Pride

One

"Miss Sanders, tell us why you killed your boyfriend."

Fresh irritation swelled in my chest like heartburn, bringing with it the first twinges of a migraine behind my right eye. I turned away from the fall-color panorama visible through windows spanning the south wall of the dining room to stare down the long mahogany table at a much less pleasant sight: Calvin Malone, Alpha of the Appalachian territory. As I watched, the left corner of his mouth began to twitch above his thin, trim beard, a sure sign that he was having fun. The pompous bastard loved pushing my buttons. He’d just found the one labeled Use with Caution, then poked it anyway.

"Ex-boyfriend. I spoke through gritted teeth, my hands clenched on my black cotton slacks. And it was self-defense. Which you’d know if you’d listened the last time I answered that exact same question."

Michael cleared his throat from the chair on my right. Dark brows rose over the rim of his glasses, urging me to be good. Since he was acting as my adviser, the werecat version of a defense attorney, rather than as my oldest brother, I took his advice without argument. Possibly for the first time ever.

Sighing, I forced my attention back to the tribunal—three Alphas chosen by the highly regarded short straw method to sit in judgment of me. Officially, the hearing was to determine my guilt or innocence on two capital charges. However, the grudge Malone held against me was old long before each of my crimes took place. Allegedly.

But that wasn’t right, either. Unlike the human justice system, in the werecat world, the accused was considered guilty until proven innocent. And the burden of proof was on the defendant—me.

I was charged with infecting Andrew Wallace, my human ex-boyfriend, which I’d already confessed to doing—accidently. I also stood accused of murdering him to cover up my crime, which I’d vehemently denied. I’d killed Andrew in self-defense, and while I felt guiltier about that than any of my judges could possibly understand, I’d had no choice. It was either kill or be killed, and my stubborn sense of self-preservation insisted on the former.

If the tribunal found me guilty, in addition to a lengthy stay in the cage, I’d be facing some kind of corporal punishment. Possibly the loss of my claws, which was motivation enough to keep me on my best behavior.

But you do admit to biting him? Malone prompted, his mouth twitching again as he tapped a thin stack of papers lying on the table in front of him.

Yes, I said through clenched jaws, gripping the lacquered arms of my chair to anchor myself to the seat. I did bite him, but the infection was an accident. I didn’t know my teeth had Shifted.

So you still claim to have experienced this… Malone paused, glancing at his notes for effect. ‘Partial Shift?’

His patronizing smile made my stomach churn, but in light of the circumstances, I was trying very, very hard to be good. Yes.

Malone huffed in disbelief, glancing around the room to make sure everyone else shared his skepticism. On his right, Paul Blackwell placed one wrinkled hand on the table. He scowled, scraggly gray eyebrows drawing low over small, dark eyes. Why is it, then, that you can’t show us this ‘partial Shift’?

Because I’m not quite ready to give in to murderous rage. Fortunately I was getting pretty good at not saying the first thing that popped into my head. Mostly. I can’t do it on command. Not yet anyway. I have to be in a certain mood—excited, in one sense or another—to make it happen.

"Well, isn’t that convenient?" Malone said with a conspiratorial glance at Blackwell.

Quite the opposite, actually, I snapped, and Michael kicked my shin under the table.

Malone’s fist clenched around his notes and his mouth opened. But before he could speak, the Alpha on his left cleared his throat conspicuously, drawing all eyes his way.

Calvin, I assume you have a legitimate question for Faythe? By some miracle, my uncle Rick Wade—my cousin Abby’s father—had been selected for the tribunal, and in my father’s honor, he’d made his allegiance to my family well-known. If not for him, I’d have already been convicted and sentenced.

Of course. Malone shot an annoyed glance at my uncle, then adopted a professional pose. But when he faced me, I saw that same gleam of animosity in his eyes. "So you were in an…excited state when you bit Mr. Wallace?"

A mischievous grin lurked behind my solemn courtroom face, and it took all my self-control to stifle it. As well as a hard, self-inflicted pinch on my arm, through the white blouse my father had chosen to make me look innocent. And to cover the new belly-button ring he didn’t think projected the right image during my hearing.

You might say that. We were at school, on our lunch break. Neither of us had a class for a couple of hours, so we wound up at his apartment.

In bed? Paul Blackwell leaned forward from Malone’s right side, gripping the curve of his cane hard enough to make his withered fingers creak.

