What God and Cats Know

by Sheryl Nantus

  Mine were thankfully rolling back inside my hands, leaving only a trio of little bloody slits to indicate anything had happened. That area would heal quickly, I hoped. It’d been years since I’d had them and I could only pray they’d disappear quickly enough. Still, I kept them under my arms, away from Bran’s prying eyes as we both slumped on the floor, breathless.

  “Are you okay?” He crawled to me, his eyes wide. “Tell me that’s not all your blood...”

  I looked down. My sweatshirt had been shredded in a few places, but the skin had only been scratched here and there. The huge wet scarlet stain on my front signalled I had done some damage.

  “I head-butted the asshole.” Turning my head to one side, I spat out a mouthful of saliva, a light reddish tint to it. “And I probably cut my lip doing it.” My eyes went wide. “Did you say you were calling 911?”

  “I tried.” Bran sheepishly held up a crushed cellphone, the faceplate shattered and cracked. “However, I don’t think it went through. Want me to dial the regular number now?”

  “No.” Getting to my feet I winced as the pain started, shooting down my spine and across my shoulder in waves. I was too old to be rolling down stairs. “No, don’t call anyone.”

  Limping into the office area, I bypassed the sofa set out for visitors and headed for my desk. The top left-hand drawer held an extra-huge container of painkillers. I dry-swallowed a pair of pills and hoped it would be enough to fight off the migraine that was sure to return.

  “Are you nuts?” Brandon brushed dirt from his pants. He looked none the worse for wear, other than being bowled over by a pair of bodies. His hair was dishevelled, giving him a boyish look. “You were just tossed down the stairs and almost killed by some nutcase and you don’t want to call the cops?”

  I leant back, listening to the creaky cries of the old wooden office chair. I had rescued it from one of those second-hand furniture outfits, having no patience with the über-cushioned monstrosities salesmen kept trying to push on me. I didn’t want to be comfortable at my desk. I wanted to be uncomfortable because I would do my work and then leave. What’s so difficult to understand about that?

  The pain started, right between my eyes. Wonderful. I put one hand to my face, giving it a quick inspection without drawing Bran’s attention. Nothing there, not even a hint of a scratch. Maybe I had imagined the claws. Lord knows I hadn’t seen them for years. Maybe it was a hallucination brought on by the dream.

  “Are you sure?” Bran sat opposite me, where the philandering husband had been less than twenty-four hours ago. Pulling out the tail of his t-shirt, previously tucked into the top of his jeans, he wiped his face. Dang, nice abs to match. I closed my eyes and tried to will the pain away. “I mean. That guy could have killed you.”

  “You think?” The words came out a bit harsher than I had planned. He shuffled his chair back an inch before continuing. “Sorry, I just didn’t expect you to be so blasé about the entire thing.” His eyes went to the office phone. “Are you going to call?”

  “No.” Pushing both hands against my face for a second helped dull the throbbing behind my eyes. “This was the same guy who killed Janey.”

  “You know that?”

  I resisted the urge to tell him I knew that because his scent was the same as the one I had picked up at the scene and off of the photograph. However, that wasn’t exactly going to fly with him or with the police.

  “It’s a good bet, that’s all I’m saying.” Pressing against my eyelids with my palms felt good, except for the fear of pushing them so far back into my skull they’d pop out my ears. “This is my only active case right now. It’s not a wild extrapolation to think he was here to get me off the case.” By killing me, but I thought I’d leave that part out. The attack wasn’t meant to be any sort of polite cuffing me about the ears to put me down, as if I were back on the Farm—this was an out-and-out attempt to kill me. Period.

  “And we’re not telling the police because...” He waved one hand in the air, urging me on.

  “Because it’s none of their business!” I screamed, slamming my palms on the desk. Jagged bolts of pain bounced around the inside of my skull, erupting out through my eyes and mouth.

