Rogue

  I swallowed thickly, unwilling to imagine what use they’d put the emergency kit to when they found Andrew. Yes, by all indications he was no longer the sweet, quiet math major I’d once known. But that was my fault, as was whatever else happened to him. Suddenly I felt sick.

  “Faythe?” my father said, and I met his eyes reluctantly, already dreading whatever he would ask of me. “I assume you have Andrew’s number, since he’s been calling you?” I nodded, and he continued. “If Michael can’t find him, I want you to call him and set up a meeting—somewhere other than here. Say whatever you have to say. Agree to anything he wants. If he’s really looking for a confrontation with you, he should be eager for this chance.”

  “Where do you want us to meet?” I asked, my fingers twisting into knots in my lap. I was not looking forward to seeing Andrew again.

  “In a park, or campsite. Somewhere that looks open and rural, but that won’t really give him anywhere to run. And that will adequately hide the rest of you,” he said, glancing around at Vic, Ethan, and Jace. “Give me a minute, and I’ll have a location for you. In the meantime…Vic, go make some coffee.”

  I started to laugh, assuming my father was joking. But then Ethan and Jace followed Vic into the kitchen, without so much as a smile. Evidently “make some coffee” was Alpha-speak for, “It’s going to be a long night, folks.”

  “Don’t you think Marc should be here?” I asked several minutes later, plucking at a loose string on the hem of my shorts. As awkward as it would be for me to have my current boyfriend present when I spoke to my ex-boyfriend-turned-psychopathic stalker, it would be worse not to have Marc there.

  Michael’s tapping paused for an instant, and my father looked up from the atlas, where he’d been eyeing a regional map of East Texas for the past few minutes. “We can fill him in later. You’re going to have to give him some time, Faythe. This is going to be very difficult for him to deal with. Parts of it will be impossible. You know that. You know him.”

  I nodded. I did know Marc. That was the problem.

  “Coffee!” Vic shouted from the kitchen across the hall. “Get it while it’s hot!”

  My father scowled deeply, glancing at the open doorway. “He could have at least poured it for us.”

  I laughed, my mouth already watering from the scent of the gourmet Amaretto-flavored brew now infusing the air. “I think you’re confusing him with Mom. We’re lucky he even knows how to use the coffeepot.”

  “All men know how to make coffee,” my father insisted, rising to follow me across the room. “It’s a survival instinct. I made my first pot at twelve, though my mother wouldn’t let me drink any for another four years.”

  In the kitchen, I padded past Ethan and Jace, who’d come in ahead of me, and stood on tiptoe to take two oversize latte mugs down from the cabinet while my father put spoons out on the counter. I set one mug in front of my father and kept the other for myself, then filled them both.

  “Hey, Vic, if I pour coffee for Marc, will you take it to him?” Normally, I’d have told Marc to come get his own damn coffee, but considering he’d just found out that I was secretly still in contact with my murdering psychopath of an ex, I figured I could manage an apology in the form of a simple mug of coffee. Two sugars, no cream.

  “He left about an hour ago,” Ethan said, pulling a loaf of bread from the breadbox.

  “Where’d he go?”

  Vic emerged from the fridge with a carton of French vanilla creamer, kicking the door shut behind him. “Don’t know. I think he just needed to get away for a while. Don’t worry. He’ll be back.”

  I poured creamer into my coffee and stirred, not comforted in the least by Vic’s assurances.

  “Hey, Faythe?” Jace asked, and I looked up to find him watching me from a stool on the other side of the bar. “How much does Andrew know about us? About himself?”

  “I don’t know.” I frowned, sipping from my mug as I considered the question. “He seems to know quite a bit.” Which I realized only in retrospect, thinking back over our recent conversations. “He certainly knows what we are, and where we live. And he seemed to know my parents wouldn’t be happy about my infecting him.” Though I’d had no idea what he was talking about at the time.

  “How is that even possible?” Jace pushed his stool back and rose, heading straight for the now nearly empty coffeepot. “I understand how he knows he’s infected. I assume that one’s fairly self-explanatory. But if you never Shifted in front of him—and I know you never told him about any of us—how the hell does he know that you infected him? Or that the rest of us are werecats, too? Or that infecting humans is a big no-no?”

