Pride
Page 35
“It’s for the scent sample.” I dug at the edge of the carpet, now exposed by the missing section of baseboard, and pulled it up from the floor. At first, I only got slack, but another tug pulled a large section of carpet out from under the remaining boards, so that I could roll it back like a tortilla.
I plunged the serrated blade into the raised bit of carpet and began to saw, perversely satisfied when the thick, matted weave resisted me, because that meant I could saw harder, pretending my blade sank into my enemy’s flesh with each vicious stroke.
Several minutes later I’d removed an uneven square of carpet, containing most of the hand-shaped bloodstain. Parker held the plastic bag open for me, and I dropped the sample in, then pressed the seal to close it.
“Is that for your lab?” Dan asked, vague excitement edging the fear in his eye as he stared at the morbid package balanced on my palm.
“Lab?” I stood and set the carpet sample on top of the bureau once again blocking the front door.
Dan picked up the knife and crossed the living room into the tiny, galley-style kitchen to drop it in the sink. “Marc said you guys have your own lab up in Washington State, where this doctor’s trying to figure out why you don’t have more girls.”
“Ohhh.” I knelt to pull a photo of myself from a ruined frame and dropped the mangled wood and glass into the trash bag Painter held out. The picture was from my senior year in high school. It was definitely time to have some new ones taken. “You mean Dr. Eames.”
John Eames was a geneticist belonging to one of the northwestern Prides. For the past few years, he’d used his resources and his spare time to try to bridge the gap between the number of male and female babies born into the American Prides. But in the process, he’d discovered everything we now knew about werecat genetics and the ability of a werecat to procreate with humans. So I could see why Dan might be confused.
“Unfortunately, the lab isn’t actually ours. Dr. Eames just uses it for his own purposes—our purposes—after hours. And I don’t think his skills would do us much good without another, identified sample to compare this one to.” I tossed my head toward the square of carpet. “Fortunately, we have all the equipment we need right here.” I tapped my nose and smiled grimly at Dan.
He raised one eyebrow. “We’re going to…sniff it?”
I frowned, until I realized he was joking. “You’re going to make a list of every stray you know and we’re going to take the sample around and let them sniff it, until someone can give us a name to go with the scent.”
“What if no one recognizes it?”
“That won’t happen.” Parker stood on the couch and braced one hand against the wall while he pulled the baseboard I’d thrown from the Sheetrock it had lodged in. Then he turned, gesturing with the oak strip as he spoke. “You guys may not be as community oriented out here in the free zone as we are in Pride territory, but you wouldn’t have survived so long on your own without keeping an eye on your rivals. There will be someone out here who can tell us exactly who this blood belongs to.” At his last word, he dropped the wooden board into a heavy-duty trash bag and tied it off.
Dan bent to haul the busted coffee table from beneath the heavier of the dead strays. “What if they won’t talk to us?”
I met his eyes boldly, to leave no doubt about my meaning. “They won’t have that option.”
Dan nodded without a word and sat down at the table to start his list, and while he was writing, Parker and I got started on the living room.
I’d never seen a bigger or bloodier mess than the disaster in Marc’s living room, and with any luck, I never would. I memorized the names and addresses of the dead strays before wrapping their wallets—including all their money, credit cards and ID—up in plastic with the corpses. We stacked them in the kitchen, where they took up easily half of the available floor space.
By then Dan was done writing. He waved me over to the table and slid a sheet of notebook paper toward me, and I frowned down at it. “This is it?” There were five full names on the paper and four more last names.
We’d been attacked by more than twenty strays in the ambush, and there were even more we’d heard but hadn’t seen. How could he know so few of them?
He must have seen the suspicion on my face, because he rushed to explain. “These are the only ones I’ve got names for. I know a bunch more by scent, though.”
“So do we,” I snapped, thinking of all the scents I’d smelled during the ambush. Parker frowned at me, and I nodded, huffing in frustration. I knew Dan was doing his best. But his best wasn’t good enough for Marc. Still…I shrugged. “It’s a place to start.” I sank into a chair and pulled my phone from my pocket to report the names to my father.
When I hung up, we went back to cleaning. All the living room furniture was broken, except for the couch, and since the sun had truly set by then, we tossed piece after piece into the backyard to be disposed of later.
The living room carpet was ruined. It took all three of us to pull it free from the carpet tacks running along the walls and roll it up, then haul it through the kitchen and out the back door. Fortunately, beneath the blood-soaked padding was the original floor: tough, lacquered hardwood, which looked better than ever after we’d ruined two sponge mop heads cleaning it.
