Stray!!

RACHEL VINCENT
STRAY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing a book is a very solitary pursuit. Publishing one is not. It’s a group effort,
requiring contributions from many people, with many different areas of expertise. With
that in mind, I’d like to thank everyone who worked on Stray during its development:
editorial director Dianne Moggy and executive editor Margaret Marbury; in marketing,
AnaMovileanu and Stacy Widdrington; art director Erin Craig and designer Sean
Kapitain; editorial assistant Adam Wilson, whose contributions behind the scenes should
not go unnoticed; and everyone involved in production and sales. Thank you all.
Also, thanks to Ohh, who double-checked my Spanish, without laughing at my mistakes.
Thanks to my editor, the fabulous Mary-Theresa Hussey, whose patience withme and
faith in my story are directly responsible for putting this book on the shelf.
Thanks to literary agent extraordinaire Miriam Kriss for being so incredibly good at her
job. For answering my questions and calming me down. For giving me confidence and
pride in my work. In short, thanks for selling my books.
And finally, I owe a huge debt of gratitude—and a big hug—to Kim Harrison, theworld’s
greatest mentor, for lending her wisdom, her experience and her time to a newbie writer in
need of guidance. For teaching me more than I ever thought possible, and more than I
could ever express. And most of all, thanks, Kim, for taking me seriously.
To my # 1 fan, the love of my life, for endless support and encouragement. For providing
me with the time and the space I needed to makemy dream come true. And most of all,
for daring me to finally put my hands on the keyboard, and the words on the page.
This never would have happened without you.
One
T he moment the door opened I knew an ass-kicking was inevitable. Whether I’d be giving
it or receiving it was still a bit of a mystery.
The smell hit me as I left the air-conditioned comfort of the language building for theheat
of another north-central Texas summer, tugging my backpack higher on my shoulder as I
squinted into the sunset. A step behind me, my roommate, Sammi, was ranting about the
guest lecturer’s discriminatory view of women’s contributions to nineteenth-century
literature. I’d been about to play devil’s advocate, just for the hell of it, when a shift in the
evening breeze stopped me where Istood, on the top step of the narrow front porch.
My argument forgotten, I froze, scanning the shadowy quad for the source of the
unmistakable scent. Visually, nothing was out of the ordinary: just small groups of summer
students talking on their way to and from the dorms. Human students. But what I smelled
wasn’t human. It wasn’t even close.
Absorbed in her rant, Sammi didn’t realize I’d stopped.She walked right into me, cursing
loud enough to draw stares when her binder fell out of her hand and popped open on theground, littering the steps with loose-leaf paper.
“I could use a little notice next time you plan on zoning out, Faythe,” she snapped,
bending to gather up her notes. Grunts and more colorful words issued from behind her,
where our fellow grad students were stalled by ourpedestrian traffic jam. Lit majors are
not known for watching where they’re going; most of us walk with our eyes in a book
instead of on the path ahead.
“Sorry.” I knelt to help her, snatching a sheet of paper from the concrete before the
student behind me could stomp on it. Standing, I took the steps two at a time, following
Sammi to a brick half wall jutting from the porch. Still talking,she set her binder on the
ledge and began methodically reorganizing her notes, completely oblivious to the scent, as
humans always were. I barely heard her incessant chatter as she worked.
My nostrils flared slightly to take in more of the smell as I turned my face into the breeze.
There. Across the quad, in the alley between the physics building and Curry Hall.
My fist clenched around the...