Stray
Page 34
The only rules jungle cats submitted to were the laws of nature, namely that you claim only that which you can defend. They fought to the death on a regular basis for the two things that mattered most to them: the right to control a territory and the right to sire another generation of savage monsters. It was a violent and chaotic existence, defined by a lack of stability and a short life expectancy.
Jungle cats were my secret fear, my version of the bogeyman in the closet. But unlike the bogeyman, they were very, very real.
“South American?” I breathed, running my fingers nervously along the fringe at the edge of the area rug. “Real y?”
“He’s probably wrong.” Marc stared transfixed at the jade king where it sat on the far row of the chessboard. “It’s probably the same thing as always, some new stray accidental y crossed a boundary line and wound up on our land. But this time he lost control. It happens sometimes. You know that.”
I nodded. I did know that. But I also recognized Marc’s quickly reversed theory for the bullshit it was. Dr. Carver knew the difference in scent—likely genetic in origin—between an American-born cat and a jungle cat. And new strays were known for losing control of their feline impulses, not their human behavior. They stalk and hunt as cats, kil ing only because they’re hungry and have temporarily lost the control needed to Shift back and go grocery shopping. They don’t attack on two legs, then Shift into cat form to rip their victims apart.
The girl in Oklahoma was kil ed by a human monster, who just happened to have canines and claws at his disposal. It was the work of a jungle cat, not an American stray. And Marc knew it as wel as I did.
“I’m sure it’s nothing, Faythe.”
“Then why tel me?” I knew him way too wel to fal for that.
He didn’t answer; he just stared at me with those deep brown eyes, shot through with specks of gold that were only visible up close. And in the moonlight.
“You think it’s related to Sara, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s possible, but no more possible than your theory that she ran away. I’m probably just being paranoid.”
“That’s what Daddy pays you for.” He frowned, staring at his own hands.
“Wel , lately I don’t feel like he’s getting his money’s worth.”
“You’re a great enforcer, Marc.” I glanced away, because I couldn’t stand to look at him as I said the next part, even though it was true. Precisely because it was true. “You’re great at everything.”
“Not quite everything,” he said.
I breathed deeply, in and out, wishing once again that I’d slept through the entire conversation. When I looked up, Marc was gone.
Nine
I woke up in my own room for the first time in more than two years, groaning as highlights from the day before played in my mind like a silent film in fast-forward.
Burying my head beneath my pil ows, I wil ed the morning away, but it refused to go. Instead, it greeted my il -humored grunt with bright, irritatingly cheerful sunlight and the incessant tril ing of a bird from the branches of the stunted blackjack oak outside my window.
“I haven’t had breakfast yet, you know,” I grumbled in the general direction of the racket. You’d think birds would know better than to irritate a sleep-deprived cat.
Resigned to rising at last, I sat up in bed. My eyes roamed the wal s, settling on the mirror over my dresser, where several photographs were wedged between the glass and the oak frame, climbing the edge of the reflective surface like a vine of memories. I glanced over them, experiencing my life as a series of moments frozen in time, neat and orderly in their full-color, glossy splendor.
At the bottom of the mirror was a snapshot taken at the ranch the summer I was seventeen, less than two months before I left for college. It showed a group of eight girls, ranging in age from twelve to twenty, beaming bright white smiles from the front gate. That photo represented the future of the American Prides, because it showed every unmarried female cat of childbearing age in the entire country.
Ours was one of ten territories in the continental United States, each protected and governed by a single Pride Alpha. Each Alpha was the head of that territory’s core family group, consisting of the Alpha’s mate and their children—typically several boys and the long-awaited daughter—and a group of loyal enforcers. In addition, each Pride had between twenty and forty other loyal tomcats, mostly the Alphas’
uncles, brothers, sons, and nephews, who led their own lives spread out across the territory. Unfortunately, in contrast to the surplus of tomcats, no Alpha in recent history had sired more than a single tabby to give birth to the next generation. And for that reason, we were very, very valuable.
Our ranks had shrunk and swel ed since the photo was taken, as older girls got married and younger ones entered puberty. There were eight of us again, spread out over al ten territories, but now I was the oldest—by several years. In the picture, I stood in the middle of the front row, my left arm around my cousin Abby and my right around…
Sara.
My stomach growled, as usual, announcing its demands first thing in the morning, and I wondered if Sara was having breakfast, wherever she was.
With a stretch and a sigh, I threw back the covers and swung my legs over the edge of the bed into a patch of sunlight pouring through the window. Wait, that’s wrong. Sunlight shouldn’t hit that part of the room until midmorning.
