Pride (Shifters #3)(31)

For several minutes, as my body ripped apart and restructured itself, the sharp bolts of pain in my bones and joints overshadowed the throbbing in my stomach. My spine bowed. My hips and shoulders popped in and out of their sockets. My elbows and knees made hollow cracking sounds, accompanied by vicious spears of agony.
Dry grass pricked the palms of my hands and the soles of my feet as they swelled into paw pads. My nails thickened into hard, sharp claws. I let my mouth go slack when the Shift reached my head, distorting my face in a stream of excruciating bulges and new hollows. A moan escaped my disfigured throat as my jawbone rippled with the transformation of my human teeth into long, sharply curved points. My tongue tingled when several hundred tiny barbs sprouted from it, arcing toward my throat.
My skin began to itch as fur rippled across my back, surging to cover my extremities before flowing rapidly over my face. And last of all, just when I was starting to think Shifting with an injury wasn’t so bad, the irregular line of fur surged down my sides toward my stomach.
My body had saved the worst part for last, when it was too late for me to turn back.
I screamed as my torn flesh stretched, burning unbearably as new hair follicles opened and sprouted fur. My stomach throbbed, muscles bunching and expanding to support my restructured physiology.
Then, finally, it was over.
I lay panting on the ground as if I’d just run several miles. The sharp pulse of pain in my stomach had dulled to a mild ache, a reminder of what I’d been through, as well as a promise that things would get better. Soon.
As always after a Shift, my new body felt awkward—stiff, like I’d just woken up and needed a good stretch to settle everything into place. To ease the bad-weather ache in my joints, I stretched my front paws toward Jace, who now sat on his haunches beside Marc, both of them watching me for any sign of a problem. I sank my claws into the winter-cool earth and stretched my belly carefully, hindquarters in the air, tail waving slowly toward the mostly bare branches overhead. 
I felt a sharp twinge in my stomach, and the tug of the stitches, which seemed to have survived my Shift pretty well, so I eased out of my new-body stretch and into a sitting position, very pleased to note that the pang faded immediately.
A hand landed gently on my head, scratching behind both my ears at once, and I arched into the touch as Dr. Carver’s scent washed over me. “Turn over and let me take a look at your stomach, please,” he said, scratching his way down my neck to that hard-to-reach spot between my shoulder blades.
Happy to oblige, I lowered myself to the ground and rolled onto my right side, my tail swishing among the fallen leaves, a purr rumbling softly from my throat as Marc rubbed his cheek against mine, and Jace did the same with my exposed left flank. Dr. Carver knelt beside me, shining a flashlight on my underbelly. He combed his fingers carefully through my thick black fur, and I huffed, the cat version of soft laughter. I hadn’t realized I was ticklish in cat form, probably because no one had ever touched my stomach so softly before. It was nice, in a cozy, reassuring way.
So different from the touch that had necessitated the stitches.
“Well, the stitches survived, which is good. These new, thicker sutures make it so much easier to Shift while injured…” His voice trailed into silence as he peered closer at his handiwork, parting my fur with a single cold finger. “The skin has mostly mended everywhere but this one deep cut, and hopefully that one will seal itself when you Shift back. But the muscle beneath will take longer.” Dr. Carver rocked back on his heels, then stood, which I took as my signal to roll onto my feet.
“Remember what your father said. No climbing, no tackling—” he glanced at Marc and Jace on that one “—and no long-distance pouncing. Give yourself a chance to heal.” We all nodded obediently, which Carver surely knew to disregard completely, as he glanced at his watch. “You have thirty minutes. Make it count.”
He could pretty much put money on that one.
As Dr. Carver picked his way through the thin strip of trees and into the yard, I headed in the opposite direction, tempering my ingrained need for speed with fresh memories of pain and ripping flesh. If I overdid it now, it could be weeks before I saw the woods again through cat eyes.
Marc and Jace walked alongside me at first, giving me very little space, as if they might lose me forever if I wandered more than three feet away. But the truth was that there was very little trouble to be found so close to the cabin complex, where our combined Pride-cat scents surely worked as stray repellent. Especially considering that the last stranger who’d wandered near had gotten his brains bashed in with my meat mallet. The scent of his blood—now soaked into our front yard—was pretty good advertising for an ass kicking.
