Chapter 3 The Truth of the Broken Fang

Two weeks into my strange exile at Gray Ridge, I'd settled into an uneasy routine. Mornings were spent at the clinic treating an odd mix of human patients from neighboring communities and pack members with their unique physiology. Afternoons often involved house calls to elderly wolves who couldn't make the journey to the clinic. Evenings I spent documenting my observations in a private journal, carefully coded in case anyone should find it.

Connor and I had developed a professional rapport, though he remained guarded. He assisted with the more complex cases, particularly those involving pack members, but disappeared for hours at a time without explanation. The tribal council watched me with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity, especially Ezra, who often appeared at the clinic unannounced to observe my work.

The mark on my hand had stabilized into a constant lavender glow, which according to Lydia was unprecedented. "The marks only change color with deep emotional bonds," she'd explained during one of her check-ins. "Usually family ties or life-mates."

I'd dismissed this, attributing the phenomenon to some unknown physiological reaction between the photon imprint and my unique biochemistry. Science, not magic. Medicine, not mysticism. These were the mantras I repeated to myself each time I witnessed something that challenged my medical training.

The clinic had closed early that Friday due to a tribal ceremony I wasn't invited to attend. I used the opportunity to reorganize the supply closet, which had become chaotic under the previous doctor's tenure. That's when I noticed the discrepancies in the inventory.

"These numbers don't match," I muttered to myself, comparing the log book to the actual supplies. Several bottles of basic vitamins and minerals showed higher usage than could be accounted for in patient records.

Curious, I pulled one of the vitamin D bottles and examined it closely. The seal looked odd—professionally done, but definitely reapplied. Inside, the pills looked identical to standard vitamin D supplements, but something felt off. I slipped one into a sample bag for later analysis.

The clinic door opened unexpectedly, and I quickly tucked the sample into my pocket. Connor entered, looking tired but alert. His gaze immediately went to the open supply cabinet.

"Inventory?" he asked casually.

"Just organizing," I replied. "The previous doctor wasn't exactly methodical."

Connor nodded, moving to wash his hands at the sink. I noticed a small canvas bag hanging from his belt, similar to the ones used by the pack's hunters.

"Successful hunt?" I asked, trying to sound equally casual.

"Something like that." He dried his hands and turned to face me. "How are you adjusting to life here?"

"Better than expected," I admitted. "Though I still have a thousand questions."

A hint of a smile touched his lips. "Only a thousand? You're showing restraint."

I closed the cabinet and leaned against it. "For instance, why does a werewolf pack need a human doctor? You clearly have your own healing traditions, and you have medical training yourself."

Connor's expression grew serious. "Our bodies are changing. Each generation transforms differently than the last. Some of our traditional remedies aren't working anymore."

"Evolution," I mused. "Or adaptation to a changing environment."

"Whatever the cause, we need modern medicine alongside our traditional ways." He paused, studying me. "You've proven more... compatible with our needs than we anticipated."

Something in his tone made me look up sharply. "Because of this?" I held up my marked hand.

"Partly." He hesitated, then added, "There's something I'd like your help with. A personal matter."

This was unexpected. Connor rarely shared anything personal. "What kind of help?"

"Medical help." He touched his jaw near the right side, where I'd sometimes noticed him wincing when he spoke too long. "An old injury that's been causing problems."

"I'd need to examine you properly," I said, professional curiosity piqued.

He nodded, glancing at the closed clinic door. "Not here. My cabin, after sunset. There are things the council doesn't need to know about."

Before I could respond, the door opened again and Ezra entered, his timing so perfect I wondered if he'd been listening outside.

"Connor," the old shaman greeted. "The elders are waiting."

Connor straightened, all business again. "I'll be right there." To me, he added quietly, "Seven o'clock. The cabin with the red door at the north edge."

After they left, I returned to my quarters, curiosity burning. I pulled out the vitamin pill I'd pocketed and used the clinic's modest lab equipment to analyze it. The results were surprising—it contained standard vitamin D, but also a compound I didn't recognize, something with a molecular structure similar to immunosuppressants.

