“Cat vision,” I said, and again he understood me.
“How did you do that?” he asked again.
I shrugged, looking around my room in awe. “I was thinking about what I’d like to do to Sean and his accomplices, then my face ached and I tasted blood.”
“I’ve never heard of a partial Shift.”
“Me neither.” Eee-er. Though surely I wasn’t the first to have such an experience. I made a mental note to ask around about it once everything was back to normal. Assuming that ever happened.
“Can you Shift them back?” Marc asked, still eyeing me in amazed curiosity.
I shrugged again and closed my eyes in concentration. After a moment, it worked. My face ached again, in my jaw and behind my eyes, like a sinus headache. I ran my tongue over my teeth. They were back to normal.
My reflection confirmed it. I looked human again. Completely.
“Your father’s not going to believe this.”
I cringed, trying to imagine surviving two interrogations in one day. And what if I couldn’t perform on command? I’d look like a fool. Or worse, like a spoiled child trying to soak up all the attention on a day of mourning.
“I don’t want to tell him. Not right now,” I said. “He has enough to deal with as it is.” And it just seemed wise for me to stay safely below his radar until his temper cooled a bit. Or until I had a chance to swipe his key to the cage and have a copy made.
Marc opened his mouth to argue, but I held up my hand to shush him, turning toward my bedroom window. Tires crunched over gravel, and I recognized the low rumble of a van’s engine. “Parker’s back with Kyle.”
Sixteen
Two car doors slammed, and more gravel crunched as Parker and Kyle approached the house. Marc and I slipped into the living room in time to see my father usher a bewildered Kyle through the foyer and into his office. For once, I was thankful for the extra-thick concrete walls. I could imagine Kyle’s reaction well enough without having to hear it.
A plaintive stillness descended in the house around us as Sara’s death began to sink in. Only her mother’s disconsolate sobs marred the uneasy silence.
The Alphas appeared composed and sedate in their conservative suits, glancing at each other with grave, knowing expressions. But their calm was like the visible portion of an apparently tranquil sea, hiding a churning, agitated current beneath its glass-smooth surface.
They had come together to combine forces and expand the search for our missing tabbies. Now they had my description and Sean’s scent as a solid starting place, and Sara’s murder to fuel their fury. When they found the captors—and find them they would—the Alphas would strike with the full power of the council, making an example out of Sean and his accomplices, the memory of which would echo forever in werecat lore.
As stunned as I was by Sara’s murder, dark anticipation thrilled through me at the prospect of a large-scale hunt, even though I knew better than to get my hopes up. My father would never let me help.
Umberto Di Carlo left for the airport shortly after Kyle arrived, without having said a word to anyone that I heard. He was going home to arrange his daughter’s burial. Donna wanted to go with him, but she was in no shape to travel. I never found out what they used to sedate her, but half an hour after her husband left, she sat in the kitchen staring at my mother with unfocused eyes and a gaping mouth. Daddy promised to send her home the next day, under escort, but no one volunteered for the job. He chose Michael, who accepted the assignment with his usual stoic dignity.The rest of the evening passed in a blur of front-door chimes and hushed voices, with all the quiet dread of a wake, because that’s essentially what it was. A bitter, angry wake. The Alphas sipped Daddy’s brandy in small groups in the office and the living room, whispering to each other about the tragedy of a young life wasted. Sara’s mother and my aunt Melissa sobbed at the kitchen table, while my mother and two other dams kept their teacups full. And little Nikki Davidson, only eight years old, sat in one corner of the living room for hours, her face blank with shock. I was pretty sure she’d overheard more of the details than she should have, but I had no idea what to do about it. So, like everyone else, I did nothing.
People shot me nervous glances every few minutes, but no one approached me. They were all thinking what I was trying hard not to admit to myself: that if tabbies were being targeted, I could be next. But I wasn’t worried. They’d have to get through a houseful of Alphas first, and that just wasn’t going to happen.
