Prey

by Rachel Vincent

  I curled up in an armchair, glad I’d washed the blood from my hands. The couch was already stained, but I had the absurd thought that if I smeared blood on the white chair, everything would be worse somehow. That blood on satin would make it somehow more real. More gruesome.

  Make Ethan more dead.

  As I watched my mother, wondering what I should do to help her, my heart throbbed with every painful beat. With that suffocating grief. A never-ending ache I knew would soon morph into a rage unlike anything I’d ever experienced.

  But for now, it was only bitter sorrow.

  A door opened down the hall and my father was back, dressed in clean cotton pajama bottoms and his favorite blue robe.

  “Karen.” His voice was rough, like he was speaking through shards of glass. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Karen, you have to get up.”

  But she refused. She didn’t even look at him, so my dad picked her up and carried her just like he’d carried Ethan. He put her in a chair opposite the couch and waved me over to sit with her. When I stood, wondering if it was even possible to comfort a woman who’s just lost one of her children, my father crossed the room to sit in a chair in the far corner, where he leaned forward and buried his head in his hands.

  “Mom?” I approached slowly, and she went stiff when I put one hand on her shoulder. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  She looked at me then, and I had to close my mouth to stifle a gasp. She was covered in Ethan’s blood. Smeared in it, like she’d hugged him. As soon as I thought it, I knew that’s exactly what had happened. I had to get her out of those bloody clothes. My father acting distant and morose was unsettling. But it was even worse to watch my mother’s quiet anguish.

  My father was the front man. The obvious authority. But my mother was the steel backbone of my family, and without her standing tall and strong, we would all start to bend and wither.

  I couldn’t let that happen.

  “Come on, Mom.” I took her arm, and she let me help her up. Then she surprised me—and frankly scared the shit out of me—by clinging to me. Her arms went around my neck and her head found my shoulder, instantly damp with her tears. Her weight went almost limp in my arms and all I could do was hold her tight while she cried, each sob shuddering through both of us.

  When the tears slowed, I squeezed her and gently loosened my grip until she was supporting her own weight. Then I stepped back and met her eyes as she wiped her face with both hands, streaking Ethan’s blood with her own tears.

  Her eyes were red, her face swollen and splotchy, and her usually perfect makeup was now a distant memory.

  “How ’bout some hot tea?”

  “Of course.” She stood straighter and squared her shoulders. Her head kind of twitched, as if she wanted to glance back at Ethan but had stopped herself at the last moment. “What kind would you like?”

  “No, I was going to make you some tea.”

  “Don’t be silly, Faythe. You’ve never made a pot of tea in your life, and I’m not going to be your first-brew guinea pig. I’ll make it.” Her eyes wandered down to my shirt, where blood from her clothes had soaked into mine. “But first, I want you to change clothes. I can’t stand the sight of any more blood today.”

  That made two of us. “Mom…” I didn’t know how to tell her without triggering more tears. “You, too.” I glanced pointedly at the front of her ruined cashmere sweater, and her gaze followed mine.

  Her face paled. “Oh.” She turned and walked not quite steadily into the hall.

  Owen followed, hopefully going to Shift and dress. Which left me alone with my dad. And with Ethan, of course.

  My father stood at the living room window now, staring out at the sunrise just then lightening the front yard, a short, clear glass in his hand, empty but for a few drops of goldish liquid. I knew from the scent that it was Scotch. The good stuff he kept locked in his bottom desk drawer. But now the bottle sat on an occasional table against the wall, its lid off, its contents flavoring the very air.

  My dad didn’t seem to realize everyone else had gone. I crossed the room toward him, achingly conscious of my stained clothing, of Ethan’s scent all over me. “Dad?”

  “Hmm?”

  But I hadn’t thought the rest of it through, and had no idea what to say. Finally I decided to look forward, because my memories had nothing to offer but heartache. “Do we have a plan?”

