Second Nature (17 page)

One glance at her pocket watch showed that she still had a couple of hours until Jorie came to pick her up. Enough time to read her e-mails and write her reports. She yearned for a shower, but the urge to find out what was in the notebook also pulled on her. Her glance darted back and forth between the door to the bathroom and the notebook. "Curiosity killed the cat," she warned herself but crossed the room anyway. She would take a look and then hurry through her shower. A quick cat's lick and change of clothes would have to do.

Impatient fingers ripped open the envelope and dumped the contents onto her bed.

The blue notebook and Jorie's wallet fell out. Griffin opened the wallet first. Except for an ATM card, a credit card, Jorie's driver's license, and fifty dollars, the wallet was empty. There were no photos, no stray receipts, and no other personal items. One long look at the driver's license told her that Marjorie Carol Price had been born on February 9, 1975. Griffin grinned to herself.
I knew she was older than she looked.

She took out the money and put the cards back. The saru on Osgrove's police force would arrange for the wallet to be found and returned to Jorie. They'd make it look as if the mugger had been interested only in cash, not Jorie's personal information, and had thrown away the wallet in frustration at not finding more money. Maybe that would get Jorie to relax and not be even more careful about people than she already was.

Her fingertips slid over the blue notebook, feeling the grooves and dents in the cover. It looked well-worn, as if Jorie had carried it with her wherever she went, but still not as battered as the notebook that she'd spied on top of Jorie's bedside table. Maybe that notebook had been with Jorie for an even longer time.

The first few pages held nothing but names — first names, last names, nicknames. Some of them had been crossed out, and finally, Jorie had circled the names Quinn O'Reilly and Sid Walker. Another page listed possible titles for the novel, with 'Song of Life' highlighted in yellow. Then came descriptions of hair colors, eye colors, build, and facial features. After that, Jorie had devoted a few pages to cat sayings. Griffin had to laugh when she saw the one right at the top: curiosity killed the cat.

She turned the page and skimmed the information on big cats that she had given Jorie during their two meetings. There was nothing else in the little book.

Griffin stared at the empty pages until her eyes began to burn.
Jorie was hurt. She almost got killed. Her life has been disrupted. All of that... for what?
Her throat tightened.
It wasn't a total loss, though,
her tenacious cat side reminded her. At least Jorie was finally starting to trust her.

The thought made her feel even worse.

Stop it. This is your job, your place in life.
She shoved the wallet and the notebook into the bedside table and hurried into the bathroom. As she slid out of her clothes, her hand trailed over the side of her head. It was still a little tender if she pressed hard, but no longer painful. One more shift of shape would heal it completely.

Her shower was much shorter than her Puwar half wanted. Just as she had written and sent off her report, she heard a knock on the door.

"Yes? Who's there?" she called even though the scent of coconut and grass growing in spring told her who was standing on the other side of the door.

"It's me." Jorie's voice was low and husky from lack of sleep.

No first name was added to identify herself.
I still have more work to do until she really starts to trust me.

Without further delay, Griffin swung open the door.

"Hey," Jorie said, lingering in the doorway. She looked tired, but her gaze attentively traveled over Griffin and took in the change of clothes.

Griffin realized that Jorie hadn't taken the time to shower. "If you want to shower before we go to the pancake place..." She pointed to the bathroom.

"I don't think that would be a good idea," Jorie said, lifting up her bandaged left arm. The movement made the sleeves of her sweatshirt slip up, and Griffin swallowed at the sight of forming bruises. "I'm supposed to keep it dry. I'll cover it with a plastic bag or something and take a shower when I get home. "

The offer to help lingered on Griffin's tongue, but she said nothing. Humans weren't as comfortable being naked in front of others as Wrasa were, and Jorie was probably no exception.

Jorie straightened her shoulders. "Ready to go? Did you make all your calls?"

"Yes. Getting my driver's license replaced while I'm in Michigan will take some paperwork, but I'll go over to the bank later and get a temporary ATM card, so I won't starve to death on my vacation," Griffin said with a wink.

"I'll pay for breakfast," Jorie said. "I had some cash stashed away at home."

