Pride

  At the tree line, as I munched on the first of my sandwiches, Jace handed Marc the nature-trail map my brother had marked with the location where the cop’s body was found. Marc stuffed the map into the inside pocket of his own leather jacket, then reached out for the hypodermic needle Jace handed him. Next came my uncle’s handheld GPS, which Marc kept out, to guide us on our hike.

  Then Jace stripped, handing his clothes to Marc to be stuffed into his backpack. Naked now, he dropped to his hands and knees on a bed of dead leaves and began his Shift.

  I tried not to be jealous. I really did. Part of me felt fortunate to be outside at all, even confined by my human form. But there was still that stubborn part of me that refused to be satisfied with receiving only a portion of what should have rightfully been mine. I hadn’t intentionally done anything wrong, and “permission” for one evening hike in human form wasn’t going to make up for weeks of desk duty and stolen freedom.

  “This is really a compliment, you know,” Marc said, his gaze sliding from Jace’s writhing form to my face.

  “How do you figure?”

  “They know they can’t keep up with you on four paws. Their refusal to let you Shift is an admission of their own inferior abilities. See?” He smiled. “A compliment.”

  “A backhanded compliment, maybe.” I tore another bite from my sandwich before I could indulge in any more verbal abuse against Malone.

  “Well, this one’s for real.” Marc tugged up the hem of his jeans and dug at something from inside one sturdy hiking boot. “In light of your recent interest in nontraditional weapons, your dad thinks you may be ready for a real one.”

  Something thin and hard hit my palm, still warm from Marc’s body heat. When I held it up, moonlight revealed a simple, sturdy folding knife.

  “It’s just in case. Since they’re not letting you Shift. That button opens it—” he pointed out a small raised circle on one side “—and you can close it one-handed by folding it against your leg. But please don’t cut yourself.”

  I huffed in response and pressed the button. A two-and-a-half-inch stainless-steel blade popped out, and I gripped the knife for business, testing it out.

  I liked the feel of the knife. It wasn’t as good as having claws at my disposal, but at least I wasn’t defenseless and completely dependent on Jace and Marc to protect me in the big bad woods. “Thanks. Where’d you get this?”

  “Your dad borrowed it from Lucas. But if you don’t have to use it, let’s not mention it to anyone else, okay? Malone and Blackwell would not be pleased to find out you’re walking around armed.”

  “Spoilsport.” I grinned and folded the knife closed, then slid it into my back right pocket. The bulge felt good. Comforting, though enforcers don’t usually carry weapons, other than what they’re naturally gifted with.

  A hoarse grunt drew my attention to the ground, where Jace was in the last stages of his Shift. He looked like a huge shaved cat with a deformed head. No, it wasn’t pretty, but werecats grew accustomed to such sights early in life—long before puberty brought on a cat’s own first Shift.

  The potential horror inherent in the in-between stages of a Shift was balanced by its temporary duration. By the knowledge that the very body currently suffering serious pain and monstrous mutation would soon be a beautiful, sleek, graceful animal capable of feats of speed and balance a human could never even imagine, much less experience.

  But apparently—based on my fellow werecats’ reaction to the partial Shift—the knowledge that my partially Shifted face was the goal of my transformation, not just a necessary transition, made my fellow cats uncomfortable, all except for Marc. And Dr. Carver, who no doubt thought of me as a living science experiment.

  As I chewed the last bite of my sandwich, dense black fur sprouted in a thick wave across Jace’s back. He opened his mouth and his canines elongated, growing to match the other sharp, curved teeth in his newly feline jaw.

  A moment later it was over. Marc and I stood in front of a one-hundred-eighty-pound stalking, hunting machine. I’d seen the transformation a thousand times—hell, I’d done it nearly as often—but it never failed to amaze me.

  Jace padded over to us and sniffed Marc’s feet. Marc chewed his sandwich with no regard for the cat. His tolerance was all Jace needed as a sign of approval.

