I like Aimee. I do. But she’s always obsessing over some cause, and besides, there’s nothing I hate more than arguing with someone who’s making more sense than me.
I head south on Congress Avenue, cruising by the 1950s motels, the costume shop, Sanguini’s, and the Tex-Mex restaurant. “What else did Yoshi want to talk to you about?”
“What do you think?” Aimee says. “Finding Ruby, making sure she’s safe. He’s concerned about her, which is only natural. It also suggests that he’s a decent guy.”
I snort. “You like him. You think he’s hot.”
As I swing into the Bouldin Creek neighborhood, Aimee stares out her window, ignoring me. Within a block, the landscape changes to a mix of new construction and small cottages, some of which are decorated with holiday lights year-round.
Once I put the SUV in park outside her apartment, she replies, “I don’t even know him.” That’s when I realize she’s seriously pissed. “How superficial do you think I am?” Aimee goes on. “News flash: being in the presence of a robust-looking male in no way shuts down my capacity for rational thought.”
“Robust?” I reply. Do I look robust? What does robust mean, anyway?
Aimee gets out and marches off without bothering to close the passenger door behind her. I unbuckle my seat belt and wince as I stretch to reach it.
Someday, I will learn when to shut up.
I WAKE TO THE ELECTRONIC CHIME of my mother’s laptop. At least Mom didn’t try to rouse me for church. I usually work until close on weekends, but over winter break I’ve been going in every night to make some extra cash.
Dad hasn’t paid child support since he took that tech job in Hong Kong, or, at least, he keeps claiming there’s a persistent glitch in his bank’s direct-deposit system.
My mom is a former Pottery Barn manager, trying to remake herself as a life coach. She still works part-time as a sales clerk at Barton Creek Square Mall and is talking about going back to school to study psychology. Meanwhile, our employee-discounted furniture is awesome.
I rise from the foldout sofa bed and, yawning, mosey down the hall.
At her bedroom door, I begin, “Mind if I take a rain check today?” We’d been planning to hit a Jimmy Stewart movie marathon. “Something has come up with —”
“Your friends?” she asks, pivoting in the desk chair. “Again?”
Before I can reply, Mom adds, “Forget I said that.” She straightens. “I have friends of my own. Being a mother is important to me, but I won’t stoop to guilt trips or model to you that a woman is incomplete without a man and children to define her.”
Uh-huh. “New self-help book?”
She holds up a copy of The Single Mother’s Guide to Raising Herself. “Am I becoming that predictable?”
I laugh. “I find it charming.”
Sounding more like her usual self, she asks, “Are you off with Clyde?”
“Not exactly,” I reply, sitting on the corner of the bed. “There’s this boy. He’s visiting from Kansas.” Kansas has a nice, wholesome connotation. “His name is Yoshi, and he’s staying with Nora.”
“Is he cute?” Mom asks.
“More than cute,” I confess, recalling the fit of his jeans. “More like smoldering.”
LAST NIGHT WHEN ZALESKI ANNOUNCED I’d be staying with his “lady friend,” I wondered if he might actually trust me. Then I realized that he was spending the night, too. Today I wake up in the cluttered attic to the aroma of Nora’s promised chicken-fried steak and eggs Benedict, and the world smells brighter.
There has to be a rational explanation for the allegations against Ruby. She’s probably in hiding somewhere safe, waiting for everything to blow over. Today I’ll do my damnedest to find her and straighten it all out.
I pull my jeans back on and rummage through the T-shirts that Nora left stacked for me on a nearby rocking chair. I pick a black short-sleeved one that spells COEXIST out of the religious symbols of various faiths.
Standing in front of the mirrored door to an antique wardrobe, I’m combing my hair when the reflection of a stack of boxes labeled DM catches my eye.
DM as in Davidson Morris? It’s got to be.
With a glance at the empty stairwell, I cross the attic and dig in. The contents are a jumble — toiletries, old checkbooks, Hawaiian shirts — like someone tossed everything in without bothering to sort through it first.
“Yoshi!” Nora calls from downstairs. “Grub’s on!”
