Feral Curse (8 page)

Anchor:
Are you sure he isn’t the prehistoric equivalent of an NBA player?

Dr. Urbaniak:
(No response.)

Anchor:
So, you’re saying that this proves the existence of wereapes. Do you think the species could have persisted into modern day?

Dr. Urbaniak:
I didn’t say it proved anything. But if this individual was a wereape and a representative one, I’d be surprised if wereapes still exist . . . unless they have significantly shrunk in stature or exist in utter isolation. These furry fellows would stand out from the crowd.

Anchor:
And if they are a species of man, not animal or shifter?

Dr. Urbaniak:
Then it’s more likely that they fell victim to climatic change or, over generations, interbred with other werepeople or
Homo sapiens
until they were indistinguishable.

Anchor:
Interbred? You heard it here first, ladies and gentlemen. Hybrids among us! Next thing you know, your grandchildren will be swinging from the trees!

(Dr. Urbaniak tosses her notes into the air and marches off camera.)

DESPITE YOSHI’S REASSURING TEXT,
it’s hard to sit still for breakfast. But I’m famished, and I’ll probably need the energy. Besides, I don’t want to make Dad suspicious.

My father is already dressed in period clothing — a top hat and three-piece silver-gray suit, complete with bow tie, shiny silver buttons, and pocket watch. Spiffy, but he’ll be melting by noon. Dad sets a steaming stack of six pancakes in front of me.

Seated in my nightshirt and terry-cloth robe, I sneak a fingertip taste of the banana-walnut topping and maple syrup. Delicious.

“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” I say. “Especially since you’re —”

“Better not to think about it,” my father replies, referring to his diet. He’s been low carb and low fat for two months and has lost only three pounds.

In contrast, my shifter metabolism means I could consume a baron of beef, a vat of cheesy broccoli macaroni, and a full pan of peanut-butter-fudge brownies every night without gaining weight — in fact, it’s necessary for me to keep going.

After another moment at the stove, Dad joins me, his plate boasting only one pancake, and a whole-wheat naked one at that. “Dig in,” he tells me.

Mom just left to meet clients in the nearby Tahitian Village Community (no, we’re nowhere near Tahiti, and to make things even more confusing, the streets have Hawaiian names). Founders’ Day weekend or not, Saturday is showtime for real-estate agents.

For a while, my father and I make chitchat about the local weather forecast. This weekend is critical to the downtown merchants and B&B/restaurant owners. It seems like Central Texas is always in a drought, but for the next couple of days, he’s hoping not to get rain.

We always do this, have breakfast together. Dad calls it his most important meeting of the day. Sneaking Peso a piece of turkey bacon, he asks, “What are your weekend plans?”

“I . . .” I hate lying, but Jess already spotted me in town with Yoshi last night. I’m pretty sure the werecoyote was a no-show, so we still have him to deal with, and especially given that the town’s so crowded for the festivities, it’s just a matter of time before someone mentions to my mayor-father that I’ve been seen with a nonlocal boy.

That boy himself is something of a mystery. Yoshi has zero Internet presence — I looked before turning in. If I say I know him from student government or running or UT’s Engineering Summer Camp and Dad punches his name into a search engine . . .

Not that my parents don’t trust me. I’ve never given them a reason not to, except for, fine, right now. I still don’t want to reveal that Yoshi is a fellow Cat, either, not so soon after the Darby debacle, but also because that would be outing him to humans, which is a no-no, even if they are humans I love and trust.

What’s more, I’m not ready to introduce him as a friend — we just met, and I’m not a hundred-percent sure I can trust
him
yet. Not with Mom and Dad.

“Something wrong, Kayla?” Dad asks, and I realize he’s stopped eating.

I shake my head, offering a hopefully reassuring grin. “I thought I’d go out today and meet some new people. It’ll be good practice for college.”

Good practice for college? One reason I don’t lie often is because I’m horrendous at it.

