Stray

by Rachel Vincent

  I hunkered on my back legs, wiggling my hindquarters to find just the right position. My eyes focused on the low branch. I jumped. My front paws hit first, in silence, followed an instant later by my hind paws. I fought panic as my left hind leg slipped from the branch, threatening to upset my balance. I clenched the branch with my hind claws, freezing in place until I regained my equilibrium. Huffing in relief, I repositioned myself slightly for a better view. From my new height, I could see the deer in a small clearing ahead: a light brown doe and her fawn, his back sprinkled with white spots.

  For a moment, I felt a twinge of guilt over my intent to kill Bambi’s mother, but such was the way of life in the forest, and it didn’t bother me for long. Especially when I saw the fawn tugging on a low leaf. If he was old enough to eat greens, he was at least partially weaned and probably old enough to survive on his own.

  Heart pounding, I tensed, getting my balance just right. I jumped up onto the next branch, pausing briefly to steady myself before taking the next leap. I approached my prey from behind as the wind carried her scent to me, like a preview of coming attractions. Ahead, the doe leaned down to nibble at a blade of grass, blissfully unaware of what the next few minutes would bring. Her ignorance excited me, bringing my breath in fast, quiet pants. Her life depended entirely on my whim, and I loved the feeling of power that knowledge brought. For the first time since I’d come home, I was in control, with no one to answer to and nothing to fear.

  Anticipation surged through me. I leapt onto the next limb, then the next, and the next after that. I aimed for the thickest part next to the trunk to minimize the noise and the chance that I would shake loose a leaf to drop on the deer. Close enough, I crept silently out onto a sturdy limb, watching my prey from above. I was salivating, my heart beating fiercely. Its rhythm was accompanied by the rush of anger through my veins like a second pulse, feeding my heart as surely as my blood did.

  The doe was below and to my left. I pounced, angling my fall so I would land on the mother’s hindquarters. As my paws left the branch, she froze, alerted to danger. She started to bolt, but it was too late; I was airborne and closing fast. Claws unsheathed, I was ready to slash.

  The impact knocked us both to the ground. I lunged forward to clamp my teeth on her throat, pinning her. Blood rushed into my mouth in spurts as her heart pumped her life into me until my teeth pinched her throat closed, suffocating her.

  It was over in minutes. Standing, I shook the deer by the throat, just in case. She was dead, and her fawn was gone. Good. I lapped at the blood still dribbling from her neck, then ripped open her stomach with my claws and began to eat. As the carcass slowly cooled in the shadow of a broad red oak, I concentrated on the meal at hand, shoving my lingering bloodlust to the back of my mind. Surely it would be satisfied long before my stomach was.

  My appetite satiated at last, I lay down next to the still-warm carcass to clean my face and paws. It had been a messy meal, and I didn’t like messes. Not the figurative ones, and certainly not the literal ones.

  The smell of blood and fresh meat filled the clearing, reminding me of what still needed to be done. I stood, wondering what to do with my catch. When we hunted as a group, there was little left to worry about, and we donated the remains to the small scavengers present in any forest, nature’s own recyclers. But this time I was alone, with lots of leftovers and no Tupperware. I was full and certainly didn’t need the dead deer, but instinct told me to protect my meal. I paced in front of it for a couple of minutes, undecided, then froze, focusing my ears and attention on a dry rustle from some brush to the west. The guys had caught up with me, surely drawn by the smell of my kill.

  The breeze had shifted, the wind now carrying my scent toward the tomcats. Though they could smell me, I couldn’t smell them. But it had to be them, because any other animal would run away from the scent of a large cat, not toward it.

  Yet when the brush parted, I came face-to-face not with a group of agitated, hungry werecats, but with a single human. He wore a hunter’s vest, which I knew to be orange, though my cat’s eyes couldn’t identify the color, and carried a large hunting rifle propped across one arm. I had no idea what kind of gun it was. Few of us had any experience with firearms, and since we didn’t need them for hunting, we didn’t own any. But I had no doubt it would kill me at such close range.

