Rogue

by Rachel Vincent

  When he was satisfied with Parker’s recitation, my father said goodbye and dropped the cordless receiver back into its cradle. For a moment, he stood with his back to us, his still form framed by the sides of the glass-shelved display cabinet behind his desk, where his plaques and trophies gleamed beneath recessed lights my mother had positioned strategically.

  The Alpha turned, releasing a weary-sounding sigh, then made his way across the room. When he sank into his armchair facing us all, I noticed for the first time how stiff he seemed, as if the action hurt, and I realized with a jolt of shock that my father was growing old. Too old, possibly, to deal with another jungle cat leaving his mark—and his corpses—all over our territory.

  When he continued to stare at the rug beneath his feet instead of speaking, I glanced at Ethan, who shrugged at me. Marc was first to break the silence. “Did you want me and Faythe to get a whiff of the body, Greg?”

  My father nodded, his green-eyed gaze flitting from Marc to me. “We need to connect the murders, if possible,” he said, confirming my suspicion. He cracked one knuckle, an old habit that sometimes meant he was angry, but in this case indicated deep thought. “But you might not find anything. This latest body may simply be the result of a careless new stray who hasn’t learned to control himself, or to cover his kills.”

  Ethan frowned. “How do we know that’s not the case with Moore?”

  Vic shifted in his seat, and leather creaked beneath him. “From what Marc told me last night, Moore’s attacker wasn’t new. Nowhere near.”

  I whirled on Marc, wondering what he’d caught that I’d missed. “How do you figure that?” I hadn’t known there was a difference between the scent of an old stray and that of a new one.

  “Moore’s scars. Most of them were old and faded.”

  My eyes were drawn to Marc’s chest, where I knew similar marks lay hidden beneath a vintage Van Halen concert T-shirt. His scars were old and faded, too. Marc had been scratched—and thus infected—fifteen years earlier, when he was barely fourteen. “So, Moore wasn’t new.” I shrugged, still staring at his chest. “What does that matter? We’re talking about the killer being new, not the victim, right?”

  Marc crossed his arms over his pecs, as if he knew what I was thinking. “Moore had dozens of healed wounds. He’d obviously been in several brawls, and I’m guessing he won most of them, since they didn’t kill him. There’s no way a new stray could take out someone with as much experience as Bradley Moore clearly had.”

  Oh. That made sense. “Okay, but that’s sort of a moot point,” I said, my hand hanging over the end table to my right, my fingers brushing the back of a pewter cat reared to pounce. “Whether the killer is newly infected or not—whether he’s even a stray—doesn’t really matter. What matters is that Moore may have been killed by a jungle cat. And this new one probably was, too.”

  “Jungle cat? We’re looking for a jungle cat?” Ethan glanced back and forth between me and Marc. “When were you guys going to enlighten the rest of us?”

  “We aren’t sure about it yet.” My father frowned, displeased by my loose tongue. “And you’re on a need-to-know basis. I saw no need to alarm everyone without further proof of a problem.”

  “Well, now we have proof,” Ethan muttered, drawing a stony frown from our father.

  The Alpha folded his arms over his chest. “No, we don’t. And we won’t, until Parker gets back with the body.”

  “Okay, that’ll tell us about the new body. But how sure are we that Moore was killed by a jungle cat?” Vic asked.

  “Not completely,” Marc admitted, patting my leg. “But it’s certainly possible. The scent was definitely foreign.”

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t make sense, either.” I brushed his hand off, distracted by the thoughts swirling through my head like colors in a kaleidoscope. “Jungle strays usually rip their victims apart.” We knew that for a fact, after cleaning up the mess Luiz had made of a couple of college girls at the beginning of the summer. “Neck-snapping seems a little too neat and orderly.”

  “And too easy,” Marc added. “Moore didn’t fight back, which means he probably never saw it coming. He must have known his murderer and trusted the bastard.” He paused, frowning at no one in particular. “Why would he trust another stray, especially a jungle cat?”

  Vic arched his eyebrows. “Why would he even know a jungle cat? We executed the only one I’ve ever met.” Not for being a jungle cat. For kidnapping, rape, and murder—the unholy trinity of crimes.