“Just be careful,” my father replies. He reaches for the syrup, then, reconsidering, withdraws his hand. “If you catch so much as a glimpse of Darby — I mean, he’s supposed to be leaving town, and he seems harmless enough, but —”

“You’ll be the second to know,” I promise. “After Sheriff Bigheart.”

It’s the right answer.

I wait until Dad departs for Founders’ Day and then give it another five minutes for him to clear out of the neighborhood. Meanwhile, I book upstairs to my bedroom, Peso at my heels. I pull on a pair of shorts, tucking a copy of the spell into the front pocket, and a tank top that’s a little lower-cut at the bust and higher-cut at the midriff than, strictly speaking, makes my father comfortable.

I’m not dressing for Yoshi. I’m dressing so that I can shift fast if I need to, and that works best without restrictive material binding my human form.

I may have given up on romance, but the thought of nakedness can be distracting. I doubt it’ll come up, but if so, the whole transformation process works best starting naked, and that could mean naked me and naked Yoshi, if only to . . . What are we doing, anyway?

Oh, right. Tracking my Coyote stalker — focus, Kayla, focus.

Taking stock of the clouds darkening overhead, I’m proud of myself for picking up the human girl’s scent before I see her. I’m getting better at that. “Yoshi?”

“Come on up,” he calls from my tree house.

Given the crash I heard earlier, I didn’t expect to find Yoshi alone. But the newcomer doesn’t look threatening. She has vanilla-blond hair with turquoise streaks, a small silver hoop through her left eyebrow, and tiny crosses tattooed around her pale neck. Yoshi introduces her as “Aimee,” and he says her name like she means something to him.

They’re seated, cross-legged, on my fuzzy throw rugs. She’s fiddling with her phone, and he’s flipping through one of my
Mechanical Engineering
magazines.

Her smile is welcoming. “Howdy.”

Her tongue is pierced, too.

I wave, feeling small-town, clean-cut, and dull as cardboard.

“She’s going to stand out,” I say with a gesture. I’m not all that worried about it, but I need some way to explain my up-and-down stare.

Pushing to his feet, Yoshi laughs. “Please. Your dad waltzed out dressed like an undertaker.” Yoshi waves the magazine. “Do you understand any of this stuff?”

“Of course.” Not really, but I will someday.

Yoshi tosses the magazine aside. “I’m getting an A in phys ed.”

Aimee snorts with laughter and still manages to be adorable.

I’m not sure what’s so funny. “I take it Peter Villarreal didn’t make an appearance?”

As Yoshi shakes his head, Aimee says, “He’s pretty low-profile online, too, but I friend-requested him.”

“Most shifters are,” Yoshi puts in. “Low-profile, that is.”

I’m not, and there’s some subtext I’m not quite getting. Is he saying I’m a lousy wereperson? Maybe I don’t know much about my shifter heritage or culture, but I refuse to believe that there’s one right way to be a Cat or that he’s better at it than me. Why is it important to Yoshi to be better at it than me, anyway? What does he have to prove?

Aimee leans forward. “Kayla, I read up on the guy, Benjamin Bloom, who died on the carousel. I’m sorry. I’m sure you grew up with him. But do you know anything about the history of the ride? Sometimes with magic attached to an object, a seemingly insignificant detail about it becomes important.”

“Come again?” Yoshi says. “Where did you —”

Aimee swats him on the leg. “You said to research the mystical angle and . . . Kieren texted me the information.”

“Kieren?” I hate being the odd-wereperson-out. “Who’s Kieren?”

“Good friend of Aimee’s.” Yoshi makes a show of yawning. “Stuck-up, insecure Wolf-studies scholar, dating a hot redhead — also a good friend of Aimee’s — who, incidentally, hates me (the Wolf, not the girl) and probably any other guy who dares to speak to his woman.”

“How can anybody be stuck-up
and
insecure?” I want to know.

“Kieren doesn’t hate you,” Aimee replies in an exasperated tone, and I can tell they’ve had this conversation before. “Or ‘any other guy.’ But you shouldn’t have ogled —”

“Ogled? I did
not
ogle. I was being friendly and —”

“Kieren said to call if we needed him,” she puts in, as if that’s the end of it.

