“Manx, you okay?” I leaned over the bench seat with my chin resting on my folded arms.
She never looked away from the window. “That is Atlanta?”
“Yeah. See that big round building? That’s a hotel. I stayed there once with Sara. Her mom took us for a weekend downtown after she graduated from high—” I fell silent when I noticed Vic watching me in the rearview mirror, his eyes brimming with pain and full of nostalgia.
Sara Di Carlo, his only sister, had been raped and murdered seven months earlier by the jungle stray Ryan had fallen in with. Days later, his younger brother, Anthony, died during our attempt to capture Sara’s killers.
The Di Carlo family’s wounds were still fresh, and the tragedy didn’t end there. With no tabby to bear its next generation, their family line would die along with Vic and his brothers, and with no descendants, they would eventually lose control of their territory.
Which was why my father hoped that, if all parties were amenable—and if she survived her trial—Manx might join the southeast Pride. She could never replace Sara, of course. But she could help the Di Carlos hold on to their territory. Help them reclaim their future. If she were willing.
But at the moment, Manx didn’t look very happy to be in Georgia.
“So, we are close?” she asked, and I thought I saw her chin quiver.
Manx was one of the toughest tabbies I’d ever met in my life. Tougher than my mother, who’d once kept the Alphas in line single-handedly, and who’d saved my life only months earlier. Tougher than me, by far. And maybe even tougher than Kaci, who had to live every day of her life knowing what she’d accidentally done to her family. Manx had survived abduction, brutal beatings, the loss of her tail, serial rape, and the murder of two infant sons. Somehow, she’d come out of a living hell stronger than ever, and determined to hunt down the bastard who’d both sired and murdered her children.
But now Luiz was dead, and she was on trial for multiple counts of murder. If she was convicted and sentenced to death, the son she’d fought to save would never even know his mother.
After years of torture and months of running and fighting, now Manx was scared. And it almost broke my heart.
“About forty more miles.” Vic flexed his injured arm stiffly, his free hand still on the wheel. “Mom has the guest room all fixed up for you and Des. She even dug up Sara’s old crib. It’s ancient, and I think it’s pink, but it’ll give him somewhere comfortable to nap.”
The sun had just dipped beneath the horizon when we pulled into the Di Carlos’ long, arched driveway, beyond which their beautiful, old Italianate house was lit by several strategically placed floodlights.
Vic’s family lived outside of Canton, Georgia, in the house they’d bought when Vic was still a toddler, and had been renovating ever since. It looked like a big white-framed box, lined in black-shuttered windows and crowned with four redbrick chimneys. As the SUV bounced over the gravel driveway, headlights illuminated an elaborate porch, complete with columns and latticed arches, lined in evergreen shrubs.
The property sat in the center of a broad, flat lawn that was green in the summer, but brown and crunchy in the middle of January.
In back of the main house stood a large detached garage, above which sat the former servants’ quarters. But the Di Carlos had long ago enclosed the garage and turned the entire building into an apartment, where their enforcers now lived.
Beyond the apartment were several acres of private woodland, a necessity for any large group of werecats. It was a place for them to run, play, and hunt, without being bothered by the surrounding human population.
Since the trial would begin the following morning, I’d expected the driveway to be full, cars parked in rows out back, even. But there were only three vehicles ahead of our van, all of which probably belonged to Vic’s family.
“Where is everyone?” I asked, pushing open the car door. The temperature had dropped when the sun went down, and I pulled my jacket tight around me, shivering in spite of the layer of leather.
Vic stepped onto the driveway, boots crunching on gravel. “The guys park around back. They’re probably in the apartment, lying low.”
Which I could easily understand. Large Alpha gatherings made me nervous, too.
“My mom and dad are both here.” Vic eyed the two cars parked closest to the house. “But I don’t recognize that one.” He nodded to the beige sedan we’d parked behind.
I bent to read the sticker on one corner of the rear windshield. “It’s a rental. Michael must already be here.” Thank goodness. I didn’t want to be the only one representing my family, even just for a few hours. As much progress as I’d made in the think-before-you-speak department, slip-ups still happened, at the worst possible times, and Alphas Gardner and Mitchell were already angry enough with the south-central Pride.