Blackwell was the senior member of the tribunal, as well as the Territorial Council, and had been clinging tenaciously to his position as Alpha of the southwest territory for years, in spite of urgings from his family and several other Alphas to turn the reins over to his son-in-law. He was mulish, out-spoken, and hopelessly old-fashioned, stubbornly adhering to outdated ideas about premarital sex and a woman’s place in the world. In fact, he seemed as scandalized by my indecent relationship with Andrew as by the thought that I’d infected and murdered him.

But according to my father, Blackwell was both honest and honorable. He would vote based on his conscience, rather than on any political alliance or previously held grudge. So I’d just have to make sure his conscience knew I was innocent. Mostly. And that I respected myself enough not to apologize for something I hadn’t deliberately done.

I met his eyes boldly, to show I wasn’t ashamed. Yes. In bed. We were having sex, and I just…nibbled his ear a little too hard.

And your sworn testimony is that you never actually Shifted during this…occasion? Malone asked, as if to confirm facts he’d already heard half a dozen times.

I nodded, then turned my head from side to side to ease the stiffness that had settled into my neck from sitting in the same position for hours at a time. Only my teeth Shifted, like I told you last time. And the time before that. And the time before that—

Faythe… Michael warned, and wood creaked behind him as our father moved in his seat.

In spite of his position as head of the council, my father hadn’t been allowed to serve on the tribunal overseeing my trial because of his relationship to the accused—me. But he’d insisted on being present the entire time, though he wasn’t permitted to actually speak during the proceedings. He sat directly behind Michael in a straight-backed chair against the wall, as he had for the last three hours, one ankle crossed over his opposite knee, hands resting on the chair arms. By all appearances he was relaxed and confident, but I knew by the firm line of his mouth that he was every bit as irritated as I was. And a lot more nervous, which made me wonder if there was something he wasn’t telling me.

Frowning, I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back in my chair, awaiting the next question. Which would no doubt be something I’d already answered.

Malone looked up from the slanted scrawl on his legal pad. Did Mr. Wallace notice that your teeth had Shifted?

No. I didn’t either.

Malone’s head jerked up and his eyes found mine, his brows high in surprise. Evidently I’d said something new. If you didn’t know your teeth had Shifted at the time, how can you possibly be sure that’s what happened?

Shit. I sat back in my chair, going for calm confidence. Because that’s the only logical conclusion. I infected Andrew somehow— we knew that for a fact based on his scent —and I never intentionally Shifted in front of him. So it stands to reason that I did it by accident. And the day I bit him was the last time I saw him until the day he died. It must have happened then.

Blackwell appeared unconvinced, and Malone looked downright dubious. Since you brought it up, let’s talk about the day Mr. Wallace died, he said, shuffling though his papers again.

My head throbbed as I massaged my temples. Whatever amusement I’d felt over the proceedings drained from me, replaced by dread and a horrible, hollow ache. I’ve already told you everything.

Tell us again. Malone didn’t look up from his pages.

We’d been over every single aspect of their accusations and Andrew’s death in the past thirty-six hours, only taking short breaks for food and rest. There was nothing to be gained from repeating any of it, except possibly to wear me down, which had to be their goal. They were trying to trip me up. Catch me in a lie. But that wasn’t going to happen; I was telling the truth, whether they believed it or not.

My eyes closed, and the memory rolled over me, rendered no less horrible by the number of times they’d made me relive it. I flinched as Andrew’s face came into focus in my head. I couldn’t help it. Watching him die was one of the most difficult things I’d ever endured, and knowing I’d been the cause, however unwillingly, was the biggest regret of my life.

What do you want to know? I couldn’t keep weariness from my voice, but I made myself meet their eyes, knowing they’d see guilt rather than grief if I didn’t.

Malone scanned his notes. Where did you get the spike?

The railroad spike. That horrid, seven-inch iron spear, which had gone right through Andrew’s neck, spilling his life along with his blood. They were all over the floor… I trailed into blessed silence when I couldn’t purge the image from my mind.

Why did you stab him with it?

My hands clenched into fists again, this time on top of the table, where everyone could see them. I was trying to knock him off me. He was going to crush my head!

Malone leaned back in his chair, narrowing his eyes at me. Or maybe he was threatening to tell everyone what you did. That you infected him. I imagine that would seem reason enough to kill him.

