Stray

by Rachel Vincent

  I shuddered as a frightening realization rolled through me. “You had her kidnapped so you could propose to her?” I couldn’t keep disbelief from my voice.

  Ryan threw his hands into the air in exasperation, glaring at me.

  Sean cringed. “That sounds bad, too, huh?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded, so stunned my skin was tingling. “Really bad.”

  Sean stepped toward my cage, his eyes wide and intense, pleading with me to understand what he’d done. “She only chose Kyle because her parents liked him better. But Sara liked me. I know she did. And Miguel said he could get me some time alone with her. For a price.”

  “So you promised him your services. For two years.”

  “Yes.” He nodded enthusiastically, as if pleased that I finally understood. “I would have promised him anything. But I didn’t know who he was, or how he expected me to pay my debt. And I had no idea he was going to lock Sara up.”

  I made myself let go of the bars, trying to appear calm, as if I didn’t want to rip out his throat. “When you found out, why didn’t you let her go?”

  He shrugged, but his eyes held too much pain to pull off such an offhand gesture. “I wanted to, but Miguel said her Pride was already looking for her, and that if we let her go, she’d turn us in. Her father would have had me killed. You know he would have.” He glanced at me for confirmation, but I didn’t know what to say. He was right.

  “So you let them kill her instead,” Abby said. It wasn’t a question.

  “I…” He glanced at me, then at her, already backing toward the stairs. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come down here. I can’t expect you to understand.”

  “Sean, wait,” I said, following him as far as my bars would let me. But he didn’t wait. He turned and ran up the stairs, slamming the door as he left.

  “I tried to warn you,” Ryan said, shaking his head at me as if it were my fault.

  “Is that what you were doing?” I sat at the base of the bars, pulling the fast-food bag back into my lap. “I thought maybe you were trying to fly.”

  “Cute.” He leaned back against the staircase, thin arms crossed over his chest. “Sean isn’t doing so hot today.”

  “So I noticed. What happened?”

  He frowned. “I’m not sure. It may have been going after you. Or maybe knowing they’re gonna take—” he caught his slipup just in time “—another tabby. The whole thing’s snowballing, and he knows there’s no way out. He’s acting like he might let go of that last shred of sanity any minute.”

  “Serves him right,” Abby said. We both turned to look at her. She held a biscuit clenched in one hand, crumbling between her tiny fingers.

  “Yeah, well, I think he’d agree with you,” Ryan said.

  “If he feels so guilty, why’d he let them kill her?” I asked.

  “He didn’t let them. He just wasn’t here to stop it. And I’m not sure he could have, anyway.”

  “Michael said Sean’s scent was all over her,” I said, my food untouched on my lap.

  Ryan sighed and sat down, apparently resigning himself to a long explanation. “That was from before. When Eric and Miguel went after Abby—” he glanced at her, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes “—they left me and Sean here with Sara. Sean spent the whole time down here with her, trying to work his Don Juan magic. He left the door open, and I heard part of it from the kitchen.

  “He told her how much he loved her and begged her to marry him instead of Kyle. She said all the right things, agreeing to everything he asked and telling him she loved him. According to him, they even ‘made love,’ but I suspect she was just too scared to say no. Afterward, I heard her crying, begging him to let her go home. Sean completely freaked out, accusing her of lying to him. He came upstairs blubbering and said Miguel was right, that they couldn’t let her go. He slammed the front door on his way out, and I remember thinking he was gone for good, and we were down to three out of five.”

  My head snapped up in surprise. “Five? Who’s the fifth?” But I was pretty sure I already knew, that I’d already met him. And broken his nose.

  “Luiz. The cat Miguel sent after you. He left before I got here, so I never met him, but Eric said he’s another jungle stray.” Ryan met my eyes. “I heard Miguel talking to him on the phone, but I don’t speak Portuguese, so, you know…” He shrugged both thin shoulders.

  I gaped at my brother, stunned by how casually he’d prattled off the news of another murderer on the loose, as if such things happened every day. Maybe they did.

