Feral Pride

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  ON OUR WAY TO WATERLOO HIGH, Quincie fills me in on the meeting with King Leander and the news that Seth is a hell-spawn demon — unfortunately, not the first I’ve come across. In the snowmen’s island kitchen, I worked with a demon named Cameron.

  In reply, I offer Quincie an edited version of last night’s blowout with Clyde.

  “‘Werecurious’?” As we put the top down on her yellow 1970 Cutlass convertible (nicknamed “the Banana”), Quincie exclaims, “I cannot believe he said that!”

  Me neither, but Leander must’ve been a huge disappointment. I understand now why Clyde was extra touchy on the subject of fathers. “His family’s in Amarillo. Kieren’s out of commission. I’m the person closest to him, so he took it out on me.”

  “Eh,” Quincie replies. “He could’ve taken it out on Yoshi just as easily. I’m starting to think they both get off on the drama in their bromance.” She adjusts her backpack and slings an arm around me. “You don’t have to make excuses for Clyde.”

  It reminds me of Clyde saying I’m excusing Dad. Is it so wrong to want to believe the best of people you love? At least Dad claims to love me back. That’s more than I can say for Clyde. It’s been two days since I told him in the car and nothing.

  Once we’re inside the school, Quincie and her econ teacher Mr. Wu exchange a sharp high five as they pass each other in the foyer. Then we veer at the office and stroll by a SAVE HUMANITY banner featuring a drawing of Seth surrounded by a circle with a diagonal line through it. A janitor is ripping it down, and two girls selling prom tickets at a table are bitching about how the threat of interspecies war is a distraction from the social event of the year.

  As arranged, Quincie and I stroll into the library and smile polite hellos at Mrs. Levy, an English teacher. She approaches the checkout counter with a biography of Cesar Chavez. Meanwhile, we turn toward nonfiction. There it is — at the end of the second row of shelves where Mrs. Levy left them, Kieren’s Spanish-language copy of The Blood Drinker’s Guide along with a half-dozen other musty tomes, a few in languages I don’t recognize. Probably paranoid, but we didn’t want to risk leading anyone to her house.

  At the Moraleses’ request, his Wolf studies collection has been in safekeeping with Mrs. Levy for the past few months. Quincie carries the thickest books. She also picks up copies of Teen Vogue and Seventeen from a nearby rack. Trying to be discreet, we slide into a nearby table and prop up the magazines.

  Mrs. Levy tacked a Post-it note to a relevant page. After fifteen minutes of nobody paying attention to us, I flip that book open. It’s not like my inability to sprout fur or fangs makes me any less capable of research.

  I study the illustrations. We’ve got a snake wrapped around the Tree of Knowledge, a snake standing on two legs, artful use of foliage to protect Adam and Eve’s newfound modesty . . . Moving past Genesis, I skim entries on revenge snakes, poisonous snakes, and, on the upside, fertility and medical and ecological snakes. Ancient Greek snakes. Ancient Roman snakes. Kipling. Flipping ahead, the demonology section is exhaustive.

  Quincie taps a bit of text: “Snake demons are known for their preoccupation with discord, from individual households to international relations.” It goes on to mention the Tudors and Franz Ferdinand. Quincie says, “I’ll see what Kieren can make of all this.”

  Right then Dad — Graham Barnard of MCC Enterprises — walks in and scans the library. I take in the navy suit, blue shirt with white collar, brown horn-rimmed glasses, receding hairline. He looks older than I remember. When did he get back in town? This is not good. Or is it?

  We need to talk. He wants me to stay away from Yoshi and Clyde. I want him to stop telling the world that werepeople aren’t people, and I need to find out what he knows. Most of all, I need to intercept Dad before he comes over here and gets a good look at these books.

  “What’s wrong?” Quincie asks. “Hey, isn’t that your —?”

  “Yeah, it is.” On Daemon Island, it made all the difference that I was inside the snowmen’s headquarters. Not by choice, granted, but I don’t have to be kidnapped to infiltrate MCC Enterprises, and it’s our most tangible lead to Seth and the snowmen.

  I reach to confirm the burner phone in the pocket of my windbreaker. Standing, I slide the books toward Quincie. “Tell Kayla and the guys that I’m going to talk to Daddy Dearest about a few things and find out whatever

  I can.”

