Prey (15 page)

“No.” Since cats can’t track by smell, there wasn’t much point in Shifting. Though we
could
hear much better with cat ears… But in the end, I shook my head. “I can’t help him without hands, Ethan.”

“Fine. But the worst-case scenario isn’t—”

“Nooo!” I moaned, my face pressed into one of the rear windows, one hand up to shield my eyes from the crimson glare of the setting sun. The cargo area was too shadowed for me to see much of, but the backseat was well lit. And draped across it was a ratty blanket, covered in blood. “No!”

Ethan pulled me back and glanced through the window. He sucked in a sharp breath, then regained control and turned toward me, taking me by both arms. “It might not all be his,” he insisted, peering into my eyes. “If Marc fought him, some of that could be Eckard’s.”

Please,
please
let some of that be Adam Eckard’s blood.
Most
of it.
Because there was surely too much for one man to survive losing. There was so much blood soaked into that blanket and the cloth-covered seats that if we’d been in cat form, we would have smelled it, even with the car doors shut and the windows rolled up.

I jerked on the rear door handle, desperate to get inside. To identify the blood and prove to myself that Marc could still be out there. But the door was locked, so I moved on to the front door. It was locked, too. They all were. Why were they locked?

Whatever had happened there the day before, someone had left the vehicle with the presence of mind to click the locks.

“Here, wait a minute.” Ethan pulled me away from the Explorer and slammed his elbow backward into the rear window. The glass shattered, shot through with a thousand icelike webs, but remained in place. One more blow knocked the entire cracked pane into the backseat, where it slid onto the stained floorboard.

I didn’t bother opening the door. I just stuck my head in the window and sniffed.

The scent of Marc’s blood was everywhere. It couldn’t have been stronger if I’d been
wading
in it, and my heart throbbed, my lip trembling in devastation. But then I sucked in another breath through my nose, and a fainter scent caught my attention, a morbid mercy.

Adam Eckard’s blood. Not much of it, but it was there.

“It’s not all his.” I whirled to face Ethan, searching his face for the hope I needed to see.

He smiled hesitantly and inhaled through his nose. Then he nodded. “I’m not sure there’s enough of it, but it’s definitely there. Either Eckard was still bleeding from his injury at Marc’s, or Marc hurt him again.”

“Come on, he’s still out there!”

“Faythe…” Ethan’s warning look was in place again as he backed slowly toward his car for the pack.

I rolled my eyes, reluctant to take his warning seriously. “I know, don’t get my hopes up. He’s lost a lot of blood, and it’s freezing.”

“And it’s been more than twenty-four hours.”

Yeah, there was that, too. While he got his pack and added two flashlights from the glove box, I called Parker and told him what we’d found. He was almost as excited as I was at first, but then the facts sank in, and caution crept into his voice as he listed the same warnings Ethan had.

I told him to leave the pessimism in White Apple and haul ass in our direction. Because I wasn’t leaving the woods until we found Marc.

The sun went down half an hour later and we got out the flashlights, still tramping through the woods. We were exhausted and freezing, but spurred on by the occasional smudge of blood on the trunk of a tree, or splattered on frost-covered leaves. Unfortunately, since the blood was frozen and sparse, it carried almost no scent, and we couldn’t tell which drops belonged to whom. Still, a picture formed in my mind as we went.

“He thought Marc was dead,” I said, shining my flashlight on another few drops of blood, standing out starkly against a frost-covered brown leaf. “Eckard probably drove him into the middle of nowhere for an emergency, midafternoon burial. And if Marc was unconscious after losing that much blood, I can kind of understand the mistake.”

Ethan smiled, and I could see the effort in the lines around his eyes, heavily shadowed in the glare from my flashlight. He didn’t buy my story, but he wasn’t going to argue. Bless him.

“At some point, obviously, Marc woke up. Maybe he fought with Eckard in the car, running them off the road.” I shrugged. “Or maybe he woke up when the car hit the tree.” I wasn’t sure on that point yet. But they’d both obviously torn through the woods, though who was chasing whom, I couldn’t have said.

