Second Nature (6 page)

Good.
Having her alpha be in charge soothed Ally's nervousness.

"That won't be necessary," Jennings said before Ally could disappear into the kitchen. "I'm not here for a drink, and you," he glared at Ian, "are probably needed elsewhere. Thank you for accompanying me through your territory."

Ian's lips tightened. Ally could tell that he wanted to expose his teeth in a snarl, but as a commander of the Saru, Jennings outranked him. "I'll wait outside," Ian finally said.

"No, you won't." Blue eyes were firm and cold like an iceberg, with hidden undercurrents of danger swirling around it. "The Saru don't like people listening in on their business."

If he didn't want to be accused of spying on a saru, Ian had no choice but to retreat. He grumbled and puffed, but finally, the door closed behind him.

Ally was alone with Cedric Jennings.

Jennings strolled over and took up position on Ally's desk chair.

It was a conscious choice. His nose had to tell him that Ally had been sitting here only minutes ago, and now he was forcing her to move to another seat as a sign of his dominance.

He studied her with his cool gaze, slowly swishing back and forth in the desk chair.

Silence had never sounded so loud.

Wolf-shifters were good at psychological warfare and intimidation — and it was working. Jennings's silence made her nervous, but she knew she couldn't ask what he wanted. He had the more dominant rank in Syak hierarchy, even stood outside normal pack hierarchy as a saru, so she had to wait for him to speak.

I'm a Syak, one of the most dangerous predators on earth, so why do I suddenly feel like a rabbit about to be hunted down?
Ally balanced uneasily on the edge of the couch.

"So you're a beta reader?" Jennings asked. It sounded friendly enough.

"Yes."

"What are you getting out of it?" His voice was calm and interested, not giving anything away.

Ally tilted her head. "Getting?" she asked.

"You're not a professional editor. You don't get paid for working on other people's stories." Like most other Syak, Jennings clearly believed that hard work should always be paid for in some way.

And it was. Just in a less tangible way. "No, I'm not getting paid, but beta reading is fulfilling anyway." A lot of her friends were puzzled by it, and Jennings didn't look as if he understood the concept either. "It's my way of contributing to fiction and helping to make it better. I work with some great writers, and I love to establish a relationship with my writers and watch their writing mature over time."

"Relationship?"

Ally sighed. Of course he would catch only this one word of her heartfelt explanation.

"So tell me more about your relationship with J.W. Price," Jennings said.

"We don't have a relationship," she hastily said. "We don't even know each other personally." Building close friendships with humans was not tolerated, because it could easily lead to their existence being discovered. Beta reading for J.W. had made it easy not to cross the line. J.W. had never seemed interested in sharing anything but her writing with Ally.

The ice-blue gaze trailed up and down Ally's body and drilled into her eyes. "Why are you getting so defensive? You don't have anything to hide, do you? Like, for example, the fact that you told J.W. Price about our existence?"

"No!" A lump of fear, rage, and disbelief closed off Ally's throat and made her squeak like a pup. "You think I was the one who gave J.W. the information about shifters?" Ally couldn't believe it. It dawned on her that J.W. wasn't the only one in danger. Since prison sentences were unknown in Wrasa law, there was just one punishment for treason — death.

"Were you?" Jennings asked.

"No, of course not. I was the one who made the council aware of J.W.'s novel. Without me, there would be no chance of stopping its publication," she said, trying to use calm logic and not raise her voice to Jennings. He was backing her into a corner, though, and she felt her scalp begin to itch.

The chair crashed into the desk when Jennings leaped up. Two quick steps had him hovering over Ally. "Even human children know that sometimes criminals like to inject themselves into investigations to appear unsuspicious and to find out what the investigators know."

"I'm not a criminal," Ally stammered. "I didn't do anything wrong." Her stomach twisted. The biting scent of gun oil and aggression got stronger. Her muscles cramped in the effort not to shift.

Almost nose to nose with her, Jennings nostrils flared as he took in her scent.

