“Yeah, that’s what Jace said.”

I nearly choked on my self-congratulatory mouthful, and had to wash it down with another swig of water while pounding on my own chest. “Jace said I drank too much?” I asked when I could speak.

“He said that you sleeping with Marc was a mistake.” Ryan shot me an evil grin. “You know, I always liked that kid. It’s too bad about what happened to him.”

My hands went cold, and I dropped the potatoes to wipe sweat from my palms onto my shorts. “Please tel me Marc didn’t kil him.” My voice came out in a tiny, scared whisper.

“Nope,” Ryan said, stil grinning. “Came damn near, though. Mom said it took all three of the other guys to drag your sweetie off Jace. Only a direct order from Dad kept the peace.”

Damn it, Marc!

It was al my fault. Not for sleeping with Marc, but for taking Jace’s car. Marc knew about the bet, and knew I had a claim on Jace’s keys. But he didn’t know that I hadn’t run. He probably thought I’d driven off on my own, right into the open arms of my waiting abductors. And that Jace had given me the means.

“How bad is it?” I asked, dreading the answer.

Ryan ticked the injuries off on his fingers, and with each one, my guilt increased, weighing me down almost literal y. “Broken nose, two black eyes, cracked jaw, three broken ribs, and four broken toes, al on one foot. Concussion, and possible internal bleeding in his abdomen. It’s bad enough that he’d be in the hospital, if he were human.”

I groaned, picturing Jace lying in the guest bedroom, encased in a body cast and hooked up to an IV. He couldn’t go to the hospital for the same reason Sara’s death couldn’t be reported to the police: medical evidence.

Dr. Carver explained to me once that our blood is different from human blood.

Apparently the difference is obvious enough to be noticed by any competent lab tech, which means that under no circumstances can we allow ourselves to be examined by a human doctor. To avoid meddling from schools and local governments, several Prides claim religious beliefs which forbid medical treatment.

Fortunately for us, Dr. Carver makes himself available during emergencies for members of the south-central Pride.

Because of the risk of exposure, Jace’s recovery would proceed without a hospital staff catering to his every need. But thanks to Dr. Carver, his bones would heal straight and he would have medication for pain. Of course, like alcohol, tranquilizers, and even food, painkil ers didn’t last long because of our high metabolism.

Stil , it could have been worse. Marc could have kil ed him.

“I can’t believe this,” I whispered, shaking my head in denial.

“Really?” Ryan arched his eyebrows. “I wasn’t all that surprised. Marc’s always been a brute. What else can you expect from a stray?”

My temper flared, and I knew I should bite my tongue. But I didn’t. “Are you a stray, Ryan?” I demanded, forcing myself to stay seated. “Because Marc has a hel of a lot more courage than you’ve shown lately. A damn sight more honor too. He would get us out of here if he had to chew the bars open with his own teeth, so tel me again how little you can expect from strays!” I was shouting by the time I finished. I couldn’t help it. I’d had enough of his jealousy and sniveling cowardice.

Ryan didn’t answer. He just glared at me.

I chewed on a bland bite of chicken, waiting for my brother to stomp out of the basement, but he didn’t, for no reason I could have named. I’d certainly pissed him off, but apparently the murdering bastards upstairs were even worse company.

Go figure.

He stared at the floor with his elbows on his knees. Abby glanced at him, then back at me, her face swollen from crying and her posture stiff. When Ryan looked calm again, I decided to try a new method of pumping him for information—the direct approach. He was clueless enough that it just might work.

“So, who did Eric and Miguel go after?” I asked, trying to sound casual. There were only two more tabbies within a reasonable driving distance of Mississippi: one in Missouri, the other in Kentucky. Even the smallest hint might help me eliminate one.

Ryan frowned. “Don’t start. You know I can’t tel you.” He picked at a crack in the concrete, and I visualized it widening, to swal ow him whole.

“Why not?” I grabbed the white paper bag, digging through it for the second chicken breast. “It’s not like I can tel anyone else,” I said, but he only shook his head. “Fine, don’t tel me who she is. Just tel me who she’s for. Is she for you?” I carefully peeled the skin from my chicken, trying to look as if I didn’t real y care about his answer. But I did.

“Hel no, she’s not for me!” Ryan shouted.

“Who, then? Luiz?” I asked, going for breezy. But the carefree tone fit my question about as wel as Marc’s shirt fit me. I watched Ryan from the corner of my eye as I dropped the grease-coated skin into the bag. Yes, in cat form I ate raw flesh and organ meat, but as a human, I couldn’t put something as disgusting as deep-fried, bump-covered chicken skin in my mouth, no matter how hungry I was.

Every girl has her limits, and forcible sex and poultry skin both crossed mine.

“She’s for Miguel, if you don’t shape up,” Ryan snapped, staring at my food as he spoke. Like that was supposed to motivate me! “Other than that, I don’t know.”

His refusal to make eye contact confirmed my suspicion that there was something he wasn’t tel ing me. Something I needed to know.