  At first the hunter didn’t notice me; he was too busy gaping at the slaughtered deer. Then something caught his attention. Probably my tail, which I couldn’t seem to keep still when I was nervous. His eyes widened in comprehension, and the skin pulsing over his jugular vein jiggled faster. He was as scared of me as I was of the gun, and maybe more so. Unless he’d been to Africa, he’d never seen a cat my size outside of a zoo, and he was clearly terrified.

  I could smell his fear, sour like sweat, thick like smoke, and tangy like blood. The scent cried out to something exhilaratingly primal in me, something that answered to the proverbial call of the wild and was completely beyond my control.

  All at once, I understood that stalking from the trees had been a mistake; it hadn’t satisfied the bloodlust. The deer hadn’t even had a chance to run from me. I’d wanted a chase, or at least a little excitement, and all I got was dead meat. But this man was alive, his pulse beating so invitingly in his throat. And I was confused and angry, which translates to the cat brain as something completely different. Something more like carnal aggression, intoxicating and irresistible.

  I watched him carefully, wrestling with instincts I’d never been at odds with before. Excitement tingled through me. My fur stood on end and my eyes dilated. My tail whipped back and forth behind me, stirring an almost palpable cloud of danger in the air. And even as my body prepared to do what came naturally for a cat, some small human thought nagged at the back of my mind, warning me about capital crimes, of all things. I swatted it away, irritated. My feline brain was too narrowly focused to deal with more than one issue at a time. The most pressing issue at that moment was the hunter, simply because he was there. And because the bloodlust wanted him.

  I took a single step forward. My whiskers arced forward as I sniffed in his direction, just to see how he would react. His eyes flicked to my tail. A bead of sweat trailed down his nose to dangle in the air above his considerable gut. His muscles tensed. He was preparing to run. Oh goodie.

  My ears lay flat against my head. I hissed, showing off two-and-a-half-inch top canines. The pungent stench of human urine saturated the air. Some hunter, I thought. He’d probably been tracking my deer, thinking he was the only predator around. Oh, well, he shouldn’t have wandered onto private property. At least, I thought I was still on Daddy’s acreage. But maybe not. I hadn’t been paying that much attention.

  I settled back onto my rear paws and lowered my chest to the ground, preparing to pounce, because that’s what cats did, and because I was long past the ability to think with human rationality. I wiggled my hindquarters, getting comfortable, and was seconds away from attacking when dead leaves crackled to my right, drawing my attention away from the hunter. Marc padded out of the undergrowth and growled, his eyes flashing at me in warning. He was growling at me, but the human didn’t know that.

  After one look at Marc, who was half again my size, Mr. Fierce Hunter remembered he had a gun. He swung the barrel toward Marc’s head, in a movement much too slow to seem real. His finger wrapped around the trigger. From somewhere at my back, a dark shape flew past me. It landed on the hunter, knocking him to the ground. The gun went off. The cracking boom echoed in my head. The acrid stench of gunpowder burned my nose.

  Movement on my left caught my eye and I turned to look. Leaves swung in the foliage inches above Marc’s shoulder.

  It had happened too fast for me to react. Another second, and Marc would have been dead. Hell, another three inches, and Marc would have been dead. And it would have been my fault.

  I blinked and shook my head, trying to shake some sense into myself. The bloodlust drained from my bo
dy like hot water from a bathtub, leaving me cold, exposed, and in shock. Shaking, I turned toward the hunter, stunned to realize that mere seconds had passed since the gun went off. It felt like much longer.

  Parker stood on the man’s chest, and as I watched, he sat down, swatting the gun aside like a kitten with a ball of string. It landed with a metallic thunk in a nearby drift of leaves. Parker lowered his head slowly toward the hunter’s face, sniffing as if he smelled something interesting. It was probably fear, the same aroma that had sent my common sense fleeing in the face of instinct. But Parker still had his head on straight. He huffed, blowing the man’s hair back and making him blink. Then he stepped gracefully onto the ground, between the man and his gun.