“Coming!” I reply. I’m about to give up and sneak back later when a red envelope catches my eye. I pull out a birthday card with a coffin pictured on the front, the trim lined in real red felt. I don’t get the punch line on the inside, but the return address is for Ruby Kitahara.
Jackpot! I shove the envelope in my pocket and return the boxes to their approximate original positions.
“It’s getting cold!” Nora calls again.
Two staircases later, I gratefully accept a nearly overflowing plate. (The crispy hash browns go a long way to soaking up the hollandaise sauce.)
Nora says that she already shooed out Zaleski and invites me to church.
“No, thanks.” I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “I’ve got . . .” Should I tell her that I’m off to track Ruby? Won’t she relay anything I say to Zaleski? “A date.”
“A date?” Nora cocks her head. “My, you move fast! Didn’t you hit town only yesterday?”
“Aimee,” I say. “It’s not a date date. We’re just going to hang out.”
Nora and I make small talk over breakfast. It’s a relief to finally meet someone in this town who seems genuinely glad to get to know me. She even knows a werewolf who spent a night in Grams’s barn last fall. Small world, I guess.
After mentioning that she’s Sanguini’s third and latest chef, Nora answers my question before I can ask it. “I’ve never met Ruby. She wasn’t there long and took off before my time.”
“Everyone talks like she’s a monster,” I say.
Nora’s smile is gentle. “I’ve known my share of monsters and even found it in my heart to love a couple of them.” She clears my plate. “You strike me as a good boy. This morning I’ll put in a prayer request for you and your sister.”
Aimee shows up on foot about five minutes after Nora leaves for services. I’m sitting on the hood of my car, scrolling through old text messages, looking for clues.
I’m amused that Aimee thinks fifty-something degrees is chilly. She’s sporting a green fleece jacket with a long matching scarf. It brings out the green in her hair.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” I ask. “I half expected him to tag along today.”
“Who, Clyde?” Aimee asks with a quirk of her lips. “We’re just friends.”
Best news I’ve heard in days. She’s swiped translucent gel onto her brows and lashes, baby-pink gel onto her lips. I wonder if that’s normal for her or an extra effort.
I have my share of experience with human girls — more than my fair share. But none of them knew I’m a Cat. Somehow the fact that Aimee knows changes everything. I’m not playing pretend. I’ve got no choice but to be the whole, real Yoshi.
I slide off the hood and inform her that Ruby moved to Austin to work as a music-promotion intern with a guy named Paxton. “Later, we can hit some clubs, ask around.”
“Does this Paxton have a last name?” Aimee asks.
Reaching into my back pocket, I shake my head. “That would be too easy, but he’s supposedly sympathetic to werepeople rights. . . . He might be attached to the local urban scene.” I wonder how tapped in she is, beyond her Possum “just” friend. It’s a big deal, confiding shifter heritage to a human — forbidden, for the most part.
“We’ve got all day,” Aimee says. “Any other bright ideas?”
Either I trust her or not. “Just one,” I reply, pulling out the red envelope. I unfold it and show her the return address. “Can you take me here?”
“Hmm.” Aimee studies Ruby’s loopy handwriting and
then puts her palm out. “It’s not far. Give me your keys.”
STEERING HIS PRECIOUS CAR NORTH on Congress and then west, I don’t mention to Yoshi that I’ve only had my driver’s license for a few months. Or that I failed the test the first two times I took it.
I’m familiar with Ruby’s high-end apartment complex. It’s located near married-student housing and the city golf course. I’ve passed it a million times on my way to have fruit tarts and iced tea with my mom on the lake.
As we cruise by Auditorium Shores, I explain that Ruby was leading a double life, pretending to be a living vampire.
Rolling down the passenger-side window, Yoshi asks, “What’s that?”
I take a breath. “A human being who drinks blood from virgin donors.” The way I see it, what consenting adults do on full-moon nights in Hill Country caves is their own business. Cruising toward Lake Austin Boulevard, I add, “There’s a whole subculture built around it.” According to the waiters, a handful of living vampires are among Sanguini’s regular customers. They dress gorgeously and tip even better.
