Alpha

by Rachel Vincent

  “No!” Jace shouted, as two toms advanced on him.

  Dean shoved the gun into my spine, and Jace burst into action. He swung at the tom on his right, swiping his clawed hand across an exposed flank. The tom howled, and Jace dropped into a roll. He came up with my crowbar, but then Dean dragged me over the threshold and kicked the door shut behind us. I could still hear the fight, but I couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see who was winning, or who might be dying.

  And I couldn’t fight Dean while he still had the pistol.

  “Walk, bitch.” He shoved his gun into my side and pulled me down the hall with him. “What’s with the tape?” He flicked the orange flagging tied to my arm, but I only glared at him. The thunderbirds were our proverbial ace in the hole, and I wasn’t going to tip him off.

  Not that it mattered. Before I could come up with a believable lie—or even a smart-ass, obvious one—an avian screech split the night outside, and Dean’s head jerked up. He shoved the gun harder into my ribs and I flinched while he glanced down the hall.

  “Kent, take your group outside. The bitch brought air support.”

  My father’s office door swung open—it had already been ajar—and Kenton Pierce stepped into the hall, followed by five toms in human form, all carrying guns. The shock of seeing them in my father’s private space was so traumatic that I almost didn’t notice how strange the pistols looked. How long…

  Silencers. Shit! The birds would never know what hit them if they couldn’t hear the guns being fired.

  The men raced past us toward the back door, all armed except for Kent, who probably hadn’t had time for target practice yet. The moment the back door opened, I shouted, “Jace, they have silencers!” Then all I could do was listen as Dean pushed me toward my own room, boiling with rage on the inside. I had to get the gun out of his hands.

  Kent hung back when he saw where we were headed, and a spark of hope blazed through my mounting fear.

  “Don’t you bad guys ever get tired of the same old routine? You threaten rape, I kick your ass, and evil is defeated again. Couldn’t we shake things up? How ’bout you try to smother me with my fluffy pink pillow instead?”

  Kent froze the minute he heard the R-word. “Colin…”

  Dean ignored him. “Sounds like fun. Unfortunately, Malone wants you alive.”

  Kent jogged toward us as Dean shoved me through my own doorway. I went down on my knees, but was up in an instant and spun to face him again, frozen with the gun still aimed at my chest.

  My stomach churned, and bile rose into my throat. “You’re sick.” I backed away from him, desperate for a chance to draw my knife. But I couldn’t do that until he either turned around or got really close.

  “Colin.” Kent Pierce stepped into the doorway, looking almost as sick as I felt. “Don’t do this.”

  Dean shrugged, without ever taking his attention or his aim from me. “She brought this on herself, and no one’s going to care if I break her in.”

  “I care,” Kent said. That made two of us. Kent glanced from me to Dean, and I held my breath, waiting for Dean to succumb to the distraction. “I’m ordering you to…not do this.”

  Oh, yeah. Malone picked a real badass to run his puppet regime…. But I’d take what I could get.

  “I don’t work for you,” Dean said, and I nearly screamed in frustration when he stalked slowly toward me, evidently unbothered by the fly in his ointment.

  “Fine. We’ll see what Cal has to say about it.”

  And finally Dean froze. His forehead furrowed, and his empty hand clenched into a fist. “Cal’s gonna say this!” Dean whirled in a scary-fast roundhouse. His foot hit Kent’s head. I shoved my hand into my pocket and pulled out the folding knife. Kent flew back and smacked his skull on my door frame. I pressed the button and the blade popped out of the handle. Kent went down like a sandbag, out for the count.

  Damn.

  I lunged for Dean as he turned. He swung the gun up. I sliced his right biceps with the knife. He yelled and slapped his free hand over the wound.

  I kicked, high and fast, and the gun flew from his hand. I let go of the knife, dropped to my knees, and lunged for the pistol with my one human hand. Dean stepped on my Shifted paw and kicked the gun under my bed, putting his full weight on my arm. I screamed and jerked my paw free. He kicked me in the stomach, cutting off my air for several precious seconds.

  Before I could suck in my next breath, he was on me, crushing me. He pinned my Shifted arm to the floor and ripped my shirt half-open. My human fist slammed into his ribs. His smashed into my cheek. Pain exploded in my face. I thrashed, trying to throw him off, but he was too heavy. I couldn’t move my legs.

