Claws Bared

by Sheryl Nantus

  The old man nodded and lit up a cigarette, leaning on the hood of the wrecked police car. “I ain’t got nowhere to be.”

  “Thanks.” Trace caught my eye and nodded toward the brush. “We’re going to check on those flares, make sure they’re not setting fire to the woods. Please stay here with the cars and make sure nothing else happens.”

  His tone was so gentle and polite it took me a second to remember who and what he was.

  We were Felis.

  We were about to go on a hunt.

  We walked over the ditch and into the deep brush as quietly and quickly as possible. Trace dropped to one knee as soon as we were out of sight of the road. He shed his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, a handful of resistant buttons popping free to roll in the dirt. The clothing flew to one side as he closed his eyes and snarled.

  I barely held back my gasp as he Changed in a flash of fur, dark streaks contrasting with the tawny fur now covering his skin. He smiled, showing off white feral teeth.

  “I can’t,” I whispered, on the edge of tears.

  “You don’t have to,” he replied in a low, measured tone. “He’s out there, your mate. All you have to do is tune into him. You know him, you know his scent and you know how he moves.” His words became shorter, clipped as he moved into hunt mode. “Carson’s hurt. He’s on Bran’s trail. We’re on his. We’re going to push him toward the rest of the Pride. They’ll take him.”

  “Before he catches Bran?” I pulled the elastic out of my hair, releasing my long blond hair. The duster slid from my arms as I drew deep breaths and forced myself to listen, to sense, to feel.

  “I hope. But that’s out of our hands.” He stood up and reached out for me. “Ready to run?”

  I grinned. “Hope you can keep up.”

  A low growl started in his chest, rolling out to a chuckle. “Let’s see what you can find.”

  I closed my eyes and inhaled, filling my lungs with the smells around me. Oil from the nearby crash, sweat, fear...and there it was.

  Bran.

  Carson.

  And a whole lot of blood.

  I sprinted forward, ignoring Trace as I pushed through the branches. The jagged edges pulled at my shirt, snagging and ripping small tears. My running shoes sank into the damp soil.

  “There.” Trace grabbed my arm. He moved up beside me and pointed at an almost invisible dent ahead of us. “Boot. Police-issue.”

  I held back a snarl and moved forward.

  The wind shifted and I caught a whisper of a gasp, maybe a cry.

  Trace heard it too and stopped. One arm shot out and pulled me close to him. “Don’t.”

  A curse bubbled up before I realized I’d been on the balls of my feet, ready to spring toward the source.

  “I know you want to.” Trace’s iron grip on my arm didn’t ease up. “Let’s go together.”

  We moved through the forest, careful to stay upwind.

  Trace released my arm, taking the chance I wasn’t going to leap out ahead of him and into trouble. It took all my willpower not to clock him and rush off on my own.

  I sucked at being a team player.

  A shout came from our right. A pained, angry shout.

  It wasn’t Bran’s.

  I sucked in my breath through clenched teeth, trying to force myself to Change. Just my claws, that’d be enough. Enough to take care of Carson.

  Trace caught my eye and nodded to the left. Circle around, survey the scene.

  I crept along, pulling the scents and sounds into my mind’s eye to create a picture.

  Blood.

  Sweat.

  Fear.

  From both men.

  I frowned as we stepped over a fallen tree much like the one we’d leapt over on the farm. I could understand Bran’s fear, his trepidation at being hunted by one of the family and his probable death. But I couldn’t fathom why Carson would be so afraid.

  Trace crouched down and pulled a thick clump of branches to the side. He put his hand on my shoulder, fingers digging in to draw me down and keep me in place.

  Carson stood there in the clearing, Changed. He threw his head back and roared an angry yell that would bring any hunters running—human and Felis. His uniform shirt was torn open, his furred chest a stark contrast to the sharply pressed fabric. A wide gash on his forehead bled openly, the blood running down through the fur on one side of his nose and dripping off his chin. He shook his head every few seconds, keeping his vision clear and spraying blood everywhere.

