My father reemerged from the empty horse stall on two legs, wearing a satisfied, cat-who-ate-the-canary look—and little else. He’d taken the time to pull on his pants, but the remaining parts of his suit—including socks and tie—lay draped across his left arm, his shoes hanging from the fingers of his right hand. We were getting a rare glimpse of our Alpha at his informal best, and I couldn’t help but smile.
“The scent was definitely there,” he said, walking toward us from the other end of the barn in long, confident strides. “It was faint, but unmistakable once I caught it. We’re not looking for a stray after all.” He paused dramatically, and I was amused to realize my father was dragging the moment out to prolong the tension. It was working. All eyes were on him, and Ethan actually leaned forward in anticipation.
The Alpha opened his mouth to make his grand revelation, but I beat him to the punch. I just couldn’t resist.
“We’re looking for a tabby.”
I’d whispered, but they all heard me clearly in the eager silence created by our Alpha’s theatrical pause. At the edge of my vision, Marc gaped at me, but my eyes were on my father, whose face registered first surprise, then annoyance. Then pride. He was proud of me for figuring it out on my own.
I grinned, relishing what felt like a rare moment of competence. But my father kept watching me, as if waiting for more. My smile faded as I wondered what I was missing. Was he irritated at me for one-upping him on purpose? Instead of answering my unspoken question, he smiled and glanced from me to the rest of the guys. Whatever was on his mind, he didn’t want to talk about it in front of everyone else. At least, not yet.
“How did you know?” he asked at last, moving on as if he’d never paused.
“Deductive reasoning.” Beaming openly now, I glanced from face to astonished face, unbothered by the knowledge that they were reacting to my news, not my skill in deducing it. “There’s no way the average stray would let someone else get close enough to hurt him without going on the defensive. Unless that someone was a girl. Specifically, a tabby—the tomcat’s Achilles’ heel.”
Ethan frowned, skepticism etched into every line on his face at the thought that a girl could ever be his downfall. I was more than happy to burst his sexist bubble.
“Tell him, Dad. Harper and Moore got their tickets punched by a girl. And it could just as easily have happened to you, Ethan.” Self-defense would have been the last thing on my youngest brother’s mind if he’d met a strange tabby on the street. He’d have been more concerned with getting his hands on her than with keeping hers off him.
“No way.” He shook his head, short black hair falling across his forehead.
I sighed. Tomcats aren’t threatened by tabbies. I’m proud to consider myself the exception to that rule, but generally speaking, male werecats see nothing to fear in the female of the species. Even as a member of the not-so-gentler sex, I’d made the same mistake. The truth was that we’d all been trained from birth to underestimate women. Some of us, to underestimate ourselves.
While human society had made wonderful progress in the struggle for gender equality, the werecat community was still decades behind the times. Irritating though that fact was, I understood the reason. Tabbies are very rare, averaging only one out of every six or seven Pride births. Once you add in the strays, who are all male, the ratio of tabbies to toms becomes even smaller.
Since technology has yet to eliminate the necessity of a womb in the process of procreation, female werecats are not only rare, but very valuable.
How do people treat rare and valuable treasures? With great care and respect. And with a single-minded determination to eliminate all possible dangers. For that reason, most tabbies grow up to be full-time moms, like my mother. As such, they can remain under the watchful eyes and protective arms of their husbands and teams of enforcers, who would gladly give their own lives to protect the woman who will someday bear the next generation of werecats.
Frustrating, and frighteningly archaic, but true.
And when I thought about it that way, it wasn’t really much of a surprise that none of us had considered that the killer could be a woman. Or that Harper and Moore had let her slip through their personal defenses. Fear for his life was probably the last thing on either man’s mind when he saw the mystery tabby. The first was no doubt lust. On second thought, that might have been the only thing on either of their minds.
“Think about it,” I said, enjoying my moment in the limelight. “You guys have been falling for that one since the beginning of time. Remember Adam and Eve? Samson and Delilah? Need I go on?”