  Dean ripped the rest of my shirt. I stretched for the knife I’d dropped, trying to scoot sideways while the room swam around me. I made it several inches before he reached for the waistband of my jeans.

  “No!” I threw another punch at his face. Blood dripped from his split lip. My pulse whooshed in my ears and I clawed at his fingers with my human hand, trying to free my Shifted paw. His blood ran, slick beneath my nails. I grabbed his thumb and pulled. The digit snapped backward.

  Dean howled, and let go of my paw to cradle his injured hand. I sucked in air, and the room surged back into focus, colors so crisp they were almost painful. Dean punched me with his good hand. I raked my cat paw across his stomach, ripping through cotton and flesh at the same time, silently dedicating the blow to my father.

  Dean screeched and clutched his stomach. Blood soaked us both, hot and sticky. I slashed him again. He shrieked and fell off me. I rolled onto my knees and shoved my paw into the gore his stomach had become, tearing loose great chunks of soft tissue.

  Dean screamed beneath me. His eyes glazed with pain, and still I tore at him, rupturing soft bits I couldn’t identify. There was nothing else in that moment. No war. No pain. No loss. There was only Dean, and blinding rage, and the blessed numbness that came with the bloodlust I’d succumbed to. The room was made of his blood, and I was made to spill it.

  “Faythe?”

  Snarling, I whirled at the sound of my name. Kent stood in the doorway, clutching the frame for support. I leaped up, hissing. He blinked. Then he was gone. His footsteps thundered as he screamed down the hallway.

  I turned back to Dean and surveyed the damage with an odd detachment, part survival instinct, part bloodlust afterglow. His torso was shredded. The carpet was soaked in his blood. It squished beneath my shoes. A loop of his intestines stretched across the floor, where I’d thrown it.

  I backed away slowly, and bloody footprints followed me, pressed into clean carpet by my own boots. Dean would never touch me again. He’d never fire another gun.

  One down, one to go…

  I turned toward the door and caught my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. My face was splattered with blood, my hair tangled with it. My bra and torn shirt were soaked, my bare skin slick and red with it. Bits of gore clung to my jeans.

  But a horrible, atonal shriek from outside ripped through my encroaching shock, and reality slammed into place, so sharp it could not be denied.

  War. My war. My friends and family fighting for their lives.

  I wiped my hands on my jeans, then snatched my knife from the floor, closed it, and shoved it into my pocket, then ran into the hall. I slid a bit on the tile, my boot soles still slick with blood. Then I raced for the back door and shoved the screen open.

  Thirty-four

  For a second, I could only stare. I’d stepped out of my childhood home and into hell.

  All around me, claws flew and cats howled. Blood splattered, and birds dove screeching from the air. Bodies thunked to the ground, bones crunched, and dark forms soared, snarling toward their targets. The backyard was a cacophony of pain and rage, a stunning mosaic of violence unrivaled in my lifetime. In living memory. In U.S. Pride history…

  From my left came a soft thwuk—mechanical, cold, and discordant enough among the more visceral brutality
to pull me from encroaching shock. I turned to find a tom on two legs cowering in the corner formed by the back porch, aiming a silenced pistol at the air. He fired again, and overhead, a thunderbird screeched, wobbling in midflight.

  I raced down the steps and grabbed the crowbar I’d dropped earlier, then rounded the porch toward the coward, glad he couldn’t hear me over the general din or see me in the shadows. I rammed the straight end of my crowbar deep into his gut. The coward screamed and dropped his gun. I yanked my crowbar free, then kicked the gun beneath the porch and moved on, flexing my sore, sticky paw as I went.

  I skirted the backyard battlefield, on the lookout for my mother, Calvin Malone, and other men with guns. On my left, Michael yowled, and I dashed forward to help him, then stopped when he clamped his muzzle over his opponent’s throat. He could handle himself.

  “Faythe!”

  I whirled around to find Jace racing toward me from near the guesthouse. I took several steps in his direction, then stopped when another thwuk sounded on my right. The shooter missed, but took aim again immediately. I swung my crowbar at his gun hand and his arm broke with a satisfying crunch. While he screamed, I bent for his gun and threw it as far away from the fight as I could.

