Alpha (6 page)

Then, without a word, he lifted me and stepped back, withdrawing in every sense of the word. He set my bare feet on the dirty floor and zipped his pants up. I stood there naked and in shock, staring after him as he shoved the door open and let in a frigid draft. “Maybe now you'll remember.”

Then he was gone, and the world was cold.

 

I got dressed slowly, all alone, reeling. I could still feel echoes of him, deep inside. I could still smell him on my skin, taste him on my lips. But I'd never felt more alone in my life. Abandoned. Dismissed.

My shirt and jeans were covered in dust. I brushed them off as best I could, but still looked like I'd rolled in it. Was that what he wanted? That I smell like him and look like we'd just rolled all over the ground? Had I been marked? Reclaimed, then left to wonder what the hell just happened?

Stunned, I crossed the cold yard, plodded up the steps, and opened the kitchen door slowly, to keep it from creaking. I needn't have bothered. Marc wasn't there. But Jace was.

“What the hell happened?” he demanded in a whisper, as voices floated in from the living room—the others still discussing the upcoming vote.

“I…” I brushed past him, headed for the soda I'd poured half an hour earlier. I gulped from the glass, trying to figure out what to tell him, and nearly choked when a melting sliver of ice wedged in my throat.

“You smell like him, he smells like you, and you're
wearing half the damn mountain on your clothes,” Jace hissed. “I guess I know what happened.”

“I'm not sure
I
know what happened….” The glass was slick in my grip, so I set it down, still trying to gather my thoughts. “But I think I just got a dose of my own medicine.”

Jace scowled. “I'd say we both did. Marc's back in the game.”

I drained my glass and poured a refill. “I'll be right back. I need a shower.” But the floor creaked when I stepped into the hall, and Marc heard it. He'd probably been listening for it.

“You two boycotting the meeting, or are you gonna get in on this?” he called.

I groaned on the inside. Marc was going to make me pay. He was going to humiliate me, like I'd humiliated him, by making me show up for an important strategy meeting smelling like him and covered in the dirt they'd assume he'd rolled me in. Everyone would know what we'd done, if they didn't already.

He was making a statement. Staking his claim. And Jace and I would have to live with it.

But with any luck, if I let him have his moment—let him publicly air his grievance—he'd be able to work past some of his anger.
Please let him work past some of his anger
….

“Faythe?” my father called, clearly oblivious to the game Marc was playing—so far.

“Yeah. I'm coming.” Dialing up my courage, I brushed more dirt from my clothes with my free hand, then marched back through the kitchen and into the living room with my head high. Or at least not droop
ing. Jace followed me and took up a post in the doorway, looking angrier than I'd ever seen him.

Marc sat on the arm of the couch, watching me, apparently at peace with the world, at least for the moment.

I leaned against the wall, sipping from my glass, trying to ignore the stares as they roamed down from my hair—evidently disheveled—over my shirt and pants, taking in the smudges I couldn't get out without detergent. “Okay, as much fun as this awkward silence is…” I had to force my hand to relax around my glass before it cracked. “What's the plan?”

My father cleared his throat, mercifully drawing the collective focus from me and setting us all back on track as only he could. “The vote takes place in an hour and a half. When they ask for prevailing business, I'll make the formal charge against Malone, then we'll present our evidence. Faythe?” My father turned to me, and for once, I was glad I couldn't read his expression.

“Yeah.” I set my glass on the coffee table and lifted my coat from the back of an armchair. From the inside pocket, I pulled a clear, gallon-size freezer bag—the only size big enough to hold two fourteen-inch-long thunderbird feathers—and held it up for everyone to see.

The south-central cats had all seen it, of course, but Di Carlo's men had not. They gathered around for a closer look when I laid the bag down on the coffee table. “Can we open it?” Teo Di Carlo asked, and my father nodded.

“Just for a minute, though. The blood's already dry, and the scent is only going to fade with time and exposure to air.” And we needed everyone at the vote to
be able to tell without a doubt whose blood stained that feather.

Teo carefully pulled open the seal and held the bag to his nose. His eyes brightened as he inhaled. “That's definitely Lance Pierce.”

“I can smell it from here,” one of his fellow enforcers added, from the other end of the couch.

“There's no doubt about it, Greg,” Bert Di Carlo said, his voice rumbling throughout the room. “Now, whether or not Malone's allies will accept the obvious conclusion… That remains to be seen.”

