Authors: Rachel Vincent
“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?
V
ic’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.
In Shifting, one rule holds true: the more anxious you get, the more pain you experience. But I’d learned quickly, fol
lowing my first Shift at the onset of puberty, to relax and go with the pain. And eventually I came to welcome it. My mind was never so clear as when pain forced me to concentrate and internalize my focus. Each searing, stabbing sensation sharpened my thoughts, and each agonizing ache lubricated the grinding gears in my brain. My learned ability to think through pain had come in handy on more than one occasion, and had saved my life at least twice. That made pain my friend. A very good, love-to-hate kind of friend.
As my back bowed and my joints popped in and out of their sockets, movement to my right caught my eyes through lids squeezed almost shut in concentration. Marc had finished his Shift. He stood before me on four powerful feline legs, long muscles bulging beneath a gorgeous coat of glossy, solid-black fur. He stared back at me through eyes the same gold-flecked brown they were in human form, though the shape was entirely different.
Unlike lions, tigers, and the other breeds of large cat, which have round pupils similar to that of a human, in cat form, we have the distinctive oval pupils of a house cat—vertically oriented black slits. And because it was daytime, Marc’s pupils had narrowed almost completely out of existence to protect his sensitive feline retinas.
I blinked at him, and he licked his muzzle in return, flashing a mouthful of pointed, slightly curved teeth. He was mocking me. He could already have been halfway to the stream, but he’d stuck around to watch my Shift because he knew he could afford to. Marc was flaunting his anticipated victory, and in that moment, my new goal in life became making him pay for his arrogance with a mouthful of bitter dust raised by my paws as they flew past him.
Marc watched me carefully, waiting for the onset of the final phase of my Shift, which would be his signal to leave. If he hung around until I finished, he wouldn’t stand a chance.
Fresh pain lanced through my face as it began to ripple over a sickening current of elongating bones and protruding teeth. Marc huffed through his nose and slunk gracefully toward the far edge of the clearing. Toe pads nestled on a soft bed of ivy, he turned back for one more glance, just as the first undulating wave of fur sprouted on my back, flowing down from my spine to cover my torso.
With a silent, powerful shove against the earth, Marc was gone, soaring over a three-foot-high clump of undergrowth to land soundlessly on the other side. By the time sharp, curved claws erupted from the ends of my new cat toes, I could no longer hear him running through the forest. But that didn’t mean much. Cats can be absolutely silent when they want to. And Marc wanted to.
His nose still dribbling blood, Vic shoved aside a low-hanging branch and ducked into the woods. I paused long enough to give him an apologetic glance, then followed Marc through the forest toward the stream.
Trees flew past as I ran, launching my newly lithe form over moss-covered logs and around bushes. My body resisted such strenuous exercise at first, because I hadn’t taken the time to properly stretch my new configuration of muscles. But soon the act of running eased my residual stiffness and alleviated that I-don’t-fit-into-my-own-skin feeling that followed a Shift. With those kinks worked out, I was free to enjoy the exhilaration of racing through the forest at a speed no human could possibly experience without the benefit of an engine and at least two tires.
From all around me came the sounds of the forest: nature’s residents, busy even in the midday heat. My practiced ears had little trouble weeding through the myriad croaks, squeaks, chirps, hisses, and the rhythmic rustle of leaves as I searched for any sign of Marc.
Marc had truly disappeared, but I’d only been running a few minutes when the gurgle of running water met my ears. Even if I hadn’t known the way by heart, I could have followed the sound to its source. Rather than tracking by smell like dogs, cats use their sensitive hearing to locate prey, one another, and anything else that makes noise.
I turned toward the sound, and a couple of minutes later I could smell the water. Or rather, I smelled the minerals, plants, and creatures
in
the water. And suddenly I could smell Marc. We may not use our noses to track, but we use them regularly to identify one another, and my nose was telling me Marc was somewhere just ahead.
The race wasn’t over yet.
Encouraged, I scrounged up a fresh burst of energy. Small animals darted out of my path. Thorns tugged at the fur on my legs and stomach. With each bounding step, my paws sank into a soft layer of ivy, moss, and last year’s leaves. I ran directly into the breeze, stirring the branches over my head, and only the occasional twig cracking beneath my paws betrayed my presence. And as I drew closer to the stream, I heard a faint huffing noise.
Marc.
And he was close.
I sprinted around a thick patch of raspberry briars to find him directly in front of me, headed straight for the stream. He was almost there. But so was I.
A growl rumbled from deep in my throat. Instead of
stopping at my warning, Marc sped up. I did the same, my muscles burning in protest. Cats are sprinters, not long-distance runners. But I was so close!
The distance between us narrowed. My claws gripped the earth as I ran, providing traction on a slick bed of moss that grew thicker the closer I got to the water. My lungs burned from exertion, demanding that I win, that I not put my body through such torment in the heat of the day for nothing.
But I couldn’t win. Marc’s tail was only inches from my nose, but I had no more speed to offer, no more energy to spend. Marc had cheated, and he was going to win.
Unless I cheated, too.
