The Sound and the Furry Read online

  The daughter had evidently been jealous so she’d been green. The mother had a compassionate, empathetic personality, therefore the halo. My mind had furnished symbols I could easily decipher. The male Were from Kerrville had been a monster. Austin’s aura had been dark, as if my brother’s true nature was black. Not evil as much as lacking light. Of course, that didn’t explain the red color, but I was clueless about what that meant.

  Things had been going south for Austin and me ever since he turned twelve. That seemed to be a magic number in the Boyd household. I’d made my own changes at that age, defining myself as different from other female Weres, choosing to be on the fringes of my culture rather than fully accepting the constraints of it.

  Austin had been, in the way of most male Weres, a pain in the ass going through puberty. He had felt powerful and hormonally charged. In Austin's case coming from an influential and wealthy family only added to his smugness and feelings of superiority.

  I’d been away at school when he’d gone through his coming-of-age stage. The few times I’d returned home, he and I had clashed immediately. Nor had things gotten better with age.

  Still, part of me should've mourned for the loss of our relationship. Austin would, one day, be the alpha in our family. As such, tradition stated that I’d need to go to him for any important decision. That wasn’t going to happen. I’d been on my own too long to revert to Were standards. I wasn't going to crawl to Austin for anything.

  I think he realized that too, which might be the basis for his antipathy toward me. If the future king didn't get obeisance from his subjects, of course he’d be outraged.

  I didn’t want to believe that Austin had a black heart. Pain in the ass or not, he was still my brother.

  Oh goody. Mark was able to levitate things and I got to play psychiatrist.

  The longer I was Pranic, the more questions I had. Unfortunately, there was only Marcie to ask, and most of the time she was in the dark as much as I was. This was all new and different. I was the first female Were to be given a transfusion of Pranic blood.

  You could always ask me.

  I jumped. Pepper slid off my lap. Dalton raised his head. Cherry Pip continued snoring in that delicate doggy way of hers.

  The very last thing I needed — after another hallucination — was Mark’s voice echoing in my skull.

  Go away, Mark. Get out of my mind.

  Not before you tell me why you hate me.

  It was freaky the way we could have a conversation without actually being in the same room. It was like AT&T, but Torrance and Mark style. That only annoyed me more. He could have checked in once in the last three months.

  Tell me.

  That wasn't gonna happen. If he had half a brain he’d know why I was angry.

  I don't know. Tell me.

  I envisioned a black wall coming down, separating me from Mark. His voice immediately faded from my consciousness.

  Pepper got back into position on my lap and inclined his head slightly.

  “He doesn’t have the right to show up whenever he wants,” I told him.

  Pepper yawned and went back to sleep.

  I tried to concentrate on the show I was watching, some silly comedy about a woman living in New York after being born and raised in Kansas or something. I’d only visited New York a few times. Sandy and Mom loved it. I was more a smaller city kind of gal. I wasn’t a shopper and that was one of the reasons they loved New York. Add in the museums and all the galleries and they were in Boyd heaven. Me? Online shopping and pretty pictures on my computer monitor.

  I was practically a heathen.

  Torrance.

  Okay, that was just enough. I put Pepper down on the floor, stood and stomped through the house like Sherman’s march to the sea. When I reached the front doors I threw them open — which wasn’t as easy as it sounded, because they were iron studded oak doors three inches thick — and stood there with my hand on either door staring out into the night.

  "You’d better show up, Mark Avery, because I swear to God I’m coming after you. I won't need telepathic communication. I'll find you, somehow, some way.”

  And there he was.

  He stepped into the light flowing down the front steps. Seriously, the man needed to get uglier. Or I needed to kill off my libido once and for all. I could almost envision her hearing that threat and running for her cave like home. Except of course, when Mark was around, she didn't behave as though she belonged to me. No, my libido was in thrall to Mark Avery.

  "Why do you hate me?"

