"You should leave. Now." My father's growl of warning
resonated in some dark, primal part of me, and suddenly I
craved torn flesh and fresh blood glistening in moonlight.
Wave after wave of bloodlust crashed over me and I swayed
beneath the onslaught, struggling to control it. We would
have justice for Ethan. But this was not the time. Not the
place.
Though my father's office practically sizzled
with the rage that flowed through me and my fellow
enforcers, Paul Blackwell, acting head of the Territorial
Council, seemed completely unaffected. I watched him from my
place near the closed office door, both arms—my right still
in a cast—crossed over my chest.
Blackwell planted
his old-fashioned wooden cane firmly on the Oriental rug and
leaned on it with both hands. "Now, Greg, calm down…I'm only
asking you to consider the greater good, which is exactly
what you claim you'll honor, if you're reinstated as council
chairman."
Unfortunately, that seemed less likely
with each passing day. In the week since we'd buried my
brother, Nick Davidson had announced his support of Calvin
Malone as council chair, which meant that my father now
needed the last remaining vote—from Jerold Pierce, my fellow
enforcer Parker's dad—just to tie everything up.
And
a tie wasn't good enough. We needed a clear
victory.
My father sat in his wing chair at the end
of the rug, and his refusal to rise was—on the surface—an
uncharacteristic show of disrespect toward a fellow Alpha.
But I knew him well enough to understand the truth: if he
stood, he might lose his temper. "You're asking me to let my
son's murder go unavenged." His voice was as low and
dangerous as I'd ever heard it, and I swear I felt the
rumble deep in my bones. It echoed the ache in my
heart.
"I'm asking you not to start a war." Blackwell
stood calm and steady, which must have taken substantial
self-control, considering my father's comparative youth and
bulk. And his obvious rage. Even in his late fifties, Greg
Sanders, Alpha of the south-central Pride and my father, was
a formidable force.
My dad growled again. "Calvin
Malone started this, and you damn well know
it."
Blackwell sighed and glanced around the room,
and as his tired gaze skirted the three other Alphas grouped
near the bar and the scattering of enforcers along the
walls, I got the distinct impression that he would much
rather have been alone with my father.
The other
Alphas and two enforcers apiece had arrived early that
morning for one last strategy meeting before the
south-central Pride and our allies launched the first
full-scale werecat offensive the U.S. had seen in more than
six decades. It was Saturday. We planned to attack in three
days—just after sundown on Tuesday night. Anticipation
hummed in the air around us, buzzing like electricity in my
ears, pulsing like passion in my veins.
We could
already feel the blows, every last one of us. We could taste
the blood, and hear the screams that would soon pierce the
still, cold February night. We were living on the promise of
violence in answer to violence, and several of the toms
around me teetered on the thin edge of bloodlust, riding
adrenaline like the crest of a lethal wave.
Surely
Blackwell had known his mission was a failure the moment he
walked into the house.
Our allies were expected, but
Paul Blackwell's arrival had been a total surprise. Just
after lunch, he'd pulled into the driveway in a rental car
driven by his grandson, a cane in the old man's hand,
determination in his step. But that wouldn't be enough, and
neither would the authority of the Territorial Council,
which he wore like a badge of honor. Or more like a badge of
shame, considering that nearly half of the council's members
were present, and not one looked happy to see
him.
Blackwell shuffled one foot on the carpet and
closed his eyes, as if gathering his thoughts, then his
heavy gaze landed on my father again. "Greg, no one is happy
about what happened to Ethan, least of all me. Calvin has
been formally reprimanded, and the enforcers involved—"
the surviving ones, presumably "—have been
suspended from duty indefinitely, pending an
investigation."
"Who's leading this investigation?"
My uncle Rick asked from across the room, a half-full glass
of brandy held near his chest. "And who will be allowed as
witnesses? Do you honestly think the council is capable of
justice, or even impartiality, in its current
state?"
Blackwell twisted awkwardly toward my
uncle—my mother's older brother. "Frankly, I think the
current state of the council is nothing short of a disaster.
But abandoning the very order that defines us is no way to
repair the cracks that have developed in our foundation."
Then he turned to face my dad again. "Fortunately, I believe
you dealt with the actual guilty party yourself."
