She Cried Wolf

Chapter Nine: Tolver (toll-ver)

Just go in there. They can't stop you. You're the Premier for Goddess's sake! Watch them try to stop you, they'll see.

I'm pacing the length of the clinic's waiting room. From the corner of my eye I can see Doreen, a kind, older, submissive wolf who I know from my cubhood of waiting for my mother at the clinic. She's fidgeting, her eyes firmly placed on the computer screen before her, as if that could hide the fact that I am making her uncomfortable. Waiting for Eilidh is proving more difficult than I expected.

I had not realized that it would be improper for me to join Eilidh for her appointment. I was not anticipating for us to be separated so suddenly. The moment I watched the double doors close behind her back, my skin began to crawl. My body feeling like it's been infested with termites, scuttling and wriggling just under the surface of my flesh. I tried to sit, took out my phone, texted Wren, but nothing helped. A sharp pain began to pound throughout my chest. It was my wolf, of course. Go to her! She howls, clawing and tearing at my innards. But I can't, no matter how badly I want to.

Pacing helps, somewhat. Movement at all dampens the growling snarls that spit in my ears. Aids me in quieting the accusations building in my stomach. You're not doing enough. You should be with her! But why? I don't know this girl, and beyond my duty to the pack to preserve our secrets, I have no reason to be with her, right? But you want to be. I push that away. Not right now. I am not going to acknowledge that right now. Perhaps some of this unease stems from the knowledge that Eilidh is currently, thanks to an arrangement she made with the other physicians employed at the clinic, in the care of my mother.

I hate to admit it, but my mother and I have never truly seen eye to eye. Like my grandmother before her, she's a submissive wolf in biology alone. She has always been fierce, at least that's what I've been told. But with a mother like the priestess it's hard to imagine she'd come out any other way. Beyond that, however, time has molded my mother into a being that is steadfastly stubborn and absolute. I never knew her before this became her life, obviously, but I can't imagine she was always so set in her ways. A small part of me wishes I could have met her then, before time turned her to stone. A slightly more free Ramona Garcia, with her hair down. Now that would be a sight to see.

That being said, it's not as though I don't understand her particular eccentricities. Her need for control is an occupational hazard. Her position is precarious, being one of the few doctors this town has had in many years, and being the first submissive wolf to hold that particular honor in our pack's entire history. Like me, she needs that control and respect to do her job efficiently.

This is especially true since the wolven don't put much stock in modern medicine, as we typically have very little need for doctors. We heal fast enough on our own, even faster when we shift. It's taken years to finally warm the wolven up to the idea that perhaps the clinic can add some benefit to their lives, that we aren't invulnerable. My father started it, but I have ensured that we are reminded of our weaknesses, and our anxieties, especially when it comes to children. It's still slow going, and our collective efforts have only reliably brought expecting parents and their cubs into the clinic. As such, the majority of my mother's career has been spent in obstetrics and pediatrics, dealing with high-strung wolves and their sick cubs.

However, that hasn't been her whole experience. Sometimes, so infrequently that most of the town is willing to forget, the clinic is faced with something else. Something much more serious. Mates or friends will bring in the wolves who can not simply shift to save themselves. Thanks to the pack's distrust of the clinic, these cases are always the most dire. They are the mutilated wolves who got hit by cars, or who found themselves at the deadly end of a poachers rifle, or who came across the wrong wolf at the wrong moment. These patients are why she bares more scars than the average submissive, why her fierceness is so necessary. Every Wolven is dangerous, but an injured wolf is a deadly one, even more so when they're brought into a place like the clinic. Limiting, sterile, completely unnatural. If I hadn't spent my childhood in these halls, I'm sure I would be just as adverse to the building as anyone else in the pack. But I did, so these walls have typically brought me no such anxieties, and beyond the times where my mother and I were arguing, I could even say there have been moments this place has even brought me comfort.

This is not one of those moments.

I can only imagine what is going on in there. I'd never been to the clinic as a patient, I've never even needed to. My mother gave me all my shots at home, and I had never been so severely injured that a simple shift wouldn't fix the damage. As a younger Premier, I had asked my mother about the appointments. What goes on, what she does. It felt wrong that this building, one nestled so deep in the heart of my packlands, held secrets from me. Especially when I was working so hard to defend its importance to the more suspicious members of the pack. Wouldn't it be more convincing if I had examples to give? Is it not my duty as Premier to know all that goes on in my pack? But my mother, as is her way, refused to relent any information to me. Claimed it went against her entire belief system as a doctor of medicine. She even went as far as to assert that I was overstepping my boundaries as Premier. That argument had been a long one, perhaps our longest ever. I didn't speak with her again for months, and had always rationalized it as me trying to avoid losing control over my wolf. A pissed off Premier can be even more dangerous than an injured wolf, no matter who did the angering. And perhaps, that was partly what stayed my tongue for those months, but looking back I know that I also had been hurt by her refusal. Even now, so long after we carefully began to mend the smaller holes in our relationship, thinking about the fight brings the distinct taste of metal to my mouth, digs a pit deep into my stomach.

I don't want to reopen those particular old wounds, but being here, not knowing what's going on with Eilidh, the words of a much younger version of me keep resurfacing through my head. Haunting and venomous.

It's not fair you won't tell me!

Who do you think you are?

What are you trying to hide?

My father's voice, logical and soothing, filters through the rage. Attempting, as is his way, to add balm to the wounds in my chest.

You know she would never do anything to hurt her. To hurt anyone.

I do, and it is only thanks to my belief in my mothers absolute resolve to love and care for every one of her patients, that I am able to stop myself from ripping this building down brick by brick until I see Eilidh again. Until I make sure she's alright.

I may not always agree with my mother. Hell, I may not always like her. But I do love her, and I know that she is a damn good doctor. Possibly the best there's ever been, if there is truly a way to codify such a thing.

If she's so good, why is this taking so damn long? Hisses my wolf, angry and resentful.

Calm down. I have to snap at myself, feeling the skin around my fingers grow tighter as my wolf threatens to claw her way free. She's not a wolf, she is far more fragile than mother's usual patients.

This, too, is something I have realized during my short time spent with the beautiful stranger. Though I was not sure when I first saw her, or when we were in the cabin, it was the truck ride to the clinic that confirmed it for me. I spent the short trip inhaling deeply, trying to move past the pain, fear, and confusion that oozed out of Eilidh's body in thick rivulets. Searching for any hint of wolf hidden under that mixture of disinfectant and lavender that seemed to lift from her very flesh. When nothing came, my suspicions were confirmed. Eilidh is human. Nothing more, nothing less.

But then why does my wolf think she's so much more? Or, even, more than more? How come I... care?

It's not as though my affections for the world are so few and far between that I don't care about my fellow beings on this earth. Of course, I want a world where everyone can be happy and healthy at all times, who doesn't? But when you're a leader, and thus practically all of a community's health and happiness rides on you at any given time- it's difficult to spare a thought for the minor injuries of a stranger. She'll live, this I have made sure of, so why, then, am I still at the clinic? Could Wren not have driven her? Could she not have called her own taxi? Yes and yes, yet something inside of me cringes away from the mere notion. The very thought. I have no reason to care, to stay here and wait and worry. And yet I do. And I do not understand why.