Pride

by Rachel Vincent

  “I’m not cold.” Yet I clutched the blanket anyway, because it was chenille, and it felt good, while I felt like shit.

  Jace stepped around my seat and pulled an empty chair closer, and when he sat, his knees brushed mine. “You’re shivering.”

  “No I’m n-n…” But I was. My hair was still damp from my shower. That was it.

  “It’s okay.” His cobalt eyes met my yellow-green ones. “You saved his life.”

  I shook my head, thinking of the Alphas gathered in the dining room to discuss my latest mishap. “They won’t believe that.”

  “Screw ’em.” Jace scowled, and I knew what he really meant was, “Screw Calvin.” “They’ll figure it out. And if they don’t, Colin will tell them what happened when he wakes up.”

  “Sure.” Assuming he does wake up. He’d hit the countertop pretty hard.

  The Alphas had put Colin and Brett in one of the downstairs bedrooms of the main lodge so they could be cared for more easily. Neither tom had opened his eyes in the hour since, which was starting to seriously worry everyone.

  And frankly, the outcome wasn’t looking good for me either—apparently being found with two unconscious guards and one dead stray did not cast a favorable light upon my innocence.

  The kitchen screen door squealed open behind me. “What happened?” Marc demanded as it thumped shut.

  My eyes closed, and my pulse jumped. I inhaled deeply to get a whiff of his scent, which made my blood rush even faster.

  “Short version?” Jace headed for the coffeepot as Marc crossed the room toward me. “Brett got mauled by a stray. Colin wouldn’t help, so Faythe knocked him out and killed the stray. With a meat mallet.”

  “You okay?” Marc knelt at my side, brow furrowed in concern.

  “Fine.” I sat straighter and shrugged off the blanket to hide how shaken I really was. “He never laid a claw on me.”

  “I didn’t mean physically.”

  I blinked up at Marc, aching to touch him. To deserve his comfort. “I’m fine. I did what had to be done.”

  “Spoken like a true enforcer,” he said, and I smiled. That was a very big compliment, coming from Marc.

  Ceramic clinked against Formica, and Jace handed me a fresh mug of coffee as Marc slid into the chair on my left.

  “Thanks.” I’d already had enough caffeine to kick-start Frankenstein’s monster, but I took the mug anyway, grateful that anyone was willing to speak to me—much less fix me coffee—in spite of the blood on my hands. Literally. I eyed the reddish crust dried beneath my right thumbnail. Apparently I’d missed a spot in the shower.

  “How are Brett and Colin?” Marc asked.

  Jace pulled out the chair on my right and sat. “They’re as comfortable as we can make them until the doc gets here.”

  Dr. Carver. He was already on his way to testify about the condition of Andrew’s body when we’d brought it home for disposal, but he’d find his bedside manner more in demand than his testimony.

  I stared into my mug, treasuring the warmth of my coffee even more than the scent. “What’d they do with the body?”

  “It’s out back under a tarp,” Jace said. “We’ll bury him in the woods when they’re done examining him.”

  “They find anything?”

  Jace shrugged. “He’s newly infected. Less than a week, most likely, since his original scratches haven’t healed yet. They think he was still feverish, and that’s why he came so close to the complex. He was probably looking for food, and found Brett instead. Hell, he might’ve thought Brett was food.”

  Still feverish. I sipped from my mug, thinking. Newly infected strays suffered from disorientation, high fever and intense hunger for several days after being scratched or bitten. Many strays did not survive the transitional illness—called scratch fever—and of those who did, many more died during or soon after their first Shift.

  The stray in question had obviously survived both. But he hadn’t survived me. And as justified as I felt in killing the strange cat to save Brett, I couldn’t suppress a pang of sympathy for the stray, who was likely out of his mind with pain and hunger when he’d attacked.

  “What can they tell about his infector?”

  Marc leaned with one shoulder against the living-room doorway. “Only that it’s no one we know.” Which meant that the trace of his infector’s base scent, which ran through the stray’s blood, belonged to a stranger. Likely another stray. In theory, we could trace a stray’s lineage from his base scent back to his infector’s scent, and back even further if that cat were also a stray. But that ability would do us no good without a suspect with whom to compare scents.

