Family Pride (Blood of the Pride)

by Nantus, Sheryl

  Michael squinted, looking past me at his wife.

  She looked down at the barrel of the pistol with a confused expression as if it’d jumped up and bit her.

  A light puff of smoke rose from the tip.

  Chapter Twelve

  My left arm itched.

  The itch turned warm, burning hot.

  I looked down to see the ragged three-inch gash in my skin, just below the shoulder. It oozed as the jagged pain shot up my arm.

  “Reb!” Bran caught me as I fell to the ground.

  “Where is the baby?” Bernadette asked, her voice trembling.

  “You bitch,” Bran cried as he cradled me in his arms. I babbled something incoherent.

  “You will not talk to me like that. I am your mother.” She waved the pistol again. “Where is the baby?”

  “With a friend,” Bran answered.

  Michael stood helpless to one side, paralyzed.

  I gasped, clawing at Bran’s arms. He looked down at me.

  “You’re going to be okay,” he murmured.

  “No I won’t,” I whispered.

  The world around me shifted and warped, changing enough to both scare and thrill me.

  I was Changing.

  The burning in my arm dimmed as my senses came into full focus. I could smell Bernadette’s fear, hear the loud pounding of her heart. Michael’s sweat dripping off him like small grenades, exploding when they hit the hardwood floor.

  My claws shot out, digging into Bran’s duster. The sharp edges tangled in the dark leather and pulled him closer.

  Bran pulled me close, hiding me as best he could from his parents.

  I drew in short huffs. I couldn’t afford to Change—not here, not now.

  “Stop it,” Bran whispered, lips pressed to my ear. “You know how to do it.” His words took on a commanding, dominating tone. “Stop it.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to push away the overwhelming rush of information attacking my senses.

  The irony didn’t escape me. After being unable to Change at will for decades I was now trying to stop myself from Changing. The secret I’d had to keep from his parents was right in front of them if Bran shifted his position even a few inches to either side.

  Bran sucked in his breath over clenched teeth. I knew what he was seeing—blond fur covering my face with dark brown horizontal streaks. My mother had once called them war paint, invoking a long speech from my father about political correctness.

  The last time he’d seen me Changed he’d cut and run.

  This time it was different. His eyes were soft, tears threatening to break free as he gazed at me.

  “Damn, you’re beautiful,” Bran murmured.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead I burrowed into his chest.

  The pounding in my ears began slowing as I forced myself to draw long, deep breaths. All I needed to do was take control again.

  I might as well be trying to control a runaway train with a shoelace held in my teeth.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Bernadette snapped.

  “She’s in shock,” Bran responded. “You shot her.” He swept his duster over my shoulders as I ducked my head down.

  The thick musk of alpha male swallowed me up, cutting out some of the outside influences smashing into my senses. It was a blessing and a curse, the shredding pain in my arm mixing with the inherent urge to protect my mate and lash out at those who had hurt me, hurt us.

  I ran through mental exercises I hadn’t thought about for years, going back to the start to stop the Change. A powerful Felis like Jess could Change back and forth in seconds.

  I might take a wee bit longer.

  “Where’s the baby?” Bernadette repeated. “Get me the baby and you can call the ambulance, take her to get help.”

  Michael’s voice cut through the pain. “Bernie—what are you doing?” The sadness in his voice tore at my heart. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I’ll call her,” Bran said, surprisingly calm. “I need to get my phone out of my pocket. Don’t shoot me.”

  “Smart-ass,” Bernadette shot back. “She’ll live. Just get me the baby.”

  I suppressed a growl.

  He shifted behind me and pressed his knee against my side, holding me in his shadow. “Keep chilling,” he murmured. “I got this.”

  His right hand slipped into a pocket and extracted the cell phone. He held it up over us.

  My arm burned, the pulsing running from my fingertips right into my shoulder and back.

