Prey

In that respect, she reminded me of Manx.

“Why does it take a tragedy to get you to visit? Just once I’d like to see you when nothing’s wrong. When you just came home to say, ‘Mom, I love you.’”

“Mom, I love you.” Vic grinned, but there was pain beneath his pleasant expression. He hadn’t seen his parents since Sara and Anthony’s funeral, and I suspected he wouldn’t see them again for quite a while. Because being home made him remember.

“That’s much better. Now go put those bags in the front hall before they freeze out here.” Vic did as he was told, and his mother turned her eagle-sharp eyes on me. “Faythe Sanders, I’d say it was nice to see you, if you didn’t look so thin. Has your mother stopped cooking?”

“No, ma’am, and I haven’t stopped eating, either.” I smiled. “But I burn a lot of energy on the job.”

“Job?” She looked confused for a moment, hands propped on hips that flared from her tiny waist. “Oh, yes. You’re enforcing for your father. Hardly a proper line of work for a young woman, but if you’re going to fight like a man, I can certainly feed you like one.” Her smile softened the sting of her censure. “Come on in. We’re about to sit down to a big pot of gumbo. You like gumbo, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’ am.” I followed her up the porch stairs and into the long central hallway, where I dropped the bags I carried next to those Vic had abandoned before he’d disappeared.

“Bert, come on out and say hi,” she said, taking the jacket I shrugged out of.

But before Umberto Di Carlo appeared, soft footsteps clicked on the hardwood behind us, and I turned to find Manx standing in the doorway, a blanket-wrapped bundle clutched close to her chest. Her gray eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed from the cold beneath her smooth, olive complexion.

“Well, you must be Mercedes.” Mrs. Di Carlo propped her hands on her hips again and stepped forward boldly to inspect Manx, who towered over her by at least six inches. “My, aren’t you a beauty. I’ll have to warn my boys to keep their distance.”

Whether she was thinking of Manx’s fear of being touched, or her status as a serial killer, I wasn’t sure. Either way, her greeting obviously wasn’t what Manx had expected. The tabby stared at Vic’s mother and clutched the baby tighter.

“Well, come on in before you let out all the heat.” Mrs. Di Carlo ushered Manx into the entry, and Brian slipped inside carrying two more suitcases before she could close the door. “And who is this little gentleman?” Mrs. Di Carlo leaned over to peer at the baby’s face, the only exposed part of his tiny body.

“This is Desiderio Carreño.” Manx’s eyes went soft as her gaze fell on her baby. “He smiled just this morning.”

“Did he!” Mrs. Di Carlo beamed, clearly thrilled by the news, though she’d barely even met the child. “Well, this is a pleasure. We haven’t had a baby in the house in such a long time. I’ll show you to your room.”

Manx and Brian trailed our hostess up the central staircase, and they’d no sooner vanished from sight than a door opened down the hallway, admitting Umberto Di Carlo into the entry. His wide-set brown eyes brightened the moment they landed on me.

“Faythe! Come in and warm up. Your brother and I were about to indulge in a predinner drink. Join us!” He turned without waiting for my reply, and I followed him through an arched doorway into a room filled with overstuffed furniture, dark woods and thick rugs. On the far side of the room, facing a cozy arrangement of couches and chairs, logs blazed in a stone fireplace, casting jumping shadows on the warm, wood-paneled walls.

Michael stood when we entered, frowning in concern the moment his eyes found mine. “Dad told me about the ambush. Are you okay?” He took my arm before I could protest and pushed my sleeve up carefully to expose the half-healed bite marks I hadn’t bothered to rebandage that morning.

“I’m fine. None of us was seriously injured, which is a miracle, considering how badly we were outnumbered.”

Michael looked half relieved and half jealous to have missed the excitement.

“Sit!” Vic’s father ordered pleasantly, after a glance at my new scars. His footsteps thundered as he crossed the room toward a small cherry bar in one corner. “What can I get you to drink?”

“Scotch?” Michael sank onto the left-hand sofa beside me, and Bert nodded in approval.