“Kinky,” Yoshi replies. “Why would a Cat do such a thing?”
I’m not sure how much to tell him. A few minutes later, I pull the car up to the apartment key code/com system and finally say, “We think Ruby playacted to attract Davidson Morris so she could spy on him and his vamp buddies. By pretending to be a wannabe, Ruby convinced them that she sincerely wanted to be turned.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You’re saying my sister was some kind of secret agent?”
“And assassin,” I put in. “She staked Davidson Morris, remember?”
I dial the office and ask to be let in.
As the gate electronically retracts, Yoshi asks, “Working for . . . ?”
“The Cats?” I guess, mostly fishing. It’s the assumption we’ve been going on, but there’s not much meat to it. According to Clyde, Cats don’t have any form of organized government. They’re too independent for that.
Once I cut the engine, Yoshi says, “I don’t need you for this.”
Oh, please. “I’m not going to wait in the car.”
“What if we find something that leads us to Ruby?” he asks. “Your buddy Clyde has already made up his marsupial mind. The Armadillo king is ready to play executioner, the facts be damned. How do I know you won’t turn in Ruby to the Dillos —?”
“I won’t.” I get out of the car. “I wouldn’t. I want the truth, too.”
Yoshi joins me in the parking lot. “That’s not good enough.”
“I owe Ruby my life,” I admit. “Probably my soul, too.”
He flares his nostrils, trying to smell out a lie. “You? How —?”
“Long story,” I say, heading toward the stucco-and-limestone management office. When Yoshi stays put, I glance over my shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you well enough to tell you about it. If we could become friends, it would be different.”
“We can’t become friends?” There’s a trace of hurt in his voice. “Why not?”
“Travis was my boyfriend,” I snap. “Well, almost. Just leave it, okay?”
He does.
Our cover story is that Yoshi is shopping for a lease. Not hugely original, but it gets us in. We pick up a couple of brochures and chat up the receptionist about the fitness center and laundry facilities. Fortunately, the salesperson is occupied with another prospective tenant.
We thank the receptionist and excuse ourselves, making noises about checking out the pool. The complex is huge, made up of eight separate four-story buildings, painted off-white with brown trim. It’s about five years old, in an affluent neighborhood, convenient to downtown, Mopac, and the lake.
We find Building F on the far side of the property.
“Are you from family money?” I ask, figuring a music-promotion internship, assuming it paid at all, wouldn’t be lucrative enough for Ruby to cover the rent.
“Not so much,” Yoshi replies as we march up the outside staircase.
He hesitates at the door of apartment F409, Ruby’s apartment, and we exchange a ready-for-anything look. Yoshi knocks, waits a minute, checks to make sure no one’s around, and then shoves the door open, breaking the lock.
“Hello?” he calls. “Ruby?”
No answer. No alarm, either. It must be nice to have super strength.
I follow him in. The unit is a one-bedroom — beige walls and carpeting — with a living-dining area, bathroom, and kitchenette. “The electricity has been turned off.”
He tries the sink. “The water, too.”
I do a quick sweep, mostly to reassure myself that the apartment is unoccupied.
“Hurry,” Yoshi urges. “The cops may be watching the place.”
“The Dillos, too,” I say. I can’t believe I’m in Ruby’s apartment. If Clyde finds out, he’ll be furious that I didn’t bring him along. Not to mention that I’m here with Yoshi.
The apartment apparently came furnished in durable earth-tone fabrics. Ruby’s clothes still hang in the closet and overstuff the hamper and lie in clumps on the bedroom carpet. Her bountiful collection of sparkly cosmetics and toiletries clutters the medicine-cabinet shelves. She left a half-stocked fridge, too. The eggs have gone bad, along with the milk, fruits, and veggies. It smells awful, no doubt worse to Yoshi.
He shuts the refrigerator door fast.
When I open a kitchen cabinet filled with brown rice, pistachios, and cereal boxes, a dozen tiny beige moths fly out.
“Ruby hasn’t been back here in a while,” Yoshi muses, crossing the apartment. “If she hasn’t paid in as long, she’s far enough behind on the rent to be evicted. So, why hasn’t this place been cleaned out? Leased to someone else?”
