“Just her name and age. She was about to say more when you…arrived.” My father scowled again, and I rushed to fill the pause. “Her name is Kaci Dillon, and she’s thirteen and a half years old.”
“Thirteen…?” His words faded into horrified silence and he reached for the woodpile, as if to steady himself. “That isn’t possible.”
“That’s what I thought.” I glanced at the lodge, where several gaps had appeared in the blinds covering the windows—toms watching us from relative safety. Evidently everyone was awake now, which made me really glad my father had posted Marc and Jace at the tabby’s door with orders not to let anyone in—or out—until further notice from him. Including the other Alphas.
It was a risky move, and they wouldn’t be able to hold the door themselves if the entire tribunal decided they wanted in. But that wasn’t likely to happen, thanks to Uncle Rick, and even if it did, we’d hear the ruckus from outside and come running to straighten things out. So for the moment, I was confident that the tabby was safe.
“Who is she?” my father asked, now pacing the length of the woodpile, crunching dead leaves beneath his feet. The question was rhetorical, fortunately, because I certainly didn’t have the answer. “I’ve never heard of the Dillons, or their Pride. How could I never have heard of them?”
No, we didn’t know every Pride in the world personally, but my father knew every Pride in North America, by name and reputation at least, and several of those in Middle and South America, as well as Europe. And Kaci spoke English. American English, as far as I could tell, with no accent I could discern in what few words she’d said so far. It made no sense.
“It gets even weirder than that. She didn’t know how to Shift. I had to talk her through it step by step.” I rocked on my heels, my hands clasped nervously at my back. “You know, there’s a possibility no one else seems willing to say out loud…”
“No.” He stopped near the far end of the woodpile, to glare at me over one shoulder. “She was probably too nervous to Shift on her own, which makes sense considering how young she is. She is not a stray, Faythe.”
“Why? Because we’ve never seen a female one? There’s a first time for everything, Daddy.”
His eyes glazed over and the pacing recommenced, and just like that, I was dismissed, along with my theory-threatening, comfort-zone-shattering, too-new-to-be-considered yet perfectly-possible idea.
Irritation clenched my jaws, so I spoke through them. “Why is it that when Manx claims to have met a female stray, everyone smiles and says anything’s possible, but when I merely mention that very possibility, the same people roll their eyes and laugh in my face?”