After several minutes, I began to test my limitations, and the guys stepped back to give me more room. Jace played alongside me, swiping at pinecones for me to bat away and sniffing out field mice for me to pounce on—carefully, of course. But Marc stayed on my far side, keeping me between himself and the cabin to stop me from wandering too far as I grew more bold and more confident in my healing body.
Unfortunately, as my father clearly knew, half an hour wasn’t enough time to do anything too adventurous. It was just long enough to realize what I’d been missing over the last two weeks—namely, fresh game. Well, the thrill of the hunt was what I really craved, but since such strenuous exercise was off-limits, I’d settle for a little fresh meat.
And when I caught the scent of a rabbit as I nosed through a pile of dead foliage in search of a pinecone Jace had swatted, I made up my mind. I was not leaving the woods without a bite to eat. Period.My nose twitched in the undergrowth, taking in as much of the prey-smell as possible. I wasn’t trying to pinpoint its location; cats don’t track by scent. I was just whetting my appetite. And hoping to scare the little morsel into making some noise, because cats do hunt with our incredibly well-tuned sense of hearing. And our eyesight.
My pause in the game did not go unnoticed. Jace whined at me in question, and I purred in response, telling the guys there was something I wanted in the bushes. I rested my muzzle on my forepaws and stuck my rump in the air, wiggling it back and forth to signal that I wanted to pounce.
I wasn’t really going to pounce, of course. But just in case, Marc swatted my flank, then nosed me out of the way, which was feline-ese for “Scoot over and I’ll catch your dinner.” It was downright gallant of him, considering.
Marc bounded into the undergrowth, and the rabbit shot out the other side, bouncing off toward the west. Marc went after it, and both predator and prey disappeared around a dense clump of brush.
Jace stayed with me, and we experienced the hunt vicariously though a series of deep feline grunts, high-pitched squeals of terror and shaking foliage. Two minutes later, Marc slunk back into sight, a rust-colored rabbit pinched between his jaws. The damn thing was still twitching, trying in vain to get away. It was a miracle it hadn’t had a heart attack.
I purred loudly in thanks, and Jace edged closer to get a good whiff of my dinner. He rubbed his cheek against my shoulder, begging politely for a taste, but I shrugged him off. There was nothing wrong with his stomach. He could go hunt his own dinner.
Marc dropped the rabbit at my feet, and the poor thing tried to hop away. It didn’t get very far, in part because its left rear leg was broken. But also because I lunged for it, hoping to capture at least the feel of catching my own meal, even if I’d had to forgo the actual hunt.
Marc growled at my sudden movement, but I ignored him as my teeth sank into the fuzzy rabbit, his rapid heartbeat emptying its lifeblood into my mouth to dribble over my chin and onto the ground. I shook my prey until it was dead, then pinned it to the ground with one paw while I ripped its stomach open with my teeth.
Such a small creature was little more than a snack to a cat my size, but the meal was just as much symbolic as practical. The Territorial Council had figuratively clipped my wings, robbing me not only of my job as an enforcer, but of my inherent right to run with my fellow werecats. To taste speed and freedom a human could never understand or enjoy. And to my relief and surprise, half an hour in the woods and a fresh snack were enough to restore part of what I’d lost. Namely, my pride.
By the time I finished eating, which Marc watched with the satisfaction of a true provider, and Jace watched with more than a little envy, it was time to go back. Probably past time, in fact, but even so, I spared a couple of minutes to clean my fur. Fresh meat is messy, and even injured, a girl has her standards, right? 
When Marc thought I was clean enough, he swatted my rump and nudged me in the direction of the cabin. I went willingly, my mood bolstered by the taste of freedom. And rabbit.
At the cabin, my father scolded us for being late, but there was no real anger in his tone. He’d probably been listening to us from the front porch the entire time.
I Shifted back in my bedroom, with Dr. Carver observing, and to my relief, my second transformation was easier and less painful than the first. And faster. We were both pleased to discover that the lacerations in my stomach were now fresh pink puckered scars, and though they still ached when I twisted from side to side, that weird flesh-ripping sensation was gone, along with most of the pain.