His submissive stance was typical for an Ashawe, but when he turned toward Griffin, the proud light in his eyes held no resemblance to a coyote-shifter. His eyes were all wolf.
He's a hybrid.
Surprise almost stopped her from entering the elevator behind him and Jennings. She hadn't expected to meet another hybrid in the council building, but then she remembered: two years ago, it had created quite a stir when Kylin had appointed Rufus Tolliver as her councilor's aide.
The elevator doors slid open. Rufus led them along a nondescript corridor in a nondescript building.
Griffin tilted her head and listened. Silence greeted her — not surprising since council meetings always took place in soundproof rooms. Wrasa had excellent hearing, and the council didn't want anyone spying on them.
Oh, yes, we've lost a lot of things, but our paranoia is not one of them.
Instead of making them wait, Rufus ushered them into the council chamber. He stayed outside, but his encouraging nod followed Griffin before he closed the door behind them.
Agitated voices leaped at Griffin, making her flinch back. Amazing how just nine people could make so much noise.
None of the councilors turned as the door opened, and Griffin was in no hurry to attract their attention.
"Let's wait until there's a break in the discussion," Jennings said.
Griffin leaned against the back wall and tried to understand what was going on.
The nine council members were sitting at a round table that emphasized their equality. Wrasa had no regent that ruled over all of them. Instead, each subspecies sent a representative to the council. The leonine Kasari were represented by the high king of the Allied Prides. At one time in the past, every lion-shifter had expected Griffin's father to end up in this position, but now a dark-bearded man sat in his chair, arguing with Jeff Madsen, the most dominant alpha of the Syak. Next to them, Kylin shouted to make herself be heard over the commotion. She represented the Puwar even though she held no official title in the tiger-shifter community.
Griffin stared at them in distaste.
Great hunter.
She had always hated politics.
How can Kylin stand the constant bickering and squabbling?
If she had to stand it for more than an hour, it would either bore her to death or make her anger flare, causing her to shift shape.
They are arguing like a gaggle of human kids on the playground. Hard to believe that the council was the one thing that saved us from extinction.
There had been a time when the members of every race had kept to themselves, and when their paths crossed, it had often ended in territorial fights and bloodshed. But after long centuries of being tortured and burned at the stake as witches and demons by the Inquisition in Europe, they had realized that they had to cooperate to survive. They had set aside old feuds and rivalries and had come up with laws that secured the survival of their species.
Seems they're still discussing the survival of our species.
"I demand that the number of saru be increased," Jeff Madsen, this year's speaker of the council, shouted over the heated arguments of his colleagues. "They also need more autonomy to react more swiftly to any dangers caused by humans."
Next to Griffin, Cedric Jennings gave a satisfied grunt.
"More power to the Saru?" the Ashawe councilor piped up. His brow knitted in concern. "We just added ten new units last year. If we keep on doing that, we'll end up with a police state."
A variety of different feelings from the councilors brushed Griffin's nose. Most of them echoed what she felt — grim satisfaction, worry, anger, ambivalence. On one hand, increased autonomy sounded like a good thing. Griffin liked her independence as much as most tiger-shifters did. On the other hand, more independence for her meant more autonomy for all the other saru too. With added autonomy came an added moral responsibility, and Griffin doubted her fellow saru were equipped to handle it.
Jeff Madsen rose from his chair. The slowness of his movements enhanced the air of danger and superiority surrounding him. "And if we don't do it, we'll end up extinct. There's a steady decline in our birthrate. My grandfather had seven siblings." He straightened his shoulders and looked at each of the councilors in turn. "Now, most of us don't even have one brother or sister."
Anger and pain radiated from Jennings. He no longer had a brother either. Humans were to blame for it.
Griffin knew that Madsen was right. She was one of very few Wrasa who had three siblings.