  “Actually, I have no idea how he knows any of that.” I snatched a slice of ham from the collection of sandwich ingredients Ethan was setting out on the counter. “But that’ll be the first thing I ask him, if he answers his phone.”

  “Well, off the top of my head, I’d say someone told him.” Vic blew carefully into his Atlanta Braves mug. “But I’m sure that’s much too simple to be it.”

  My father took another sip of coffee. “On the contrary, usually the simplest possibility is the answer, and it stands to reason that Andrew must have had contact with another werecat at some point in the past few months. He’d have to be pretty tough to have survived the initial sickness and first Shift on his own. And while unlikely, it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that another stray took pity on him, rather than running him off or attacking him.”

  My father’s response sent one of Andrew’s bobbing to the surface of my memory. You’re fucking lying, and we damn well know it. We.

  “Son of a bitch, that’s it!” I dropped the spoon into my mug, and several drops of coffee splattered on the counter, but I barely noticed.

  “What?” Jace looked up from the ham, cheese, and pickle slices he was layering on a piece of bread.

  “Andrew’s not in this alone.” I plucked a pickle from his plate and gestured with it as I spoke. “New strays don’t come out of their initial transition mentally or physically strong enough to pull off the kind of major-league mischief he’s been up to. Not on their own.”

  “You think he’s working with someone?” my father asked, green eyes alight with the new possibility.

  “Yes.” I tossed the pickle into my mouth and spoke around it as I chewed. “I think he has been from the beginning. The same someone who got him through his first Shift and taught him how to survive as a stray.”

  Ethan smashed his huge sandwich flat with one palm. “The rogue tabby?”

  I shook my head. “Couldn’t be her. She’s following him, not the other way around.”

  Vic frowned. “So, maybe she was helping him, and he went crazy and took off on his own, and now she’s trying to catch him and stop him.”

  “But she’s a murderer. Why would one murderer try to stop another?” Jace argued, voicing a thought we’d surely all had—no one believed we’d find those strippers alive.

  “I don’t think she wants any part of Andrew’s game,” I said, stirring my coffee again as I thought aloud. “She’s clearly no saint, but look at the way she’s killed the toms. No slashing, and no biting. No signs of violence of any kind, other than the whole neck-breaking thing. I don’t know why she’s killing them, but I don’t think it’s out of rage. But Andrew, on the other hand, is definitely pissed off, and I’d be willing to bet those missing strippers bear evidence of that, wherever they are.”

  I paused and drained my mug. “And I have a theory about why Andrew’s done such a one-eighty. Why he’s suddenly so angry and violent.”

  “Yeah.” Ethan shrugged. “He’s a stray.”

  “But so’s Marc, and he’s never kidnapped anyone. He’s completely devoted to this Pride. Loyal beyond all logic. He’d give his life to save any of us, any day of the week.”

  “Yes.” My father nodded decisively. Proudly. “He would.”

  I smiled at him. “As far as I can tell, the difference between Marc
and Andrew is that Marc has us. He’s what and who he is today because you and Mom took him in when he was sick, injured, and newly orphaned. Because you made him one of us and gave him a chance. If the Pride had such a profound influence on Marc, at such a critical stage in his life—his initial transition—doesn’t it stand to reason that someone might have had an equally strong influence on Andrew?”

  “A bad influence, you mean?” Jace said, snatching a spare slice of ham from Ethan’s plate.

  “Well, yes.” I leaned back against the counter, where I could see them all. “I think whoever helped him through the scratch-fever—and taught him what he knows about us—also turned him into what he’s become. And I don’t think it was the tabby. Based on the way she killed those strays, I don’t think she’s capable of that much rage.”

  My theory explained, my opinion given, I poured myself a fresh cup of coffee, waiting for someone to speak.

  My father looked impressed but also worried. “So, you think Andrew’s still with this bad influence, whoever it is?” I nodded, and he popped several knuckles at once. Then he set his empty mug in the sink and stalked out of the kitchen and across the hall, leaving us all to trail behind him.