Apparently not, judging by the less-than-friendly looks on their faces. And I had serious doubts they’d recognize references to Calypso, Circe, or Scheherazade. Maybe Lorena Bobbitt…
“Whatever.” Ethan glanced from me to Marc, then back to me. “If you’re so sure it’s a tabby now, why didn’t either of you recognize the scent in the first place?”
Shrugging, I crossed my arms over my chest. “The smell is very faint, and just like the rest of you, we went into this expecting to find a tom’s scent. So that’s exactly what we found. Or what we thought we found. Besides, I can’t speak for Marc, but I was blindsided by the foreign aspect of the scent. That surprised me—” and scared me “—so much that I didn’t think to analyze any further.”
Marc nodded in agreement, threading his warm fingers through mine. I squeezed his hand in response, thanking him silently for backing me up. If we’d both missed the cat’s gender, I didn’t come off looking like such an idiot.
“Well, she’s not a jungle cat.” My father’s voice rang into a silence broken only by the crickets chirruping outside, and I felt a small measure of tension ease from the cramped muscles in my neck. “She lacks that distinctive Amazonian scent. But she’s definitely from somewhere south of the equator.”
“Holy…crap.” Vic glanced at our Alpha as he altered what he’d been about to say. “A South American tabby? We’re looking for a serial-killing foreign tabby cat? In our territory? How is that even possible?”
In spite of the frustrated feminist in me who insisted that women were capable of anything men were—including murder—I had to admit to having similar questions. To my knowledge, I was the only other tabby who’d ever killed anyone, and I’d done it in self-defense. Mostly. But there were no signs that either Harper or Moore had tried to hurt the tabby in question.
And beyond all of that, there was an even bigger question…
“Who the hell is she?” I asked, my attention on my father even when someone grumbled softly over my language. No one else ever cussed around our Alpha; it was considered disrespectful. I didn’t do it to be rude; I did it to remind him that even though he had me where he wanted me—for the moment—I wasn’t completely malleable. And, honestly, sometimes it just slipped out. My mother was right: bad habits die hard.
“I don’t know,” my father said, surprising me with the honest bewilderment in his voice. Of course he didn’t know. There was no reason he should know. But I was kind of accustomed to his having all the answers…
“How on earth did she get here?” Parker wondered aloud. “And where are her enforcers? Why would her family let her come here alone? She has to be alone, doesn’t she?”
“Yes.” Marc nodded firmly. “We’d know it if there were an entire contingent of foreign cats in our territory. It’s one thing for a single cat to evade detection for a little while. But a whole party?” His tone went up in question on the end. “No way.”
Jace brushed a strand of short brown hair back from his face, and his cobalt eyes sparkled with sudden excitement. “Maybe she doesn’t have any family or enforcers. Maybe she’s a stray.”
Vic snickered, and even Parker smiled at the thought of a female stray. There weren’t any, and to my knowledge, there never had been. Not even in legend.
The theory generally accepted by the council was that human women were too weak to survive either the initial infection,
or the transition period itself. To my surprise, that theory had survived Dr. Carver’s recent revelation about the recessive werecat genes, by virtue of the fact that we’d never once found a female stray. But with no proof of the impossibility, I was no longer willing to accept the old theory as fact. Women really could do anything men could do, and our mysterious tabby was proof of that.
Still, while the possibility of a female stray did exist, at least in my mind, our murderer didn’t fit the bill.
“No.” Marc and I spoke in unison, and I gestured for him to continue. The spotlight was starting to make me sweat, and he was more than welcome to it. “She’s not a stray,” he said, and I nodded in agreement. This second whiff of her scent had verified that she was a natural-born cat. A natural-born South American cat, apparently.
“Then that brings us back to my questions,” Parker said. “If she belongs to one of the South American Prides, where are her fellow Pride members? Why on earth would they let her off on her own?”
“Maybe she killed them all,” Vic suggested, morbid humor shadowed behind his eyes.
