Stray

by Rachel Vincent

  I didn’t need to smell this stray to know who he was; his scent was as familiar to me as my own. Marc. My father’s second-in-command. Daddy had never sent Marc before—not once in five years. Something was wrong.

  Tension crept up my back and down my arms, curling my hands into fists. I gritted my teeth to hold in a shriek of fury; the last thing I needed was to call attention to myself. Human do-gooders were always out to save the world, but few of them had any idea what kind of a world they really lived in.

  I stepped slowly toward Marc, letting my backpack slide down my arm to the ground. I fixed my gaze on the shadow hiding his gold-flecked eyes. He didn’t move. I came closer, my pulse pounding in my throat. He raised his left hand, reaching out to me. I slapped it away.

  Shifting my weight to my left leg, I let my right foot fly, hitting him in the chest with a high side kick. Grunting, he stumbled into the alley. His heel hit the corner of a wooden crate and he fell on his ass on a damp cardboard box.

  “Faythe, it’s me!”

  “I know who the hell you are.” I came toward him with my hands on my hips. “Why do you think I kicked you?” I pulled my right foot back, prepared to let it fly again. His arm shot out almost too fast to see, and his hand wrapped around my left ankle. He pulled me off my feet with one tug. I landed on my rear beside him, on a split-open trash bag.

  “Damn it, Marc, I’m sitting in this morning’s fresh-squeezed orange peels.”

  He chuckled, crossing his arms over a black T-shirt, clinging to well-defined pecs. “You nearly broke my ribs.”

  “You’ll live.”

  “No thanks to you.” He pushed himself awkwardly to his feet and held out a hand for me. When I ignored it, he rolled his eyes and pulled me up by my wrist. “What’s with the kung fu routine, anyway?”

  I yanked my arm from his grip and stepped back, glaring at him as I wiped orange pulp from the seat of my pants. “It’s tae kwon do, and you damn well know it.” We’d trained together—alongside all four of my brothers—for nearly a decade. “You’re lucky I didn’t kick your face in. What took you so fucking long? If you guys are going to hang around without permission, you might as well make yourselves useful when I’m in mortal peril. That is what Daddy’s paying you for.”

  “You handled yourself fine.”

  “Like you’d know. I bet he was halfway to his car by the time you got here.”

  “Only a quarter of the way,” Marc said, grinning. “Anyway, I was the one in real danger. I got cornered by a pack of wild sorority sisters in the food court. Apparently it’s mating season.”

  I frowned at him, picturing a throng of girls in matching pink T-shirts giggling as they vied for his attention. I could have told them they were wasting their time. Marc had no use for human women, especially silly, flirtatious trophy wives-in-training. His dark curls and exotic brownish-gold eyes had always garnered him more attention than he really wanted. And this time they’d kept him from doing his job.

  “You’re a worthless bastard,” I said, not quite able to forgive him for being late, even though I didn’t want him there in the first place.

  “And you’re a callous bitch.” He smiled, completely unaffected by my heartfelt insult. “We’re a matched set.”

  I groaned. At least we were back in familiar territory. And it was kind of nice to see him too, though I would never have admitted it.

  Turning my back on him, I grabbed my book bag and stomped to the other end of the alley, then into the empty quad. Marc followed closely, murmuring beneath his breath in Spanish too fast for me to understand. Memories I’d successfully blocked for years came tumbling to the front of my mind, triggered by his whispered rant. He’d been doing that for as long as I could remember.

  My patience long gone, I stopped in front of the student center in the same circle of light, and whirled around to face Marc. “Hey, you wanna drop back a few paces? Did you forget how spying works? You’re supposed to at least aim for unobtrusive. The others pretty much have it down, but you’re about as inconspicuous as a drag queen at a Girl Scout meeting.” I propped my hands on the hips of my low-rise jeans and scowled up at him, trying to remain unaffected by the thickly lashed eyes staring back at me.