At seven sharp, I knocked on the red door of Connor's cabin. The structure was larger than most in the village but modestly furnished. Books lined one wall—medical texts mingled with what looked like ancient tribal records.

"Thank you for coming," Connor said, gesturing me inside. He seemed tense, different from his usual controlled demeanor at the clinic.

"What's this about?" I asked, setting my medical bag on the table.

Connor took a deep breath. "What I'm about to show you breaks several tribal laws. But as our doctor, you need to understand."

He opened his mouth wide, revealing what I'd never had the opportunity to examine before—his dentition. Most of his teeth appeared normal, but where his right canine should have been was a jagged stump, broken at an angle that suggested tremendous force.

"May I?" I asked, pulling on examination gloves.

He nodded, and I carefully examined the broken fang. The root was intact, but the crown had been sheared off cleanly.

"This wasn't an accident," I observed. "This break is too precise."

"No," Connor confirmed after I finished my examination. "I broke it myself. Five years ago."

I sat back, waiting for him to continue.

"During a full moon, I..." He paused, visibly struggling. "I bit a human girl. It's our most sacred law—never mark a human without consent, and never during blood frenzy."

"What happened to her?" I asked quietly.

"She survived the bite. But the incident divided the pack. Some believed I should step down as Alpha."

"Instead, you punished yourself," I concluded, gesturing to his broken fang and scarred ear.

Connor nodded. "The physical pain was... appropriate."

I opened my medical bag and pulled out a small flashlight. "May I take a closer look? The broken edge seems to be causing inflammation."

He tilted his head back, allowing me better access. As I shone the light on the broken fang, something caught my attention—tiny markings etched into the interior of the tooth.

"There's some kind of engraving inside the broken surface," I said, leaning closer.

"The Elder Signs," Connor explained. "When I broke the fang, Ezra inscribed symbols to help control the transformation rage."

I studied the microscopic markings, recognizing shapes similar to medical caduceus symbols mixed with what appeared to be ancient pictographs. The precision was extraordinary.

"Does it work?" I asked.

"Mostly," he admitted. "But during full moons, the pain becomes... difficult to manage."

As I continued my examination, my fingers brushed against his jaw, and suddenly, a flash of memory hit me—not my own, but something foreign, intrusive. A forest at night. The taste of fear. A young woman with desperate eyes. Blood on my hands.

I gasped, pulling back as the vision faded. Connor was watching me intently.

"You saw something," he stated rather than asked.

"I... don't know what that was." My heart raced. "A hallucination, maybe."

"A memory," Connor corrected quietly. "My memory. It happens sometimes when our kind make contact with those who..." He hesitated.

"Those who what?" I pressed.

"Those who share our blood," he finished reluctantly.

Before I could question this startling statement, my gaze fell on his desk, where several familiar plastic bottles sat partially hidden under papers. The same vitamin supplements from the clinic.

"You're the one taking the vitamins," I said, moving toward the desk. "Why? And what are you doing with them?"

Connor's expression closed off. "That's not relevant to my injury."

"It is if you're tampering with clinic supplies." I picked up one of the bottles, examining the seal. "These have been resealed. What are you replacing them with?"

For a long moment, Connor said nothing. Then, with a resigned sigh, he moved to a small refrigerator in the corner and pulled out a box. Inside were dozens of homemade capsules.

"Herbal supplements," he explained. "Based on traditional pack remedies but formulated to look like conventional vitamins."

"You're switching modern medicine for tribal remedies? Why not just prescribe the herbs directly?"

"Because," Connor said carefully, "some of our elders believe modern medicine is weakening the pack. They've forbidden certain members from taking 'human drugs.'"

"So you're secretly giving them what they need while pretending to honor the restrictions," I concluded. "That's why the inventory doesn't match the records."

Connor's gaze was steady. "Would you deny medicine to those who need it because of superstition?"