  Ryan shook his head as if to clear it. “Anyway, when they got back with Abby, Miguel hit the roof. He said if I couldn’t find Sean by sunrise, they’d go after Hailey to teach him a lesson.”

  I gasped in horror. Sean’s little sister was about Abby’s size, but she was only thirteen years old.

  “I looked in every bar in town, but by the time I found him and dragged him back, Sara was dead.”

  Silence fell over us like a heavy quilt, but instead of warming me, it gave me chills.

  “They thought I was unconscious,” Abby whispered. Her words seeped beneath the blanket of silence like a cold draft.

  I turned slowly toward her, hoping I’d misunderstood. She’d abandoned her food for the comfort of her favorite corner of the mattress. Tears stood in her eyes. She hugged herself, rocking back and forth as she spoke. “I saw what they did to her.” Her words sounded choked, as if she was trying and failing to hold them in.

  My breath caught in my throat, and I coughed to expel it. I’d had a feeling she’d witnessed Sara’s death, but hearing her say it was different.

  “I’m so sorry, Ab,” Ryan said, and I couldn’t help but believe him.

  Tears slid silently down Abby’s face and she turned her back on us both, curling into the fetal position on the mattress. Even in human form she moved with a cat’s grace and flexibility; her posture was as expressive as most people’s eyes. I knew by the tension in her arms and the curve of her spine that she was reliving Sara’s final moments.

  “Miguel came down first,” Abby said, her account punctuated by sniffles. “Sara screamed and cried. She tried to throw him off, but he was too strong. He ripped her clothes off in pieces. She wouldn’t shut up, so he choked her ’til she passed out. She was still unconscious when Eric came down for his turn, but she woke up at the end, screaming. Afterward, she curled up in a corner, trying to cover herself with scraps from her shirt.

  “I tried to talk to her but she wouldn’t answer. She just cried for her mom. Then Miguel came down again. As soon as she saw him, she tried to scream, but she’d lost her voice. She clawed at the floor when he pulled her out of the corner. She—” Abby sobbed again, and I wanted to tell her to stop, that she didn’t have to say any more. But she seemed to need to get it out of her system. “Sara kept slamming her head into the concrete like she was trying to knock herself out, but he didn’t care. He just let her. When he was done, he picked her up—set her on her feet like a mannequin. She couldn’t talk anymore by then. She looked like she could barely even move. But then he touched her face. Her ran one finger down her cheek, and she lunged at him. She bit his finger, and he howled. He jerked his hand away, and she just stared at him, blood dripping down her chin.

  “Miguel lost it then. He screamed at her in Spanish, or something like that. He hit her in the face with the back of his hand—hard—and she went flying across the cage. Her head hit one of the bars over the mattress, and there was this awful crunching sound. Her arms just hung there for a second, then she slid to the floor. There was so much blood…”

  Ryan looked sick, and I knew exactly how he felt. “Abby…” I didn’t know what to say to her. I didn’t want to hear any more, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

  “I couldn’t cry for her,” Abby said, her words so choked with sobs that I could barely understand them. “I was afraid he’d come for me if he knew I was awake.”

  For several minutes, we sat motionless, listen
ing to Abby cry. I wanted to comfort her but I couldn’t. There was nothing I could say to save her from her memories. I didn’t even know how to fight off my own.

  All I could do was change the subject. I was good at that.

  When Abby’s sobs faded into quiet hiccups, I glanced at Ryan to find him staring at the ground. “Did you call Mom?” I said, dreading the answer even as I asked the question. But it was better than thinking about Sara.

  Ryan cleared his throat, claiming a stoic expression with obvious difficulty. “Yeah, a couple of hours ago,” Ryan said. “She’s pretty upset.”

  “Ah, the light at the end of the tunnel.” I pulled the lid from my container of mashed potatoes and dug in with my spork. I’d lost my appetite after listening to Abby’s account, but needed something to do with my hands.

  “You should lay off her,” he scolded. “She cried in my ear for twenty minutes because she felt guilty about the last conversation you two had.”

