Stray (Shifters #1)(21)

At the bottom of the mirror was a snapshot taken at the ranch the summer I was seventeen, less than two months before I left for college. It showed a group of eight girls, ranging in age from twelve to twenty, beaming bright white smiles from the front gate. That photo represented the future of the American Prides, because it showed every unmarried female cat of childbearing age in the entire country.Ours was one of ten territories in the continental United States, each protected and governed by a single Pride Alpha. Each Alpha was the head of that territory’s core family group, consisting of the Alpha’s mate and their children—typically several boys and the long-awaited daughter—and a group of loyal enforcers. In addition, each Pride had between twenty and forty other loyal tomcats, mostly the Alphas’ uncles, brothers, sons, and nephews, who led their own lives spread out across the territory. Unfortunately, in contrast to the surplus of tomcats, no Alpha in recent history had sired more than a single tabby to give birth to the next generation. And for that reason, we were very, very valuable.
Our ranks had shrunk and swelled since the photo was taken, as older girls got married and younger ones entered puberty. There were eight of us again, spread out over all ten territories, but now I was the oldest—by several years. In the picture, I stood in the middle of the front row, my left arm around my cousin Abby and my right around…
Sara.
My stomach growled, as usual, announcing its demands first thing in the morning, and I wondered if Sara was having breakfast, wherever she was.
With a stretch and a sigh, I threw back the covers and swung my legs over the edge of the bed into a patch of sunlight pouring through the window. Wait, that’s wrong. Sunlight shouldn’t hit that part of the room until midmorning.
I glanced at the alarm clock. Ten twenty-four. That couldn’t be right. The last time my mother let me sleep through breakfast was the day my grandmother died. My mother hadn’t changed a bit in the last few years, so something had to be wrong.
A search of my suitcase produced more books than clothing, but I found a pale blue stretchy tee that would work. It read It’s not the length of the word; It’s how well you use it. Daddy would love it. I pulled my nightshirt over my head and tossed it onto the bed, then donned the shirt and stepped into the jeans I’d worn the day before.
I was tugging a brush through my nest of black tangles when the first polyphonic notes of “Criminal” rang out faintly from somewhere behind me. My phone. Where did I leave my phone? I’d been home for roughly twelve hours and had already forgotten I had a life outside of the Lazy S. That was one of the dangers of coming home. Home traps you. It swallows you whole, like a sandpit of nostalgia, sucking at you until you can neither move nor think, and you choke on your own panic.
Or maybe I was just being paranoid.
I tossed the contents from my suitcase, searching for the source of the music. The bottom layer of canvas stared back at me, empty, but still the music played. Grunting in frustration, I threw the bag across the room. Its plastic-reinforced corner left a dent in the wall. Great. But Fiona Apple’s sultry, alto crooning grew louder. There it was, half an inch of shiny chrome sticking out from under my bed skirt. I lunged for it, glad I’d disabled my voicemail. 
Still panting from my frantic search, I pushed the Talk button, cutting Fiona off in midsyllable. “Hello?”
“So I woke up this morning thinking something was wrong, and it took me a moment to figure out what it was.”
Huh? I held the phone out at arm’s length, staring at it as if it were to blame for the speaker’s lack of sense.
The caller spoke again. “This is the part where you ask me what was wrong.”
Ah. It was Andrew. I should have known.
“Faythe? Are you there?”
I put the phone back up to my ear, but a long moment passed before I could answer. Hearing his voice in my father’s house was disorienting and vaguely uncomfortable, as if two very separate halves of my life had collided, crushing me between them and making it nearly impossible for me to think, much less speak.
“Faythe?” Concern raised Andrew’s pitch, exaggerating the stuffy sound of his voice.
I swallowed, wincing at how dry my throat felt. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I just woke up.” I sank onto the bed facing the mirror, where the photographs mocked me from various points in my own past.
“Me, too. That’s what was wrong.”
“Huh?” My eyes settled on the photo of me and Marc at my senior prom. Try as I might to drag my gaze from it, Marc’s eyes kept pulling mine back. They seemed to follow me from the photo, glinting in amusement at my futile attempt to concentrate on what Andrew was saying. Or maybe they were just reflecting the clear Christmas lights used as prom decorations.