In
fact, my father had torn out Ethan's murderer's throat
before my brother had even breathed his last. The offending
tom was disposed of in the industrial incinerator behind our
barn, his ashes dumped unceremoniously on the ground several
feet from the furnace, then stomped into the dirt by
everyone who tread over them.
But that small act of
revenge did little to ease the blazing wrath consuming all
of us.
"Calvin Malone is ultimately responsible for
Ethan's death, and he will pay that price." My father's
words came out cold, as if he didn't feel a word he'd said.
But on my right, Marc's hands clenched into fists at his
sides, and Jace went stiff on my left. From the couch,
Michael was nodding grimly. We were ready. Vengeance was
overdue.
"The council has taken official action on
this matter," Blackwell continued. "I know you're not
satisfied by that action, and that's understandable, but if
you strike at Malone after he's accepted censure, you'll
be throwing the first punch."
"Are we children,
playing this blame game?" My father finally rose from his
chair, and Blackwell had to look up to meet his fury. "Are
you so focused on who's at fault that you can't see the
larger picture? Calvin Malone is out of control, and if the
council can't rein him in, we will."
On the
other side of the room, Uncle Rick, Umberto Di Carlo, and Ed
Taylor nodded in solidarity. They'd thrown their support
behind my father and pledged their manpower to fight
alongside us.
"The larger picture is exactly what I'm
looking at." Blackwell held his ground as my father stalked
toward him. "You're talking about civil war. How does that
benefit the greater good?" He glanced down at his cane, but
when he looked up, resolve straightened the old man's thin,
hunched spine. "My eyes may be old and weak, but I see this
clearly, Greg. The U.S. Prides cannot afford to go
to war."
My father met his gaze steadily. "Neither
can they afford to be led by Calvin Malone." He stepped
around the older Alpha and took the glass his brother-in-law
held out to him, sipping from it as Blackwell turned slowly,
leaning on his cane while he scanned the room.
The
council chair's gaze fell finally on my mother, who sat
stiff and straight in a leather wing chair in one corner,
half-hidden by the shadows. Long before I was born, she'd
sat on the council, but I couldn't remember her ever taking
active part in council business during my lifetime. Yet no
one had objected when she'd filed into the room behind our
unexpected guest, after showing him into the
office.
"Karen…" Blackwell said, and the irony of his
appeal to her irritated me like a backward stroke of my fur.
The old man's record on gender equality was solidly con,
yet he had the nerve to address my mother in her own
home. "Would you really send your sons to die at war, if it
could possibly be avoided?"
My mother's eyes flashed
in anger, and my breath caught in my throat. She stood
slowly, and every face in the room turned toward her. "In
case you haven't noticed, Paul, I don't have to send my
children to war to watch them die. Less than two weeks ago,
Ethan was murdered on our own land, the result of an action
you sanctioned." She stepped forward, arms crossed
over her chest, and suddenly the resemblance between me and
my mother was downright scary. "Yet you stand here, in my
own house, asking me to speak against justice for his death?
Asking my support for a council leader who stands for
everything I hate? You're a bigger fool than
Malone."
Blackwell stared, obviously at a loss for
words, and the tingle of delight racing up my spine could
barely be contained.
And my mother wasn't done.
"Furthermore, if Calvin Malone takes over the council, the
status quo will sink to an all-new low. What makes you think
I want you, or him, or any other man to tell my daughter
when and whom she should marry, and how many children she
should bear? Yes, I want to see Faythe married—" my mother
glanced at me briefly "—but that's because I see in
her—sometimes deep down in her—the same fierce,
protective streak I feel for my own children. And because I
want to see her happy. That's a mother's right. But
it is not your right. And you won't convince a
single soul here that you bear the least bit of concern for
her happiness."
"Karen…" Blackwell started, but my
mom shook her head firmly.
I squirmed, in both
embarrassment and pride, but my attention never wavered from
my mother's porcelain mask of fury and indignation. "Listen
closely—I won't say this again." She took another step
forward, her index finger pointed at the council's senior
member, and those spine-chills shot up my arms. "Do not
mistake my even temper and my contribution to the next
generation of our species as either docility or weakness. It
is that very maternal instinct you're appealing to that
fuels my need for vengeance on my son's behalf, and I assure
you that need is every bit as great, as driving, as my
husband's.