“Eckard could have been carrying Marc,” Ethan ventured gently, and I had to agree that that was possible. If unlikely.

“Why would he have bothered?” I wiped moisture from my forehead, surprised that I’d worked up a sweat in light of the temperature. “If Marc were dead, wouldn’t Eckard have just dragged him, like he did in Marc’s yard?”

Ethan had no response to that, and I smiled smugly, content to let us search in silence for a little while.

A few minutes later, my phone rang, and I dug it from my pocket with cold-numbed fingers. It was Parker, calling to tell me they’d parked behind Ethan’s
car and would catch up with us soon. I gave him our heading, because that would be faster than making him hunt out the same sparse trail of blood we were tediously following, then hung up, my impatience revived by the phone call, as well as the knowledge that we had to be getting close to something.

Surely both toms couldn’t have run very far in the woods. Not injured and underclothed.

And fifteen minutes later, that theory was proved true, when my flashlight skirted over something much too pale to be a dead leaf, or even an exposed root.

My frozen left hand shot out, curling around a handful of Ethan’s coat, bringing him to an abrupt halt. “Look.” I nodded toward the end of my trail of light.

“What the hell…”

“It’s a hand,” I whispered, my voice hoarse with shock and dread. I sniffed, and to my horror, I smelled both Marc and Eckard, which meant they’d both spilled enough blood to retain the scents, in spite of the extreme temperatures. “I can’t look.” My hesitation had nothing to do with any girlie impulse or squeamishness. I ate raw venison on a regular basis, in cat form. But in that moment, as I stared at a motionless, frost-covered human hand in a pile of dead leaves, my certainty that Marc was still out there somewhere—alive, if not well—was awfully hard to cling to.

Ethan’s beam of light joined my own, and he stepped slowly forward as my heart pounded in my ears, putting himself between me and…whoever lay dead in the woods. He knelt, and my pulse spiked as I heard leaves rustle.

Then my brother stood and spun to face me. I couldn’t see his smile in the dark, but I heard it clearly in his voice. “It’s not him. Faythe, it’s not him.”

I exhaled, unaware until that moment that I’d been holding my breath. Then I crashed through the leaves toward him, and in less than a second I was kneeling on the frozen ground at his side, staring at the back of a dead man’s head.

I inhaled deeply through my cold, stuffy nose, taking the scent all the way into my lungs, grateful for once for the freezing temperatures, which had kept the corpse from decomposing. So far.

“It’s Eckard,” I confirmed, relief coursing through me in spite of the fact that I smelled Marc’s blood, too. “Marc won.” Joy spiked through my veins, and my whole body tingled, head to toe. “He’s
alive,
Ethan.”

Ethan smiled cautiously, his eyes sparkling like emeralds in the edges of my flashlight beam. “At least he was when he was here. And it looks like he found some extra clothes.”

I followed the beam of his flashlight far enough to see that Eckard was naked from the waist up. Ethan was right. Marc now had an extra shirt, and hopefully a coat. Even with the massive blood loss, he could have made it with warm clothing. Right?

“What’s that?” I frowned, squinting at a quarter-size spot of blood on Eckard’s upper back.

“The death blow?” Ethan suggested, obliging my curiosity with his light.

I shook my head. The crunchy, frozen blood beneath
my boot said that Eckard’s neck had been ripped open. And the back wound hadn’t bled much, which meant Eckard’s heart hadn’t been pumping when he came by the injury. The back wound was probably postmortem. I edged closer for a better look.

There, between Adam Eckard’s shoulder blades, just to the left of his spine, was a small cut, with neat, straight edges, as if the flesh had been precisely sliced.

“What the hell…?” I asked, but Ethan could only shrug. “Marc sliced open his back. Why the
hell
would he do that?”

“T
hat makes no sense.” Parker knelt in the cold for a better look at Eckard’s back, aided by the battery-powered camping lamps he and Dan had brought. “He clearly used a small knife. Probably a pocketknife. But since Eckard’s throat was ripped open, I’m guessing Marc didn’t have possession of the knife until after Eckard died. So it was probably Eckard’s knife. Why on earth would he mutilate the body?”

