It was Michael.
“It’s all over,” he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion.
“Already?” Manx’s trial had only lasted a few days. Was that a good sign or a bad one? “What’s the verdict?” My pulse spiked, blood pounding in my temples as if it were trying to burst free from my veins.
“Guilty, on three counts of murder.”
Oh, shit. My chest seemed to constrict around my lungs, and my next breath was difficult to suck in.
But as disturbing as it was to hear aloud, the verdict wasn’t really much of a surprise. Manx had killed three toms, and technically the danger to herself was only perceived. Still, because of the extenuating circumstances—the severe and prolonged trauma leading up to her crimes—I didn’t think she deserved to die. Apparently everyone else agreed.
“The sentence was unanimous,” my oldest brother continued, as Ethan emerged from the bathroom and leaned against the hallway door frame, watching me and listening in. “They’ll spare her life. But they’re going to take her claws.”
My head spun, and the room seemed to tilt. I sank onto the couch, my free hand gripping the upholstered arm until reality went still again. But, consumed with simultaneous horror and relief, I could think of nothing to say.
Manx was going to be declawed.
On one hand, that was good. Better than the alternative, anyway. Des would not be an orphan. Manx would not die for crimes she committed as a result of brutal, long-term trauma and a debilitating fear of men.
But on the other hand, being declawed is every bit as horrific as it sounds.
The pain is unbearable. Which is why ripping out a person’s fingernails has long been a recognized form of torture in some countries. Obviously, modern Prides perform the procedure in a sterile environment, with the victim/ convict heavily sedated, or even unconscious. But the recovery would be no romp through the woods.
Even worse, Manx wouldn’t be able to go out in public again without wearing gloves. Ever. In order to keep the claws from growing back, the surgical procedure actually snips off the very tip of a cat’s toes. Shifting a couple of times will accelerate healing the wounds, but will not make the claws—or those lost bits of nail bed—grow back.
Being declawed in cat form was one thing. Aside from the obvious inconvenience, the deformity would hardly show beneath the fur on her paws. But in human form, the mutilation would be conspicuous, and as difficult to explain as it was to hide. She’d be missing her fingernails and cuticles. All ten of them. And the flesh they’d once covered would be puckered and scarred.
When I was in junior high, my father ordered a stray—a three-time offender—to be declawed. Dr. Carver performed the procedure at our ranch, and before the stray left, I caught a glimpse of the result. I’ve long since forgotten what his offense was, but I’ll never forget the sight of that tom’s malformed hands, which established my own deep-rooted fear of losing my claws.
“Faythe?” Michael said into my ear, drawing me out of my thoughts. “You okay?”
I laughed bitterly. “Not really? You?”
For a moment he was silent, too, and I wondered how similar his thoughts were to mine. “I…well, I can’t say I agree with the sentence, but neither can I justify them letting her off entirely. She committed three very serious crimes, and if they let that go unpunished, they’re setting a very dangerous precedent.”
But I could have cut my finger on the cold, sharp edge of politics in his voice. He was trying to emotionally divorce himself from the issue and view it with no bias. It was a skill I envied, and sometimes I was certain I’d never be able to pull off. I couldn’t even emotionally divorce myself from the boxers versus briefs debate, much less Manx’s cruel verdict.
“I know, but her claws? How’s she supposed to hunt? How can she possibly defend herself or Des?” But I answered my own question before he had a chance to. “She’s not supposed to, is she? That’s the whole point, right?”
In cat form, her ability to hunt would be severely compromised. She could still pounce on and suffocate prey with her strong, feline jaws. But she’d no longer be able to grip with her claws. Or to climb in search of upwardly mobile prey. Or defend herself, should the need arise.
She’d be dependent on others—likely men—to provide and care for her. And that blow was even more devastating for Manx than it would have been for anyone else, because her independence was all she had left. That, and her baby. For years she’d been dependent on the meager mercy of the men who’d abused her and held her prisoner. Now, she’d be at the mercy of every tom she met.
“Well, I don’t think that’s what all of the Alphas had in mind,” Michael hedged. “But I have no doubt Calvin Malone holds significant influence over Milo Mitchell—” Kevin Mitchell’s father, who’d headed up the tribunal “—and I would not be surprised to hear that the sentence was actually his idea. Or something cooked up between them.”
I had a strong suspicion my brother was right; declawing a tabby was exactly the kind of thing Malone would suggest. It was an irreversible indignity to Manx. A blow to her self-worth. And an obvious political maneuver from two Alphas who were probably patting themselves on their collective back for putting one more tabby in her place. The bastards.
My pulse spiked just thinking about it, and if I’d had claws of my own in that moment, they’d have ripped right through the faded upholstery of Marc’s used sofa. Though what they really wanted was to sink into Calvin Malone’s flesh.