  The limo is black and stretchy, a corporate rental with a new-car smell. It’s suspicious, Dad showing up and pulling me out of school — even if I didn’t fight it. I’ve barely buckled my seat belt when he turns half of his attention to his handheld.

  “I’ve got a business conference outside of Austin this weekend,” Dad informs me. “I thought we could do a father-daughter brunch — I can’t tell you how tired I am of Chinese food — and catch up on each other’s lives. I’m thinking Mexican.”

  “How about Tia Leticia’s Salsa Bar?” I suggest. “But I should call Mom —”

  “I’ve already talked to her.” He sets his hand over the box of files on the black leather seat between us. “Your mother has a huge influence on you, and most of that’s wonderful. I freely admit that I haven’t been around as much as I would’ve liked, but I’m still your father. You’re still my responsibility. If she’s not able to rein in your . . . youthful impetuousness, I have no choice but to step in.”

  Dad pushes a button on the door to raise the glass separating us from the driver. He’s still skimming his e-mail. “It’s come to my attention that you’ve been associating with werebeasts.”

  I’ve been expecting this. “Werepeople . . .” I trail off as his expression turns condescending. It’s a controversial word, “werepeople.” I know Dad thinks it’s a stupid exercise in political correctness. The term literally means “man-people.” Some shifters object, too, saying it implies that their animals forms are something to be ashamed of. My friends tend to use “shifters” and “werepeople” interchangeably. Nobody close to me except Dad says “werebeasts.”

  “Werepeople are individuals.” Recalling my friends’ road-trip conversation about Wonder Woman and Cheetah, I add, “Some are terrific. Some are terrible. Most fall somewhere in between.”

  “You could say the same thing about pit bulls or sharks,” my father counters, pocketing his device. “Not all of them are dangerous. But I wouldn’t want one dating my daughter.”

  Fine, but Dad has no idea who he’s really working for or how far they’re willing to go. If I try to tell him that his bosses are really furry white Cryptids and his coworkers include a shape-changing discord demon, he’s going to think I’ve lost my mind. I’ll need proof to convince him, along with whatever other information I can pass on to my friends.

  “About your business conference,” I cut in, as hope dims that I can pry his mind open. “Your company is marketing implants that can control werepeople and a drug that can suppress their ability to shift. Can I come with you to learn more about all that?”

  Before he can say no, I add, “It’s for my semester report in Mr. Wu’s econ class.” I’m not taking econ, but Dad wouldn’t know that.

  “You let her go with him?” Clyde exclaims.

  “Aimee’s father’s employer may not be a fan of werepeople, but Aimee herself is a human and his own child,” Quincie points out in Kieren’s upstairs bedroom at the Moraleses’ stone-and-stucco McMansion. “The FHPU never went to Aimee’s home or Waterloo High or came looking for her at Sanguini’s. Has Mr. Barnard shown any sign of being a threat to her?”

  “No, I guess not.” The Wild Card stops pacing. If it were me or Kayla, he’d still be arguing, but Quincie and Kieren have more influence over him.

  The Wolf puts in, “I’d be shocked if Graham Barnard has any idea —”

  “Yeah, I know,” Clyde admits. “I still don’t like him.” There’s more to it than that. I sense his concern, that’s sincere. But he’s feeling guilty about something, too.

  A few minute
s ago, Kieren’s mom sent us up with mini cans of Dr Pepper, tiny silver straws, and matching napkins. The Wolf is still bandaged up, and Quincie is seated next to him on his waterbed. Downstairs, his dad and sister Meghan (she’s four or five) are playing Wii Ping-Pong in the great room.

  Meanwhile, I’m checking out the map on the wall (a seventeenth-century museum-quality lithograph under Plexiglas). Kieren is resting his hand on an old leather-bound book that’s supposed to tell us how to defeat the demon. He’s a Wolf studies scholar, which means he’s an expert on history and magic and the demonic.

  (According to Grams, werewolves are an overrated, superstitious species preoccupied with their own moon mythology, but she doesn’t think much of me either.)

  At Kieren’s desk, Kayla is using his computer to research Whispering Pines Resort. It’s off 71 on the way to Pine Ridge and, according to the business page of the Bastrop County Examiner, the site of MCC Enterprises’ corporate retreat.