  He wrestled to hold his pistol steady, his extended claws making it hard to grip the weapon. Another angry toss of his head sent more blood flying as he rocked back and forth.

  At best he was having trouble seeing his target. At worst he was concussed and dealing with possible brain injury.

  I’d take both.

  A few seconds later he threw the automatic down at his feet with a loud curse. Positioning himself over the discarded gun he gestured with one hand, a “bring it on” move, followed by another angry shake of his head.

  I shifted to one side and saw Bran standing less than ten feet from the chief.

  His red hair was streaked with blood from a cut on the top of his head. The blue dress shirt had been yanked free and busted open, showing bare skin. Blood splatter across the front could have been his or Carson’s, I couldn’t tell.

  His wrists were swollen and striped red from the cuffs. Mottled black and blue bruises crisscrossed his chest from both Carson’s rough treatment and the crash.

  He held the unlocked handcuffs in his right hand like brass knuckles, weighing them as he glared at Carson. There was something in his eyes, something familiar.

  A hunter’s stare.

  Trace grabbed my arm as I started to move forward to break up the fight. Carson might not want to or be able to shoot Bran but there was no guarantee that’d last past the next few minutes.

  “Don’t,” he whispered. “You’ll distract him.”

  I opened my mouth to say something snarky when Carson sprang forward, teeth bared. His hands reached out in a classic Felis attack, claws aiming for the face and torso.

  If you were lucky you’d only be blinded. If you weren’t you’d be holding your intestines in for the last few agonizing minutes of your life.

  Bran crouched as if he’d practiced for this fight all his life, muscles tensed and ready to spring.

  He slipped to the side at the last possible moment and landed a vicious kick to Carson’s right shin, following up with a punch to the shoulder with the cuffs. Another kick sent the automatic out of sight, bouncing into the surrounding underbrush.

  The claws skittered across Bran’s right arm, shredding the fabric and lightly slicing the skin. They weren’t deep but I knew they’d be painful.

  I’d had enough of my own.

  The Felis snarled as he spun around and prepared for another charge.

  The blood smell screamed at my senses.

  Carson feinted once, twice, staying well clear of Bran’s armored fist.

  I squinted, studying Carson.

  He was slow, slower than I’d ever seen a Felis move. He was still faster than most humans but something was holding him down, holding him back from his full potential.

  “Concussion,” Trace murmured in my ear as if he’d been reading my mind. “And the bastard hasn’t kept in shape.”

  I bit down on my lower lip, muscles tensing under Trace’s grip. Every nerve, every muscle screamed for me to get out there, get out there and save Bran.

  Problem was he was doing a fine job of that himself.

  Carson leapt forward again, swiping across Bran’s exposed midsection with a force that would have disemboweled a deer with ease.

  Bran threw his hips back and brought down the cuffs hard on the extended right forearm. I wasn’t sure if I’d heard the bone break but from the way Carson yelped and withdrew, cradling the injured arm, it was a definite hit.

  The smell of fresh blood stung my nose. The gouges
across Bran’s torso weren’t deep, but enough to bleed. The only sign of the burning pain was a twitch of his left cheek.

  The wind shifted and a dozen different scents flew into my mind, Felis men and women nearby.

  I scanned the underbrush around the two men as they continued their lethal dance.

  “They’re there,” Trace said to my unasked question.

  “What are they waiting for?”

  He looked at me, a puzzled expression on his face. “For the challenge to finish.”

  “This isn’t a challenge,” I snapped. “He’s not Felis.”

  “He’s enough of one to hold his ground with Carson.” Trace gestured toward the clearing where Bran had just scored another hit on Carson’s injured arm at the cost of another scoring, this time across Bran’s left arm. The tattered remains of the shirt sleeve hung limply from the bloody wounds.

  “You’ve never had a human fight a Felis before?” I barked.

  “No,” Trace replied. There was a tone of wonder in the word. “Why would we?”

  I had nothing to say.