"We're forced to play constant hide-and-seek in ever-shrinking territories. We can't raise pups like this," Madsen said. "At the same time, our death rate is increasing." His fist hit a stack of paper that probably documented the exact numbers. When he loosened his white-knuckled fist, Griffin saw that his fingers were trembling with rage and grief. "This year, more of us than ever were killed by humans. We can't afford to lose even more."
"Most of these incidents are considered accidents under the law," the Ashawe councilor said, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over the din.
Thyra Davis, representative of the Maki, got up and lumbered over to stand side by side with Madsen. Anger swirled around her in thick waves. It almost drowned out the ripples of sorrow that Griffin's nose detected. "Accidents?" Thyra Davis boomed. "Then I suppose you consider the systematic destruction of our homes accidents too? They're cutting down the forests, draining the swamps, leveling the hills, and they erect campsites and resorts in our natural hiding places. Very soon, there won't be any places left for us to shift and run in our animal forms."
Griffin's throat tightened. She felt trapped in the stuffy council chamber. What the bear-shifter said was true. Most Wrasa were forced to live near national forests and parks, and even there they had to constantly be on their guard and keep an eye out for hikers, hunters, bird watchers, and tourists.
She wanted to cover her ears and not have to listen to the depressing discussion, but she knew with her superior hearing, she would still hear it. All her life, she had avoided politics. There was no escape from this, though. It impacted every Wrasa and her in particular. A few centuries ago, hybrids had been tolerated. Not anymore. Now, Wrasa disapproved of mixed marriages and hybrids because most of them were sterile and put them one step closer to extinction.
"Increasing the number and autonomy of the Saru won't change any of that," Kylin said. Her nervousness wafted across the room.
She's not used to speaking out like this,
Griffin knew.
She has always been a diplomat, a mediator, trying to fit in and not be noticed. She must feel strongly about this if she's willing to speak out against the more powerful councilors.
"Killing humans is not the way to solve our problems. It's not right, and it won't help. We're doing this to ourselves," Kylin continued.
"Ourselves?" the Kasari councilor roared.
Kylin ducked under the roar that probably reminded her of her father, but she didn't give up. "Our fears, our paranoia only makes the problem worse. Hiding doesn't protect us anymore."
"Not that argument again." The movement of Madsen's hand reminded Griffin of an irritated father reining in his unruly pups. "Hiding our existence is why we're still here. There's no telling what humans would do to us if they learn that we exist."
Kylin huffed. "It can't be worse than what hiding does to us right now. Our birthrates are going down because hiding isolates us from each other and keeps us too busy to procreate. A lot of us work two jobs, one in the human world, one as a Wrasa, which leaves no time for raising cubs. And death rates are not going up only because of human hunters." She pointed at the stack of paper in front of her. "Twenty-three of us died last year because they refused to seek treatment in human hospitals or from human doctors, knowing it would reveal our existence. And don't even get me started on what hiding does to our culture, our language, and our values. We're losing more than our lives. We're losing our identity." When she stood, her reddish-golden hair rose high above the other councilors like a warning beacon. "We need change, not more of the same."
"Oh, yes, let's talk about losing our culture." Jeff Madsen growled. "The maharsi were a big part of our culture, our religion, and our identity, and we lost them because of the humans. Our people will forever be robbed of the dream seers' protection and guidance." His head bent in grief and respect. More than half of their maharsi had been killed as witches and demons by the human Inquisitions, ending ancient lines of dream seers.
A few of the councilors turned and looked at Kylin. Their accusing gazes made Kylin flinch.
Long-forgotten protective instincts flared up in Griffin. Her muscles tensed, but she forced herself to stay where she was. From her position leaning against the far wall, she watched as Kylin ducked her head and lowered her gaze.
If she were a dream seer, she would go through life with her head held high.
"The maharsi protected us from extinction during the Middle Ages, but now they're gone, so we have to be more careful," Madsen said. "We have to stop threats before they become lethal. If we don't act now, we're doomed." His fist thumped the table, ending the discussion like a judge's gavel. "So let's get to work. Tas Jennings, Saru Westmore." He waved them forward.
