Pride. Rachel Vincent

slitlike pupils and irises, if not their actual cat shape. This time, in addition to that, my jaw had elongated into a hairless muzzle, complete with an entire set of cat teeth. My nose was feline too—black, and flat, with the familiar thin split between the nostrils.

      I plodded toward the mirror in a daze, and my fingers found my nose. It was damp and warm, as it should have been—on a cat. But that wasn’t the worst part. Or the best. Or…whatever.

      Though my forehead was smooth, and still completely human, sticking out of my normal, human eyebrows were several stiff white hairs on each side. Whiskers. I had brow whiskers. And cat eyes, in human sockets.

      My face held the single-most bizarre combination of features I’d ever seen. And by “bizarre,” I mean ugly as shit. But on the bright side, if the whole enforcer thing didn’t work out, I’d have a long career waiting for me in the circus.

      While the tribunal met in the dining room—I knew they were arguing because they’d turned on loud classical music to cover up their voices—I sat on the side of a bed in the empty first-floor bedroom, while Dr. Carver peered at my face with undisguised eagerness. “So, you can’t do this at will?”

      “ ’Aw eh,” I mumbled, forced to work around jaws more suited to chomping than enunciating.

      For an interpretation, Dr. Carver looked to Marc, who stood peering through a gap in the blinds at the darkness outside. “What’d she say?”

      “‘Not yet,’” Marc translated without turning. “She can’t do it on command yet, but she thinks she could, with some practice. She thinks we could do it, too.”

      Dr. Carver nodded, shining his penlight in my eyes. “I don’t doubt that.”

      Growling softly, I winced and closed my eyes against the light.

      “Try to keep them open for me, hon. This won’t take long.”

      I opened my eyes and kept them wide as his light traveled back and forth between my pupils. Tears formed to defend my eyes from the invasion, and when I could finally blink, they rolled down my cheeks. When the light went off, I closed my eyes and pressed the heels of my hands against them.

      “Here.” Something soft brushed my cheek, and I looked up to find Marc offering me a tissue. Smiling in thanks, I blotted my eyes, then wiped my cheeks, watching the doctor on the other bed as he scribbled in a notebook.

      “Your eyes themselves appear to have Shifted completely,” he said, finally looking up from the paper, though his pen was still poised over it. “And you have brow whiskers, though the bone structure above your nose is still completely human. What about your vision? How do you see things?”

      “ ’ike a aaa.”

      “What?”

      “Like a cat.” Marc settled onto the bed next to me, close enough that our knees touched.

      “Mmm-hmm. That’s what I thought. Let’s take a look at your mouth.”

      I rolled my eyes and opened my mouth. The tribunal had asked for a report on the examination, so I submitted, though it irked me to be inspected like a fucking show dog. It would irk me much more to be convicted, then executed.

      After noting the shape of my nose, the fact that my sense of smell was enhanced, and the number and form of each of my teeth, Dr. Carver let me Shift back. He wanted to watch, though, which was a bit unnerving. I’ve Shifted in front of my fellow werecats literally hundreds of times, but only once could I remember actually being watched, and that memory wasn’t exactly pleasant. I’d killed the guy who’d ogled—Eric—shortly thereafter.

      Dr. Carver was another case entirely, of course. He made notes, and commented on the relative ease of Shifting back to fully human form, in contrast to the difficulty I had doing the reverse. When the change was complete, he examined my human face, made several short notes on his yellow pad, thanked me for my cooperation, then headed for the door, clearly eager to report his findings to the tribunal.

      And suddenly I was alone with Marc for the first time in weeks.

      At first, neither of us spoke. Strains of classical flute and violin floated in from the dining room, and some radio announcer was giving a weather report in the kitchen, where Michael, Jace, and my father sat around the table, demolishing a huge platter of homemade nachos while they waited for the next update on the dead cop.

      Marc was looking out the window again. There was nothing out there; he was just avoiding me.

      Sighing, I got up and closed the door quietly, then leaned against it with my arms crossed over my chest. In all the years I’d known him—since he was infected at fourteen—he’d never once made an empty threat. He’d learned from my father that if you don’t follow through on your threats, people will stop believing you. The same goes for promises, as I’d learned the hard way.

      Yet for me, he’d bluffed Colin and a whole roomful of Alphas. And now he wouldn’t even look at me.

      From the kitchen, the weather report—calling for light snow overnight—gave way to another bouncy disco tune from the seventies.

      I inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly. “Thank you.”

      Marc turned from the window, and the blinds snapped back into place. “For what?”

      I frowned. He knew damn well what I meant. “For bluffing Colin. I’ve never seen you make an empty threat before.”

      He sat on the edge of the far bed. “You still haven’t. I wasn’t threatening him. You were.”

      Riiiight. “You’re walking a pretty thin line there, Marc.”

      “Yeah. I am.” He frowned in reproach. “I wish you’d walk it with me, just long enough to get the tribunal off your back.”

      No wonder they wouldn’t let Marc testify. He really would do anything to save my life.

      I flopped onto the empty bed on my back and stared at the ceiling. “What do you want me to do?”

      He leaned forward, both elbows resting on his knees. “If you play the game their way—just tell them what they want to hear—life might go a little more smoothly. Or at least last longer.”

      I huffed in skepticism, but hadn’t yet thought of an intelligent reply, when someone knocked softly on the door. “Faythe?” Jace called hesitantly.

      “Yeah, come on in.” I turned onto my side and propped myself on one elbow as the door opened.

      Jace glanced from me to Marc, then back to me, and his creased forehead relaxed. He was probably relieved to find us both clothed. Marc and I had rarely been alone together since we broke up, but in the past, privacy had always been enough of an excuse to make up.

      But things were different now. This time he’d dumped me.

      Jace smiled like he had a secret. “The tribunal’s ready to see you.”

      Based on his expression, I was guessing the news was good. They wouldn’t have told him anything official, but the kitchen was much closer to the dining room than the bedrooms were, so he’d probably overheard enough to warrant the giddy grin.

      Thank goodness.

      Five minutes later, I sat at the end of the dining-room table, yet again. Michael had gone back to our cabin to search for information on the hikers and the dead cop, so the chair on my right was empty. Dr. Carver and my father sat against the right-hand wall. The doc looked eager. My father looked deliberately uninterested, as if the future of our Pride didn’t depend on whatever the tribunal was about to say.

      At the other end of the long table, my uncle and Paul Blackwell flanked Malone, who stood and scowled down at me. I gave him a saccharine smile, gaining as much confidence from his displeasure as I had from Jace’s grin.

      No counting chickens, Faythe, my mother’s voice said from some distant memory.