Blood of the Pride (2 page)

The farm was pretty far off the beaten path. I pulled off the main highway and slid along gravel roads for a good half-hour into the Ontario hinterland. As I got closer and closer my muscles began to tense, my body getting ready for a fight. I owed them nothing. Still, they had called me and if nothing else, I was damned curious as to why the Pride had broken their code of silence.

I slammed on the brakes and spun the Jeep down the side road that could have easily been mistaken for a bike trail. If you didn’t know where to turn you could easily shoot by, ending up at Wasaga Beach with no idea of where you had gone wrong. I hadn’t been down this road in years and it was as if I had never left. The same rickety mailbox sat at the entrance with Hammersmythe’s name on it. The same long drive up the dusty road that had never been paved and probably never would be. The same farmhouse with the same ugly paint job—a dark red that was peeling in more spots than it wasn’t, showing off the numerous coats that had been applied over the years by delinquent kids doing penance.

It looked like any other farmhouse in North America.

It held more secrets than the Pentagon’s deepest bunkers.

I pulled into the gravel parking lot. The SUVs and tricked-out trucks made my little Jeep look like a Hot Wheels toy. I picked the spot closest to the road in case I needed a fast getaway and then got out of the car. The scents charged into my consciousness—freshly cut grass mixed with the ever-present manure and straw, and more than a single barn cat seeking out mice. And, if I wasn’t mistaken, an apple pie or three cooled near a window, making my mouth water even though I had just eaten.

“Reb?” Karen stood on the porch, shading her eyes from the noon sun. “Rebecca?” Her face was suntanned to the point of becoming leather, her white-and-gray hair pulled into a short ponytail held back with a rubber band. She untied the apron around her waist and neck and tossed it over the back of one of the rocking chairs as I approached.

She opened her arms wide. “It’s been such a long time.”

I accepted the hug, holding back just a bit. My aunt hadn’t objected to my being declared an outcast due to my “disability” and, while two decades had taken the edge off of the pain of being rejected by blood kin as well as by my family, it still didn’t mean I had forgiven and forgotten. Karen hadn’t aged well and I smiled inwardly, taking a bit of pleasure in that fact.

“They’re inside waiting for you.” She released me, a worried look on her face. “I guess it’s something really bad.”

“Bad enough to call me.” I gave a low chuckle. “Yep, I figured that one out.”

One dirty running shoe scuffed the wooden deck. “You’re looking good.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t return the compliment. “Excuse me, I think I better get inside before they call a hunt on me.”

The older woman flinched, a gesture so minute most people would have missed it. I didn’t. I opened the screen door and walked through, turning my back on her. “See you later.”

I was lying, of course.

“Stop in the kitchen first. Get yourself a drink.” The shout carried through to where I stood in the hallway. A series of light jackets hung on the old wooden pegs set into the wall. I didn’t add mine to the stack.

The smell of cooked apple, cinnamon and way too much sugar grew stronger as I stepped to the left into the kitchen. On the spacious table sat five cooling pies, the steam still escaping through the slits in the light-brown dough. Next to them stood a row of bottles—rum, vodka, whiskey. Picking up one of the empty glasses, I filled it halfway with rum, adding some cola from a nearby fresh can. The pies were tempting but there wasn’t a fork or knife in sight and I didn’t think I had room to shovel the whole thing into my mouth quickly enough.

“Good God.” The woman’s voice spun me around, my lips on the glass.

Ruth Huckleton stood there, cradling a baby in her arms. Her dark red hair hadn’t lost any color over the years, nor had she lost the sparkle in her eyes that made all children love her. “I heard they had called, but…” She gestured toward the living room with a nod. “I didn’t expect you to answer, never mind come all the way out here. Not after…” A squalling cry came from behind her, invoking a deep sigh and a knowing grin. “And, as usual, David can’t keep himself dry for a minute.” She turned around and walked briskly into the living room, bouncing the yellow-haired baby on her hip. He responded by grabbing one of the loose tails of her apron, stuffing it into his mouth and chewing on it with the enthusiasm I would have reserved for the pie.

I followed, taking another sip of my drink.

