Stray

by Rachel Vincent

  “Yes, Daddy, I know who he is,” I snapped, and he raised his eyebrows at my tone. I took a breath and tried again. “I thought this was about Marc’s leg. Or maybe…not inviting anyone to graduation.” I’d started to say “the man in the woods,” or “my bet with Jace.” But then I remembered he didn’t know about either of those little errors in judgment, and I wasn’t about to tell him. Soon I’d have more secrets on file than the CIA.

  Daddy frowned, dark, heavy brows overshadowing eyes the same shade of green as Ethan’s. “You know, you could avoid this kind of confusion if you weren’t always in some kind of trouble.”

  Shit, why didn’t I think of that? I tugged my shirt down, wishing suddenly that I’d paid more attention to the clothes I’d grabbed. “Why do you want to know about Andrew?”

  He crossed the room in several leisurely strides to sit in his armchair, leaning back with the ankle of one leg resting on his opposite knee. The relaxed pose and the long pause were both intended to make me nervous. They worked. “How long have you been dating him?”

  “Why do I have the feeling you already know the answer?” I asked, curling my toes in the thick rug. Suddenly I was very conscious of my bare feet, which was strange, considering how much less I’d worn in the very same room only hours earlier.

  “I have a responsibility to the entire Pride to ensure your safety, Faythe.”

  Great, the responsibility speech. I stared at him, knowing he would respect continued eye contact. “You promised me freedom.”

  “I kept my promise.” He cracked his knuckles one at a time, so slowly that after the first few, I leaned forward in anticipation of the next. It was psychological torture.

  “You also promised me privacy.” My eyes were drawn to the first finger of his right hand, as he pressed on it with his thumb.

  Crack. “No,” he said, his face impassive as another pop punctuated his reply. “I promised not to interfere with your life, and I haven’t.” Crack.

  “Never argue semantics with an English major, Daddy.”

  Finished with the largest ones, he started on the middle knuckles of the same hand, ending each sentence with one, like an auditory exclamation point. “I’m not arguing anything.” Crack. “I’m stating facts.” Crack.

  I rolled my eyes. Arguing with my father was pointless, but like one of those windup toy soldiers, I kept walking face-first into the same obstacle, over and over again. I couldn’t seem to help it. Sighing, I resigned myself to the inquisition because resistance was more trouble than submission, and I was already tired of arguing. “What do you want to know about Andrew?”

  He nodded, acknowledging my willingness to cooperate by folding his hands in his lap. He didn’t seem to care that my compliance stemmed more from weariness than from any sense of respect or obligation. “How serious are you about him?”

  Irritation flared in my chest like heartburn, bringing with it a tiny spark of courage. “Why?”

  “You know why.” He watched me calmly, expectantly, his age betrayed by the crinkles at the outside corners of his eyes and the gray streaks just above each ear. They were the only flaws among his otherwise strong, firm features.

  “You can’t just pick a tomcat at random and reserve a chapel.” My head began to ache at the prospect of rehashing the argument we’d started when I was seventeen. “I have no plans to get married. If I change my mind later, that’s my business and my choice. Only mine.”

  “I haven’t even mentioned marriage.”

  Damn it, why did he have to sound so reasonable? And he’d made me bring up the M word! I closed my eyes, gathering my thoughts and my nerve. “Not today, but I know it’s what you were thinking.”

  “You know no such thing,” he said, still infuriatingly poised. “I wasn’t thinking of you at all. I was thinking of him. If you spend too much time with this Andrew, he might think he has some kind of future with you. But he doesn’t, and it isn’t fair of you to mislead him.”

  “Maybe I’m not misleading him.”

  My father watched me calmly from his chair, demonstrating what I lacked and he had plenty of. Patience. He clearly expected this argument to go like all the others in years past: I would yell myself hoarse, then, when I had no more voice with which to argue, he’d speak his mind. And just like that, another choice would be gone, another path in my life chosen without my input or consent.

  Not this time. I wasn’t going to yell or throw a fit. I’d outgrown that. His prying questions had led me to a decision—one of the first important choices of my entire life—and I was going to announce it evenly. Serenely. Maturely.

