Page 39 of Let Us Prey
That rusty old jaguar is the last thing I need right now.
No, the solution to my problems lies in my disappointing offspring. If I can back her into a corner, Delores will either get herself killed, or she’ll end up finding an idiot mate who will hopefully have rare shifter connections I can use to my advantage. Once that happens, I’ll be able to ferret out the information I need to weasel my way into profitable shifter settlements. Either way, I win.
The martini is cold, and I swirl it in the glass as I muse. In order for my scheme to work, I’ll need to pinpoint the most important exiles at Apex, in hopes the tactics of the other heirs drive my blonde bimbo of a daughter straight into their arms. The only way to do that is to… ah, yes.
That will do.
“Phone!” I bark, whipping my head around to glare toward my birdbrained assistant.
She comes running over with the object I threw not ten minutes ago, and I grin fangily when I note she has a similarly-shaped red mark on her temple. Papa always said I had deadly aim, even when I wasn’t paying a bit of attention to my target. Using a clawed finger to scroll through my contacts, I find the one I need and press the call button. It rings several times, and by the time the bumbling Headmistress answers, I’m seething.
No one keeps me waiting.
“Henrietta, I was unaware you’d developed a suicidal streak. Shall I send someone to fetch you, since you seem eager to bleed out on my carpet?” The squawks and flutters on her end are so intense, I can actually hear her panicking despite the lack of intelligible words coming over the line. Her fear sates my hunger for the moment, and I wait until she gathers herself enough to respond. Breaking the silence is a sign of weakness, and I won’t give this fool any ammunition.
“M-M-M-Madame L-L-L-Lucille… I… my phone… I was not.... I would never... " the eagle babbles, her words interspersed with screeches and beak chattering sounds.
As much as I enjoy her terror, this is getting tiresome, so I cut her off. “If you are eager to prove your allegiance, I am a reasonable feline. I will allow you penance for your grievous breach of protocol, Headmistress.”
“How-how may I serve you, Madame Councilwoman?” Henrietta’s breaths slow, and I can sense her trying to calm her nerves.
This is why her own family—the Shirdals—excommunicated her to Apex. Henrietta may be an apex predator by birth and by lineage, but nothing they did could instill the spirit of ferocity necessary to survive as a Council heir. They sent her to replace the elder Headmaster once she emerged at nineteen, and she’s remained on campus since. Unlike the Drews, the Shirdals had several spares waiting in the wings, and their next heir stepped in with a vicious reign of terror.
If only I was as lucky…
Alas, I mistakenly chose not to gamble with the risks of creating extra heirs, and focused on beating our family expectations into the one I had. Annoyed, I snarl into the phone, taking out my frustration at my own choices on the frail eagle. “You will do precisely as I instruct, no deviation, and you will tell absolutely no one what we discuss when I contact you. Swear it, and know—if you break this oath, I will ship you to Bloodstone to be dinner for the ferals in their little jungle course.”
A sharp inhale tells me she understands perfectly, for once. “Y-Yes, Madame. I swear. I will not break the oaths of the Council.”
No, I don’t think you will, feather duster.
Even Henrietta isn’t cut off enough to have missed stories of the blood-soaked orgies and hunts that take place on Bloodstone. Criminals, spies, traitors, political prisoners, and various inconvenient innocents end up as fodder for their pack’s ceremonies and sacrifices. The myths about what goes on at their prison and reform school are more than enough to keep not only our children in line, but the less ferocious adults as well. That moron Barrington would have taken his wife there to have a little ‘accident’ so he could upcycle her for a new one, but his vapid daughter caused that scandal in the media, and now he’s stuck with her.
That’s what happens when you allow children to believe they aren’t replaceable. They grow up and think they may breathe the air on this planet without you allowing it.
“You’d better not, Shirdal. Your family won’t mind if you went permanently missing, and a new Headmaster or mistress won’t be hard to find. Killing you wouldn’t make a blip on my schedule; remember that,” I purr, sipping my martini slowly while she digests that statement. “Now, take notes. This is what I need from you.”
I can hear her clicking away at a keyboard as I list the internal documents I want copied and sent via foot messenger. Given the prevalence of hackers, I trust nothing important to be transmitted electronically; even Erickson does most of his personal business on specially manufactured flash paper, like an old school bookie. If the Council’s own tech mogul knows there’s a threat, I will not question the methods.
Waiting for the idiot to catch up, I stress that I want every single professor and adjunct’s personnel file, plus every map and blueprint, dating back to before the Apex app was created. The class and elective schedules of every student will allow me to know not only where my dimwit is at all times, but who she may associate with—especially which staff will lay eyes on her.
Once I have all of this data, I can compile a dossier of her life at the school. Delores may not be useful as an heir, but until some lucky predator gets their claws into her, I can use her as bait, as a means to an end. That’s what all the weaklings around me are, and I’ll be damned if I ignore one of the most easily manipulated students on campus simply because she embarrassed me.
That wouldn’t be strategic, and I’m not arrogant enough to ignore the opportunity.
“Henrietta, I want every single scrap of information or gossip you can find. Talk to those twits in your Admissions office, scare the prey staff into spilling things they’ve seen, and get me answers—preferably immediately. I won’t tolerate a second failure. Do you understand? Get. Me. What. I. Want.”
The eagle shifter vomits apologies, praise, and fealty for another few moments, until I finally grow tired of the noise. I don’t bother with the niceties. I simply hang up the call and pitch my phone over my shoulder. A muffled squeak of pain makes my fangs grow, and I lean back on the chaise, closing my eyes in satisfaction as I sip my drink again.
I probably should keep my feathered dipshit of an assistant. She makes an excellent martini, and an even better target.
Hmmm.
TWENTY-FOUR
Bad Girl
Cassius