  He nodded, and when he turned, I saw that the pain in his eyes had been almost overtaken by a toxic, seething rage. I could see it churning just beneath the surface of his expression, his anger mounting with every passing moment. And I knew that when the pressure became too great, he would explode, and I could only hope I wouldn’t become collateral damage.

  “Yes, Faythe, we have a plan.” His jaw tightened, and his gaze seemed to burn through me. “We will repay in kind.”

  “We’re going to fight?” A vicious chill clawed its way up my spine, part grim satisfaction, part eagerness, and part fear. My dad wasn’t talking about just any fight. Malone’s men had killed the son of an Alpha on his own land. If we responded in kind, we wouldn’t be finishing what they had started. We’d be starting something much bigger.

  We’d be going to war.

  “Of course we’re going to fight. It is now obvious that Calvin Malone plans to be head of the Territorial Council no matter what it costs him, or anyone else. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he intends to have me assassinated next, and if that’s his plan, so be it. He’s welcome to try. But I will not stand by while he invades my territory and slaughters my children. He’s going to pay in full for what he’s taken from us.”

  Damn right! My fingers were tingling, eager to Shift into claws and get going on the retribution. “What can I do?”

  He hesitated, his eyes still aimed at me, but unfocused. “Nothing yet. I need to think. Go get cleaned up.”

  I made my way to my room in a daze. My legs felt heavy, and dimly I noticed that my abused feet were leaving bloody footprints on the tile in the hall. I passed the dining room, where Dan sat at the long table, staring blankly at the wall, then the kitchen, where my mother was crying. But these were the soft, controlled sobs of acceptance. Terrible in their own way, but much easier to deal with.

  In my bathroom, I stripped and stepped into the shower, letting my tears fall with the water as I watched blood—both Ethan’s and mine—swirl down the drain.

  Afterward, dry and dressed in clean clothes, I stared at my ruined shirt and jeans, wondering what to do with them. I’d never be able to wear them again, even if the blood came out by some miracle. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to send them to the incinerator. In a weird way, they were the only part of Ethan I had left, and I wasn’t ready to destroy that. Not yet.

  So in the end, I left them where they lay, fully aware that I’d have to do something with them soon.

  On my way back to the living room, I stopped to check on Kaci. She lay on the bed, on top of the quilted purple-and-pink comforter, her chest rising and falling rhythmically. Shallowly. At a glance, I thought she was simply sleeping. Then I realized she was still unconscious. Her socks and one remaining shoe lay on the floor at the foot of the bed, a heartbreaking reminder of how she’d lost the other one.

  “How did it happen?”

  I jumped, and looked up to find my mother standing beside me, in Kaci’s doorway. I hadn’t heard her approach. She wore a clean apron, and though her eyes were glazed, like she couldn’t quite bring the world into focus, she sounded…okay.

  I sighed, reluctant to talk about it so soon. But she had a right to hear how her son had died. “Jace said they were attacked a quarter mile from the stream by four of Malone’s toms, including Alex in human form. The others were furry. Kaci passed out, which is no surprise. They probably scared the crap out of her, and she was already weak to start with.”

  “Damn that man,” my mother muttered sharply beneath her breath, and I blinked at her in surprise. But then, I supp
ose if she’d ever had reason to use profanity, this was it. “He won’t be happy until he pushes the whole council into full-scale war. And this may have done just that.” She shook her head, then stepped into Kaci’s room to take up a post in the chair beside the bed.

  “How is she?” I followed her for a better look.

  “Dr. Carver says she’s okay, considering. Her pulse is weak, but no more so than it was last night. I think Jace is right, she just fainted.”

  Relieved, I exhaled slowly. I wasn’t ready to really think about Ethan yet. Nowhere near ready. Focusing on Kaci was easier.

  “She needs to Shift, Faythe,” my mother said softly, arranging the tabby’s hair over one shoulder.

  “I know.” That’s why I had come home. But now life—and death—had gotten in the way.

  I was in the kitchen starting another pot of coffee when my dad started shouting. “What I want? I want to know who the hell authorized an invasion of the south-central territory!”