  At least he was speaking and not sending me thoughts.

  I was just conflicted enough to answer.

  "I don't hate you. I don’t care about you. You are like the gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe. You’re like worms. Or doggie dysentery."

  He stood there, his only defense a smile. I wanted to push him down, kick him a few times, pummel him some more, and then maybe run over him with my car.

  He began to look mildly alarmed, which was a clue that he didn't have any trouble reading my thoughts.

  "So I must've done something to annoy you."

  Annoy me? He’d hurt me, which was worse.

  I subscribed to the notion that my emotions were my business. I didn't hand them to anybody. Whenever I got angry it was like I’d made a present of my anger to that person and said here, “Control me. Push my buttons.” That’s why I didn’t get angry all that often. When I did, it was a deliberate choice.

  Hurt, that was totally different. Once I’d let you into my sheltered life, at least from the standpoint of emotional jeopardy, you were also granted a hall pass to my heart. You could hurt me easily. You could wound me with a word.

  To take me to bed and then disappear a few hours later? That was both an insult and an injury.

  "I'm sorry, Torrance," he said, and maybe it was because I wanted to hear it, but it sounded like there was genuine regret in his voice. "I needed to leave. It was an emergency."

  What the hell kind of emergency would prevent him from at least saying something that took what, thirty seconds? Dear Torrance, sorry, I have to leave. No, less than thirty seconds.

  “My daughter," he said.

  Now that was a surprise.

  "You didn’t tell me that you had children," I said.

  “Not children. A child. My daughter.”

  I just looked at him.

  “You asked if I was married,” he said. “Not if I had children.”

  "Any more secrets, Mark?"

  "Yes."

  He didn’t say anything else. Well, that certainly put me in my place, didn't it?

  I wanted to act like I didn't give a rat’s derrière for him or his problems. I really, really did.

  Instead, I found myself asking, “Is she all right? Was she sick?"

  "She was in danger," he said.

  I wanted to look away. I didn’t. I wanted to follow up my question with twenty thousand or so more, but at least I stopped myself. If he wanted to be Mark the Mysterious, that was his business. I didn't have to play along.

  I took two steps back and began to close the doors. I was sincerely proud of myself for resisting his magnetism.

  "If it had been anyone else, I would never have left you," he said. "I didn't know how to explain."

  "And you do now?” I asked, hesitating before I slammed the doors in his face.

  "No, I don't," he said. "But I would appreciate it if you would give me a chance to try."

  "I think you need to go find another gullible female, Mark. Someone who gushes all over you."

  "I don't want any gullible female, Torrance. I want you. And if you gush over me, that's great. If you argue with me, that's great, too."

  I really didn’t want him to be charming. He was dangerous when he was charming. He was dangerous just standing there smiling at me.

  He’d been my knight in shining armor from the beginning. He’d gone to save his child — his child. How could I fault him for that?

/>   Warmth rushed through me and puddled in the bottom of my stomach. I tried to lecture myself sternly, but it wasn’t working.

  I decided to change the subject.

  "You can't communicate with me telepathically unless you’re close, can you?" I asked.

  He shook his head. I knew, and don't ask me how I knew, that he was reluctant to divulge that information. I don't know why. Maybe because it made him seem less godlike. I had news for the guy. He was amazing in bed. He was damn good looking. He was intelligent and charming and funny, but I’d never mistaken him for God.

  Segue here – we Weres believed in a higher power. It would take a divine intelligence to create us along with humans and other paranormal beings. From my talks with Marcie I knew there were other things that went bump in the night, creatures I’d never seen. Nor was I altogether certain I wanted to. It would take God to sort it all out. Why he allowed spiders and vampires to exist, however, I hadn’t the slightest clue, but that was His business and not mine.

  Back to the ungodly Mark Avery.

  I could hear the Brood from here. I should have let them out with me. They could've done their sniffing routine and told me what they thought about Mark reappearing in our lives.