“Just like your father.” He pulled a half-empty bottle of Chivas Regal from beneath the bar and poured an inch into two short glasses, then looked up at me. “Faythe?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” I’d had enough alcohol the night before to last the rest of the month, at least.

He nodded and crossed the room to hand one glass to Michael. Then he sat on the sedate green couch opposite us, resting a thick hand on the scrolled arm. “So, how are things at the Lazy S?”

“A little tense right now,” I admitted, scuffing the toe of my boot on the red and gray rug.

Michael cleared his throat. “I can’t tell you how much my father appreciates your support, especially at a time like this.”

Di Carlo nodded gravely, and I could see that his decision to back our dad hadn’t been made lightly. “The council’s going to hell in a handbasket, Michael, and if someone doesn’t stand up to Calvin Malone, it’s only going to get worse. But I’m afraid this one won’t be won easily.”

“Nothing worthwhile ever is.” Michael frowned sagely, and I knew the conversation would turn quickly to unpleasant politics. If I didn’t deliver my message soon, I’d lose my chance.

“Mr. Di Carlo…”

“Child, call me Bert.” He grinned, and leaned toward me conspiratorially. “I saw you streak through your father’s office in the buff when you were no higher than my knee. I’d say that makes us friends.”

I flushed, but nodded. “Bert, my father has an idea he wanted me to mention to you. About Manx. Mercedes. Assuming the tribunal finds in her favor… Well, she’s lost her whole family, and you’ve lost your daughter…” I broke off, unsure how to continue. Saying it aloud made it sound like I was trying to restructure the Di Carlo family—sticking my nose in where it definitely didn’t belong.

But Bert finished the thought for me. “Your father thought we might want to keep her?”

“Well…” I wouldn’t have phrased it quite that way, but… “Yes. Assuming she gets along with everyone. And wants to stay, of course.”

Bert nodded and sipped from his glass. “I have to admit I’ve had similar thoughts. Your father assures us that her crimes were the result of severe physical and emotional trauma…”

“Of the worst sort,” Michael interjected solemnly.

“…and that she’s no longer dangerous. Do you agree with his assessment?”

I really wished he hadn’t asked me that. But sure enough, the Alpha was looking at me, rather than at my older, wiser brother, and I wasn’t going to bullshit one of my father’s few sworn allies.

“Mr. Di Carlo—Bert—Manx has survived things I can’t even imagine suffering. Horrors no one should ever have to experience. For years, she was never touched by a man who didn’t hurt her. Years. And the very thing that pulled her through—an iron-hard survivalist instinct—is what led her to kill those toms. They touched her. She thought they were going to hurt her, or her unborn baby. So she defended herself. Preemptively.”

I hesitated on the next part, then finally leaned forward to let him see how earnest I was. “Is there a possibility it could happen again? Yes. Unfortunately, I think there is. If she feels threatened, I think she would lash out in self-defense. Or baby-defense. But she’s been with us for four months now and has never raised a hand to anyone. I think if you give her a chance to get used to your family, and to the idea that no one here means her any harm, she’ll come around eventually. I think she wants a normal life, and it won’t take too much effort to convince her that you can be trusted.”

For a moment, the southeast Pride’s Alpha only stared at me, still processing my blunt speech. As was Michael. “I see,” Di Carlo said finally. Then he smiled. “Well, I suppose it’s worth a shot. Assuming the tribunal sees fit to let her live.”

And I knew from personal experience just how big an if that really was.

Six

“Well, this looks nice.” Once you get over all the pink. I ran my hand along the crib railing and nudged one of the mobile’s lace butterflies into motion. Vic said his parents had set up a crib for Des, but he hadn’t mentioned any of the other stuff. My gaze took in a white wicker rocking chair, some kind of bouncy seat with stuffed bumble bees suspended over it, a changing table piled high with accessories and necessities, and a dirty-diaper storage…contraption…thing. Which I was pretty sure hadn’t even been invented when Sara was born.

The Di Carlos had gone shopping for Manx’s baby.

“Very nice,” Manx agreed. But tears stood in her eyes, and in spite of the room full of furnishings, she still clutched the baby to her chest, as if he were the only thing keeping her above water in a swirling, churning whirlpool of fear and confusion.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, then immediately regretted the question. What wasn’t wrong? “Do you want to…maybe… put him down while you get settled in?” I gestured awkwardly toward the crib, and Manx glanced at the baby bed as if seeing it for the first time.