  Spinning around, I charged for the kitchen, making it to the sink just in time to return not only the beer and coffee I had enjoyed earlier that evening, but also the remains of the delicious Asian dumplings. Bracing myself with my arms on each side of the sink, I shook my head from side to side, only making the pain worse.

  “Damn it.” I spotted the remains of the painkillers floating in the detritus, useless to me now. The faint smell of peppermint drifted up to my overcharged senses, setting off another round of retching.

  “I’m calling an ambulance. You need to go to the hospital now.” He put one hand on my back, rubbing in circles. If I had been strong enough to enjoy it, I would have.

  Turning around, I braced myself with both hands on the counter. “Look, I wasn’t knocked out. That’s not a concussion. What I do need is a hot bath and for you to make me up some tea and toast.” The throbbing was beginning to abate just a fraction behind my eyes. “Just let me get cleaned up and then we’ll talk about the entire affair, okay?” My head was spinning with the combination of smells filling the air around and between us. “Just let me get out of these clothes and cleaned up.”

  He peered at me, a suspicious look on his face. “You’re not going to jump out the window or anything, right?”

  I smiled despite the pain. “Not likely. Just help me up the stairs and into the shower. Please.” My eyes caught his. “Look, I’m not eager to get brain damage either. But right now I need to get my head cleared.” The attacker’s scent was all over me, which wasn’t helping the nausea. It’s one thing to have that much contact with a friend, a lover—but not a stranger. It’s like being dunked in a strange perfume.

  “Should call the cops. Get those CSI people over here before you take a shower.” Bran grumbled as he tucked his arm around me, hand tight on my waist, while manoeuvring me toward the staircase. “And if I hear you fall I’m calling 911 first and then coming up to see you.”

  “Duly noted.” We staggered up the stairs like a pair of old drunks. It was a miracle we didn’t fall back down again.

  I flinched as we stepped back into my bedroom. The window had been carefully pried open, staying that way thanks to the extremely rusted hinges I had been promising to oil. The bed itself, however, was a bloody mess. The attacker’s nose had bled like a fountain, spurting not only over my sweatshirt but across the four pillows, the light sheet and was probably starting to soak through to the mattress below. Wonderful. I hated shopping for stuff.

  Making my way to the old oaken dresser I found another sweat suit, this one a dark green. It had been a present to myself a few months ago when I had spotted it on sale in one of those fancy shops that I dare not frequent without a clear credit card. My arms ached as I carried the small bundle toward the bathroom, trying to force back another wave of nausea as the smell of the blood threatened my stomach again.

  “Don’t you have anything...more fun?” Bran asked behind me. “I mean, that’s pretty boring nightwear...”

  I slammed the door, ratcheting the pain behind my eyes up a notch. Still, it was worth it to shut the guy up. Twisting the hot water faucet wide open I waited a few minutes then added a trickle of cold, letting the steam fill the small room. The sweatshirt went into the corner with the pants. Next stop would be the garbage pail. There were some things that couldn’t ever be cleaned. Steeling myself, I turned around to see the full damage to my body, grabbing a washcloth and swiping a swath free on the mirror.

  The full-length mirror on the back of the door revealed a mottled mess of bruises stretching up one side of my battered body and down the other. My attacker’s nails had thankfully only dragged across my left ribs, leaving thin lines that were already beginning to heal. My neck had no obvious marks but I could still see his mouth starting to descend, fangs ex
tended and ready to rip out my throat. Shaking the image free from my mind’s eye, I stepped under the hot water, wincing as the open wounds protested the intrusion and my cool skin the water’s temperature.

  I couldn’t stop the tears from starting as I ran the sponge over my body, trying to be as gentle as possible but failing miserably. My shoulders were already beginning to stiffen, which meant it was going to be hell to move later on tonight or today, whenever I managed some decent sleep and get back out on the street. I added an unholy amount of peppermint-scented body lotion to the water pooling around my feet and on the sponge, purging the attacker’s scent from my skin.

