Feral Pride

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  “Then I’m sure she’ll understand. . . . Possums and humans, it’s just not natural.”

  “What about Possums and Lions?” I reply. “Is that natural?”

  “You know better than to use that tone with your mother,” she says.

  “I was a mistake.” I’ve known that for a while. It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud.

  “You are a blessing. You’re at a transitional age. I don’t want to lose you. You’re still one of us, Clyde. You’re still my son and still half wereopossum.”

  Now I’m going to sound like a jerk, bringing up my meeting with the Lion king. But I deserve some answers. I hate the idea of walking in clueless. I know it was a lifetime ago. My lifetime ago. My parents were separated, and Dad was off working on an oil rig. Somehow my mom hooked up with a Lion. The Lion. “I’m meeting my biological father tonight,” I say. “He set it up. He’s reaching out to me.”

  When she doesn’t take the bait, I add, “The way I figure it, you two had more than a one-night stand. At the very least, you told him about me. Otherwise, he wouldn’t know I exist.”

  Still nothing. I forge on, leaving out the part about Seth, Pop-Pop Richards, and my friendship with Travis. “What’s he like? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was lonely. He was rebelling against the Pride. We didn’t have a future, but I felt I owed it to him to let him know about you. At that point, I went from a dalliance to a source of shame. I never wanted you to see me that way. I never wanted to lose you to your inner Lion.”

  A toilet flushes upstairs. It’s the one off the master bedroom, which means Yoshi’s awake. He’ll be down here in no time, looking for breakfast. “Mom, you’re not going to lose me. I’m happy to be half Possum. Awesome Possum, that’s me. It’s just that —”

  “How many times have you shifted to wereopossum animal form since finding out that you’re also a werelion?” Mom presses. “Once, twice?”

  “Uh . . .” The truth? None at all.

  “RUMOR HAS IT that you’re a wereweasel,” Winnie Gerhard informs me in the Waterloo High cafeteria. Rather than the lukewarm King Ranch casserole I’m being subjected to, her tray is adorned with a take out sushi box.

  I don’t know her well. She’s a senior, and I’m a sophomore. Her reputation is more Gossip Girl than Mean Girl, but that’s always a fine line.

  I glance up from Orwell (my make-up quiz is scheduled for after school) and bare my teeth. “The Weasels are a proud people with close ties to the Armadillos, Rats, and Opossums.”

  She didn’t see that coming. Winnie shifts her weight in her pointy spiked heels.

  “What do you want?” I ask. If she thinks implying I’m a Weasel is going to scar me for life, she’s out of luck. My boyfriend is half Possum, and he’s adorable — usually.

  “You and that weresnake Seth aren’t going to win this war,” she says, pursing her lips. “There’s a reason that human beings dominate the planet.”

  Before I can reply, the newly merged science and engineering clubs surround us and their glamazon president, Quandra Perez, says, “Stop making humanity look bad.”

  I could handle Winnie on my own, but I’m touched that the S&E crowd is modeling HUG A SHIFTER T-shirts, each featuring a different well-known species (werebear, werewolf, werecat, weredeer, etc.) in animal form. Unlike a certain Lossum, I appreciate the people who’re on my side. I let them come to my rescue.

  AUSTIN ZOO & ANIMAL SANCTUARY closed three hours ago. It’s only us, the animals, and the handful of werecoyote employees who work here around the clock. The young Lion woman, Noelle, picked this meeting place and, as a precaution, sent us on a winding route to get here.

  At the gift shop and office, Yoshi handed me a map while Quincie and Clyde reminisced about how their friend Travis’s family requested that donations be made to this place in his memory. Then she wrote a big-enough check to fund the whole operation through next summer.

  Moments later, as we pass the zoo train station, Clyde whispers, “Do I look —?”

  “Like a prince,” Quincie assures him.

  Carrying the yellow map, I point the way. Along the sandy gravel path, the giant tortoises are unimpressed by our scents and the sleepy tiger merely licks his paw, but the coatis dive for cover and the fancy roosters collide in panic.

  There’s no question when we see him waiting outside the tall chain-link lion enclosure that we’re looking at the werelion king. He’s broad shouldered, square jawed, and imposing with streaks of gray in his thick gold hair. He’s wearing an oversize gold-and-diamond watch.

