Stray. Rachel VincentЧитать онлайн книгу.
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STRAY
My heart pounding, I stepped out of the alley, half expecting to be struck by lightning or hit by a runaway train. Nothing happened, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I took another step, my eyes wide to let in all of the available light. Still nothing happened.
I was feeling foolish now, chasing a stranger down a dark alley at night, like some bimbo from a bad horror film. In the movies, this was where things always went wrong. A hairy hand would reach out of the shadows and grab the curious-but-brainless heroine around the throat, laughing sadistically while she wasted her last breath on a scream.
The difference between the movies and reality was that in real life, I was the hairy monster, and the only screaming I ever did was in rage. I was about as likely to cry for help as I was to spontaneously combust. If this particular bad guy hadn’t figured that out yet, he was in for a very big surprise.
Find out more about Rachel Vincent by visiting mirabooks. co. uk/rachelvincent and read Rachel’s blog at ubanfantasy.blogspot.com
Coming soon
ROGUE
Also by Rachel Vincent
Shifters series STRAY ROGUE PRIDE PREY SHIFT ALPHA Soul Screamers series MY SOUL TO TAKE MY SOUL TO KEEP MY SOUL TO SAVE MY SOUL TO STEAL IF I DIE BEFORE I WAKE Unbound series BLOOD BOUND SHADOW BOUND And coming soon … OATH BOUND
Stray
Rachel Vincent
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Writing a book is a very solitary pursuit. Publishing one is not. It’s a group effort, requiring contributions from many people, with many different areas of expertise. With that in mind, I’d like to thank everyone who worked on Stray during its development: editorial director Dianne Moggy and executive editor Margaret Marbury; in marketing, Ana Movileanu and Stacy Widdrington; art director Erin Craig and designer Sean Kapitain; editorial assistant Adam Wilson, whose contributions behind the scenes should not go unnoticed; and everyone involved in production and sales. Thank you all.
Also, thanks to Ohh, who double-checked my Spanish, without laughing at my mistakes.
Thanks to my editor, the fabulous Mary-Theresa Hussey, whose patience with me and faith in my story are directly responsible for putting this book on the shelf. Thanks to literary agent extraordinaire Miriam Kriss for being so incredibly good at her job. For answering my questions and calming me down. For giving me confidence and pride in my work. In short, thanks for selling my books.
And finally, I owe a huge debt of gratitude – and a big hug – to Kim Harrison, the world’s greatest mentor, for lending her wisdom, her experience and her time to a newbie writer in need of guidance. For teaching me more than I ever thought possible, and more than I could ever express. And most of all, thanks, Kim, for taking me seriously.
To my No.1 fan, the love of my life, for endless support and encouragement. For providing me with the time and the space I needed to make my dream come true. And most of all, for daring me to finally put my hands on the keyboard, and the words on the page.
This never would have happened without you.
One
The moment the door opened I knew an ass-kicking was inevitable. Whether I’d be giving it or receiving it was still a bit of a mystery.
The smell hit me as I left the air-conditioned comfort of the language building for the heat of another north-central Texas summer, tugging my backpack higher on my shoulder as I squinted into the sunset. A step behind me, my roommate, Sammi, was ranting about the guest lecturer’s discriminatory view of women’s contributions to nineteenth-century literature. I’d been about to play devil’s advocate, just for the hell of it, when a shift in the evening breeze stopped me where I stood, on the top step of the narrow front porch.
My argument forgotten, I froze, scanning the shadowy quad for the source of the unmistakable scent. Visually, nothing was out of the ordinary: just small groups of summer students talking on their way to and from the dorms. Human students. But what I smelled wasn’t human. It wasn’t even close.
Absorbed in her rant, Sammi didn’t realize I’d stopped. She walked right into me, cursing loud enough to draw stares when her binder fell out of her hand and popped open on the ground, littering the steps with loose-leaf paper.
“I could use a little notice next time you plan on zoning out, Faythe,” she snapped, bending to gather up her notes. Grunts and more colorful words issued from behind her, where our fellow grad students were stalled by our pedestrian traffic jam. Lit majors are not known for watching where they’re going; most of us walk with our eyes in a book instead of on the path ahead.
“Sorry.” I knelt to help her, snatching a sheet of paper from the concrete before the student behind me could stomp on it. Standing, I took the steps two at a time, following Sammi to a brick half wall jutting from the porch. Still talking, she set her binder on the ledge and began methodically reorganizing her notes, completely oblivious to the scent, as humans always were. I barely heard her incessant chatter as she worked.
My nostrils flared slightly to take in more of the smell as I turned my face into the breeze. There. Across the quad, in the alley between the physics building and Curry Hall.
My fist clenched around the strap of my backpack and my teeth ground together. He wasn’t supposed to be here. None of them were supposed to be here. My father had promised.
I’d always known they were watching me, in spite of my father’s agreement not to interfere in my life. On occasion, I’d spot a too-bright eye in the crowd at a football game, or notice a familiar profile in line at the food court. And rarely—only twice before in five years—I caught a distinctive scent on the air, like the taste of my childhood, sweet and familiar, but with a bitter aftertaste. The smell was faint and tauntingly intimate. And completely unwelcome.
They were subtle, all those glimpses, those hints that my life wasn’t as private as we all pretended. Daddy’s spies faded silently into crowds and shadows because they wanted to be seen no more than I wanted to see them.
But this one was different. He wanted me to see him. Even worse—he wasn’t one of Daddy’s.
“…that her ideas are somehow less important because she had ovaries instead of testes is beyond chauvinistic. It’s barbaric. Someone should…Faythe?” Sammi nudged me with her newly restored notebook. “You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
No, I hadn’t seen a ghost. I’d smelled a cat.
“I’m feeling a little sick to my stomach.” I grimaced only long enough to be convincing. “I’m going to go lie down. Will you apologize to the group for me?”
She frowned. “Faythe, this was your idea.”
“I know.” I nodded, thinking of the four other M.A. candidates already gathered around their copies of Love’s Labours Lost in the library. “Tell everyone I’ll be there next week. I swear.”
“Okay,” she said with a shrug of her bare, freckled shoulders. “It’s your grade.” Seconds later, Sammi was just another denim-clad student on the sidewalk, completely oblivious to what lurked in the late-evening shadows thirty yards away.
I left the concrete path to cut across the quad, struggling to keep anger from showing on my face. Several feet from the sidewalk, I stepped on my shoelace, giving myself time to come up with a plan of action as I retied it. Kneeling, I kept one eye on the alley, watching