I took a deep, calming breath. "Look, I didn’t mean to kill him, and I certainly wasn’t trying to cover anything up. There were five other people with us minutes earlier, and even if I hadn’t already told them I’d infected Andrew—and I’m sure any one of them will swear I had—they could smell my scent in his blood. It wasn’t a cover-up. It was self-defense."

Malone’s eyes narrowed, his mouth already opening to argue, but Uncle Rick beat him to the punch. We’ve heard all of this before, he said, and I glanced at him in gratitude. Let’s move on.

Fine. Malone scowled, leafing through his papers until he found whatever he was looking for. His eyes settled on me again, and I didn’t like the eager look in them. "Is it true that you’ve turned down multiple proposals of marriage over the past six years?"

What? My face blazed in anger. What the f— I paused for a quick rephrase, because cursing at a panel of Alphas was a very, very bad idea. What does that have to do with anything? Andrew never asked me to marry him.

Answer the question please, Miss Sanders, Blackwell ordered, clearly irritated by my near slip.

Michael didn’t look any happier than I was about this new line of questioning, but he nodded for me to answer.

Yes.

How many proposals have you turned down, total? Malone continued.

I closed my eyes, pretending to think, though I was actually trying to get a grip on my temper before my mouth dug a hole too big for the rest of me to crawl out of. That’s hard to quantify, I said finally, opening my eyes to meet Malone’s gleeful stare.

Why is that? he asked.

Because I received multiple proposals from the same person. Marc, of course.

I see. Malone nodded, as if he understood. And he probably did. Rumor had it he’d been after his wife for years and years before she finally agreed to marry him. My private theory was that he wore away at her defenses. But I knew better than to say that to his face.

"How many toms proposed to you, then? Surely that can’t be hard to quantify." Malone said as my uncle scratched something I couldn’t read on the notebook in front of him.

I sighed. Four.

And you weren’t tempted by any of these proposals?

Sudden understanding clicked into place in my head, but instead of calming me, it made me angrier. One of the marriage offers had come several years earlier from a young man two years my junior, whom I’d barely known. Brett Malone. Calvin Malone’s firstborn son. The petty son of a bitch was mad because I’d opted not to give birth to his descendants. That wasn’t the reason for the hearing, of course. But it was surely the source of his malicious, twitching smile.

Of course I was tempted. It took most of my remaining self-control not to roll my eyes over such a petty grudge. But I had reasons for turning them down.

What were those reas—

Calvin, I think you’ve gotten your answer. Uncle Rick cut Malone off in midword, having obviously come to the same conclusion I had.

Malone frowned. Fine. He consulted his notes again. I understand that you are no longer involved in a relationship of any kind. Is this also true?

Fuming, I glanced at Michael, but he only nodded, telling me to answer.

Yes.

And is it also true that you have no plans to marry, or to ever have children?

Fury singed through my veins, lighting tiny fires throughout my body. No longer satisfied by my brother’s passive nodding, I whirled on Michael again, my long black hair swinging out behind me. "Why are they asking me this crap? It’s none of their business, nor is it even vaguely related to what happened to Andrew. Shouldn’t you…object, or something?"

This isn’t a court of law, Faythe, Michael reminded me for at least the hundredth time. They can ask you anything they want. The best way to help yourself right now is to answer their questions. With as little information as possible.

I’d heard that line often enough to know what he wasn’t saying, and to know that the unspoken part applied as much then as it ever had.

Unsatisfied by his answer, I dismissed Michael entirely, focusing on my father instead. Daddy? I begged him with my eyes to step in. To somehow liberate me from the indignity of discussing my sex life—or lack thereof—in front of a trio of old men, two of whom I barely knew. But there was nothing he could do, and we all knew it. He shook his head, the opposite of Michael’s typical response, but it meant the same thing: answer the question.

Beyond angry, I tried to relax, sinking into my chair as if there were nowhere else I’d rather be. Yes. I am no longer in a romantic relationship, and at the present, I have no plans to marry. Or have children. And for the record, I object to this entire line of questioning on the basis of relevance.

Michael coughed to disguise a laugh, and Malone frowned, already opening his mouth to ask another question. Fortunately, Uncle Rick stepped in again, eyeing me intently, as if to tell me something other than what he was about to say aloud. But are you prepared to swear right now that you will never, under any circumstances, marry and start a family?

No, of course not. I shrugged. I can’t say for sure what I want for dinner tonight, so how can you possibly expect me to know whether or not I’m going to want kids five years from now?