  My father cracked another knuckle and we all turned toward his chair, where he’d sat quietly for the past few minutes, content to let us discuss the situation on our own—no doubt another aspect of our training. When he had our full attention, the lines around his mouth deepened. “That seems to be the bottom line. With any luck, knowing how Moore and his killer are connected will tell us how to find the rogue.” He stood, signaling the end of the impromptu meeting. “We’ll know more when Parker gets back with his corpse.”

  Ethan snickered, then swallowed his laughter at a stern look from my father. I hid my own smile against Marc’s shoulder. My dad had a weird way of referring to every dead body by the name of the person who found it. Or the person who rendered it dead in the first place. His habit was nothing short of macabre, and as a child, I’d flinched each time he’d made such a reference.

  The guys thought it was hilarious. They kept a running total of all the corpses attributed to them by my father, as if it were a point of pride. I hadn’t been a bit surprised to find out a month earlier that Marc held the lead by a comfortable margin. I was disturbed by that fact, however, because I happened to know that he’d never actually discovered a single body. What that said about his kill count was enough to give me nightmares. And enough to make me seriously consider requesting a new field partner.

  “Parker should be back by nine-thirty, so I want everyone in the barn at a quarter to ten. And I need a couple of volunteers to man the incinerator when we’re done with the body.” My father’s gaze settled on Marc automatically, and Marc in turn stared at Vic.

  “No way.” Vic shook his head vehemently, short brown waves bouncing. “Owen and I just got back from patrolling.”

  Marc blinked at him. “Faythe and I disposed of the last body.”

  “Digging a hole’s one thing. Cremating a corpse, then grinding up the solid chunks, is something else entirely.” Vic closed his eyes briefly, no doubt remembering the one time he’d run the incinerator. “That smell stays with you.”

  Ethan sighed, glancing from one to the other in irritation. “It’s not like the body’s going to sit up and yell boo, you big babies.” He turned to face our father with a contrived look of stoicism—his best shot at appearing serious. “Jace and I will do it.” No one bothered to ask if he wanted to consult his partner before volunteering them both. Jace Hammond would follow Ethan into hell and back, if he thought there’d be a decent per diem and a cold bottle of beer in it for him.

  “Where is Pretty Boy?” Marc asked, his hand going stiff in mine. A quick glance at his face revealed a mask of tension stretched across the familiar strong, dark features, and I exhaled in frustration. I’d spent all summer waiting for the delicate truce between Marc and Jace to fail, and so far they’d both surprised me, but that fact had the fragile feel of transience.

  “Jace went to the liquor store,” Ethan said, searching my eyes quickly before running a hand through his thick black hair. “It’s his turn to restock the supplies.”

  “Okay,” my father said in his Alpha voice, bringing us back on topic as all eyes turned his way. “Spread the word. Nine-forty-five in the barn. Anyone more than a minute late takes a dock in pay. That means you, Ethan.” He headed for the hall with my brother right behind him, trying to talk his way out of his latest tardy fine.

  “But, Dad, if you’d seen that waitress, you’d totally understand….”

  My father rolled his eyes. “Don’t embarrass yourself with excuses
.” He stopped and turned to face Ethan, his expression even more stern than usual. “And while we’re discussing your social life…are you properly prepared for your date this evening?”

  I nearly choked trying to hold back laughter, and both Vic and Marc shook with their own efforts.

  “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks for asking.” Ethan slapped my father’s shoulder, as if he were talking to one of the other guys, rather than the Alpha. “I’m glad we could have this little talk.”

  “I’m serious, Ethan.” My father’s expression darkened. “The world isn’t ready for your offspring. And neither am I.”

  “I know, I know. I’ve got it covered.” With that, Ethan headed down the hall toward his room. My father followed, shaking his head silently. As soon as they were gone, Vic fell on the couch in laughter, holding his stomach as if it hurt. Marc and I collapsed onto the love seat, laughing until tears formed in our eyes.

  Birth control was not a topic werecats discussed very often. Most tabbies wanted children, and until recently, we’d thought toms couldn’t impregnate human women.

