Dr. Carver returned the greeting, and several more, as everyone was reacquainted with the south-central Pride’s resident physician.
By profession, Dr. Carver was chief medical examiner for the state of Oklahoma, which led to all the usual jokes about him “carving” up dead bodies. As always, the doc laughed the remarks off, then he looked around for Malone. “My flight leaves tomorrow afternoon, gentlemen. So, shall we get started?”
Malone cleared his throat and glanced at me, anger flickering across his expression before his gaze settled again on the doctor. “First, I wonder if you’d take a look at my boy. And Paul’s new enforcer, too.”
“Oh?” Carver’s brow rose in interest. “You’ve had some excitement?”
“Brett met with a stray in cat form,” Malone held out one arm to indicate the open front bedroom. “And Colin met with Faythe’s fist.”
I flinched as Dr. Carver’s head swiveled in my direction. “He was trying to stop me from going after Brett.”
Carver’s mouth curved into a grin, and my own smile answered his. “Okay, let’s see what we have.”
The doc started with Brett, pulling back first the blankets, then the huge bandages covering the young tom’s stomach wounds. Air hissed as I inhaled through clenched teeth. Somehow, the wounds looked worse clean and bare than they had hidden by blood.
Brett had four deep, curved gouges across his stomach, tapering to an end below his navel, just above the waistband of his ruined jeans. Someone had cut his shirt off, but left his pants, so the entire room reeked of the blood saturating them.
After carefully examining Brett’s injury, Dr. Carver asked Jace to fetch his medical supplies from the backseat of the rented car. While Jace was gone, the doctor knelt to examine the purple swelling on the right side of Colin’s jaw. Then he gently turned Colin’s head to get a look at the massively swollen lump on the back, where he’d hit the counter. Colin moaned, and settled back into silence.
Dr. Carver glanced up at me. “What happened?”
“I hit him with a left hook, and he fell back and hit the counter.” I crossed my arms over my chest in an unconscious defensive posture.
The doctor turned for a second look at Colin as Jace slipped into the room carrying a large vinyl first-aid kit. “Well, he definitely has a concussion, but it looks like Colin could wake up anytime. When he does, he’ll have a hell of a headache. Give him an ice pack and some Tylenol.” Carver smiled at me, and his eye twitched, like he wanted to wink.
I barely resisted a smile.
Tylenol wouldn’t do a thing for a werecat’s pain. We metabolize it too fast. But the good doctor wasn’t going to give Colin anything stronger because the Nordic asshole didn’t deserve it.
“That’s it?” Blackwell frowned.
Carver’s smile broadened. “Time is the best medicine for a wound like this. And if you ask me, you should all be thanking Faythe.” His eyes settled on Malone, who only scowled.
“Why is that?”
“Because Colin’s going to wake up wishing he were dead. But if he’d stopped her from killing that stray, your son would never wake up at all. Now, let’s clear the room so I can sew this poor kid up.”
As we filed out of the bedroom, Michael stepped through the front door, carrying a yellow legal pad covered in notes. “Well?” My father asked as I snagged a leftover piece of ham from the plate I’d left on the coffee table.
Michael sighed and glanced at his tablet. “The hikers are Bob and Amanda Tindale—newlyweds on some kind of back-to-nature honeymoon. They reserved a campsite about eight miles from here for an entire week. They should have come down two days ago, and when they didn’t show up, her parents called the forest rangers. The searchers have been walking an organized grid for two straight days, from dawn to dusk. No sign of them so far.”
Uncle Rick scratched his chin in thought. “Anyone here think there’s any chance they weren’t killed by the strays?”
Heads shook all over the room, and Michael held up his notebook. “Not one in a thousand. She’s an inexperienced hiker. He goes out for a week every fall, as some kind of confidence boost—because he lost his left leg in an accident five years ago.”