  We’d all heard my father yell before, of course. Usually at me. But I rarely heard him swear, and never with so much raw anger.

  I rushed across the hall in my socks and hovered in the office doorway in shock, my mouth actually hanging open. My father stood behind his desk with the office phone pressed to his right ear. His face was scarlet with rage, his left fist pressed into the leather desk blotter. His eyes were dry, and his expression had shifted from insufferable pain to unquenchable anger.

  “Surely you’re exaggerating, Greg,” a coarse, elderly voice said from the other end of the line, so soft I could barely make the words out. “I hardly think a diplomatic envoy could be considered an invasion.”

  “Envoy my ass!” my father shouted, and I almost choked on my own tongue. “Diplomatic envoys don’t sneak onto private property in feline form. In fact, it’s pretty damn hard to be diplomatic without the use of speech. It most certainly was an invasion, Paul, and I want to know how the hell this happened. Were you in on this? Did Malone call for a vote, or did he simply drop his men off at the border and send you a memo after the fact?”

  Oh, shit. He was talking to Paul Blackwell. As the oldest member of the council, Blackwell had been chosen to lead it until either my father was reinstated or someone else was appointed to take his place.

  So far, Malone was the front-runner. But for the moment, Councilman Blackwell was in charge, and it was never wise to piss off the head of the Territorial Council. Even the temporary head.

  But then again, it was never wise to piss off Greg Sanders, either.

  A door opened down the hall, and Owen and Dan appeared, both looking every bit as surprised and wary as I felt. They came toward me silently, and though Dan hung back, Owen and I hunched together to peer through the doorway at my father, as I’d never seen or heard him before.

  “Of course there was a vote,” Blackwell insisted evenly. “Did you think the council would fall apart without you here to run things?”

  Our Alpha ignored that jab from the elderly councilman—whom my father himself had once called the most impartial man on the council—and when he responded, his voice had gone soft with hidden danger. “Why would anyone vote in favor of breaching a territorial boundary?” He paused for a moment, frowning in thought, then continued before Blackwell could answer. “Rick would never vote for such an injustice. Neither would Bert Di Carlo.”

  He was right. Neither Uncle Rick nor Vic’s father would ever have voted to let Malone breach our boundaries and attack us. Beyond that, neither of them would have kept such a plot secret from my father.

  “No…” Blackwell said, and even over the line I heard the reluctance in his voice. “Neither of them was called to session. It was a closed vote.”

  Oh hell.

  A closed vote meant Malone and his men were openly positioning themselves in opposition not only to my father, but to all of the south-central Pride’s potential allies. It was as close as we’d get to a declaration of war until the first blow actually fell.

  Or until my father declared himself out for Malone’s blood.

  Eighteen

  “A closed vote?” My father’s voice was as cold and hard as steel. His rage charged the air like an electrical current, and I half expected to see his fingers spark where they held the phone.

  “What’s a closed vote?” Owen whispered, and I glanced at him in surprise. Then I realized he had no reason to be familiar with such an unusual political maneuver. I only understood because our father had been training me to take over for him my whole life—though I’d had no idea that’s what he was doing until recently.

  Since Dan was obviously also clueless, I addressed my whispered answer to them both, backing away from the door a bit to keep from being overheard by my father, who hadn’t noticed us yet. Normally I wouldn’t have revealed the inner workings of the Territorial Council to a stray, but Dan had already witnessed a lot of private happenings, and keeping a secret in a house full of werecats is next to impossible.

  And, in my opinion, he’d already earned our trust, by fighting alongside us, and from all he’d done to help us find Marc.

  “The council needs a simple majority vote in favor of a motion before it can be approved.” Which even Dan probably already knew. “A closed vote is a way to get approval for something important without alerting certain members of the council. What you’d do is call for a vote only from those Alphas you’re sure will vote in your favor. But it only works if there are enough of those to overrule the nays, assuming everyone not called would vote in the negative.”

