Pride
Page 33
He wasn’t there. I already knew that. But I couldn’t stop myself from racing alongside that grisly trail, careful not to actually touch it, and up one side of the steps to the porch. I turned the knob and pushed, but the door gave less than an inch before bumping against something heavy.
Dan Painter had barricaded himself inside, just as I’d instructed. In fact, through the small gap I’d created, I could see him, standing completely still but for his nose, which twitched even as a warning rumble leaked from his throat.
“Dan, it’s me. Faythe,” I said, as Parker’s steps clomped up the steps behind me. There wasn’t room for us both to stand comfortably on the tiny stoop, so he stopped on the third step, balanced precariously to avoid stepping in Marc’s blood. “Parker and I are coming in now. We need you to go ahead and Shift back, okay?”
For a moment, Dan only blinked at me and sniffed some more, and I had to remind myself that he couldn’t see as much of me through the crack as I could see of him, and that his cat brain—especially under such stressful circumstances—probably wasn’t thinking very clearly. But then his nose verified what I’d told him and he stood down, his growl fading into silence as he sank onto his haunches near an ancient kitchen table with spindly aluminum legs.
Taking that as permission to enter, I made room for Parker on the stoop and we pushed the door open, forcing back the heavy bureau and chest of drawers Dan had braced it with. Obviously, if we could get in, so could the bad guys, but the furniture was only intended to give Dan a chance to get out before they broke through, not to keep them out entirely.
Dan didn’t begin Shifting back until we’d forced our way in, and I couldn’t really blame him, so while he writhed on the floor in the grip of his transformation, we knelt to examine the bodies growing cold and stiff on Marc’s floor.
Both were strays, and both were dead. But that’s where the similarities ended.
The first was tall and thin, with a mop of unmanageably wavy pale brown hair. He’d probably enjoyed strength and power as a werecat that he’d never had in his human life. Not that it mattered now. Death was the great equalizer.
The skinny stray’d had the side of his head bashed in, likely by the bloodstained chair leg lying two feet from his body. Across the room lay the rest of the chair, splintered where its missing limb had been detached.
The other stray was shorter and thicker, bigger than his buddy in every respect but height. He’d likely proved more of a challenge to Marc than his gangly friend, but evidently that old saying was true: the bigger they were, the harder they fell.
This particular big bastard had fallen—probably in response to a blow from Marc—and hit his head on the coffee table now smashed to bits half under him. The gash in the back of his skull was wide enough for me to put my middle finger into. Not that I tried. There were splinters of bone in the wound, and probably even more lodged in his brain.
The entire house reeked of blood. The carpet was soaked with it, and it squished beneath my boot when I stepped in part of a puddle. And, though it horrified me no end, all I could think as I stared at the dead strays was, At least he took two of them with him.
No, I decided, before the first thought was even fully formed. Marc’s not dead. He sent these assholes on ahead….
Motion to my left drew my eye as Dan Painter stood, finally human and fully nude. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I rose from my crouch next to the second body. “No trouble since we spoke?”
He shook his head, pulling a pair of boxers from the seat of an ancient, wobbly kitchen chair. “It’s been quieter ‘n a graveyard.” I didn’t much like his analogy, but I had to admit it was apt. “So…what’s the plan?”
I wiped my hands on my jeans, though I hadn’t gotten any blood on them. They just felt dirty. “We find Marc.”
“What can I do?” He stepped into the shorts, then into a pair of jeans. “I want to help.”
I nodded, accepting his offer, touched by the simple honesty in his statement. “Obviously we can’t track him physically. So we’ll have to track him by other means.” Even if we’d had a scent to follow—which we didn’t, thanks to the bad guy’s car—we were back to that whole cats-don’t-hunt-or-track-with-their-noses thing, like dogs do. We have the biology but lack the instinct. Fortunately, our particular breed of cat was gifted with human logic. Most of us, anyway. “We have to ID the one who got away. When we find him, we’ll find Marc.”
Parker nodded silently, and his look of confidence in me meant more than I could have imagined. He’d been enforcing much longer than I had, and if he’d had a better place to start, he would have said so. His silence said I was getting it right. So far.
Dan clenched his cotton T-shirt in both fists and continued to watch me, waiting for his orders.
“Is the doorknob the best scent source for the guy who took Marc?” I asked him, glancing around at the ruined carpet and broken furniture. “I don’t suppose you’ve found any of his blood in this mess?”
Dan put his arms through the sleeves of his tee and paused with the material gathered in both hands, ready to go over his head. “It’s mixed with Marc’s in several places, but there’s one spot over by the window that’s just his.” He nodded his head toward the north-facing window, then pulled the shirt over his skull. “There ain’t much of it, but it might help.”