And that's what we were most worried about. Michael—my oldest brother was an attorney in the human world—had warned us that our evidence was circumstantial at best. It only proved that Lance Pierce had bled on a thunderbird feather, not that he'd killed the bird. Or that the feather had even been attached to a bird when it was bled on. But since the werecat legal system didn't mirror the human one, we were hoping it would be enough. I'd been tried for murder with less evidence.

Of course, I'd been found innocent of that particular charge….

“Bert, would you mind going to fill Rick and Ed in?” My father asked. “Then we can all meet at the main lodge in half an hour.” My uncle Rick Wade and Ed Taylor—Alphas of the East Coast Pride and the Midwest Pride, respectively—were sharing a cabin on the other side of the main lodge.

Di Carlo nodded and rose, motioning for Teo to join him. On their way out the door, they let in a frigid draft and a glimpse of the rapidly darkening winter sky, and seconds later their footsteps faded into the distance.

“Everyone get ready,” my father said, then he disappeared into his room to change into his suit.

Marc followed me into the bedroom we were supposed to share with Jace and snatched Jace's duffel from the floor. Before Jace could protest, Marc tossed the bag to him. “You've got the first shower. Take your time.”

Jace bristled, but I only shook my head. “Please, Jace. I'm tired of fighting with my own Pridemates. Let's just save it for the real fight, okay?”

Jace spun without a word and stomped off toward the only bathroom.

I set my bag on the dresser and unzipped it, and was digging for clean clothes when Marc crossed the room and closed the door. “You can change and brush your hair, but don't you dare take a shower.”

“Don't tell me what to do.” I turned to find his hard gaze trained on me, his forehead furrowed.

“You owe me. Everyone knows you slept with Jace, and Dean will tell anyone who'll listen that it's because I couldn't keep you interested. You've turned me into a walking joke, and the least you can do is make sure everyone knows I'm not out of the game yet.”

“This isn't a game, Marc.” Why did they both keep referring to it as such?

“The three of us, all tangled up in knots? Hell, no, it's not a game. It's my fucking train wreck of a life. But you walking around smelling like we just had a roll in the shed? That's just more of you lying in the bed you've made. With me, this time.”

I sighed and sank onto the side of the bed, holding my change of clothes. “Fine, if it'll make you happy.”

He snatched his own change of clothes from the dresser and left the room, slamming the door.

Jace came back a few minutes later, as I was pulling a clean shirt over my head. He stopped cold in the doorway, his hair dripping on his shoulders. “Aren't you going to shower?”

“I can't.”

“The hell you can't. He's doing this on purpose. Punishing us both.”

I sat on the end of the bed and grabbed my left boot. “Don't you think we deserve it? We humiliated him, and this is just the beginning. What do you think everyone's going to be saying behind his back? It's not going to kill either of us for me to walk around smelling like him for a couple of hours.”

Except that I hated being marked, and Marc damn well knew it. Which was the whole point.

I zipped up my boots and Jace dropped his duffel on the floor and stomped out of the room.

Great. This must be the episode where Faythe can't make
anyone
happy.
Fortunately, my plans for Calvin Malone had nothing to do with his happiness.

Clad in jeans, boots, and a plain, snug black long-sleeved tee, I grabbed my jacket in the living room, and we headed toward the main lodge as a group. I expected both of the guys to give me the proverbial cold shoulder, but to my surprise, they took up positions on either side of me, only pausing briefly to glare at each other. Not a promising start to the evening. But surely once they had a mutual enemy to focus on, the personal rivalry would fade for a little while.

The cabin Malone and Mitchell shared was dark when we passed it, and when we got to the main lodge, I realized we were the last to arrive. One of Paul Blackwell's men met us at the door and led us to the formal
dining room at the back of the lodge, where I'd stood trial for my life three months earlier. The room was long, and it normally appeared even larger than it was, thanks to an entire wall of windows. But it felt small and cramped, packed with ten Alphas and a grand total of thirty-six enforcers. I'd never felt such a concentration of testosterone and hostility.

And I was the only woman in the room.

The three solid walls of the room were lined in folding metal chairs, most already occupied with beefy toms. The table in the center sat ten, and nine of those spots were filled with the other Alphas.

An odd hush descended as I entered the room followed by Marc and Jace, and I fought the urge to drop my eyes, which got easier when I realized they weren't focused on Marc's scent still clinging to me—they hadn't had a chance to smell me yet. This was the first time about half the men in the room had seen me since Colin Dean sliced my face up.

Most of them didn't know what had happened to me. I'd declined to answer the few who'd had the nerve to ask, and Dean didn't seem to be advertising that little bit of trivia, probably because his scar was bigger than mine. But I'd obviously been cut on purpose—accidental cuts aren't that straight or even.