Ally quivered. She hoped that his Saru training enabled him to see beyond the nervousness and recognize that she was telling the truth.

The heat that rushed through Ally's body finally lessened when Jennings leaned back, out of her personal space.

"If you didn't break the First Law, you've got nothing to fear," Jennings said, now sounding kinder, like a father soothing his child.

Ally's mangled lungs sucked in a deep breath.

As if nothing had happened, Jennings returned to the desk chair. "Now tell me everything I need to know about this writer and her story."

Finally back on familiar ground, Ally began to talk.

"Stop!" Jennings interrupted after just a few minutes. "Say that again."

What had she said last? "J.W. only just started on the new story. She's still working on the first chapter," Ally repeated.

"Not that." Jennings growled. "Did you just say that this story will be lesbian fiction?"

Is that good or bad for us?
Ally wondered. "Yes," she said. "J.W. asked me a few months ago if I would feel comfortable beta reading a lesbian romance for her. She said she wants to try out something completely different from everything she has written before, and since I was interested in how a great writer like J.W. would portray shape-shifters, I said yes."

Big mistake. I wish I had never gotten involved in this mess.

Jennings scratched at a few light beard stubbles. Discontent wafted around him. Suddenly, he stood. "Make sure you run any communication you have with Ms. Price by me, and forward me everything you receive from her. And should Saru Westmore contact you..."

Oh, great. They're sending the big guns not only after J.W. but after me too.
Every Wrasa in North America had heard of Griffin Westmore. She was known for completing her missions quickly and effectively.
She probably thinks she has to prove something because she's antapi.
Ally was part of a newer, more liberal generation. She couldn't care less about Griffin being a hybrid, but she knew that most Wrasa still frowned upon the mating of Griffin's Kasari father and her Puwar mother. They had strict opinions when it came to mixed marriages or even casual affairs between members of different races.

"If she contacts you, tell her you already gave me all the details and to read the report I'll send her," Jennings said.

What?
Ally couldn't imagine saying that to a saru. Lack of cooperation would make her look even more suspicious. "But —"

"Interviewing you was my job. Westmore has her own, so there's no need for her to interview you again. If she starts asking questions, refer her to me. Understood?" Jennings's sharp voice left no room for discussion.

Ally ducked her head and licked her lips. "I understand," she said. It seemed hierarchy in Jennings's Saru unit was even stricter than in a normal Syak pack, and if he wanted to keep Griffin Westmore out of his territory, out of the job he had already done, that was fine with her. At least it would spare her another interrogation.

"Good." Jennings pushed past her. "And send off that e-mail to Ms. Price." Over his shoulder, he pointed at the computer screen.

Then he was gone.

Ally collapsed back against the couch. She stared across the living room to the e-mail on the screen. If she refused to send it and get J.W. in contact with Griffin Westmore, Jennings would be back. He didn't understand that in a strange way, J.W. had become part of her pack too. Only loyalty to the Wrasa counted for him. Everything else would get her killed.

She stood and crossed the living room. With every step, guilt settled more firmly onto her shoulders. She struggled against its weight as she lifted her hand. Her finger hovered over the mouse button for a few moments; then she clicked once and sent the e-mail on its way.

*  *  *

"Meeting with a big cat expert, huh?" Jorie read her beta reader's e-mail again. She still couldn't decide how she felt about Ally's offer. Somehow this resembled one of her mother's setups when Helen tried her hand at matchmaking or at least getting her to make new friends.

It wasn't that Jorie was shy or socially inept. The money won in poker tournaments proved otherwise. She was good at reading people, getting into their heads, and guessing their strategies. Casual small talk was also not a problem — she had won quite a few hands while chatting about everything under the sun. Most men weren't very good at multitasking, and Jorie readily exploited that weakness.

But beyond that, she had no real interest in meeting people and making friends.
Then don't make it about meeting Ally's acquaintance. Make it about asking her questions,
she encouraged herself.
You don't even need to meet face-to-face. E-mail will be less of an inconvenience for that cat expert too. She's on vacation after all, so getting it over with quickly is the polite thing to do.