  Noelle introduces His Majesty as Leander Gloucester. My first time squaring off against royalty.

  “I can smell the weremarsupial in you,” he says, circling Clyde. “It’s a foul taint.”

  Suddenly, I’m a whole lot less impressed. Quincie’s blood-wine cowboy boot inches forward. I can sense the disappointment coming from Clyde. It’s not going to be a fuzzy reunion, the king and his long-lost son.

  We’re here — Quincie, me, and Yoshi — as backup. It’s a balancing act, Yoshi warned us in the car. We want to show strength, not suggest Clyde can’t hold his own. Aimee wasn’t invited. I’m not sure if that was for her protection or because of whatever’s going on between her and Clyde. She didn’t come back with us to the hideout house last night.

  “That ‘taint’ wasn’t a turnoff when you smelled it on my mother,” Clyde retorts, fingers hooked casually into his belt loops. “You asked for this meeting. What do you want?”

  “I will not be spoken to in that manner by my own lowly half-Possum indiscretion.”

  I can’t help wondering what the resident animal lions on the other side of the partitioned enclosure make of our standoff. There’s a white CAUTION sign warning visitors in red letters to STAND BACK because FELINES MAY ATTEMPT TO SPRAY VISITORS. Let’s hope not.

  At the scuff sound behind us, Quincie pivots to face Leander’s . . . bodyguard? He’s some kind of massive Cat. I’m guessing six foot eight, 375 or so pounds. If it weren’t for his scent, I would’ve guessed Bear, and a big Bear at that. “Liger,” Yoshi observes aloud, filling in the blank.

  Half werelion, half weretiger? It’s disloyal right now to say so, but cool.

  I catch a hint of saber in Quincie’s unfriendly smile. I wondered what Clyde was thinking, bringing this human — is she a human? — girl.

  It may be Quincie’s a human-shifter hybrid, and that’s camouflaging her scent. Whatever the deal, she’s not easily intimidated, even by the Liger. Meanwhile, Yoshi’s gaze is tracking Noelle, which gives everybody but me a partner.

  Leander folds his thick arms across his rustic linen umber-colored robe — worn, I’m betting, as much for ease of disposal in case of an emergency shift as a status marker. “The Armadillo king and Noelle both tell me that you have grown into an impressive young man, resourceful in a crisis and possessing formidable allies.” He gestures to her. “She also claims you burned a multimillion-dollar island enterprise of the ice people to the ground.”

  Ice people, yetis, arctic asshats, Homo deific. For a species that’s managed to go so untalked about for so long, they’re racking up a lot of names. I wonder again what became of Junior. We haven’t seen or heard word of him since Pine Ridge.

  “None of that is news to us.” Clyde backs away. “Let’s go, people.”

  I’m not sure we should give up so fast, but I don’t hesitate. Even Yoshi doesn’t buck against Clyde’s tone. Solidarity matters. We retreat. Me and Yoshi to one side of Clyde, Quincie to the other, we march four abreast, up the hill past the tortoise enclosure, toward the prickly pear cacti.

  “Wait!” King Leander has chased us beyond the fenced-in tiger. “Wait, Clyde.”

  When he’s acknowledged by name, Clyde turns and so the rest of us do, too.

  “There is no such thing as a weresnake,” Leander announces. “Or, for that matter, a werereptile. The cold-blooded abomination that kidnapped the governor and declared w
ar on humanity is a hell-spawn demon. An old one, from the first generation of horrors that rose from Lucifer’s flames.”

  A demon? As in a demon demon? Seth is a scaly evil horned thing with a tail. . . . Not that I’m an expert, but I admit that does fit my personal definition of demon. I’m a devout Christian girl, a weekly churchgoer. I don’t want a damn thing to do with demons.

  “What kind of demon?” Quincie asks like she knows what she’s talking about.

  “The worst kind for people like us,” Leander says. “A shape-changer himself.”

  IN THE BACKSEAT, Quincie gives Clyde’s hand a quick squeeze. “His loss,” she whispers, even though the rest of us can hear her fine.

  Up front, Yoshi lowers the volume on a Luminous Placenta song. “You done with him?”

  “The Lion king?” Clyde buckles his seat belt. “We got what we needed, or a piece of it anyway. The yetis’ loudmouthed pet is demonic. Kayla, what can we do with that?”