  Marc smiled, his expression casual, inviting, and utterly infuriating. “It’s nice to see you too.” A wistful look darted across his face as he glanced at my bare midriff, his gaze moving quickly over my snug red halter top to settle on the barrette nestled in my hair.

  “Go home, Marc.”

  “There’s no reason for you to be rude.”

  “There’s no reason for you to be here.”

  He frowned down at me, thick brows shadowing his eyes, and my mood improved. I’d gotten rid of his smile. Was I really that petty? Hell, yeah.

  “Look, if Daddy’s mad because I didn’t invite anyone to graduation, he can tell me himself. I don’t need an emissary to let me know he’s pissed.”

  “He sent me to bring you home.” My expression hardened, and Marc held up one hand to cut off the argument he knew to expect. “I’m only following orders.”

  Of course he was. That’s all he ever did.

  I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, shaking my head. “Forget it. I’m not going.” I started to walk away, but he grabbed my arm. I jerked free of his grip, but only because he let me.

  “Sara’s gone,” he said, his face carefully blank.

  I blinked, surprised by what seemed to be a random comment.

  Sara had left? Good for her. But if they thought they could blame me because she wanted more out of life than a husband and half a dozen babies, they had another think coming. Sara had a mind of her own; all I’d done was dust a few cobwebs from it. If she’d decided not to get married, so be it. That was her choice.

  “She didn’t run out on the wedding, Faythe.” Marc’s eyes burned into mine like amber fire, and his meaning was unmistakable. It was always the same old fight with him, no matter where we were or how much time had passed. Some things never changed, and the rest only grew more irritating.

  “You can wipe that smug look off your face,” I snapped. “You only think you still know me well enough to read my mind.” So what if he’d been right? That wasn’t the point.

  Marc gave an exaggerated sigh, as if talking to me was exhausting, and not really worth the effort. “She didn’t leave. She was taken.”

  My pulse jumped, and I shook my head, giving in to denial as it surfaced. All around us, crickets chirped, filling the silence during my pause as I tried to formulate a coherent thought. “That’s impossible. No human could take a…” There was no need to finish the sentence, because that was one thought he most definitely could read. Sara might have been petite, but she was far from weak. She would have shredded any man who laid a hand on her. At least, any human man.

  But she hadn’t been taken by a human, which was why Marc had come for me.

  The stray, I thought, my hands curling into fists around the strap of my backpack. He wasn’t just trespassing; he was collecting. Daddy had sent Marc to make sure I didn’t become the stray’s next acquisition.

  I knew then that there would be no arguing, and no negotiation. Marc would take me home if he had to carry me over one shoulder, scratching and hissing all the way. As much as I would have loved to resist, I would spare myself the indignity, because ultimately, he would win a physical fight, no matter how dirty I played. It was just one more of those things that never changed, like Marc himself.

  By the time I’d changed out of my citrus-scented pants and packed what clothes and books I couldn’t do without, Sammi was back from the library. She dumped her books on the counter in our tiny galley-style kitchen, already chattering about her latest misogynistic conspiracy theory. She hesitated when she saw Marc, and her words sputtered to a stop. It was kind of funny; I’d finally found something to shut her up. Too bad I couldn’t stick around and enjoy the silence.

  Marc laughed from behind my desk, where he’d made himsel
f at home. Beneath him, the straight-backed chair looked no more substantial than a stack of toothpicks, as if it might collapse into a pile of kindling at any moment. “I’m impressed, Faythe,” he said, leaning the chair back on two legs. “I didn’t think you could find someone who talked more than you do, but I’ve obviously underestimated you. Again.”

  Well, he did make a habit of it.

  “Sammi, this is Marc Ramos. Marc, my roommate, Samantha.”

  Sammi’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly as she tried—and failed—to come up with something intelligent to say. I rolled my eyes. Yeah, he looked good, but her reaction was a little over the top. But then, Sammi had a flair for melodrama.

  Marc laughed again and the chair thumped to the ground as he rose to shake her hand. When Marc came toward her, Sammi took a step back, bumping her leg against the edge of an end table before she took his hand in brief, wide-eyed greeting.

