Feral Curse (12 page)

The yeti blinks at me with grateful blue eyes. God!

As we continue on our way, Kayla glances sideways at me. “What’s this about a
Book of Lions
?” she asks.

“The Book of Lions, The Book of Old.”

Aimee interjects. “Is that one book or two?”

“One,” Junior puts in, “but it goes by both names.”

It’s disturbing that he’s the one who knows that. I admit, “I’m not the religious type, but it’s obviously associated with a werelion faith.”

“A spell book?” Kayla counters.

Aimee sounds almost prim as she replies, “An angel would say there are many paths to the Big Boss. Maybe it’s archaic, pagan. Like people who worship Zeus. And Granny Z said the text wasn’t a spell or a curse. It’s a blessing for healing.”

Kayla coughs. “Forgive me if I’m not feeling blessed.”

“Wherever its history, we have to deal with the here and now,” I point out. “If we don’t want the carousel figures to keep fetching shifters, we’ll have to round them up and keep them out of circulation. Step one of Operation Carousel: Track them down.”

Aimee nods. “If we’re going to replicate the spell as closely as possible, we’ll need them to reassemble the ride.”

She beat me to saying so. I turn to Kayla, “So Ben was your boyfriend?” It explains . . . I’m not sure what it explains exactly, but it’s personal to her, very personal and relevant as hell, given the circumstances surrounding the spell.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Aimee puts in, her tone warning me to tread lightly.

I don’t. “How did Ben find out you’re a Cat, anyway?”

Kayla bites her luscious lower lip. “I told him.”

“Rule number one for our kind,” I say. “You can’t trust humans.”

“Hello?” Aimee pipes up. “Walking right beside you through the dead forest.”

“
Most
humans,” I amend. “You have to be more careful and stop keeping secrets.”

“Keep secrets, don’t keep secrets,” Kayla counters. “You’re contradicting yourself.” She sets her hands on curvy hips. “Don’t tell me —”

“Are you friends?” Junior asks. “You don’t talk to each other like friends.”

That shuts everybody up. We walk in silence the rest of the way to the border of the Morgans’ property, mercifully without plunging into the ground again or being crushed by a falling tree.

We’re finally at the river’s muddy edge when Kayla wants to know, “Is it true your grandma is as mean as snot?”

“Worse,” I admit, glancing down. “Oh.”

The water is higher, faster, break dancing over the rocks.

I hand off the white cat to Kayla, preparing to carry Aimee.

I doubt Junior can swim any better than a human, probably worse, what with all that fur to weigh him down. But he’s not my priority.

“No, no, don’t be stupid.” Kayla squints toward the highway bridge. “Beats me how we’re going to explain ourselves to Deputy Hoover, but we’re taking the long way home.”

Right then Blizzard sinks his teeth into her arm and, dropping him, she hisses and loses her balance, teetering on a rock drenched in rising water.

“Whoa!” Kayla tumbles backward into the drink with a splash and a yelp.

“Kayla!” I jump in after her, but the water is muddy, cloudy. Popping my head up, I shout, “Where’d she go?”

“I don’t know!” Aimee exclaims, scanning the rapids.

Werecats are known for our speed, strength, and grace, but we can’t hold our breath any longer than humans and we’re not naturally great swimmers (with the exception of Tigers).

I dive back under, gripping roots for support. I can’t see a damn thing.

How long has it been? Did Kayla suck in air before submerging? How long does it take to drown? So much debris — branches, leaves, trash. This is impossible. I can’t . . . There’s not . . .

Underneath in the murk, something big and fast-moving flips past my leg.

What the hell?

I rise until my vision is clear of the water again, and, glancing over my shoulder, I see a brown furred head surface. A split second later, Kayla, coughing hard, rises alongside it.

Make that
him.
Wereotter. Male. In partial shift.

Fighting the current, I wade after the Otter and Kayla to the park side of the river.

“We’re taking the long way,” Aimee shouts from the bank bordering the forest. “We’ll say we walked from a hotel along the highway.”