“He wouldn’t.” Marc had respect for the dead. Even the dead bad guys. And I had no doubt that if he’d had the strength to dig into frozen ground, he’d have buried Eckard. But even with the additional clothes, Marc was injured and suffering a grave loss of blood, as well as the dangerous temperature. Burial hadn’t been an option.

“Why didn’t he take the phone?” Dan pointed to a slider cell phone, lying in a pile of leaves a foot or so from Eckard’s head.

“It’s dead.” Ethan picked the phone up to confirm
what Kevin had said on Eckard’s answering machine. He pressed and held the power button, and when nothing happened, he nodded and slid it into a pouch on his backpack. Hopefully later we could charge it and search it for relevant phone numbers and messages.

“Any reason to keep the body?” I glanced from Ethan to Parker for an opinion, and both toms shrugged in the muted, clean white light.

“Not that I can think of,” Ethan said.

“Okay, let’s put him to rest.”

We only had three shovels, including the one Eckard had brought to dig Marc’s grave, and since I was the slowest digger—I’d had the least practice—I got stuck searching and wrapping the body while the guys worked on the hole.

Eckard’s wallet contained no surprises, and I slid it into my back pocket to be incinerated later. Other than the ruined throat and the slice on his back, he had only one other injury: a gash across his right forearm, which I examined with my flashlight. The wound stank faintly of metal, and I deduced that he’d been slashed with the screw sticking out of a broken piece of Marc’s furniture. And that the resulting wound had provided us with the blood sample Hooper Galloway had identified.

When I was done with the body, I relieved each of the guys in turn, for a water break. Digging graves is hard work, even for a werecat. Even in cold weather. And while I dug, standing in a mostly dark three-foot-deep hole, working too hard to talk, I had nothing to do but think.

At first, I thought about our next move—how best
to find Marc, who seemed to be injured and lost in a national forest. But that led to questions and other thoughts I didn’t want to think.

Marc had obviously walked away from the fight with Eckard, but where the hell was he? How long could a seriously injured man survive in below-freezing temperatures? He was obviously in human form—based on the fact that he’d taken Eckard’s clothes—which meant he was too hurt to Shift immediately. So why hadn’t he headed back toward the road? Eckard’s car was beyond functioning, and Marc couldn’t hitchhike and risk passing out with a human who would take him to the hospital. But he could have followed the road from the woods, and eventually have reached civilization.

Then again, having lost so much blood, he probably wasn’t thinking clearly enough for that, especially if hypothermia had set in. He could have been wandering the woods, lost and disoriented, for more than a day.

Despair crashed over me and I staggered into the wall of the grave, steadying myself with a handful of frigid earth. Marc didn’t really stand a chance.

“Faythe?” Ethan stopped digging and reached out for me, planting his shovel in the ground. “You okay?”

“I hate not knowing.” And I hated my own doubt even more.

Ethan took my shovel and handed it to Parker, then hauled himself out of the hole and pulled me up with him. “That’s deep enough,” he said, and gestured for Parker and Dan to bring the body.

“What if you’re right?” I whispered, letting Ethan fold me into his arms, treasuring both his warmth and his comfort. “What am I going to do if he’s gone?”

“You’re going to slaughter every motherfucker involved—and I better get a piece of that action—then you’re going to move on. There’s no other choice.” Surprised by the bitter vehemence in his voice, I stepped back to find him watching me in his own quiet wrath, as uncommon an emotion for Ethan as docility was for me. “Now let’s bury this bastard before Kevin comes looking for him.”

I nodded, still numb and stunned by the thought that I might live the rest of my life without Marc. Then Ethan’s last words sank in, and I froze. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” Dan asked, gripping the corpse’s plastic-wrapped feet at waist height.

“Ethan’s right. Kevin will realize Eckard’s missing soon and come looking for him. And when he figures out Marc got away, he’ll be looking for him, too. What if he finds Marc before we do?”

