On her way out of the room with the nearly empty plate, my mother set another brownie on the end table next to me and smiled. She hadn’t actually gotten a full dose of the sedative that day in the basement. Apparently stabbing someone with the needle didn’t provide the same force as shooting it from a pistol powered by pressurized air. And, anyway, Dr. Carver had assured me that even an entire dartful wouldn’t have been enough to completely immobilize a full-grown werecat. Luiz must have been counting on shooting me twice, as he had Ryan. Mom had actually passed out from being choked.
She dealt with it pretty well, I thought. She wore silk scarves until the bruises around her throat faded completely, and referred to the attack as a “little incident,” as if not calling a rose a rose made the fight any less real. It didn’t, but hey, whatever got her through the day….
My father couldn’t have been prouder of “his women.” He regaled his Alpha friends several times apiece with the story of how Mom and I had defeated the jungle stray who’d snuck past an army of enforcers to invade our lives and destroy the facade of security we’d previously enjoyed. Of course, he left out the part where, instead of locking Luiz out, I’d actually locked him in with us. I think he was finally starting to understand that there’s really something to be said for selective omission.
Unfortunately, that principle could not be applied where Manx was concerned. With Luiz dead, she agreed to a full disclosure, and finally told us her birth Pride and homeland. Mercedes Carreño was from one of the oldest Prides in Venezuela, and as soon as she said her surname, my father’s eyes closed in what could only be grief. Or frustration. He obviously already knew what she went on to tell us.
Two years after Manx’s disappearance, her father was killed by an ambitious neighboring Alpha, who then took over the territory Manx was born into. Her brothers died in defense of their territory, and her mother died of heartbreak less than a year later. By the time she fought free from her captors, Manx had no home to return to and no family left to care for, other than the child in her womb. So she’d set her sights on revenge, convinced that she could never raise her son in peace while Luiz—the baby’s father—still breathed.
While the new Alpha of her old territory would no doubt have taken her in, Manx would no more turn to the man who’d killed her father than she would return to the men who’d killed her sons. So, with no Pride to defend her or demand her return, her fate was officially in the hands of our Territorial Council, which elected to try her on three counts of murder. However, for the safety of her unborn child, her hearing would be deferred until after the birth of her son.
The council was still arguing over what to do with me. My father’s allies wanted to let me go with a warning. His enemies wanted to make an example of me. And because of his relationship to the accused—me—my father was not privy to any of the discussions. So we lived in ignorance of the proceedings, waiting for the other Alphas to come to some sort of an agreement. And until that time, I’d been suspended from duty as an enforcer. The closest I could get to the action now was answering my father’s phone.
“It’s because she’s a reporter,” Owen said, still watching the movie from the floor at Ethan’s feet. “She’s naturally curious. She can’t help it.”
I laughed. It was just like Owen to make excuses for someone else’s shortcomings. Even fictional characters. Owen found my tendency to speak my mind “refreshingly honest,” and hailed Marc’s temper as “a deep protective instinct.” He said Ethan “thoroughly enjoyed life,” and that Parker “really knew how to have a good time.” According to Owen, we were all doing just fine, and all was right with the world. I wanted to share his optimism, but try as I might, I couldn’t help seeing things through my smog-colored glasses.
“Hello, Faythe,” Manx said, padding into the living room in her bare feet to stand by my chair. Her little baby bulge brushed the end table, and she reached down to caress her stomach through a loose peach maternity blouse. She was swelling every single day, and was more tickled with her expanding shape than I could imagine ever being.
Dr. Carver had removed her cast two days before, and declared her to be in perfect health. He’d reminded her to refrain from Shifting until after the baby was born and to take the prenatal vitamins he prescribed. And he’d promised to come back every month or so and check on her, if she promised to stay out of trouble, and not to leave the ranch. She’d been happy to accept the deal.
Everyone else had been pleased by it, too. Though some of the guys—namely Marc and Michael—were still wary of Manx, none of them would hear of her staying anywhere else until her trial. The company of a pregnant tabby was too special an opportunity to pass up.
“Shut up! This is my favorite part!” Vic cried, reaching for the remote as, on-screen, the camera zoomed in on the couple naked in front of the campfire. It wasn’t the sex he enjoyed. It was that first glimpse of Hollywood’s idea of Shifting—which just happened to take place during the movie’s only sex scene. The guys laughed and chewed their brownies, eyes glued to the spectacle of rubber, prosthetics, and what could only be stop-motion photography.
Manx’s eyebrows rose as she watched the screen, snacking on a brownie from my dwindling stack. “What is this, Howling?”
“It’s a movie,” I told her, proud of myself for not snatching my treat back from her. I was getting better at being nice to Manx; like everything else, it just took a little practice. And she wasn’t that bad once I got used to her. She was a bit of an attention hog, but I didn’t really mind, because she distracted a lot of notice from me, which left me free to live my life in relative privacy for the very first time. “They usually watch it with a drink in hand, taking shots every time one of the werewolves howls. If you’re not careful, you’ll be completely smashed by the end.”
“Hey, Manx, come sit!” Ethan called, twisting in his seat to smile at her.
“You don’t mind?” she asked, beaming her thousand-watt smile at them as she brushed a tumble of dark curls from one shoulder.
“Of course not.” Vic waved her over. “We’ll rewind it if you want to watch from the beginning.”
Shrugging, Manx walked around the couch into the center of the room. Several of the guys stood, stepping over one another to find a seat for her and make her comfortable. She wound up in the chair Ethan vacated, part of the crowd yet still removed from the pile of warm bodies.
In the month she’d been with us, no one had touched Manx at all, other than Dr. Carver and my mother. With every day that passed in peace, she seemed a little more willing to believe that no one at the Lazy S wanted to hurt her. And every day she smiled a little more.
“Oooh, look out!” Manx cried, in her exotic accent, biting her lower lip as the werewolf on screen lunged for his victim.
“Faythe,” my father called out from his office, just as I stuffed the last bite of brownie in my mouth. He hadn’t yelled, but the tone of his voice set me instantly on edge. Chewing furiously, I dropped my book in my seat and made my way down the hall to the office. Whatever he had to say would not be pleasant, and I wasn’t ready for more bad news.
“Sit down,” he ordered from his desk chair, as I padded silently into the room. Marc followed me, and we sat on opposite ends of the couch. My father nodded at Marc, then stood, carrying a plain white business envelope, beneath a sheet of typing paper folded into thirds.
“What’s that?” My heart thumped and my palms began to sweat. I was pretty sure I knew what he held, but I refused to believe it until he said it out loud.
“They’ve made a decision.” He dropped the paper on the end table next to me, then sank wearily into his chair. “They’re charging you with infecting Andrew, then killing him to cover it up. Two capital crimes. The hearing begins in eight weeks.”
Eight weeks? My stomach constricted and I closed my eyes in dread. Manx got four months, and I got eight weeks?
So what? Screw ’em. Eight weeks was more than enough time to prepare my defense.
After all, I was innocent—mostly.
I took a deep breath, then opened my eyes and saw pure terror in Marc’s. Then I met my father’s gaze, and for the first time in my life, I couldn’t tell which of us looked more worried. Still watching me, he exhaled wearily, and I smiled.
Let the games begin….
ISBN: 978-1-4268-5394-4
ROGUE
Copyright © 2008 by Rachel Vincent.
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Rogue Page 34