"Now," she continued, when Blackwell's
wrinkled jaw actually went slack. "You are welcome here as a
guest. But if you ever again insult me or any other member
of my household, I will personally show you the
exit."
With that, my mother tucked a chin-length
strand of gray hair behind one ear and strode purposefully
toward the door, leaving the rest of us to stare after her
in astonishment. Except for my father. His expression shone
with pride so fierce that if he hadn't still been mourning
the loss of a son, I was sure he would have called for a
toast.
Silence reigned in my father's office, but for
the clicking of my mother's sensibly low heels on the
hardwood. Without looking back, or making eye contact with
anyone, she pulled open the door—and almost collided with a
pint-size tabby cat.
"Kaci, what's wrong?" My mother
took her by the shoulder and guided her away from the
office, obviously assuming she'd been about to knock on the
door. But I knew better. Kaci wasn't knocking; she was
eavesdropping.
At least, she was trying. But
I could have told her from personal experience that she
wouldn't have much luck. The office door was solid oak and
beneath the Sheetrock, the walls were cinder block and
windowless. While those features didn't actually soundproof
the room, they rendered individual words spoken inside
nearly impossible to understand. Even with a werecat's
enhanced hearing.
"I…" Kaci faltered, glancing at me
for help. But I only smiled, enjoying seeing someone else in
the hot seat for once. "You guys're talking about me, aren't
you? If you are, I have a right to know."
My mom
smiled. "Your name hasn't come up."
Yet. But
now that Blackwell had been shot down on the uneasy-peace
front, I had no doubt he'd start in about Kaci. Calvin
Malone was desperate to place her with a Pride that
supported his bid for control of the council. His own Pride,
if he could possibly swing it. In fact, Ethan had died
defending Kaci from an attempt to forcibly remove her from
our east Texas ranch.
And Kaci knew
that.
"What's going on, then? Is this about Ethan?"
Her chin quivered as she spoke, her gaze flitting from face
to solemn face in search of answers, and my heart broke all
over again.
Kaci had been closer to Ethan and Jace
than to any of the other toms, and though she'd known him
less than three months, she was taking my brother's death
every bit as hard as the rest of us. Maybe worse. At
thirteen, Kaci had already been tragically overexposed to
death and underexposed to counseling. And in addition to the
grief and anger the rest of us suffered, she felt guilty
because Ethan had died defending her.
"Come on, Kaci,
let's get you something to eat." My mother tried to herd her
away from the office, but the tabby shrugged out from under
her hand.
"I'm not hungry. And I'm tired of being
left out. You keep me cooped up on the ranch, but won't tell
me what's going on in my own home? How is that
fair?"
I sighed and glanced around the office, loath
to miss the rest of the discussion. But now that Ethan was
gone, no one else could deal with Kaci as well as I could
except Jace, and I wasn't going to ask him to leave. The
impending war had as much to do with him as it did with me;
Calvin Malone was his stepfather, and Ethan was his lifelong
best friend.
"Come on, Kace, why don't we go kick the
crap out of some hay bales in the barn?"
She looked
at me like I'd just gone over to the dark side, but nodded
reluctantly.
Marc took my hand, then let his fingers
trail through mine as I stepped past him toward the door.
Then I stopped and deliberately brushed a kiss on his rough
cheek on the way, inhaling deeply to take in as much of his
scent as possible, lingering for Blackwell's benefit, as
well as my own. To reiterate for the old coot that I would
choose my own relationships.
But on my way into the
hall, my gaze caught on Jace's, and the tense line of his
jaw betrayed his carefully blank expression. As did the
flicker of heat in his eyes. We'd agreed not to talk about
what happened between us the day Ethan died. There was
really no other way to keep peace in the household, and keep
everyone's energy and attention focused on avenging my
brother. And I'd sworn to myself that Marc would be the
first to know. That I would tell him myself. He deserved
that much, as badly as I dreaded it.
Excerpt from Shift by Rachel Vincent All rights reserved by publisher and author