  “Put it on speakerphone,” Bernadette barked. “No funny stuff. I don’t trust you.” She gave a light giggle, the phony type reserved for the public. “No offense.”

  “None taken.” Bran leaned in. “What’s Jess’s number?”

  I choked the numbers out between clenched teeth. I peered at my arm trying to see the jagged tear but couldn’t.

  It was, in all likelihood, a good thing. Between trying to control the Change and being in shock I was pretty well mentally screwed right now.

  Jess answered on the first ring. “Reb. What’s happening?”

  “Jessica. It’s Brandon.” His tone was clipped and professional. “Sorry to bother you but Rebecca and I wondered if you could bring Liam over? We’ve decided to take care of him ourselves and take him off your hands.” He looked down at me. “You know Rebecca’s always been a soft touch for babies.”

  She didn’t miss a beat. “Sure. Everything okay with Rebecca? Can I talk to her?”

  “No,” I heard Bernadette whisper. “No talking.”

  I wasn’t going to argue with her. I was in no condition to verbally joust with anyone.

  “She’s having a bit of an allergic reaction right now to Jazz. You know, the usual. Too wheezy to chat. Took her meds, but I’m afraid she’s going to cough up a hairball.”

  “Tell her to stay calm. I’m on my way.” The phone line went dead.

  “Where is she?” Bernadette asked.

  “I don’t know,” Bran admitted. “She’s in the city with friends. I don’t know how long it’ll take for her to get here.” He glanced down at me. “She’ll get here soon enough.”

  I wasn’t sure if it was going to be a good thing or not. If I knew Jess she wasn’t going to hand Liam over to a pistol-packing insane woman without the mother of all catfights.

  “Better hope she doesn’t take too long,” Bernadette snarled. She waved the pistol at us. “How badly is she hurt?”

  Bran smiled in spite of the situation and brushed his lips over the top of my ear. “She’s good for now.”

  I held my breath, fighting back the urge to toss him off and break free. My claws dug into the floor and scratched the varnish. My arm hurt and I wanted to return the favor with interest.

  “Breathe, Reb,” Bran said, low and soft. “Take control. I know you can do it.”

  I glared at him through Felis eyes. I could smell him, all of him, from the addictive musk he always gave off to the sweet, tangy sweat under his shirt that never failed to arouse me.

  I wanted to rip it off him and have him right there, roar my domination over my mate and to hell with a simple injury.

  Right after I shredded his parents into bloody meat ribbons.

  “Reb.” The warning tone reminded me of Ruth, chastising me after a temper tantrum. “Take it down. Take back control.”

  I inhaled and tried to calm down despite the spikes of pain in my arm. I couldn’t help him like this, I couldn’t help Jess and I sure as hell couldn’t help Liam. After what seemed like a lifetime I felt the edges start to disappear, my enhanced senses slowing down and diminishing as the cold, drab world I was used to returned. My claws receded and slipped back under my skin with a stab of pain, taking m
y mind for the second off the angry gash in my upper arm.

  I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or heartbroken. After losing my ability to Change at fifteen I’d never expected to get it back. Now it’d shown up at the worst time possible and I had to banish it, put it back in the box and slam the lid.

  I didn’t know if I’d be able to unlock it ever again.

  “Where did you get that?” Michael snapped. “It’s not one of mine.”

  “You don’t remember, darling?” Bernadette purred. “You bought it for me a few years ago at some silly charity auction to support the police. A dainty lady’s weapon—I believe that’s how it was described.”

  Michael made a noise, something between a grumble and a gargle.

  “Isn’t it darling?” she asked.

  Bran gave me a nod. “Good. Good.”

  I could feel the Change drifting away, the pain of losing it almost as bad as the gunshot.

  The rage dribbled away and I felt the pain surge in my arm, the natural painkillers dying with my anger.

  I looked at my hands. The claws were gone with only thin bloody slits showing I’d ever been normal, ever been Felis.

  I felt like crying.