  That was the only reason I let him inside the house, of course. Only to get my dogs’ opinion of him. Not to learn about his daughter and any other secrets I could weasel out of him.

  I pushed open the doors, shook my head at myself, and said, “Come in."

  Just that. Come in. A very simple welcome that didn't divulge how fast my heart was beating or that my libido was singing an aria.

  I could be an idiot sometimes.

  Chapter Twelve

  What could you say about a man who came prepared?

  When I was a little girl, I decided I was going to marry a prince. He would be as handsome as a prince in a Disney movie. He’d ride a white horse that had a flowing mane and a tail that draped to the ground. His voice would be low and all the animals and birds would fall silent when he spoke. His blue eyes sparkled. His hair was so black it looked like the darkest midnight. His knee high boots were polished so well that you could see your face in them. He’d be wearing a white coat with gold epaulets, a saber tied at his waist, and tan trousers that clung to his legs revealing their shape.

  I'll admit that I didn't think about the legs until a few years later. Or that the fabric would be clingy enough that it would reveal my prince’s attributes, if you know what I mean. Of course, when I was five years old I wasn't thinking of attributes, just that he would be courtly and polite and above all, kind.

  I spent a great deal of time thinking about my prince.

  Mark was as close to a prince as any man had ever come.

  However, I wasn't fooling myself. I still wasn't a princess. Nor was I certain I would ever be. Oh, sure, I looked pretty good when I made the effort and even when I didn't I wouldn't scare off the mailman. But I didn't have the demeanor or the skills to be a princess.

  I didn't flirt well. I was a terrible dancer — I had no rhythm whatsoever and possessed an uncanny ability to trip over my own feet. I didn't do feminine gestures well or easily. I couldn't smile at someone I considered an idiot.

  Nor could I say things I didn't mean. Both my mother and my sister could charm the birds out of the trees, but I’d never mastered the knack. I tended to come out and say what I actually thought. When I did, I didn't hold back. Some would say that I was lacking tact. I had plenty of tact with the owners of my patients. It's just that I was lousy in social situations.

  I didn't like pink. I disliked lace or frilly things. Most of the time I wore scrubs, however, my favorites being the ones with kittens and puppies all over them. I pulled my hair back in a ponytail and my only concession to makeup was mascara and lipstick.

  I couldn’t bake bread like my sister. I didn’t have the organizational genius of my mother. I didn’t have any womanly skills. Okay, maybe I had some, since the image of Mark in my bed sprang into my mind. But the other stuff? The cooking or the effortless hostessing talents of my mother? Not gonna happen.

  My grandmother used to tell me that as long as I could afford to pay for those services, there was no need to acquire them. I have kept that thought at the back of my mind for all of my thirty two years.

  My mother, I think, has washed her domestic hands of me, although she’d never admit it. Instead, she has bonded with my sister over recipes and makeup hints.

  Right now I wished I was a little bit like Sandy. I wanted to smile at Mark and bat my eyes at him and act all feminine and flirty. I didn't know how.

  Maybe I should just follow the Brood’s example. They’d accompanied us to the TV room and were now winding themselves around Mark’s legs like hungry cats, either looking up at him with adoring brown eyes or drooling all over his shoes.

  In the three months since I’d brought the Brood into my home, they’d become my companions and, in a sense, my family. I trusted their judgment because dogs had a sixth sense about people. They'd already met Mark, and I was curious about their response to him now.

  I hadn’t expected the love fest.

  I looked at him. "Can you talk to animals, too?"

  "I think I can," he said.

  "What did you tell them?"

  "That I have treats in my pocket and if they behave themselves, I’ll give them one.”

  With a smile, he reached into his pocket and extracted a handful of what looked like liver treats.

  The Brood would do almost anything for liver.

  What could I say about a man who came prepared?

  "Would you like some wine? I have red or white. Or tea? Coffee? Or beer. I think I have a few bottles left."

