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I glanced at my face in the grease-streaked mirror. I looked tired, but it was probably just the thick layer of dirt. On the mirror, not on me. “I think you’ll have to eat without me tonight. And tomorrow. And maybe for the rest of the summer.”
“Why, what’s up?”
“My dad’s mad ’cause I didn’t invite my family to graduation. He threatened to yank my funds unless I spend the summer at home.”
Andrew laughed. “So the mysterious Faythe Sanders does have a family. And where is home?”
I hesitated long enough that anyone else would have commented on my reluctance to answer. Not Andrew. He never acknowledged an uncomfortable situation, unlike Marc, who wallowed in tension like pigs roll in the mud. “A ranch near the Louisiana border,” I said finally.
For years, I’d carefully avoided any conversation that might have led to questions about my childhood, because it had always been easier for me to pretend I hadn’t had one than to try to explain the Sanders family dynamic. From a human perspective, we didn’t make sense, and struggling to explain it only made things worse.
As children, humans learned to compromise, share and make friends. I learned to identify animals by scent and to stalk them without betraying my presence. While normal parents discussed political elections and spiking interest rates, mine discussed expanding territorial boundary lines and how harshly to deal with trespassers. Humans just didn’t understand my childhood, so I generally avoided the subject altogether.
Andrew coughed, but the sound was muffled, like he’d covered the mouthpiece. “So you withdrew from school?”
“Not yet.” I cringed at the very idea of withdrawing, as if my absence from school wasn’t real as long as I was still enrolled in a class. “I’ll do it over the phone tomorrow, but it’s only for the summer. I’ll be back in September. Maybe earlier. It depends on how long it takes me to talk some sense into my father.” Yeah, right. Like my father and I had ever had a sensible discussion. Or even a calm one.
“No problem. I’ll come see you during the break between summer sessions.”
My stomach lurched at the thought of introducing Andrew to my parents. And to Marc. “Um, let me talk to my dad first, okay?”
“Sure. But don’t worry, parents always like me.”
Not my parents, I thought, leaning against a sink jutting from the wall like a porcelain ledge. Not unlessyou’re hiding fur and claws beneath your Abercrom-biekhakis. But he wasn’t. I didn’t know every cat in the country personally, but I’d know one if I met one, and Andrew was one hundred percent certifiably human. Which, of course, was the attraction.
“I have to go now, but I’ll talk to you later, okay?” I glanced in regret at the bathroom door. If the facilities had been nicer, I might have considered staging a sit-in, in protest of being taken home against my will. But one glance at the filthy floor drove that thought right out of my head.
“Sure. I’ll give you a wake-up call before my first class,” he said. “Or do you farm girls get up with the roosters?”
“Not this farm girl,” I said. “We don’t have roosters.” Or any other livestock, for that matter.
“Good to know,” Andrew said. “I’m going to go eat now, all by myself. Talk to you tomorrow.”
I said goodbye, and my stomach growled as I hung up. I thought of Andrew’s pizza with envy. Maybe I could talk Marc into swinging by a drive-thru on the way back to the highway. But I’d probably have to say please.
Suddenly I wasn’t that hungry.
Back at the car, Marc was nowhere in sight. I was searching the glove box for a spare key when I noticed him walking toward me from the burger joint next door. He carried a grease-stained paper bag in one hand and a cardboard tray of drinks in the other.
Damn. Now I’d have to say thank-you.
“Four double cheeseburgers, extra pickles,” he said, sliding into the driver’s seat with a creak of leather. “But two of them are mine.” He dropped the bag in my lap and settled a drink into each of the cup holders in the center console.
I opened the bag and stuck my nose inside. Warm, fragrant steam engulfed my face, and my mouth watered. The meat was grilled, my preferred way to have a burger. Marc had probably chosen this particular gas station just so I could have my favorite fast food.
“Thanks,” I said, feeling my cheeks flush with guilt. Maybe he’d think it was the steam.