My father chuckled quietly, and Uncle Rick smiled. I must have done something right.

Malone scowled again. Is it true that even in your relationship with Marc Ramos, you took active measures to prevent pregnancy?

My hand clenched around the arm of the chair, and distantly I heard wood creak. My teeth ground together audibly. "You have no right to ask me these da—"

Gentlemen, I think we’re ready for a break. Michael stood, pulling me up with him. Thirty minutes?

Of course, Uncle Rick said, just as Malone said, Ten.

Michael didn’t hesitate, already hauling me away from the table. Let’s meet in the middle and call it twenty. Malone nodded reluctantly, and my brother shoved the door open, tugging me into a short carpeted hallway.

My father followed us into the living room of the rented lodge, where he stopped to stare out the broad picture window at a breathtaking view of the Rocky Mountains, so different from the Lazy S, my family’s East Texas ranch. My father peered out at steep, tree-covered slopes and snow-topped peaks, lit by the afternoon sun. He’d been doing that a lot lately—staring at nothing in particular, as if he had something important to say but couldn’t quite figure out how to say it. Which wasn’t like him at all.

What’s going on? I demanded, jerking free from my brother’s grasp to settle onto the arm of a worn couch.

Before Michael could answer, a door opened on the far side of the room, revealing a young tomcat in jeans and an open button-down shirt, munching from an orange bag of Doritos. Behind him, I glimpsed two unmade beds and a pressboard dresser like those found in hotels all over the world. Though his name wouldn’t come to me, I recognized the tom as one of Blackwell’s enforcers—one of his grandsons, in fact. Blackwell and the toms accompanying him were staying in the main lodge, where my hearing was being held.

To the immediate east of the main lodge, out of sight from the front window, sat three smaller cabins, the first occupied by Malone and his men, the second by my uncle and the enforcers he’d brought. My father and I shared the last cabin with Michael, Jace and Marc.

Michael’s wife, Holly—an honest-to-goodness runway model—thought he was off on a father-son camping trip with our dad. Since there were no children to miss either of them, she was spending the week in Acapulco with her sister.

Our group had reserved the whole Oak Trails cabin complex for an entire week, though no one expected the hearing to take that long. It would have been a lovely place to vacation, complete with private hunting and fishing sites and beautiful nature trails, but that wasn’t why the council had chosen it. Oak Trails was the only location both neutral and isolated enough to suit all the Alphas, and we’d had to wait more than two months to reserve the entire complex. Giving all the employees time off had raised a few eyebrows, but they’d been delighted to have a free vacation.

Michael frowned at the young tomcat for breaking through our semblance of privacy. In there, he commanded me, gesturing toward an empty bedroom opening off the other side of the living room. We need to talk.

We needed more than that. We needed fresh air. I’d been in the Rockies fewer than forty-eight hours, and I got angry every time I passed a window, because I longed to be out in the open on four paws, exploring unfamiliar ground, and trees, and streams. But instead I was stuck inside, repeating myself over and over to a tribunal who didn’t seem very interested in my answers to the questions they kept repeating. Although the whole marriage-and-children angle was a new development…

What’s going on? I repeated, sinking onto the plaid comforter as my father followed us into the room, closing the door at his back. Why are they asking me personal questions? My social life has nothing to do with Andrew’s death.

Michael flicked the wall switch and light flooded the room, illuminating more motel-quality furnishings. One whiff told me the room belonged to one of the Pierce boys—Parker’s brother, who was another of Blackwell’s enforcers.

Michael sat on the bed next to me and my father took the desk chair, meeting my brother’s eyes instead of mine. That couldn’t be good.

Are they going where I think they’re going with this? Michael asked our father, and again my temper flared. I hated being in the dark, especially on things that concerned me.

Our Alpha sighed. Yes, I think they are.

Michael’s eyes closed, and he cradled his head in his hands. I didn’t think they’d really do it.

Do what? I demanded.

My brother looked up, but not at me. You have to tell her, Dad.

My father nodded solemnly. Angrily. Then he met my eyes, and I saw in his the strength I’d always admired, and the brutal honesty I’d never been quite so fond of. You aren’t on trial anymore, Faythe.

What? I glanced at Michael, hoping to find something I understood in his expression. And I did. I found pain, and regret, and more anger than I’d ever seen on his face. What does that mean? My hands clenched around the comforter, and I couldn’t seem to uncurl them.

