Stray. Rachel Vincent

years, I’d never heard of a stray getting this far into our territory without being caught. It simply wasn’t possible.

      Yet there he was, hiding just out of sight in the alley. Like a coward.

      I could have called my father to report the intruder. I probably should have called him, so he could send the designated spy-of-the-day to take care of the problem. But calling would necessitate speaking to my father, which I made a point to avoid at all costs. My only other course of action was to scare the stray off on my own, then dutifully report the incident the next time I caught one of the guys watching me. No big deal. Strays were loners, and typically as skittish as deer when confronted. They always ran from Pride cats because we always worked in pairs, at the very least.

      Except for me.

      But the stray wouldn’t know I had no backup. Hell, I probably did have backup. Thanks to my father’s paranoia, I was never really alone. True, I hadn’t actually seen whoever was on duty today, but that didn’t mean anything. I couldn’t always spot them, but they were always there.

      Shoe tied, I stood, for once reassured by my father’s overprotective measures. I tossed my bag over one shoulder and ambled toward the alley, doing my best to appear relaxed. As I walked, I searched the quad discreetly, looking for my hidden backup. Whoever he was, he’d finally learned how to hide. Perfect timing.

      The sun slipped below the horizon as I approached the alley. In front of Curry Hall, an automatic streetlight flickered to life, buzzing softly. I stopped in the circle of soft yellow light cast on the sidewalk, gathering my nerve.

      The stray was probably just curious, and would likely run as soon as he knew I’d seen him. But if he didn’t, I’d have to scare him off through other, more hands-on means. Unlike most of my fellow tabby cats, I knew how to fight; my father had made sure of that. Unfortunately, I’d never made the jump from theory to practice, except against my brothers. Sure, I could hold my own with them, but I hadn’t sparred in years, and this didn’t feel like a very good time to test skills still unproven in the real world.

      It’s not too late to call in the cavalry, I thought, patting the slim cell phone in my pocket. Except that it was. Every time I spoke to my father, he came up with a new excuse to call me home. This time he wouldn’t even need to make one up. I’d have to handle the problem myself.

      My resolve as stiff as my spine, I stepped out of the light and into the darkness.

      Heart pounding, I entered the alley, tightening my grip on my bag as if it were the handle of a sword. Or maybe the corner of a security blanket. I sniffed the air. He was still there; I could smell him. But now that I was closer to the source, I detected something strange in his scent—something even more out of place than the odor of a stray deep inside my Pride’s territory. Whoever this trespasser was, he wasn’t local. There was a distinctive foreign nuance to his scent. Exotic. Spicy, compared to the blandly familiar base scent of my fellow American cats.

      My pulse throbbed in my throat. Foreign. Shit. I was in over my head.

      I was digging in my pocket for my phone when something clattered to the ground farther down the alley. I froze, straining to see in the dark, but with my human eyes, it was a lost cause. Without Shifting, I couldn’t make out anything but vague outlines and deep shadows. Unfortunately, Shifting wasn’t an option at that moment. It would take too long, and I’d be defenseless during the transition.

      Human form it is.

      I glanced quickly behind me, looking for signs of life from the quad. It was empty now, as far as I could tell. There were no potential witnesses; everyone with half a brain was either studying or partying. So why was I playing hide-and-seek after dark with an unidentified stray?

      My muscles tense and my ears on alert, I started down the alley. Four steps later, I stepped through a broken tennis racket and stumbled into a rusty Dumpster. My bag thumped to the ground as my head hit the side of the trash receptacle, ringing it like an oversize gong.

      Smooth, Faythe, I thought, the metallic thrum still echoing in my ears.

      I bent over to pick up my bag, and a darting motion up ahead caught my eye. The stray—in human form, thankfully—ran from the mouth of the alley into the parking lot behind Curry Hall, his feet unnaturally silent on the asphalt. Pale moonlight shined on a head full of dark, glossy curls as he ran.

      Instinct overrode my fear and caution. Adrenaline flooded my veins. I tossed my bag over my shoulder and sprinted down the center of the alley. The stray had fled, as I’d hoped he would, and the feline part of my brain demanded I follow. When mice run, cats give chase.

      At the end of the alley, I paused, staring at the parking lot. It was empty, but for an old, busted up Lincoln with a rusty headlight. The stray was gone. How the hell had he gotten away so fast?

      A prickly feeling started at the base of my neck, raising tiny hairs the length of my spine. Every security light in the lot was unlit. They were supposed to be automatic, like the ones in the quad. Without the familiar buzz and the reassuring flood of incandescent light, the parking lot was an unbroken sea of dark asphalt, eerily quiet and disturbingly calm.

      My heart pounding, I stepped out of the alley, half expecting to be struck by lightning or hit by a runaway train. Nothing happened, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I took another step, my eyes wide to let in all of the available light. Still nothing happened.

      I was feeling foolish now, chasing a stranger down a dark alley at night, like some bimbo from a bad horror film. In the movies, this was where things always went wrong. A hairy hand would reach out of the shadows and grab the curious-but-brainless heroine around the throat, laughing sadistically while she wasted her last breath on a scream.

      The difference between the movies and reality was that in real life, I was the hairy monster, and the only screaming I ever did was in rage. I was about as likely to cry for help as I was to spontaneously combust. If this particular bad guy hadn’t figured that out yet, he was in for a very big surprise.

      Emboldened by my own mental pep talk, I took another step.

      The distinctive foreign scent washed over me, and my pulse jumped, but I never saw the kick coming.

      Suddenly I was staring at the ground, doubled over from the pain in my stomach and fighting for the strength to suck in my next breath.

      My bag fell to the ground at my feet. A pair of black, army-style boots stepped into sight, and the smell of stray intensified. I looked up just in time to register dark eyes and a creepy smile before his right fist shot out toward me. My arms flew up to block the blow, but his other arm was already flying. His left fist slammed into the right side of my chest.

      Fresh pain burst to life in my rib cage, radiating in a widening circle. One hand pressed to my side, I struggled to stand up straight, panicked when I couldn’t.

      An ugly cackling laugh clawed my inner chalkboard and pissed me off. This was my campus, and my Pride’s territory. He was the outsider, and it was time he learned how Pride cats dealt with intruders.

      He pulled his fist back for another blow, but this time I was ready. Ignoring the pain in my side, I lunged to my right, reaching for a handful of his hair. My fingers tangled in a thick clump of curls. I shoved his head down and brought my knee up. The two connected. Bone crunched. Something warm and wet soaked through my jeans. The scent of fresh blood saturated the air, and I smiled.

      Ah, memories…

      The stray jerked his head free of my grip and lurched out of reach, leaving me several damp curls as souvenirs. Wiping blood from his broken nose, he growled deep inside his throat, a sound like the muted rumble of an engine.

      “You should really thank me,” I said, a little impressed by the damage I’d caused. “Trust me. It’s an improvement.”

      “Jodienda puta!” he said, spitting a mouthful of blood on the concrete.

      Spanish? I was pretty