“How big is Austin’s shifter population?” I ask.

I’ve always read that our total U.S. population is estimated at something like one half of one percent, but there’s nothing to say that the human sources typically quoted know what they’re talking about, and it’s in the best interests of shifters to lie.

Aimee’s grin is wry. “Seems bigger every time I turn around. About the carousel?”

For a lot of reasons, I’m glad she’s here, nudging me forward. As the mayor’s daughter, I know more about the carousel than most. “The city council bought it from a traveling carnival that passed through town. There was a lot of talk about the fortune-teller, a Madame Zelda, who signed the papers, especially when she purchased retirement property adjacent to some acreage my parents own across the river. But no one ever saw her again. I think . . .”

“What?” Yoshi presses.

I meet his steady gaze. “She’s . . . like us.”

“She’s a Cat?” he replies like it’s no big deal.

Horrified, I check Aimee’s reaction. She doesn’t seem flustered. Then again, she doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by relaxing in the company of two werepredators, either. It’s stunning to think that the idea of what I am might seem like neutral news to anybody, that there are
Homo
sapiens
out there, in addition to Mom and Dad, who’re allies, friends, and maybe even more.

She’s a better person than Ben was, that’s for sure. Then again, maybe she’s known about us her whole life. Maybe if Ben had had more of a chance to get used to the idea . . .

I remember him calling what I am a “nightmare.” I remember him saying I was speaking for Satan when I tried to defend myself. Maybe he never would’ve changed, no matter what.

“It’s okay,” Yoshi says. “Aimee’s cool.”

Aimee extends her hand to me. “He’s right,” she says. “I am cool.”

We shake. I have two sets of skin, and I’m nowhere as comfortable in either of them as she is in hers.

Seconds later, down in my backyard, Yoshi’s rumbling stomach is audible. I can smell the remains of pork chops — Aimee must’ve brought him breakfast — but he’s still hungry.

I could eat something else myself. I gesture, leading them on. “This way. I’ll give you a tour of quaint, historic Pine Ridge, or at least our culinary highlights.”

“Damn tourists!” Miz Schmidt exclaims from the clotheslines straddling her backyard. “Can you believe it?” she asks us. “Somebody stole a pair of Dylan’s jeans and his brand-new Spurs jersey. That cost me sixty bucks.”

“The Coyote,” Yoshi whispers next to me on the sidewalk, and I know he’s right.

When it comes to backyard clotheslines, Peter normally would’ve had more selection on a Saturday, but only a few local housewives are willing to take their chances with the forecasted rain. “Sorry to hear that,” I call. “I’ll keep an eye out for the jersey in town.” Put mildly.

“White with black lettering,” Miz Schmidt tells me. “Number twenty-one.”

“Got it,” I say. “Hope your day gets better from here.”

Founders’ Day weekend features a cook-off, and the traditional categories are salsa and fajitas; chicken; pork; brisket; and chili. It’ll be a while before any of the fancy stuff’s ready to sample, but the festival food vendors should be up and running by now.

Aimee, Yoshi, and I stroll through the neighborhood past a long line of joggers and power walkers, all in dark-green T-shirts, participating in the Founders’ Day 5K. I can already smell buttered popcorn, Elgin sausages, and turkey legs roasting from two blocks away.

As she passes, Brittney’s mother calls, “There’s our state champ, Kayla Morgan!”

The winded crowd cheers as they boogie on by.

Pine Ridge pride. I’m told the yearbook is dedicating a double-page spread to me.

“State champ?” Aimee asks.

“Cross-country. Track — hurdles and 1,600 meters.” Lowering my voice, I add, “I take it easy on them.”

“You’re still cheating.” Yoshi’s tone is sharp. “And showing off.”

What’s his problem? I mean, sure, I have a certain genetic advantage, but it’s not like I knew that when I fell in love with running. Some humans have more natural athletic ability than others, too, and they don’t have to give up sports because of it. No, they win championships.

Yoshi adds, “The fact that you can outrun humans doesn’t mean you can keep up with me.”