“But—again—why would they risk it?” I asked. “Knowing they’d almost certainly die?”
“The women we’re talking about, at least initially, are already taking that risk, just by being in long-term relationships with shifters. Our goal would be to lower the danger. Mitigate the risk. And we’re not ready to start this yet, obviously. But a friend of mine is a doctor, and his brother is a geneticist, and they’ve been working on this problem for years. They’re the ones who discovered the genetic element to surviving infection. And they’ve learned even more in the time since then. They believe that under the right circumstances—in the right environment—we could change those numbers dramatically.”
I blinked at her. “The survival rates? You can change—presumably improve—the survival rates?”
“Yes. The Carvers believe that if these volunteer women were screened to make sure they were viable candidates and were infected in a controlled environment, constantly monitored by doctors administering IV fluids and a special antibiotic they’ve developed specifically for this purpose… And that if we can control the dose of the infection itself—”
“Wait, what does that mean?” Thedoseof the infection?
“So, when someone is scratched or bitten, there’s no way to control how much of the infecting cat’s genetic material is transferred from infector to infectee, for lack of a better term. But under the ideal environment, that infection could be controlled. Testing could determine exactly how much to administer, likely by injection, along with an initial dose of that antibiotic to preemptively fight the accompanying infection. Scratch fever. The Doctors Carver think there might actually be a safe way for women who’re genetically eligible and want to be a part of our world to be given that opportunity.”
“Oh my god.” I couldn’t think of what else to say. The images floating behind my eyes were of an old bed in a rickety cabin with a single filthy window. Handcuffs restraining me to the bed frame. A feverish sweat. Hours and hours of pain and nausea.
And she was saying it didn’t have to be that way? That it could be like any normal medical procedure, in a controlled hospital or clinic environment? Under constant medical supervision?
That it could be achoice?
“Oh my god.”
“And it goes beyond just the survival rate.” Her eyes were shining again.Glowingwith the possibilities. “I understand that I’m preaching to the choir here, so forgive me for telling you something you already know, but strays are typically initiated into our world in trauma. Their first exposure to their new existence is fear and pain, and a complete incomprehension of their new abilities, limitations, and responsibilities. And I can only assume that trauma is even more intense for women, when they discover how very alone they are in this world. Am I right? How they’ve been set up as potential victims, right from the start?”
More so than I could ever hope to explain to her. So I only nodded.
“We could fix that too. Volunteers would know what they were getting into. They could be educated and counseled in advance. They could be psychologically screened. They could have an ‘ambassador’ of their choice present—along with their Alpha, of course—to shepherd them through both scratch fever and the initial shift. They wouldneverbe alone or vulnerable.
“Titus has a pilot program along those lines in place now, for male strays in Jackson, and he’s had great success with it.” She took another quick sip of her water, then barreled forward. “We have the opportunity to offer the very best parts of the shifter life to interested and qualified women, while mitigating—in some cases eliminating—the worst parts. We have an opportunity to change things. To shape our world for the better, in ways our society has never even dreamed of.”
“Sounds like it.” I nodded slowly. “But I have to ask…why? I mean, why would we do that? You just said that we don’t really need more female shifters, so…why?”
“To fix the imbalance.”
I opened my mouth to object, but she spoke over me.
“Notthatimbalance. I don’t care about the ratio of men to women. What I care about is that there are already women in our world who are notofour world but want to be, and they’re being denied that option. Excluded and held apart from people they love. And there are women who don’t even know our world exists, who’re being dragged into it against their will, violently and traumatically. Like you were.Thatimbalance is fucked up. And if we admit into our world the women who want to be here, it will look to the men who still mostly run things like we’re fixing the problemtheybelieve exists.”
“How big a problem do they believe that is, exactly? I mean, I get that there’s a gender imbalance and they want more girls to be born, but is it really that big a deal?”
Faythe stared at me for a moment as if she were trying to figure something out. Finally, she tilted her head slightly to one side, and long dark hair fell over her shoulder. “Charley, are you aware that the Territorial Council doesn’t know you exist?”
“What do you mean? Titus told them I survived infection, and I spoke to them on a video conference. Nearly three years ago.”
Faythe smiled. “If I recall, you told them you would not be marrying any of their sons.”
“Yeah. And Titus had to inform you all when he fired Eamon and hired me, and—”
“Yes, but he just said the new Marshal’s name is Charley. They have no idea that CharleneStudebaker is the Charley running the northern zone. They think the Marshal is Charlie-with-an-I-E. Most have inferred that that’s short for Charles. They don’t know you’re in innie, rather than an outie, and if theyhadknown, they would never have let Titus hire you.”
“You’re fucking kidding,” Davey swore.
Faythe turned to her with both brows arched. “I wish I were. And on another note, I know you’re not a shifter, but just so you’re aware, cursing in front of an Alpha is typically not permitted. And in human society, I believe the same goes for toddlers.” She nodded with a grin at her son.
“Oh, shit.Shit!” Davey slapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m so f-ing sorry. Damn. I meandang! That’s going to take some work.”
Faythe laughed. “Yeah, it really does. I accidentally taught my three-year-old to say ‘fuck me!’—” she mouthed the words “—when he stubbed his toe, and my mother didn’t speak to me for a week.” She shrugged. “It helps to think of being around an Alpha—and possibly a Marshal—like being around your parents. Same rules apply.”
“Yeah, that might help,” I said. “If we hadn’t grown up in a bar. I was correcting the spelling ofshitweasel—” I whispered the word. “—on the men’s room walls before I was old enough for my first spelling bee.”
Faythe frowned, trying to decide whether or not I was joking. Then she burst into more laughter. “I like you.”