“He won’t,” Parker said, sidestepping toward the grave in unison with Dan. But his calm, sober expression said he didn’t think Kevin was much of a threat. Parker still thought Marc was dead, and the search for a body didn’t carry as much urgency for him as the search for a missing man.

“He’s out there, Parker. Marc may be hurt and cold, but he’s alive out here somewhere, and if Kevin finds him first, he’s as good as dead.”

“Kevin won’t find him,” Ethan insisted, shooting a
censuring glare at Parker, while Dan looked on in concern and confusion. “We won’t let him.”

After we’d buried Eckard, we hiked back to the cars, and the equipment we carried seemed infinitely heavier and more cumbersome than it had on the way
to
the body. As did my thoughts.

After a brief conference, and a consultation with our Alpha, we decided on a course of action for Eckard’s Explorer. The front of the vehicle was wrapped around the tree he’d hit, and it could not be driven. Not even a little way. So, working quickly in case of passersby, Parker retrieved the five gallons of emergency gasoline from his trunk and doused the inside of Eckard’s vehicle, concentrating mostly on the bloodstained rear portion.

Then, after Ethan and Dan had turned our functioning vehicles around and parked them on the opposite side of the road, a good fifty feet from the Explorer, Parker lit a match and tossed it into the car, then raced across the street and slid into his own passenger seat as Ethan and Dan both drove away from the scene of our crime.

To my relief, the Explorer didn’t explode. But it did go up in a huge ball of fire. Even if the vehicle wasn’t melted beyond recognition, the flames would easily destroy the DNA evidence of our existence. It was a drastic measure of caution, and one we’d never tried before. But we’d had no choice.

I watched the fire until I could no longer see it
flickering through the rear windshield. Then I watched the reddish reflection of the flames in the sky. Within minutes, sirens raced toward us, and I held my breath as the fire truck passed, followed immediately by two police cars. But we weren’t stopped.

With the immediate evidence taken care of, I called my father back, staring at Parker’s rear bumper as it bounced down the highway in front of us.

“Hello?”

“It’s done.” I sighed, closing my eyes briefly. “Do you still have our toms patrolling the border?”

“Yes.” My father’s pitch rose with curiosity, as Ethan glanced at me with one brow raised. “Why?”

“I need them here. We have to find Marc before Kevin does, and I need every available body out there searching. We’ll head back out ourselves as soon as the cops get done with Eckard’s car.”

I thought he would say no. His silence was a virtual guarantee, so I was all ready to argue when he said, “Okay. You’ll have ten new men in three hours.”

“Really? Just like that?” I couldn’t help my smile.

“I want him back, too, Faythe.”

“I know.” My grin grew in relief, and I leaned forward to aim the heater vent away from my face. “But I thought you’d say we were past the point of urgency.”

“No.” My father exhaled slowly. “We will never reach that point.”

My vision blurred with tears, and I wiped them on the back of my still-cold hand. “Thank you, Dad.”

“Don’t thank me. Just find him.”

I clenched my jaws tightly, denying my doubt a voice. “I will.”

We went back to Marc’s house while we waited for the authorities to finish with Eckard’s car, and Parker threw together a huge pot of confetti spaghetti, while I sliced and buttered garlic toast. I’d just put the bread in the oven when my phone rang, and I jogged across the kitchen to snatch it from an end table in the living room, hoping for news from my father about the reinforcements.

It was Michael.

“It’s all over,” he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

“Already?” Manx’s trial had only lasted a few days. Was that a good sign or a bad one? “What’s the verdict?” My pulse spiked, blood pounding in my temples as if it were trying to burst free from my veins.

“Guilty, on three counts of murder.”

Oh, shit.
My chest seemed to constrict around my lungs, and my next breath was difficult to suck in.

But as disturbing as it was to hear aloud, the verdict wasn’t really much of a surprise. Manx had killed three toms, and technically the danger to herself was only perceived. Still, because of the extenuating circumstances—the severe and prolonged trauma leading up to her crimes—I didn’t think she deserved to die. Apparently everyone else agreed.