The cribs were set up just as I remembered, the clawed and scarred wood bearing the marks of children either trying to break out or in. Wooden blocks, trains and planes spread out over the floor created an obstacle course Ruth navigated with ease, pushing the old-fashioned toys to one side or the other with her feet. Plastic might have been lighter and easier but wooden toys tended to last longer with Felis babies.

“Got quite a few visitors this week so I’m running the daycare again.” Ruth put the baby she had been holding down into one empty crib, covering him with a blanket as the child rolled over and began to fall asleep. Right next to him, David, a rotund bundle of dark hair and attitude, gathered another lungful of air to scream again. Ruth picked him up, cooing in an attempt to divert the tantrum.

“Healthy little bugger.” I glanced at the other cribs. A small calico kitten romped around in one, pouncing on a small stuffed tiger he had tossed into the corner. Another held a pair of tortoiseshell kits, snuggled against each other while they slept.

“Those are Art and Edith Brill’s,” Ruth offered by way of explanation as she put the fussy baby down on the changing table. Neatly folded fabric squares were stacked next to the mandatory wet wipes, diaper rash cream and a plastic box holding safety pins. Expertly she whipped off the cloth diaper and dropped it into the nearby disposal bucket, talking all the while. Her hands showed the results of years of caring for kits, covered with hundreds of small scars and scratches, including more than a few from yours truly. But they were still steady and for a second I envied the children around me receiving the undoubting love of a woman who had been unable to have her own. “The calico’s Dennis Bucknell’s son. Married Jem Luchness a few years ago.” She paused, holding a safety pin in her mouth. “You remember her, I think.”

“Maybe.” I watched as the calico kitten rolled onto his back into the center of the crib, stretching his paws out in all four directions. Slowly he began to Change, the fur shrinking and receding into his skin as his body remolded itself. The claws retracted, disappearing between his knuckles while his green eyes flashed from the familiar feline slit to a more acceptable human circle. Within a minute there was no kitten, just another baby who stared up at me with wide curious eyes and a small pink tongue sticking out.

“He’s got pretty good control.” Ruth placed David back in his crib, shushing the child as he rolled into a corner, cradling a stuffed lion. Putting her hands on her hips she looked directly at me. “I’m serious. I didn’t expect you to come.”

“Jess called.” I shrugged, taking another deep swig of my drink. “Board calls, you answer.” Even with every effort to make it sound casual, I knew she could see through the façade.

The older woman shook her head. “You always were too forgiving, Rebecca.” A tear broke free, rolling down her cheek. She stepped forward and took me in her arms, forcing me to put the glass down on the changing table. “Damn it, girl—I missed you.”

Closing my eyes, I relaxed into the embrace, inhaling the familiar scent of an old friend and den mother. After a few minutes she released me, stepping back as she wiped her face with both hands.

“You better get upstairs before they come down here and start making a fuss. Don’t need them to wake the kids.” Ruth smiled. “I’ll see you later.”

“Probably.” I walked into the kitchen, refilling my drink before heading toward the staircase. “Just don’t let the kits claw you too much.”

“Won’t be the first or the last.” Her words drifted up behind me as I climbed. “And you were the worst, I recall.”

“I only bit you once.” I grumbled, walking onto the second floor where the walls had long since been knocked down and cleared out to form only one room. The varnished hardwood floors were immaculately clean. A large round table took up the majority of the floor, a series of chairs scattered around the outside. A few beer bottles and glasses sat on the table, adding more rings to the numerous stains dotting the surface. Stacked against the far wall were cheap steel folding chairs for when larger meetings were called.

“Welcome.” Jess Hammersmythe’s voice boomed out of the shadows at the far end of the room where she sat behind the table. She lifted a bottle, waving me closer. “Glad you could make it.”

“You called.” A lump formed in my stomach, threatening to kick back the mouthful of booze. The last time we spoke she hissed curses into my ear, pushing me down the lane outside with a few dollars in my pocket and the clothes on my back. “You called so I came.” I took another step into the Hall, my knuckles white from gripping the glass. Keeping my knees locked, I nodded to the two men sitting on each side of Hammersmythe.

“You’re looking good, Reb.” Dennis Sommalier nodded, the cigar hanging from his lips. I couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t have one in his mouth. Freud would have a grand old time with my family.