  Dan looked confused, and if Owen had understood the concept before I started talking, he didn’t now.

  I took a deep breath and approached it from another angle. “In this case, Malone probably only called on the Alphas who are siding with him against Dad. Since Dad can’t vote in a matter concerning himself, there were only nine possible votes, which makes five a simple majority. Malone obviously called on Paul Blackwell, and he probably also snagged Wes Gardner and Milo Mitchell. After that, he’d only need one more.”

  “So, if he can get enough surefire votes in his favor, he never even has to tell the Alphas who woulda voted against him?” Dan asked, brows raised in question.

  “Exactly.”

  He frowned and shoved both hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Doesn’t sound fair to me.”

  “Me, neither.” In fact, I was getting angrier just thinking about it. “In an open vote, those who vote nay would have a chance to make their case, possibly convincing others to change their minds. But you don’t get that in a closed vote. Which is exactly what Malone was counting on.”

  “So, who’s the fifth vote?” Owen asked.

  I shrugged. I hadn’t heard another name mentioned, though we’d very possibly missed that, thanks to my bumbling explanation of Malone’s slimy political tactics.

  “Don’t care what he said he was going to do. What he actually did was send four cats—three armed with claws and canines—onto the back of our property to try to take that poor, traumatized kitten by force. And when my son fought to protect her, they killed him.”

  Whatever Blackwell said next was too soft for me to hear, but his tone came through loud and clear. He sounded shocked and dismayed. Maybe even a little disillusioned, which struck me as a strange emotion coming from a man well into his seventies. At twenty-three, I wasn’t sure I had many illusions left to lose, and I couldn’t imagine how Blackwell could have attained such an advanced age with even a shred of naiveté still in place.

  While Blackwell was speaking, my father’s eye caught mine briefly and I stepped into the office, pulling Owen in with me. Dan followed—hesitantly, until I waved him in—and we all sat on the couch in a row, hardly daring to breathe for fear of interrupting.

  “Ethan,” my father said, answering a question I hadn’t heard. He sank wearily into his chair, as if the act of speaking his dead son’s name drained some vital bit of energy from him. “And no, it could not have been an acci
dent. I was there. Malone’s tom pounced on him from above and slashed him right across the throat.” His voice broke on the last word, and my hand clenched around the arm of the couch.

  “Greg, I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” Blackwell said, but I could hear the but coming. “But if you had cooperated when you were asked to turn Kaci over, none of this would have happened. We had her best interest in mind.”

  “Bullshit!” my father roared, shooting up from his chair, and I actually jumped. “If you’d had her interests in mind, you would have asked me personally to give her up, rather than delegating that responsibility to Milo Mitchell, who’s already declared his opposition to me.”

  Ahh, so he’d been talking to Kevin’s father when he refused to give Kaci up…. Small world.

  “You could have chosen to place Kaci with a neutral third party, rather than with Calvin Malone,” my father continued, acid practically dripping from his words. “You can’t tell me you actually thought I’d turn her over to him without a struggle. And I’d bet my future on the council that he never expected me to. He was counting on a fight. He probably already had his men in place and ready to move before I ever even got the call about Kaci.

  “Hell, if you really cared about her, and if you were really convinced she’s in danger here, you’d have arranged to take her in some manner that wouldn’t put her at further risk. Malone’s men frightened her so badly she lost consciousness. So don’t try to tell me this is my fault. I’ve been in your position, Paul. I’ve been head of the council for nearly fifteen years, and I have never once let my own ambition get in the way of the common goal.” Survival of the species, of course. “And that’s exactly what Calvin Malone is doing.”

  For a moment, there was only silence but for the anxious heartbeats and shallow breathing around the room, and I wondered if the other Alpha had hung up.

  “No, you would never let ambition impede us,” Blackwell replied finally, sounding so calm and collected that I wanted to grab the old man’s cane and beat him with it. “I have little doubt of that. But you would let your daughter get in the way of the common goal. Did you really think we’d let you raise another young woman to turn her nose up at her duty?”