When the whispers and stares grew old, I settled into an overstuffed armchair near the living-room window, turning my back to the crowd as I watched the sun set. I curled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, slumping my shoulders to look unapproachable, in case anyone got brave. It worked, and everyone left me alone. In fact, after a while, they seemed to forget I was even there, just like they’d forgotten about Nikki. Except for Marc. He was still on Faythe-sitting duty, and he kept one eye on me at all times. But at least he was courteous enough to do it from across the room.
I’d been watching moths gather around the front-porch lights for a solid half hour when a couple of the northern Alphas wandered near my chair, taking no notice of me at all. They still sipped from short thick glasses, but my nose told me they’d switched over to whiskey at some point.
At first I paid no attention to their exchange, bored to death with the political maneuvering that persisted even under such grave circumstances. But my ears perked up when I heard their conversation shift to Sara’s funeral arrangements and their own plans to attend.
Sara would have to be buried in private, on her own property, because her death couldn’t be reported to the police. There would be no autopsy and no investigation. Her human friends and neighbors would be told she’d gone abroad for some time to herself before settling into married life. Then, in about a week, her parents would announce that she’d died in an accident in Europe. They would erect a memorial and hold a public service for her in a local cemetery.
Similar arrangements were necessary anytime a Pride cat met a violent end, but because Sara was one of very few tabbies, her death was a devastating blow to everyone, especially her immediate family, who couldn’t publicly mourn her, or even acknowledge her death until the memorial service. Worst of all, their grieving process would be forever shadowed by the horrific circumstances of their daughter’s murder. It was a terrible way to deal with such a loss, but like so much else, it was completely beyond their control.
Still listening to the Alphas’ discussion as I stared out into the dark, I wondered if my father would let me out of the house long enough to attend Sara’s funeral. Probably not.
Soon, the conversation moved on to a topic I had yet to consider: the future of the southeast territory. Had Sara lived, she would one day have taken over her father’s Pride and its territory with Kyle at her side. But with her death, all that had changed. Instead, Kyle would live the rest of his life like most tomcats: single, with no wife and no children. And because the southeast territory now had no heir to bear the next generation, its future existence was tentative at best. Once Sara’s father died, if they’d found no tabby to replace Sara—as heartless as that seemed in the midst of grief—his territory would most likely be divided up among his closest neighbors, some of it, through necessity, becoming free territory.
Having filled my brain with more disturbing questions than I’d ever thought possible, the northern Alphas left for my father’s office to refill their glasses. While they were gone, the last Alpha arrived, and Daddy escorted the entire council into his office. They didn’t come out until after midnight, not to request a tray of sandwiches or drinks, not even for a bathroom break.
Not long after my father closed his office door, my mother knelt by my chair, her eyes still swollen and rimmed in red. She said she was about to clear away the buffet and asked me to fix a plate of food for Nikki Davidson while she got Donna settled into a spare bed. I had no idea what eight-year-olds ate, but arguing with my mother would have been an exercise in futility, so I headed for the kitchen, crossing my fingers that Nikki liked port-wine cheese balls and salmon croquettes.
On my way to the kitchen, Ethan cornered me in the empty dining room, backing me into an alcove created by my mother’s huge china cabinet and the wall perpendicular to it. He planted one palm on the wall and the other on the cabinet, blocking my escape.
I briefly considered knocking him on his ass, but rejected the idea because I knew that if I caused any more trouble while the council was convened, I could pretty much kiss daylight goodbye for a very long time.
Ethan glared at me in silence for almost a minute, as if trying to guilt me into making a confession. When it became clear that I would do no such thing, he heaved an irritated sigh and spoke. “Jace wanted me to tell you he’s okay. His back is bruised, and he has a bump on his head, but nothing serious.” His face made it clear that he hadn’t volunteered for the mission.
I twisted a strand of hair around one finger, avoiding his eyes. “Good.”
He rolled his shoulders, clearly uncomfortable in the button-down shirt he’d put on in concession to our important company. “Were you even worried about him?”