Stray

by Rachel Vincent

  “It’s just Brian,” I assured him. “Daddy said he’d be here to let us in.” Sure enough, the door leading into the house opened, flooding the garage with light from a small utility room. One of Carissa’s brothers stepped out. He was in his early twenties, too young to have accompanied his father to the ranch on council business, but old enough and experienced enough to help us catch Miguel, even if our plan fell apart.

  “Hey, Brian.” Parker got out and shook his hand while the rest of us climbed over each other in a tangled heap, each trying to be first out of the crowded van. I landed on my rear on the concrete, not a very dignified position for someone claiming to be in charge. Marc pulled me up by my hands and pressed me against the side of the van, a suggestive smile teasing the corners of his mouth.

  “Give it a rest.” Lucas grabbed Marc’s belt loop as he passed, hauling him backward like a kid towing a wagon. Marc grinned at me and winked, but then his face was all business. By the time he turned to face Brian, he’d abandoned his smile in favor of a serious expression that managed to convey both competence and danger at once. I would have been happy to pull off either one.

  After a quick round of masculine back thumping, I stepped forward and Brian held out his hand. “How are you, Faythe?” he asked, as if we were on a first-name basis. He probably thought we were. Because the ratio of tabbies to toms was so low, all the guys thought they knew us well, even the ones we’d only met once or twice. Especially me.

  I’d made quite a reputation for myself by choosing college instead of marriage to Marc, and there were several toms who considered it their personal responsibility to tame the infamous shrew. Marc didn’t look favorably upon attempts to “tame” me. Neither did I, as one memorable tom from the northeast found out. He was okay, though. Dr. Carver was able to straighten out his fingers with minimal complications. Besides, it was only his left hand. He didn’t have much use for that one anyway, from what I understand.

  But Brian Taylor didn’t seem like the daring type to me. He wasn’t cocky or brash. In fact, the opposite seemed true. He was polite, apparently genuinely concerned about me.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” I took his hand and made eye contact. “How’s Carissa?”

  “Okay. She’s a little freaked out by all this, though,” he said, and I nodded. That was understandable. “She said to tell you thanks for the warning. And good luck.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t expect much trouble.” I let go of his hand. “We have them outnumbered by four to one. Those are pretty good odds.”

  “I guess so. Come on in and let me show you around.” Brian led us through the utility room and into a large, clean kitchen, dominated by stainless-steel appliances and a roomy island rising from a sea of white tile. Beyond the kitchen was the dining room, flowing into a sunken living area carpeted in spotless white cut Berber.

  The interior of the house was as modern and comfortable as the outside was stately and beautiful. The floor plan was open and welcoming, the ideal place for a party—or a massacre. But I couldn’t help imagining how bad a pool of blood would look against that immaculate white tile. Or soaking into the carpet. We’d have to make sure and kill Sean and Miguel outside, to save the Taylors a huge cleaning bill and a lengthy explanation to the authorities a cleaning service would no doubt call.

  Fortunately, we were too far from large-scale civilization to have to worry about human witnesses. Or noise.

  “These are for you.” Brian said, laying his hand on a neatly folded pile of clothing on the dining-room table. “Your dad mentioned that you needed some of Carissa’s clothes. She slept in these last night, so they still smell like her. Will that work, or should I look for something else?”

  I held the nightshirt up to my face. It smelled like Carissa: young and healthy, with a hint of floral perfume and a moisturizing facial cream. “It’s perfect,” I said, laying the shirt back on the pile.

  “Good. There’s plenty to eat in the fridge, so help yourselves to whatever you want.” That particular courtesy was in case we needed to Shift, which was a good possibility. I’d never met a cat yet whose refrigerator wasn’t well stocked. All the time. And judging from the Taylors’ extra-wide, side by side, stainless-steel monstrosity, there would be plenty to choose from. “Do you need anything else?”

  “Nope, this ought to do it,” Marc said.

  Brian nodded, and to his credit, he only looked mildly tense, which meant he was holding up better than I was. I was starting to get really nervous.