Right, because without Kayla, she’s just another tourist. It’s not a bad story — simple, plausible. Except for Junior. But I have enormous faith in Aimee’s creativity in a pinch. Besides, once you say you’re from Austin, other Texans expect some weirdness from you. Along the tree-and-scrub line behind her, I notice that Junior has retrieved Blizzard from a branch.

Aimee waves. I wave. “Be careful,” I yell. “Stay sharp.”

Junior may be only a goofy kid, but to me, “yeti” still equals “danger.” I hate letting them out of my sight. Still, I can’t leave Kayla. She throws up water as the Otter retracts his shift. Her hands have been cut on the rocks. There’s a tiny bleeding gash across her cheek. But the Cat girl will heal fast. All shifters do. Finally, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Your shirt?” the Otter prompts me.

Right, because he’s naked — we’re talking full frontal and backside exposed. Only a few yards away is public parkland. Even with the stormy weather, anyone from the festival might wander this way. I peel my shirt off, toss it at him, and ask Kayla, “You all right?”

She stands and wrings muddy water out of her clothes. “All right enough.”

Once he’s in nearly human form, though still furry, the Otter’s able to get my shirt over his head. He’s short enough that it falls almost to his knees. “Evan,” he says. “I’m Evan.”

Evan is trim but soft-bellied and has spiky light-brown hair.

I ask, “Where are you from?”

“Bartlesville, Oklahoma.” He points to the carousel. “Somehow I got over there.” Which is enough of a mystery that you’d think it’d occupy his full attention.

Instead, he takes three swift steps to Kayla, reaches for her arm, catching her off-balance, and bends her back in a passionate clinch.

It’s a move I’ve considered once or twice myself, big with the romantic drama, but not right after the girl in question has nearly drowned and vomited.

WHEN I REGISTER EVAN’S TONGUE
slipping into my mouth, I jerk back and flip him hard over my shoulder. Behind me, Yoshi laughs as the Otter flies into the murky river with a splash.

Undaunted, he lunges back up, bobbing in the tumultuous water. “I must have you! I must taste your every crevice and —”

“Evan!” Yoshi shouts. “There will be no crevice tasting. Wake up and smell the eye of newt. You’re bewitched!”

“Bewitched, besotted, all I am, sweet lady Cat, is burning for your love.”

Somebody flunked his Shakespeare unit.

Hyperaware of my revealing wet top, I hold up my hand in warning. “I don’t care if he might’ve saved my life. I cannot deal with this.”

When I run in Cat form, I always wait to shift until I’m on the forest side of the water, deep inside the cover of the brush and trees. It’s like entering another world — dark, private, safe. But the river doesn’t seem like much of a welcome mat anymore, at least not when it’s trying to kill me. After several tedious moments, Yoshi — alas, no longer shirtless — returns from escorting the Otter to retrieve his stashed clothes. Was it only last night that we searched this same patch of woods for Peter’s? Nakedness has never before been such a pressing concern in my life.

Yoshi announces, “I warned him that if he touched you again —”

“I can take care of myself,” I insist as Aimee and Junior come into view, far downriver. I realize the fact that Evan rescued me negates my point, but I dare Yoshi to challenge me on it.

“I know,” the Cat replies with a tight grin. “I told him you’d shred his junk like a scratching post.”

I did not need that mental image. “Where did Evan go?” I ask, wandering alongside Yoshi toward the paved path.

“I pointed him up toward the festival to get some chow.”

Fair enough, but I don’t like the way Yoshi’s studying me. “What?”

“You sent Darby the Deer home?” he asks, like I haven’t already said so.

I sink onto the metal park bench. “My parents did. What were we supposed to do, keep him?” When Yoshi doesn’t reply, I add, “Why? What difference does it make?”

“He’s enchanted, and you’re responsible for him.”

“And for Evan? And Peter? And you?” I exclaim. “I didn’t ask for this to happen.”

“You’re a Cat, and you shared that information with a human —”

“Who’s dead because of it. I loved Ben. Don’t you understand that? How is it that I haven’t been punished enough?” I don’t need this right now. I get up and jog away from Yoshi to meet Aimee and Junior and his cat. Keeping me in sight, Yoshi lets me go.

Sure, it’s
fine
to tell Aimee what you are. She’s
fine
with it. She’ll rush to help you with your shifter-related, fatal mystical crisis, whereas Ben . . . caused it.

