Rachel Vincent - Stray (Shifters, Book 1)

RACHEL VINCENT

STRAY

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing a book is a very solitary pursuit. Publishing one is not. Its a group effort, requiring contributions from many people, with many different areas of expertise. With that in mind, Id 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 gratitudeand a big hugto Kim Harrison, the worlds 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 # 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

T he moment the door opened I knew an ass-kicking was inevitable. Whether Id 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 lecturers discriminatory view of womens contributions to nineteenth-century literature. Id been about to play devils 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 wasnt human. It wasnt even close.

Absorbed in her rant, Sammi didnt realize Id 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 theyre 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 wasnt supposed to be here. None of them were supposed to be here. My father had promised.

Id always known they were watching me, in spite of my fathers agreement not to interfere in my life. On occasion, Id spot a too-bright eye in the crowd at a football game, or notice a familiar profile in line at the food court. And rarelyonly twice before in five yearsI 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 wasnt as private as we all pretended. Daddys 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 worsehe wasnt one of Daddys.

that her ideas are somehow less important because she had ovaries instead of testes is beyond chauvinistic. Its barbaric. Someone shouldFaythe? Sammi nudged me with her newly restored notebook. You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.

No, I hadnt seen a ghost. Id smelled a cat.

Im feeling a little sick to my stomach. I grimaced only long enough to be convincing. Im 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 Loves Labours Lost in the library. Tell everyone Ill be there next week. I swear.

Okay, she said with a shrug of her bare, freckled shoulders. Its 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 for a glimpse of the trespasser. This wasnt supposed to happen. In my entire twenty-three years, Id never heard of a stray getting this far into our territory without being caught. It simply wasnt possible.

Yet there he was, hiding just out of sight in the alley. Like a coward.

I could have called my father to report the intruder. I probably should have called him, so he could send the designated spy-of-the-day to take care of the problem. But calling would necessitate speaking to my father, which I made a point to avoid at all costs. My only other course of action was to scare the stray off on my own, then dutifully report the incident the next time I caught one of the guys watching me. No big deal. Strays were loners, and typically as skittish as deer when confronted. They always ran from Pride cats because we always worked in pairs, at the very least.

Except for me.

But the stray wouldnt know I had no backup. Hell, I probably did have backup. Thanks to my fathers paranoia, I was never really alone. True, I hadnt actually seen whoever was on duty today, but that didnt mean anything. I couldnt always spot them, but they were always there.

Shoe tied, I stood, for once reassured by my fathers overprotective measures. I tossed my bag over one shoulder and ambled toward the alley, doing my best to appear relaxed. As I walked, I searched the quad discreetly, looking for my hidden backup. Whoever he was, hed finally learned how to hide. Perfect timing.

The sun slipped below the horizon as I approached the alley. In front of Curry Hall, an automatic streetlight flickered to life, buzzing softly. I stopped in the circle of soft yellow light cast on the sidewalk, gathering my nerve.