He almost smiled. Not quite, but almost. And his eyes practically glowed when they met mine. “So how do you manage to eat enough at school without looking like a pig?”
“The same way I did in high school.” I tore into the first cheeseburger, barely bothering to chew before I swallowed. “Carry snacks, eat on the way, then again when I get to the cafeteria. And tell everyone I’m bulimic.” I snorted, doing an uncanny impersonation of a pig, if I do say so myself.
His eyes widened for an instant. Then he laughed. The sound of pure amusement caught me off guard, and I smiled, leaning back against the headrest as I watched him. For a moment, that old familiarity crept in, like the comfort of my favorite well-worn T-shirt. Then I remembered I didn’t want to be comfortable with him, and my smile died on my lips, even as his laughter faded from my ears.
Marc watched the change in my expression with mounting disappointment. He knew what it meant. Jaw tight with tension, he slammed the car into gear, reversing in a tight arc across the empty parking lot.
I bit another chunk from my burger, staring out the windshield as he shifted into First gear. The beef, so appetizing moments earlier, was suddenly bland and difficult to swallow.
Marc snuck one more glance at my face and tore from the parking lot as if we were being chased. And we were, but you can’t outrun your own memories. Not for long, anyway.
Three
I’d fallen asleep for real by the time we got home, but the crunch of gravel and the unmistakable sway of the car on our quarter-mile-long driveway woke me. I sat up, staring out at an impressive display of stars as we pulled through the open wrought-iron gate. Marc poked at the remote clipped onto his visor, and I turned around in my seat to watch the gate close. At the top was a capital S lying on its back, as if at rest.
Ours wasn’t the only Lazy S Ranch in the country, or even in Texas, but it was the only one I knew of which housed cats instead of cattle. I’d told Andrew we didn’t keep roosters, but the truth was that we couldn’t keep them or any other livestock, because when animals smelled us, they smelled natural predators and they reacted in panic.
Years ago, in an uncharacteristic burst of optimism, my father bought a horse for my brother Owen, but it took one whiff of him and went crazy, charging the gate of its stall and running into the walls. They had to shoot the poor thing because no one could get close enough to sedate it. So, ours was a ranch in name only.
I sighed, staring through the windshield at land and outbuildings I hadn’t seen in years. Nothing had changed—at least, nothing I could identify in the dark. Waist-high grass grew in fields to the east and west of the main house, destined to become hay when the season changed. I smiled as we passed the barn in the eastern field, empty but picturesque in the moonlight with its peeling red paint and gabled roof. As a child, I’d spent entire summers playing in there, hiding from life in general and my mother in particular.
And directly ahead lay the main house, stretched across the yard like a lion at rest.
Marc parked in the circle driveway, behind the Volvo my mother hardly ever drove. I got out and looked around, glancing at the guesthouse, where Marc lived with three of my father’s other enforcers. All the lights were out. No one was home.
Gravel shifted beneath my feet as I passed the cars lining the drive, trying to identify the owners. I’d been gone a long time, having spent vacations at school for the last two years, and I could no longer say for certain what each of my brothers drove. But I could guess.
The Porsche—solid black and gleaming in the glare of the floodlights—had to be Michael’s. No one else was that ostentatious, except maybe Ryan, who would never come home voluntarily. He’d left when I was barely thirteen and wouldn’t be back, because for him, that was an option.
Ethan drove the convertible, no doubt about it. But if I needed further evidence, there was plenty to choose from in the front floorboard, littered with fast-food wrappers and empty plastic soda bottles. I grinned, staring through his driver’s-side window at the collection of CDs, ranging from nineties grunge to the latest hip-hop.
The truck, a three-quarter-ton Dodge Ram, as clean on the inside as it was dusty on the outside—that was Owen’s. I hadn’t seen this particular model, but it was close enough to the last one to make me smile. Owen was a frustrated cowboy at heart, and only he would drive a work truck.
Marc led me through the front door and into the foyer, where I turned left out of habit, surprised to find the kitchen dark and empty. Huh. Usually all the guys hung out around the tiled peninsula, snacking and talking over one another with full mouths.