She feels guilty because my wallet was stolen while I was helping her with her book,
Griffin realized. It was exactly what she had hoped would happen, but now that it had, she couldn't feel good about it.

"Come on," Jorie said. "Let's go get that breakfast I promised you."

*  *  *

Jorie leaned her elbows on the edge of the table, careful not to hit her injured arm, and watched in astonishment as Griffin took a healthy bite of yet another pancake. "This is what... your sixth pancake?"

Griffin's fork traveled leisurely to her mouth. Sensual lips wrapped around it and stripped the fork of the last piece of pancake. Griffin chewed and swallowed thoroughly. "You're counting what I eat for breakfast?" She flashed a grin of exaggerated disbelief.

"Hey, don't blame me. My mother is a math teacher, so I was counting things at the breakfast table before I could even spell pancake." The casual remark was out before Jorie had time to think about it. She leaned back, trying to put at least some physical distance between herself and Griffin. Normally, she didn't just give away information about herself or her family. Realizing how comfortable she was beginning to feel with Griffin made her feel decidedly... uncomfortable.
Her presence might have saved your life yesterday,
she told her warring instincts. Maybe her mother was right and it was time to start making friends.

Griffin took another bite of her syrupless pancake.

"Where do you put that? You don't have a hollow leg, do you?" Jorie teased.

"No." Griffin slapped her solid thighs. "No hollow leg. I'm simply starved. Rescuing damsels in distress burns a lot of calories."

Jorie's gaze sneaked up Griffin's face and along her head, where she knew the reddish-blond hair covered an egg-sized bump. While Griffin hadn't exactly rescued her, she still felt guilty. Never before had anyone been injured because of her. It wasn't a nice feeling. She shoved back her plate with the last bites of uneaten pancake. "Listen. I apologize if I came across as ungrateful and cold when you got hurt yesterday," she said, swallowing hard. "I'm used to being on my own, and I don't deal well with feeling like I owe other people something." If she had read Griffin right, she probably could relate to that. She clearly was a loner too and didn't like depending on other people, not even her family.
She's like Quinn... a lone tiger.
Part of a possible scene flashed through her mind. Her fingers itched to grab her notebook and write it down.

"It's okay. You weren't ungrateful," Griffin said. She cocked her head and studied Jorie. "What's wrong?"

"Wrong?"

Griffin's gaze slid over her again. "Yes. You're looking like your cat, Agatha, when she smelled the turkey on my sandwich... as if you just discovered something that you want but know you can't have."

Embarrassment warmed Jorie's skin.
Since when am I so easy to read?
For someone who had once made her living playing poker, it was a scary thought. "I just thought of a possible scene." She hesitated but then barged ahead. Griffin had been understanding about her writing so far. "Do you mind if I write it down before I forget it?"

"Go right ahead," Griffin said and winked at her. "At least then you'll be too busy to count how much I'm eating."

A second later, her ever-present pen and notebook were in her hands. "Sorry," Jorie said, not looking up from her writing. "That's one of the dangers of having breakfast with a writer. We get ideas for a scene at the oddest moments and then immediately have to write them down."

"One of the dangers?" Griffin asked with a laugh. "So there are others?"

"Almost getting killed by an armed thief wasn't dangerous enough for you?"

"Ah, yes, that was enough danger for now. We should try to walk on the tame side for a while," Griffin said and washed down the last of her pancake with her herbal tea. "And just for the record: you don't owe me anything, J.W."

Don't I?
Jorie lowered her pen. She noticed that Griffin was still calling her by her pseudonym. Not that Jorie didn't feel at home being called J.W. Her pseudonym, her identity as a writer, was a big part of her. Still, her acquaintance with Griffin was rapidly exceeding the distanced relationship between a writer and an expert who helped her with a few research questions. "I think I owe you at least one thing: letting you know my real name."

Griffin laid down her fork and knife and pushed her empty plate back to give Jorie her full attention. "Only if you're comfortable sharing it with me," she said.

The lack of pressure from Griffin made the decision easier. "My name is Jorie," she said quietly.

