“You should lay off her,” he scolded. “She cried in my ear for twenty minutes because she felt guilty about the last conversation you two had.”
“Well, she should.” I gulped water from my bottle. “My personal life is none of her business.” But Mom crying over me took me by surprise. I’d known she would be upset, like everyone else, because without me there would be no next generation of the south-central Pride. But if she felt guilty for nagging me about Andrew, she must actually miss me. Not the future dam, but me, all my faults included.
And, in truth, she wasn’t the only one who had been thinking about our last conversation. I’d had plenty of time to mull over what she’d said about being on the council and about my father never making her do anything. All my life, I’d assumed my mother was trapped in her life, and just didn’t realize it because she didn’t know there were any other appropriate options for a woman. But she’d turned my theory on its ear. She’d had power and turned it down, content to make her mark behind the scenes. I’d always thought my mother was weak because she had no obvious strength. But she wasn’t weak, she was just humble. And I’d been stupid and unfair.Great, now I felt guilty for pigeonholing her as a 1950s model she-bitch. Guilt is a vicious cycle, an emotional slippery slope. I don’t recommend it.
“I tell you what, Ryan,” I said, my voice unusually soft with regret. “If I ever see her again, I’ll apologize.”
Confusion knit his brows together, as if it had really never occurred to him that I might not see our mother again, in spite of his own warnings that Miguel might kill me. Sometimes I suspected Ryan was merely visiting the real world, on vacation from his permanent residence in la-la land.
Before I could decide how to respond to his delusion, he changed tracks completely. “Aren’t you going to ask me about Marc?”
I tensed involuntarily, and my spork snapped in half. Smooth, Faythe. I dropped the now-useless plastic handle into the bag. “Why would I?”
Ryan grinned, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “Mom said you two had a reunion of sorts the night before you ran off.”
I stuck the functional end of my spork into the half-empty container of potatoes, setting them both aside so I could focus all of my energy on burning a hole through Ryan’s forehead with my stare. “First of all, I didn’t run away. I just went down to the barn to clear my head and try to gain a new perspective.” I smiled, pleased with myself for having put a hell of a good spin on a phenomenally stupid mistake. Damn, I should write speeches for the president.
Ryan sneered. “A new perspective on why you slept with Marc after ignoring him for five years?”
“No, smart-ass.” I picked the potatoes back up, stirring them aimlessly as I spoke. “I just needed some fresh air. And the thing with Marc was a mistake. I drank too much. That’s it.” I took a bite of mashed potatoes, satisfied that my point had been made, and that I’d told the truth. Or at least one version of it.
“Yeah, that’s what Jace said.”
I nearly choked on my self-congratulatory mouthful, and had to wash it down with another swig of water while pounding on my own chest. “Jace said I drank too much?” I asked when I could speak.
“He said that you sleeping with Marc was a mistake.” Ryan shot me an evil grin. “You know, I always liked that kid. It’s too bad about what happened to him.”
My hands went cold, and I dropped the potatoes to wipe sweat from my palms onto my shorts. “Please tell me Marc didn’t kill him.” My voice came out in a tiny, scared whisper.
“Nope,” Ryan said, still grinning. “Came damn near, though. Mom said it took all three of the other guys to drag your sweetie off Jace. Only a direct order from Dad kept the peace.”
Damn it, Marc!
It was all my fault. Not for sleeping with Marc, but for taking Jace’s car. Marc knew about the bet, and knew I had a claim on Jace’s keys. But he didn’t know that I hadn’t run. He probably thought I’d driven off on my own, right into the open arms of my waiting abductors. And that Jace had given me the means.
“How bad is it?” I asked, dreading the answer.
Ryan ticked the injuries off on his fingers, and with each one, my guilt increased, weighing me down almost literally. “Broken nose, two black eyes, cracked jaw, three broken ribs, and four broken toes, all on one foot. Concussion, and possible internal bleeding in his abdomen. It’s bad enough that he’d be in the hospital, if he were human.”
I groaned, picturing Jace lying in the guest bedroom, encased in a body cast and hooked up to an IV. He couldn’t go to the hospital for the same reason Sara’s death couldn’t be reported to the police: medical evidence.
