Pack of Strays (The Fangborn Series Book 2) by Dana Cameron Page A

swallowed, my mouth dry. “They’ve managed to get their hands on too much information, artifactual and otherwise, about us.”
    I’d prepared what I’d say—concise, factual, and largely anonymous —most of the day. But when I said it, it sounded overly dramatic .
    She took a pull on her beer; I noticed she wore two watches on her left wrist. “‘Artifactual and otherwise’ meaning what, exactly?”
    As quietly as I could, I described the figurines, which had led to the battle at Ephesus—she’d heard about that; few in the Family could not have. I described the encounter I’d had with Rupert Grayling in London, and I mentioned that Dmitri Parshin had been torturing Fangborn in his quest to become a werewolf—and had held Danny hostage while I chased down artifacts for him. “But Buell—this guy, too. I know for a personal fact, you want to watch out for him and his Order of Nicomedia. They’re awfully close to setting some kind of trap for the Fangborn. Killing a lot of us.”
    Her face went stony, jaw clenched, lips compressed. “Okay, bad. But not my problem.”
    Not her problem? I’d just told her she was on a hit list. I also didn’t like revealing just how vulnerable I’d been to someone so unimpressed. “This card says otherwise; he’s hunting strays—” I held up my hand when she opened her mouth to protest. “I mean … unaffiliated—what are a group of oracles called? It’s not ‘nest’ or ‘pack,’ is it?”
    “It’s a ‘cauldron.’ That’s just another example of how the Family discriminates against us. ‘Fangborn’ doesn’t even include those of us with Normal-sized canines.”
    “Remember, I’m new to all this, so it may not—”
    She banged her bottle down. “Then let me explain a few things. It wasn’t always so fang oriented; oracles used to be in charge, used to be the ones driving, telling the others where to go. The shamans directing the warriors, priests advising kings. Now, we’re a joke—no, not a joke. Less than that. Patronized, occasionally, when one of us is less inscrutable than the others or has a better than sixty percent hit rate.”
    I couldn’t argue with her. “Politics change, societies change. Why not stay and try to fix it?”
    “I hate the politics. I got tired. It was one more reason for me to leave.”
    “What were the other ones?” They had to be pretty good. “I can’t imagine leaving the Family.”
    “Then you’re not terribly imaginative.”
    She picked at the label of her beer, a habit I loathed from a long habit of recycling bottles for the deposit. No label, no deposit.
    Finally she said, “We had a disagreement. They leave me alone, I leave them alone. End of story.”
    It was my turn to eyeball her. What was meant to be tough and cliché told me volumes.
    She had powers the Family wanted.
    She had powers great enough she could keep the Family at bay.
    She determined the balance of that relationship, and the Family toed the line.
    She had a major falling out with them, so severe, neither the ties of Family nor the compulsion of the Fangborn was enough to keep her where she didn’t want to be.
    She’d voluntarily given up everything I might have given my eyeteeth for, not so long ago.
    I tried to put my disbelief and resistance aside. After all, not everyone related to the Family like Gerry did, for example. I certainly didn’t; I’d disagreed with him on many occasions. I hadn’t drunk the Kool-Aid.
    So maybe she was someone who’d understand.
    “Lot of details missing there,” I said. “Don’t you think you could use a little backup right now? Now that you know some psycho is hunting you?”
    “I can take care of myself.”
    “Okay, okay, but maybe I could use a little backup—”
    “No.” Another stony glance. Vee pointedly picked up her beer and swigged, without blinking or breaking off her stare.
    I shrugged. An idea started nudging its way into my consciousness .
    “What about you?” she said