The Hand of the Gods
The Cthulhu cult south of New Orleans finally got wiped out. Not by anything I did, not by the actions of any hunters or outraged religious groups. Simple act of nature. The hurricane plowed through us before they hit the city, and they gutted the city. Their end was academic. So was that of the villages I've been looking after for twenty-five years.
There was nothing we could do once we got hit. I would have drowned myself if it weren't for the damned gills. Everything was gone. My library...everything. Like the mortals around me, I was suddenly stripped down to square one without a moment's say in it.
But the humans had it worse. So much worse. I still had my powers, and even so, I think...I managed to rescue maybe half a dozen? I don't even know if they survived once they reached the city, or where they are now. They don't answer a call into the Dead-lands, so I can only hope they're still alive.
Without my herbs, my health started going. I made it as far as Baton Rouge before I collapsed. As the ambulance arrived, doubtless called by some well-meaning bystander, I knew my Glamour wouldn't hold up under the hard scrutiny of a surgical team. I was too weak to run. When I lost consciousness, I knew I was going to wake up in a government lab somewhere, stripped naked with my gills and everything else on display for a bunch of scientists.
Instead, I woke up here. My morning medicinal was brewing in a mug at my bedside. My chest of herbs was sitting in the corner. My library lined the walls. I've been sitting here on the rather nice bed ever since, wondering. Am I a captive? Or am I dead?