  “Why don’t you guys get something to eat and fill Brian in on the plan while I transform myself into Carissa.”

  “No problem,” Lucas called, already neck deep in the fridge.

  I used the first-floor bathroom to shower, trying to wash off as much of my own scent as possible. While I was at it, I used Carissa’s soap, face wash, and shampoo. Clean, young-smelling, and dry, except for my damp hair, I changed into Carissa’s pajamas. The shirt was a pink halter top, held on with spaghetti straps tied at the shoulders. It was a little tight through the bust—warping the petals of a large silk-screen daisy—but it would work. The pants matched the shirt: pink, with hundreds of tiny white flowers identical to the one stretched across my chest. The top ended just above my belly button and the pants rode low on my hips, even with the drawstring cinched, so a wide strip of my stomach showed in between.

  Marc whistled when I emerged from the bathroom. “Why don’t you sleep in things like that?”

  I gave him a secretive smile. “Maybe I do.”

  “You don’t. You haven’t changed that much. You don’t even own anything pink.” Okay, he was right. My grudge against the color pink stemmed from my mother’s fondness for it. However, I did like the soft, loose fit of the pants. Maybe if they came in red…

  But that was a thought for another time.

  The guys were gathered at the large kitchen island, each part of the way through one variation or another of a ham-and-cheese sandwich. “’Ere you go, Aythe.” Ethan said around a mouthful of ham and Swiss on rye. He swallowed and held up a plate loaded with two sandwiches and a mound of store-bought potato salad. “Eat fast. We don’t have much time left.”

  “Thanks.” I took a bite. Several thin slices of ham, provolone, dill pickles, tomato, and real mayonnaise, on whole-wheat bread. My all-time favorite sandwich. “I can’t believe you remembered this.” I took another bite.

  “I didn’t,” Ethan said. “Marc made it.”

  Marc. Of course. He never forgot anything, which wasn’t as great as it sounded. “Thanks, Marc.” I scooped up a bite of the potato salad. It wasn’t as good as homemade, but not bad.

  “You can thank me later. For now, just eat.”

  By the time I’d finished my first sandwich, the guys had cleaned up everything except my dishes. When I picked up my second sandwich, Ethan grabbed my plate, rinsed it, and loaded it into the dishwasher. Mom was going to be pissed to find out she had a whole army of Mr. Cleans who rarely lifted a paw at home. And they would pay for my silence. Boy, would they pay.

  At eight-forty, as the last glimmers of daylight faded from the sky, we went over the plan one final time. The easiest way to tempt Miguel into going after “Carissa” would be to put her out in the open alone. That’s how he’d grabbed the first three tabbies, though with me, he’d just gotten lucky. As badly as I hated to admit it, if I’d followed my father’s orders, they never would have had a shot at me.

  But now, thanks to Ryan, Miguel knew for certain that all the Prides were on alert. He’d know the tabbies were surrounded by brothers and enforcers, and were under orders not to go out alone. None of the other tabbies would ignore a direct order from her father, and even if Miguel didn’t know that for sure, Sean would.

  Sending “Carissa” on a long walk by herself would be too obvious; Sean and Miguel would know they were being set up. They’d run, and we’d probably never catch them. So how could we make her available without tipping them off about the trap? Where could
we send her with few—maybe even just one—bodyguard, without raising their suspicions?

  The layout of the Taylors’ land had provided the solution: we’d send her to the cabin. It made perfect sense.

  Unlike my father’s men, the enforcers of the midwest territory didn’t live in their Alpha’s backyard. They had a house to themselves in a clearing about a quarter of a mile behind the main house. The cabin, as they called it, was essentially a three-bedroom bungalow, renovated and wired for electricity sometime in the seventies. It was completely surrounded by woods, except for the well-worn foot trail from the main building.

  And the best part was that neither house was visible from the other.

  Inside information from Sean and Ryan had worked against us from the beginning, but that was about to change. Sean knew about the cabin, and I was counting on the fact that he’d explain the layout of the Taylor property to Miguel.