  This started my mind working on the next move. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the attack wasn’t a signal to back off. It was a straight-forward attempt to kill me and the case at the same time. While the Board might be upset enough to pursue the killer of a pureblood they’d probably blow off my murder as just another annoying event.

  Taking a mouthful of hot water, I gargled with it then spat it into the bathtub seeing only clear liquid. The nausea had finally subsided, leaving now only an empty ache in my stomach. I wasn’t sure if it was a reaction to the fight, my attempt to Change or just the whole situation. Either way, my throat was raw and I was feeling a wee bit puckish, silly as that might sound.

  A burst of cold air shot up from under the shower curtain. Placing the sponge back on the small plastic shelf, I sighed and put one hand on the edge of the curtain.

  “Bran, I didn’t hear a thud. I’m fine and I don’t need my back scrubbed.” Balling my free hand into a fist, I took a deep breath. It was possible the attacker had returned to finish the job. Taking a deep breath, I stared at my hand, pushing to get those claws out again. Nothing. I’d have to do this the old-fashioned way.

  I yanked the curtain back, one arm drawn back and ready to strike.

  Bran stood there, holding a large white fluffy towel he had obviously retrieved from the hall closet. The goofy grin grew wider as he gazed at my naked body, his fingers caressing the towel.

  “Just wanted to check on you.” He shook the body-length wrap. “And I see you’re looking quite well.”

  Turning the water off, I slowly stepped out of the bathtub, letting him get a full, uninterrupted view of my body. “If your definition of ‘well’ includes being covered with more bruises than I have skin for, then I guess I’m just fine.” His eyes widened as I took the towel from him, wrapping it around me. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I think I’ve got some clean clothing to put on.” He didn’t flinch, instead allowing me to saunter past him into the bedroom; grabbing the clothing.

  The bastard had not only gone and found the best towel in the house but he had made up the bed with a new set of white sheets. The old ones, neatly folded, lay in the corner next to my blood-splattered clothing. Great. He was housebroken.

  I dropped the damp towel on the floor, revelling somewhat in my domination of the situation. It wasn’t too often I had the chance to render a loudmouth schnook speechless.

  “Your back...” The words weren’t whispered in awe of my superior form, with my alabaster skin and all, but with a note of horror. Closing my eyes, I winced. I had forgotten. Been a long time since I’d been naked in front of anyone other than Jazz.

  His eyes had to be locked on the crisscrossing scars on my back, where it looked as if I had been attacked by a rabid tiger, which, in some way, I had. The scars hadn’t faded that much in time thanks to my skin being so fair and I knew he saw them almost as scarlet and as fresh as the day I had received them.

  Reaching down, I grabbed my sweatshirt and yanked it over my head, flipping back my damp ponytail. “Sorry.” The sweatpants were next, with me hopping from one foot to the other as I made my way toward the stairs.

  “Accident?”

  “Of a sort.” I walked down the steps slowly, putting one hand out to balance myself. The bloody smears on both sides of the staircase laid out the trail of our battle to the final crashing halt on the landing. I paused there for a minute, letting the new wave of smells drift across my tongue. “What’s that?”

  “Tea, toast and I managed to find some jam in the back of the refrigerator that wasn’t mouldy.” The soft laugh reached my ears while he walked down to stand behind me. “Grape, I do believe. And you really need to stock more stuff in there.”

  “I usually eat out.” Making my way to the kitchen, I spotted the fat Brown Betty teapot sitting on the table with two cups daintily set out, milk already in the bottom of the mugs. Two slices of toast, neatly buttered and sliced in half, made up the rest of the menu with the aforementioned bottle of jam sitting by my plate with a spoon waiting to do service.

  Sitting down, I picked up the big brown teapot, wincing at the ache in my arm. “Shall I pour?”

  “Sure.” Bran watched while I filled both mugs, returning the teapot to the tabletop with a resounding thud. “Sore, eh?”