“Go wait in the office,” Marc said, pointing the way as if I could possibly have forgotten. “I’ll tell your father we’re here.”
That wasn’t necessary, of course, because just as I could hear them speaking in whispers in one of the back bedrooms, I knew they could hear us. They’d probably heard the car from a mile away.
I considered arguing with Marc but couldn’t think of a good reason, so I complied. See? I could play nice when I wanted to. I just didn’t want to very often.
My shoes squeaked as I walked across the kitchen tile to the dining room, and back into the foyer. To my left, across from the front door, was a long straight hallway, dividing the house in half and ending at the back door. In front of me was my father’s office.
I crossed the hall and entered my father’s haven, savoring the darkness of a room with no windows. The air smelled like my father, like leather furniture, polished wood, and expensive coffee. To my right was a sitting area arranged around a rectangular rug: a love seat across from a couch, with Daddy’s armchair at one end, facing them both. In one corner sat a massive oak desk, covered—though not cluttered—in neat stacks of paper, notebooks and ledgers, arranged at perfect ninety-degree angles.
On one side of the desk, its flat-screen monitor turned toward the desk chair, was a state-of-the-art computer, equipped with the latest in drafting software. On the other side sat an antique lamp with a pewter base. I turned the knob on the base, and soft light washed over the room, leaving the corners thick with shadows.
Behind the desk, the glass display cabinet caught my eye, and I moved forward to examine it. My mother had ordered it for my father, to showcase his awards. I opened the right-hand door and flipped a tiny hidden switch on the end of the last shelf. Fluorescent light flickered to life inside the case, and I closed the door, pressing gently until I heard the latch click.
Each shelf was lit from above, so that the trophies and plaques shined, the words glaring almost too brightly to be read. Most were in appreciation of his charity work, but those on the top shelf were in recognition of his buildings, his best ones. My father’s buildings graced the skylines of five different U. S. cities, and in my opinion—admittedly biased—they improved the view from every angle.
Wood creaked behind me. I froze, trying to interpret the blurred reflection in the glass. Another creak as he came closer, and I smiled, in recognition and in breathless anticipation.
“You still have the sweetest ass this side of the Rio Grande.” Hot breath caressed my neck, and lips brushed my earlobe.
I spun around to find my body pinned between the glass case and someone tall, hard and tauntingly masculine. Jace. I inhaled his scent. Bar soap, fabric softener, and something meaty, maybe beef jerky. But under those was something more, something wild, and pungent, that woke up my instincts and made my heartbeat echo in my throat. It made me crave things my human form couldn’t accommodate, things my brain couldn’t even articulate, but my heart and my nose recognized instantly.
I tilted my face up to look at him. “What about the other side?”
He grinned, showing two rows of perfect white teeth, framed by lips that would have been wasted on mere speech. “I’ve never been south of the river, but I bet you could hold your own down there, too.” Jace bent his face toward my ear. I closed my eyes as he sniffed the length of my neck, trailing the tip of his tongue along my skin as he came back up. I shivered and gasped, and he responded with a moan as he pressed his hips against mine, nipping the flesh at the base of my neck.
“Get off my sister.”
Jace hissed in my ear, and cool air brushed my stomach where his body had been a second earlier. I opened my eyes. My brother Michael stood in front of me, holding Jace at arm’s length by the back of his neck.
“I was only saying hello,” Jace purred, his lazy smile still aimed at me.
“Do it without your tongue.” Michael enunciated each word carefully and slowly to make sure he was understood. He shoved Jace to one side, a little too hard to be playful.
Jace stumbled, catching himself on the edge of Daddy’s desk. “If I were Marc you’d let me greet her properly,” he said, a hint of resentment in his voice.
“There was nothing proper about that.” Michael frowned, but I glimpsed amusement behind his stern, I-mean-business face. “And if you were Marc, she’d have tossed you off herself. But you’re not Marc.”