"Jorie..." Griffin's voice gave the name a gentle, exotic cadence. She extended her hand across the table. "Nice to meet you, Jorie."

Laughter bubbled up. Her discomfort fell away. She laid her hand in Griffin's bigger one. "The pleasure is mine."

*  *  *

Closing the door between her and the rest of the world was a relief. Griffin leaned against the wall for a few moments and breathed in the air of the room that smelled only of her and the Wrasa maid, with none of the flavors of human emotions. Except for her thirty-minute walk through the forest early this morning, this was the first time she was alone and didn't have to pretend. She had been in Jorie's company for the last twenty-four hours. It felt even longer.

Not that Jorie Price wasn't pleasant company when she allowed herself to give up her cool reserve — she was, and that was part of the problem. Jorie, her calm, and her sense of humor got Griffin to relax, and that could be dangerous. While undercover, she couldn't afford to let down her guard for even a moment.

She crossed the room and took a bottle of water, two hard-boiled eggs, a little cheese, and a bowl of salad from the mini fridge. Someone had filled a basket with fresh bread. Cutlery was arranged next to it.

Ah.
Griffin grinned with satisfaction.
Human bed-and-breakfasts don't have this kind of room service.
Even after six pancakes, her body was still telling her she needed more calories to make up for the energy that shifting had taken. She breathed in, savoring the nutty aroma of the cheese. Her mouth watered. Fresh salad crunched as she took her first bite.
Mmm.

With regret, she put down the fork.
Duty before pleasure.
It was the first thing Saru instructors drilled into cat-shifters. She reached for the phone and dialed Cedric Jennings's number, knowing he was already waiting for her progress report.

*  *  *

"Cyrus? Is that you?" his father's baritone reached Cedric as soon as he entered the house.

Cedric bit his lip until he tasted blood. It mingled with the bitter taste of envy, grief, and anger that filled his mouth. "It's me — Cedric," he answered.

His brother Cyrus hadn't entered the house in over four years. Cyrus was dead, choked to death in a human's insidious snare. The poacher had killed not only Cyrus but was slowly strangling the life out of his father and the rest of the family too.

Four years ago, Gregory Jennings had been the leader of a large pack and a proud officer of the Saru. Now he was a broken man, tortured by grief and a mysterious sickness. Cedric had long since suspected that his father was suffering from something that was similar to human Alzheimer's. No Wrasa had ever been afflicted by the disease. Even very old Wrasa kept their minds as sharp as their claws. At least that was how it had been in the past. Nowadays, Wrasa started to suffer from formerly unknown diseases. Cedric knew it was an outcry of nature, a warning to let them know that their kind was in trouble. If they didn't increase their numbers and start living in harmony with nature again, all that would be left of them in a few generations were just a few stupid horror stories that humans used to scare their children.

Cedric walked into the living room.

His father was sitting on the couch, once strong shoulders slouching. He looked up as Cedric entered. There was none of his old strength and pride in the gaze that connected with Cedric's. "How did it go in Oregon?" Gregory asked.

"California," Cedric said. "It was a waste of time. They should have sent me to Michigan instead."

"Then you should have made them send you." Gregory's voice was as firm as the unyielding gray of his eyes. A spark of his old power lit up those eyes. He was still good at hurling orders. "Cyrus would have..."

Cedric stopped listening. He already knew what his father was telling him. It was always the same: Cyrus was better. Cyrus was faster. Cyrus was stronger. Cyrus was more intelligent. It had been that way when Cyrus was alive, and it certainly was that way now that he was dead. Dead people made no mistakes. Cyrus was frozen in perfection in his father's memory.

Never before had Cedric envied Cyrus his position as their father's favorite. They had been as different as day and night from the start — in personality and in looks. While Cedric's white fur stood out in his family, Cyrus's wolf coat had been the same color as their father's: black like the forest by night, with just a few lighter shades along their bellies, like moonlight trickling in through the canopy of the dark forest.

Still, despite all their differences, they had loved and respected each other. Cedric had known if he did his job well and proved himself worthy, his time would come. Instead of being envious, his brother's strengths had inspired him to work harder, become stronger.