  I’d never seen one either. In the few years I’d been with the Pride, I hadn’t ever seen a human stand up to a Felis, not to the point of physical contact. Usually the Felis gave in and backed down, even in drunken bar fights, knowing we had the advantage and not wanting to exploit it at the risk of being discovered.

  Carson shook the blood out of his eyes and let out a low grumble, the sound rolling up from his belly.

  Bran turned his head to one side and spat on the ground, the scarlet saliva sucked up within seconds by the soil. He grinned and tilted his head to one side, motioning Carson on. There was a glazed look in his eyes, the look of an angry man that would not be denied.

  Carson stiffened for a second, his nostrils twitching.

  He knew we were here.

  He knew there was no way out.

  His eyes darted around the clearing, seeking us out.

  “Don’t move.” Trace’s grip on my arm intensified.

  Carson looked at Bran, a scornful look on his face.

  “Fucking human. I’m going to kill you in front of her,” he declared. “Damned nosy bitch.”

  “Maybe.” Bran smiled. “But she’s my damned nosy bitch.” Bran shifted his feet further apart. “Now shut up and bring it.”

  Carson roared and charged again, his head low like a bull. His claws aimed for Bran’s torso.

  Bran waited until the last minute to react, leaning forward and grabbing him around the waist as if they were sumo wrestlers battling in the ring. His left hand locked Carson’s arm in place as his armored right hand shot up and over, slamming into the back of the chief’s head in a single, sharp strike.

  Carson’s left hand and claws were nowhere in sight. I prayed they weren’t imbedded in Bran’s stomach.

  The pair dropped to their knees as one, the dust rising around them in a long, spinning vortex.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Trace released my arm, letting out a low whistle. “Don’t see that too often.”

  I couldn’t move.

  A rustling came from my right and McCallum emerged from the bushes, unChanged. He wheezed as he crouched down beside me.

  “Damn. Gotta start eating more salads.” He pulled a handkerchief from one pocket and wiped the sweat from his face. He spat on the ground and drew a deep, stuttering breath. “What a fight.”

  I pushed Trace aside and sprinted for the clearing. The thorny branches caught my torn shirt, my jeans, my face—drawing minute scratches over my chin and cheeks.

  Bran gave a heaving sigh as I dropped to my knees beside him. His arms were still wrapped around Carson’s body. The two of them wove from side to side in a slow, agonizing rhythm.

  I waited a long, horrible minute for him to do something, anything.

  Bran coughed and turned his head to the side, spitting out blood. I saw the split lip clearly, the fresh blood invading my senses. His blank eyes came into focus as he stared at me, the recognition chasing away the tunnel vision. A weak smile replaced the bloodlust I’d seen earlier.

  “Damned fool.” He scowled and pushed the unconscious man away. The handcuffs fell off his hand into the dirt and grass.

  Carson fell onto his side, wheezing heavily. Both his hands were tucked into his own torso, claws retracted. He’d pulled back just in time but they’d still left wounds deep enough for stitches. Whatever his attack plan had been it didn’t hold up under a concussion and Bran’s final punch.

  The gouges on Bran’s stomach were superficial and they’d mend. I brushed my fingers over the angry red trails. They’d leave scars, a permanent reminder of this fight.

  Like mine.

  Still on his knees Bran reached out and grabbed me, his hand wrapping around the back of my neck.

  He pulled me toward him, hard, and kissed me.

  I tasted his blood and his anger and his rage and his lust.

  This wasn’t just an “I’m glad to be alive” kiss.

  This was a kiss of domination, of possession.

  He pulled back and rested his forehead on mine, pulling in deep breaths. Drops of blood fell from both our lips as I waited for his next move.

  “Mine,” he growled, sounding more Felis than human.

  I nodded, afraid to speak.

  I wasn’t sure what had just happened here but I knew we were bound by blood, tied together as surely as if we’d just uttered wedding vows.

  He released me and we stood up together.

  I looked around. A circle of Felis formed around us, men and women, Changed and unChanged. They waited in silence, watching us.