  In the office, I set my mug on a coaster on the nearest end table and sank onto the couch. Jace plopped down next to me, and Ethan sat by him, still clutching his half-eaten sandwich. Vic settled onto the love seat opposite us.

  At the desk, Michael was still clicking away. I leaned back to glance at him and found him chewing his lower lip as he worked. Which meant he was frustrated. Apparently he’d had no luck tracking down the explosions.

  “You ready for me to call Andrew?” I asked my father. While I still dreaded the phone call, I was now eager to get it over with.

  “I’m having second thoughts about that now.” He frowned, templing his hands beneath his chin. “If Andrew’s really working with someone else, I’m not sure I want to grant him this confrontation until we know who we’ll actually be facing.”

  “It has to be someone who knows Faythe infected Andrew,” Ethan said, speaking around a bite of ham sandwich. “Otherwise, Andrew wouldn’t know that, either. So…who knows you bit him?”

  “No one,” I said, turning from my father to face my youngest brother. “I didn’t even understand what happened until tonight. But anyone who smells him will know who infected him—assuming the smeller recognizes my scent threaded through his. So…we’re back to someone who knows me. Or at least my scent.”

  “Exactly,” my father said, obviously displeased with the new development. “I think we should put that phone call off for a little bit, until we have a better idea of who he’s with, and where they are—”

  “Henderson,” Michael interrupted, amid another flurry of frantic keystrokes. “Andrew’s in Henderson, Texas. At least, he was this afternoon.”

  “Are you sure?” My father stood to turn and look at Michael, at the desk behind him.

  “Pretty sure.” Michael nodded, shoving his glasses farther up on his nose. “Those propellers Faythe heard weren’t helicopters. They were vintage aircraft from a World War Two demonstration team that did a big show this afternoon in Henderson, as part of the town’s centennial celebration. Complete with a pyrotechnic display, which no doubt explains the ‘gunfire.’”

  “Well, that should make it pretty easy to find Andrew,” Vic said, though I could barely hear him over the grinding of gears in my own head. “Henderson’s only an hour from the ranch. He could be sitting outside the gate right now.”

  Ethan choked on the last bite of his sandwich, and Jace pounded on his back. When my brother’s throat was clear, he said, “He could have been watching us for hours, for all we know.”

  “He’s not here,” I said, surprised to hear how very calm my voice sounded, in contrast to how panicked I actually felt. “Not yet. He said he had something else to take care of first. Apparently I’m not his top priority at the moment.”

  Out front, I heard the growl of an engine, and I turned toward the door in anticipation. But then I recognized the sound as Owen’s truck. Where the hell had Owen gone? I’d hoped it was Marc. I needed to see his face, to settle the unease taking hold in the pit of my stomach. I needed to know he’d forgiven me for not telling him about the calls. That we were going to be okay, no matter what happened with Andrew. And considering he still didn’t know I’d infected my ex, a good outcome for us was far from guaranteed.

  The front door opened, and footsteps clomped on the tiles. Owen was back from wherever he had gone.

  “I’m sure you’re all going to start yelling at me for this…” Vic began, glancing around at the room in general. “But this may be a good time to bring the council up to speed. We have enough information now that they can’t afford to waste time arguing. They’ll have to—”

  “Absolutely not!” I glared across the rug at him, then turned to face my father when he didn’t immediately back me up. To my horror, he sat with his eyes downcast and his hands templed beneath his chin, apparently actually considering Vic’s suggestion.

  “What are we going to say?” I demanded, already picturing the shocked faces of the other Alphas. “‘The council chairman’s daughter accidentally infected her human boyfriend during a rough-’n’-tumble nooner, then he followed her home, leaving a trail of missing strippers in his wake.’”

  My father released a tired, weighty sigh. “Faythe, they have a right to know. And they can help. The more men we have, the faster we can find Andrew and the tabby, and be done with this whole mess.”

  My hand clenched the arm of the leather couch, my pulse racing. “Daddy, no! We have to take care of this on our own. If we bring the council in before we get Andrew under control, they’re going to want my head mounted on a spike in the front yard.”