  “What’s going on?” she managed to say, eyeing the suitcase open on the couch. I’d packed more books than clothing, which meant the bag would weigh a ton, but Marc could probably lift it with a single finger. He wouldn’t, because that would draw attention. But he could.

  “Daddy pulled the plug,” I said, snapping the latches on the front of the suitcase. “I’ll be back in the fall, but he won’t pay for grad school unless I spend the summer at home.” It was the closest I could come to an explanation Sammi would believe.

  “And Marc would be…?” She left the question open-ended, glancing at him during the pause.

  Good question. There was no easy way to describe Marc’s role in my life, because he usually had none. He was no longer my bed warmer, my confidant, or even a fond memory, and he didn’t fit any definition of “friend” she’d understand, so how to explain…?

  “My ride.” That should do it. Marc had been demoted to chauffeur, and his only reaction was a wink and an I’ve-got-a-secret grin. Great. He thought it was funny.

  Sammi nodded slowly, as if she didn’t believe me, but that was her problem, because I was done thinking up explanations. At least until the fall term.

  “You’re leaving now?” She fingered the hem of her blouse, glancing around the apartment at several piles of my belongings that hadn’t made the single-suitcase cut.

  “Yeah, sorry about the mess. We’re paid up through the first, and I’ll send you a check for my half of next month’s rent. Can I leave my stuff here till I get back?”

  “Sure,” she said. “What about Andrew?”

  I felt Marc’s focus shift to me, and I bit my lip to keep from saying something I’d regret. I hadn’t told him about my new boyfriend, and obviously neither had any of my father’s spies. No doubt their silence was out of respect for him, rather than me.

  Marc stiffened, and only the slight flaring of his nostrils betrayed him as he tested my scent. He scowled, and I stifled a groan, suddenly thankful that Andrew and I had had…um…lunch in his apartment rather than in mine. Smelling a man’s scent mixed with mine was one thing, but smelling it on my sheets would have been quite another.

  The lingering smell of stray on me was probably the only reason Marc hadn’t already noticed Andrew’s…um, place in my life. And in my bed. The stray’s heavy mix of earthy musk and mixed blood easily overpowered Andrew’s simple blend of light sweat and untainted humanity.

  I would have told him, eventually. Really. However, I pride myself on having marginally more tact than Sammi. But then, I hadn’t been honest with her about who my ride actually was, so what did I expect?

  “I’ll call him,” I said, zipping up my suitcase.

  Marc snatched the bag from my grip and stomped out the front door, leaving it open into the hallway.

  I hugged Sammi, breathing in the floral fragrance of her shampoo. If my parents had their way, it would be a while before I smelled my roommate’s wholesome femininity layered with Herbal Essences and cherry Bubble Yum. Assuming I ever made it back to school at all. And where my father was concerned, there were no guarantees.

  “Study enough for both of us,” I said, releasing her reluctantly. She smiled, more confused than sad, and I returned the look. I didn’t really know what was going on, either.

  In the corridor, Marc said something rude to my neighbor across the hall, just loud enough for me to hear. Sighing, I plucked my keys and cell phone from the coffee table, glancing around the apartment one last time. Why is it that goodbyes always feel so final? Except when I leave home. I always know I’ll be back at the ranch eventually, not because I want to go home, but because they keep dragging me back. It’s a small difference, but an important one.

  I followed Marc down the wide hall to the stairwell, and neither of us said a word. Outside, I stayed several steps behind him, trying to gauge his mood as he marched down the sidewalk. He gripped the handle of my suitcase with knuckles white from tension. His stride was long, each step firm and heavy. But most telling was his posture as he wove between the cars in the parking lot. Head high and shoulders squared, his bearing was stiff and formal, as if he were truly nothing more to me than my chauffeur.

  And in case I missed any of those more subtle signs, when I moved up to walk alongside him, Marc favored me with a growl, low and angry, and too soft for anyone else to hear.

  Great. Nothing beats several hours in a car with a pissed-off werecat. Welcome to my life.