They think you’re guilty, and they’re now debating your sentence.

What? No. My head shook in denial of the truth even as it sank in. Uncle Rick wouldn’t do that.

Michael took my hand in his, drawing my attention along with it. They don’t need him to find you guilty. They need a simple majority. Two out of three. His focus shifted back and forth between my eyes, searching them for understanding.

This can’t be happening. I pulled my hand from his grip and rose from the bed, pacing the width of the room before I realized what I was doing. "This isn’t real. I didn’t mean to kill him. I infected him, but that was an accident. It was all an accident."

I know. Michael followed me with his eyes, trying to comfort me with the right words and a gentle tone. But I didn’t want comfort. I wanted answers.

What does this mean? The cage? I stopped pacing to look at Michael. How long can they keep me locked up? No one answered, so I asked again. "Daddy? How long?" Two weeks in the cage had nearly driven me crazy. My father had threatened to put me away for a year once, but I couldn’t imagine surviving that long without sunlight. Without trees, and grass, and hunting, and physical contact with…well, with anything.

But before he’d answered my first question, another, more startling one occurred to me. Where? They wouldn’t leave me at home; I knew that with a sudden devastating certainty. Where will they put me? I was not spending the next year of my life in Malone’s cellar.

My father closed his eyes and inhaled deeply as another knuckle cracked. They aren’t planning to lock you up.

"What then? Declawed? I’m going to be declawed? My pitch rose on the last word, and I heard panic in my voice. Michael glanced at my father, and fear danced up my spine. No. I can’t be declawed. My nails bit into my palms, as if to remind me they were still there. I can’t work as an enforcer without my claws. I can’t fucking defend myself without them."

Maybe that was the whole point. If I couldn’t take care of myself, I’d have to let someone else do it. I’d have to stay home and get married and have babies.

Faythe, they’re going for the death penalty. My father spoke so softly that at first I thought I’d misunderstood him. They think you murdered Andrew, and they want to execute you for it.

No. I couldn’t think clearly enough to say anything else. It wasn’t possible. Tabbies don’t get the death penalty. We’re too valuable. You’ve said it all my life. And that’s when I finally understood. That’s why they’re asking me about children…

Michael nodded. To them, you’re only as valuable as the service you provide the werecat community. If you aren’t willing to perpetuate the species, you’re no more valuable than any enforcer would be. And an enforcer can be replaced far easier than a dam.

A sudden wave of nausea made my stomach clench. I leaned against the dresser, then let myself slide to the floor. My spine scraped three drawer handles on the way down. I couldn’t seem to draw a deep breath.

Faythe? Michael knelt at my side, but I barely heard him.

I’m going to die.

The hard wood was cold against my legs, even through my slacks, and I shivered uncontrollably. For what I did to Andrew, I was going to die. And the real bitch was that I probably deserved it.

I hadn’t meant to infect him, much less to kill him, but that made no difference in the long run. None of it would have happened if I hadn’t insisted on doing things my own way, on going to school instead of getting married. Dating humans, instead of tomcats. If not for me, Andrew would still be alive, probably dating some grad student who never did anything more violent than crush spiders.

But it was too late to take it back now. The only way to save my life was to prove my own worth—by agreeing to have some random tom’s baby.

Manx had known the truth all along. No wonder she was so happy, in spite of her constant heartburn and swollen feet. Her unborn child had saved her life, and she damn well knew it.

A warm hand touched my shoulder, then smoothed my hair down my back. We won’t let this happen, Faythe. I swear on my life that we will not let this happen. We’ll find a way around it.

I lifted my head to find my father kneeling next to me. My father the Alpha—head of the Territorial Council for as long as I could remember—was on his knees on a dusty, rented cabin floor, still wearing his usual suit and tie. I smiled at him. It was either that or cry, and I was determined not to cry in front of him again.

I know you will. Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. For once, I’d do exactly what he wanted. No questions asked.

He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the bedroom door flew open behind him, and Jace burst into the room. Greg! There’s a bruin out front, and he’s demanding to see whoever’s in charge.

Two

"A bruin? Are you sure?" my father asked.

Jace snorted. Um, yeah. He’s huge, and he smells like a bear. He’s arguing with Calvin, and it looks like it’s about to get ugly.

My father turned from Jace back to me. I meant what I said, Faythe. This isn’t over.

