents were naturally present in Lycanthrope hair. The blood that leaked from the shorn ends of the warm, living tendrils had acted like a disinfectant and a healing balm. However, she could not use her hair for all of his wounds. It would damage her too much. Siena glanced at the raw patch of missing fur on her scalp that had occurred as a result of using what she already had.
Instead, she satisfied herself with cleansing his cuts and burns with water and dressing them with bandages from a first aid kit she withdrew from the sack. Demons healed very quickly and most of his wounds ought to be gone by evening. But the chest wound would take more time, as would a series of others that pierced his shoulder, hip, and thigh down his right side.
He had been lanced through with bolts made out of iron in these three wounds, no doubt missiles from crossbows or some other propellant-type weapon. One had gone clear through the muscle of his thigh, but there were metal rods protruding from the other two injuries. Iron burned Demons just by its touch, often scarring and disfiguring them quickly. These invading weapons must be excruciating for him, although, unconscious and in shock as he was, he was hopefully feeling no pain.
Siena took a small bit of cloth from what was left of the warrior’s shirt and used it to get a better grip on the end of the iron dart protruding from his shoulder. She yanked hard and fast, feeling the tear of his flesh as the barbed tip did more destruction on its way out. The wound was black—amazingly enough, the burn of the iron had pretty much cauterized it—but she had begun fresh bleeding by removing it and now pressed balled pieces of his shirt to it, tying them tightly around for pressure.
She bathed his entire torso, inspecting every wound and treating them with the herbs and bandages she had brought with her in the sack as she did so. She found herself impressed by his physical fitness. This was naturally true for many of the Nightwalker races. Born with high metabolisms and the innate sense to regulate caloric intake with activity, overweight members of their various species were rare.
But this, she thought to herself as she traced one golden claw over the defined cut of his right pectoral muscle, this was the body of a being who had trained and honed himself into an artful weapon. He was brawny, yes, but he had the wisdom not to overbuild his stature in a way that would hinder his flexibility and streamlined body movements. She had seen this male move in battle, so quick and lethal, and she remembered it had left her quite breathless with fascination then as well.
Siena caught herself in the realization and immediately withdrew from the unproductive touch and the sensations that went with it. She turned her attention back to his urgent need of healing. She gently probed the bolt that pierced his hip