  Looking over from the screen, Kayla adds, “MCC bought the resort in late January.” This morning, during our shower rotation, the Cat girl scrubbed off her fake tattoos. She’s been wearing a pair of shades we found in a kitchen drawer instead. “This is odd. The neighboring state park has been closed. The website cites fire damage, falling trees. I thought all that was cleaned up months ago.”

  I come up behind her and nudge the Wolf. “You had something to tell us?”

  Kieren tries to sit up and winces. “Mrs. Levy found a reference, saying Seth’s mission — or at least that associated with his breed of demon — is to create discord . . . strife. It feeds on it. I found another entry. It was heavily footnoted, riddled with disclaimers. Translation may be an issue, but it looks like no weapon of this earth can destroy him.”

  “Very Whedon-y,” Clyde geek-speaks, sipping Dr Pepper.

  “Very Eden-y,” Kieren counters. “We’re talking an age-old evil with a long history of success and a flare for the dramatic. Manipulative, petty, ambitious, boastful —”

  “Consider it handled,” Quincie replies, giving the Wolf a quick peck on the forehead.

  Then, like the matter is settled, they start chatting about some chick named Sabine from Chicago who recently sent them all friend requests on Catchup.

  “Hang on,” I say. “If ‘no weapon of this earth’—?”

  “Quincie will kill the monster,” Clyde declares, rubbing his hands together like that solves everything. Realizing Kayla and I aren’t convinced, he adds, “Trust me. She kicks ass. She’s defeated Count Dracula, Lucifer . . . this smarmy vampire chef named Brad.”

  “Brad,” Kayla echoes. She couldn’t sound less impressed.

  The Wild Card assures her, “It was a big deal at the time.”

  Quincie blows her curly strawberry bangs off her forehead. “Lucifer was only partially manifest . . .” At the appalled expression on Kayla’s face, she adds, “Never mind. I’ve got a connection. I’m sure he’ll help us. He’s experienced at this sort of thing.”

  Uh-huh. I’ve about had it with these people and their secrets. With Aimee away, Kayla’s the only real friend I have in the group. Last fall Kieren spent a night in Grams’s barn on his way to joining a Wolf pack up north, which obviously didn’t work out. I don’t know why.

  Anyway, we stayed up late, talking over a twelve-pack of Coors. We’d probably be like bros by now, but he claims I keep staring at his woman. He’s imagining things.

  I don’t mean anything by it. I swear I’m trying to stop.

  Moments later, armed with fresh mini Dr Peppers, tiny silver straws, and matching napkins, Kayla and I excuse ourselves to give the others some privacy. At Meghan’s insistence, we go to say hi to the Moraleses’ three German shepherds. They’re all sporting different colored bandannas in the backyard — a mother, Angelina, and her quickly growing pups, Concho and Pecos.

  The dogs are all over Kayla and wary of me, which suggests their reaction is less about our Cat scents than my attitude. “What did you make of all that nonsense?” she whispers. “Count Dracula? Lucifer? They’re kidding, right?”

  Thinking it over, I reply, “I hope not.”

  THE FOUR-STORY Whispering Pines hotel is designed in a huge semicircle, with the lobby, ballrooms, conference rooms, and signature restaurant in the center as well as two lodging wings to each side, all connected by a long curved promenade. Beyond it, between the parking lot and the Colorado River, there’s a fenced-off, under-construction amphitheater and a stand-alone, four-story lodging building that have yet to open for business.

  At this morning’s buffet breakfast, I learned that ground broke on the site shortly after MCC bought the resort. It’ll showcase its own performance troupe as well as musical acts traveling between Austin and Houston.

  “Sit here and try to learn something,” Dad orders in the partitioned hotel ballroom.

  So far, he’s escorted me to two engineering lectures and a biochemistry lecture. I’ve done my share of eavesdropping, but so far nobody has mentioned the FHPU or Homo deific.

  I don’t know what I was thinking. I have no idea how to spy. The only thing I’ve picked up is that MCC is incredibly paranoid about hacking — probably because they’ve indulged in it themselves. As a result, they’re heavily into face time and obsessive about shredding paper.