  “Well, she should.” I gulped water from my bottle. “My personal life is none of her business.” But Mom crying over me took me by surprise. I’d known she would be upset, like everyone else, because without me there would be no next generation of the south-central Pride. But if she felt guilty for nagging me about Andrew, she must actually miss me. Not the future dam, but me, all my faults included.

  And, in truth, she wasn’t the only one who had been thinking about our last conversation. I’d had plenty of time to mull over what she’d said about being on the council and about my father never making her do anything. All my life, I’d assumed my mother was trapped in her life, and just didn’t realize it because she didn’t know there were any other appropriate options for a woman. But she’d turned my theory on its ear. She’d had power and turned it down, content to make her mark behind the scenes. I’d always thought my mother was weak because she had no obvious strength. But she wasn’t weak, she was just humble. And I’d been stupid and unfair.

  Great, now I felt guilty for pigeonholing her as a 1950s model she-bitch. Guilt is a vicious cycle, an emotional slippery slope. I don’t recommend it.

  “I tell you what, Ryan,” I said, my voice unusually soft with regret. “If I ever see her again, I’ll apologize.”

  Confusion knit his brows together, as if it had really never occurred to him that I might not see our mother again, in spite of his own warnings that Miguel might kill me. Sometimes I suspected Ryan was merely visiting the real world, on vacation from his permanent residence in la-la land.

  Before I could decide how to respond to his delusion, he changed tracks completely. “Aren’t you going to ask me about Marc?”

  I tensed involuntarily, and my spork snapped in half. Smooth, Faythe. I dropped the now-useless plastic handle into the bag. “Why would I?”

  Ryan grinned, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “Mom said you two had a reunion of sorts the night before you ran off.”

  I stuck the functional end of my spork into the half-empty container of potatoes, setting them both aside so I could focus all of my energy on burning a hole through Ryan’s forehead with my stare. “First of all, I didn’t run away. I just went down to the barn to clear my head and try to gain a new perspective.” I smiled, pleased with myself for having put a hell of a good spin on a phenomenally stupid mistake. Damn, I should write speeches for the president.

  Ryan sneered. “A new perspective on why you slept with Marc after ignoring him for five years?”

  “No, smart-ass.” I picked the potatoes back up, stirring them aimlessly as I spoke. “I just needed some fresh air. And the thing with Marc was a mistake. I drank too much. That’s it.” I took a bite of mashed potatoes, satisfied that my point had been made, and that I’d told the truth. Or at least one version of it.

  “Yeah, that’s what Jace said.”

  I nearly choked on my self-congratulatory mouthful, and had to wash it down with another swig of water while pounding on my own chest. “Jace said I drank too much?” I asked when I could speak.

  “He said that you sleeping with Marc was a mistake.” Ryan shot me an evil grin. “You know, I always liked that kid. It’s too bad about what happened to him.”

  My hands went cold, and I dropped the potatoes to wipe sweat from my palms onto my shorts. “Please tell me Marc didn’t kill him.” My voice came out in a tiny, scared whisper.

  “Nope,” Ryan said, still grinning. “Came damn near, though. Mom said it took all three of the other guys to drag your sweetie off Jace. Only a direct order from Dad kept the peace.”

  Damn it, Marc!

  It was all my fault. Not for sleeping with Marc, but for taking Jace’s car. Marc knew about the bet, and knew I had a claim on Jace’s keys. But he didn’t know that I hadn’t run. He probably thought I’d driven off on my own, right into the open arms of my waiting abductors. And that Jace had given me the means.

  “How bad is it?” I asked, dreading the answer.

  Ryan ticked the injuries off on his fingers, and with each one, my guilt increased, weighing me down almost literally. “Broken nose, two black eyes, cracked jaw, three broken ribs, and four broken toes, all on one foot. Concussion, and possible internal bleeding in his abdomen. It’s bad enough that he’d be in the hospital, if he were human.”

  I groaned, picturing Jace lying in the guest bedroom, encased in a body cast and hooked up to an IV. He couldn’t go to the hospital for the same reason Sara’s death couldn’t be reported to the police: medical evidence.