  “So whoever infected him is local.” Because no stray could have traveled far from wherever he was attacked while still in the grip of scratch fever. “But that could be anyone.” Since we were in a free zone, whatever local werecat population there was would be made up of strays and wildcats, who were not known for cooperating with Pride authority.

  But before I could take that thought somewhere productive, the makeshift-infirmary door opened into the living room and the Alphas filed out, Malone going off at the mouth as usual. “…and I want her locked up, until we can figure out what really happened.”

  “Why don’t you ask her?” I snapped, both brows raised at the Appalachian Alpha. All heads turned my way, and my father shook his sharply, warning me to let him handle Malone. But it was too late for that.

  Especially once Malone answered, glaring at me from across two rooms. “You’ll be interviewed soon. Don’t worry about that.”

  “The only thing I’m worried about is hell freezing over before I get a chance to speak freely in my own defense,” I snapped, fury scalding my cheeks.

  “Faythe, that’s enough!” My father was mad. Very, very mad. But beneath the rage turning his face a scary shade of crimson lurked an even more frightening fear. He was afraid for me. Afraid my own mouth would seal my fate. And he was probably right to worry.

  I averted my eyes, submitting to my Alpha without actually apologizing—a face-saving technique I’d picked up from Marc.

  “I think she deserves to be heard.” Marc’s voice was quiet, not quite a whisper, but perfectly audible.

  Malone scowled. “The tribunal will question her when we reconvene.”

  “This isn’t part of the hearing.” Marc pushed back his chair and stood, facing off against Malone. “She saved your son’s life, and the least you owe her is your gratitude. In lieu of that, she deserves the chance to tell us what happened.”

  My heart thumped against my rib cage, and my skin tingled with excitement. Marc was saying everything I wanted to say to Malone, and I felt as if I should contribute something to his argument. A show of solidarity. But other than a thick, foggy amazement, my mind was a complete blank.

  Normally, I would take my cue from my father, but he seemed uninclined to interrupt, probably curious to see how far Marc would take his stance. Our Alpha was training him—training us both—to take over for him someday, and he considered experience an invaluable instructor.

  I had my doubts, but I wasn’t going to argue with any tactic that gave me the chance to be heard.

  Malone didn’t even glance at me, though that tick was back at the corner of his mouth. “I’m sure Faythe doesn’t mind waiting for the appropriate forum.”

  “She can speak for herself,” I snapped, forcing him to acknowledge me.

  “That’s what he’s afraid of,” Jace whispered behind his mug.

  “What was that?” Malone demanded.

  Bold anger shined in Jace’s eyes. “Marc’s right. This has nothing to do with the hearing, so you have no authority in the matter. She doesn’t need your permission to speak.”

  For a moment, there was shocked silence as everyone processed Jace’s reply. Even my father looked astounded, both brows rising over wide eyes.

  Then rage flooded Malone’s face, and his jaw bulged beneath a thin, trim beard. “No one pulled your string,
boy!” he shouted, anger thickening his Appalachian accent. “You keep sticking your muzzle in where it doesn’t belong and someone’s going to break it off.”

  Suddenly my father seemed much taller than his six-foot frame, much bulkier than his solid-but-trim build. “You threaten another one of my men, Calvin, and you and I are going to have a serious problem.”

  Malone spoke through clenched teeth. “He’s my son.”

  “Stepson,” Jace spat, as if even the legal connection to Malone left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Marrying my mother did not make you my father.”

  Even my father flinched over that one. But he didn’t back down. “He’s my enforcer, and as such, you will respect him.” He turned toward those of us in the kitchen and continued before Malone could respond. “And you will respect him as an Alpha. Mutual respect. Understand?”

  Marc and I nodded silently.

  “Yes, sir.” Jace looked simultaneously nauseated over his own gall and relieved by my father’s interruption.

  Malone nodded curtly, still obviously fuming.

