Page 42 of Minions and Magic
Hanging half on the tree and half on the ledge was an unconscious and bleeding Stanley.
“Get Cassie,” I shouted back to Adrienne.
There was no way I could get the werewolf up off that ledge unassisted, but there might be a way I could get down to him. Taking a steadying breath, I studied the cliff side, and tried to remember all the years I’d climbed this mountain as a kid, all the times I’d clawed my way up a rockface with tiny handholds and not much to support my weight.
All the times I’d almost fallen but been too young to realize the consequences of such a fall. Kids feel invincible. A twenty-seven-year-old woman does not feel so invincible, and eyeing the descent, all I could think of was my body splatted below in a twisted heap of broken bones and flesh.
But something tugged at me deep inside where my magic dwelled. Something told me that Stanley needed me. I was a witch who had no offensive or defensive capabilities. I was shit in a fight, but I could heal, and right now I knew that’s what Stanley needed.
Gritting my teeth, I lowered myself over the edge, envisioning the path I needed to take to safely get down to where Stanley was. The muscles in my arms trembled as I gingerly felt for toe-holds to support my weight.
One rock slipped under my foot, sending the stone clattering down the side of the mountain, but my other foot found a stable hold, and the next rock helped balance my weight. Relaxing for a moment, I eased one hand down, testing my weight on the rock before lowering the opposing foot to a thick root extending from a crack in a sheer space of stone.
Slowly I made my way down until I found myself on the narrow ledge with Stanley. Forcing myself not to immediately provide aid to the werewolf, I took in my surroundings. The tree where Stanley’s legs were tangled was anchored deep in the cliff face, and there were several smaller trees just like it a few feet below the werewolf. The shelf where I stood and where Stanley’s upper body rested was narrow, but widened off to my right. A stout bush jutted out just where the ledge ended.
The hearty trees and shrubs gave me something to quickly grab if I started to slip off the shelf. But I wasn’t the problem right now, it was Stanley. If I slid him off the tree to lay down on the ledge, his weight might pull the pair of us off the side. And there was no way I could hold Stanley’s weightandcatch myself on the trees.
Lowering myself to the ledge, I eased forward toward Stanley and put my fingers on his neck. His pulse was slow and thready. There was blood from a head wound, and from a bunch of scratches, and his one leg twisted at an abnormal angle. But aside from that, he didn’t seem to be suffering from any significant injury.
Why was he unconscious? I’d seen werewolves not even notice these types of injuries. I ran my hands over his face and dark brown beard, then down his neck to his chest, closing my eyes as I tried to sense where unseen injuries might be.
It hit me with a strength that made my nose twitch and eyes sting. I sneezed, then pulled my hands away to rub my eyes.
Wolfsbane. Alotof wolfsbane.
It caused an allergic reaction among werewolves, but just like allergies in humans, their reactions and sensitivity varied. Most werewolves got itchy hives. Some couldn’t shift for a few hours. Some had reduced abilities to heal. Some had life-threatening incidents of anaphylactic shock.
I wasn’t an expert in werewolf culture, but I knew that physical weaknesses were considered character flaws among them. Physical strength, the ability to quickly heal wounds, and a stoic endurance of any pain—physical or emotional—was highly prized. Ophelia and I had spent hours discussing how frustrating this was, and how it hindered our ability to help werewolf patients who weren’t forthcoming about allergies, sensitivities, past injuries, or genetic conditions.
Clearly this level of wolfsbane was not only keeping Stanley in an unconscious state and hindering his breathing, but it was also blocking his shifter ability to heal. In his current condition, if he hadn’t been caught on this tree and ledge, if he’d fallen all the way down this cliff, then he might have died. Briarly must have somehow dosed him with wolfsbane without becoming affected herself, then tossed him over this cliff. When we’d arrived, she was probably trying to figure out how to knock him off the ledge and all the way down.
I heard a yelp from up above and grimaced, hoping Tink was doing okay.
Reaching out to check Stanley’s pulse again, I was alarmed at his slowing heartbeat and the shallow breathing. And here I was with nothing to help him. I’d brought healing potions, but in my panic, I’d left them all in the van. All I could do was hope to keep the werewolf stable, and pray that Cassie and Lucien got here soon.
A rock the size of a softball nearly missed my head, hitting Stanley in the abdomen and sliding him toward the edge of the shelf. I grabbed him, and glanced up to see Briarly, aiming another rock at us. Had she bested Tink? She must know that she’d be put to death for killing Dallas’ mate and co-alpha of the pack. Was she so desperate to murder Stanley that she’d sacrifice her own life for this?
Another rock hit the tree where Stanley’s legs were tangled. It bounced and one of his legs came free, shifting his weight even further off the ledge. I braced myself against the cliff face, looping an arm around the thorny bush and holding onto Stanley’s waistband with the other hand.
I had to do something. Cassie was probably on her way, but this werewolf might knock both Stanley and me off the ledge before she got here to help. If only he wasn’t unconscious. I could manage myself if I didn’t have to worry about holding Stanley’s weight.
If only he wasn’t unconscious. If only I could clear the effects of the wolfsbane from him, heal him, and wake him up, then he could easily scale up the side of this cliff and fight Briarly while I made my much slower way up. I’d only ever healed with smoothies, mixing my magic with the fruit and yogurt into something magical that tasted like paint and sweaty gym socks. But Xavier had insisted there was magic in all my cooking. Hoping I didn’t get hit by a rock, I let go of the bush and reached inside my pocket for a bag holding two truffles.
Another rock bounced off the cliff face above my head, sending a shower of pebbles and dirt down on us. I took the chocolates from the plastic bag, held them in my hand, and poured my magic into them.
A rock hit the tree, and both Stanley’s legs came free. I gasped, and nearly dropped the chocolates as I grabbed him with both hands, easing him onto the ledge partially on top of me. Wrapping my arms around him, I gripped the smashed chocolates tightly and again sent my magic into them, trying not to think about how one well-aimed rock would send us both plunging downward.
A rock chipped the corner of the ledge. Time was running out. These crushed, half-melted chocolates in my hand weren’t smoothies, but they’d have to do. Another rock barely missed us as I reached over and crammed the chocolates into Stanley’s mouth, holding it shut and rubbing his throat as if I were giving a pill to a dog.
Looking up I saw Briarly leaning out over the cliff edge, a huge rock in her hands. This time she was taking careful aim. She held the boulder in both hands and began to raise it over her head, shifting her weight to keep from falling over the edge herself. I gritted my teeth and held Stanley’s mouth shut as he choked and gagged on the chocolates.
We weren’t going to make it. Well, I wasn’t going to make it. This boulder would hit us, sending us both off the edge, and where Stanley might survive thanks to my chocolates, I’d have no such luck.
Fear spiked through me as I watched Briarly, unable to look away. Then something hit her from behind—something that snarled ferociously. The two werewolves tumbled over the cliff, both scrabbling for the trees jutting from the rockface as they fell.
Stanley began to squirm, and I let go of his mouth. His eyes opened and he sucked in a breath, gagging and spitting as if he might vomit. With a shudder, he partially shifted, his hands and feet becoming claws.
“Don’t stab me,” I told him. “It would really suck if I survived Briarly only to have my patient claw me to death.”
