Page 13 of Strays
Now I can’t stop thinking: if we mate in four weeks, wherever we end up, it’s gotta be better than this. No way this place is suitable for a nyra.
I haven’t thought about my mom in years, but now the memories come rushing back.
She bonded with my dads when she was nineteen. I don’t have any happy memories of them together: they found Lydia, their scent-mate, when I was too young to remember. And after Lydia came into the picture, I don’t think my mom had much happiness left in her life. But she used to tell me stories about the time before, when she was in love and believed a non-scent bond could be enough.
She told me that when they bonded, my dads worked their asses off to buy her the perfect nest. The platform beneath it was made of polished cedar, and she used to wax it every week with perfumed oil.
Except during her and Lydia’s heats, when my dads took me and, later, my half-siblings to our grandparents' house, I slept in that nest with her every nightuntil the day she went missing.
I remember feeling sad for her, knowing how much it hurt her, the fact that my dads were in the next room with their true mate, but I still loved sleeping beside her. She’d wrap her arms around me and I’d fall asleep breathing in her sweet scent, like honey and cinnamon.
A nest like the one she had is the least we can offer our nyra. As low-rank officers, we don’t make a ton of money, but we’ve got some savings and now we can afford a real setup, with a good wooden platform and a new mattress.
And I want it not just for her, but for my brothers too.
Jay and Shane are both sons of aegis with human women. They’ve never slept in a real nyra’s nest before, never known that scent-warmth-softness that sinks into your bones. I want them to feel that.
“How much do you think we’d make if we got into Special Ops?” I ask, between bites of my food.
Shane grins, wild and bright. “Way more than we make now. They’re not about to have Prime nyras living in shitholes like this, so I bet they pay Tier-One packs decently.”
Jay finishes chewing, swallows, and says, “They give every new pack bonded to a Prime a ten-thousand-dollar relocation grant.”
Shane stares. “How the hell do you know that?”
“It’s on the Matching Center website,” Jay says, not even embarrassed. “Information tab. I looked it up. Special Ops also offers an extra grand a month if you’re stationed in a high-cost city. I think they’re pretty serious about not letting their nyras live in bad conditions.”
Their smiles are so boyish, they look ten years younger. I probably do too. It’s all starting to feel too real.
“I think we need to work on managing expectations,” I say.
I want to believe that, in a few weeks, we’ll be sitting at a real table, eating a real dinner with our nyra in a warm home, with her scent thick in the air. But I’m scared to believe in something that good just to watch it all go to shit.
Jay looks at me sharply. “I’ve been thinking,” he says, his voice more serious now. “And Shane’s right.”
Shane chuckles. “Of course I am. But what exactly am I right about?”
Jay rolls his eyes. “If in four weeks we find out she’s not our nyra, we’ll be crushed either way, whether we let ourselves hope or not. So fuck it. I’m gonna stop telling myself this is gonna go south somehow. I’ll take all the happiness I can get out of this, and if it crashes, it crashes. It’s not like we’re not used to getting screwed.”
Shane nods at him. “Jay, that’s the best piece of wisdom you’ve ever given us.”
I nod too, because Jay’s right. No matter how hard we try to avoid hope, we can’t stop it from sneaking in. And when the truth comes, whatever it is, it’sgonna hit us either way. Whether this girl is ours or not, our lives are about to change.
Even though we worked the night before, we barely sleep, the three of us tossing and turning in the nest all night. My brothers’ scent tells me their minds are like mine, racing too much to let me relax.
When we get to the station the next morning, I feel every pair of eyes on us. As usual, we ignore everyone and go straight to the briefing room.
Over the next few minutes, the room fills with officers coming in for shift. Conversations die the second Sergeant Lowson starts roll call. “All right, let’s get into it. Everybody here? Good.”
Saying I like the sergeant would be a stretch. But I don’t dislike the man. And when it comes to human cops, my standards are so low that not actively hating him is enough to make me think he’s a decent guy.
“So, Saint Marie High,” he continues. “One confirmed fatality. Fourteen injured, mostly minor, caused by the panic. Shooter’s confirmed dead on scene, autopsy’s in progress. Preliminary ID is John Mackenzie, twenty-two years old, local, no criminal record. CSU’s still processing evidence. Homicide’s taking point for now, until the Feds decide how bad they want it. Ballistics and a full use-of-force review are underway.”
He looks straight at Shane, then adds, “Press is already circling the building. If anyone sticks a mic in your face, keep your mouth shut and direct them to the PIO. Don’t make us a headline.”
As if there’s even the slightest chance Shane will say anything to the press. Of course there isn’t. His face stays blank, but I can smell his annoyance rising. Jay and I react instantly, and a wave of calming pheromones replaces the scent of his irritation. We’re probably overdoing it, but these next four weeks are critical. We can’t risk anything, not even a ripple of tension.
The air is so thick with scent I’m amazed the humans don’t pick up on it. Their dull senses leave them clueless about half of what’s going on around them.