  His voice is full of bravado, and he says “demonic” like it’s business as usual.

  “Me?” I ask as we leave the zoo parking lot. “What do you —?”

  “You know about politics,” Clyde points out. “You grew up in a political family.”

  “My dad is the mayor of Pine Ridge. We’re not the Clintons!”

  The boys and I end up at an outdoor gallery, in the shadow of an honest-to-God castle that’s easily walkable from the hideout house. (Clyde says it used to be a military academy.) The street art on display looks to me like high-end graffiti: surreal, colorful images on exposed foundation, erosion barriers . . . I’m honestly not sure what all. It’s kind of overwhelming.

  In Austin this is culture. In Pine Ridge it would be considered a white-hot mess.

  We’re in hoodies and loose-fit yoga pants. The idea is to go unrecognized in outfits that wouldn’t restrict shifts, but we look like soccer moms. It’d be smarter to go straight back to the house, but all of us need space to breathe, especially Clyde.

  We dropped off Quincie at the Moraleses’. She bought a stuffed toy wolf at the zoo shop for Kieren’s little sister. Quincie and Miz Morales are trading off taking care of Kieren and Joshua.

  Either way, I feel bad for Clyde. Being adopted comes with its share of lingering questions. I’m sure Clyde didn’t like the few answers he got today.

  I clear my throat as the boys, seated on a concrete barrier, tear into the takeout fried chicken. They’d better not finish it all by the time I’m done talking.

  “Since the FHPU first appeared in Pine Ridge, we’ve been running. Hiding.” I stand like I’m giving a campaign speech. “Because that’s what werepeople do. We hide from Homo sapiens. Sometimes right in front of their noses, but we still deny who and what we are. Now there’s a new — or at least new to us — humanoid species out for our pelts, so we’re running and hiding from them, too.”

  I’ve pricked the boys’ egos, but I have their attention. “The FHPU has been able to abduct and kill shifters in part because of the world we live in. The snake demon and the governor’s kidnapping have put everyone on edge. We need to change the conversation. We need a spokesperson people can rally around.”

  “Who?” Clyde asks, taking a sip of sweet tea. “Kith —”

  “Died,” I say. Palpate Kith was a werecat, a peace advocate who reached out to world leaders. The Gandhi of shifters, he was assassinated six years ago in front of UN headquarters. No wereperson has stepped up to fill the void. “We get out in front of the media with a Lion king, someone who can challenge Seth and give the talking heads something better to talk about.”

  Yoshi tosses a chicken bone in the bag. “Leander will never go for it.”

  “It’s not about reality.” I stand still and let my arms fall naturally to my sides. It’s confident body language. “I’m talking perception. The snake demon is invoking the story of Satan in the garden and linking the fall to werepeople. But in the animal world, lions are viewed as royalty, so when it comes to werelions, humans are primed to assume —”

  “Pfft,” Yoshi says. “Tell that to the wereorcas and polar werebears.”

  “The massive werecarnivores are already on our side,” Clyde points out. “All we need is a male Lion.” He sits up straighter. “Someone majestic.” He raises his chin. “Someone inspiring.” Clyde’s grin becomes toothy. “It doesn’t have to be Leander.”

  I ASKED QUINCIE to tell Clyde that I wanted to meet tonight at the neighborhood park. This is our spot, at the chain-link fence that used to serve as a shrine to Travis’s memory.

  At first, it was like the whole city turned out to leave homemade cards, signs, and mementos. Then the number dwindled to those of us who knew Travis personally, many choosing armadillo images — small stuffed toy animals and my favorite, a brightly painted alebrije of a dillo with wings. Now, it seems like any other hunk of chain link. Life goes on, or so people say. That may be, but the death of someone you care about changes you.

  The long yellow convertible pulling in to the lot is Quincie’s, but the driver getting out is Clyde. He jogs over and, like nothing’s wrong, says, “Hey.”

  “How did the meeting at the zoo go?” I ask, walking toward the swings.

  He follows. “Quincie told you about that?”

  Like he’s surprised. “The question is . . .” I sit, rocking back and forth. “Why didn’t you?” It’s not as though my beginner tae kwon do status would impress werepredator royalty, but I hate that he’s keeping secrets. “You could fill me in now.”

