Content, I licked the dirt from my paws, giving my ears a good swipe while I was at it. Grooming was always relaxing. It gave me a chance to think, which I could never do without something to occupy my hands. Or paws, as the case may be. As I set to work on my whiskers, a gurgling sound caught my attention, and my ears perked up—literal y. I’d paid little attention to direction as I ran, more intent on escaping the tomcats and my personal demons, which became harder to tel apart with each passing moment. But the sound of running water was unmistakable. I was near the stream.
Unlike house cats, we swim very well and love to fish. And unless something had changed in the last two years, the stream was full of fish practical y tripping over one another for the honor of fil ing my stomach. I stood and listened carefully, my ears rotating in unison as I searched for the direction of the sound.
There. Southeast, and not very far away. I could already smel the mineral-rich water.
Stil tired from my run, I turned in the direction of the stream and took my time, batting at every firefly I saw on the way. At the water’s edge, I peered down at the rippling surface. My own face looked back at me in the moonlight. It wasn’t my human face, of course, with dimples and slightly ruddy cheeks, but the reflection wavering in the stream was no less familiar. My fur was solid black, with no distinguishing marks and no variation in color except for whiskers, which stood out as startlingly white against the dark background.
My eyes were the same color in either form: pale green, almost yel ow in the moonlight. At school my friends said they were distinctive, but in cat form they looked normal, even average. Of course, the shape was completely different than my human eyes; as a cat, my pupils were slits, rather than circles. At least in the daylight. At night, they dilated almost al the way, leaving only thin rings of color around broad black disks.
I leaned forward and lapped at the water, quenching the scorching thirst I’d worked up during my sprint. And fluid wasn’t the only thing the race had cost me.
Cats have a higher metabolic rate than humans do, and we seem to have a higher rate than even most large cats, possibly due to the calories used up during the process of Shifting. Simply put, Shifting makes us hungry. Immediately.
Motion from the stream caught my eye. Something darted just beneath the surface of the water, too big to be a frog, and too fast to be a turtle. I hunkered low to the ground, preparing to charge into the water after my dinner. When everything felt right—a feeling I couldn’t verbalize because it had no human equivalent—I jumped. But I never hit the water.
Something smacked into me in midair, ending my forward momentum and driving me to the right. I hit the ground on my side. A crushing weight pinned me down. I saw nothing but black fur, but even with my eyes closed I would have known who it was. On two legs or four, I knew his scent better than I knew my own and had every inch of his body memorized, in both forms. I knew every line, every scar, and even every striation in his irises. As a teenager, I’d gazed into those eyes for hours at a time, wondering if they were as bright by moonlight as they were in the sun. It turned out that they were.
But those days were behind me, by my own choice.
Get off me, Marc! I thought, but what came out was a growl. It was a damn fine growl, in my opinion. Low and threatening, and very serious. But he ignored it with a blatant disregard for my wil that would have been uniquely his, if not for the fact that he’d learned it from my father.
Marc lowered his face to mine slowly. He rubbed his cheek against my whiskers and my head, making his way slowly to my only exposed shoulder.
Great job, Faythe, I thought, as furious at myself as I was at Marc. You’ve been pinned twice in less than an hour.
Marc bit me softly each time I tried to throw him off or get to my feet, and I never stopped growling. He was marking me with the scent glands on either side of his face.
I hate being marked.
He would go no farther; we both knew that. And he was being very gentle, even seductive for a cat, but that couldn’t have been further from the point. The point was that he had no right to mark me. None at al .
Marking was an overt declaration of possession. Of territorial rights. Werecat instinct led us to mark our personal possessions, our kil s, and the boundaries of our property. By rubbing his personal scent on me, Marc was claiming me for himself like he might claim the front seat or the biggest slice of pizza. The implication was that I belonged to him. Which was far from the truth.
His behavior would have been perfectly acceptable, even expected, if I were his mate—a wife, or even a long-term girlfriend. In that case, it would be appropriate for me to reciprocate. But I was not his mate, therefore I was not his to mark. Not anymore. Not ever, if we were being completely honest.
Trapped in a cage formed by his legs and pressed to the ground by his weight, I could do nothing but wait for him to finish. That, and feed the rage mounting in every bone in my body. In every shadowed corner of my soul. I passed the seconds with thoughts of retaliation, of the pain and humiliation I would unleash on him at the first available opportunity.
Yep, that’s me. Sugar and spice, and everything nice.
Final y he made a mistake. He moved lower to reach my rib cage, but wasn’t wil ing to back off of me for fear of my escape. Instead, he turned, placing his left hind leg within reach of my muzzle.