“The economy?” I guess. “Maybe they have several other units identical to this one available, or maybe they’re hoping Ruby will come back, or . . .” I recall my parents’ latest tiff over finances. “She might be paid up — sending checks from who-knows-where or having the money automatically transferred each month from a bank account.” I suspect that Zaleski and Wertheimer know the answer.
In the bedroom doorway, Yoshi is holding up a black leather corset with black lace trim and red satin ties. “Good luck fitting into that,” I tease.
“My sister wore things like this in public,” he mutters like it just sank in. “There’s hardly anything else in the closet except her clothes from home, shoved to the back.”
“Do you smell anyone?” I ask. “Besides Ruby, I mean.”
Yoshi lifts his nose. “Human, but it’s off somehow.”
“Probably the vampire,” I say. “From what I hear, it’s a sort of echo scent.”
“And another Cat,” Yoshi adds. “But that’s somehow strange, too.” He tosses the corset onto the sofa and returns to the bedroom.
A high-school yearbook on the coffee table catches my eye. I open it to the section on the senior class and find Ruby’s photo in the Ks.
I’ve seen pictures of her before, of course. Clyde has shown me. She exudes slinky sauciness — every inch the kind of woman who could seriously rock a leather corset.
In her school photo, Ruby looks sweet, not sex kittenish. Without the severe makeup or the skunk stripe in her dark hair, she’s a different girl.
At Waterloo High, my green highlights and tats are no big deal, but it’s all relative. I would’ve stood out as much at this small-town Kansas school as Ruby did here in Austin (even at Sanguini’s). Paging back, I find Yoshi’s picture — that irresistible smile — and then check the index. Neither Kitahara sibling appears except in their class photos. No science club, no homecoming court or sports teams. Like most werepeople, they kept a low profile — possibly lower than most, given the size of their school and hometown.
Ruby kept her yearbook handy. Did she miss the life she left behind?
I hear a soft “Oh” from the other room and put the book down. “What is it?” I ask, joining Yoshi in the bedroom.
Glancing up from t
he nightstand drawer, he grimaces. “I can deal with the fact that my sister is no longer a virgin. But I in no way needed to know that she’s into flavored glow-in-the-dark condoms.” He runs a hand through his dark hair. “It makes no sense.”
Overwhelmed by the awkwardness of the situation, I begin channeling my mother. “Condoms not only prevent pregnancy, they’re also helpful in combatting the transmission of —”
“That’s not what I meant.” Yoshi shuts the drawer. “Condoms are worn by men.”
I reject a couple of possibilities before replying, “Everybody knows that.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Didn’t everybody know Ruby’s into girls?”
I sure didn’t. “Since when?”
The Cat shrugs. “Based on the collection of vintage Diana Rigg–as–Emma Peel posters hanging in her bedroom at Grams’s, I’d say, since forever.”
So Yoshi’s sister morphed from a gay, small-town sweetheart to a bitchy, big-city hetero (or at least bi) seductress-assassin. No wonder he’s confused. “Why don’t I take the bedroom and bath?” I suggest, feeling protective of Ruby’s privacy, or at least Yoshi’s sensibilities. “You search the rest of the apartment.”
I discover that Ruby stashed a silky blindfold and a set of handcuffs in the lower drawer of the nightstand. I leave them there. I also leave the discarded black thong under the bed and the collection of Kama Sutra oils on the bathroom windowsill.
I’m completely unqualified to get a read on any of this. The only boy I’ve more than kissed was Enrique. It wasn’t that huge of a deal, but he does know that I wear a padded bra. I never kissed Travis. He was shy. I was gun-shy.
Not that it’s helping to dwell on it now.
Ruby has a passion for self-help paperbacks that reminds me of my mother — the self-help part anyway, not the specific topics. Under discarded clothes, on the toilet tank, and in the corner of her chaotic closet, I come across titles like Leather, Metal, and Other Aphrodisiacs and Love Yourself: Batteries Optional.
Feral Nights Page 5