  Bran kissed my forehead again. “Good to have you back,” he whispered. “Can you stand?”

  “Watch me.” I pushed him off and levered myself with my good arm to get to my feet.

  Bernadette glared at me as I staggered upright. “You’re a tough one. Not much of a crier.”

  Michael Hanover gave me a curious look. Maybe he saw something, maybe not.

  Right now it was the least of my worries. Jess was going to be walking into an ambush with Liam in her arms.

  I studied Bernadette. She rocked from side to side, the pasted-on smile fraying at the edges. This was beyond what she’d imagined what would happen when she first saw Molly Callendar, pregnant with her husband’s child, sitting at a desk stuffing envelopes.

  “You were going to kill Shaw, weren’t you?”

  She gave me a sly look. “Maybe.”

  “Come on.” I motioned at the pistol. “You couldn’t afford to have anyone know the truth—you were going to shoot him as soon as you got into the hotel room.”

  She shrugged. “I considered it. Depending on how bitchy Shaw got and if he got too greedy.”

  “Ever think about how all this might affect Liam?” I was trying to draw her attention away from the two men. “Seeing his mother gunned down in front of him?”

  “He won’t remember anything,” Bernadette answered. “All he’ll know is his mother loves him and he’s got a wonderful heritage to grow into.”

  “His mother’s dead,” I replied.

  Her lips tightened. She glared at me.

  “What are you going to do when Jess gets here? Kill her, kill me, kill all of us?” My arm was numb. I wasn’t going to be able to go much longer on guts and adrenaline.

  Bernadette gave me the skunk eye. “There’s no need for further violence. Once we get the baby we’ll be on our way.”

  “We who? Way to where?” Michael asked. “Where do you think we’re going to go?” His voice rose to a shout. “You killed Molly.”

  She shook her head. “Shaw killed the woman. Bran and Rebecca killed Shaw. There’s nothing to connect us to the crime. We leave here, get on the private jet and go on our merry way to raise our new child.”

  “And us?” Bran asked.

  Bernadette continued. “You shut up and stay quiet about all of this. You’re already in it deep with killing Shaw; you’ll have as much to lose by speaking up as we do.”

  “Bernie...” Michael took a step toward her. “We can’t do this.”

  “Sure we can. All it takes is a little money to hide everything.” She pointed at the open door. “The police have nothing to link me with Shaw other than wild theories and conjecture.” She smiled. “David Brayton won’t talk and if he does no one will believe him. All the evidence points to Brayton and to Brayton alone.”

  “A paternity test will prove Liam’s not his child,” Michael said. “And what about Shaw? They’re going to find him at some point.”

  Bernadette let out an exasperated sigh. “Who’s going to make the connection between Shaw and Brayton? And who’s going to point the finger at us?” She began to speak louder and faster. “And who’s going to ask for a DNA test? I am getting tired of this. We’ll make it all go away. We have the money and we have the power.” She waved the pistol in the air.

  I couldn’t fault her logic. Unless someone had the bright idea of doing a paternity test with Liam and Michael there’d be no reason to suspect Bernadette. Brayton would be the only one who could or would bring his friend into the story and I wasn’t sure if he’d crack under Attersley’s interrogation or not. Even if he confessed it’d take a lot to hook this on to Michael Hanover, much less his wife. If she’d covered her tracks with Shaw there’d be no easy evidence linking her to any of this. It looked suspicious having him at one of the Hanover charities but a good lawyer would tear it to shreds with a wide smile and testimony on how many other people were helped by the same program.

  For my part I couldn’t testify to anything other than I’d run the package around and found Molly’s body. Revealing Liam’s parentage would reveal the Felis and that wasn’t an option.

  Jess sure as hell would go to ground before going into a courtroom and saying she clawed Shaw to death to save Liam’s life. Not because she regretted it but because it violated our secrecy and would open a whole new world of fear and persecution for our Felis family. She’d go to jail or die before giving up the secret.