I lunged. My teeth sank into his leg, an inch above his paw. I withheld nothing, giving in to my instinct to bite through to the bone. Marc deserved only my best effort. After al , that’s what I was getting from him, in a bizarre, gently insistent kind of way.
Unlike house cats, we swim very well and love to fish. And unless something had changed in the last two years, the stream was full of fish practical y tripping over one another for the honor of fil ing my stomach. I stood and listened carefully, my ears rotating in unison as I searched for the direction of the sound.
There. Southeast, and not very far away. I could already smel the mineral-rich water.
Stil tired from my run, I turned in the direction of the stream and took my time, batting at every firefly I saw on the way. At the water’s edge, I peered down at the rippling surface. My own face looked back at me in the moonlight. It wasn’t my human face, of course, with dimples and slightly ruddy cheeks, but the reflection wavering in the stream was no less familiar. My fur was solid black, with no distinguishing marks and no variation in color except for whiskers, which stood out as startlingly white against the dark background.
My eyes were the same color in either form: pale green, almost yel ow in the moonlight. At school my friends said they were distinctive, but in cat form they looked normal, even average. Of course, the shape was completely different than my human eyes; as a cat, my pupils were slits, rather than circles. At least in the daylight. At night, they dilated almost al the way, leaving only thin rings of color around broad black disks.
I leaned forward and lapped at the water, quenching the scorching thirst I’d worked up during my sprint. And fluid wasn’t the only thing the race had cost me.
Cats have a higher metabolic rate than humans do, and we seem to have a higher rate than even most large cats, possibly due to the calories used up during the process of Shifting. Simply put, Shifting makes us hungry. Immediately.
Motion from the stream caught my eye. Something darted just beneath the surface of the water, too big to be a frog, and too fast to be a turtle. I hunkered low to the ground, preparing to charge into the water after my dinner. When everything felt right—a feeling I couldn’t verbalize because it had no human equivalent—I jumped. But I never hit the water.
Something smacked into me in midair, ending my forward momentum and driving me to the right. I hit the ground on my side. A crushing weight pinned me down. I saw nothing but black fur, but even with my eyes closed I would have known who it was. On two legs or four, I knew his scent better than I knew my own and had every inch of his body memorized, in both forms. I knew every line, every scar, and even every striation in his irises. As a teenager, I’d gazed into those eyes for hours at a time, wondering if they were as bright by moonlight as they were in the sun. It turned out that they were.
But those days were behind me, by my own choice.
Get off me, Marc! I thought, but what came out was a growl. It was a damn fine growl, in my opinion. Low and threatening, and very serious. But he ignored it with a blatant disregard for my wil that would have been uniquely his, if not for the fact that he’d learned it from my father.
Marc lowered his face to mine slowly. He rubbed his cheek against my whiskers and my head, making his way slowly to my only exposed shoulder.
Great job, Faythe, I thought, as furious at myself as I was at Marc. You’ve been pinned twice in less than an hour.
Marc bit me softly each time I tried to throw him off or get to my feet, and I never stopped growling. He was marking me with the scent glands on either side of his face.
I hate being marked.
He would go no farther; we both knew that. And he was being very gentle, even seductive for a cat, but that couldn’t have been further from the point. The point was that he had no right to mark me. None at al .
Marking was an overt declaration of possession. Of territorial rights. Werecat instinct led us to mark our personal possessions, our kil s, and the boundaries of our property. By rubbing his personal scent on me, Marc was claiming me for himself like he might claim the front seat or the biggest slice of pizza. The implication was that I belonged to him. Which was far from the truth.
His behavior would have been perfectly acceptable, even expected, if I were his mate—a wife, or even a long-term girlfriend. In that case, it would be appropriate for me to reciprocate. But I was not his mate, therefore I was not his to mark. Not anymore. Not ever, if we were being completely honest.
Trapped in a cage formed by his legs and pressed to the ground by his weight, I could do nothing but wait for him to finish. That, and feed the rage mounting in every bone in my body. In every shadowed corner of my soul. I passed the seconds with thoughts of retaliation, of the pain and humiliation I would unleash on him at the first available opportunity.
Yep, that’s me. Sugar and spice, and everything nice.
Final y he made a mistake. He moved lower to reach my rib cage, but wasn’t wil ing to back off of me for fear of my escape. Instead, he turned, placing his left hind leg within reach of my muzzle.
I lunged. My teeth sank into his leg, an inch above his paw. I withheld nothing, giving in to my instinct to bite through to the bone. Marc deserved only my best effort. After al , that’s what I was getting from him, in a bizarre, gently insistent kind of way.