I stared back boldly, silently daring someone to comment, and only when the return glances went to Colin Dean did I realize which direction the prevailing rumor winds were blowing. They may not have put all the pieces together yet, but our similar scars were too much of a coincidence to be unrelated.

Paul Blackwell stood at the head of the table, his cane
hooked over the arm of his chair. Malone sat to his left, and the seat opposite had been reserved for my father.

My dad took his place and Blackwell cleared his throat, signaling for the last of the stragglers to find a seat. But when I looked for a chair, I saw that there were only two available. One between Alex Malone and Colin Dean, and the other on Alex's other side. They had set us up, insuring that I'd have to sit with one of them instead of with either Jace or Marc. Marc had already taken the seat between Dean and the wall, and when I smiled to thank him for taking that option out of the mix he returned my smile with a tight one of his own.

I deliberately took the chair between Alex and Dean, to show them I couldn't be intimidated. Both men looked perversely pleased by my choice.

When I sat, Blackwell spoke. “Before we begin, is there any prevailing business?” He knew what we were up to. He'd been at the ranch when we were attacked by the thunderbirds, and he'd launched the initial investigation into Malone's involvement. But he remained officially neutral, which he considered the only appropriate course of action for the council chair. At least until we'd formally presented our case.

“I have one bit of business,” my father said, and I treasured the look of surprise on Calvin Malone's face, brief though it was.

“Go ahead, Greg,” Blackwell said.

My father stood and straightened his suit jacket. “I charge Councilman Calvin Malone with treason against this organization and its members.”

“W
hat?” Alex Malone popped up from his seat like a jack-in-the-box, and his surprised, angry gesture came within inches of smashing my nose. But at a single glance from his Alpha, he dropped into his chair, fuming in silence. His gaze was glued to the table, where my dad now stared down at his, both Alphas impeccably composed, while the level of tension in the room rose quickly enough to make the rest of us sweat. Literally.

Malone leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “Now, Greg, I hardly think that my questioning of your authority qualifies as treason.”

“No. But inciting war with another Shifter species does. Especially when that war is intended to hide your Pride's guilt and cripple my Pride's resources.”

“Greg, these are very serious charges,” Milo Mitchell said, from his seat next to Malone. Like we were unaware.

“Accompanied by very few details,” Nick Davidson added. “I assume you can provide both specifics and evidence?”

“Of course.” My father nodded, and this time,
Malone's slow blink was the only indication of his surprise. He didn't know about the feathers. “I believe you all know that, last week, my Pride was attacked by a Flight of thunderbirds from a nest in New Mexico. Evidently they winter in the werecat free zone just to the west of my territory. We were hosting several guests at the time—” no need to mention that our “guests” were helping us plot an attack against Malone's Pride in retaliation for my brother's murder “—and between us, we lost two enforcers and sustained multiple serious injuries. But we also captured a prisoner, who told us that his Flight was attacking to avenge the death of one of their own—whom they believed we murdered.”

“And how exactly does this make Calvin Malone guilty of treason?” Mitchell demanded, while Malone sat silently beside him, apparently unfazed by our allegations.

“We have evidence that the thunderbird in question was killed not by one of my enforcers, but by one of his. But Calvin blamed the murder on us, inciting the thunderbirds to attack and cripple my Pride, while sparing his own.”

“The thunderbirds told you this?” Nick Davidson leaned forward, propping both elbows on the table. He looked considerably older than forty-two, but then, he'd had a rough few years. He'd lost his wife to cancer and was left to raise their seven children—including one small daughter—alone.

“Not initially.” My father frowned and his focus returned to Malone, who stared back as if none of this bothered him. “Brett Malone told us. Right after he asked for sanctuary. Less than an hour before he died.”

The room went completely silent. I think most of us stopped breathing. Even Paul Blackwell looked shocked, his wrinkled hands clutching the arms of his chair like he might fall over without it. He'd known we would accuse Malone of treason, but evidently hadn't foreseen the blatant implication of murder.

Calvin Malone rose, brown eyes blazing. He leaned with both palms flat on the table, glaring at my father as if bold eye contact would be enough to intimidate him. “Are you saying there was something suspicious about my son's death?”

My father stood firm, unruffled. “I'm stating facts. The conclusions you draw are your own.”

“Brett died during a training accident.” Milo Mitchell leaned forward in his chair, but was obviously unwilling to draw any more attention to himself by standing. “His death has been very hard on his family, and it is reprehensible of you to slander the dead, Greg.”

