Georgia resists mental attack

Green and blue light crawled and slithered up the walls and over the warehouse’s interior, eerie and subtly unsettling, each color moving in waves of differing widths and speeds. The strange scent of water and fish was strong inside. There were things on the wall—growths was all I could call them. Ugly patches of some kind of lumpy, rough substance I didn’t recognize were clumped all around the walls and ceiling of the warehouse in roughly circular patches about six feet across.
Cages were scattered all around the floor—a bunch of five-foot cubes made of heavy steel grid. People were locked up in several of them, the doors held shut by heavy chains. Most of them just sat, staring at nothing, or lay upon their sides doing the same thing, completely motionless. That wasn’t normal. Even someone who was drugged but conscious would show a little more animation than that. This meant magic was involved, some kind of invasive mental stuff, and a little voice in my head started screaming.
I’ve been subjected to that kind of invasion, more than once.
It’s bad.
My legs felt weak. My hands shook. The rippling colors of light on the walls became something sinister, disorienting, the beginnings of another attack on my mind. Jesus Christ, I wanted to turn around and scurry away, as swiftly and as meekly as possible. In fact, I tried to. My legs quivered as if preparing to move, but the motion drew my gaze across another row of cages, and I saw Georgia.
She was naked, kneeling, her hands wrapped gently around her swelling stomach, cradling her unborn child. Her head was bowed in a posture of meekness, and her sleek shoulders and neck were relaxed. But I saw her eyes, open and staring at the bottom of the cage, and I saw the defiance flickering in them.
Whatever held the others held Georgia as well—but she evidently had not been subdued as readily as they had. She was still fighting them.
Something deep inside me, something hard and fierce and furious, locked my legs into place. I stared at Georgia, and I knew I couldn’t run. I remembered that Will and Marcy were in there, waiting for me to announce that the moment was right to change form and fight. I remembered that nearly all of those people in the cages were young, even younger than the werewolves—including the youngest of all, in Georgia’s cage.


Side Jobs, Aftermath, Page 394-395