She clicked the "reply" button but then hesitated again.

Even if Ally's friend really was an expert, how could she help Jorie if she wasn't sure what questions to ask and what the problem was that kept her from writing? Most of her problems weren't about tigers or lions but about their shape-shifting equivalents anyway, so what good would a big cat expert do?

Questions rushed through her tired brain, but the answers eluded her. She rubbed her hands across her face and groaned into her palms.

Normally, Jorie was an organized writer. Detailed research and careful plotting had so far spared her from ever experiencing writer's block. And if she ever ran into any problems with characters or plot, she simply analyzed and solved them.

Maybe that was the problem. She had always been writing with her head, not so much her heart. Not this time. This time, she had let her writing be dictated by emotions. She was writing her own issues into the story, and it wasn't working. Even a regiment of cat experts couldn't change that.

If Ms. Westmore really is a cat expert.
Jorie knew Ally meant well, but Ally was a people person and — as far as Jorie could tell from their e-mail acquaintance — maybe a little too trusting sometimes. Jorie wasn't. Years of working odd jobs had taught her that people weren't always what they pretended to be and that it was better to be careful.

Okay. Then pretend to be a writer and do some research before you make a decision.
She closed her e-mail program and googled "Griffin Westmore."
Great name.
She scribbled it down in the back of her ever-present notebook, where she kept a list of names for future characters.

The search engine came up with a few thousand hits. Jorie waded through a few pages of actors, authors, and companies with that name. Finally, she gave up and went back to refine her search, now typing in "Griffin Westmore" and "zoologist." The first link provided her with the summary of a presentation that had been given at a zoology conference in England.

The top of the Web site listed Griffin Westmore's academic accomplishments: a bachelor's degree in wildlife ecology and conservation from Northwest Missouri State University, a master's degree in zoology from Colorado State University, and a PhD in zoology from the University of New Hampshire.

Three degrees from three different universities in three different states. It seems Griffin Westmore has the "restless feet syndrome" too.
That was what her father had always called her tendency not to stay in one place or keep one job for very long.

Jorie's eyes started to burn. She looked away from the computer screen. Sometimes, grief still sneaked up on her when she remembered the little things about her father.

Resolutely, she clicked on the next link. It gave her the title of Griffin Westmore's dissertation: 'Comparative Anatomy and Sensitivity to Catnip (Nepeta Cataria) in Tigers (Panthera Tigris) and Lions (Panthera Leo).'
Jesus, she really is an expert. Let's see what she has been up to after she got her degrees.

She followed another link to the homepage of the US Forest Service. There was no photo, but the page listed Griffin Westmore's work phone number, e-mail address, and title — wildlife biologist — and let her know that Griffin belonged to the Ouachita National Forest office.
Arkansas. I wonder what brings her up north? Can't be our pleasant weather.

Clicking on a few more links provided nothing new until she stumbled across a newspaper article about a project that Griffin Westmore had been working on. The article described the difficulties in getting a radio collar on bobcats and was nicely written, but what held Jorie's interest was the photo at the bottom of the article.

Griffin Westmore stood with two other people, captured in the middle of explaining something to them. Jorie couldn't tell whether the man and the woman in the picture were really short or the zoologist was really tall. The way she was bending down to talk to them made Jorie think it was the latter.

A shiver ran up and down Jorie's spine as she swept her gaze over the photo. Maybe it was just the camera angle, but everything about Griffin Westmore seemed big and threatening — the large hands that were holding a map, the broad shoulders, the square jaw, and the slightly too long nose.
Oh, come on. Don't let your overactive imagination get the better of you. The picture is too grainy to even tell the color or the look in her eyes, so how could it possibly make you feel uneasy?

Still, she couldn't help feeling wary about meeting the imposing woman.
If she had dark hair instead of that reddish-golden mane, she would look like one of the sinister antagonists from my early stories.
Then another thought hit Jorie.
A woman in uniform, huh?
She smiled at the thought.