But instead of moving toward it, she met my gaze, her gray eyes magnified by tears. “What will happen to me, Faythe? The truth. Vic says all will be fine. What do you say?”

Well, shit. I picked up a stuffed lamb from one corner of the crib and played absently with the soft, curly wool. “Manx, I honestly don’t know. This is kind of unprecedented.” I was the only other tabby who’d ever been on trial in the U.S., and my case wasn’t much like hers, in spite of the surface similarities. The charges against her were more serious—three counts of murder to my one count each of murder and infection—yet her chances of getting off were much greater than mine.

Which was probably exactly what she needed to hear.

“Okay, on the bright side, I don’t think they’ll vote to execute.” I glanced at Manx, then at the door open into the hall. Everyone else was downstairs, and none of the tribunal members had arrived yet, but I wasn’t taking any chances. “Why don’t you sit? I need to explain something to you.”

Manx’s beautiful lips thinned in dread, but in the end her curiosity won out. While I closed the door, she laid the sleeping baby in the crib, then collapsed into the rocker as if it were a massage chair. I settled cross-legged onto the bed.

“Okay…” In the absence of my own punching pillow, I had to make do with a frilly sham from Manx’s temporary bed. I pulled it onto my lap and traced the lacy pattern as I spoke. “You’re on trial for killing three toms, but that’s not all this hearing is about.”

Her forehead knit into several thin lines. “What does that mean?”

I wasn’t sure how much my mother had already explained to her, so I started at the beginning. “It’s political.” From what I’d gathered, the South American Prides’ council held much less authority over individual Prides than ours did, so our political struggles were largely foreign to her. “You know my dad was suspended as head of the Territorial Council a little while ago, right?” I asked. She nodded. “Well, his enemies will probably try to use your trial to manipulate more Alphas into siding against my father. This is as much about him and the way he dealt with your…crimes as it is about you.”

Her frown deepened. “I do not understand.”

I exhaled slowly, struggling with how best to explain. “Some people think my father should have punished you for killing Jamey Gardner. Jamey’s brother Wes is Alpha of the Great Lakes Pride, and Wes is pushing for the death penalty for you.”

Manx nodded, but her hand began to tremble on the arm of the rocker. She’d known execution was a possibility, of course, but knowing something and hearing it spoken aloud were two entirely different animals. To which I could personally attest.

“But like I said, I don’t think they’ll do that. You are a tabby, and we really don’t have any of those to spare.” Which was probably the only reason I was still breathing.

The tribunal had threatened me with execution, too, but that threat had merely been a bargaining chip meant to force Marc out of the Pride and me into a marriage with someone else. Someone they considered a more appropriate match for me than a stray.

They’d gotten rid of Marc—for the moment—but I’d rather die than let someone else decide who I would marry. Or that I would marry at all. That decision was all mine, and if the council thought otherwise, they could happily go fuck themselves.

Regarding Manx’s trial, my best guess was that they would spare her life because, unlike me, she was obviously willing to bear desperately needed children. But there was a catch. She was not willing to be touched by a man. Any man, other than Dr. Carver, whom she’d shown no attraction to. And that would seem to make any future children from her pretty damn hard to come by.

Fortunately, Michael had come to Georgia in a professional capacity, and would no doubt emphasize to the tribunal that Manx was still severely traumatized, but that with time, she would recover and hopefully go on to live a normal life. Including a husband and more children.

Though I personally thought that husband would have to be a brave soul indeed…

“So…if they save me? What then?”

“Oh, now you’re asking the tough questions.” I smiled, trying to relax her. And to avoid mentioning that whatever happened after her trial would depend heavily on her sentence. “But the way I see it, you have a few options. You can come back to the ranch and stay with us. Everyone would love to have you. Though I don’t think the council will let you stay in Texas forever.”

With both me and Kaci on the ranch, the south-central Pride was already estrogen-heavy, and the other Alphas would never let my father “keep” three fertile tabbies.