“I slept through my alarm and missed my first class.”
“Oh, no.” I turned my back on the photo, pleased at my victory over Marc’s picture-self.
“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t feel like learning anything today anyway. My cold’s worse, and I think I have a bit of a fever. Anyway, I’d much rather talk to you than go to class.”
“Thanks.”
Thanks? Okay, I’m a moron. My brain just doesn’t kick in until I get some caffeine, but even after a gallon of coffee, I wouldn’t have known what to say to Andrew. Talking to him felt awkward, like we’d been out of touch for months instead of for a single day.
“What did your dad say about me coming to visit between summer terms?”
“Oh. Uh… I haven’t had a chance to talk to him yet. But I will.” I punched my fancy pillow, glad he wasn’t there to see the dread on my face. I did not look forward to having that conversation with my father. Or any other conversation, come to think of it.
“Good. I’ll be there in three weeks.”
Yeah. Great. He’d never make it out alive.
I was only vaguely aware that Andrew was still talking, until the lengthening silence told me it was my turn to speak. Crap. “You faded out for a second there.” I rolled my eyes at my own lie. “What did you say?”
“I asked you how many you have.”
“How many what?” Over the phone, I heard his sheets rustle as he moved. He really must feel bad if he’s still in bed, I thought.
“How many brothers.”
“Oh. Uh, four.” I saw no reason to explain about Ryan being MIA for most of the last decade. Or about anything else, for that matter.
“Four. Wow. Your parents must have really been trying for a girl, huh?”
You have no idea.
“Faythe, is anything wrong?”
“Yes. No.” I frowned in confusion, one hand hovering over my face to shield my eyes from the sunlight. If only it could shield me from my life too… “Everything’s fine. I’m just still half-asleep.”I sat up, glancing at my bedroom door as footsteps hurried past in the hall. “Hey, I was just about to get something to eat. Can I call you back later?” I sniffed the air, trying to identify the owner of the footsteps. No luck. I was too slow.
“Sure,” Andrew said. “I was about to head out for breakfast anyway. I’m starving.”
“Okay, go eat. And I hope you feel better,” I said, too preoccupied with the footsteps in the hall to inject any sincerity into my reply.
“I already do, after hearing your voice.” His tone was as warm and pleasant as spring sunshine, yet for my life, I didn’t know how to respond. Maybe if he’d sounded more like moonlight… But Andrew had nothing in common with the night. Nothing at all. That had always worked in his favor before.
“That’s sweet,” I said finally, cringing at my own dim-witted response. “I’ll call you later.”
“Sure.” Was that a tremor of doubt in his voice? Andrew didn’t deserve doubt. Not because of me.
I knew I should say something reassuring, or at least friendly, but again words failed me. All except for one. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
Faythe, you are such an idiot! I thought as I pressed the End button. Andrew was everything I wanted, in the only place I wanted to be, but I couldn’t think of a thing to say to him.
It would be better when I went back to school. It had to be better, because it certainly couldn’t get any worse.
Disgusted, I threw the phone at my headboard. It bounced off a pillow and onto the floor. As I bent to pick it up, another set of footsteps rushed past my door. I froze, sniffing the air, and caught just enough scent for identification. Parker. His footsteps stopped farther down the hall, replaced by the creak of hinges. Tense whispers rose over the creaking. I heard a faint click, and the whispering stopped abruptly.
Only one room in the house blocked noise that well. Daddy had called a meeting in his office. Without me.
That’s just freaking great. Irritation flowed through me like the tide, cold and numbing. He drags me back here, then lets me sleep through all the excitement. I tossed the phone onto my dresser, where it slid across the smooth surface and off the far end. I was in the hall before it hit the carpet.
With my ear pressed to the office door, I strained to hear something. Anything. I got nothing but unintelligible mumbles. Stupid solid-oak door! I tried the knob gently, but it wouldn’t turn. They’d locked it. Nice try, but it would take more than a thumb-press lock to keep me out.