“The sentence was unanimous,” my oldest brother
continued, as Ethan emerged from the bathroom and leaned against the hallway door frame, watching me and listening in. “They’ll spare her life. But they’re going to take her claws.”

My head spun, and the room seemed to tilt. I sank onto the couch, my free hand gripping the upholstered arm until reality went still again. But, consumed with simultaneous horror and relief, I could think of nothing to say.

Manx was going to be declawed.

On one hand, that was good. Better than the alternative, anyway. Des would not be an orphan. Manx would not die for crimes she committed as a result of brutal, long-term trauma and a debilitating fear of men.

But on the other hand, being declawed is every bit as horrific as it sounds.

The pain is unbearable. Which is why ripping out a person’s fingernails has long been a recognized form of torture in some countries. Obviously, modern Prides perform the procedure in a sterile environment, with the victim/ convict heavily sedated, or even unconscious. But the recovery would be no romp through the woods.

Even worse, Manx wouldn’t be able to go out in public again without wearing gloves. Ever. In order to keep the claws from growing back, the surgical procedure actually snips off the very tip of a cat’s toes. Shifting a couple of times will accelerate healing the wounds, but will not make the claws—or those lost bits of nail bed—grow back.

Being declawed in cat form was one thing. Aside
from the obvious inconvenience, the deformity would hardly show beneath the fur on her paws. But in human form, the mutilation would be conspicuous, and as difficult to explain as it was to hide. She’d be missing her fingernails and cuticles. All ten of them. And the flesh they’d once covered would be puckered and scarred.

When I was in junior high, my father ordered a stray—a three-time offender—to be declawed. Dr. Carver performed the procedure at our ranch, and before the stray left, I caught a glimpse of the result. I’ve long since forgotten what his offense was, but I’ll never forget the sight of that tom’s malformed hands, which established my own deep-rooted fear of losing my claws.

“Faythe?” Michael said into my ear, drawing me out of my thoughts. “You okay?”

I laughed bitterly. “Not really? You?”

For a moment he was silent, too, and I wondered how similar his thoughts were to mine. “I…well, I can’t say I agree with the sentence, but neither can I justify them letting her off entirely. She committed three very serious crimes, and if they let that go unpunished, they’re setting a very dangerous precedent.”

But I could have cut my finger on the cold, sharp edge of politics in his voice. He was trying to emotionally divorce himself from the issue and view it with no bias. It was a skill I envied, and sometimes I was certain I’d never be able to pull off. I couldn’t even emotionally divorce myself from the boxers versus briefs debate, much less Manx’s cruel verdict.

“I know, but her
claws?
How’s she supposed to hunt? How can she possibly defend herself or Des?” But I answered my own question before he had a chance to. “She’s
not
supposed to, is she? That’s the whole point, right?”

In cat form, her ability to hunt would be severely compromised. She could still pounce on and suffocate prey with her strong, feline jaws. But she’d no longer be able to grip with her claws. Or to climb in search of upwardly mobile prey. Or defend herself, should the need arise.

She’d be dependent on others—likely men—to provide and care for her. And that blow was even more devastating for Manx than it would have been for anyone else, because her independence was all she had left. That, and her baby. For years she’d been dependent on the meager mercy of the men who’d abused her and held her prisoner. Now, she’d be at the mercy of every tom she met.

“Well, I don’t think that’s what
all
of the Alphas had in mind,” Michael hedged. “But I have no doubt Calvin Malone holds significant influence over Milo Mitchell—” Kevin Mitchell’s father, who’d headed up the tribunal “—and I would not be surprised to hear that the sentence was actually his idea. Or something cooked up between them.”

I had a strong suspicion my brother was right; declawing a tabby was exactly the kind of thing Malone would suggest. It was an irreversible indignity to Manx. A blow to her self-worth. And an obvious political
maneuver from two Alphas who were probably patting themselves on their collective back for putting one more tabby
in her place.
The bastards.

My pulse spiked just thinking about it, and if I’d had claws of my own in that moment, they’d have ripped right through the faded upholstery of Marc’s used sofa. Though what they really wanted was to sink into Calvin Malone’s flesh.