  Jace darted left around a rolling, snarling pair of cats and pulled me farther from the melee. “Are you okay?”

  “Sticky. And pissed.”

  He sniffed, and seemed satisfied to smell only enemy blood. “Dean?”

  “Dead. The hard way.”

  “Are you…” He fingered the edge of my torn shirt. “Did he…?”

  “Not even close. Where’s my mom?”

  “I told her to stay near the guesthouse, but…” Jace suddenly shoved me over and rolled out of the way as a dark form flew toward us. The cat thumped gracefully to the ground and swatted at Jace, claws unsheathed. I swung the crowbar at his left shoulder, and the cat hissed at me, ears flattened against his head. Jace’s Shifted paw arced down, and the cat howled. “Go find your mom!” he shouted, as he and the cat faced off.

  “Thanks. Here!” I tossed him the crowbar—the bad guys were less likely to kill me than they were him—and took off toward the guesthouse with my folding knife in hand, dodging snarling bodies and assessing the carnage as I went.

  We’d attacked before dawn so the night would cover our approach, but that had turned out to be a mixed blessing. The dark was working against the shooters, but it wasn’t helping the thunderbirds, either. They could only clearly see the bodies within the sphere of the porch lights, and when they swooped in, silenced guns thwuked.

  We were outnumbered on the ground, and several of the fallen bodies wore orange tape around their front legs. And those who were left fighting now faced two and three enemy cats apiece, and many had been backed into corners and against walls.

  The three allied Alphas had grouped near the side of the guesthouse, their backs to the walls, swinging makeshift weapons while a couple of allied enforcers fought alongside them, trying to protect them and being shredded for their efforts.

  I veered toward them, knife held ready. “Uncle Rick!” I shouted, and he looked up.

  “Faythe!” Then his eyes went wide. “Look out!”

  Something heavy hit me from behind. I landed facedown in the freezing grass. Hot cat breath puffed against the back of my neck, and my attacker snarled. His claws sank through the remnants of my shirt and pierced my skin.

  I froze. My breath stuck in my throat and refused to budge. My pulse raced. This was it. I was going to die, facedown in my own backyard, killed by some faceless, nameless enemy grunt.

  Something thudded over me—flesh hitting flesh. Pain pricked several points on my back as the claws were ripped loose. Someone snarled. Someone else whined. The whine ended in a gurgle, and the scent of fresh blood thickened on the air.

  I sat up, my pulse roaring in my ears. Ryan stood over the body of my attacker, blinking at me. He licked blood from his muzzle. The other guy gurgled, then breathed his last, blood pouring from his ruined throat.

  Ryan nudged my hand with his head, then clamped his teeth closed over the tail of my torn shirt and tugged me away from the action.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded. But I knew the answer, even if he couldn’t say it. Mom had come, so he’d followed to protect her. And saved my life in the process. “Thank you.” I whispered, giving his head a quick scratch. “Now find Mom.”

  His head bobbed, then Ryan was gone, off on the only mission he’d probably ever accept from me.

  I knelt, groping for my knife in the dark. My fingers closed around cold steel just as a new growl rumbled behind me. I turned slowly, backing away in an awkward crab crawl. The cat followed me, snarling, baring his teeth. I didn’t know him. I didn’t know half these cats, and of those I did recognize, few of them were Malone’s men. His allies had sent toms, too.

  “You want me?” I whispered, and the tom’s head bobbed. “What are you waiting for?”

  He pounced, and I dropped onto my back. His paws landed on my shoulders. I shoved my knife into his stomach and dragged it through his flesh until it snagged on his sternum. Blood poured over me. He fell over sideways without another sound.

  I stood and glanced around, counting the orange strips flapping in the predawn wind. Eight. There were only eight of us left in cat form. The others were all down, and though some were still breathing, they weren’t getting up. And Malone was nowhere to be found.

  On my left, Michael was backing away from three toms. Halfway across the yard, Owen limped away from two more. Teo Di Carlo stood guard in front of his father, bleeding from countless gashes, yet snarling and swiping at four toms.

  We’ve lost….