Moments later, I’m blinking back tears as Aimee greets me with, “What did Yoshi do?”

“It’s nothing,” I say. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

“You’re too fond of that word,” Aimee observes.

It’s impossible to skirt the festival without being seen. It’s spilled over into the neighborhood. People are everywhere. Yoshi and I are still drying out and look a little river-battered. Cuts. Scrapes. My hair is a disaster.

“Well, what do we have here?” Sheriff Bigheart wants to know, giving Junior a friendly slap on the shoulder. “Aren’t you hot in that getup, son?”

“I’m with the snow-cone people,” he replies in a cheerful voice. “I came early to help set up, but they’re caught in traffic behind a wreck on Highway Seventy-One.”

“There’s a wreck on Seventy-One?” is the reply. “I haven’t heard anything about that.”

It occurs to me that a cop won’t swallow any old story and has the means to fact-check it. “Are you sure it was Seventy-One?” I ask. Offering my best A-student grin, I explain, “He’s not from around here.”

“Uh-huh.” Pulling his phone out, the sheriff gives us a vague wave and moseys off. “Stay out of trouble, Kayla.” His voice deepens in warning. “You and your new friends.”

Yoshi points at Junior. “Let me or Aimee handle any future cover stories.”

He leaves me out of it. Apparently, I’m not smart enough to finesse my own hometown.

We find a nervous-looking Evan, drinking Dr Pepper out of a can and nibbling on beer-batter-fried fish on a stick. He looks fine. Only his hair is still damp. He makes no eye contact and angles his body away from me, even if he is sneaking glances at my butt and boobs. I’ll have to remember to thank Yoshi later for coming up with such an effective threat.

“Is there a dunking tank?” five-year-old Joey Bratton asks, eyeing me as he skips by.

“A filthy one?” asks Mrs. Bratton, handing him a bright red balloon.

Never mind that I’m all cut up and in the company of a head-to-toe furry kid. People are fine with that. My being wet, dirty, and in the company of strangers, including strange boys?

Fascinating.

I gesture toward a side street and lead the others behind Betty’s Baubles, which deals in all manner of rhinestone jewelry and cowgirl clothing but is best known for its jalapeño jam. “This isn’t going to work,” I announce. “I can bring Aimee home, maybe Yoshi. But Junior is —”

“We could go back to Granny Z’s,” Junior points out, snuggling his cat. “Me and Blizzard and Yoshi and Evan.” He strikes a rapperlike pose. “Boyz in the house.”

It’s not a bad idea. She did say we’d need the cabin and were welcome to it. It never occurred to me to leave Junior there alone, but I’m not about to introduce Evan to my parents, either. He may be a pervert only because he’s enchanted, but he’s still a pervert.

“What about Peter?” Yoshi asks.

My instincts are telling me he’s never far. I swallow hard. “What about him?”

Yoshi replies, “He’s unstable, dangerous —”

“I can be dangerous, too.” I take a step and rise on my toes so we’re nose to nose.

As Yoshi laughs — laughs — at me, the others take a giant step back. “Listen, kitten, you’ve got the equipment” — Speaking of perverts, is that a leer? —“but you don’t know what to do with it.” Somehow I get the feeling he’s not just talking about my teeth and claws.

“Time out.” Aimee shoves herself in between us and stares up at him. “You go to the cabin with Evan and Junior.” Addressing the Otter, she asks, “Do you have a phone?” At the shake of his head, Aimee withdraws hers and hands it to Yoshi. “You’ll probably need this. I bet my phone is the only one that wasn’t drowned. We’ll call you later.”

“Do I get a say in this?” Evan wants to know.

“No!” comes the answer from everyone but Junior.

Evan reaches for the dry phone. “I have to call my —”

Yoshi holds it away from him. “And tell your
whoever
what, exactly? You can’t mention the spell, and you can’t leave town until we get this all sorted out.”

“Who put you in charge?” Evan asks, puffing up.

Yoshi lets out a low warning rumble, and Evan seems to shrink inside his own skin. The male Cat’s not in charge, but there’s some kind of pecking order between different types of shifters. I’m grateful to be a predator species.