“If I were, she wouldn’t have left us in the first place.” He turned his back on us both, slinking to the door with a fluid grace no human could have duplicated.
I blushed, thinking of the carnal promise in his casual words. No one else would have gotten away with such a comment, much less the intimate greeting, but I took a lot from Jace that would have lost anyone else an ear. Or worse. Jace got away with it because I secretly suspected he was right, that his body could really do what his teasing kisses and caresses hinted at. And because he’d never really tried. Our relationship had always been fundamentally platonic, a safe zone for playful flirting, which Michael either couldn’t or wouldn’t understand.
High heels clicked briskly on the tiles in the hallway, and I turned toward the door, steeling myself to face my mother. She stepped into the office, pausing for effect in the doorway as she spread her arms in greeting. “Faythe, we’re so glad to finally have you home.” As if I’d returned for a friendly visit, instead of for a command appearance.
My mother looked exactly as I remembered, down to her gray pageboy and charcoal-colored slacks. She had a closet full of them, hanging right next to a collection of novelty kitchen aprons, printed with not-so-funny sayings, like “I’d give you the recipe, but then I’d have to kill you.”
She came toward me, pausing almost imperceptibly when she realized I wasn’t going to rush forward to meet her. Michael and Jace stepped back, making way for my mother, a tiny life raft of estrogen bobbing amongst the waves of testosterone.
She hugged me, her embrace bringing with it the scent of homemade cookies, with cinnamon and nutmeg. Who cooks with nutmeg in the middle of the summer? Only my pretty-kitty version of a mother, a remnant of the June Cleaver days of intact families and repressed emotions.
Over her shoulder, I watched Marc come in, followed by my father, who pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to polish the lenses of his glasses while he waited patiently for my mother let me go. Daddy was always the last man to enter any room, so he could take charge of everyone all at once. Tall, and still firm at fifty-six, my father commanded respect everywhere he went, and it was all innate. He could never have explained why people did what he wanted, but his authority was undeniable, and unless I was at home, unquestioned.
I frowned at him, preparing to argue my case. “Daddy, what—?”
He smiled, cutting me off with a wave of one thick hand. “Give me a hug first, before we let business get in the way of family.”
I hugged him, but was bothered by his statement, because the business was family. Always. No matter how much he loved creating beautiful buildings, and how many days a year it took him away from home, his true passion—his life’s calling—was the Pride. We were his family, some by blood and others, like Jace and Marc, by association and employment.
Daddy released me, leaving one heavy hand on my shoulder as he turned to Jace. “Go unload Marc’s car, please, and let everyone know the prodigal daughter has returned.”
Again, this was unnecessary; everyone knew I was home. It was just Daddy’s polite way of getting rid of Jace. I took it as a good sign. If my father had been mad or upset, he wouldn’t have bothered with tact. He’d have merely started shouting orders.
Jace nodded and left without complaint. Marc closed the solid oak door behind him, cutting off the masculine buzz of conversation coming from the back of the house.
Suddenly nervous, I wiped sweat from my palms on my pants. I’d never been comfortable in Daddy’s office when the door was closed. Unlike the rest of the house, the walls of the office were made of solid concrete, which made them virtually soundproof, even for us. At least in human form. Most families use rooms like that as an indoor tornado shelter, or as safe rooms in case of home invasions. My father used it for privacy, a hot commodity in a house full of people gifted with a cat’s hearing.
Marc leaned against the door frame with his hands in his pockets, apparently relaxed. I wasn’t fooled. Daddy hadn’t forgotten to post a guard at the door since the summer I turned eighteen, and considering how long it took them to find me that time, he probably never would again.
My mother sat on the leather love seat, patting the cushion next to her—not for me, but for Michael. He glanced at me for a moment before sitting, and I couldn’t resist a tiny smile. Michael was what you’d get if you mixed a Chippendale dancer with a LawReview editor: a handsome face crowning an athlete’s body, all dressed up in a hand-tailored suit, with silver, wire-rimmed glasses added for effect. Seriously. His vision was better than perfect, but he thought he looked more like an attorney in the spectacles. And maybe more like our father, who’d been fitted with prescription lenses three years earlier.