  “I’m on my own for dinner, then?” I ask. Dad hasn’t left my side since we arrived, but I’ve got a copy of the glossy MCC retreat schedule. Tonight’s three-hour session follows this evening’s cocktail and hors d’oeuvres reception and is labeled “senior executives only.” There’s a concurrent one labeled “junior executives only,” which basically leaves me out altogether.

  “Order room service.” Dad straightens his bow tie. He’s giving a talk on media relations this afternoon. “I have to step away now. Interview with INN.” Earlier, we visited the conference room where he and his staff are fielding media. “I’ll meet you here in an hour.”

  “Have fun,” I reply, and he’s off to work again.

  Dad wasn’t always like this. He used to come with me and Mom to classic movies at the Paramount Theater and cooking classes (from fruit pies to wild boar) at Central Market. We’d all have these long talks about everything and nothing — like the secret lives of snails or how people are made of stardust — while camping on Lake Georgetown.

  MCC has booked the entire resort complex. The amenities and activities are fairly standard: restaurants, shops, two golf courses, three swimming pools, two hot tubs, a gym, tennis courts, spa, horseback riding, and river rafting. The color palette is softly southwestern — turquoise, pink, peach, and lime green. If I were here with my friends, we’d have a blast.

  The service is uneven. Two trays dropped at breakfast, and they were out of bacon. The towels in my bath were hung crooked, and I was missing a tiny bottle of shampoo.

  Not that any of that exciting intel is going to help save shifter-kind.

  As one fungible-looking gal or guy in a neutral suit approaches the podium to introduce another fungible-looking gal or guy in a similar neutral suit, I remind myself it’s good news that Dad didn’t lead me into the lair of the snowpeople (though the hotel air conditioner is cranked high), the clutches of the FHPU, or the fangs of the snake demon.

  He’s an ignorant corporate drone seduced by an insanely high salary. But the upshot is I’ve sidelined myself, just when my friends need me most. When Clyde needs me most.

  I make a gratuitous effort to focus as the presentation begins and straighten in my chair as I read the title: “The Boreal Retreat & Recreation Initiative.”

  Boreal was the name of the egomaniacal leader on Daemon Island, and his headquarters was run much like a hotel — full dining and maid service, even a sundries shop of sorts.

  I’ve only been exposed to a couple of dozen snowpeople, most of them security guards in passing — but for an internationally ambitious, technologically sophisticated, economic powerhouse species, they seem seriously committed to pampering.
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  The MCC speaker mentions the company having bought up a ton of nearby real estate — an effort made easier by property owners wanting to start fresh after the recent wildfires. He goes on to say that this hotel is among the latest of MCC’s acquisitions. “Our cost-saving staffing solution is already in place,” he adds. “I’m proud to announce that Whispering Pines is now serving as a test location for diminished-rights employees, drastically reducing overhead expenses and . . .”

  The audience bursts into applause, and, within seconds, I’m the lone person seated in the midst of a standing ovation. What on earth is a “diminished-rights employee”?

  PASSING DAD’S HOTEL ROOM on the way to mine, I say howdy to the maid in a turquoise-and-peach uniform coming out his door. She has auburn hair, wide brown eyes, and a button nose that reminds me of werefoxes. “Turndown service,” she replies in a flat voice.

  “Uh, this is my dad’s room, and I lost something, uh, my phone. I lost my phone, and I remember using it last when I was in here, and so I’m going to look for it. In my dad’s room.”

  “Turndown service,” she says again.

  I take that as a yes. I go in and shut the door as the maid moves on.

  Dad hasn’t been with the company that long, but you’d think from his introductions at the podium that he’s been besties with the speakers since boyhood. The conference is a lot of rah-rah, but it’s also about consolidating MCC Implants and MCC Injections — not to mention a half-dozen other subsidiaries — into MCC Enterprises proper.

  According to the execs, since Seth became a household name, demand for the shift-suppression serum and the brain chips has increased a hundredfold and the majority of the orders are international. Governments around the world are eager to contain “the werebeast threat,” and MCC is positioning itself as their solution. North America, the U.K., and western Europe are major target markets, but those bureaucracies move slowly. It’s anticipated (read: hoped) that “evolving political developments” (read: Seth’s declaration of war) will prompt “emergency expenditures” (read: looser moola). There was much grumbling at the podium about the presidents of both the United States and Ireland questioning the company’s motives and condemning the hysteria.