Dr. Carver explained to me once that our blood is different from human blood. Apparently the difference is obvious enough to be noticed by any competent lab tech, which means that under no circumstances can we allow ourselves to be examined by a human doctor. To avoid meddling from schools and local governments, several Prides claim religious beliefs which forbid medical treatment. Fortunately for us, Dr. Carver makes himself available during emergencies for members of the south-central Pride.
Because of the risk of exposure, Jace’s recovery would proceed without a hospital staff catering to his every need. But thanks to Dr. Carver, his bones would heal straight and he would have medication for pain. Of course, like alcohol, tranquilizers, and even food, painkillers didn’t last long because of our high metabolism.
Still, it could have been worse. Marc could have killed him.
“I can’t believe this,” I whispered, shaking my head in denial.
“Really?” Ryan arched his eyebrows. “I wasn’t all that surprised. Marc’s always been a brute. What else can you expect from a stray?”
My temper flared, and I knew I should bite my tongue. But I didn’t. “Are you a stray, Ryan?” I demanded, forcing myself to stay seated. “Because Marc has a hell of a lot more courage than you’ve shown lately. A damn sight more honor too. He would get us out of here if he had to chew the bars open with his own teeth, so tell me again how little you can expect from strays!” I was shouting by the time I finished. I couldn’t help it. I’d had enough of his jealousy and sniveling cowardice.
Ryan didn’t answer. He just glared at me.
I chewed on a bland bite of chicken, waiting for my brother to stomp out of the basement, but he didn’t, for no reason I could have named. I’d certainly pissed him off, but apparently the murdering bastards upstairs were even worse company. Go figure.
He stared at the floor with his elbows on his knees. Abby glanced at him, then back at me, her face swollen from crying and her posture stiff. When Ryan looked calm again, I decided to try a new method of pumping him for information—the direct approach. He was clueless enough that it just might work.
“So, who did Eric and Miguel go after?” I asked, trying to sound casual. There were only two more tabbies within a reasonable driving distance of Mississippi: one in Missouri, the other in Kentucky. Even the smallest hint might help me eliminate one.
Ryan frowned. “Don’t start. You know I can’t tell you.” He picked at a crack in the concrete, and I visualized it widening, to swallow him whole.
“Why not?” I grabbed the white paper bag, digging through it for the second chicken breast. “It’s not like I can tell anyone else,” I said, but he only shook his head. “Fine, don’t tell me who she is. Just tell me who she’s for. Is she for you?” I carefully peeled the skin from my chicken, trying to look as if I didn’t really care about his answer. But I did.“Hell no, she’s not for me!” Ryan shouted.
“Who, then? Luiz?” I asked, going for breezy. But the carefree tone fit my question about as well as Marc’s shirt fit me. I watched Ryan from the corner of my eye as I dropped the grease-coated skin into the bag. Yes, in cat form I ate raw flesh and organ meat, but as a human, I couldn’t put something as disgusting as deep-fried, bump-covered chicken skin in my mouth, no matter how hungry I was. Every girl has her limits, and forcible sex and poultry skin both crossed mine.
“She’s for Miguel, if you don’t shape up,” Ryan snapped, staring at my food as he spoke. Like that was supposed to motivate me! “Other than that, I don’t know.”
His refusal to make eye contact confirmed my suspicion that there was something he wasn’t telling me. Something I needed to know.
I dropped the chicken breast back into the bag, almost untouched. “Come on, Ryan, if you don’t want to tell me, just say so. But don’t lie.”
He bristled. “I’m not lying. I don’t know. Miguel won’t tell me.”
“Why not?” My stomach clenched, unhappy not with the food I’d sent its way, but with the gut feeling raising the hairs on the back of my neck. I was about to get bad news. I’d known Ryan long enough to recognize his body language. He knew something terrible and he was about to say it.
“I think he won’t tell me because he’s planning to kill me.”
Careful not to use my injured left arm, I stood and stepped up to the bars. “I thought you were useful,” I said, glancing at Abby. She was watching my brother through red-rimmed eyes, as if her life depended on his answer. Maybe it did. Maybe mine did, too.