  Behind me, the footsteps stopped. I was already turning as my last word faded into a heavy, tortured silence, and too late, it occurred to me that the clomping in the hall hadn’t come from cowboy boots.

  Marc stood in the doorway, each arm wrapped around a brown paper bag. Our eyes met. I had a second to register the pain in his. Then the bags thumped to the hardwood floor, and he was gone.

  Twenty

  Jace and Vic ran after Marc, vaulting over the fallen bags and into the hall. Neither spared me a glance.

  I leapt off the couch, a silent scream of anguish splitting my skull in two. On the floor in front of me, a half gallon of triple-chocolate-chunk ice cream rolled across the hardwood, stopping only when it bumped the toe of my sneaker. My favorite flavor. He’d gone out for ice cream, to apologize and make up.

  Son of a bitch!

  I stepped over the cardboard carton, and my father called my name. I ignored him and took off after the guys, stepping over four more cartons of ice cream, each a different flavor. In the hall, I tripped over a box of waffle cones and had to catch myself against the wall.

  As I looked up, Vic disappeared out the back door, Jace and Marc ahead of him.

  I ran down the hall after the guys, my sneakers slapping the tile. I called Marc, screaming his name with a desperation that bruised my soul. I knew he could hear me, but he didn’t answer.

  I was only feet from the back door when someone grabbed my arm from behind. Ethan pulled me backward and stepped in front of me, completely blocking my path. “Get out of the way!” I screamed, trying to bump him aside and run past him. But he wouldn’t budge.

  “Faythe—”

  “Move!”

  Ethan held me back, his hands gentle on my shoulders, his eyes oddly imploring. “Give him some time.”

  “No! The last thing he needs is time to brood and get madder. He doesn’t understand what he heard. I have to explain.” I shoved him in the chest, but he only bounced back an instant later, wrapping both hands around my upper arms.

  “You’ll only make it worse.”

  Fighting tears, I twisted out of his grip. “If you don’t want to get hurt, get out of my way.”

 
“I’m trying to help y—”

  “I’m sorry.” I let my right fist fly. It smashed into his jaw.

  Ethan stumbled backward into the wall. “Fine, go make it worse!” he shouted, his hand covering the fresh red splotch on his face.

  By the time I made it to the back porch, the guys were gone, having holed up in their overgrown dormitory, surrounded by the staples of masculinity: beer, day-old pizza, and mountains of dirty socks.

  Lightning flashed across the sky the moment I stepped onto the grass. For an instant, it lit the entire backyard in a stark relief of light and shadow. The image was still stamped into my retinas when thunder roared across the sky, the ageless creak of ancient floodgates opening. Rain poured from the clouds in a sudden deluge the likes of which Texas—even East Texas—rarely ever saw. I was completely drenched in less than five steps.

  Pushing wet hair back from my face, I jogged across the yard, stomped up the front steps, and tore open the screen door. It flew back to smack the siding. Dripping water onto the porch, I grabbed the front doorknob, already shoving forward as I turned it. Nothing happened. Well, almost nothing. I walked right into the door, expecting it to open. Instead, I nearly broke my own nose.

  In my entire life I’d never seen the guesthouse locked. I’d always been welcome. Always. And now Marc had locked me out. Literally.

  I did not take it well.

  “Open the fucking door!” I shouted, pounding on the wood with both fists.

  “My dad’s not mad at me!” I yelled, straining to be heard over the storm. “Doesn’t that tell you anything?”

  No response. I glanced over my shoulder and saw my mother’s form silhouetted in Ethan’s bedroom window. She watched me with her arms crossed over her chest, making no attempt to interfere.

  “I can go get a key!” I yelled, turning back to the guesthouse door. “You can’t keep me out forever. Hell, I’ll just kick in the door if you don’t open up in the next two minutes.” I gave the wood another good pounding, thoroughly bruising both fists, then paused again to listen, pressing my ear against the door. This time I heard results: footsteps clomping down the stairs. So, did I stop and wait patiently?