Pride (Shifters #3)(18)

I turned a slow circle in the clearing, eyes open for any sign of sleek, glossy fur amid the shadows and thick brush. Before I’d completed an entire rotation, a sudden awareness sent chills up my spine, and neither it nor the goose bumps sprouting on my flesh were due to the mid-November cold.
I was being watched. Some subconscious cat part of me had picked up a subtle scent or sound and raised a red flag for my conscious human half.
My heart hammered hard enough to bruise me from the inside out, and I could barely hear over it. I turned slowly, and at first saw nothing but more trees and bushes. But then there was a small flash of light in the dark. No, not a flash. Two flashes of white light in the deep night shadows. Moonlight reflecting off cat eyes.
I slid my right hand slowly into my back pocket and pulled out the folding knife, my finger on the button and ready to press. But I kept it behind my back, out of sight. A surge of adrenaline raced through me, and my free hand curled into a fist. Those were not Jace’s eyes. They were a pale, earthy greenish-brown, with no hint of blue. My pulse rang in my ears.
The stray had found me first.
Seven

The cat blinked, and I shuffled backward. Dead leaves crunched underfoot, and I winced at the sound, as if it might give away my position. But I’d already been found by one tom, and needed to be found by two more. Maybe I should start shouting…
No.
Foliage rustled as he stepped out of the bushes, tail swishing slowly, head high, ears pricked and on alert. I studied him, memorizing his form for possible identification later—one of the first things I’d learned as an enforcer. I inhaled, learning his scent, too, which told me without a doubt that he was male. And that he had not infected the stray I’d killed with the meat mallet. But just because he hadn’t scratched that stray didn’t mean he hadn’t infected another. Or done something worse. 
He carried no stench of disease or infection, and he walked without a limp, both of which indicated good health. He looked young—I was guessing early thirties—and was smaller than Marc. Unfortunately, for werecats, size wasn’t the only determining factor for danger; I was proof enough of that.
But the bottom line was that he was a stray tom, and I was a tabby. He was drawn to me by curiosity, and by an instinct he hadn’t been born with and probably didn’t yet understand. To walk away unscathed, I’d have to satisfy his interest and keep him calm until Marc and Jace arrived.
“Good kitty, kitty,” I murmured, unwilling to release the blade on my knife until or unless he looked openly hostile. Wielding my weapon too soon would almost surely provoke that hostility.
Marc, where the hell are you?
The stray took another step toward me, his ears folded back, tail held low and stiff. He was still more curious than aggressive, which was no big surprise. I was typically the first tabby most strays had ever seen, and they generally had no idea there was anything to fear from me until it was too late. Of course, I was usually in cat form too, and I was never unaccompanied…
Okay, there has to be some kind of protocol for this. Still eyeing the cat, I searched my memory, running through everything I’d learned since becoming an enforcer. What did the guys do when they were stuck in human form, barely armed, facing a stray with full use of his claws and canines?
The answer did nothing to reassure me: They fought, or they died.
Fighting was a last resort, and dying wasn’t an option. So, what are you good at?
Talking. According to Marc, I could talk the color off a crayon. Of course, that usually got me into trouble, rather than out of it. But it was worth a shot.
I got as far as, “Hi,” then I was stuck. I couldn’t decide between, “What’s your sign?” and “Please don’t eat me.”
The cat ignored my greeting, and his nose twitched as he took in my scent. He hadn’t seen my weapon, and if he’d smelled the metal, he didn’t seem bothered by it. He edged closer and I backed up, but after one step my foot landed unevenly on a mound of dirt, and my right hand—still clutching the knife at my back—scraped a tree trunk. There was nowhere else to go, unless I was willing to run from the cat. But that would be suicide. Even if he didn’t plan to attack, if I ran, he’d chase me out of instinct.
“Do you live around here?” I asked after a moment’s hesitation.
To my surprise, the stray cocked his head to one side, as if in question. Or confusion.
“Here.” I raised my left arm to take in the immediate surroundings, and the cat jerked. No sudden moves, Faythe. He’s already jumpy. “Do you live in these woods? On this mountain?”