I nodded. I recognized the dismissal, but knew it wasn’t personal. As the head of the council, he had to go deal with the new crisis, even if we hadn’t yet resolved the previous one. Go.

My father was off the floor in an instant, rising with the speed and grace of a tom half his age. In spite of the circumstances, I was happy to see him move like that because each new line that appeared around his eyes and each gray hair that grew at his temple reminded me that he was just as susceptible as the rest of us to the devastation of time, the wear and tear of constant use. One day he would retire, and that would break my heart. But one day further down, he would die, and that would crush my soul.

If I’m still around to see it…

Michael followed our father from the room, and Jace started to go after them, then stopped when he noticed me sitting on the floor. Faythe? What’s wrong?

I killed Andrew, haven’t you heard?

What are you talking about? In several long steps, he was in front of me, pulling me off the floor. It was self-defense. The panel will see that eventually. They have to. He wrapped his arms around me, and I let my head fall on his shoulder, breathing in his scent, which brought with it memories of warmth, and safety, and comfort.

I shook my head, and my cheek rubbed against his cotton T. They think I did it on purpose. All of it. They’re going after the death penalty.

What? Jace held me at arm’s length, searching my face for an explanation. He frowned in confusion. Calvin told you that?

No, my father. And Michael.

He shook his head. That makes no sense. You’re a tabby, he said, echoing my own thoughts.

They don’t seem to have noticed that yet.

Jace smiled, and his eyes roamed south of my chin. I don’t see how they could keep from—

In the main room, the front door creaked open, and heavy footsteps clomped on the hardwood floor. Voices spoke over one another, in every pitch and timbre, until finally one broke through them all "—don’t care what you’re in the middle of." The voice was deep enough to rumble, and loud enough to shake the walls around us.

The bruin, Jace whispered, and I nodded, still listening.

I wanna speak to someone in charge, and if you point that finger at me again, I’m gonna break it off and shove it someplace uncomfortable.

Jace grinned and tossed his head toward the sound of the voice. I nodded again and followed him into the main room, mingling with the various enforcers standing against the walls, most with their hands clenched into fists at their sides. They were agitated, on high alert from having our rented territory invaded by a stranger. A very large stranger of another species.

The bruin wasn’t hard to spot. In fact, he would have been impossible to hide.

The largest tomcat in the room was my cousin Lucas Wade, who’d accompanied my uncle Rick to the hearing. In human form, Lucas was six and a half feet tall and more than three hundred pounds of solid muscle. He had to enter most rooms sideways. Running into him was like hitting the side of a house.

The bruin was more than a foot taller than Lucas, and I couldn’t begin to imagine how much he weighed. His hair was light reddish-brown, which I hadn’t expected, and plentiful, which I had. It hung to his shoulders in thick, tangled waves, blending seamlessly with a beard of the same length and color. His cheeks were ruddy from the cold, and above them shone eyes that were proportionately small, dark brown and surprisingly expressive. And what I saw in them at the moment was anger. Unfiltered, unmistakable anger.

You can’t just walk in here and demand an audience, Calvin Malone insisted from the center of the room where he, like everyone else, was dwarfed by the angry bear. This is neither the proper place, nor the proper way to address our council. I’m going to have to ask you to—

Calvin. My father’s voice cut through Malone’s with the confidence of long-held authority. Malone faded into silence, but he didn’t move. My father was unfazed. I’m sure we can spare the time to meet with a member of our brother species. In fact, I think that’s the least we owe our guest. That, and perhaps a cup of coffee?

On his left, Uncle Rick nodded, as did Paul Blackwell, who watched from the kitchen doorway. Malone scowled, then conceded the point with a brisk nod. Of course.

My father’s gaze settled on me and Jace. Jace, bring some coffee for… He paused, addressing the bruin again. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.

Elias Keller, the giant rumbled.

Some coffee for Mr. Keller? my father continued, and Jace nodded, already headed toward the kitchen. Mr. Keller, will you have a seat?

Keller nodded, apparently surprised by the offer of hospitality. But there was barely enough space to breathe, much less sit, in the crowded room. My father looked almost amused by the extra security. Gentlemen, could you give us a little room?

The tomcats hesitated, glancing around at one another. Then, almost as one they migrated toward the exits, some headed for the front door, others for the hallway. When the room had cleared, except for the four Alphas, my father considered me for a moment, then tossed his head toward the kitchen. I went willingly, because if I sat quietly and chose my seat carefully, I’d be able to see and hear everything that happened in the main room. A minor bright spot in what was shaping up to be one of the worst days of my life.