  My heart ached, and fresh tears rolled down my cheeks, unbidden. I’d led them all into the slaughter.

  Then, suddenly, a thunderbird swooped out of the air, blowing my hair back with the wind he created. He soared toward Owen and raked deadly talons into the side of one of the enemy cats, digging into the flesh at the last minute. His powerful wings flapped, and both bird and squalling, kicking cat rose into the air. Twenty feet up, the thunderbird release his prey. The enemy tom crashed to the ground, unmoving, a fur-covered bag of broken bones and torn flesh.

  I felt like cheering. If the thunderbirds weren’t giving up, even as they were slowly shot from the sky for a fight that wasn’t even theirs, we couldn’t, either.

  We hadn’t lost until I’d bled my last.

  I rushed the toms growling at Michael and shoved my knife between the ribs of the nearest, then swiped my claws across the back of a second. The third jumped Michael, and the other two turned on me, hurt, but not out. I backed away slowly, and suddenly Jace was there.

  He swung the crowbar. The curved end smashed through the first cat’s skull. But before I could swing my blade, a sudden surge of light caught my eye. I glanced up to find my mother standing in the guesthouse doorway, backlit from inside. She stumbled onto the porch, and Malone came out behind her, holding her by one arm.

  The bastard had taken a hostage!

  I pressed my knife into Jace’s palm and had gone two steps when my mother whirled on Malone and punched him in the face. Malone let her go to hold his cheek, then stormed after her.

  My mom ran down the steps. In my peripheral vision, Jace slashed the knife across our opponent’s throat. A dark blur flew out of the shadows toward my mother. A second blur intercepted it, and both bodies fell to the ground.

  Ryan roared. The other cat slashed. His claws raked over Ryan’s abdomen, and my brother collapsed.

  No!

  My mother fell to the ground at his side. Malone tried to pull her up. Jace raced toward them. I ran after them all, then froze when a deep, unearthly roar ripped through the air.

  I turned, and something burst through the tree line. I stared across the yard in confusion as a second huge, dark form emerged from the woods, shoving an entire tree out of the ground in the process.

&n
bsp; “What the hell?” Jace asked, from ten feet away, and I smiled, suddenly warm all over.

  “Bruins. It’s Keller.” And someone else. Hopefully someone else friendly. And as I watched, several smaller forms poured out of the woods behind them. Toms, in cat form. Fresh, and uninjured. Who the hell were they? Where on earth had they come from?

  One stopped in front of the crowd, looking over the carnage. Searching for something. He planted his feet firmly, and roared.

  And my heart plummeted into my stomach.

  “Marc!” I shouted, euphoric, in spite of the bloodbath all around me.

  Jace hesitated. He looked at me, then at Marc. Then he raced toward Malone.

  Marc twisted my way and the other cats surged around him, and absently I noticed that they all wore orange bands around their front legs. And suddenly I understood. Strays. He’d recruited strays to fight for us. And they’d arrived just in time.

  Marc met my glance briefly and bobbed his muzzle. Then he leaped into the fray.

  I picked up the crowbar and wiped it on my torn shirt. Then I jumped back into the fight.

  I swung metal at everything that didn’t have orange tape flapping around its leg. The newcomers were fresh and uninjured. They tore into our enemies like dogs into fresh meat, and the screams that accompanied their involvement gave me a giddy smile.

  Something swiped at my leg, but I barely noticed. I lived for the crunch of bone, the flow of blood. I fed on the screams and the whimpers, working my way through the carnage toward Malone. He was the whole point.

  When I was twenty feet away, Malone screamed. I looked up from the body at my feet to see him backing away from Jace. But he was out of room, and out of options. Malone’s back hit the porch rail. Jace’s fist slammed into his stepfather’s gut. Malone flinched all over, and suddenly I understood. Jace still held my knife. He hadn’t punched Malone; Jace had stabbed him.

  “This is for my mother!” Jace shouted, and his fist flew again. “And for Brett!” He shoved the knife home again, and by then I could smell Malone’s blood. Jace pulled the knife out and pinned Malone to the porch rail by one shoulder. “And this is for my father…” He looked straight into his stepfather’s eyes, and slid the blade across Malone’s throat.