  We’d been wrong. Toms could, in fact, produce children with human women. Rarely. The proof was…well…strays. All strays.

  According to Dr. John Eames, a geneticist from one of the northern Prides, every single stray he’d tested over the course of a ten-year study turned out to have a half-human, half-werecat genome. Or something like that. The layman’s version was that strays, according to the good doctor, already had werecat genes before they were infected. Genes they’d inherited from an unknown werecat ancestor somewhere in the branches of their various family trees.

  His conclusion was that normal humans—without these recessive werecat genes—cannot be “infected.” But that those with the genes can have their werecat halves “activated” by a simple scratch or bite.

  I didn’t pretend to understand all the details, and neither did most of the toms I knew. Especially Ethan. All he cared about was that his social life had been disrupted by what he saw as a microscopic risk. The procreational equivalent of hitting a bull’s-eye with an arrow from a mile away. But my parents were taking no chances, and I found the irony as frustrating as Ethan did. From me, they wanted children. From my brothers, they wanted prevention.

  Still grinning, Marc leaned back against the arm of the love seat. “We still have three hours until dinner,” he said, running one hand slowly up my thigh.

  I smiled. “Oh yeah? Whatcha cookin’?”

  My mother served a sit-down dinner five nights a week, because that’s what her mother had always done. But on Saturdays, it was fend for yourself or starve. And tonight—Monday—was my parents’ date night every week that my father was home, as it had been since before I could remember. When he was out of town, Michael “Atlas” Sanders, my oldest brother, took her out to dinner, eager as always to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, for all to see. The big suck-up.

  Marc put his hands around my waist and twisted to lift me into his lap. I straddled him, my knees pressed against his hips while my fingers played along the hard lines of his chest. Leaning forward, he pushed aside my hair with his nose, purring into my ear. “If you cook, I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “You’ll do dishes?” Grinning, I pushed him back gently, my fingertips trailing down to his stomach, to skim over each firm ripple through his shirt. With each bump, I felt his pulse spike, and mine responded in kind. He licked his lips and his eyes roamed down from my face, lingering several inches south of my collarbones.

  Promising chills raced across my skin as his hands slid slowly up from my waist. His fingers brushed the sides of my breasts through my workout bra, and my breath caught in my throat. Marc smiled at my reaction, but the look in his eyes was more heat than humor.

  One hand cupping the base of my skull, he pulled me toward him and his lips grazed my cheek. “I had something else in mind, though my idea did involve something hot and wet.”

  Behind me, someone snorted, and I jumped. My head whipped around fast enough to make my neck pop. Vic sat on the couch across from us, his arms crossed over a chest only slightly less well defined than the one beneath my hands. I’d forgotten he was there, and judging by the look on Marc’s face, so had he. Embarrassed, I twisted around to sit on the couch, my leg pressed against Marc’s.

  “You know, no one likes a voyeur,” Marc said, the hint of a smile ruining any attempt to sound serious.

  “Not true,” Vic insisted. “Some people get their kicks from being watched. I know this chick in Atlanta…”

  I rolled my eyes, and he laughed, then changed tactics. “Anyway, I’d only be a voyeur if I’d invaded your privacy.” He spread his arms wide to indicate the office around us. “If you didn’t want an audience, you should have taken your show off the stage and into the bedroom.”

  I let my forehead fall to rest on Marc’s shoulder, my ponytail tumbling forward to hide my flaming cheeks. “I think he’s got us there.”

  “So.” Vic grinned. “Who’s cooking?”

  I did a mental inventory of the other members of our household, searching for someone else to saddle with the chore. Parker was still on the road, and Ryan was locked up, and thus less than worthless regarding household labor. “Where’s Owen?” I asked, my mouth already watering at the thought of our resident cowboy’s chicken-fried steak.

  “He took the tractor to Livingston to be repaired and won’t be back for a couple of hours. And Jace and Ethan have a double date with a set of twins they met at Sonic.” Vic crossed his hands over his chest and tried to hide a smile. I frowned, sure he was kidding, but his expression said otherwise. “Seriously. And they can’t even tell the girls apart.”

