“Stand up and Shift so you can speak,” I said, desperately hoping he spoke either English or Spanish. Because he could be from Chile, for all we knew. Or Pluto, for that matter.
For a moment, he only stared at us, hostility gleaming in his shiny eyes. Or maybe that was water from his rude awakening. But when Marc re-aimed the hose, the bird stood slowly and spread his arms. His left one was reluctant, and he flinched as he forced it into place, flexing his wing-claws as if to show them off. Then he cocked his head to one side, like he was thinking, and closed both eyes. A very soft, eerie whispering sound seemed to skitter across my spine, and I watched in fascination as his feathers receded into his skin and his arms began to shorten.
It happened in seconds.
Marc and I stood in silent shock.
The fastest Shift I’d ever accomplished was just under a minute, and I was one of the fastest Shifters I’d ever met. Probably because I’m smaller than most toms—thus have less body to change—and more experienced than most teenagers, who have less to change than even I do.
But this bird—every bird, if the sample we’d seen was any indication—had me beat, paws down. Or talons down, as the case may be. And his Shift was weird. The fur that receded in my own was only an inch long, and not much thicker than human hair, but feathers had long, stiff quills. There was no way feathers twelve to fourteen inches long should have slid so quickly and easily into his skin.
Yet there the thunderbird stood, fully human and unabashedly naked, watching us in obvious, wary hatred. He was short—no more than five foot four—and thin, with a disproportionately powerful upper body and spindly legs. He would pass for human if he were clothed, but he would definitely stand out, though most people would be unable to explain exactly why.
While we stared, he ran his right hand over his thick chest and narrow waist, casually touching the gashes Owen had carved into him. His hand came away bright red. The water had washed away dried and crusted blood and had reopened the wounds. He held his left arm stiffly at his side, and when I looked closer, I could see that it was lumpy. Obviously broken, and certainly very painful. But he made no sound, nor any move to cradle his injury.
“What is this?” The thunderbird’s voice was gravelly and screechy, as if he spoke in two tones at once. It was a strange sound, oddly fitting for his unusual build.
“I’m Marc Ramos. This is Faythe Sanders. We ask the questions.” Marc knelt to set the nozzle at his feet, then stood and met my gaze, gesturing with one hand toward the prisoner. He wanted me to take the lead. Just like my father, he was always training me.
My dad had told us to start without him—he wanted to break the news to Ed Taylor personally—so I stepped forward, careful to stay out of reach of the bars. Waaaay out of reach, because of how long his arms could grow and how fast he Shifted. Even injured. “What’s your name?” I crossed both arms over my chest and met the bird’s dark glare.
He only blinked at me and repeated his own question. And when I didn’t answer, he smiled—an expression utterly absent of joy—and cocked his head to the other side in a jerky, birdlike motion. “This is your nest, right? Your home? That ground-level hovel you cats burrow into, for what? Warmth? Safety? You huddle in dens because you cannot soar. I pity you.”
My eyebrows shot up over the disgust dripping from his every syllable. “Maybe you should pity yourself. You’re still bleeding, and it looks like you’ve broken a wing. You’re in good company.” I held up my own graffitied cast. “But mine’s been fixed. If yours doesn’t get set properly, you can’t fly, can you? Ever.”
His narrowed eyes and bulging jaw said I was right. That I’d found his weak spot.
“Our doctor is just a couple of hours away.” Dr. Carver had already been called in to treat Owen. “But you won’t get so much as a Band-Aid until you tell us what we want to know. Starting with your name.”
The thunderbird cradled his crooked arm, but his gaze did not waver. “Then I will never fly again.” He looked simultaneously distraught and resolute—I’d seldom seen a stronger will.
“Seriously?” I took a single step closer to the bars, judging my safety by distance. “You’re going to cripple yourself for life over your name? What good will you be to your…flock, or whatever, if you’re jacked up for the rest of your life?”