“My dad said the Alphas all took rooms in town, so they probably won’t show up until tomorrow morning,” Vic said, as if he’d read my mind. Or my expression.
“Oh.” Good.
At the back of the van, Brian was stacking luggage on the ground. I zipped up my jacket and grabbed two suitcases, then followed Vic up the sidewalk toward the house. We were halfway there when the door creaked opened and a tiny woman in creased jeans and a dark blouse appeared on the porch.
“Victor!” Donna Di Carlo raced down the steps and stood on tiptoe to hug her son, heedless of the bags he held, or the cold that must have blown instantly through her thin shirt. She looked older than when I’d last seen her, the lines on her face deeper, her hair grayer. Losing two children was likely the hardest thing she’d ever endure, but Vic’s mother was strong; she hadn’t let it kill her.
In that respect, she reminded me of Manx.
“Why does it take a tragedy to get you to visit? Just once I’d like to see you when nothing’s wrong. When you just came home to say, ‘Mom, I love you.’”
“Mom, I love you.” Vic grinned, but there was pain beneath his pleasant expression. He hadn’t seen his parents since Sara and Anthony’s funeral, and I suspected he wouldn’t see them again for quite a while. Because being home made him remember.
“That’s much better. Now go put those bags in the front hall before they freeze out here.” Vic did as he was told, and his mother turned her eagle-sharp eyes on me. “Faythe Sanders, I’d say it was nice to see you, if you didn’t look so thin. Has your mother stopped cooking?”
“No, ma’am, and I haven’t stopped eating, either.” I smiled. “But I burn a lot of energy on the job.”
“Job?” She looked confused for a moment, hands propped on hips that flared from her tiny waist. “Oh, yes. You’re enforcing for your father. Hardly a proper line of work for a young woman, but if you’re going to fight like a man, I can certainly feed you like one.” Her smile softened the sting of her censure. “Come on in. We’re about to sit down to a big pot of gumbo. You like gumbo, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I followed her up the porch stairs and into the long central hallway, where I dropped the bags I carried next to those Vic had abandoned before he’d disappeared.
“Bert, come on out and say hi,” she said, taking the jacket I shrugged out of.
But before Umberto Di Carlo appeared, soft footsteps clicked on the hardwood behind us, and I turned to find Manx standing in the doorway, a blanket-wrapped bundle clutched close to her chest. Her gray eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed from the cold beneath her smooth, olive complexion.
“Well, you must be Mercedes.” Mrs. Di Carlo propped her hands on her hips again and stepped forward boldly to inspect Manx, who towered over her by at least six inches. “My, aren’t you a beauty. I’ll have to warn my boys to keep their distance.”
Whether she was thinking of Manx’s fear of being touched, or her status as a serial killer, I wasn’t sure. Either way, her greeting obviously wasn’t what Manx had expected. The tabby stared at Vic’s mother and clutched the baby tighter.
“Well, come on in before
you let out all the heat.” Mrs. Di Carlo ushered Manx into the entry, and Brian slipped inside carrying two more suitcases before she could close the door. “And who is this little gentleman?” Mrs. Di Carlo leaned over to peer at the baby’s face, the only exposed part of his tiny body.
“This is Desiderio Carreño.” Manx’s eyes went soft as her gaze fell on her baby. “He smiled just this morning.”
“Did he!” Mrs. Di Carlo beamed, clearly thrilled by the news, though she’d barely even met the child. “Well, this is a pleasure. We haven’t had a baby in the house in such a long time. I’ll show you to your room.”
Manx and Brian trailed our hostess up the central staircase, and they’d no sooner vanished from sight than a door opened down the hallway, admitting Umberto Di Carlo into the entry. His wide-set brown eyes brightened the moment they landed on me.