Dan Painter had barricaded himself inside, just as I’d instructed. In fact, through the small gap I’d created, I could see him, standing completely still but for his nose, which twitched even as a warning rumble leaked from his throat.
“Dan, it’s me. Faythe,” I said, as Parker’s steps clomped up the steps behind me. There wasn’t room for us both to stand comfortably on the tiny stoop, so he stopped on the third step, balanced precariously to avoid stepping in Marc’s blood. “Parker and I are coming in now. We need you to go ahead and Shift back, okay?”
For a moment, Dan only blinked at me and sniffed some more, and I had to remind myself that he couldn’t see as much of me through the crack as I could see of him, and that his cat brain—especially under such stressful circumstances—probably wasn’t thinking very clearly. But then his nose verified what I’d told him and he stood down, his growl fading into silence as he sank onto his haunches near an ancient kitchen table with spindly aluminum legs.
Taking that as permission to enter, I made room for Parker on the stoop and we pushed the door open, forcing back the heavy bureau and chest of drawers Dan had braced it with. Obviously, if we could get in, so could the bad guys, but the furniture was only intended to give Dan a chance to get out before they broke through, not to keep them out entirely.
Dan didn’t begin Shifting back until we’d forced our way in, and I couldn’t really blame him, so while he writhed on the floor in the grip of his transformation, we knelt to examine the bodies growing cold and stiff on Marc’s floor.
Both were strays, and both were dead. But that’s where the similarities ended.
The first was tall and thin, with a mop of unmanageably wavy pale brown hair. He’d probably enjoyed strength and power as a werecat that he’d never had in his human life. Not that it mattered now. Death was the great equalizer.
The skinny stray’d had the side of his head bashed in, likely by the bloodstained chair leg lying two feet from his body. Across the room lay the rest of the chair, splintered where its missing limb had been detached.
The other stray was shorter and thicker, bigger than his buddy in every respect but height. He’d likely proved more of a challenge to Marc than his gangly friend, but evidently that old saying was true: the bigger they were, the harder they fell.
This particular big bastard had fallen—probably in response to a blow from Marc—and hit his head on the coffee table now smashed to bits half under him. The gash in the back of his skull was wide enough for me to put my middle finger into. Not that I tried. There were splinters of bone in the wound, and probably even more lodged in his brain.
The entire house reeked of blood. The carpet was soaked with it, and it squished beneath my boot when I stepped in part of a puddle. And, though it horrified me no end, all I could think as I stared at the dead strays was, At least he took two of them with him.
No, I decided, before the first thought was even fully formed. Marc’s not dead. He sent these assholes on ahead….
Motion to my left drew my eye as Dan Painter stood, finally human and fully nude. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I rose from my crouch next to the second body. “No trouble since we spoke?”
He shook his head, pulling a pair of boxers from the seat of an ancient, wobbly kitchen chair. “It’s been quieter ‘n a graveyard.” I didn’t much like his analogy, but I had to admit it was apt. “So…what’s the plan?”
I wiped my hands on my jeans, though I hadn’t gotten any blood on them. They just felt dirty. “We find Marc.”
“What can I do?” He stepped into the shorts, then into a pair of jeans. “I want to help.”
I nodded, accepting his offer, touched by the simple honesty in his statement. “Obviously we can’t track him physically. So we’ll have to track him by other means.” Even if we’d had a scent to follow—which we didn’t, thanks to the bad guy’s car—we were back to that whole cats-don’t-hunt-or-track-with-their-noses thing, like dogs do. We have the biology but lack the instinct. Fortunately, our particular breed of cat was gifted with human logic. Most of us, anyway. “We have to ID the one who got away. When we find him, we’ll find Marc.”
Parker nodded silently, and his look of confidence in me meant more than I could have imagined. He’d been enforcing much longer than I had, and if he’d had a better place to start, he would have said so. His silence said I was getting it right. So far.
Dan clenched his cotton T-shirt in both fists and continued to watch me, waiting for his orders.
“Is the doorknob the best scent source for the guy who took Marc?” I asked him, glancing around at the ruined carpet and broken furniture. “I don’t suppose you’ve found any of his blood in this mess?”
Dan put his arms through the sleeves of his tee and paused with the material gathered in both hands, ready to go over his head. “It’s mixed with Marc’s in several places, but there’s one spot over by the window that’s just his.” He nodded his head toward the north-facing window, then pulled the shirt over his skull. “There ain’t much of it, but it might help.”