Doubt flickered across his expression, chased away almost instantly by an upsurge of stoicism. “The rest of my life? Meaning, the three seconds between the time I spill my guts and you rip them from my body? I’d say a broken arm is the least of my problems.”
I rolled my eyes. “We’re not going to kill you.”
“Right. You’re going to fix me up and toss me out the window with a Popsicle stick taped to one wing.” He shrugged awkwardly with the shoulder of his good arm, leaning against the cinder-block wall for support. “I’ve seen this episode. This is the one where Sylvester eats Tweety.”
“If memory serves, Sylvester never actually swallowed, and while I love a good poultry dinner, we can’t kill you without proof you’ve killed one of ours. And you don’t match this.” I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the fourteen-inch feather I’d found next to Jake’s body. I’d stored it shaft-first, to preserve the pattern of the vane.
The difference was subtle but undeniable. Our prisoner’s feathers were dark brown, with three thick, horizontal black stripes. But the one in my hand had two thick stripes and one thin, in the middle.
Marc stepped up when the thunderbird’s forehead furrowed as he stared at the feather. “We can’t kill you, and you’re entitled to water and two meals a day.” At least, that’s what the council said a werecat prisoner was entitled to. We didn’t actually have any precedent for how to treat prisoners of another species. “But we don’t have to tend your injuries or let you go, so you’ll stand there in pain for as long as it takes you to start talking.”
“Then I suppose I should make myself comfortable.” The thunderbird’s gaze openly challenged Marc, who had at least ten inches and thirty pounds on him, without a hint of fear.
Marc’s inner Alpha roared to life; I saw it in the gold specks glittering madly in his eyes. I laid my casted arm across his stomach an instant before he would have rushed the bars. Which would only have convinced the prisoner he was right in refusing to talk.
I’d just realized something that might actually come in handy. The bird was clearly devastated by the thought of never flying again, in spite of his willingness to endure it. He hated our low-lying dwelling and the thought of “huddling” in it.
“Yes, make yourself comfortable.” I extended my good arm to indicate the entire basement. “It stays pretty warm in here, thanks to the natural insulation of earth against cinder block.…”
The bird’s forehead furrowed and his legs twitched, as if he were fighting the impulse to stand. Or to try to flee. His dark gaze roamed the large, dim room and finally settled on one of the only two windows—short, narrow panes of glass near the ceiling, which came out at ground level outside.
“We’re underground?” His odd, raspy voice was even rougher than usual.
“Yup. You’re not only in our ‘ground-level hovel,’ you’re beneath it. Trapped in the earth. Completely buried, if you will.” He flinched at my word choice, but I continued. “You won’t see the sky again until you answer our questions. And I can have those windows blacked out right now, if you want the full effect.”
Panic shone in his eyes like unshed tears. I was right. Our prisoner—and likely most thunderbirds—suffered from a fascinating combination of claustrophobia and taphephobia, the fear of being buried alive. And I was more than willing to exploit that fear, if it made him talk without endangering either of us.
“Or, I can open them and let you see outside.”
The bird’s silent struggle was obvious as he fought to keep his expression blank. To hide the terror building inside him with each breath. But I knew that fear. I’d been locked up more than once, and while I wasn�
�t afraid of being swallowed by the earth, I did fear the loss of my freedom just as keenly as he feared his current predicament.
But the bird was strong, obviously unaccustomed to giving in, to either his fear or his enemies. He’d need a little shove.…
“Can you feel it?” I scooted just far enough forward to be sure the motion caught his attention. “Those bricks at your back? They’re holding back tons of dirt and clay. Solid earth. There’s nothing but eight inches of concrete standing between you and death by asphyxiation. Or maybe the weight would crush you first. Either way, live interment. Can’t you almost taste the soil…?”
Marc was staring at me like I’d lost my mind. Or like I’d crossed some line he would never even have approached. But I’d seen him work. He’d readily pound the shit out of a prisoner to get the information he needed. How could my calm, psychological manipulation be any worse than that?
The bird had his eyes closed and was breathing slowly, deliberately, through his mouth, trying to calm himself.