That time he bobbed his head once, then tossed his muzzle toward the north.
“You live that way?” I asked, and he nodded again. Suspicion sent a vine of doubt twisting through me. Keller hadn’t mentioned any werecats living near his territory—only loud, obnoxious invaders.
I glanced toward the north, as if I might be able to see his home through all the trees and brush—not to mention the mountainside—and thus verify his claim. And when I turned to face him again, the stray stood less than five feet away, still watching me. He’d distracted me, then snuck up on me, and I’d fallen for it, thrown off by his apparent cooperation.
“Clever kitty.” Unlike the last stray, this one was neither sick nor confused, so I saw no reason not to gut him if he pounced.
The cat’s nose twitched again, and his whiskers arced forward. He froze, and his ears swiveled one hundred and eighty degrees, listening to something outside the range of my regrettably human ears.Marc and Jace? Please let it be them.
Eyes still on me, the stray began to swish his tail slowly. His ears returned to their normal position. I had his full attention now, and could practically see eagerness in his very feline expression.
He was preparing to make a move. Either Marc and Jace were too far away to worry about, or they were close enough to rush him into action. I was betting on the former, since I could neither hear nor smell them.
I swallowed thickly and inched another step to the right, my spine still pressed against the tree, the knuckles of my right fist scraping against bark. “What do you…?” Damn it, yes-or-no questions, Faythe. “Do you want something from me?”
The stray bobbed his head again, and a soft, low-pitched bleating sound rumbled up to me. He was purring, now less than a foot away. His gaze was glued to my face, his mouth open, teeth exposed.
Unfortunately, I was pretty sure I knew what he wanted, and “companionship” didn’t quite cover it. That was the problem with being one of very few tabby cats in existence. The supply doesn’t meet the demand, so those demanding often got a little…eager.
The cat closed the distance between us. My heart thudded in my throat. He nudged my left hand with his head, and I tried not to flinch. I consider uninvited physical contact grounds to bite off some part of the offender’s body.
My dull human teeth would only piss him off. But even with it behind my back, my knife was inches from his throat. I could end our little standoff with the press of a button and one quick slash.
But he hadn’t actually hurt me, or even really threatened me, so killing him seemed a little…rash.
Dread settled into my stomach like sour milk at the realization that unless I was willing to kill him, I had no real recourse, other than cooperation. I spread my free hand, hoping to pacify him—though the very thought of playing along struck discordant notes of fury and disgust in me. He rubbed one cheek against my palm, much as Jace had done minutes earlier. He was replacing Jace’s scent with his own, effectively claiming me.
My skin crawled with revulsion. Casual physical contact among littermates or Pride members was both accepted and expected. But between strangers, it was an insult. A threat. A social faux pas about the size of the Grand Canyon.
I told myself the stray probably didn’t know that; he hadn’t grown up in our society. But I had, and I couldn’t help feeling disrespected. The best I could do was cringe quietly, knowing any resistance I gave could get one of us hurt, if not killed. And since survival trumped pride any day of the week, I was more than willing to play along. Just not happily.
I was just getting a handle on my own revulsion, when a feline snarl ripped through the forest from a distance, shredding our pretense of friendly petting as well as the eerie hush around us. 
The stray froze beneath my hand. My fingers went still and my eyes closed in silent prayer. The snarl hadn’t come from Jace, but I had no doubt it involved both him and Marc, and that it was the reason they had yet to arrive.
Leaves crunched at my feet, and suddenly my hand was empty. Something tugged on my jacket sleeve and I opened my eyes to find my left cuff pinched between the cat’s front teeth.
“Hey, let go!” I demanded, summoning anger to replace the fear curdling the contents of my stomach. Fear cripples you, but anger helps you fight, and I now knew without a doubt that I would soon be fighting. “You do not want to know what happened to the last cat who pissed me off.”
Okay, technically all I’d done was scratch the end of his nose with my partially Shifted teeth, but the cat before that…He’d gotten his brains splattered all over both me and several square feet of dry brown grass.
In response to my blatant but evidently unbelievable threat, the stray rolled his eyes—an oddly human gesture for a cat—and tugged urgently on my sleeve.