Jace and Brian accepted their weapons in front of us and headed outside without a backward glance.
Here. As I stepped up to the counter, Kaci reached to the side of the dwindling selection and picked up a large hammer with a black rubber grip. I saved this one for you. Figured youd need an advantage, working left-handed. She nodded toward my casted right arm.
My mother watched out of the corner of her eye, sliding a large wrench across the counter toward Marc while I arched one brow at Kaci. The tabby hated violence, which, on the surface, should have made her the ideal young tabby. But Kaci was raised as a human, by human parents whod had no idea theyd each contributed the recessive gene necessary to transform their youngest daughter into a werecat at the onset of puberty.
Considering what shed been throughaccidentally killing her mother and sister during her first Shift, then wandering through the woods for weeks on her own, stuck in cat formKacis die-hard pacifist stance was no surprise. But it wasnt enough to make her into what the opposing half of the council wanted. Because she was raised as a human, Kaci had human expectations from life, none of which included marrying the tom of her Alphas choosing and siring the next generation of werecatsas many sons as it took to get a precious daughter.
And Kaci had a mouth, and she was not afraid to use it. Which made certain elements of the council even more determined to get her out from under my questionable influence.
Thanks. I forced a smile, and met my mothers gaze over Kacis head.
Be careful, she said, and I nodded. Then Marc and I went out the front door after the others.
Several pairs of enforcers had gone into the woods, but Jace and Brian were headed for the west field, so Marc and I started out in the opposite direction, walking several feet apart, and breathing through our noses in spite of the February cold burning my nostrils. We didnt want to miss a scent.
It was eerily quiet in the field, other than the whisper-crunch of our boots crushing dead grass. Though the temperature had risen dramatically from the ice storm a couple of weeks earlier, it was still hovering in the mid-thirties, and my fingers had gone stiff with the cold. I tried to shove them in my jacket pockets, but my cast stopped my right hand at the first knuckles. My nose was running, and I sniffled as we turned at the edge of the field, eyeing the periwinkle-colored sky in distrust.
Danger had never literally come out of the blue before. Out of tree branches, yes. Overhead beams, second stories, and even porch roofs. But never from the sky, and suddenly I felt unbearably vulnerable standing in a wide-open field, where before, such surroundings had always made me feel free and eager to run.
And my paranoia was not helped by the fact that, though no one had said it out loud, we were obviously looking for a body on our own land.
On our third pass through the field, I dug a tissue from my left pocket and held it awkwardly to blow my noseyet another simple activity rendered nearly impossible thanks to my cast. Then I froze with the folded tissue halfway to my pocket. My first unobstructed breath had brought with it a familiar scent, and an all-too-familiar jolt of fear.
Blood. Werecat blood.
Marc, I said, veering from the path in search of the source of the scent. He followed me, sniffing dramatically, and his pace picked up as he found the scent. Cats cant hunt using only their noses. Unlike dogs, we just arent equipped for that. But we could find the source of a strong scent if it stayed still.
And this scent was horribly, miserably, unmoving.
The scent grew stronger the farther north we went, and after race-walking for less than a minute, glancing around frantically for any sign of the missing tom, I froze in my boots when my gaze snagged on a smear of red on a stalk of grass, half hiding a pale hand lying limp on the ground, fingers half curled into a fist.
I made myself take that next step forward, in spite of the dread and fury pulsing inside me. And when the body came into full view, I gasped, horrified beyond words.
If the whole mess hadnt been nearly frozen, we would have smelled it sooner.
Jake Taylor lay on his back, so covered in blood that at first I couldnt make sense of the chaotic, violent images my eyes were sending my brain. There were too many gashes. Too much blood. Too little sense.
Oh, hell, Marc said, and I flinched, though hed spoken in little more than a whisper. He flipped open his phone and autodialed my father with the hand not holding the wrench while he squatted next to the body, careful not to step in the blood.
But I still stared.
Id seen a good bit of carnage in my seven months as an enforcer, but nothing like this. Nothing so utterly destructive. So senselessly violent. Not even the scratch-fevered stray Id seen perched in a tree, consuming a human victim. Even that had made a certain mad, gruesome sense compared to Jakes death. The stray had been hungry, and had only damaged his victim in the process of eating him.