  If Carissa’s childhood was anything like mine, she’d spent much of her youth wandering back and forth between her home and the cabin, eagerly welcomed in both. In fact, now that she was nearly grown, she probably spent a good deal of time there, just to be able to relax around someone other than her parents.

  So a short trek on her own property would be harmless. Even understandable, considering how cooped up she must feel, having spent the past two days under the close observation of everyone around her.

  But just in case a solitary forest walk looked suspicious, we had Brian. He was there to accompany “Carissa,” to keep up the appearance of a strong defensive presence. If we’d used one of the other guys, Sean would know immediately that something was off. But Brian belonged on the Taylor estate, and would be a perfectly believable escort for his sister.

  The plan was for my men to hide up in the trees along the trail, some in human form, some in cat form, so we’d be prepared to handle the kidnappers in either shape. There were two reasons for the elevated hiding places. First, they could see much farther in the air than they could on the ground. Second, their scents would be harder for Miguel and Sean to catch from overhead.

  Marc would take a tree well back from the path, on the side of the property farthest from the highway, because his was the only scent Miguel would recognize. Sean would recognize all the others, but he’d probably assume the Taylors had called in some extra backup to help protect their daughter. Unless he smelled Marc. Every Pride cat in the country knew Marc would never take another assignment until he’d found me. So we had to keep him—and his scent—as far away from the path as was practical.

  After several minutes of discussion, we’d decided that Anthony, Ethan, and Marc would Shift into cat form, and Parker, Vic, and Lucas would stay in human form. Brian and I would wait in the main house until we heard from one of the guys in human form that Miguel and/or Sean had shown up.

  How would we hear from them? Well, Parker, Vic and Lucas had each programmed Eric’s number into their cell phones, which were all on silent mode. As soon as any of them saw either of the rogues, he would call me and let the phone ring once then hang up. That would be our signal to leave the house.

  Really, I don’t know how people ever got anything done in the days before the Internet and cell phones.

  Brian had already unscrewed the lightbulb from the back porch, so it would be nearly impossible for Sean and Miguel to get a clear look at my face. Even if one or both of them had Shifted, the dark would aid me rather than them. Cats see very well in the dark but they don’t see very far; their best vision is in the midrange, not too close but not too far away. So no matter which form they took, they couldn’t get close enough for a good look at me—or a good whiff—without alerting at least one of the guys.

  Once we got the call, Brian and I would make some noise as we unlocked the back door. This was to give my men warning that we were coming, and to focus the bad guys’ attention on us rather than on any activity going on over their heads.

  Then, my “big brother” and I would cross the backyard and take off down the foot trail, laughing and joking on our way to the cabin. That would be the hard part—acting like nothing was wrong as I walked along, waiting for Miguel to pounce on me. Again.

  If neither cat showed himself by the time we got halfway to the cabin, Brian and I would sweeten the bait a bit. We’d have to get big brother out of the picture, even if just for a few minutes. We’d strike up a playful game of tag, or decide to race each other to the bungalow porch. That would be a little tricky because Miguel was more than familiar with my voice—thanks to my own big mouth—so I’d have to be careful not to speak much. Or very loudly.

  Either way, the idea was for Brian to run ahead to the cabin—which we’d leave unlit, so they’d know it was empty—leaving me alone on the path for a few minutes. I’d amble along, again waiting to be pounced on.

  If they still didn’t take the bait, I’d enter the cabin and watch TV with Brian, waiting for Sean and Miguel to attack. There were two of them, and we were hoping that if they thought I had only one escort, they’d think the odds of a victory were in their corner.

  We were assuming Sean and Miguel would try something similar to the way they’d nabbed me two days earlier: catch me off guard and try to sedate me. Only this time I knew what was coming and would be prepared to evade the needle.

  As soon as the first bad guy showed himself, Lucas, Vic and Parker would drop from the trees above. Together, they would hold him immobile for questioning. We still needed to know exactly what had happened to Luiz, and who the South American buyers were, among other things.

