Pride. Rachel Vincent

And that’s how my father and the other Alphas found us, minutes later.

       Four

      “Here. This will warm you up.” Something soft and heavy slid between my back and the spine of the kitchen chair, and Jace leaned over me from behind to drape the material over my shoulders.

      “I’m not cold.” Yet I clutched the blanket anyway, because it was chenille, and it felt good, while I felt like shit.

      Jace stepped around my seat and pulled an empty chair closer, and when he sat, his knees brushed mine. “You’re shivering.”

      “No I’m n-n…” But I was. My hair was still damp from my shower. That was it.

      “It’s okay.” His cobalt eyes met my yellow-green ones. “You saved his life.”

      I shook my head, thinking of the Alphas gathered in the dining room to discuss my latest mishap. “They won’t believe that.”

      “Screw ’em.” Jace scowled, and I knew what he really meant was, “Screw Calvin.” “They’ll figure it out. And if they don’t, Colin will tell them what happened when he wakes up.”

      “Sure.” Assuming he does wake up. He’d hit the countertop pretty hard.

      The Alphas had put Colin and Brett in one of the downstairs bedrooms of the main lodge so they could be cared for more easily. Neither tom had opened his eyes in the hour since, which was starting to seriously worry everyone.

      And frankly, the outcome wasn’t looking good for me either—apparently being found with two unconscious guards and one dead stray did not cast a favorable light upon my innocence.

      The kitchen screen door squealed open behind me. “What happened?” Marc demanded as it thumped shut.

      My eyes closed, and my pulse jumped. I inhaled deeply to get a whiff of his scent, which made my blood rush even faster.

      “Short version?” Jace headed for the coffeepot as Marc crossed the room toward me. “Brett got mauled by a stray. Colin wouldn’t help, so Faythe knocked him out and killed the stray. With a meat mallet.”

      “You okay?” Marc knelt at my side, brow furrowed in concern.

      “Fine.” I sat straighter and shrugged off the blanket to hide how shaken I really was. “He never laid a claw on me.”

      “I didn’t mean physically.”

      I blinked up at Marc, aching to touch him. To deserve his comfort. “I’m fine. I did what had to be done.”

      “Spoken like a true enforcer,” he said, and I smiled. That was a very big compliment, coming from Marc.

      Ceramic clinked against Formica, and Jace handed me a fresh mug of coffee as Marc slid into the chair on my left.

      “Thanks.” I’d already had enough caffeine to kick-start Frankenstein’s monster, but I took the mug anyway, grateful that anyone was willing to speak to me—much less fix me coffee—in spite of the blood on my hands. Literally. I eyed the reddish crust dried beneath my right thumbnail. Apparently I’d missed a spot in the shower.

      “How are Brett and Colin?” Marc asked.

      Jace pulled out the chair on my right and sat. “They’re as comfortable as we can make them until the doc gets here.”

      Dr. Carver. He was already on his way to testify about the condition of Andrew’s body when we’d brought it home for disposal, but he’d find his bedside manner more in demand than his testimony.

      I stared into my mug, treasuring the warmth of my coffee even more than the scent. “What’d they do with the body?”

      “It’s out back under a tarp,” Jace said. “We’ll bury him in the woods when they’re done examining him.”

      “They find anything?”

      Jace shrugged. “He’s newly infected. Less than a week, most likely, since his original scratches haven’t healed yet. They think he was still feverish, and that’s why he came so close to the complex. He was probably looking for food, and found Brett instead. Hell, he might’ve thought Brett was food.”

      Still feverish. I sipped from my mug, thinking. Newly infected strays suffered from disorientation, high fever and intense hunger for several days after being scratched or bitten. Many strays did not survive the transitional illness—called scratch fever—and of those who did, many more died during or soon after their first Shift.

      The stray in question had obviously survived both. But he hadn’t survived me. And as justified as I felt in killing the strange cat to save Brett, I couldn’t suppress a pang of sympathy for the stray, who was likely out of his mind with pain and hunger when he’d attacked.

      “What can they tell about his infector?”

      Marc leaned with one shoulder against the living-room doorway. “Only that it’s no one we know.” Which meant that the trace of his infector’s base scent, which ran through the stray’s blood, belonged to a stranger. Likely another stray. In theory, we could trace a stray’s lineage from his base scent back to his infector’s scent, and back even further if that cat were also a stray. But that ability would do us no good without a suspect with whom to compare scents.

      “So whoever infected him is local.” Because no stray could have traveled far from wherever he was attacked while still in the grip of scratch fever. “But that could be anyone.” Since we were in a free zone, whatever local werecat population there was would be made up of strays and wildcats, who were not known for cooperating with Pride authority.

      But before I could take that thought somewhere productive, the makeshift-infirmary door opened into the living room and the Alphas filed out, Malone going off at the mouth as usual. “…and I want her locked up, until we can figure out what really happened.”

      “Why don’t you ask her?” I snapped, both brows raised at the Appalachian Alpha. All heads turned my way, and my father shook his sharply, warning me to let him handle Malone. But it was too late for that.

      Especially once Malone answered, glaring at me from across two rooms. “You’ll be interviewed soon. Don’t worry about that.”

      “The only thing I’m worried about is hell freezing over before I get a chance to speak freely in my own defense,” I snapped, fury scalding my cheeks.

      “Faythe, that’s enough!” My father was mad. Very, very mad. But beneath the rage turning his face a scary shade of crimson lurked an even more frightening fear. He was afraid for me. Afraid my own mouth would seal my fate. And he was probably right to worry.

      I averted my eyes, submitting to my Alpha without actually apologizing—a face-saving technique I’d picked up from Marc.

      “I think she deserves to be heard.” Marc’s voice was quiet, not quite a whisper, but perfectly audible.

      Malone scowled. “The tribunal will question her when we reconvene.”

      “This isn’t part of the hearing.” Marc pushed back his chair and stood, facing off against Malone. “She saved your son’s life, and the least you owe her is your gratitude. In lieu of that, she deserves the chance to tell us what happened.”

      My heart thumped against my rib cage, and my skin tingled with excitement. Marc was saying everything I wanted to say to Malone, and I felt as if I should contribute something to his argument. A show of solidarity. But other than a thick, foggy amazement, my mind was a complete blank.

      Normally, I would take my cue from my father, but he seemed uninclined to interrupt, probably curious to see how far Marc would take his stance. Our Alpha was training him—training us both—to take over for him someday, and he considered experience an invaluable instructor.

      I had my doubts, but I