  Then Jace twisted around with a smooth, slinky grace, rubbing the entire right side of his body against Marc’s leg as he glided toward me. His head nudged the empty hand at my side, and I held my palm out for him to rub against. It was a familiar greeting, and a show of trust and affection. Not too much affection, because Jace knew better than to linger too close to me while Marc was around. Even though we’d broken up, and even though Marc was in human form, he wouldn’t hesitate to show Jace his place—which was nowhere near me, according to Marc.

  I put up with Marc’s conduct because I didn’t want anyone else in my life—or in my bed—and I wanted him to know it. But we both knew that if Marc’s protective—or possessive—behavior got out of hand, I’d put an end to it. So far, that knowledge had been enough to keep him in line.

  Jace purred, rubbing his head against my palm. I smiled and scratched between his ears. Then, with no warning but the tensing of muscles between his shoulder blades, he leapt out from under my hand and soared between two trees. He bounded up a steep bluff, around a clump of thorny bushes and out of sight.

  Marc and I glanced at each other. I raised one eyebrow. He nodded, and we were off, legs flying, arms pumping, Marc still clutching the uneaten half of his sandwich in one hand. My canteen bumped my thigh and I laughed as I ran. It was probably a waste of air in my inefficient human lungs, but I didn’t care. Running wasn’t about work. It was about running, whether on two feet or four. Whether in fur or denim. Exercise was exercise, and I hadn’t been getting anywhere near enough of it lately.

  Cold air stung my throat as I sucked in huge mouthfuls. My muscles gloried in the freedom of movement without restraint. My legs itched for speed I couldn’t give them in human form. But I could damn sure try.

  A sudden burst of energy pushed me ahead of Marc, and I grinned at his grunt of frustration. Shaggy evergreens and skeletal deciduous trees raced past as I ran, blurs of green and brown on the edge of my vision. Ample moonlight filtered through the bare branches above, alternately illuminating my path and cloaking it in deep shadow. I was hot on Jace’s tail when that first surge of euphoria hit me. Adrenaline flooded my bloodstream. Dead grass crunched beneath my boots. Naked branches slapped my jacketed arms and my bare neck and face, and still I ran, paying no heed to the cuts and scrapes I’d probably regret later.

  Even in human form, to smell the forest was to know it. Scents swirled all around me, so strong and varied I could almost see them in the very air, churning in the dark as my motion disturbed them. Rabbits, squirrels, possums, deer, moose—or was that elk? And wolf. I was surprised there were any of those left, with so many cats running around.

  Next came charcoal and pungent cedar ash, from an old, dead campfire. Were those even legal here? Leaf mold, tree moss, crushed pine needles, and…barbecue sauce? Someone had neglected to clean up a campsite.

  Jace darted left around a red fir and across a distinct hiking trail. I rushed after him, and Marc’s footsteps fell at my heels.

  Jace’s tail disappeared over another small hill, and I dug in with the toes of my boots, climbing the incline after him, grabbing exposed roots and dangling vines for support. The only advantage my two-legged form carried in the forest was the convenience of human speech. Everything else was harder—more work for less result. Especially jumping. Jace had soared right over the hill, barely pausing halfway up for a powerful shove against the earth with his hind legs. But I actually had to climb, pulling with my arms and pushing with my feet. I slid, and would have lost my footing entirely if not for Marc’s hand on my rear, heaving me up.

  At the top of the hill, I took two running steps after Jace, then hesitated as a familia
r scent rose above the tangle of forest smells surrounding me. Bear. A bear’s been through here recently.

  No, not just a bear; a bruin. Keller.

  Marc had cut ahead of me when I’d slowed, but he stopped when he noticed me lagging behind. “What is it?”

  “Nothing. I picked up Keller’s scent.”

  “Yeah, he came through here on his way to the lodge. His cabin’s about six miles northwest of here.”

  I nodded, and slowed to an actual stop beside him to rest. My human lungs were winded by what would barely have been a workout for a cat. “How close are we to where they found the cop?”

  Marc pulled the GPS unit from his jacket pocket and pushed a couple of buttons. Then he turned to his left, and glanced at the screen again. “We’re going the wrong way. It’s about two miles northeast of here.”

  “Better call Jace back then.”