Five
An hour later, I sat in the dining room again, staring out the window. But this time, the setting sun cast a deep reddish light on fall leaves and brown grass. And this time Dr. Carver had the seat of honor. I sat against the wall, between my father and brother. I was allowed to listen to the good doctor’s testimony, but not allowed to open my mouth since I wasn’t on the stand. I didn’t even get to cross-examine him, which I only found out when I overheard my father and Michael arguing over who had to tell me.
To help keep my temper in check, Michael had given me a stress ball painted to look like the earth. I’d excised most of South America when Malone asked Dr. Carver if he knew of any medical reason I seemed “disinclined to breed.”
“How long after Mr. Wallace’s death were you able to examine him?” Malone’s narrowed eyes and cold tone said he didn’t like Danny Carver any more than he liked me. But that was too damn bad, because the doc was an expert witness if I’d ever seen one. Dr. Carver was a coroner. He spent more time with dead bodies than a dog spends licking itself, and if his expert opinion was that Andrew’s death was an accident, the tribunal would have to accept that.
Right?
Dr. Carver didn’t hesitate. “Less than six hours.”
“And could you tell the cause of death?”
Harsh, barking laughter burst from my throat before I could stop it, and several disapproving eyes turned my way. They’d called in an expert for that? I could tell them the cause of Andrew’s death. I had told them.
“Yes, in fact the cause of death was rather obvious. Blood loss, from a massive puncture wound on his neck.” Dr. Carver’s expression was appropriately somber, but I thought I saw a spark of humor in his eyes. He’d testified in actual courts of law, and I got the distinct impression our little play-trial didn’t compare.
“How would you say he came by his wound?”
I rolled my eyes at Malone’s phrasing, but Dr. Carver looked like he wanted to smile. “I would say someone shoved a railroad spike into his neck. In fact, it was still lodged there when I examined him.”
“So someone killed him.” Malone glanced expectantly at the other tribunal members. “And by her own admission, Ms. Sanders was the only person present when Mr. Wallace died.”
“I’ve already told you I did it,” I shouted, jumping from my chair. “But it was self—” My father jerked me back into my seat by one arm, just as Michael slapped a hand over my mouth.
Malone tried to look angry, but his satisfied smirk ruined the image. “Miss Sanders, if you lose control of your mouth one more time, we will have you removed from the room.”
“Like it matters,” I mumbled, staring at the battered stress ball clenched in my fist. I can hear just as well from the living room.
Michael pinched my arm hard enough to leave a welt, and I glared at him. I would have pinched him back if I hadn’t seen concern behind the irritation etched across his face.
“I don’t think you understood what I was saying,” Dr. Carver said, shifting attention away from me. “Because I wasn’t finished.” His pointed look at Malone made me smile. “Yes, Faythe killed Andrew Wallace. She’s never denied it. But she says she had no choice, and I have no reason to doubt that.”
Uncle Rick leaned forward in quiet eagerness. “So you could tell it was self-defense based on the body?” I have no doubt he meant to help my case. Unfortunately, his question forced Dr. Carver to backtrack.
“Well, not for sure, no.” He moved uncomfortably in his chair. “But neither could I say for certain that it wasn’t. But beyond that, her story checks out, medically speaking.”
Uncle Rick nodded encouragingly. “Meaning…?”
“I also examined Faythe that night, and her injuries are consistent with her explanation of what
happened. Cuts on the backs of her arms, from being pinned to the floor on top of broken glass. Severely bruised cheeks, from several blows to the face. Bruised ribs from blows to the torso. She was obviously the one on the ground—that much is clear from her injuries. And that implies that Mr. Wallace was the aggressor. Faythe says she was acting in self-defense, and I believe her.”
I exhaled in relief. I wasn’t out of the proverbial woods yet, but it felt so damn good to know someone else was willing to stand up for me. Someone who had no personal stake in my future.
“Dr. Carver, we have no doubt that Ms. Sanders was injured in the exchange. But we can’t ignore the possibility that Mr. Wallace was the one acting in self-defense, injuring Ms. Sanders in an attempt to preserve his own life. An effort which ultimately failed. So, implications aside, can you say for certain, based on the state of his remains and Ms. Sanders’s injuries, that this was not the case?” Malone’s voice was as persuasive as he could get.