  We were, collectively and individually, screwed.

  “No.” Michael Hanover walked toward her, his right hand outstretched. “This ends now, Bernie. Give me the pistol and I’ll call Danny. He’ll meet us at the police station.” He whispered, “Let’s stop this now before someone else gets hurt.”

  She shook her head like a petulant child. “I’m not going to let this family be destroyed because you can’t keep your dick in your pants. You started all this with letting her become pregnant. Don’t you dare think you can start calling the shots now.”

  I couldn’t help grinning at the last few words despite my pain.

  “All this,” Bran snarled, “all this death and destruction because Dad screwed up?” He took a step closer. “You’re both so fucking messed up.” He lifted his fists, visibly shaking with anger. “So fucking messed up.”

  “Do not use that language with me. All families have secrets, Brandon. Some have small white lies that choke the life out of people, some have larger ones that suck you dry over time. But the good ones know the net worth of keeping them.” Bernadette giggled, an almost maniacal sound. “I’m sure Rebecca knows that.”

  I froze.

  “What are you talking about?” I forced the words out.

  “I saw the investigator’s report on your parents. Dead in a car accident.” She chuckled. “How wonderful you had family to take you in and raise you. Family like Jess Hammersmythe.” Bernadette gave me a beatific smile. “What secrets does Jess have, hmm? How about her family and friends? We could dig so much deeper if we tried. What do you have in your past that you want to keep hidden?” She laughed. “You’ll toe the line and like it or we’ll set the dogs on all of them. How would you like that, hmm?”

  My breath caught in my throat. The woman was signing her own death warrant and she didn’t know it.

  “Bernie, give me the gun,” Michael repeated. He advanced on her.

  I saw the wildness in her eyes, the fear of being proven wrong mixed with a mad sense of destiny. Logic had no place in her universe—it was all about appearances and devotion to family, no matter what the cost.

  “Bernie.” Michael’s voice dropped to a low, autho
ritative tone. “Give me the gun.”

  “Not a chance,” Bernadette snapped. “I’m getting the baby and raising it with or without you.”

  “No,” Bran shouted.

  Michael kept walking toward her, hands outstretched.

  Bernadette let out a whimper, taking a step back to avoid her husband.

  Bran leaped toward her, pushing his father aside as he reached out for the weapon.

  Her hand jerked—whether out of fear or self-preservation I couldn’t tell. The pistol flew upward even as it fired again, a wild shot toward the two men.

  Bernadette stood and gaped at them, the pistol dangling from her fingers.

  The two men crashed to the floor, skidding across the varnished wood in silence. Neither of them moved.

  I smelled Bran’s blood.

  I went mad.

  The world narrowed for me into a crimson tunnel with Bernadette right at the center of it.

  I attacked, hissing like a wildcat. I didn’t care if I Changed or not, didn’t care if she knew I wasn’t human, didn’t care if I killed her with or without claws.

  Her bright blue eyes widened as I rammed into her, sending us both down. The pistol bounced out of her hands and clattered away, out of sight.

  I rolled away before pouncing again, landing on her chest and pinning her to the floor. Her arms were splayed out to each side, fingers fluttering.

  My left hand went around her throat to hold her in place. The pain blossomed again from the gunshot wound, spiraling down my arm and up into my jaw. I felt the skin leap under my touch, her pulse hammering against my fingers.

  I jammed my right fist under Bernadette’s jaw and pressed hard on the delicate ivory skin.

  She gasped for air. Her hands flew up, clutching at my arms. The delicately manicured fingers clawed at my shirt.

  Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Bran trying to sit up. Blood gushed from his nose, smearing across his face and hands. He burbled and spit onto the floor with an incoherent curse.

  Michael rolled onto his back, breathing heavily as he watched his son. I couldn’t smell his blood, only fear.

  She’d missed.

  The bullet had gone wide, embedding itself somewhere in my ceiling.