  I was leaving. But I wasn’t going to sneak away in the middle of the night, as I’d done in the past. I’d learned from my mistakes, or at least learned that he’d expect me to repeat them. This time I would make my stand boldly in the light of day, face-to-face with my father and Alpha.

  It was simple, really. All I had to do was tell him I was leaving—then convince him to let me go. Of course, that was the tricky part.

  I shoved doubt from my mind, ignoring the voice in my head telling me that, as usual, I’d bitten off far more than I could chew. My father would fight my decision. He wouldn’t bluster, or bellow, or roar. That wasn’t his style. Instead, he would deny my “request” and forbid me to leave. When that didn’t work—and it certainly wouldn’t—he’d chase me all over the country if necessary, because he couldn’t afford to lose me. I knew that intellectually, just as I knew emotionally that I couldn’t stay. The Pride needed my uterus but seemed to have no use for the stubborn, opinionated parcel it came in. But I was a package deal—all or nothing.

  Bolstered by anger and the intoxicating rush of rebellion, I stood and stepped into the center of the rug, standing directly in front of my father. “I want out,” I said, careful again to meet his eyes. Avoiding them would look like weakness, and I couldn’t afford to appear weak.

  “Out?” One eyebrow rose, as if he wasn’t sure what I meant.

  “Out of the Pride. Like Ryan. I want to live on my own in one of the free territories. I want to be a wildcat.”

  He shook his head slowly, his hands templed beneath his chin, clearly trying to decide how best to crush my dreams. “That life is not an option for you.”

  “The hell it’s not.” Nervous even though I’d known what he’d say, I took a deep breath, trying to impress him with my composed, mature stance. “I’m leaving, Daddy.”

  Crack.

  I jumped, startled by the sudden sound. So much for not appearing weak.

  “Don’t be foolish, Faythe.” His voice was low and menacing, warning me not to tread any farther onto dangerous ground. But I was pleased by his transition in tone, because it meant he was finally taking me seriously.

  “I’m not being foolish.” My skin tingled a little at my own nerve. “I’m just leaving. I don’t need your money. I have an education and a good head on my shoulders. And you taught me to protect myself. I’ll be fine on my own.” Of course, I could use a ride to the bus station.

  His eyes never left mine, but for a moment I thought he might stand. In fact, he seemed to be resisting standing for the same reason Marc resisted yelling. It was an issue of control. If he stood, he’d lose it, and might do something he’d regret. Or at least something I’d regret. “I can’t let you go, Faythe,” he said finally. “Even if I was willing to consider something temporary, like graduate school, I couldn’t do it now. Not until we know what happened to Sara and Abby.”

  “I’m not asking for permission.” My smile blossomed, carefully light and casual. And very calculated. “I’ll be in Mississippi, if you want to keep in touch. Or maybe Nevada. There’s still some free territory out there, right?”

  My head seemed to float, as if it were merely tethered to my body by my neck. I was high on rebellion, an act I should have outgrown along with Kool-Aid-dyed hair and fake tattoos, yet somehow its appeal had only grown. But again that voice nagged me, insisting that no matter how much f
un it was to play the escape artist, eventually even Houdini had to come up for air.

  Frowning darkly, my father clasped his hands together, resting his chin on them, his knuckles white with tension. After a moment of consideration, he spoke, his response so soft I had to hold my breath to hear him. “I won’t discuss this any further. If you try to leave the property, I’ll have you caged.”

  The cage. Memories of steel bars, rough concrete, and constant darkness flooded my mind, chasing away my rebellious euphoria. I hadn’t been in the cage since the last time I’d run away, the summer I’d turned eighteen. I hadn’t been running from Daddy then. I’d been running from my life, but Daddy took it personally. Once they’d found me and hauled me home in the back of Vic’s SUV, my father had locked me up for fourteen days, most of which I’d spent on four paws out of protest.