“If you don’t eventually join another Pride, I suspect our Territorial Council will choose one for you.” Which meant she would be claimed by the Alpha who wielded the most power. “And they would probably expect you to marry one of their sons.”

And if, by some catastrophe, Calvin Malone wound up in charge of the council, Manx might live the rest of her life as his daughter-in-law, which probably wouldn’t be much better than life in captivity with Luiz.

I’d only avoided a similar fate myself because my father was reluctant to force me into a marriage, and because he remained convinced that I would eventually marry Marc on my own. But all of Manx’s close family members had died in a hostile takeover by a neighboring Pride, shortly after she had been kidnapped by Miguel and Luiz. In fact, her disappearance was probably what had weakened her father’s hold on his territory—without her, he could promise his members no heir.

So Manx and her son were alone in the world and, as with me, my father was the only thing standing between her and an unwanted marriage.

Manx’s eyes widened, and the blood drained from her face as that fact sank in. “They would force me to…”

“No!” I started to take her hand, then thought better of it and snatched mine back. “Not like Luiz did. The council would never stand for that.”

But was forcing her into marriage any less reprehensible than what Miguel and his brother had done? Sure, she wouldn’t technically be raped, and neither Manx nor her children would be in any physical harm. But she’d be expected to submit on her own, night after night, to a man she didn’t love, so that she and Des would have a safe place to live.

Because if Manx ever refused to bear the next generation, her life would cease to have value, and there would be little motivation for some members of the council to keep her alive. Which was exactly what I’d been told during my own trial.

My blood boiled just thinking about it. The North American Prides were no more civilized than our neighbors to the south! We just dressed up barbarism better, cloaking injustice and oppression—and hell, prostitution—in pretty words like duty and honor.

What a load of shit!

Part of me wanted to march downstairs and demand every cat in the house join me in a protest, pushing for a tabby’s right to chose her own future. Fighting for it, if necessary. But the other, wiser, more logical part of me knew that merely demanding change would accomplish nothing. And fighting would only put me back on the stand next to Manx.

If I wanted to change the system, I’d have to do it from the inside. Jace had told me that, and he was right. I could see that clearly now. And I also knew that it wouldn’t happen quickly. Not in time to save Manx. To keep her out of Malone’s household, we’d need a more immediately accessible alternative.

Fortunately, we might have one…

My throat ached with all the angry words I was holding back to keep from scaring the crap out of her. So I took a deep breath and slowed my pulse, hoping that if I stayed composed, she would, too. Then I forced a comforting smile and launched into the alternative.

“Or, if you like the Di Carlos and they like you, there’s a good possibility that you could stay here.” I glanced down to find my hands twisted around a handful of satin and stuffing, and had to swallow past the lump in my throat in order to speak. “Last summer, they lost their daughter, Sara, shortly before her wedding. Miguel killed her. They’re hurting pretty badly, so if you decide not to stay here, I’d ask you to please break it to them very gently. The last thing they need is more pain.”

“Vic misses her.”

Surprised, I looked up to see that Manx’s tears had actually fallen. “He talks to you about Sara?”

She nodded slowly, wiping moisture from her cheeks. “She was smart, and beautiful, and strong. She spit in Miguel’s face.”

“Yeah.” I laughed and blinked moisture from my own eyes. “That was Sara. She was halfway through a degree in economics, and planned to finish before having kids.” A decision I’d greatly respected.

But now she was dead, and the Di Carlos had no heir, and no way to hold on to their territory once Umberto retired. Or died.

“They’re good people,” I said, looking around at the room they’d fixed up for Manx and Des. “And who knows? You might decide you actually like Vic or one of his brothers. So maybe just think about it?”

“I will.” Manx nodded earnestly, blotting her long, dark lashes with a tissue from the changing table. “If I live.”

I wanted to tell her that she would. That everything would be okay, one way or another. But I couldn’t swear to it, and I wasn’t going to lie to her. And she seemed to respect that.

“Faythe, I need a…um…” Manx paused and closed her eyes, probably searching for the right word in English. “A favor.” She met my eyes again, and the depth of her gaze alone emphasized the importance of whatever she was about to say.