When the house was in fairly good order—if mostly bare—we hauled the plastic-wrapped bodies into the woods behind Marc’s house and buried them in a single grave, a task I hated only marginally less than wrestling with rank, blood-soaked carpet.
I plunged the serrated blade into the raised bit of carpet and began to saw, perversely satisfied when the thick, matted weave resisted me, because that meant I could saw harder, pretending my blade sank into my enemy’s flesh with each vicious stroke.
Several minutes later I’d removed an uneven square of carpet, containing most of the hand-shaped bloodstain. Parker held the plastic bag open for me, and I dropped the sample in, then pressed the seal to close it.
“Is that for your lab?” Dan asked, vague excitement edging the fear in his eye as he stared at the morbid package balanced on my palm.
“Lab?” I stood and set the carpet sample on top of the bureau once again blocking the front door.
Dan picked up the knife and crossed the living room into the tiny, galley-style kitchen to drop it in the sink. “Marc said you guys have your own lab up in Washington State, where this doctor’s trying to figure out why you don’t have more girls.”
“Ohhh.” I knelt to pull a photo of myself from a ruined frame and dropped the mangled wood and glass into the trash bag Painter held out. The picture was from my senior year in high school. It was definitely time to have some new ones taken. “You mean Dr. Eames.”
John Eames was a geneticist belonging to one of the northwestern Prides. For the past few years, he’d used his resources and his spare time to try to bridge the gap between the number of male and female babies born into the American Prides. But in the process, he’d discovered everything we now knew about werecat genetics and the ability of a werecat to procreate with humans. So I could see why Dan might be confused.
“Unfortunately, the lab isn’t actually ours. Dr. Eames just uses it for his own purposes—our purposes—after hours. And I don’t think his skills would do us much good without another, identified sample to compare this one to.” I tossed my head toward the square of carpet. “Fortunately, we have all the equipment we need right here.” I tapped my nose and smiled grimly at Dan.
He raised one eyebrow. “We’re going to…sniff it?”
I frowned, until I realized he was joking. “You’re going to make a list of every stray you know and we’re going to take the sample around and let them sniff it, until someone can give us a name to go with the scent.”
“What if no one recognizes it?”
“That won’t happen.” Parker stood on the couch and braced one hand against the wall while he pulled the baseboard I’d thrown from the Sheetrock it had lodged in. Then he turned, gesturing with the oak strip as he spoke. “You guys may not be as community oriented out here in the free zone as we are in Pride territory, but you wouldn’t have survived so long on your own without keeping an eye on your rivals. There will be someone out here who can tell us exactly who this blood belongs to.” At his last word, he dropped the wooden board into a heavy-duty trash bag and tied it off.
Dan bent to haul the busted coffee table from beneath the heavier of the dead strays. “What if they won’t talk to us?”
I met his eyes boldly, to leave no doubt about my meaning. “They won’t have that option.”
Dan nodded without a word and sat down at the table to start his list, and while he was writing, Parker and I got started on the living room.
I’d never seen a bigger or bloodier mess than the disaster in Marc’s living room, and with any luck, I never would. I memorized the names and addresses of the dead strays before wrapping their wallets—including all their money, credit cards and ID—up in plastic with the corpses. We stacked them in the kitchen, where they took up easily half of the available floor space.
By then Dan was done writing. He waved me over to the table and slid a sheet of notebook paper toward me, and I frowned down at it. “This is it?” There were five full names on the paper and four more last names.
We’d been attacked by more than twenty strays in the ambush, and there were even more we’d heard but hadn’t seen. How could he know so few of them?
He must have seen the suspicion on my face, because he rushed to explain. “These are the only ones I’ve got names for. I know a bunch more by scent, though.”
“So do we,” I snapped, thinking of all the scents I’d smelled during the ambush. Parker frowned at me, and I nodded, huffing in frustration. I knew Dan was doing his best. But his best wasn’t good enough for Marc. Still…I shrugged. “It’s a place to start.” I sank into a chair and pulled my phone from my pocket to report the names to my father.
When I hung up, we went back to cleaning. All the living room furniture was broken, except for the couch, and since the sun had truly set by then, we tossed piece after piece into the backyard to be disposed of later.
The living room carpet was ruined. It took all three of us to pull it free from the carpet tacks running along the walls and roll it up, then haul it through the kitchen and out the back door. Fortunately, beneath the blood-soaked padding was the original floor: tough, lacquered hardwood, which looked better than ever after we’d ruined two sponge mop heads cleaning it.
When the house was in fairly good order—if mostly bare—we hauled the plastic-wrapped bodies into the woods behind Marc’s house and buried them in a single grave, a task I hated only marginally less than wrestling with rank, blood-soaked carpet.