  I stared at my father, wanting to believe he was bluffing. But I knew better. Daddy didn’t bluff; he had no reason to. The business suits, ties and diplomatic demeanor were only one side of my father, and it was the other side that worried me. The other side was as strong as Marc and still nearly as fast, but Daddy’s speed and strength were enhanced by an extra thirty years of wisdom and experience. Far from a figurehead, my father was Alpha in practice as well as in name. Yes, he gave orders, but he never ordered anyone to do anything that he would not or could not do himself. My father’s word was final.

  I was kidding myself, and we both knew it. I could make my stand and run away, but no matter what I said or did, Daddy would come after me. Personally, if he had to. Eventually he’d catch me, and I’d be back to square one, after having my spirit broken by a few nights in the cage. So the real question was, Is it worth it?

  And the answer was, Hell, yeah. I might not make it if I run away, but I definitely won’t make it if I don’t try.

  My feet shuffled against the soft rug as I took a single step forward, but what I felt was cold, damp concrete. I smelled Daddy’s aftershave, but beneath that was mildew and the faint, metallic scent of steel, like the way your hands smell after you jingle coins in your pocket. I knew what I was risking, and I knew what would happen if I failed. But I had to give it one more shot. I owed myself that much.

  “You can try,” I said, my resolve reinforced by memories of the cage and determination to avoid seeing it again. “But I promise you this. Whomever you send after me will come back blind and neutered.”

  The phone on his desk rang, but he ignored it, eyeing me calmly. “You don’t mean that. You wouldn’t hurt your brothers.”

  Apparently he didn’t question whether or not I’d hurt Marc.

  “Don’t make me prove myself, Daddy. I—” I never got to finish my threat because Michael nearly tore the office door off its hinges. I heard his frantic heartbeat, and smelled distress in his sweat. It was sour, and made my own heart pound harder. Something was terribly wrong.

  “Owen’s on the phone for you, Dad. He says it’s urgent.”

  Thirteen

  “Sit, Faythe,” Daddy ordered. Then, addressing Michael, “Don’t let her off the couch.” He turned his back on us both with the phone at his ear.

  Still standing, I watched my father, trying to overhear the other side of the conversation. If I was going to be stuck in the office, I might as well do a little eavesdropping. That was the only way I’d get any information anyway.

  Michael’s anxiety was contagious, and curiosity and worry for Owen had temporarily eclipsed my zeal for escape.

  “Owen? What did you find out?” my father said into the phone.

  Michael nudged me with his elbow and nodded at the couch. I shook my head. I was afraid to back down because once I had, I might never gather enough courage to stand my ground again. Instead, I’d be tempted to run off in the middle of the night, like I’d always done before. While that technique was pretty effective, it made me look like a coward and a child. Neither of which I was.

  I caught a blur of movement as Michael’s foot shot out behind my ankles. Before I could move, he swept my feet out from under me. My backside hit the rug with a bruising thud, and my teeth snapped together, the sharp click resounding through my head. Daddy turned to look at us with a raised eyebrow, but Michael just shrugged at him. He hauled me up by my arms, dropping me onto the couch like a naughty puppy onto a pile of newspapers.

  Michael straightened his suit coat, smiling, then settled onto the love seat across from me as if he were sitting down to his afternoon tea. I glared at him as I rubbed the marks his fingers left on my arms, but it was just for show. I’d learned long ago that even though Michael no longer officially worked for our father, he took his orders seriously. I defied him at my own risk.

  “Is he sure?” Daddy asked, turning to face the curio cabinet so that I saw him in profile. Light from the cabinet bathed his strong features, highlighting the tension on his normally unreadable face.

  Leather creaked as I leaned sideways on the couch, rubbing my tailbone while I listened closely for Owen’s side of the conversation. “Yeah. It was a jungle cat,” he drawled. “No doubt about it.”

  “What about the scent?” My father glanced at me, then turned back to face the display case, as if that would keep me from hearing the answer.

  “My guess would be Brazilian,” Owen said. My pulse jumped, and I sat up straighter, my sore tailbone forgotten. “But he could be from anywhere in the area. He’s definitely South American, though, and definitely a stray.”