  Marc shoved the GPS back into his pocket and slid two fingers partway into his mouth, leaving a gap between them. He inhaled deeply, then blew over his fingers, producing a very shrill, very loud whistle, which I couldn’t replicate to save my life.

  Seconds later, Jace burst from between two bushes and plopped down on the ground at our feet, licking dirt from one paw as if there was nothing more important to be dealt with at the moment than personal hygiene. Which was pretty damn typical of a cat, honestly.

  “Wrong way, dumbass,” Marc said genially.

  Jace paused in mid-lick, rolling his eyes up to meet Marc’s. He blinked once—in dismissal, I’m sure—then returned to his grooming, apparently unconcerned with either the name-calling or his own flawed sense of direction. Also typical of a cat.

  “Okay, Fabio, that’s enough primping. Let’s go.” Reaching down, I grabbed a handful of fur and skin from the back of Jace’s neck and pulled. He growled lightly—a mock warning—and rose with my hand. I rewarded him with a stroke down the entire length of his back, which he extended by trailing his tail through my palm too. Greedy tomcat.

  Chuckling, I scratched his head, then headed off in the direction Marc had pointed out. He followed, still chewing on the scrap of meat and bread that had survived our race through the woods. Half an hour later, I was cursing my human legs. Hiking through the forest on two feet was serious work, and the constant incline—we were literally climbing the side of a mountain—didn’t help.

  Around the halfway point, we stopped to drain our canteens. Marc refilled them with two bottles of water from the pockets of his baggy pants, while Jace lapped from a stream he’d found. Twenty minutes later, we were half a mile from the sight of the murder, according to Uncle Rick’s GPS. But we never made it that last half mile.

  I’d just shoved aside the millionth branch to slap me in the face when sudden stillness in front of me dragged my focus from my own scrapes and bruises to Jace. He stood frozen, ears twisted to the sides, tail twitching nervously.

  He smelled something, and my automatic reaction was to sniff along with him, though the chances of my human nose picking up whatever he smelled were slim to none.

  So I was shocked when it actually did.

  A stray.

  I stiffened, and Marc’s hand settled silently on my shoulder, letting me know he’d noticed it too, and warning me not to speak. And as if it mattered. Our sudden silence and stillness would tell the stray—wherever he was—that we’d noticed him.

  The very fact that I could smell him in human form meant two things. First, the scent was fresh. Second, the stray was close. He had to be, or his scent wouldn’t be so strong. And it was strong. The stray must have been exactly where we now stood only moments earlier. We’d practically tripped over him.

  Jace’s tail twitched faster, and he stared into the branches of a tree to our left. He’d spotted something. I followed his gaze, peering into the heavily laden pine branches, but could make out nothing more than needles and shadows.

  Then, suddenly, Jace snorted through his nose and dismissed the distraction, like he might dismiss a mouse too small to bother chasing. He started walking again, continuing on our current heading as if he hadn’t noticed anything.

  I stared after him, then glanced at Marc, who grabbed my upper arm and hauled me after Jace, warning me not to speak with a single glance. That was a talent I’d always envied. The only thing I could do with a single glance was piss people off. Which was not a very valuable skill to have when one is on trial for her life.

  When we’d walked for several more minutes, Marc sticking close to my side without actually touching me, I realized the stray was following us. I could no longer smell him, and I only heard him because I knew what to listen for. But he was definitely there, and the guys definitely knew it.

  They’d also definitely altered our course, so that we were no longer leading the stray to the murder scene.

  “What are we doing?” I breathed so softly I barely heard my own voice. But Marc heard me.

  “Drawing him out,” he murmured as softly as I’d spoken. Memories of us whispering to each other on much more pleasant nights almost made me miss his next words. “We’re going to have to let Jace take him.”

  “He won’t go near Jace,” I whispered. “The claws are too much of a threat. One of us will have to draw him out.”

  “I’ll do it.” His response was automatic, and it was exactly what I’d known he’d say.

  “He won’t be interested in you. I’m better bait.”

  “No.”

  I’d known he’d say that, too. It was a direct quote from my father.

  “Fine. Lose him.” I resisted the urge to shrug and let the stray know we were whispering. “Malone’s just waiting to see all three of us humiliated, and this will make him pretty damn happy.”