“Faythe! Come in and warm up. Your brother and I were about to indulge in a predinner drink. Join us!” He turned without waiting for my reply, and I followed him through an arched doorway into a room filled with overstuffed furniture, dark woods and thick rugs. On the far side of the room, facing a cozy arrangement of couches and chairs, logs blazed in a stone fireplace, casting jumping shadows on the warm, wood-paneled walls.
Michael stood when we entered, frowning in concern the moment his eyes found mine. “Dad told me about the ambush. Are you okay?” He took my arm before I could protest and pushed my sleeve up carefully to expose the half-healed bite marks I hadn’t bothered to rebandage that morning.
“I’m fine. None of us was seriously injured, which is a miracle, considering how badly we were outnumbered.”
Michael looked half relieved and half jealous to have missed the excitement.
“Sit!” Vic’s father ordered pleasantly, after a glance at my new scars. His footsteps thundered as he crossed the room toward a small cherry bar in one corner. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Scotch?” Michael sank onto the left-hand sofa beside me, and Bert nodded in approval.
“Just like your father.” He pulled a half-empty bottle of Chivas Regal from beneath the bar and poured an inch into two short glasses, then looked up at me. “Faythe?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” I’d had enough alcohol the night before to last the rest of the month, at least.
He nodded and crossed the room to hand one glass to Michael. Then he sat on the sedate green couch opposite us, resting a thick hand on the scrolled arm. “So, how are things at the Lazy S?”
“A little tense right now,” I admitted, scuffing the toe of my boot on the red and gray rug.
Michael cleared his throat. “I can’t tell you how much my father appreciates your support, especially at a time like this.”
Di Carlo nodded gravely, and I could see that his decision to back our dad hadn’t been made lightly. “The council’s going to hell in a handbasket, Michael, and if someone doesn’t stand up to Calvin Malone, it’s only going to get worse. But I’m afraid this one won’t be won easily.”
“Nothing worthwhile ever is.” Michael frowned sagely, and I knew the conversation would turn quickly to unpleasant politics. If I didn’t deliver my message soon, I’d lose my chance.
“Mr. Di Carlo…”
“Child, call me Bert.” He grinned, and leaned toward me conspiratorially. “I saw you streak through your father’s office in the buff when you were no higher than my knee. I’d say that makes us friends.”
I flushed, but nodded. “Bert, my father has an idea he wanted me to mention to you. About Manx. Mercedes. Assuming the tribunal finds in her favor…Well, she’s lost her whole family, and you’ve lost your daughter…” I broke off, unsure how to continue. Saying it aloud made it sound like I was trying to restructure the Di Carlo family—sticking my nose in where it definitely didn’t belong.
But Bert finished the thought for me. “Your father thought we might want to keep her?”
“Well…” I wouldn’t have phrased it quite that way, but…“Yes. Assuming she gets along with everyone. And wants to stay, of course.”
Bert nodded and sipped from his glass. “I have to admit I’ve had similar thoughts. Your father assures us that her crimes were the result of severe physical and emotional trauma…”
“Of the worst sort,” Michael interjected solemnly.
“…and that she’s no longer dangerous. Do you agree with his assessment?”
I really wished he hadn’t asked me that. But sure enough, the Alpha was looking at me, rather than at my older, wiser brother, and I wasn’t going to bullshit one of my father’s few sworn allies.
“Mr. Di Carlo—Bert—Manx has survived things I can’t even imagine suffering. Horrors no one should ever have to experience. For years, she was never touched by a man who didn’t hurt her. Years. And the very thing that pulled her through—an iron-hard survivalist instinct—is what led her to kill those toms. They touched her. She thought they were going to hurt her, or her unborn baby. So she defended herself. Preemptively.”
I hesitated on the next part, then finally leaned forward to let him see how earnest I was. “Is there a possibility it could happen again? Yes. Unfortunately, I think there is. If she feels threatened, I think she would lash out in self-defense. Or baby-defense. But she’s been with us for four months now and has never raised a hand to anyone. I think if you give her a chance to get used to your family, and to the idea that no one here means her any harm, she’ll come around eventually. I think she wants a normal life, and it won’t take too much effort to convince her that you can be trusted.”