  Clyde doesn’t move toward the swing beside me. He’s not in the mood to play.

  I try again, swaying. “You could tell me why you’re so pissed off.”

  “I’m not. I’m trying to figure something out.” He combs his fingers through his thick hair. “What would reassure people like you — sane humans — that werepeople aren’t scary, dangerous monsters? Especially when people like your dad are selling millions of dollars of products on the idea that we are?”

  Are we back here again? I ask how things went with his biological father, and suddenly the conversation is all about mine. “Even if Graham Barnard walks away from MCC — and I’m going to talk to him about that — someone else would take his place.”

  “That excuses him?” Clyde stops my swing, grabbing a hanging chain in each hand. “I guess you’re pro-shifter when it doesn’t cost you anything.”

  Oh, please. “It’s complicated. Werepeople don’t live in your own separate world. You live in —”

  “Yours?” His claws have come out. His saber teeth are down.

  “Ours.” I fight the urge to scramble backward off the swing. It’s Clyde, my Lossum. He’s emotional tonight. Something went wrong at the zoo, and that’s not all but . . . “Would it always be a bad thing, taking away a werepredator’s ability to shift?” I don’t mention the big herbivores like the Elk or Rhinos, but they can do a lot of damage, too.

  Clyde’s eyes have gone gold. “Because?”

  “Take young adolescents,” I reply. “That’s an unpredictable time. You’ve said so yourself. Or look at those scars on Quincie’s hand. Kieren’s claws did that. I know it was an accident. But if it weren’t for his mother’s healing abilities . . . Don’t you think he’d give anything to take that back?”

  “Do I think Kieren would surrender his free will or Wolf nature to a bunch of arctic asshats and corporate bigots? Not so much, no.”

  “My dad . . .” Is not a corporate bigot? Of course he is. But I believe people can change, and part of me understands why Dad thinks the way he does.

  Last fall, when Yoshi’s big sister, Ruby, was working as a spy for the interfaith coalition, she staked a soulless vampire named Davidson Morris (Quincie’s uncle, no less). Then Ruby lost herself to her inner Cat to the point that she began lapping up his blood.

  Quincie, who walked in on the scene, told me about it.

  I was shocked. Ruby’s tough, every inch a Cat, but also a vegetarian.

  I do
n’t like the way Clyde is looking at me, and I’m fed up with dominance posturing. Prince Not-So-Charming isn’t alpha to me. I duck out from under his arms.

  “Are you afraid of me?” He sounds hurt. “Seriously? Your best girlfriend is a vampire.”

  Marching toward home, I clarify, “I’m not afraid. I’m annoyed.” He should be able to smell the difference. “Don’t bring Quincie into this. It’s not her fault, what she is. She’s never killed anyone.” She doesn’t play stupid head games either.

  “I didn’t choose this life,” my boyfriend counters, trailing after me. “If I killed someone in Lion form, would that be it for us? Would you just move on to the next boy shifter?”

  Now I’m baffled. “What are you talking about?”

  “You don’t think I’ve noticed that you’re werecurious? Or is it that you’re trying too hard to prove you’re not like your dad? Not that he’s such a bad guy.”

  I’ve about had it with Clyde’s sarcasm. “My father is not Lex Luthor!”

  “No, he’s Luthor’s flunky. He’s the guy who writes Luthor’s speeches and announces LexCorp’s new kryptonite ray gun and tells the reporters at the Daily Planet that Lex isn’t available for interviews. Your dad’s not smart enough to be Luthor.”

  I’ve never heard this edge to Clyde’s voice before, but shouting at each other in a public park isn’t exactly stealthy. “You’ve lost your Lossum mind.”

  “Have I?” he replies as we cut under the canopy of a pecan tree. “First, my buddy Travis the Armadillo, then Yoshi the Cat, and now me. You keep trading up the food chain. You didn’t want me when I was a bald-tail weremarsupial. You didn’t become my girlfriend until I turned out to be a Lion, too.”

  “Don’t you think you’re selling yourself and Travis and Yoshi short? Not to mention, me.” I poke him in the chest with one finger. “You’re wrong. I did want you. You were just too thickheaded and busy lusting after Noelle to realize it.”