Stray
Page 2
I tossed my bag over one shoulder and ambled toward the al ey, doing my best to appear relaxed. As I walked, I searched the quad discreetly, looking for my hidden backup. Whoever he was, he’d final y learned how to hide. Perfect timing.
The sun slipped below the horizon as I approached the alley. In front of Curry Hal , an automatic streetlight flickered to life, buzzing softly. I stopped in the circle of soft yel ow light cast on the sidewalk, gathering my nerve.
The stray was probably just curious, and would likely run as soon as he knew I’d seen him. But if he didn’t, I’d have to scare him off through other, more hands-on means. Unlike most of my fel ow tabby cats, I knew how to fight; my father had made sure of that. Unfortunately, I’d never made the jump from theory to practice, except against my brothers. Sure, I could hold my own with them, but I hadn’t sparred in years, and this didn’t feel like a very good time to test skil s stil unproven in the real world.
It’s not too late to call in the cavalry, I thought, patting the slim cel phone in my pocket. Except that it was. Every time I spoke to my father, he came up with a new excuse to call me home. This time he wouldn’t even need to make one up. I’d have to handle the problem myself.
My resolve as stiff as my spine, I stepped out of the light and into the darkness.
Heart pounding, I entered the al ey, tightening my grip on my bag as if it were the handle of a sword. Or maybe the corner of a security blanket. I sniffed the air.
He was stil there; I could smel him. But now that I was closer to the source, I detected something strange in his scent—something even more out of place than the odor of a stray deep inside my Pride’s territory. Whoever this trespasser was, he wasn’t local. There was a distinctive foreign nuance to his scent. Exotic. Spicy, compared to the blandly familiar base scent of my fel ow American cats.
My pulse throbbed in my throat. Foreign. Shit. I was in over my head.
I was digging in my pocket for my phone when something clattered to the ground farther down the al ey. I froze, straining to see in the dark, but with my human eyes, it was a lost cause. Without Shifting, I couldn’t make out anything but vague outlines and deep shadows. Unfortunately, Shifting wasn’t an option at that moment. It would take too long, and I’d be defenseless during the transition.
Human form it is.
I glanced quickly behind me, looking for signs of life from the quad. It was empty now, as far as I could tel . There were no potential witnesses; everyone with half a brain was either studying or partying. So why was I playing hide-and-seek after dark with an unidentified stray?
My muscles tense and my ears on alert, I started down the al ey. Four steps later, I stepped through a broken tennis racket and stumbled into a rusty Dumpster.
My bag thumped to the ground as my head hit the side of the trash receptacle, ringing it like an oversize gong.
Smooth, Faythe, I thought, the metal ic thrum stil echoing in my ears.
I bent over to pick up my bag, and a darting motion up ahead caught my eye.
The stray—in human form, thankfully—ran from the mouth of the al ey into the parking lot behind Curry Hall, his feet unnaturally silent on the asphalt. Pale moonlight shined on a head full of dark, glossy curls as he ran.
Instinct overrode my fear and caution. Adrenaline flooded my veins. I tossed my bag over my shoulder and sprinted down the center of the al ey. The stray had fled, as I’d hoped he would, and the feline part of my brain demanded I follow.
When mice run, cats give chase.
At the end of the al ey, I paused, staring at the parking lot. It was empty, but for an old, busted up Lincoln with a rusty headlight. The stray was gone. How the hell had he gotten away so fast?
A prickly feeling started at the base of my neck, raising tiny hairs the length of my spine. Every security light in the lot was unlit. They were supposed to be automatic, like the ones in the quad. Without the familiar buzz and the reassuring flood of incandescent light, the parking lot was an unbroken sea of dark asphalt, eerily quiet and disturbingly calm.
My heart pounding, I stepped out of the al ey, half expecting to be struck by lightning or hit by a runaway train. Nothing happened, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I took another step, my eyes wide to let in al of the available light. Still nothing happened.
I was feeling foolish now, chasing a stranger down a dark al ey at night, like some bimbo from a bad horror film. In the movies, this was where things always went wrong. A hairy hand would reach out of the shadows and grab the curious-but-brainless heroine around the throat, laughing sadistical y while she wasted her last breath on a scream.
The difference between the movies and reality was that in real life, I was the hairy monster, and the only screaming I ever did was in rage. I was about as likely to cry for help as I was to spontaneously combust. If this particular bad guy hadn’t figured that out yet, he was in for a very big surprise.
Emboldened by my own mental pep talk, I took another step.
The distinctive foreign scent washed over me, and my pulse jumped, but I never saw the kick coming.
Suddenly I was staring at the ground, doubled over from the pain in my stomach and fighting for the strength to suck in my next breath.
My bag fel to the ground at my feet. A pair of black, army-style boots stepped into sight, and the smel of stray intensified. I looked up just in time to register dark eyes and a creepy smile before his right fist shot out toward me. My arms flew up to block the blow, but his other arm was already flying. His left fist slammed into the right side of my chest.
