The Dark Edge Chronicles - Clan War

Chapter 9: Home Fires are Burning

Bronwyn was coming down the stairs from the living quarters up on the second floor when the three Ventru finally made their last trip through the door and closed it behind them.

"Bodies sorted out?" she asked as she came to a halt at the bottom of the stairs. Having pulled on a teeshirt Truk brought out to him halfway through the cleanup, Lash nodded.

"Mistress Fiadh?"

Bronwyn nodded.

"Mostly minor cuts and bruises," she reported in a no-nonsense tone as she folded her arms beneath her breasts. "I bandaged and closed those that needed immediate care once we got back into the house. Or, at least until she could get a blood meal, which she has now had, her metabolism healing things up nicely. And, while you'd expect it from being in the hands of human soldiers, she wasn't sexually assaulted or manhandled."

"And you can tell that, how?" Narcist wanted to know, having suspected the humans to have done just that by virtue of their bestial natures. Bronwyn favored her with a quick look.

"By smell," was her frank and to the point answer. Knowing just how keen a werewolf's sense of smell was, the Ventru tech expert immediately nodded in understanding. A werewolf could smell if a person had cancer or a nerve disorder. The trauma left behind by an assault would've been relatively easy to detect.

The werewolf elder then looked back at Lash.

"She is now upstairs taking a shower to 'wash the human stink from her flesh', quote, unquote."

"Sounds like a damn good idea, actually," Narcist said with a wry chuckle. "And the smell of acid scorching flesh out of my nostrils."

"Don't take all the hot water," Truk directed. "Pretty sure the big fella wouldn't mind sluicing all of his own blood off before getting into some clean clothes."

Looking down at his blood-soaked pants, Lash then looked up with a wry smile.

"That's pretty much a guarantee!"

"Don't blame you," Bronwyn said before jerking a thumb back towards the kitchen. "Would you mind terribly if I grabbed a bite from your mundane stores? It's been a long day."

"Not at all," Lash indicated with a nod. "You fought beside us and spilled our enemy's blood on the uncaring ground. It is the least we could do." He held up a forestalling hand before she could turn and go.

"Which brings up the question: are you situated in the city?"

"As in, do I have a place to stay?" Bronwyn frowned. "The Black Moon pack is Irish, Lash. We have holdings in the city."

"You didn't answer my question," Lashthe big vampire indicated.

"And didn't you say you were exiled from Black Moon because you're an elder?" Truk added, earning himself a look and a raised brow from the werewolf before she returned her attention to Lash.

"They've allowed me space in a loft in Dun Laoghaire, down by the water."

"You mean, somewhere to throw a sleeping bag and keep your stuff out of a locker," Truk said, earning himself another look from Bronwyn, this one somewhat sheepish.

"Are you spying on me, Truk?" she accused, yet her tone was mild and a little embarrassed.

"A sleeping bag, Bronwyn?" Lash asked, pulling her attention back to him. "Seriously?"

The werewolf shrugged.

"I don't make enough money to afford an actual flat, or even a cheap hotel room in the city," she admitted. "Werewolves aren't bankrolled by centuries old diamond merchants, arms dealers, and old money banks, like you vampires are. So I called in some favors at the local den and they set me up. At least it's not on the street, right?" Bronwyn's expression firmed back into a resolute look of determination.