  Parker blinked deep hazel eyes at the hunter. When that had no effect, he roared, and Marc joined him. That got the man moving. He rolled over and jumped to his feet, tearing off through the bushes, screaming like a lunatic. You’d think he’d be grateful to be alive, but where’s the gratitude?

  Marc’s angry growl claimed my attention from the witless hunter. He sounded pretty mad.

  I whined and stared at the ground, trying to show remorse. The sound died in my throat when Marc hobbled over to me, still growling, and bit the back of my neck, forcing my head down in submission. He bit me hard enough to draw blood, which meant he was pretty pissed.

  Yeah, I should’ve seen that coming.

  With both the hunter and the bloodlust gone, I was horrified by what I’d almost done. Pride cats don’t attack humans. Not even strays attack humans, if they want to live. But I’d almost done just that. I’d been a breath away from committing the unforgivable sin, and Daddy was going to skin me alive. If Marc didn’t do it first.

  And the worst part was the knowledge that they had every right to be furious with me. Hell, I was furious with me.

  Marc let go of my neck and slapped my rump with his forepaw, urging me forward. I went without complaint, and he stayed close on my right, while Parker flanked me on the left. Jace and Ethan appeared out of nowhere, marching just behind me. I was surrounded, with only one way to go. So I went, my head hanging low in the proper posture of penitence.

  They escorted me all the way to the tree line, where Marc signaled that he wanted me to Shift by swatting my rump again and tossing his head toward Parker, who had already begun the process.

  Again, Shifting back was slow and painful. By the time I finished, the others were waiting for me, and no one looked sympathetic. Marc grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet. “Not a word about this to anyone,” he said, staring at each of the others one at a time. “I’ll handle it.”

  “But Dad—” Ethan started.

  Marc cut him off with a snarl, sounding more canine than feline for a moment. “I said I’ll take care of it.” His eyes were fierce. “And if that isn’t enough for you, I’ll owe you. Each of you. Whatever you want, whenever you want it, so long as no one gets hurt.” He paused, still staring hard at Ethan. “Okay?”

  Slowly, Ethan nodded, looking as if he wanted to throw up. He’d truly never been on my father’s bad side, which was exactly where he’d wind up if Marc’s little bribe ever came to light.

  “Parker?” Marc asked. Parker nodded without hesitation, which made me wonder if he already had something in mind. Interesting…

  “Jace?”

  Jace shook his head, refusing. I stared at him in disappointment, hurt but not surprised. He was probably mad because Marc had interfered in our bet, and as pleased as I was with the outcome, I could hardly blame him.

  “I don’t need a favor,” he said. “I’ll do it to prove I’m not all talk.” His eyes burned into me, though his statement was directed at Marc.

  I rewarded him with a thankful nod and a hesitant smile, but it was gone in an instant when Marc nearly jerked me off my feet, backing toward the tree line with me in tow. “Whatever works,” he said, shrugging at Jace. But I’d never before seen anyone look so pissed off as the result of getting his own way.

  Marc dragged me across the yard toward the house with his lips drawn tight in anger. Both of us still nude, he pulled me through the back door, down the hall, and into my bedroom. Again. I was starting to sense a pattern.

  Eleven

  The moment we crossed my threshold, I jerked my arm from Marc’s grip and slunk across the room toward the dresser. Angry more with myself than with him, I yanked open the top right-hand drawer and pulled out a pair of panties. Slamming the drawer shut, I whirled around to face him.

  Marc had his arms crossed over his bare chest, covering most of the fifteen-year-old claw marks. He stood in front of my open bedroom door, as if to block my escape. It bothered me that I was getting used to people positioning themselves between me and the nearest exit. Was I that predictable? I clamped my jaws shut; it probably wasn’t a very good time to ask questions.

  Ethan appeared in the hall and pulled the door closed with his eyes averted, which was his way of giving us privacy. His footsteps receded down the hall, and my hope of anyone stepping in on my behalf went with them. Oh, well. Being rescued wasn’t my cup of tea anyway. Especially when I knew I didn’t deserve it.

