Rachel Vincent - Prey

My father wore no coat other than his usual suit jacket, and only once I noticed that his cheeks were flushed from the cold did I realize that I was completely covered with chill bumps, and that I was actually shivering.

Now that I was done exercising, my sweat had dried to leave me cold in the basement chill.

“What happened?” Moving briskly, my father stepped over the corner of the mat and snatched the blanket from Kaci’s chair.

“Hang on a second, Dan,” I said into the mouthpiece, while my father draped the blanket over my shoulders. “Daniel Painter found two dead strays in Marc’s living room. Marc’s missing, and a trail of his blood leads out the house and to the driveway, where it looks like he was loaded into a car. At least one other stray was there, based on the scent on the doorknob.”

My Alpha’s expression grew bleaker with each word I spoke. “How much blood did he lose?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, just as Painter said, “A lot.” My heart thumped harder, aching within my chest at the thought of how much blood he’d lost, and my father motioned for me to sit in the chair Kaci had vacated.

“Are these dead strays in cat form or human form?” he asked, knowing Painter would hear him.

“Human form.” Painter sighed, and when springs squealed over the phone, I pictured him sinking wearily onto Marc’s couch. A couch I’d never sat on, or even seen.

My father frowned, and I shared his confusion. Why would werecats attack someone they obviously meant to kill, based on the earlier ambush, without the use of their best weapons—claws and canines? For that matter, why attack Marc at all? Weren’t Manx and I the original targets? Wasn’t the objective the usual: kidnap the women and kill the men? If so, why go after Marc when Manx and I weren’t even there?

My phone was getting hot, so I switched to my other ear.

“Are the dead men carrying anything?” My dad dug in his inside coat pocket and pulled out his own cell phone, scrolling through the menu as he spoke. “Wallets? Checkbooks? Phones? Anything that might identify them?”

“I don’t know.” More springs groaned as Painter stood again. “Want me to search ‘em?”

Instead of answering Painter, my father turned to me with his free hand outstretched. “Give me the phone.”

I hesitated, even though my father—not to mention my Alpha—had given me a direct order, because handing over my phone felt like giving up my link to Marc. Or at least to the man currently in the best position to help him. But after a second, I obeyed.

“Painter?” my father barked. His concern came through as gruffness. But then, that’s how most of his strong emotions sounded. “This is Greg Sanders, Alpha of the south-central Pride. Thank you for alerting us. Can you stay there until my team arrives?”

“Yeah, sure,” Painter said, and I pictured him nodding eagerly, pleased to be needed, in spite of the circumstances.

My concern for Painter paled in comparison to my fear for Marc, but I still didn’t want him to get hurt, especially trying to help us. “What if they come back to clean up the rest of their mess?”

My dad tilted my phone so that the mouthpiece slanted away from his lips. “Hopefully, he’ll get a good description.” To Painter, he said, “Lock the door and turn off the lights. Then Shift.” Because it would be easier to defend himself that way, should the need arise. “And if they come back, go right out the front door and call Faythe.”

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