  “You can be a real bitch sometimes,” Marc said without pausing even a second in his smooth, relaxed gait. But there was real irritation in his tone.

  “So I’ve heard.” I smiled in the dark, knowing I’d won. “We gonna do this or not?”

  “Fine. You get to play your favorite role. I’ll kiss you, and you slug me. Make it good, then run off.”

  He was going to kiss me? “He’ll never buy that,” I said, stepping over a fallen pine branch. But in truth, my hesitation came from the potential kiss—our first since we broke up. Kissing Marc was not a good idea. It would just make me want more of what I could no longer have.

  “Of course he will. He’ll buy it because he wants to. And so what if he doesn’t? No stray’s going to give up his shot at a tabby. You’ll run off, he’ll follow you, we’ll follow him, me on the ground, Jace in the trees.”

  Jace fake-sneezed to let us know he understood his part.

  Before I could argue further, Marc grabbed my arm and swung me around. He kissed me so hard and fast I didn’t have time to think. Which was bad, because I forgot I was supposed to be resisting. Instead, I settled, sinking into him like I might my favorite armchair.

  Some unacknowledged tension in me eased, and I felt myself relax, both mind and body. Even with Jace listening and the stray no doubt watching from the brush, Marc’s scent and touch—as familiar to me as the planes of my own face—triggered responses I’d thought never to feel again. At least, not until I’d convinced him to give me another chance.

  I tasted Marc, and recollection merged with reality, leaving me hopelessly confused, and craving something that was no longer an option. For several moments I kissed him back, and he let me, our role-playing forgotten amid the assault of memory and craving.

  Then, when I’d nearly forgotten not only where I was, but who I was, his left hand snuck beneath my jacket and up my shirt. He pinched the flesh over my ribs, twisting brutally.

  I gasped and shoved him away, furious until I remembered that I’d missed my cue. “Son of a bitch! That—” fucking hurt! “—was completely out of line!” My right hand curled into a fist, and when I let it fly, Marc didn’t duck. He took the blow as planned, on his left jaw. His head snapped back, and before he could “recover,” I too
k off through the brush.

  Before I’d gone twenty feet, I stumbled over an exposed root, and had to grab a branch to stay upright. Stupid human feet. I glared at a clump of brush I could have bounded right over on four legs, but had to go around on two, my arms pumping furiously at my sides. I kept one eye on the ground, desperately wishing for my sharper cat’s vision as I searched the shadows in vain for obstacles before I tripped over them.

  I had to concentrate so hard on staying upright and in motion that at first I thought of nothing but outrunning the stray. I paid little attention to where I’d been or where I was headed—or where Marc and Jace had gone—because I was accustomed to running in cat form, with a sensitive nose and ears to guide me.

  After a couple of minutes of running, I realized I was alone. I stopped in a small clearing to listen. My own heartbeat drowned out the ambient chirps, croaks, and slithers of any woodland creatures not scared off by my mad dash through their forest home, but above even that I heard the distant sounds of a human crashing through the woods in my direction. Marc.

  He and Jace had probably hung back at first, to let the stray think he had a chance, but they were no longer playing around. They—though I couldn’t hear Jace, in cat form—were racing toward me now. However, even as I listened, the sounds veered to the west. If they didn’t correct their course, they’d miss me. But if I alerted them too soon, they might arrive before the stray, and ruin our chance to catch him.

  On the other hand, if the stray arrived too early, I’d be well and truly fucked.

  From the south, dry leaves crunched and a twig snapped. It was Marc, not quite as stealthy on two feet as he was on four. Or maybe he was letting me know he was near. I strained against the near silence, listening so hard my own pulse roared in my ears, but I heard nothing from either Jace or the stray. Neither could I smell them, which was starting to make me nervous in spite of the breezeless night and my less capable human nose.

  I turned a slow circle in the clearing, eyes open for any sign of sleek, glossy fur amid the shadows and thick brush. Before I’d completed an entire rotation, a sudden awareness sent chills up my spine, and neither it nor the goose bumps sprouting on my flesh were due to the mid-November cold.