“It’s all over,” he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion.
“Already?” Manx’s trial had only lasted a few days. Was that a good sign or a bad one? “What’s the verdict?” My pulse spiked, blood pounding in my temples as if it were trying to burst free from my veins.
“Guilty, on three counts of murder.”
Oh, shit. My chest seemed to constrict around my lungs, and my next breath was difficult to suck in.
But as disturbing as it was to hear aloud, the verdict wasn’t really much of a surprise. Manx had killed three toms, and technically the danger to herself was only perceived. Still, because of the extenuating circumstances—the severe and prolonged trauma leading up to her crimes—I didn’t think she deserved to die. Apparently everyone else agreed.
“The sentence was unanimous,” my oldest brother continued, as Ethan emerged from the bathroom and leaned against the hallway door frame, watching me and listening in. “They’ll spare her life. But they’re going to take her claws.”
My head spun, and the room seemed to tilt. I sank onto the couch, my free hand gripping the upholstered arm until reality went still again. But, consumed with simultaneous horror and relief, I could think of nothing to say.
Manx was going to be declawed.
On one hand, that was good. Better than the alternative, anyway. Des would not be an orphan. Manx would not die for crimes she committed as a result of brutal, long-term trauma and a debilitating fear of men.
But on the other hand, being declawed is every bit as horrific as it sounds.
The pain is unbearable. Which is why ripping out a person’s fingernails has long been a recognized form of torture in some countries. Obviously, modern Prides perform the procedure in a sterile environment, with the victim/ convict heavily sedated, or even unconscious. But the recovery would be no romp through the woods.
Even worse, Manx wouldn’t be able to go out in public again without wearing gloves. Ever. In order to keep the claws from growing back, the surgical procedure actually snips off the very tip of a cat’s toes. Shifting a couple of times will accelerate healing the wounds, but will not make the claws—or those lost bits of nail bed—grow back.
Being declawed in cat form was one thing. Aside from the obvious inconvenience, the deformity would hardly show beneath the fur on her paws. But in human form, the mutilation would be conspicuous, and as difficult to explain as it was to hide. She’d be missing her fingernails and cuticles. All ten of them. And the flesh they’d once covered would be puckered and scarred.
When I was in junior high, my father ordered a stray—a three-time offender—to be declawed. Dr. Carver performed the procedure at our ranch, and before the stray left, I caught a glimpse of the result. I’ve long since forgotten what his offense was, but I’ll never forget the sight of that tom’s malformed hands, which established my own deep-rooted fear of losing my claws.
“Faythe?” Michael said into my ear, drawing me out of my thoughts. “You okay?”
I laughed bitterly. “Not really? You?”
For a moment he was silent, too, and I wondered how similar his thoughts were to mine. “I…well, I can’t say I agree with the sentence, but neither can I justify them letting her off entirely. She committed three very serious crimes, and if they let that go unpunished, they’re setting a very dangerous precedent.”
But I could have cut my finger on the cold, sharp edge of politics in his voice. He was trying to emotionally divorce himself from the issue and view it with no bias. It was a skill I envied, and sometimes I was certain I’d never be able to pull off. I couldn’t even emotionally divorce myself from the boxers versus briefs debate, much less Manx’s cruel verdict.
“I know, but her claws? How’s she supposed to hunt? How can she possibly defend herself or Des?” But I answered my own question before he had a chance to. “She’s not supposed to, is she? That’s the whole point, right?”
In cat form, her ability to hunt would be severely compromised. She could still pounce on and suffocate prey with her strong, feline jaws. But she’d no longer be able to grip with her claws. Or to climb in search of upwardly mobile prey. Or defend herself, should the need arise.
She’d be dependent on others—likely men—to provide and care for her. And that blow was even more devastating for Manx than it would have been for anyone else, because her independence was all she had left. That, and her baby. For years she’d been dependent on the meager mercy of the men who’d abused her and held her prisoner. Now, she’d be at the mercy of every tom she met.
“Well, I don’t think that’s what all of the Alphas had in mind,” Michael hedged. “But I have no doubt Calvin Malone holds significant influence over Milo Mitchell—” Kevin Mitchell’s father, who’d headed up the tribunal “—and I would not be surprised to hear that the sentence was actually his idea. Or something cooked up between them.”
I had a strong suspicion my brother was right; declawing a tabby was exactly the kind of thing Malone would suggest. It was an irreversible indignity to Manx. A blow to her self-worth. And an obvious political maneuver from two Alphas who were probably patting themselves on their collective back for putting one more tabby in her place. The bastards.
My pulse spiked just thinking about it, and if I’d had claws of my own in that moment, they’d have ripped right through the faded upholstery of Marc’s used sofa. Though what they really wanted was to sink into Calvin Malone’s flesh.