  Two

  The drive home from the University of North Texas seemed interminable, even with Marc driving. He took out his anger at me and Andrew on the car, and by the time we merged with the highway traffic, he was going twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. At that rate, the drive from Denton to Lufkin—220 miles across the Texas prairie into the lush eastern woodlands—would take him two and a half hours. It should have taken more than four.

  When we left the interstate loop around Dallas for state highway 175, the traffic noise ebbed, leaving an awkward silence. Marc glanced at me, his mouth set in a grim line. “Tell me about Andrew.”

  “Not for all the money in the world.” Although freedom was the currency I truly valued. I stared out my window at moonlit fields and defunct oil wells. Northeast Texas had few trees, fewer hills and way too many miles of empty highway.

  “Why not? You ashamed of him?” Marc’s eyes flashed with smug satisfaction.

  Damn him! Five years, and he still knew exactly how to piss me off. My fist clenched around the “oh shit!” handle built into his car door. The plastic casing cracked, falling apart in my hand to expose the steel frame inside. Oops.

  I brushed shards of plastic from my lap onto the floorboard, but a few slivers protruded from my palm like spines from a cactus. I plucked them out one by one, dropping them at my feet with the rest.

  My palm was dotted with several tiny spots of blood and one long, shallow cut. Such minor wounds would likely heal during my next Shift, if not before. That was one of the advantages to spending half your life on four paws, along with increased metabolism, strength and hearing. No superhuman lifespan, though, as cool as that would have been. In fact, in some places, many toms die young, in fights over territory or mates.

  Marc glanced at my hand, his face impassive. He didn’t care about the broken handle. His driver’s seat was missing an armrest and his steering wheel resembled a dented hexagon more than it did a circle. My little accident couldn’t begin to compare with the damage he’d done to his own vehicle in past fits of anger.

  “I’m not ashamed of him, Marc.” I snatched a tissue from the box he kept on the center console and wiped the blood from my palm in short, angry strokes. “I just don’t want to talk about him.”

  “To anyone, or just to me?” His voice was strained, and his eyes flicked to my face quickly, then back to the road before I could read his expression.

  To anyone with fur and claws. But I couldn’t say that. “Does it matter?”

  “I guess not.” However, the tense lines around his mouth argued otherwise. “Aren’t you going to call him?” />
  I flipped my phone open and closed, considering. As much fun as it might have been to make Marc listen while I spoke to Andrew, it certainly wouldn’t make the ride home any more bearable. “I’ll wait till we stop for gas.”

  “We won’t be stopping for a couple of hours. Won’t he worry before then?”

  I almost laughed out loud. As if he gave a damn whether or not Andrew would worry. “No, he won’t. He’s my boyfriend. Not my conscience, my conjoined twin or my father.”

  Marc frowned, and I looked away, dabbing at my palm again, though the bleeding had already stopped. His question was typical of Pride mentality. A tomcat’s strongest instinct was to protect the women at any cost, with no consideration for our desires for privacy or independence. Or for whether we wanted, or even needed to be protected.

  As I’d demonstrated an hour earlier, I did not need his protection. What I needed was a life of my own, which was exactly what I’d found on campus. My decision to live outside the Pride confounded the entire werecat community. Including my parents, which I’ll probably never understand. After all, they taught me to think things through and to defend myself. Then they seemed genuinely surprised when I fought for the very independence they’d prepared me to handle.

  While a tomcat would be labeled strong and self-sufficient for pursuing his own interests, I was considered stubborn and selfish for abandoning my Pride in favor of an education and a life of my own.

  My parents had decided to humor my “phase,” indulging me on the assumption that I would either grow out of it or come home after graduation. They thought they would lose, at most, four years of manipulation and micromanagement. They were wrong.

  I’d intentionally spent an extra year as an under-grad, then applied to the graduate program without telling anyone. The day after graduation, I enrolled in two summer classes. The only notice my father got that I’d completed my B.A. was the bill for grad school tuition. He’d underestimated me. Like Marc.