  My father’s shoulders relaxed and tension drained from his face as easily as if he’d pulled a plug. But anger still churned beneath the surface of his new calm, and those close to him knew it. “Now, Faythe, tell us what happened. Quickly.”

  I spoke fast, eager to get the words out before I lost my chance. “There isn’t much to it. Brett took the trash out—” no need to mention my ploy for fresh air and solitude “—and a minute later we saw the stray dragging him across the backyard. Colin wouldn’t go out without Shifting first, but I didn’t think we had enough time for that. He tried to stop me from going to help, so I hit him. He fell backward and smacked his head on the counter—out cold.” I shrugged, scanning the half-dozen faces watching me. “Then I went out and took care of the stray. End of story.”

  Blackwell narrowed his eyes at me. “You weren’t trying to escape?”

  “Escape what?” I shrugged, still holding my mug. “If our justice system is as fair as everyone claims it is, I have nothing to fear from the tribunal, because I did nothing wrong. I look forward to a chance to defend myself. Besides…” Another shrug. “I sat there covered in blood and gray matter for several minutes before you guys got there. If I were going to run, I’d be halfway to Canada by now.”

  My father’s proud smile faded into a deep scowl. I probably should have left off that last part.

  My uncle’s mouth twitched in a good-humored grin. Blackwell looked skeptical. And though Malone frowned and shook his head, I was suddenly sure he believed me—and just as sure that he didn’t give a damn. He wanted me locked up anyway.

  “Do we know how many strays we’re dealing with here?” my father asked, and just like that, I was dismissed in favor of more important business. I could have kissed him.

  “At the pond, we smelled, what? Four? Five?” Marc glanced at Jace for confirmation, and Jace nodded. The other enforcers had been sent back to search, and Michael had stayed to watch me and care for the injured. “But we didn’t find any fresh trails. The newest was at least a day old, except for the one from the stray Faythe killed.”

  “Any connection between the scents?” Uncle Rick asked. “Same infector?”

  Jace shrugged. “Can’t say without a fresher scent.”

  Marc nodded in agreement. “One thing’s for sure, though. Humans have been stomping all over that mountain. If they don’t find those missing hikers soon, the strays will, and…” Marc trailed off, and we seemed to come to the same conclusion together.

  “Son of a bi—” I censored myself just in time. “The hikers are dead. The strays already found them and killed them. Otherwise, the timing’s too much of a coincidence.”

  Marc nodded grimly, and my father sighed, but Blackwell looked less than convinced. “You don’t know that. They could just be lost.”

  “Maybe, but Marc’s right. If the strays haven’t found them yet, they will soon,” my father said. “The human search party only complicates things. Call your men and have those in cat form Shift back for now, to blend in with the human search parties.”

  The other Alphas pulled out phones and began dialing as my dad continued. “We need information about the hikers—what trail they were on and how long they’ve been missing. Michael?”

  “Yes?” My brother stepped into the room from the makeshift infirmary.

  “Can you get Internet access out here?”

  “There’s a patchy broadband signal from the tower on the mountain. I can give it a shot.”

  “Good. Bring us what you find,” my father ordered, and Michael jogged out the door, headed for our cabin and the laptop he never traveled without. “Someone turn on the news.”

  The lodge didn’t get cable reception, but there was a radio on top of the ancient yellow refrigerator. Jace plugged it in and rolled the dial until he found a strong local station.

  After that, things got quiet for a while. Blackwell and Malone retreated to the dining room with a bottle of scotch for a private anti-Faythe party. My father and Uncle Rick settled around the kitchen table with a platter of cheese and cold cuts, the radio playing in the background. Jace plopped down on the floor in one of the bedrooms to play a shoot ’em up game on someone’s PS3.

  I made myself a sandwich and sat in the living room, from which I could see the kitchen, the front window, and the dark, quiet bedroom where both Colin and Brett lay unmoving.

  Several minutes later, Marc settled on the other end of the couch, twisting to face me with one leg bent on the cushion in front of him. “So, how you holding up?”