  “You think?” I picked up one piece of toast, smearing enough jam onto the bread to make it bend under the weight. “You roll down the stairs and see how you feel.”

  “Been there, done that.” He slid another pair of white pills across the table. “Figured you’d want another set of these since the last ones didn’t survive.”

  “Thanks.” Washing them down with a mouthful of hot tea I looked over the brim of the mug at Bran. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.” Bran picked up his own mug, cupping it with both hands. “So, want to tell me about this guy? And why we’re not having this conversation with some detective down at the police station?”

  I chewed the toast slowly, drawing out the experience as long as possible. “There’s a lot here I can’t tell you about, a lot that the cops don’t need to know and can’t know.”

  “I figured that out.” Rocking back on the wooden chair, he smiled. “However, if you get killed, it will really, really impact my story in a negative way.” A sly wink shot my way. “Aside from making me pretty upset.”

  The ceramic mug had grown hot to the touch, almost burning my fingers. “I have to call my client first.” Taking another bite of toast I shrugged, feeling the pull on my shoulders. “You know how this game goes.”

  “That I do.” Getting up he disappeared into the other room, returning with my portable phone. “I’ll give you a bit of privacy.” Another disarming grin. “Let’s see how many channels you actually get in this place. I’ll be upstairs.”

  I waited until I heard the reassuring creak of the steps before dialling Jess’s number. It rang thirteen times before the line clicked over to live.

  “Hello?” Jess’s voice struggled through the air. “What?”

  “Who in the Pride has a white stripe running down one side of his nose? Male, tall over six feet or so?” My words were clipped. “Bastard just tried to kill me here in my own home and you have no idea of how pissed I am right now.”

  “What?” Jess’s response shot to full awareness. “What the hell...”

  “Thanks for your concern.” I snapped back, growling into the receiver. “Tell me who’s got that marking.”

  “What, you think we keep this crap on hand?” Jess snarled, now fully awake. “You know the rules. No computer files, nothing out of the Library unless the Board approves it.”

  “I’ll be up there by dawn.” My eyes moved to the doorway leading to the office. “And I won’t be alone.” I hit the disconnect button before she could start complaining, whining then threatening. I wasn’t in the mood for it. Jazz appeared, wrapping herself around my feet with a comforting purr. She knew exactly what I was going to be dealing with.

  Except I wasn't going to the Farm alone, I was bringing a stranger into the heart of Pride territory, rubbing it in their faces that I wasn't a part of their world anymore. It would be dangerous for both of us but I had to try to get the upper hand in this game before someone got killed.

  Chapter 9

  The Brown Betty had one last cup in it and I drained every drop
I could from the battered old ceramic teapot before putting it in the sink. The toast had settled in my stomach nicely with the painkillers, which were probably holding back the headache I should have from calling Jess.

  The blood smears on the walls would be a bitch to get off. In the back of my mind I considered demanding a HIV test when I finally got my hands on the idiot, but I knew it would be denied. The Family was very nervous when it came to anyone getting hold of blood samples for any reason. That’s why we had doctors inside the Pride to take care of our own. I didn’t know if blood analysis showed anything other than straight human blood at first glance but who knew? I’d managed to avoid doctors for years thanks to clean living and ducking out of emergency rooms as soon as they requested blood. Well, okay, more the second than the first.

  Bran was sitting on the bed, the remote in one hand and in his other a clump of brownish-black hair. My stomach did a flip-flop. He probably collected it from the bedroom while he cleaned up and I was in the shower.

  More fur and instead of a single strand plucked from the crime scene in my possession he now had a handful of mystery hair from my attacker.

  This would not bode well.

  He looked up as I sat on the bed beside him. “CNN’s got a good documentary going on the Middle East. That is, unless you really want to watch music videos. About the best thing on at...” He checked his watch. “Three o’clock in the morning.”

  “What’s that?” I rolled the words lightly off my tongue, nodding toward his other hand. “Dog fur?”