“I most certainly can say that.” Dr. Carver’s tone was firm, and anticipation pulled my spine straight in my chair. “I just can’t prove it.”
The frustration in his voice was mirrored in my posture as I slouched lower in my seat.
Malone rolled his eyes. “Dr. Carver, we are interested in actual evidence here.”
“Only because you don’t have it,” the doctor snapped.
The room went completely, eerily silent as all eyes settled on Danny Carver, in his chair at the end of the table, face pink with irritation, gaze focused intently on Malone.
“If you had proof it was an accident, you’d want expert testimony to tell you that proof was wrong. But there is no irrefutable evidence in this case, and when that happens, you have to make your decision based on the testimony and opinions of others. And my testimony—my gut instinct—is that Faythe had no choice but to defend herself against Andrew Wallace. As she’s said repeatedly.”
“So she has.” Malone’s disbelief sent a fresh surge of irritation through me. My fist clenched around the stress ball again, and I glanced down to see that I’d carved a new tectonic-plate boundary down the middle of Central Europe. Thank goodness I wasn’t into voodoo.
“Speaking of Ms. Sanders’s testimony…” Blackwell began. “Are you aware of her claims that the infection was an accident, caused by a—” he glanced at his notes “—‘partial Shift.’”
The doctor nodded curtly.
“And have you ever seen this…phenomenon?”
“Unfortunately…no.”
“What a coincidence,” Malone spat. “Neither has anyone else.”
I shot up from my chair in indignation, my latest warning forgotten. “That’s—” Michael’s hand clamped over my mouth again, and he shoved me back into my seat, much harder than necessary.
—not true! My protest ended in my head, as my teeth sank into my brother’s finger. He snatched his hand from my mouth, shaking it. And too late it occurred to me that biting was probably a bad idea, considering I was on trial, in part, for that very offense.
Still, Malone’s crack was an outright lie. Several people had seen the partial Shift. Of course, one of them—Eric, the psycho kidnapper—was now dead, so his testimony would be pretty damn hard to scrounge up. And none of my other potential vouchers—Marc, Michael, my father, and my cousin Abby—were considered reliable witnesses because they all loved me and would presumably lie to save me.
The tribunal had voted in favor of excluding their testimony by a margin of two to one, and no matter how fiercely Uncle Rick had argued, he was unable to gain even one vote. Stubborn bastards.
But he wasn’t done trying to help me. “Dr. Carver, do you think such a Shift is possible, medically speaking?”
Dr. Carver sighed. “No. Medically speaking, no Shift is possible. Our very existence should be a physical impossibility. But we do exist. And so does the partial Shift. I see no reason for it not to. It takes intense concentration to Shift intentionally, so it stands to reason that intense concentration focused on a particular part of the body would cause only that part to Shift.”
His gaze swung left to include only Malone and Blackwell. “What makes no sense to me is that men like you—creatures whose very existence humanity has denied for centuries—refuse to believe something that requires only a small portion of the transformation you put your entire body through on a near-daily basis. The only reason you don’t believe in the possibility of the partial Shift is because you don’t want to believe.”
Yeah! I wanted to stand and clap, or cheer, or…sing the national anthem. In a matter of minutes, Dr. Carver had driven home the very point I’d been trying to make for the last five months. And he’d made it look easy, and honorable, as if he were saying something that needed to be said, for the moral well-being of all involved.
To my utter surprise, though Malone still scowled, Paul Blackwell looked half-convinced. He placed one thin, wrinkled hand on the table. “Dr. Carver, I have to admit this partial Shift gibberish is starting to sound less and less like nonsense. But we still need proof Ms. Sanders can actually accomplish such a thing, even if it is possible.”
Okay, it could have been worse. Blackwell was the swing vote, and he was definitely coming around. But he wanted proof—which I still didn’t have.