  Strays have a distinctive scent, which is easily distinguished from that of a Pride-born cat. It’s like the difference in taste between Coke and Pepsi: subtle if you never drink either, but unmistakable if you’re accustomed to one and suddenly confronted with a mouthful of the other.

  Marc told me once that Pride cats smell differently to strays too, which I wasn’t surprised to hear. We have a family-specific identity—a base scent, if you will—threaded through our individual scent ID, which lets us classify a cat with his blood relatives with a single whiff.

  This isn’t possible with strays because they have no base scent. They have only the feline smell of werecats in general, and of themselves specifically. Which led me to an interesting thought as my eyes skimmed the family photos on my father’s desk: if Marc and I had given my parents the grandchildren they wanted, would they inherit my Pride-born scent, or his stray scent? For that matter, would they even be werecats at all? If Marc wasn’t born with a werecat gene, how could he possibly pass one on?

  It was easy for me to forget, considering how long he’d been a part of the south-central Pride, that Marc was still—and always would be—a stray. Hell, I hardly noticed the difference in his scent anymore; it was just part of who he was. But with any other stray, I would detect it immediately. And so would Owen.

  “What about the police?” Daddy asked. I couldn’t see his face, but the tension in his broad shoulders was obvious, even through his suit jacket.

  “They don’t know what to think. The detective in charge of this one is convinced that some psychopath is keeping a jaguar as a pet and letting it eat his victims.”

  I inhaled sharply, turning on the sofa to fully face my father. Daddy glanced at me over his shoulder, nodding to let me know he’d caught the plural ending, too. “Victims?” he asked, straightening stacks of paper on his desk. “Are there others?”

  Static crackled over the line, then Owen’s voice came through loud and clear. “…one in New Mexico three days ago.”

  Daddy rubbed his forehead as if trying to stave off a headache. “How did we miss that?”

  “Well, it’s not like we have any sources in the free territories. But we probably would have missed it anyway. It was reported by the media as a typical dismemberment, as if there is such a thing. The police are keeping the cat angle quiet to weed out the nut-ball confessions.”

  Daddy walked around his desk and sank wearily into his chair, leaning forward with his elbows on the blotter. “The one in New Mexico was another girl?”

&nb
sp; “Yeah. Just like this one. Hang on a second, Dad.” More static, papers shuffling, and a muffled version of Dr. Carver’s distinctive rumbling voice. Then Owen was back. “She was a sophomore at Eastern New Mexico University, in Portales, just across the Texas border. Raped, then mauled and partially…um…consumed. A groundskeeper found her in an alley.”

  I pulled my bare feet up onto the couch cushion, hugging my knees to my chest as I leaned back against the arm of the couch. This can’t be happening, I thought. Two missing tabbies and two dead humans. All in the last three days. Daddy would never let me go now. Not that he would have anyway.

  My father rubbed his chin in silence for a moment, staring down at his desk blotter. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you or Danny could get a look at her, is there?”

  Over the phone Owen shuffled more papers. “There might have been, but she was buried this morning. I already checked.”

  “What about her clothes?”

  “I’m sure they’re in police custody.” Owen paused while Dr. Carver said something I didn’t catch. “But Dad, the chance of there being two different psycho strays operating at the same time with the same M.O. is practically nil. It’s got to be the same son of a b—”

  “I agree,” Daddy interrupted, leaning back in his chair. “I was just hoping to be able to confirm my suspicions.”

  I glanced at Michael to find him staring at the rug between us, but I knew better than to think he’d zoned out. He’d heard every word Owen said, and was filing it away in his lawyer’s brain for later use. If I knew Michael, he’d know everything there was to know about both murders by the end of the day, having used every professional resource at his disposal. And when those ran out, he’d surf the Net, riding the waves of information like a first-generation digital surfer, which is exactly what he was.

  “So, what do you want me to do?” Owen drawled, his accent thickened by tension.

  Daddy sat up, laying one forearm against the top of his desk. “Thank Danny and come home. And tell him to keep his eyes and ears open.”