“She always did.” Old enough to be my grandfather, Davis Konnerburg smiled as he lifted his own glass toward me with a sly wink that made my skin crawl. “We appreciate the prompt response.”

“I’m sure.” I walked up, grabbed one of the chairs and flipped it around, sitting down and resting my arms on the wooden back. “So, what’s the crisis that you gotta call in the misfit?”

This was not how you were supposed to address the Board. Protocol was that you stood at attention until invited to sit. Then you placed yourself at a discreet and proper distance in the chair with your hands in your lap while keeping your back ramrod-straight and not speaking until spoken to.

Jess leaned forward, out of the darkness. An ugly scarlet scar dragged down across her face, starting just above her left eye and ending down at the left edge of her mouth. The dead eye glared, catching me in its glass reflection. “As I said—glad you could make it.” She pulled the label off her beer bottle and tore it into little pieces, pushing them around the tabletop. “We have a problem and want your opinion on it.”

“Bullshit. You don’t do democracies.” I took another mouthful of rum and cola. “If I recall correctly you don’t usually ask anyone’s opinion on anything. Now you’re asking me?” I stared at each of the Board members until they looked away. “What’s the big secret?”

“You understand, of course, that this is not to be repeated outside of this room,” Davis droned in his authoritative voice. “Your oaths are still valid.”

“You kick my ass out into the street and then ask me to play your game?” I snorted. “I don’t think so.” It was a weak attempt at a bluff but I had to let them know I wasn’t going to be bullied into anything. “I go by my own oaths these days. I don’t owe the Pride anything.”

The group hiss crackled in my ears with the sudden shift in their bodies—the scent of fear. This wasn’t a game. Something big was going down and they needed me more than I needed them, and we both knew it.

“You called, I came. Now state your reasons or I’ll be on my way.”

I was halfway up from the chair when Dennis spoke. “We want to hire you.” The cigar bounced up and down while he spoke. “Janey is dead.”

The rum burned my throat as I sat down and chugged the last of the drink. “Really. Old age?”

“Don’t be a smartass,” Jess snarled, pushing the label flakes into a small pile. “She was murdered.”

“Then the police should handle it.” I got to my feet and put the empty glass on the table. “I’m not a cop.”

“No. But you’re one of us.” Dennis unfolded a rolled-up paper resting in front of him and slid it across the table to me. “And you understand what this means to us.”

It was a two-page spread in the center of a tabloid, the picture taking up the majority of the space with weird trivia and a few ill-placed advertisements for weight-loss products and cheap herbal drugs surrounding it. There was a short article next to it but my attention went first to the photo.

The black-and-white photograph depicted a dead woman, sprawled on her back with her arms and legs at odd angles, as if she’d suddenly fallen to the ground. The tufts of fur around her face and on her hands suggested she had died in mid-Change. My eyebrows rose, prompting a comment from Dennis.

“She was killed two weeks ago. Her neck was broken.” Dennis replied in a flat tone. His thick, meaty fingers pressed down on the table.

“That takes a lot of strength.” I frowned, scanning their faces. “Up close and personal.” I glanced at the article before flipping the paper over to see the headline.

“The Toronto
Inquisitor
? No one takes them seriously.” My fingers rapped on the postage stamp-sized black-and-white image advertising the centerfold. “This reporter, for lack of a better word, has us digging through trash cans in High Park, ready to pounce on unleashed dogs. It’s nothing but rumors and lies, and badly-written ones at that.” I looked at the tabloid headline. “Although ‘Dead Cat Woman Found!’ does seem a bit tackier than their usual stupid quips.”

“Extremely,” Dennis replied. “Regardless, Janey is dead. And whoever took this picture set her up to be exposed.” He stabbed the tabletop with a finger. “Set us up to be exposed.”

“In a media rag. With pictures that could have been manipulated and changed by any kid with a computer.” I looked up from the page. “Why didn’t they post it online if they were serious about exposing us?” My mind kept bouncing between using “us” and “you/them” as I navigated my feelings about being back.

“Ever look online for reliable information about the Felis?” Dennis chuckled. “Or any?”

I chewed on my bottom lip. “You keep that offline?”