  I winced in sympathy for the twins I’d never met. “So, we’re back to Marc and his world-famous mac and cheese with hot dogs,” I said, rubbing Marc’s shoulder.

  He shrugged out from under my hand. “I’ll race you for it. Loser cooks. And cleans,” he added as an afterthought.

  “To the tree line?” The sparkle in my eyes reflected back at me in Marc’s pupils. He knew I loved to run.

  He shook his head. “Too easy. Make it the stream.”

  I nodded. “But you have to stop and Shift once you hit the trees.”

  “Fine.” Marc turned to face Vic. “You in?”

  “For a free meal?” Vic grinned, his blue eyes shining with more pure joy than I’d seen in them in the three months since his sister was murdered. “Hell yeah.”

  “On the count of three.” I glanced from one to the other, and leather creaked as they prepared to jump to their feet. “One…”

  “Two-three,” Marc finished for me. I frowned, but before I could cry “foul,” he hoisted me into the air by my waist and tossed me across the rug, without so much as a grunt. “Catch,” he shouted to Vic, who’d just bolted up from his seat on the couch.

  Vic’s eyes went wide as I sailed toward him, unable to stop or even change my trajectory. My arms flailed in the air, and I landed on him with all the grace of a hippo dancing the Nut-cracker. My momentum drove us both back onto the couch, where he plopped down sideways, and my knee nearly hit his groin. My forehead smacked the back of the couch over Vic’s shoulder, and my front teeth clicked together sharply. By the time I’d recovered enough balance to stand, fury no doubt glinting in my eyes, Marc was nowhere in sight.

  Growling, I launched myself toward the hall as a screen door slammed on the other side of the house.

  Damn it, Faythe, I thought, as mad at myself as I was at Marc. Will you never learn?

  Six

  Vic’s footsteps thumped rapidly behind me on the tiled hallway floor. I ran full-out, racing after Marc with my heart pounding in my ears and adrenaline pumping through my veins. A litany of colorful phrases chased one another in my head as I tried to decide which would best express my outrage at Marc. I’d crossed out “worthless scratch-fevered tomcat” and was leaning toward “future eunuch” when I reached the end of the hall.
>
  I shoved the storm door open, and the heat hit me instantly, humidity and intensity giving it an almost solid presence. It was like trying to inhale damp cotton. Pushing through the initial obstruction of warmth, I jumped over the back step and took off, leaving the door to slam shut at my back. But instead of the rattle of glass and the metallic click I expected to hear, the door closed with a solid thunk and a nasal-sounding moan of pain and surprise.

  Barely slowing, I glanced back over my shoulder. Vic stood behind me, holding the storm door open with one hand, while the other covered his nose. Blood ran down his right arm, dripping from his elbow to land in a spreading crimson puddle on the back step.

  Damn. I’d slammed the door in his face.

  “Sorry!” I yelled, already turning back to face what little I could see of Marc as he ducked beneath a low-hanging branch at the tree line. Vic mumbled something so low and muffled that even with a cat’s enhanced hearing I couldn’t make it out. But I could guess, and it wasn’t pretty.

  My eye on the goal, I sprinted with a new surge of speed, powered by determination and irritation at Marc. Blood raced through my veins. My lungs expanded with each deep, exhilarating breath. My entire body was alive in spite of the heat, reveling in the thrill of exertion and the glory of the outdoors.

  I pulled my sports bra over my head as I passed the guesthouse, where Marc and the guys lived. The warm wind tore the lightweight material from my fingers, and it snagged on a clump of holly bushes growing along the back porch of the guest house. As I ran, I worked the ponytail holder free from my hair and let it fall to the ground. At the tree line, I kicked off my shoes and stripped from the waist down.

  In a small clearing just inside the forest, I dropped to all-fours, pleased to see Marc in the same position several feet away. He was almost done Shifting, and I hadn’t even started, so I did an abbreviated version of my usual silent meditation routine. As I focused on the rhythm of each slow inhale and exhale, my Shift began on its own, a convenience which was the result of years of practice and a conscious effort to put my mind and body at ease.