“Honestly? I can’t let you out. Even if I wanted to, I don’t have the authority.” I shrugged, lowering my tone to a soothing pitch. “But I can make this much easier for you. We can open those windows, and even the door.” I pointed at the top of the staircase. “In the morning, you’ll see sunlight from the kitchen. That’d be better, right? Might just make this bearable?”
“Open the door,” he demanded, the dual tones of his voice almost united in both pitch and intensity. Feathers sprouted from his arms, and one fluttered to the floor. He flinched and his left arm jerked. Startled, I jumped back and smacked my bad elbow on Marc’s arm. He steadied me with one hand, and I stepped forward again. The thunderbird hadn’t noticed. His focus was riveted on the closed door, as if he were willing it to open on its own. “Open it,” he repeated.
“Give me your name.”
“Open the window.” He forced his gaze from the door and met mine briefly, before his head jerked toward the closed windows and his hair disappeared beneath a crown of shorter, paler brown feathers.
“Your name.”
He groaned, and his legs began to shake against the concrete floor, his knobby knees knocking together over and over. “Kai.”
“Kai what?” I stepped closer to the bars, thrilled by my progress and fascinated by his reaction.
“We don’t have last names. We aren’t human.” He spat the last word as if it were an insult, as if it burned his tongue, in spite of the sweat now dripping steadily from his head feathers.
“Get the window.” I turned to Marc, but he was already halfway across the basement. He flipped the latch on the first pane and tilted the glass forward.
Cold, dry air swirled into the room, almost visible in the damp warmth of the basement. Kai exhaled deeply. His crown feathers receded into his skull and he opened his eyes. He wasn’t all better. It would take more than a fresh breeze for that. But he could cope now.
“Good. Now, let’s get acquainted.” Metal scraped concrete at my back, and I sank into the folding metal chair Marc had set behind me. “Where do you live? Where is your flock?”
“It’s a Flight,” he spat. “And you couldn’t get there if you wanted to. But you don’t want to. Trust me.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’d shred you in about two seconds.”
“Like your friend shredded ours? In the field just past the tree line?”
Kai cocked his head again and raised one brow. “Something like that.”
“Why can’t I get to your home?”
“Because you can’t fly.”
“What does that mean?” Marc set a second chair beside mine. “You live in a tree? ’Cause we can climb.”
But Kai only set his injured arm in his lap and pressed his lips firmly together. He was done talking about his home.
“Fine.” I thought for a moment. “How ’bout a phone number? We need to talk to your Alpha. Or whatever you call him. Or her.”
Kai shook his head and indulged a small smile. “No phone.”
“Not even a land line?” Marc asked, settling into the second chair.
“Especially not a land line.” The bird paused, and after a calming glance at the open window, he let contempt fill his gaze again, then aimed it at both of us like a weapon. “Your species has survived this long by sheer bumbling luck. By constantly mopping up your own messes. We’ve survived this long by staying away from humans and by not making messes in the first place. We don’t have phones, or cable, or cars, or anything that might require regular human maintenance. Other than a few baubles like programs on disk to entertain our young, we have nothing beyond running water and electricity to keep the lights working and the heat going.”
I grinned, surprised. “You need heat? Why don’t you just migrate south for the winter?”
Kai scowled. “We are south for the winter. Our territorial rights don’t extend any farther south than we live now.”
I filed that little nugget of almost-information away for later. “Okay, so you live like the Amish. How can one get in touch with your…Flight?”
Kai almost smirked that time. “In person. But in your case, that would be suicide.”
I couldn’t stop my eyes from rolling. “So you’ve said. Why exactly is your flock of Tweetys ready to peck us to death on sight?”
The thunderbird’s eyes narrowed, as if he wasn’t sure he could trust my ignorance. “Because your people—your Pride—” again he said it like a dirty word “—killed one of our most promising young cocks.”
I blinked for a moment over his phrasing and almost laughed out loud. Then his meaning sank in. Male thunderbirds were called cocks. Seriously. Like chickens.