"No," I admitted. "But deception isn't the answer either."

"Sometimes it's the only option." He closed the box. "This stays between us."

"For now," I agreed reluctantly. "But we need to discuss a better solution."

I returned to my examination of his broken fang, trying to focus on the medical issue rather than the ethical dilemma he'd presented. The jagged edge was indeed causing inflammation, and I suspected chronic pain.

"I can't replace the missing portion," I said finally, "but I could smooth and seal the broken edge to reduce inflammation. It might help with the pain."

"Do it," Connor said without hesitation.

I prepared a local anesthetic, though Connor waved it away. "It won't work on me anyway."

Using specialized dental tools from my medical bag, I carefully filed the jagged edge of the broken fang, working slowly to avoid causing additional trauma. Connor remained perfectly still, only the occasional tightening around his eyes betraying his discomfort.

As I worked, another memory flashed—this one clearer than before. The girl Connor had bitten was young, perhaps sixteen. But in this memory, she wasn't struggling or afraid. She was... offering herself. Extending her neck willingly.

"She wanted you to bite her," I said without thinking. "The girl five years ago."

Connor's eyes widened. "How could you know that?"

"I saw it. When I touched your jaw." I sat back, troubled by these intrusive visions. "She came to you deliberately."

A heavy silence fell between us. Finally, Connor spoke, his voice low. "She was terminal—advanced leukemia. She believed the bite would either cure her or kill her quickly. Either outcome was preferable to her suffering."

"Did it work?" I asked.

"No," Connor said grimly. "The transformation only takes in those with compatible bloodlines. She died three days later from complications."

I finished sealing the broken edge of his fang with a special dental composite. "This should help with the inflammation. The pain too, hopefully."

"Thank you." Connor ran his tongue over the repaired edge. "It feels better already."

As I packed up my supplies, a thought struck me. "The patient who died on my operating table," I said slowly. "The one whose death sent me here. He had a mark on his neck. A puncture wound that the coroner couldn't explain."

Connor went still. "What kind of mark?"

"Two punctures, precisely spaced." I touched my fingers to my own neck. "Here. Everyone assumed it was unrelated to his death, but..."

"But what?"

"But now I wonder." I met his gaze directly. "It looked exactly like a bite mark. Your kind of bite mark."

Connor's expression darkened. "That's not possible. No pack member would—"

"Yet it happened," I interrupted. "And somehow, I end up sent to the exact place where such a mark might make sense. That's not coincidence."

"No," Connor agreed, his voice tight. "It's not."

"There's more," I continued, the pieces suddenly falling into place. "The autopsy showed unusual puncture marks that weren't consistent with any surgical instrument. More like... injection sites."

Connor's brow furrowed. "Injections? Not bite marks?"

I nodded slowly. "Someone made it look like a bite. But it was actually something administered with a needle."

"Someone wanted it to appear as though one of us was responsible," Connor said, realization dawning in his eyes. "Someone who knew about us."

The implications hung heavy in the air between us. If Connor was right, my patient hadn't died from a surgical error at all. He'd been murdered, and I'd been framed—then conveniently shipped off to the very place that might hold answers.

"I need to see the full autopsy report," Connor said, already moving toward his computer.

"It's sealed," I told him. "Part of the settlement agreement."

"Then we'll need to find another way." He turned to me, his expression intense. "Alison, do you trust me?"

The question caught me off guard. Two weeks ago, I would have said absolutely not. But now, despite his secrets and deceptions, I found myself nodding.

"Enough to work together on this," I qualified. "There's something bigger happening here, and I think we both need answers."

Connor nodded, relief visible in his eyes. "Tomorrow night, I need to make a supply run. Come with me. There's someone you should meet—someone who might help us understand what's happening."

As I left his cabin that night, the mark on my hand pulsed with a deeper purple glow than before. Whatever connection was forming between us, it was growing stronger. And so were the memories that weren't my own—memories that suggested my arrival in Gray Ridge wasn't chance, but destiny.