  I held Marc’s angry gaze for as long as I could, but after less than a minute, I chickened out. I love a good argument. I’ve even been known to go looking for one, especially with Marc. But I hate being in the wrong, and I hate it even more when he’s around to witness my screwups. Or worse, keep me from making them in the first place. And he’d certainly pulled my tail out of the fire this time.

  “You’d better have a good explanation for that little lapse in judgment,” he whispered from across the room. With Marc, whispering is always worse than yelling. It means he’s so mad he can’t trust himself to shout without saying things he’ll regret. “Never mind,” he spat, running one hand through his head full of thick, dark curls. “There is no good explanation, so don’t bother. Why would you even think about attacking a human?”

  I stepped into the panties, pulling them up in a series of angry, jerky movements. “I thought you didn’t want an explanation.” Without waiting for a reply, I turned my back on him, digging through a drawerful of shorts left over from high school. I hated naked arguments. They reminded me too much of when we were a couple.

  “Don’t get smart with me, Faythe,” he said, his teeth grinding together during the pause. “I’m barely holding on to my temper right now as it is. If you were a guy, you’d be hurting already.” He was right. If I were a tomcat, I might have been declawed. He’d done worse to strays who broke the rules. But since it was clearly not the time to lobby for equal treatment for women, I opted for an apology.

  “I’m sorry.” I spiked my voice with a heavy dose of sincerity as I stepped into my shorts, but I couldn’t bring myself to turn and face him.

  “You’re sorry?” Again with the whispers. This was definitely not good.

  My hands shook as they pawed through a selection of old bras, and I was glad he couldn’t see how upset I really was. I’d rather let him think I didn’t care, than think I was emotionally frail.

  “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

  Better than that? In my opinion, nothing was better than an apology.

  Stalling for time to think, I picked a bra at random and leaned over to scoop myself into it. Hooking the bra in place, I turned to face him, forcing my hands to stop shaking and cooperate, rather than ask him for help. I grabbed a T-shirt from the floor and tugged it over my head. Fully clothed, I felt like I had an advantage over Marc for the first time since I’d come home. Nude men don’t look threatening, no matter how mad they are. They just look vulnerable.

  “Well?” He leaned against the wall, taking weight off his injured leg. My eyes wandered down his body, on their way to inspect his ankle, but when I got to his bare lower stomach, I stopped, jerking my gaze away as if the sight of him naked had burned my retinas.

  His eyes, I thought. Only his eyes.

  Spinning abruptly, I
stomped over to my bathroom and opened the door, my hand hovering over the robe hanging on its hook. But it was lavender, embroidered with purple and white irises. Marc would never wear it. Shaking my head, I balled up a bath towel from the rack instead and tossed it to him, one-handed.

  Marc shook the towel out and glanced at me quizzically, as if he didn’t understand what I expected him to do with it.

  “Wear it, or get out,” I said, careful to look only at his eyes.

  He scowled, but wrapped the towel around his waist, tucking one corner in at his hip. “Better?” he asked, arms spread for my approval.

  My pulse jumped as my traitorous eyes traveled over his chest, lingering on the old claw marks. “Marginally.”

  “Good, now talk.”

  My eyes roamed the room, searching for any excuse to avoid looking at him. The empty suitcase caught my attention, lying on the carpet below the dent it left in my wall. “What do you want me to say?” I stomped past him and snatched up the suitcase. “I messed up—badly—and I’m very sorry. I’ll never do it again.” I opened the case on the end of the bed and turned to face him. “So hit me, or ground me, or do whatever it is you do when one of the guys gets out of line. Then get the hell out of my room.”

  Fury flashed in his eyes, and his voice was barely audible. “You’re really tempting me, you know.”

  “Tempting you to what, get out?”

  “To knock some sense into you.”

  “Go ahead. This can’t be the first time you’ve wanted to.” I snatched a lump of white nylon from the scattering of clothes I’d tossed from the suitcase that morning and swung around to face him with my arms open, inviting him to take his best shot. But the image must have been ruined by the bra dangling from my fist, because he just stared at me, his arms crossed over his chest.