But Jake was damaged beyond all reason. His face was a mass of shredded flesh, eyes ruined, his nostrils and lips almost torn from his face. His arms had fared no better; the sleeves of his jacket were ripped along with his skin, from wrist to elbow, probably in defense of his face.
But the worst was his stomach. Jake had been completely and thoroughly eviscerated from so many lacerationsany one of which would have been fatalthat it was impossible to identify individual wounds.
East field, near the tree line. Marc glanced up to see if anyone else was nearby, the phone still pressed to his ear. But itsgruesome. Dont let the Taylors over here. They shouldnt have to see this.
Thanks. Well be right there, my father said from the other end of the line.
Marc pocketed his phone, and I knelt before he could ask if I was okay. I was fine. An Alpha-in-training was always fine, right? There was no other choice.
Damn, these bastards are brutal, Marc said, and I nodded, plucking a brown-and-black chevroned feather from the grass where its tip had landed in blood, like the devils quill. It was easily twice the length of my hand.
But this wasnt either of the birds who took Kaci. Couldnt have been. Wed have seen blood on them. Smelled it. We were only a few yards away when they landed.
The driver, then? Marc asked.
Thats my guess. I didnt get very close to him, and he was dressed. So its certainly possible. I hesitated, unsure I really wanted the answer. Then I pressed on, because I needed to know. Have you ever seen damage like this?
Never. And that was saying a lot, coming from my fathers most experienced enforcer. Cats dont do this. Not even the crazy ones.
Footsteps crunched toward us from behind, and we turned to see my father headed across the field, Bert Di Carlo on his heels, both frowning in grim certainty.
My dad came to a stop at my side and his jaw tightened when his gaze found Jake Taylor. Di Carlos face went completely blank. Without a word, my father pulled his phone from the pocket of his one casual jacket and pressed and held a single button.
Hello? Jace said.
Take Brian back to the office and pour him a drink.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, Im on it.
My dad hung up, then scrolled through his contacts list as Di Carlo reached out for the feather I still held from the puffy, bloodless end. I gave it to him gladly, and he whistled, morbidly impressed with the size.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, Im on it.
My dad hung up, then scrolled through his contacts list as Di Carlo reached out for the feather I still held from the puffy, bloodless end. I gave it to him gladly, and he whistled, morbidly impressed with the size.
Rick? My father said into his phone when a muffled, scratchy voice answered.
Yeah? My uncle came in loud and clear that time.
We found Jake, and were taking him to the barn. Take Ed back to the house, please.
Will do.
The last call my dad made, while Marc rubbed my upper arms to warm me, went to Vic. His order was simple. Grab a roll of plastic and come to the east field, near the tree line. Youll see us. He hung up without a word from Vic.
Well, Greg, Di Carlo said, as my father slid his phone into his pocket. I dont know what they want, but it looks like theyve got our number.
Kaci I whispered, horrified by the possibility of what might have been. But then merciful logic interceded. But if theyd wanted to hurt her, they could have. They wouldnt even have bothered with the car. Right? I needed to hear that she hadnt come close to a horrible death. A horrible kidnapping was quite enough.
The Alphas nodded, and Marc took my good hand in his. So why kill Jake, then?
My father sighed and finally looked up from the dead tom. My guess is that he saw them coming. Didnt you say they flew out in that direction? He pointed toward the trees to the east.
Yeah. So they killed him to keep him from warning us? I glanced from face to face in disbelief, but the question was largely rhetorical. We all knew the answer. Why didnt he call?
Receptions spotty in the woods, but it looks like he tried. My father gestured to something in the grass behind me and I turned to see a cell phone lying on the ground, smeared with blood, already flipped open and ready for use.
They couldnt have gotten to him in the woods. Their wingspan has to be twelve feet or better. Theyd have broken both arms trying to flap in there.
Marcs frown deepened. They waited until he came into the open, then attacked.
And they mustve done it fast to keep us from hearing. Di Carlo shook his head. This was planned. They want something.
What could thunderbirds want with us? I wondered aloud, as Vic and Parker appeared from around the barn, one carrying a large black bundle.
Well find out when Big Bird wakes up, Marc said.
My father shook his head. Well find out now. Wake him up and make him sing.
Four
Marc and I headed for the house while Vic and Parker took Jake to the barn. On the way to the basement, we passed the silent office, where Ed and Brian Taylor were seated on the couch with their backs to us. Jace met my gaze briefly from the love seat, and I shook my head, confirming what hed already guessed. What the Taylors surely already knew. That wed found a body, not an injured tom.