Griffin followed Jennings's example, pulled up a chair, and eased onto it. She didn't want to aggravate the already explosive atmosphere by impolitely staring down at the councilors. Her glance flashed over Kylin, taking in the stiffness of her big body, but she asked no questions. The councilors would tell her why she was here when they were ready — and not a second sooner.
"We have a problem," Madsen finally said.
Big surprise,
Griffin thought. They had a problem, and they expected her and Jennings to solve it. That was, after all, why the council had established the Saru all those centuries ago.
Oh, yeah. That's us — elite soldiers, investigators, protectors of the First Law, and jacks-of-all-trades for whatever the council wants us to do.
"Have you ever heard of," Jeff Madsen glanced down at the laptop on the table, "J.W. Price?"
The initials indicated a human. Wrasa used neither middle names nor initials.
Humans clearly outnumber us, so why do they expect us to have heard of J.W. Price? Is he or she some kind of celebrity? Is this why they called us here? A case that needs to be handled with care because human media will be all over it?
"J.W. Price? No, that doesn't ring a bell," Jennings answered for both of them.
"Then you better get familiar with her because she..." Madsen turned the laptop around for them to see. "...is our problem."
Griffin had expected one of the usual dossiers with a photo of their target, but instead Madsen was showing them a Web site. She leaned forward to read the text displayed on the screen. It was an author's Web site. Colorful covers presented novels with titles such as 'A Vampire's Heart,' but she didn't see a photo of the author. "A romance writer?" Griffin couldn't imagine what kind of problem a writer of trivial romances might cause for the council. She nodded at the vampire fangs on the cover. "Her prose not pointed enough?" she asked with a grin.
"Very funny." Kylin snarled.
The other manarks threw disapproving glances at her.
A sharp pain in her foot let her know that Jennings didn't approve of her sense of humor either.
Griffin wiped the grin off her face but still couldn't see where the problem was. They all knew that vampires didn't exist. The Wrasa were the most dangerous predators that prowled the earth. Why would it matter to them what some human writer wrote about fictional creatures?
Unless...
"Let me guess. Her newest book is titled 'A Shape-Shifter's Soul.'"
She got somber glances from the nine councilors.
"The working title is 'Song of Life,'" Madsen answered, "but yes, she's writing about creatures that can turn into cougars," he nodded at the Arkwi councilor, "bears," a nod to the Maki representative, "wolves," he thumped his own chest, "and so on. She's coming much too close to the truth for my liking."
Griffin still didn't see how this was a threat to their secret existence. "So what if some writer with an overactive imagination coincidentally gets one or two details right? It's fiction; no one will believe it anyway."
"Probably not," Madsen conceded. "But there might be a few readers who are already suspicious, and the novel might make them think. And it's more than just one or two details. She describes things in the manuscript that no one could get right by mere chance."
I still think they're overreacting. Kylin was right. We're getting a little too paranoid since the maharsi are gone.
"For example?" Jennings asked. His sharp eyes were glued to the laptop.
"She describes the way our thought processes change while in animal form quite accurately," the Kasari councilor answered. "She knows we retain an intelligence that is above that of animals while our thinking becomes more instinctive and less analytical. She even mentions that memories from things we experienced in animal form are more images and dreamlike impressions than clear cause-and-effect sequences." His ginger mane flew in all directions when he shook his head. "I don't think getting so many things right is mere coincidence."
Jeff Madsen nodded. "Something else is going on here, and we have to find out what it is before the book is published. This is where you two come in."
"How did you get the information if the book isn't even published yet?" Griffin asked, not reacting to the implied job offer. Maybe Jennings was willing to take the job, but she wasn't eager to go on this crazy-sounding mission.
"Allison DeLuca, her beta reader, is a Syak," Madsen said.
Griffin cocked her head. "Beta reader?" The term sounded vaguely familiar.
"Someone who reads the story before publication and works with the author to help detect mistakes and improve the story," Kylin said.