  I stared at the gold flecks in his deep brown eyes, thinking of how they sparkled in the moonlight, even in cat form. “I’m fine. What’s the worst they can do? Kill me?”

  He frowned. “That’s not funny.”

  “Michael told you?”

  “Jace.”

  Oh. So that’s why he looked so…irritated.

  Leaning forward, he plucked a bread crumb from the dingy upholstery and dropped it on my plate. “Why did you tell him, but not me?”

  Because he doesn’t look at me like I’m what’s wrong with his life. Because he takes what I can give him without pouting over what I can’t. “Because he found me on the verge of tears and gave me a hug. Any man who catches me crying gets a free peek at my thoughts. House rule.”

  “I’ll have to remember that.”

  I took my time chewing, hoping some of the wistfulness would drain from his face before I had to answer. No such luck. “If you want to know what I’m thinking, ask me.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  I sighed, dropping my sandwich onto the plate. “I’m thinking this needs more tomato.”

  Marc frowned. “I wasn’t kidding.”

  If he’d been any one of my other fellow enforcers, I’d have stretched out and put my feet in his lap, begging for a massage. The others would take such a gesture as I meant it—a sign of trust and friendship. A werecat won’t touch someone he or she doesn’t trust. Not without bared claws, anyway.

  But touching Marc was never a good idea. Not since we’d broken up. Touching him reminded me of what we’d had. What we’d been. What was gone.

  “What do you want me to say? ‘Hey, Marc, it turns out you were right. If I’d married you instead of going to school, they’d think I was worth what it costs to feed me. But since I’m only as valuable as my uterus—which is currently unoccupied—this time next week, I’ll probably have gone the way of the dodo bird.’”

  His frown deepened. “This is because you’re single?”

  “No, this is because I infected Andrew and opted to defend myself when he tried to kill me. But when they find me guilty, being single will mean the difference between losing my claws and losing my life. Peachy, huh?”

  Marc shook his head slowly, his hand clenching around the back of the couch. “They won’t do it. Your father won’t let them.”

  “What about you?” I shouldn’t have
said it. I had no right to ask that of him.

  But he answered anyway, staring at me with eyes full of hurt. “I won’t, either. Did you really have to ask?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  We sat in awkward silence for the next ten minutes, me chewing and him…watching. I’d just swallowed the last bite of my sandwich when a silver sedan pulled into the gravel driveway. Danny Carver sat behind the wheel, his short, neat brown beard adding a bit of softness to sharp cheekbones and an angular nose.

  “Daddy, Dr. Carver’s here. I’m going to walk him in.” Without waiting for a reply, I jogged out the front door and down the steps, eager for any excuse to breathe fresh air, even if only for a minute. “Hey, Doc.”

  Danny Carver pushed open his car door and stood, stretching short, thick arms and legs after the long drive from the airport. “Faythe, you’re in fine spirits for someone facing a disciplinary board.” He opened the rear door and pulled out a small, hard-shell suitcase.

  “Eh, what can I say?” I crossed both arms beneath my breasts, shrugging as if I weren’t in the middle of the most stressful week of my life. “I’m seething on the inside.”

  Dr. Carver laughed. “Attagirl. What’s the worst they can do? Execute you?” He winked in jest.

  Marc was right. It wasn’t funny.

  “What, they didn’t tell you, either?” I arched one brow and took the suitcase from him. “Malone’s shooting for capital punishment. Apparently I don’t contribute enough to the werecat community to justify the expense of my upkeep.”

  “What?” Carver frowned, walking alongside me toward the lodge. “It won’t come to that. There’s no way he’ll get a majority vote of guilty.”

  I wanted to believe him. I really did. Uncle Rick was definitely on my side, and Malone definitely was not. Blackwell was the swing vote. My life depended on convincing the stubborn old crow that I had value as something other than a walking incubator.

  Inside, I set Carver’s bag by the door, and Uncle Rick stepped forward with a glass of sweet tea for the doctor, who didn’t drink coffee. “Good to see you, Danny.”