Rogue. Rachel VincentЧитать онлайн книгу.
exercising his own brand of population control—and in the process, breaking more of the council’s laws than I could even begin to list.
Not that this particular rogue gave a damn about our council’s laws. Especially if it was a jungle cat. Jungle cats are to Pride cats what wolves are to the domestic dog. They’re feral. Brutal. Governed by instinct, instead of logic or law. Rather than convening to debate the best course of action, jungle cats converge to fight, and what the victor says, goes.
Such behavior has only escaped notice by humanity because—unlike Pride cats the world over—jungle cats live in…well, the jungle. They’re native to the Amazon, the deepest, darkest, least-explored wilderness on the face of the planet, where people go missing without explanation on a regular basis. Where humanity is, for the most part, still afraid to build its concrete roads and cell towers, the universal security blankets of the modern era.
But this jungle cat—if the worst-case scenario was accurate—had stepped out of the jungle, and here, his uncivilized behavior would not go unnoticed by the human authorities. Not without our help, at least. And we would help him, all right. We’d help him right out of this life and into the next one.
I swallowed thickly, still watching my father. Fear chilled my blood at the thought of confronting another jungle cat, even as anger curled my hands into fists in my lap. Sweaty, nervous fists.
When he was satisfied with Parker’s recitation, my father said goodbye and dropped the cordless receiver back into its cradle. For a moment, he stood with his back to us, his still form framed by the sides of the glass-shelved display cabinet behind his desk, where his plaques and trophies gleamed beneath recessed lights my mother had positioned strategically.
The Alpha turned, releasing a weary-sounding sigh, then made his way across the room. When he sank into his armchair facing us all, I noticed for the first time how stiff he seemed, as if the action hurt, and I realized with a jolt of shock that my father was growing old. Too old, possibly, to deal with another jungle cat leaving his mark—and his corpses—all over our territory.
When he continued to stare at the rug beneath his feet instead of speaking, I glanced at Ethan, who shrugged at me. Marc was first to break the silence. “Did you want me and Faythe to get a whiff of the body, Greg?”
My father nodded, his green-eyed gaze flitting from Marc to me. “We need to connect the murders, if possible,” he said, confirming my suspicion. He cracked one knuckle, an old habit that sometimes meant he was angry, but in this case indicated deep thought. “But you might not find anything. This latest body may simply be the result of a careless new stray who hasn’t learned to control himself, or to cover his kills.”
Ethan frowned. “How do we know that’s not the case with Moore?”
Vic shifted in his seat, and leather creaked beneath him. “From what Marc told me last night, Moore’s attacker wasn’t new. Nowhere near.”
I whirled on Marc, wondering what he’d caught that I’d missed. “How do you figure that?” I hadn’t known there was a difference between the scent of an old stray and that of a new one.
“Moore’s scars. Most of them were old and faded.”
My eyes were drawn to Marc’s chest, where I knew similar marks lay hidden beneath a vintage Van Halen concert T-shirt. His scars were old and faded, too. Marc had been scratched—and thus infected—fifteen years earlier, when he was barely fourteen. “So, Moore wasn’t new.” I shrugged, still staring at his chest. “What does that matter? We’re talking about the killer being new, not the victim, right?”
Marc crossed his arms over his pecs, as if he knew what I was thinking. “Moore had dozens of healed wounds. He’d obviously been in several brawls, and I’m guessing he won most of them, since they didn’t kill him. There’s no way a new stray could take out someone with as much experience as Bradley Moore clearly had.”
Oh. That made sense. “Okay, but that’s sort of a moot point,” I said, my hand hanging over the end table to my right, my fingers brushing the back of a pewter cat reared to pounce. “Whether the killer is newly infected or not—whether he’s even a stray—doesn’t really matter. What matters is that Moore may have been killed by a jungle cat. And this new one probably was, too.”
“Jungle cat? We’re looking for a jungle cat?” Ethan glanced back and forth between me and Marc. “When were you guys going to enlighten the rest of us?”
“We aren’t sure about it yet.” My father frowned, displeased by my loose tongue. “And you’re on a need-to-know basis. I saw no need to alarm everyone without further proof of a problem.”
“Well, now we have proof,” Ethan muttered, drawing a stony frown from our father.
The Alpha folded his arms over his chest. “No, we don’t. And we won’t, until Parker gets back with the body.”
“Okay, that’ll tell us about the new body. But how sure are we that Moore was killed by a jungle cat?” Vic asked.
“Not completely,” Marc admitted, patting my leg. “But it’s certainly possible. The scent was definitely foreign.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t make sense, either.” I brushed his hand off, distracted by the thoughts swirling through my head like colors in a kaleidoscope. “Jungle strays usually rip their victims apart.” We knew that for a fact, after cleaning up the mess Luiz had made of a couple of college girls at the beginning of the summer. “Neck-snapping seems a little too neat and orderly.”
“And too easy,” Marc added. “Moore didn’t fight back, which means he probably never saw it coming. He must have known his murderer and trusted the bastard.” He paused, frowning at no one in particular. “Why would he trust another stray, especially a jungle cat?”
Vic arched his eyebrows. “Why would he even know a jungle cat? We executed the only one I’ve ever met.” Not for being a jungle cat. For kidnapping, rape, and murder—the unholy trinity of crimes.
My father cracked another knuckle and we all turned toward his chair, where he’d sat quietly for the past few minutes, content to let us discuss the situation on our own—no doubt another aspect of our training. When he had our full attention, the lines around his mouth deepened. “That seems to be the bottom line. With any luck, knowing how Moore and his killer are connected will tell us how to find the rogue.” He stood, signaling the end of the impromptu meeting. “We’ll know more when Parker gets back with his corpse.”
Ethan snickered, then swallowed his laughter at a stern look from my father. I hid my own smile against Marc’s shoulder. My dad had a weird way of referring to every dead body by the name of the person who found it. Or the person who rendered it dead in the first place. His habit was nothing short of macabre, and as a child, I’d flinched each time he’d made such a reference.
The guys thought it was hilarious. They kept a running total of all the corpses attributed to them by my father, as if it were a point of pride. I hadn’t been a bit surprised to find out a month earlier that Marc held the lead by a comfortable margin. I was disturbed by that fact, however, because I happened to know that he’d never actually discovered a single body. What that said about his kill count was enough to give me nightmares. And enough to make me seriously consider requesting a new field partner.
“Parker should be back by nine-thirty, so I want everyone in the barn at a quarter to ten. And I need a couple of volunteers to man the incinerator when we’re done with the body.” My father’s gaze settled on Marc automatically, and Marc in turn stared at Vic.
“No way.” Vic shook his head vehemently, short brown waves bouncing. “Owen and I just got back from patrolling.”
Marc blinked at him. “Faythe and I disposed of the last body.”
“Digging a hole’s one thing. Cremating a corpse, then grinding up the solid chunks, is something else entirely.” Vic closed his eyes briefly, no doubt remembering