Daddy sat in his armchair, where he could see everyone. And they all stared at me.
Shrugging, I plopped down on the couch, all alone. I glanced back at Marc, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. Once again, it was me against the world. Or at least against the Pride, which, unfortunately, was my world.
I took a deep breath and held it for a moment, then let it out all at once. Time to get it over with. “So, tell me about Sara.”
“We don’t know much yet,” my mother said, crossing one ankle over the other. “She went shopping in downtown Atlanta, and never came back. Your father sent Vic home to help with the search, and he’s promised to keep us informed.” Vic was Sara’s brother, and one of my father’s enforcers.
“That’s it?” I ignored my mother and frowned at my father. That couldn’t be all they knew.
“So far.” Daddy nodded, and I noticed absently that the gray streaks at his temples had broadened since I’d seen him last. “From the credit card bills, they know where she actually made purchases, and her brothers have been in all the stores, discreetly questioning the salespeople. Most of the clerks remembered her, but no one saw anything unusual. Bert has his men out looking, but so far they haven’t found anything.”
Bert was Umberto Di Carlo, Sara’s father, Alpha of one of the neighboring territories. And one of my father’s closest friends.
“How long has she been gone?” I asked.
“Since the night before last.”
“I assume they’ve questioned Sean.”
Daddy shook his head.
“No one can find him,” Marc added, and I twisted around to look at him. “He was staying near Chattanooga, right outside the southeast territory, but now his apartment’s empty. The landlord said he moved out a couple of weeks ago.”
I shrugged, turning back to face Michael and my parents. “So, what are we going to do?”
“Nothing.” Disapproval traced deep lines on my father’s face; I was intimately familiar with that expression. “Bert hasn’t asked for our help. We only have details because Vic called last night.”
I frowned at my father. “If we’re not going to help, why drag me home from school?” Silence greeted my question, and I glanced from face to face, anger building in a slow, hot crescendo. My mother looked away, but Michael stared right at me.
“What would you suggest?” he asked, narrowed eyes daring me to answer. “You want us to go in uninvited?”
Did I?
Bert and Donna Di Carlo controlled the southeast territory, encompassing everything east of the Tombigbee River in Alabama, and south of the Tennessee River and the southern edge of the Smokies. My father was Alpha of the south-central territory, which was south of the Missouri River and east of the Rockies, running all the way to the Mississippi. The unclaimed portion of Mississippi between the two territories was considered free range, where strays and wildcats of any lineage could live and run without having to secure permission.
My father and Umberto Di Carlo were friends—very old friends. But in the werecat community, even the strongest of friendships was defined by strictly observed boundaries, both geographical and personal. Breaching a territorial boundary, even with an offer of assistance, would do more harm than good, because the Di Carlos—and likely the rest of the werecat community—would see it as an insult. Our interference would undermine Umberto’s authority and call his leadership into question. We might as well announce to the world that we don’t think the southeast Pride can handle its own problems. No Alpha could afford to let such an insult go unpunished.
Did I want my father to breach another Pride’s territorial boundaries and risk breaking the peace, just to reassure me that everything possible was being done? Just so I could return to my life as soon as possible?
Hmm. Tough call.
Though my father was clearly disappointed by Umberto’s failure to seek his aid and advice, without being invited to help, he would take no action. Our boundaries were older than the U. S. Constitution and written in stone—almost literally, in the case of several mountain ranges.
According to tradition, werecats preceded the European colonists to the new world by several hundred years. Of course, we migrated on foot from the jungles of South America, rather than crossing the Atlantic by boat. Out of instinct, we formed territories, and out of necessity those territories overlapped areas occupied by the already-native humans. As is often the case with human boundaries, our borders followed naturally occurring lines of division: mountain ranges, rivers and large lakes.