I glanced at the alarm clock. Ten twenty-four. That couldn’t be right. The last time my mother let me sleep through breakfast was the day my grandmother died.
Jungle cats were my secret fear, my version of the bogeyman in the closet. But unlike the bogeyman, they were very, very real.
“South American?” I breathed, running my fingers nervously along the fringe at the edge of the area rug. “Real y?”
“He’s probably wrong.” Marc stared transfixed at the jade king where it sat on the far row of the chessboard. “It’s probably the same thing as always, some new stray accidental y crossed a boundary line and wound up on our land. But this time he lost control. It happens sometimes. You know that.”
I nodded. I did know that. But I also recognized Marc’s quickly reversed theory for the bullshit it was. Dr. Carver knew the difference in scent—likely genetic in origin—between an American-born cat and a jungle cat. And new strays were known for losing control of their feline impulses, not their human behavior. They stalk and hunt as cats, kil ing only because they’re hungry and have temporarily lost the control needed to Shift back and go grocery shopping. They don’t attack on two legs, then Shift into cat form to rip their victims apart.
The girl in Oklahoma was kil ed by a human monster, who just happened to have canines and claws at his disposal. It was the work of a jungle cat, not an American stray. And Marc knew it as wel as I did.
“I’m sure it’s nothing, Faythe.”
“Then why tel me?” I knew him way too wel to fal for that.
He didn’t answer; he just stared at me with those deep brown eyes, shot through with specks of gold that were only visible up close. And in the moonlight.
“You think it’s related to Sara, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s possible, but no more possible than your theory that she ran away. I’m probably just being paranoid.”
“That’s what Daddy pays you for.” He frowned, staring at his own hands.
“Wel , lately I don’t feel like he’s getting his money’s worth.”
“You’re a great enforcer, Marc.” I glanced away, because I couldn’t stand to look at him as I said the next part, even though it was true. Precisely because it was true. “You’re great at everything.”
“Not quite everything,” he said.
I breathed deeply, in and out, wishing once again that I’d slept through the entire conversation. When I looked up, Marc was gone.
Nine
I woke up in my own room for the first time in more than two years, groaning as highlights from the day before played in my mind like a silent film in fast-forward.
Burying my head beneath my pil ows, I wil ed the morning away, but it refused to go. Instead, it greeted my il -humored grunt with bright, irritatingly cheerful sunlight and the incessant tril ing of a bird from the branches of the stunted blackjack oak outside my window.
“I haven’t had breakfast yet, you know,” I grumbled in the general direction of the racket. You’d think birds would know better than to irritate a sleep-deprived cat.
Resigned to rising at last, I sat up in bed. My eyes roamed the wal s, settling on the mirror over my dresser, where several photographs were wedged between the glass and the oak frame, climbing the edge of the reflective surface like a vine of memories. I glanced over them, experiencing my life as a series of moments frozen in time, neat and orderly in their full-color, glossy splendor.
At the bottom of the mirror was a snapshot taken at the ranch the summer I was seventeen, less than two months before I left for college. It showed a group of eight girls, ranging in age from twelve to twenty, beaming bright white smiles from the front gate. That photo represented the future of the American Prides, because it showed every unmarried female cat of childbearing age in the entire country.
Ours was one of ten territories in the continental United States, each protected and governed by a single Pride Alpha. Each Alpha was the head of that territory’s core family group, consisting of the Alpha’s mate and their children—typically several boys and the long-awaited daughter—and a group of loyal enforcers. In addition, each Pride had between twenty and forty other loyal tomcats, mostly the Alphas’
uncles, brothers, sons, and nephews, who led their own lives spread out across the territory. Unfortunately, in contrast to the surplus of tomcats, no Alpha in recent history had sired more than a single tabby to give birth to the next generation. And for that reason, we were very, very valuable.
Our ranks had shrunk and swel ed since the photo was taken, as older girls got married and younger ones entered puberty. There were eight of us again, spread out over al ten territories, but now I was the oldest—by several years. In the picture, I stood in the middle of the front row, my left arm around my cousin Abby and my right around…
Sara.
My stomach growled, as usual, announcing its demands first thing in the morning, and I wondered if Sara was having breakfast, wherever she was.
With a stretch and a sigh, I threw back the covers and swung my legs over the edge of the bed into a patch of sunlight pouring through the window. Wait, that’s wrong. Sunlight shouldn’t hit that part of the room until midmorning.
I glanced at the alarm clock. Ten twenty-four. That couldn’t be right. The last time my mother let me sleep through breakfast was the day my grandmother died.