Ethan crossed his arms. “Then they probably won’t mind if we keep her.” His cocky smile clearly showed his confidence that he could tame any tabby.
I frowned, un-amused. “Ethan, she’s a murderer, not a stray puppy. You can’t be serious.” But he only smiled, and most of the others suddenly found the straw at their feet fascinating. I looked to my father for help, but he simply gestured at my fellow enforcers, telling me to take my complaint to the general assembly. Frustration rumbled up my throat in the form of a mild growl. “Guys, come on!” I couldn’t believe them! We were talking about a cold-blooded killer, and they acted like she was a lost kitten they wanted to adopt.
“What would you suggest, Faythe?” Owen asked gently, peering at me from beneath the brim of a stained and faded cowboy hat. “You want to execute a tabby?”
Did I? My uncertainty stung like salt rubbed into the open wound that was my own indignation. Whoever the tabby was, she was a murderer. But she was also a tabby-cat. The species needed her just as badly as it needed me. Did that mean she should literally get away with murder?
Based on the expressions around me, the guys had come to an unspoken, unanimous conclusion: yes. She should get a walk—at least from the death penalty—because of her gender. They thought they could reform this murderess, whoever she was. Or they at least thought it was worth a try. Even Marc, who met my eyes unflinchingly.
My father cleared his throat, effectively cutting off the retort I hadn’t even thought of yet. All eyes turned toward him, and I noticed idly that no one was looking at poor Harper anymore. Our interest had shifted from the dead guy to the girl who’d introduced him to his current state of rigor mortis.
Our Alpha eyed each of us in turn. “We’ll cross that bridge when it crumbles beneath our feet. For now, I believe the most important question is, Who is she? While I seriously doubt she killed her entire family, the fact remains that she’s running around the southern U.S. killing strays, so I’d say there’s a very good possibility she’s no longer on good terms with her Pride. But without more information, or a stronger scent, I couldn’t begin to guess which Pride that is.”
My father dropped his shoes on the ground in front of his feet and glanced around the barn. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve had enough excitement for tonight, and we need some time to think about all this. I’m going to bed, and I suggest the rest of you do the same. Except for Jace and Ethan, of course.”
Ethan nodded, and he and Jace came forward to wrap the body for its date with the industrial incinerator.
I turned to Marc, intending to ask if I’d get away with murder just because I had ovaries, but before I could even open my mouth, my father popped his knuckles. Several at once.
My eyes closed in dread. Knuckle-cracking was never a good sign.
Marc elbowed me and I opened my eyes to find the Alpha watching us both. As I’d expected.
“You two pack your bags before you go to bed.” My father leaned against the van and pulled on one black dress sock, then stepped into his shoe. “I want you both on the first flight out in the morning from Houston International.”
“Where to?” Marc asked, pulling me toward him. I let myself melt into his chest, pulling his arms around me as my head fell back to rest against his shoulder. I didn’t want to go anywhere. We’d only been home for two days, and I’d rather spar with Ethan twice a day for the next month than go out on another assignment.
“New Orleans. If memory serves, Kevin Mitchell still lives there. I want you to meet up with him and find out what you can about Harper. Check out the restaurant and the alley, and see if you can figure out what he was doing there. Then drive out to Picayune and look around his apartment. I’ll get you the address.”
My father paused to put on his other sock and shoe, then stood and gathered the rest of his clothes. “Talk to his neighbors. Be discreet, of course, but find out if any of them saw him with a woman who could be the tabby. Get a good description. While you’re doing that, I’ll work on her identity from another angle. I have a contact in Venezuela who should be able to tell us who’s missing a daughter, and why.”
My mouth dropped open, and I clamped it shut before anyone noticed. “You have a contact in Venezuela?” How could I not have known that?
“Faythe, I’d been to six different continents before you took your first step. When will you stop sounding surprised that I bring a bit of worldly experience to my position?”
“I’m not surprised, Daddy. I’m just ready to accumulate a little of my own.”
He raised one brow. “Fine. Start with New Orleans. And, Faythe?”