  Plussey walked out. He stood by Carson and sniffed the air, his nose wrinkling with disgust.

  “Someone get this piece of shit out of here. He’s spoiling a good camping spot.”

  Carson moaned as the twins stepped up and dragged him to his feet. Mike’s and Dave’s faces were expressionless as they held up their crib brother.

  “You don’t understand,” Carson murmured as he Changed back. “It was just business.”

  I moved in front of the beaten man. A string of bloody saliva dripped from one side of his mouth down to the ground. The gash on his forehead continued to bleed, smeared blood mingling with fresh as Carson weakly struggled against the iron grip of his former enforcers.

  “A man is dead. And even if you didn’t kill him yourself you sure as hell didn’t help save him.” I looked at Plussey. “I don’t know if Hancock could have been saved if he’d gotten proper medical attention in time—we’ll never know that. But it was his duty as a police officer to try.”

  Plussey nodded. “Well put.” One edge of his mouth twisted up into a sneer. “A disgrace to your profession and to this Pride.”

  McCallum came out of the brush, still wiping his face, to stand beside Plussey. Trace followed close behind.

  “You can’t do this to me. I’m on the Board.” Carson ground the words out. “I’m the police chief.”

  “You were all of the above.” McCallum waved the twins away. “Now you’re just a problem.”

  The two men marched out of the clearing, dragging the semi-conscious Carson between them.

  “What are you going to do with him?” Bran spoke, his tone quiet but firm.

  McCallum looked at him. “We’re not going to kill him if that’s what you’re asking.” He smiled. “We’re not animals.”

  “Question is—” Plussey raised his voice, “—who will take his place on the Board?” He let out a chuckle. “Usually the replacement would be the one who beat ’im, but...” He nodded toward Bran. “I doubt you want the job.”

  Bran shook his head.

  I cleared my throat. “Seems to me that the best man for the job is a woman.” This earned me a handful of smiles and a few chuckles, mostly from the female contingent. “I’d nominate Lisa Darning for the job if I had a say.” I spotted her at the edge of the crowd. “She’s got good b
usiness sense and she’s already integrated with the town council. When this story breaks you’re going to need someone steady to ride it through.” I paused, letting the reality sink in for the Pride. “And the story will break. This one isn’t going away.”

  Plussey cleared his throat.

  I spun around. “This is not up for discussion. Hancock was murdered by a human but he was mutilated by a Felis.” I kicked a stone over the dragged tracks Carson had left behind. “Carson set down a false trail hoping we’d follow it to the end.”

  “Why do that?” Lisa asked. She’d made her way to the front and now shifted closer to the other two Board members in a less-than-subtle announcement of her intentions. “Why make it look like a jilted lover?”

  “Because if the body disappeared, dropped into the bush or a wood chipper, then Prosser would know Hancock was onto something and start kicking up a fuss—you’d be up to your necks in reporters and journalists looking for the truth. If he’s killed by an ‘animal’—” I made air quotes with my hands, wincing at the phrasing, “—then she doesn’t have any legal recourse. Suspicious, yes. But she can’t prove anything. She can’t call in the authorities and claim a trained bear clawed him to death.”

  I jerked a thumb in the direction the twins had gone. “Martin calls Carson for help. Carson arrives and either finishes the job or just lets Hancock bleed out. Either way Hancock dies. Carson slashes the body and leaves it for one of his patrolmen to find. Then he supports the decision to bring me down, a neutral party to look for this mystery lover. I can’t find the phantom lady because there isn’t one—I run around in circles.”

  “Then you go home in disgrace,” Bran added. “And the murder just goes away ’cause it’s a Felis killing a human.” The distaste in his voice came through loud and clear. “After all, what’s a dead human here or there?”

  McCallum stepped in front of Bran. “I know we’ve been at odds over most of this but—” he extended his right hand, “—I’d like to thank you for your help. We were...” He swallowed loudly. “We were wrong about the situation.”