  Then, once we had our answers, the guys had my permission to pound him to death with as much gusto as they liked.

  Lucas and Vic had made a deal. Vic would take charge if Sean showed up alone, since he was the reason Sara had been targeted. But if Miguel attacked me by himself, Lucas would have free rein. He was confident that he could take the jungle cat all on his own, but if there was any doubt about that when the time came, the other two had my permission to jump in.

  Marc, Ethan and Anthony would take off in cat form in search of whichever one hadn’t shown up.

  If both rogues were stupid enough to show themselves at once, everyone would get in on the action. Oh, happy day.

  As Marc recited his part in the plan, the importance of what we were about to do hit me with the force of a heavyweight’s right hook. This was our shot. Our only shot. The whole thing was my idea, but I couldn’t summon even a spark of pride for having thought up the plan we’d agreed on. I was terrified.

  What if it didn’t work? Or worse, what if someone got hurt? It would be my fault. If anything went wrong, I would be to blame because I was in charge, at least nominally. This was exactly the kind of responsibility I’d gone to school to avoid, yet there I was, buried in it up to my neck. But at least it was a figurative burial. I’d be pretty satisfied if I could end the night without requiring a literal one.

  Ethan elbowed me in the ribs, and I glanced up to see that the powwow was over. It was go time.

  We left the van in the garage on the assumption that Miguel would never see it unless he broke in, in which case we hoped to have him breathing through his neck before he had a chance to sniff around. At eight forty-five, Anthony, Ethan and Marc put their clothes in the van, along with mine, and went into the woods to Shift and find good hiding places.

  Parker, Vic and Lucas double-checked their phones, then went to pick out trees they could climb easily on two legs. I watched them through the window in the back door until they disappeared down the path. The only one whose hiding spot was visible from the main house was Parker.

  When the guys were in position, I sat on the tiled kitchen floor, my back against the dishwasher and Eric’s phone in my lap. Brian paced in front of the dining-room table. He was too wound up to sit. Just watching him made me nervous.

  For the first fifteen minutes, I was fine. Almost excited. My body was a treasury of bruises, in all shapes, sizes and colors, and I was eager to shar
e the wealth with Miguel. But as the minutes stretched into a half hour, my palms grew damp and Carissa’s pants started to cling to my legs. I tried to relax, aware that every drop of sweat soaking into the borrowed clothes made me smell less like Carissa and more like myself.

  Every minute or so, I glanced at the digital clock on the cell-phone display. I was sure each time I looked that another quarter of an hour must have passed, but it never did. The clock was wrong. It had to be.

  “Hey, Brian, what time do you have?” I whispered. I’m not sure why I whispered, except that it felt wrong to make noise in the dark. Irreverent, almost, like screaming in church. I’d turned on several lights upstairs and a lamp in the front of the living room so Miguel would think someone was home. But with only a single lamp lit, across the room and around a corner, the kitchen was a lair of shadows, hiding my worst fears among the dark, irregular shapes.

  “Nine thirty-five,” Brian said. He’d whispered, too.

  I glanced at the phone again. Damn. It was right.

  My heart beat against my rib cage, as if demanding to be let out. I took a deep breath, trying to slow my racing pulse. Why am I so nervous? I’d begged Daddy for a chance to catch Miguel. I’d given away the next two and a half years of my life. But now that the time had almost come, I was petrified.

  I glanced at the phone again, checking the battery. It was fully charged when I found it and had only lost half of the available power in the hours since. So nothing was wrong with the phone. But what if one of the other phones had died? What if I went out to check and Miguel saw me? I’d ruin the entire setup. Better to sit still and wait. I hate waiting. I’m not very good at being still, either. Not while I’m conscious, anyway.

  Brian glanced at me in sympathy. I knew he could hear my heartbeat, and maybe even smell my fear. I smiled back, trying to pretend nothing was wrong, that I wasn’t about to take a leisurely stroll down the footpath and into the claws of death.

  Melodramatic? Me? Surely not.