After an instant’s hesitation, I sank my teeth into the tip of Marc’s tail.
He yelped and tried to stop instantly. Instead of the graceful halt he’d no doubt intended, he tumbled forward, stumbling over his own front paws. His muzzle hit the ground, buried in a patch of moss, while his hind legs kept going, propelling the rest of him forward. He looked like a pig rooting in the mud.
I dropped his tail without slowing, and huffed in Marc’s ear as I passed him. It was the closest I could come to laughing in his face.
He recovered quickly. I glanced back to see him running after me, moss stuck in his front teeth. He was too late. I splashed into the stream up to my shoulders, snorting and tossing my head as I inhaled too much water.
Before I could clear my nasal passages, Marc bounded into the water after me. He hissed and slapped the surface with one front paw, spraying me with a backlash of water.
I’m sure you
are
pissed, you cheating son of a bitch,
I thought. But all I could do was grunt at him. And splash him back.
For the most part, stories about cats hating water are exaggerated. About us, they’re an outright fabrication. Like most large cats, we love water. The guys and I had been known to waste entire summer afternoons splashing around in the stream, treading water at the deepest parts. We’d catch fish when we got hungry, and when we grew tired, we’d stretch out on the banks to dry in the sun before bounding off into the woods for more recreation. And with the national preserve bordering our land, we had plenty of forest in which to play.
While the woods were usually thick with humans during the tourist season, none of the backpacking trails or campgrounds were anywhere near our private wilderness. We’d seen very few hikers, and on those rare occasions when we had, the noise of their approach gave us plenty of time to hide in the trees before the two-legged wanderer came into view.
Marc and I played in the water for several minutes before Vic, now in cat form, padded to the edge of the stream, announcing his presence with a low-pitched yowl. His nose looked better, from what I could tell. It was swollen, but straight, and the bleeding had stopped.
Though it hurts like hell, Shifting shortly after receiving an injury can reduce healing time by as much as half. The best explanation I’d heard for the phenomenon was that since muscles, ligaments, and bones are torn apart and rearranged during a Shift anyway, injuries begin to heal automatically as our parts are reattached in new positions.
I’d experienced this personally twice, and had welcomed the accelerated recovery time in spite of the extra pain.
Vic growled at us from the bank, clearly chewing us both out. Though I couldn’t understand his exact phrasing, the gist
was clear enough: we’d both cheated, and he had no intention of cooking either of us dinner. Ever.
That said, or growled, in this case, he jumped into the water between us, draping one heavy black paw over Marc’s shoulders and hauling him beneath the surface. They both came up sputtering, each batting playfully at the other’s muzzle as they tried to dunk each other.
I backed away to watch from the edge of the stream, and to slake the thirst I’d worked up during my long sprint. But even sloshing with water, my stomach wasn’t satisfied. Hunger gnawed at me, my belly demanding compensation for the calories burned during my Shift.
Shifting takes a lot of energy, which must be replaced quickly with both food and water. Water, I had plenty of. Food was another story.
My stomach growling, I turned to recruit Marc and Vic for the hunt I was already planning. But again, Marc was gone. Vic paddled alone in the middle of the stream, beckoning me forward with a playful splash and a toss of his head. Wondering vaguely where Marc had wandered off to, I pushed off from the bank and swam toward Vic, intending to dunk him as he’d dunked Marc. But as I extended one paw beneath the surface, my sheathed claws only inches from his head, something heavy dropped onto my back. I plunged to the bottom of the stream, my limbs flailing in the weak current.
For a long moment, I panicked, sucking water in through my nose in bewilderment. My paws scraped uselessly at loose, smooth stones, scrambling for purchase. My tail stirred the water fast enough to create a light foam. Then the weight was gone, and I floated to the surface, sputtering and hissing with my first gulp of air.
Marc bobbed in front of me, treading water. The gold specks in his eyes sparkled in delight. He seemed to be laughing at me around a muzzle full of sharp, pointed cat teeth. The bastard.
I growled at him in mock anger, swatting his ear with my paw, claws unsheathed. But I didn’t hit him hard enough to hurt him, or even to break his skin, because we were just playing. And because I’d get him back later, when the time was right. When I had the advantage of surprise. When he’d completely forgotten I still owed him…
After Marc’s champion pounce, we played in the stream, swimming and splashing each other, until my stomach renewed its demand for food with cramps instead of gurgling chatter. But by then I was too tired, from our play and from hunger, to even think about hunting. I jumped up onto the bank, signaling to the guys that I wanted to Shift back by tossing my head in the direction of the ranch.
Marc climbed the northern bank of the stream and took off through the woods with Vic trailing close behind. Evidently they still had far more energy left than I did. But then, they hadn’t spent all afternoon sparring with Ethan.
I trudged after them, not bothering to keep up. Surely by the time I made it home and Shifted back, someone would have started cooking. Or at least ordered a few pizzas. But as I made my way through the forest, plodding around tree stumps instead of leaping over them, something raced across the left edge of my vision. My head turned instinctively to follow the movement, ears arching forward as the rest of my body froze.