In a real court of law, where the burden of proof was on the prosecution, I would have been good to go. There was plenty of doubt about my guilt. But here, I had to prove myself innocent beyond all doubt, which seemed less and less likely with each hour that passed.
The doctor nodded. “Of course. But let me point out that Faythe’s explanation for why she can’t prove it yet makes sense. Medically speaking.” Carver was taking no chances on his testimony being thrown out because it didn’t pertain to his area of expertise. “We all know most werecats experience their first Shift at puberty. But you may not know, or recall, that many of these first Shifts are actually brought on by bouts of strong emotion. Anger, fear, excitement…even lust.”
Calvin Malone squirmed in his chair. Rumor had it his first Shift was triggered at age fourteen by heavy involvement with his human girlfriend. He’d reportedly barely made it into the empty field behind her house, shedding his clothes along the way like a madman.
So if anyone understood about emotion bringing on a Shift, it should have been Calvin Malone. But his stiff posture and angry eyes said Malone was not pleased by the trip down memory lane. Nor was he willing to acknowledge it, even indirectly—especially not to help me.
“Dr. Carver, what happens to preteenagers at the mercy of their hormones is not relevant to this hearing,” he snapped. “Ms. Sanders is twenty-three years old. She had her first Shift at least a decade ago, and should long ago have learned to rule her emotions, rather than being ruled by them. The fact that she has yet to reach that level of control does not speak in her favor here. It is simply one more example of her inability to restrain her impulses, which no doubt led to both Mr. Wallace’s infection and his death. If you have another point, I suggest you make it before you bury the defendant any further in the pit you’re digging for her.”
That son of a bitch!
Every pleasant, tingly feeling left over from Dr. Carver’s speech drained from me, leaving behind a cold, clammy feeling of exposure. And…shame. Had my lack of control really caused all my problems?
Before I could decide whether I should be ashamed or royally pissed, footsteps pounded down the hall, and all heads turned toward the door as it flew open. On the other side stood Jace, his face grim, full lips drawn into a taut line.
My father rose in one easy, graceful motion. “What’s wrong?”
“They found a body.”
“Who found a body?” Dr. Carver asked, rising just as Michael said, “Is it one of the hikers? The man or the woman?”
Every man in the room stood in the next two seconds, and I followed suit, not about to be left behind.
Jace shook his head sharply. “Neither. According to the radio, the vi
ctim’s an off-duty cop—one of the human volunteers. His own search group found him.”
“Wonderful.” My father exhaled in frustration. “I’m assuming this cop didn’t fall on his own gun?”
“They haven’t released the details yet, but I seriously doubt it,” Jace said, and around the room, heads nodded in agreement. “Should I bring the radio in here?”
“No, thank you, Jace. We could all use a break.” Without waiting for permission to suspend the hearing, my father marched past the long dining-room table and out the door, Michael and Dr. Carver on his heels. I jogged to catch up with them before Malone could detain me without my familial-support system.
In the kitchen, Marc stood next to the ancient radio, and when we filed into the room, he turned the volume up. “They’re supposed to give an update on the search in about ten minutes.”
In the interim, the Alphas waited in the living room, and the rest of us gathered around the kitchen table, where we demolished two cartons of cookies and a bag of chips before the radio announcer fulfilled his promise of more information.
The dead volunteer, who was indeed an off-duty policeman, had wandered away from his group and been mauled by some kind of large animal—possibly a cougar. Searchers had withdrawn from the woods for the evening and would resume in the morning, with each group led by an armed forest ranger on the lookout for the offending cat.
“Well, I’d say that changes things a bit.” Uncle Rick turned down the volume on the radio.
My father nodded. “Since the humans’ search is over for the night, our men can Shift into cat form. But no one goes out furry after dawn. Spread the word.”
The other three Alphas dug out their cell phones and began calling their men. Including Blackwell, who’d been forced into the twenty-first century when he’d lost an enforcer because he was unable to pass along crucial information in time.
When the calls were made, my father sent Jace into the sickroom to check on the injured toms. He came back an instant later, smiling at me in anticipation. “Colin’s waking up.”
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