“Yeah.”
“Be careful what you ask for. Life has a way of giving you what you want, whether you’re ready for it or not.”
I frowned. “Why do you say that?”
With a cryptic smile, the Alpha strolled past me and through the barn doors. A moment later, his voice floated out of the darkness. “I got you, didn’t I?”
Eleven
Kevin Mitchell met us at baggage claim. I didn’t recognize him until he stepped into my path and stuck his hand out, his broad smile brightening an otherwise ordinary face.
“Faythe Sanders, you look amazing!” he said, brown eyes shifting upward as his gaze slid over my denim shorts before stalling at the low neckline of my shirt. His leering appraisal made me wish I’d opted for painter’s coveralls instead of the snug black tank top. Or maybe a big paper sack. Rather than shaking the hand I extended reluctantly, he used it to pull me into an intimate hug, as if we’d known each other for years, when really I’d only met him once before.
Bristling, I broke free from the involuntary embrace and bent to pick up my bag, determined to get Kevin’s brain focused on business and keep it there. He was only a few years older than Marc, but my gut had labeled him a dirty old man the minute he’d made eye contact with my breasts. If that’s where he thought my eyes were, I didn’t want to know where he’d look for my brain.
But I was pretty sure where to find his.
“Hi, Kevin.” I glanced at Marc and started to take his hand out of habit. But then I stopped. I didn’t want either of them to think I was using Marc to shield myself from unwanted attention. Instead, I gripped my bag in both hands, though it wasn’t heavy, and met Kevin’s eyes candidly as I introduced him to Marc.
“Marc Ramos, Kevin Mitchell.”
“We’ve actually met before, but it’s been a while,” Marc said, extending his hand. His expression remained admirably neutral, in spite of the possessive growl I knew he held ready deep in his throat.
Kevin studied the offered hand for several seconds, as if inspecting it for grime, and my grip on my bag tightened as I watched Marc’s eyes harden and his shoulders tense. This wasn’t going to be pretty. I could already tell.
“Of course.” Kevin finally accepted Marc’s hand, but instead of shaking it,
he squeezed it, and to my horror, Marc squeezed back. “Who could ever forget Greg’s pet stray?”
Marc’s hand tightened visibly around Kevin’s fingers, his digits going white. Again. Both men clenched their jaws, Kevin in pain, and Marc in an obvious effort to control his temper and keep from breaking Kevin’s hand. Off.
Why couldn’t guys find a more original way to test each other’s manly prowess? Arm wrestling might have been more subtle. Or maybe comparing the length of their…canines.
I elbowed Marc in the ribs, and he let go. Then he turned an insincere smile on me for a moment before aiming it at Kevin. “I guess this is your big chance.”
Kevin raised one eyebrow at Marc. “For what?”
“To prove yourself. Isn’t that why you’re here? You think if you impress the boss’s daughter, he’ll finally make you an enforcer.”
His verbal jab jarred loose an old memory and I realized I’d actually met Kevin not once, but twice, the first time nearly eleven years earlier. I’d been just a kid when Kevin applied for a job as one of the south-central territory’s enforcers. My father accepted him into our Pride from his birth Pride, but turned him down as an enforcer, along with four other tomcats, including my brother Ryan.
Though Marc hadn’t quite been eighteen, he’d gotten the job. And apparently he wasn’t above lording that over Kevin, though I could hardly blame him after the stray comment.
“Actually, I just want to help.” Kevin swallowed thickly and made an awkward attempt at a smile.
Marc nodded, wearing his business face, nearly expressionless and impossible to read. “Good. Keep that in mind, and we’ll be fine. But if you forget your altruistic intentions, we’re going to have a serious problem. Got it?”
For a moment, Kevin said nothing, and I could almost see the possible answers cycling through his brain as expressions flitted across his face. “Look, I’m just doing Greg a favor,” he finally said, settling on an arrogant I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about look as he tried to imply that he and my father had a much closer relationship than they actually did.
Rogue Page 11