I felt guilty walking by them without a word, but it wasnt my place to tell an Alpha that his son was dead. Thank goodness.
The kitchen was empty, but I could hear Kaci talking with Manx and Owen in his room as I jogged down the concrete basement stairs after Marc, only pausing to flip the switch by the door.
Two dim bulbs inadequately lit a cinder-block room almost as large as the house overhead. The thick blue training mat was scattered with huge feathers the thunderbird had lost on his way down the stairs, and most of our outdated but well-used weight-lifting equipment had been shoved into the far corner near where the old, heavy punching bag hung. The door to the small half bath stood open, and a weak rectangle of light from within slanted over a folding table holding stacks of cassette tapes and an ancient stereo.
The room was damp, grimy, and one of few places in the house that my mother had attempted to neither clean nor decorate. It was strictly utilitarian, and well used.
It was also a prison.
The corner of the basement nearest the foot of the stairs was taken up by a cage formed by two of the rooms cinder-block walls and two walls of steel bars. The cell held only a cot in one corner, with no sheets or pillows. Just outside the bars stood a water dispenser and a single plastic cup, narrow enough to fit through the bars, if held by the top or bottom. A coffee canserving as a temporary toiletsat next to the water dispenser.
They were miserable accommodations. And yes, I knew from personal experience. I once spent an entire month in the cagemost of that time in cat formwhen I threatened to run away again, after having been hauled back the first time. What can I say? I was intemperate in my youth. And in much of my early adulthood.
And I have to admit that I prefer the view from outside of the bars.
Hes still out, Marc said, and I followed his gaze to the half-bird still unconscious on the concrete floor, just as wed left him. He lay on his back, weird, elongated wing-arms stretched to either side so that the feathers on one brushed the bars. The end of his opposite arm lay hidden from sightand likely foldedbeneath the cot.
Even half-Shifted, the creatures arm span was at least ten feet.
Suggestions? I asked, my fury and fear muted a bit by sheer amazement as I stared at the bird up close, half-repelled by the thick, curved beak where his human mouth and nose should have been.
Marc never took his gaze from the cage. Get the hose.
I pulled open the door beneath the staircase and rummaged in the dark for a minute before my hand found the smooth, textured hose coiled around what could only be a broken weight bar. I slid my good arm through the coil and carried it to the utility sink near the weight rack. When I had the hose hooked up to the huge faucetmoderately encumbered by my cast but determined to do it on my ownI uncoiled it loop by loop until it stretched across the room to Marc.
He raised both brows, finger poised over the trigger of the high-pressure nozzle. This should be interesting. Marc squeezed the trigger, and a long, straight, presumably cold stream of water shot between two bars of the cage, blasting the back concrete wall and lightly splattering the unconscious bird. Marc adjusted his aim, and the jet of water hit the bird squarely on his sparsely feathered chest.
The thunderbird sat up with a jolt, gasping in airand a little waterthrough his malformed beak. His right wing-arm shot up an instant faster than his left, too quick to be anything other than instinct, protecting his face and torso, though his feathers were instantly drenched.
The bird made a horrible, pain-filled squawking sound and backed against the wall, where he slid to his knees and wrapped his long, feathered arms around his torso.
Marc released the trigger and the water stopped, but the bird remained huddled and dripping on the floor. In the sudden silence, he gasped for breath and I heard his heart racing with shock. But his pulse slowed quickly as he regained control of himself, and when he lowered his wings, the bird glared at us through small eyes as dark as my own fur, his expression as hard as the concrete blocks at his back.
Stand up and Shift so you can speak, I said, desperately hoping he spoke either English or Spanish. Because he could be from Chile, for all we knew. Or Pluto, for that matter.
For a moment, he only stared at us, hostility gleaming in his shiny eyes. Or maybe that was water from his rude awakening. But when Marc re-aimed the hose, the bird stood slowly and spread his arms. His left one was reluctant, and he flinched as he forced it into place, flexing his wing-claws as if to show them off. Then he cocked his head to one side, like he was thinking, and closed both eyes. A very soft, eerie whispering sound seemed to skitter across my spine, and I watched in fascination as his feathers receded into his skin and his arms began to shorten.