And he thought we’d killed one of theirs?
“We will attack until our thirst for vengeance is sated, even if we have to pick you off one by one.”
I glanced at Marc in confusion before turning back to the bird. “What the hell are you talking abou—” But my question was aborted for good at the first terrified shout from above.
I glanced up the stairs toward the commotion—deeply pitched cries for help and rapid, heavy footsteps—then back at Kai. The thunderbird was grinning eagerly. His anticipation made my stomach churn.
Then Kaci’s panicked screeching joined the rest, and I raced up the concrete steps with Marc at my heels.
Five
I threw open the door and we burst into the kitchen in time to see my uncle Rick and Ed Taylor tear down the wide central hallway toward the back door, momentarily shocked out of fresh grief by whatever new horror had just ripped its way into our lives.
Marc passed me in the hall, and I was the last one out of the house—other than Owen, who looked frustrated and furious to be confined to his bed. By the time I made it onto the small, crowded back porch, the screaming had stopped, though I could still hear Kaci sobbing softly somewhere ahead. The only other sounds were the quiet murmurs of several Alphas trying to figure out what had happened and someone’s agonized, half-coherent moans.
My heart thumped as I made my way down three steps and onto the pale winter grass, politely nudging and tapping shoulders to make a path for myself. Fifty feet from the porch, the Alphas stood huddled around a masculine form whose face I couldn’t yet see. My mother knelt on the ground by the tom’s head, but she seemed to be talking to him rather than administering first aid.
At the edge of the surrounding crowd, Manx stood with Des cradled in one arm, the other wrapped around Kaci’s shoulders as tears streamed down the young tabby’s face.
A shallow breath slipped from me in relief when I saw that she was okay, if terrified. Until I realized Jace wasn’t with her.
No…
I edged toward the form on the ground, my pulse racing as I tried to remember whether or not he had a pair of brown hiking boots, which was all I could clearly see of the injured tom. But I didn’t know Jace like I knew Marc. I didn’t have his wardrobe memorized, nor could I predict what he w
ould say or do in any given situation. Yet my relief was like aloe on a sunburn when Jace stepped up on my left, miraculously uninjured. His hand brushed mine, but he didn’t take it, well aware that Marc was on my other side. And that we were surrounded by people.
“It’s pretty bad,” Jace whispered.
“Who is it?” I made no move for a closer look.
“Charlie.” Charles Eames was my uncle’s senior enforcer. His older brother was John Eames, the geneticist who’d discovered the truth about how strays were infected, and about Kaci’s “double recessive” heritage. Their father had been an Alpha up north when I was little, but none of his sons married. When he retired, his territory went to his son-in-law, Wes Gardner. Who was now firmly allied with Calvin Malone.
That particular tangle of family ties was just one example of why civil war would devastate the U.S. Prides. There were only ten territories, and everyone I knew had friends and relatives in most of the other Prides. Drawing lines of allegiance was very delicate work, and keeping them in place would be nearly impossible.
Charlie groaned again, and I steeled my spine, then stepped forward for a closer look. Marc came with me, and we knelt opposite my mother beside the downed tom. It took most of my self-control to hold in my gasp of shock and horror at what I saw.
Charles Eames lay with his head turned toward my mother, staring at her as if she were a meditative focal point. Perhaps the only thing keeping him conscious. Both of his arms and one leg were crooked—obviously broken at multiple points—and the bone actually showed through the torn skin of his left arm, where someone had ripped his sleeve open to expose the injury. Blood pooled from his arm, still oozing from the open wound.
“Needed a cigarette,” Charlie whispered to my mom. “Was only a few feet from the porch.” His eyes closed and he flinched as he drew in a deep breath.
My mother frowned and began unbuttoning his shirt. Gently she pulled the material from the waistband of his jeans and laid his shirt open to expose his torso. The left side of his chest was already blue and purple; at the very least, he’d broken several ribs, on the same side as his broken leg and the arm with the open fracture. He’d landed on his left side.
Shift Page 5