The sun slipped below the horizon as I approached the alley. In front of Curry Hal , an automatic streetlight flickered to life, buzzing softly. I stopped in the circle of soft yel ow light cast on the sidewalk, gathering my nerve.
The stray was probably just curious, and would likely run as soon as he knew I’d seen him. But if he didn’t, I’d have to scare him off through other, more hands-on means. Unlike most of my fel ow tabby cats, I knew how to fight; my father had made sure of that. Unfortunately, I’d never made the jump from theory to practice, except against my brothers. Sure, I could hold my own with them, but I hadn’t sparred in years, and this didn’t feel like a very good time to test skil s stil unproven in the real world.
It’s not too late to call in the cavalry, I thought, patting the slim cel phone in my pocket. Except that it was. Every time I spoke to my father, he came up with a new excuse to call me home. This time he wouldn’t even need to make one up. I’d have to handle the problem myself.
My resolve as stiff as my spine, I stepped out of the light and into the darkness.
Heart pounding, I entered the al ey, tightening my grip on my bag as if it were the handle of a sword. Or maybe the corner of a security blanket. I sniffed the air.
He was stil there; I could smel him. But now that I was closer to the source, I detected something strange in his scent—something even more out of place than the odor of a stray deep inside my Pride’s territory. Whoever this trespasser was, he wasn’t local. There was a distinctive foreign nuance to his scent. Exotic. Spicy, compared to the blandly familiar base scent of my fel ow American cats.
My pulse throbbed in my throat. Foreign. Shit. I was in over my head.
I was digging in my pocket for my phone when something clattered to the ground farther down the al ey. I froze, straining to see in the dark, but with my human eyes, it was a lost cause. Without Shifting, I couldn’t make out anything but vague outlines and deep shadows. Unfortunately, Shifting wasn’t an option at that moment. It would take too long, and I’d be defenseless during the transition.
Human form it is.
I glanced quickly behind me, looking for signs of life from the quad. It was empty now, as far as I could tel . There were no potential witnesses; everyone with half a brain was either studying or partying. So why was I playing hide-and-seek after dark with an unidentified stray?
My muscles tense and my ears on alert, I started down the al ey. Four steps later, I stepped through a broken tennis racket and stumbled into a rusty Dumpster.
My bag thumped to the ground as my head hit the side of the trash receptacle, ringing it like an oversize gong.
Smooth, Faythe, I thought, the metal ic thrum stil echoing in my ears.
I bent over to pick up my bag, and a darting motion up ahead caught my eye.
The stray—in human form, thankfully—ran from the mouth of the al ey into the parking lot behind Curry Hall, his feet unnaturally silent on the asphalt. Pale moonlight shined on a head full of dark, glossy curls as he ran.
Instinct overrode my fear and caution. Adrenaline flooded my veins. I tossed my bag over my shoulder and sprinted down the center of the al ey. The stray had fled, as I’d hoped he would, and the feline part of my brain demanded I follow.
When mice run, cats give chase.
At the end of the al ey, I paused, staring at the parking lot. It was empty, but for an old, busted up Lincoln with a rusty headlight. The stray was gone. How the hell had he gotten away so fast?
A prickly feeling started at the base of my neck, raising tiny hairs the length of my spine. Every security light in the lot was unlit. They were supposed to be automatic, like the ones in the quad. Without the familiar buzz and the reassuring flood of incandescent light, the parking lot was an unbroken sea of dark asphalt, eerily quiet and disturbingly calm.
My heart pounding, I stepped out of the al ey, half expecting to be struck by lightning or hit by a runaway train. Nothing happened, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I took another step, my eyes wide to let in al of the available light. Still nothing happened.
I was feeling foolish now, chasing a stranger down a dark al ey at night, like some bimbo from a bad horror film. In the movies, this was where things always went wrong. A hairy hand would reach out of the shadows and grab the curious-but-brainless heroine around the throat, laughing sadistical y while she wasted her last breath on a scream.
The difference between the movies and reality was that in real life, I was the hairy monster, and the only screaming I ever did was in rage. I was about as likely to cry for help as I was to spontaneously combust. If this particular bad guy hadn’t figured that out yet, he was in for a very big surprise.
Emboldened by my own mental pep talk, I took another step.
The distinctive foreign scent washed over me, and my pulse jumped, but I never saw the kick coming.
Suddenly I was staring at the ground, doubled over from the pain in my stomach and fighting for the strength to suck in my next breath.
My bag fel to the ground at my feet. A pair of black, army-style boots stepped into sight, and the smel of stray intensified. I looked up just in time to register dark eyes and a creepy smile before his right fist shot out toward me. My arms flew up to block the blow, but his other arm was already flying. His left fist slammed into the right side of my chest.