“Yes?” I held my breath, and could hear both our hearts beating. No, all three of our hearts.

“If I die, will you take Desiderio home? To your mother? I have not asked her, but I think she will take him.”

For a moment I was so horrified by the necessity of such a question that I couldn’t answer. I’d known arrangements would have to be made for Des, just in case. But Manx making those arrangements herself, less than twelve hours before the start of her trial?

I could barely even conceive of that kind of courage.

“Please,” Manx whispered, misinterpreting my silence, her eyes deep gray pools of despair.

“Of course I will,” I assured her. Relief washed over Manx, and she slumped against the back of the rocker, as if now that we had that out of the way, she could finally relax.

I couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone look quite so pleased when contemplating her own death.

That night after dinner, I tried my hardest to keep Donna Di Carlo from putting me up in Sara’s bedroom. But she wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I stopped arguing when I realized she might take my refusal as an insult.

I didn’t mean it as one. Sara’s pictures still topped the dresser, and her old stuffed animals reclined on the bed. Her room looked like a shrine, and I didn’t want to disturb it. But her mother was tired of seeing it sit empty and clearly wanted me to get some use out of it.

So I lay down in Sara’s bed just after eleven o’clock—and was still awake three hours later. I couldn’t sleep with her staring down at me from the walls, asking me wordlessly why I saved Abby but couldn’t save her.

Her eyes haunted me.

Finally, around two-thirty in the morning, I snuck out of her room and down the hall to Vic’s, where I climbed into bed with him. He barely even noticed. He just scooted over to make room, then went back to snoring softly.

I would never have gotten in bed with Jace, because Marc would never have forgiven either of us. He knew that Jace and I had made a real connection, and that Jace would be happy to revive it. But Vic and Marc had been partners for years, and Marc trusted him completely. Mostly because Vic had never shown any interest in me sexually. He was a friend, and one who would understand why I couldn’t sleep in his dead sister’s bed.

In minutes, I was asleep, but I woke up with the first rays of sun and crept back into Sara’s room to keep from hurting her mother’s feelings.

I dressed and showered early, and after breakfast I said goodbye to Michael, Manx and Brian. Then Vic drove me to the airport in Atlanta. My plane landed in Dallas just before noon, and I made my way to baggage claim, where Jace waited, his blue eyes sparkling in the fluorescent glow from overhead. Kaci stood at his side, chestnut waves in a ponytail behind one ear. She had her hands stuffed into the pockets of a faded pair of jeans, her jacket unzipped over her favorite long-sleeved tee.

She hadn’t seen me yet, and was anxiously scanning the crowd. Then Jace tapped her shoulder and pointed me out.

Kaci’s hazel eyes found mine, and her face lit up with relief and excitement. She took off through the throng, hair trailing behind her, moving at human speed because of her weakened state. And hopefully in consideration of the people around her. Even so, Jace panicked the moment she left his side. I could see it in his eyes. He’d lost sight of her in the crowd, and was seconds from seriously losing his cool.

I caught his eye and shook my head calmly; I could see her.

A second later she collided with my midriff, but lacked the strength to even push me back. “I thought you weren’t coming back,” she mumbled into my jacket, and her arms tightened around my waist.

“What? Why wouldn’t I come back?” I dropped my bag and put both hands on her shoulders, prying her away gently until I could see her face. She was panting from the brief exertion, and her face was flushed with effort beneath the sickly pallor of her skin—a recent development.

But I smiled to reassure her, and she grinned back, evidently convinced I was real.

Kaci stepped back and took my bag in both hands, already turning toward Jace when she spoke. “Greg said you were hurt, and I thought you’d stay in Georgia till you got better.”

I took the bag from her, afraid she’d keel over with the additional weight. “I’m fine, Kaci. See?” I stomped my right foot on the floor, demonstrating my own sturdiness. “Not even a limp. And you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I Shifted.” I switched to a whisper in concession to the presence of so many humans. “Shifting can heal injuries in a fraction of the time it would have taken if I stayed in human form.”

“Well, good for you.” Kaci shrugged and headed for Jace, dismissing my less-than-subtle hint with an easy toss of her hair. “I’m not injured.”