Jace stood in front of the coffeepot, pouring creamer into a plain white mug. You think he takes it with hazelnut creamer? I leaned with one hip against the counter next to him.

I’m guessing black. He stirred, then tapped the spoon against the rim of the mug before dropping it into the sink. This one’s for you. Winking, he handed me the cup of doctored coffee, then carried a second mug—black—into the living room. He was back a minute later, pouring a third mug for himself.

I sat at the small round table, my chair positioned as far to the right as possible. From there, I could see the bruin, who took up most of the ugly beige sofa all on his own. I could also see my father, in the armchair nearest the couch, and Malone, opposite him in a matching chair.

…can we do for you, Mr. Keller? My father asked, his hands templed beneath his chin, fingertips brushing a slight shadow of stubble.

Across from him, Malone faced mostly away from me, so that I saw only a slice of his profile. But that was enough for me to recognize the scowl dominating his expression. He was clearly irritated with my father for taking charge, which sent a petty surge of glee through me. Did Malone think chairing the tribunal sitting in judgment of me gave him enough power to displace Greg Sanders as the head of the entire Territorial Council? If so, he was sorely mistaken, and at that moment I wanted nothing more out of life than to be present when my father made that fact clear.

And maybe a full pardon. That would be nice, too.

Jace slid into the seat on my right, setting his own mug on the table in front of him. I mouthed, Thanks, and held up my cup before sipping from it, my attention already focused on the Alphas and the bruin.

What can you do for me? Keller ran one broad, thick-fingered hand along his scraggly beard, tugging it as he stared down at my father. Keep your cats off my mountain.

Bruins, like the bears they Shifted into, lived almost exclusively in the northern rocky districts—mostly Alberta, British Columbia and Alaska. Very few lived in the continental U.S., and those who did stuck to isolated regions of the Northwest—including the werecat free zone in Montana, where we’d come for my hearing.

"Our cats?" My father glanced at his fellow Alphas, but none seemed to have any idea what our ursine guest was talking about.

"Well, they certainly aren’t my cats," Keller scoffed. He lifted his mug—which looked like a toy cup in his tennis racket-size hand—and drained the contents in one long swallow. Then he set the empty cup on the coffee table and eyed my father steadily.

What are these cats doing, exactly? Calvin Malone asked.

They’re carrying on like a pack of rabid dogs, not five miles from my place. Keller shifted in his seat, and the couch groaned with his movement. "Hunting and fighting in the daytime. Making all kinds of racket. It’s a bad time for such ruckus, what with humans crawling all over the mountain looking for those missing hikers. Damn fools. Those cats of yours are either gonna make trouble, or be trouble, and I want no part of it either way."

Missing hikers?

On my left, the kitchen door creaked open, and I turned to see Marc step inside. His gaze found me instantly, the gold specks glittering in his brown eyes. He looked away first, as had become his habit since we’d broken up ten weeks earlier. Ten weeks and four days, to be exact. And approximately ten hours.

But who was counting?

A familiar ache settled into my chest, and I tried to drown it with coffee.

Are you sure they’re Shifters, and not natural cats? Cougars, maybe? Uncle Rick asked from the living room. I tried to concentrate on what was being said, but I couldn’t seem to drag my gaze from Marc.

What’s going on? he whispered to Jace, avoiding my eyes as he sniffed in the direction of the living room. And what’s that smell?

Of course I’m sure, Keller rumbled from the other room, and Marc froze at the sound of the strange voice.

Is that what I think it is? Marc murmured, crossing the kitchen to stand behind us, where he could see into the living room. "A bruin?"

Jace nodded, a grin practically splitting his face in half. Bruins were rarer than thunderbirds. Rarer even than tabby cats, at least in the U.S. My father said they’d be gone for good someday. Maybe during my lifetime. I’d never expected to see one in person.

They’re bigger than cougars, and jet-black, every one, Keller continued. Smarter ’n cougars, too. But they lack the common sense to be frightened when they ought.

Definitely tomcats, then, I thought. And probably teenagers.

I expect you boys to round ’em up, and soon, the bruin said, glancing from one Alpha to another. "I’ve already buried one—figured you’d wanna know why he didn’t come back—and I don’t mind diggin’ more holes, if need be. Seems only fair to warn