  It was his brand, too. I’d actually bought some when I was feeling wistful and lonely.

  Look at me, being all Harriet the Hostess. I was acting as needy as the Brood.

  "A beer would be great, but I'll get it."

  He knew his way around my house since he'd been here numerous times. He turned and walked out of the TV room, the Brood following him.

  Pied Piper of the canine set.

  I sat on the couch.

  How had I lost control of my own home so quickly? It had to be a combination of his charisma and my gullibility. Maybe that was just another word for lonely.

  He returned with two beers which was another indication of his perspicacity. He didn't have to read my mind to know that alcohol was a good bet right now.

  I took the beer, stood, and headed for the hallway that bisected Graystone. A few minutes later I entered the Silver Parlor, Mark and the Brood trailing behind me.

  The wallpaper in this room was a silver and white pattern imported from somewhere, I didn’t know where. The chandeliers, instead of being brass, were silver. The portrait frames on the grand piano, the bud vases on the fireplace mantel and the mirror over the mantel was silver. Even the drapes were a gray fabric lined with white so that they appeared almost silver.

  My grandmother’s favorite dress had been reminiscent of the flapper era with loads of silver beading over silver silk. I always thought of her in this room, holding court on the ridiculously uncomfortable crimson upholstered Victorian sofa. It had to be the most miserable piece of furniture to sit on in the entire house, which was why I led Mark to it.

  I didn’t want to get all comfy. If the horsehair itched, then so be it. It would keep me alert. Even the Brood avoided it, choosing to sit at my feet instead of the couch.

  "So how close do you have to be until that mind meld thing works?"

  "I'm not sure. You're the only person I can do it with. Maybe we should experiment until we figure it out.”

  Or maybe I should keep my distance from him. Was that even possible? I hadn’t exactly demonstrated a lot of restraint tonight.

  “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn't just show up in my mind whenever you want to,” I said. “Some kind of warning would be nice."

  He nodded, which I took for ag
reement. Maybe I should put a bell around his neck. Was there such a thing as a mental bell? Something that would alert me to the fact that he was near?

  “I won't eavesdrop, Torrance,” he said, sitting on the end of the couch.

  It was my turn to nod.

  He stared down at the beer bottle. Should I have offered a glass? I took a swig from my bottle, just to show him I could be as plebeian as the next guy.

  I kept silent, waiting for him to speak. I wanted to know about his daughter, but I wasn’t going to beg.

  “Some men in my clan have learned of the transfusion,” he said. “They’re not happy.”

  I’ll bet that was an understatement of mammoth proportions.

  I remained silent, exhibiting an extraordinary amount of patience.

  When he didn’t say anything further, I mentally rolled my eyes.

  “How old is she?” I finally asked.

  “Nine.”

  He was back to being monosyllabic. We’d had that problem in the beginning. Words had been gold to Mark and he’d acted like a miser.

  I wasn't going to beg him to tell me about his daughter. If he did, fine. If he didn't, I was going to find a way to curtail my curiosity. And although I thought he owed me an explanation about the absence of the last three months, maybe he didn't feel the same way.

  "She lived with her grandmother."

  My curiosity was bursting at the seams. Where was her mother? Had he divorced her? Or had she died?

  It was irrational to suddenly be jealous of a woman I hadn’t known existed until a few minutes ago, but I was. I’m not proud of the emotion since it made me feel petty.

  I wanted to be a better person, someone like the woman I’d met in Kerrville, warm and loving, generous and giving. Instead, I was more like her daughter.

  "I needed to get her somewhere safe, where she wouldn't be part of the conflict."

  I clamped my hand around the beer bottle. Conflict?

  Normally I wouldn’t have pushed, because clans were notoriously close mouthed when it came to their own rules and regulations and sharing information with other clans. For example, I wouldn't talk about Council business with Mark. Nor would I demand that he tell me things about his clan.