For a moment, the southeast Pride’ s Alpha only stared at me, still processing my blunt speech. As was Michael. “I see,” Di Carlo said finally. Then he smiled. “Well, I suppose it’s worth a shot. Assuming the tribunal sees fit to let her live.”
And I knew from personal experience just how big an if that really was.
Six
“Well, this looks nice.” Once you get over all the pink. I ran my hand along the crib railing and nudged one of the mobile’s lace butterflies into motion. Vic said his parents had set up a crib for Des, but he hadn’t mentioned any of the other stuff. My gaze took in a white wicker rocking chair, some kind of bouncy seat with stuffed bumble bees suspended over it, a changing table piled high with accessories and necessities, and a dirty-diaper storage…contraption…thing. Which I was pretty sure hadn’t even been invented when Sara was born.
The Di Carlos had gone shopping for Manx’s baby.
“Very nice,” Manx agreed. But tears stood in her eyes, and in spite of the room full of furnishings, she still clutched the baby to her chest, as if he were the only thing keeping her above water in a swirling, churning whirlpool of fear and confusion.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, then immediately regretted the question. What wasn’t wrong? “Do you want to…maybe…put him down while you get settled in?” I gestured awkwardly toward the crib, and Manx glanced at the baby bed as if seeing it for the first time.
But instead of moving toward it, she met my gaze, her gray eyes magnified by tears. “What will happen to me, Faythe? The truth. Vic says all will be fine. What do you say?”
Well, shit. I picked up a stuffed lamb from one corner of the crib and played absently with the soft, curly wool. “Manx, I honestly don’t know. This is kind of unprecedented.” I was the only other tabby who’d ever been on trial in the U.S., and my case wasn’t much like hers, in spite of the surface similarities. The charges against her were more serious—three counts of murder to my one count each of murder and infection—yet her chances of getting off were much greater than mine.
Which was probably exactly what she needed to hear.
“Okay, on the bright side, I don’t think they’ll vote to execute.” I glanced at Manx, then at the door open into the hall. Everyone else was downstairs, and none of the tribunal members had arrived yet, but I wasn’t taking any chances. “Why don’t you sit? I need to explain something to you.”
Manx�
��s beautiful lips thinned in dread, but in the end her curiosity won out. While I closed the door, she laid the sleeping baby in the crib, then collapsed into the rocker as if it were a massage chair. I settled cross-legged onto the bed.
“Okay…” In the absence of my own punching pillow, I had to make do with a frilly sham from Manx’s temporary bed. I pulled it onto my lap and traced the lacy pattern as I spoke. “You’re on trial for killing three toms, but that’s not all this hearing is about.”
Her forehead knit into several thin lines. “What does that mean?”
I wasn’t sure how much my mother had already explained to her, so I started at the beginning. “It’s political.” From what I’d gathered, the South American Prides’ council held much less authority over individual Prides than ours did, so our political struggles were largely foreign to her. “You know my dad was suspended as head of the Territorial Council a little while ago, right?” I asked. She nodded. “Well, his enemies will probably try to use your trial to manipulate more Alphas into siding against my father. This is as much about him and the way he dealt with your…crimes as it is about you.”
Her frown deepened. “I do not understand.”
I exhaled slowly, struggling with how best to explain. “Some people think my father should have punished you for killing Jamey Gardner. Jamey’s brother Wes is Alpha of the Great Lakes Pride, and Wes is pushing for the death penalty for you.”
Manx nodded, but her hand began to tremble on the arm of the rocker. She’d known execution was a possibility, of course, but knowing something and hearing it spoken aloud were two entirely different animals. To which I could personally attest.
“But like I said, I don’t think they’ll do that. You are a tabby, and we really don’t have any of those to spare.” Which was probably the only reason I was still breathing.
The tribunal had threatened me with execution, too, but that threat had merely been a bargaining chip meant to force Marc out of the Pride and me into a marriage with someone else. Someone they considered a more appropriate match for me than a stray.
Prey Page 6