  Dr. Carver explained to me once that our blood is different from human blood. Apparently the difference is obvious enough to be noticed by any competent lab tech, which means that under no circumstances can we allow ourselves to be examined by a human doctor. To avoid meddling from schools and local governments, several Prides claim religious beliefs which forbid medical treatment. Fortunately for us, Dr. Carver makes himself available during emergencies for members of the south-central Pride.

  Because of the risk of exposure, Jace’s recovery would proceed without a hospital staff catering to his every need. But thanks to Dr. Carver, his bones would heal straight and he would have medication for pain. Of course, like alcohol, tranquilizers, and even food, painkillers didn’t last long because of our high metabolism.

  Still, it could have been worse. Marc could have killed him.

  “I can’t believe this,” I whispered, shaking my head in denial.

  “Really?” Ryan arched his eyebrows. “I wasn’t all that surprised. Marc’s always been a brute. What else can you expect from a stray?”

  My temper flared, and I knew I should bite my tongue. But I didn’t. “Are you a stray, Ryan?” I demanded, forcing myself to stay seated. “Because Marc has a hell of a lot more courage than you’ve shown lately. A damn sight more honor too. He would get us out of here if he had to chew the bars open with his own teeth, so tell me again how little you can expect from strays!” I was shouting by the time I finished. I couldn’t help it. I’d had enough of his jealousy and sniveling cowardice.

  Ryan didn’t answer. He just glared at me.

  I chewed on a bland bite of chicken, waiting for my brother to stomp out of the basement, but he didn’t, for no reason I could have named. I’d certainly pissed him off, but apparently the murdering bastards upstairs were even worse company. Go figure.

  He stared at the floor with his elbows on his knees. Abby glanced at him, then back at me, her face swollen from crying and her posture stiff. When Ryan looked calm again, I decided to try a new method of pumping him for information—the direct approach. He was clueless enough that it just might work.

  “So, who did Eric and Miguel go after?” I asked, trying to sound casual. There were only two more tabbies within a reasonable driving distance of Mississippi: one in Missouri, the other in Kentucky. Even the smallest hint might help me eliminate one.

  Ryan frowned. “Don’t start. You know I can’t tell you.” He picked at a crack in the concrete, and I visualized it widening, to swallow him whole.
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  “Why not?” I grabbed the white paper bag, digging through it for the second chicken breast. “It’s not like I can tell anyone else,” I said, but he only shook his head. “Fine, don’t tell me who she is. Just tell me who she’s for. Is she for you?” I carefully peeled the skin from my chicken, trying to look as if I didn’t really care about his answer. But I did.

  “Hell no, she’s not for me!” Ryan shouted.

  “Who, then? Luiz?” I asked, going for breezy. But the carefree tone fit my question about as well as Marc’s shirt fit me. I watched Ryan from the corner of my eye as I dropped the grease-coated skin into the bag. Yes, in cat form I ate raw flesh and organ meat, but as a human, I couldn’t put something as disgusting as deep-fried, bump-covered chicken skin in my mouth, no matter how hungry I was. Every girl has her limits, and forcible sex and poultry skin both crossed mine.

  “She’s for Miguel, if you don’t shape up,” Ryan snapped, staring at my food as he spoke. Like that was supposed to motivate me! “Other than that, I don’t know.”

  His refusal to make eye contact confirmed my suspicion that there was something he wasn’t telling me. Something I needed to know.

  I dropped the chicken breast back into the bag, almost untouched. “Come on, Ryan, if you don’t want to tell me, just say so. But don’t lie.”

  He bristled. “I’m not lying. I don’t know. Miguel won’t tell me.”

  “Why not?” My stomach clenched, unhappy not with the food I’d sent its way, but with the gut feeling raising the hairs on the back of my neck. I was about to get bad news. I’d known Ryan long enough to recognize his body language. He knew something terrible and he was about to say it.

  “I think he won’t tell me because he’s planning to kill me.”