“I'm not slandering him, Milo.” My father returned his gaze boldly, and Mitchell looked away. “I have immense respect for Brett Malone. It takes a great deal of courage to stand up for what's right, especially when that means standing against one's own father.”

“Brett had nothing to fear from me!” Malone roared from across the table, and I couldn't resist a tiny grin of satisfaction at seeing him lose his temper. Especially when Alex flinched on my right. He sat so stiff and tense that I was half convinced he'd explode if I poked him.

“And he had no plans to defect,” the Appalachian Alpha continued, softer now, but with no less vehemence. “Unless you have some evidence suggesting otherwise, I strongly suggest that you let my son rest in
peace and move on with the more relevant parts of this discussion. Assuming there are any.”

Malone started to sit, then froze when my father turned toward the far end of the room, where Marc, Jace, and I sat interspersed with the Appalachian enforcers. “In fact, I do have some rather suggestive evidence.” My father smiled at me briefly, then nodded at Marc.

Marc stood and reached into the inside pocket of his coat as he crossed the room. All eyes were on him—more than half the gazes openly hostile—as he handed several folded sheets of paper to my dad.

“What's that?” Milo Mitchell demanded, without acknowledging Marc. We'd been expecting some static over his unofficial reinstatement into the Pride, but so far no one had said a word. Neither had Malone even mentioned the covert ops we'd unleashed on his Pride, in spite of the fact that several of his men had been seriously injured.

My theory on his silence was that Malone was planning to throw consequences at us full force, once he had the power to overrule any objections. Which was one of the more critical reasons we had to keep him from being voted in as council chair.

“Calvin, when did Brett die?” my dad said, without answering Mitchell's question or unfolding the papers. “Time and date, please.”

“This is completely inappropriate,” Malone insisted, as a vein in his temple throbbed visibly. “I'm not going to let you turn my son's tragic death into the center ring of whatever circus you're directing. We're here to vote.”

“I don't think we can afford to gloss over such seri
ous accusations. And I would think you'd be eager to defend yourself.”

“There's nothing to defend. I've done nothing wrong.”

My father raised one brow, still eyeing Malone steadily. “Then answer the question. When did Brett die?”

Malone sank stiffly into his chair, still pushed back from the table, and when Blackwell didn't object to the question, he had no choice but to answer. “Last Monday night.”

“What time of day?” My dad slowly unfolded the first piece of paper, focused on it now, rather than Malone, as if the other Alpha was no longer worthy of his full attention.

“Afternoon. I don't remember the exact time. It was a very traumatic day.”

“I'm sure your wife was traumatized, as well, but she remembers the time. According to Patricia, Brett died at around 3:45 p.m.”

Malone nodded slowly, eyes narrowed in barely contained fury. “That sounds about right. What's your point?”

My dad laid the first sheet of paper faceup on the table and pushed it toward Malone. “This is a printout of the recent activity on Jace Hammond's cell phone. My daughter borrowed it last Monday afternoon, in front of multiple witnesses. The highlighted line shows a call she made at 2:49 p.m. the day your son died. Do you recognize the number she called?”

Malone looked like he wanted to say no. To say he didn't recognize his own son's phone number. But he knew we could prove whose number it was, so finally
he nodded. “It's Brett's. So what? She called him, and he probably hung up as soon as he heard her voice.”

“Look again,” I said, then rushed on before anyone could tell me to shut up. “That call lasted seventeen minutes, and I'm more than willing to testify about what he told me.”

“You don't have the floor,” Mitchell snapped, eyes flashing. “And hearsay testimony is inadmissible.”

One of the few parallels to the human legal system. Which we all already knew. But Mitchell was ill informed.

I stood and addressed Paul Blackwell, trying not to be completely creeped out by the fact that I'd just left both Alex Malone and Colin Dean at my back, where I couldn't watch them. “Councilman, if I may?” I said, in my best, most respectful voice. Who says I never learn?

Blackwell gave me a short, reluctant nod, and I squashed my brief urge to grin in triumph before redirecting both my gaze and my comments to Milo Mitchell, whose son Kevin had broken my arm and tried to kill me, Marc, Jace, and Dr. Carver earlier that same month.

“Hearsay isn't admissible during a trial, but as Councilman Malone has already pointed out, he's not on trial. We're simply offering evidence as a basis for the charge we're leveling against him. We have every right to present both the charge and the evidence, and I can cite multiple precedents, if you'd like.”

I'd worked with Michael for eight straight hours, memorizing cases and learning how the council's ruling in each one supported our strategy. And silently I dared Mitchell to challenge my knowledge. To give me
a chance to show off and to make a fool of him. That's the least he deserved after conspiring with Malone to tag strays in the free zone, a plot that had nearly cost Marc his life, and had convinced most of the strays that there could be no peace between them and the Pride cats.

But Mitchell must have seen the truth in my eyes, or in my confident bearing—which I'd also worked on with Michael. Apparently there's a difference between confident and cocky. Who knew?

Either way, Mitchell only shook his head. “That won't be necessary.”

That time I resisted a smile in favor of a small nod, the most noncommittal response, and one most Alphas perfected quickly. Then I turned back to Blackwell. “Will the council hear my testimony?”

Blackwell hesitated, but to his credit, he didn't glance around for input from his fellow Alphas. He only had a matter of minutes left as the council chair, and he wasn't going to waste it. “Yes. Briefly.”

“Thank you,” I said, and though my father dared not actually smile under such grave circumstances, I saw approval in his brief, encouraging nod. “The day the thunderbirds attacked my Pride, I personally interrogated the prisoner twice, and based on information from him, it became clear to me that Councilman Malone manipulated the Flight into attacking us. He lied to them about who was responsible for the death of their thunderbird.”

Anyone else would have minced words. Called Malone misleading, rather than a liar. But I rarely got the chance to tell the truth when it really mattered, and, like Blackwell, I wasn't going to waste it.

“That is not—” Malone started, but Di Carlo cut
him off with a single, gruff noise from the back of his throat. It wasn't quite a growl—that would have been considered an open declaration of hostility—but it was enough to shut him up.

“Faythe has the floor. Let her speak.”

I could have kissed Di Carlo.

“I told both my Alpha and Councilman Blackwell what I suspected, but they both said we couldn't act without evidence. So I called Brett, because he had access to information we needed, and frankly, he owed me a big one.” I'd saved his life only a quarter of a mile from where we sat, when a stray gored him and Colin Dean was too chickenshit to go help him without wasting time Shifting.

Blackwell nodded. “Go on.”

“Brett didn't want to do it at first, Councilman Malone.” I shot Malone a wide-eyed, earnest look, knowing it would piss him off for me to address him directly. But there was nothing he could do about it. And I was telling the truth. “He wanted to stay loyal to his birth Pride, but he knew what you were doing was wrong. He asked for sanctuary, and my father offered him not only a place to stay, but a job as an enforcer. Brett agreed. He was a good man, Councilman, and we've all lost something with his death.”

Malone tried desperately to hide his rage, but it couldn't be contained. His face flushed so red I was afraid the capillaries in his nose would burst. He clenched the arms of his chair so tightly the wood groaned, drawing all eyes his way.

In that moment, revenge, even in such a small, brief dose, was sweeter than my mother's sun tea. And so much more refreshing…

“What did he say?” Nick Davidson asked, when I paused a little too long to enjoy Malone's reaction.

“He said that he and several of his fellow enforcers were in the free zone in New Mexico…” I paused, and my uncle interrupted with a leading question, as planned.

“Wait, what were they doing in New Mexico?”

I shrugged and gave the entire council a wide-eyed look of confusion. “You'd have to ask Councilman Malone that. All I know is that that particular part of New Mexico is within miles of our western border, and several hundred miles from the Appalachian territory.”

I paused for a few more seconds, to let that sink in. Yes, I was being heavy-handed and obvious, but sometimes that's the only way to feed information to a group of Alphas. In large numbers, they don't seem to be able to grasp subtlety.

“Anyway, he said he and his fellow enforcers were in New Mexico, and one of them killed a thunderbird in a dispute over a kill. They called in their Alpha, and when the thunderbirds came looking for their Flightmate, Brett said his father, Councilman Malone, told the birds that one of the south-central Pride cats had made the kill. Brett said his dad worked out a deal. In exchange for information about where to find our ranch, the birds had to promise to bring the tabbies to him—to keep them out of harm's way, of course—before the real bloodshed began.”

I paused again to let that sink in and to judge the reactions. Our allies had already known what was coming, of course, and Blackwell'd had a good idea.

But Malone's allies' reactions ranged from confusion
and disbelief—from Nick Davidson—to utter outrage from both Milo Mitchell and Jerald Pierce.

“Who did Brett say really killed the thunderbird?” Di Carlo asked, right on cue. All that rehearsal had paid off.

This time my hesitation was real. I felt bad for the Pierces—for Parker most of all, even though he wasn't there—and was far from comfortable with my decision to turn Lance Pierce over to the thunderbirds knowing he'd die. But I'd had no choice. The thunderbirds had been holding Kaci, and they would have killed her without hesitation if I hadn't come through with what they wanted.