Feral Pride

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  “What about Quincie?” Kayla wants to know. “She’s —”

  “I’m the senior operative here,” Grams says. “And I’m telling you no. This is no time for amateurs. Now, be a good kitty and scamper home.”

  MY GRANDMOTHER MARCHES to open the back of one of the SUVs and motions me over.

  “That wasn’t condescending,” Kayla says. “I don’t want to leave y’all like —”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I say, putting my arm around her. “Nine lives, remember?”

  “That’s house cats,” she whispers with a kiss.

  “Yoshi!” Grams hollers. “You in or out?”

  I’m in. Roberto Morales comes over to offer Kayla a ride home.

  I sidestep the full-bodied Dillos, giving Richards a quick salute. Some people may joke about his species, but he’s ten times the king Leander is.

  “Your gas mask.” My grandmother tosses it my way. “You’ll have to stay in human form to wear it, and if you don’t, the incapacitating agent will mess you up.” She hands me a shoulder holster with a tranquilizer gun and a waistband holster with a Taser gun. “You’ll have to stay man-shaped to use these, too.” It’s a strategy call, prioritizing that evolutionary wonder: the thumb. Grams asks, “You want chain mail?”

  What if I have no choice but to take Cat form? Best to shift buck naked, but at least cloth tears easily. “No,” I reply. “What do you mean, incapacita —?”

  Grams plugs my mask into an oxygen bottle and secures that with buckle straps against the small of my back. “Our werevulture scouts confirmed Junior’s report of shifters patrolling the woods and the adjacent state parkland. Over a hundred heat signatures. Based on their speed, they’re not humans or yetis. We’re sending the Birds back out to drop knockout gas.”

  She wags her finger at me. “Avoid tooth-and-claw combat. Avoid physical contact — period. Get where you’re going, fast, with minimum fuss. Once you hit the resort’s main guest area, you should be able to breathe freely. Wind permitting. The Birds are skipping that section so as not to tip ’em off, but watch out for Homo deific security.”

  I buckle the waist holster. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Aren’t you a smarty-pants?” If she were in Cat form, Grams’s ears would be flat against her head. “A dosage of gas sufficient to knock a Bear or Moose off its hiney would kill a smaller animal-form shifter like a wereraccoon or wererat. We had to dilute it. Anybody weighing in over 175 will feel woozy, but they might still be dangerous.”

  That’s why I have the dart gun: to give anyone still swinging a booster dose.

  Grams goes on to explain that we would’ve gone with a preemptive strike, but coalition chemists didn’t sign off on the knockout gas formula until about a half hour ago. “For everybody else, the goal is to reunite the captives with their families, packs, herds, and whatnot. Not you. You back up Quincie. Get her through safe.”

  Grams startles me with a quick hug. “You’re not absolutely worthless,” she mutters. “But I still like Ruby better.”

  “I WAS WRONG,” Aimee’s dad admits. “There are greater threats to humanity than werepeople.” He still considers us a threat but uses the more PC “werepeople.”

  Barnard sets his suitcase on a cedar log table. He opens it to reveal vials marked MCC INJECTIONS. The case, the vials, they’re identical to those Yoshi found in Agent Masters’s car. “This isn’t the new suppression drug. It’s an improvement over the original black-market transformeaze,” Barnard informs us. “More stable. MCC biochemists solved the problem we were having with behavioral side effects.”

  Barnard loads a vial into a syringe. He reaches for my arm.

  I ask, “Why should we trust you? Are you going in with us?”

  No reply. He’d only get in the way, but . . . “You don’t deserve Aimee or her mom either.”

  He has the grace to look ashamed. “I know.”

  “Do you trust me?” Freddy asks, taking the syringe. His tone is light, but there’s an undercurrent to it. We need to focus. “You can’t speak in full-Lion form; you can’t pass for Leander in human form. Without help, you can’t hold in between for long enough to accomplish anything.”

  I don’t have much choice. “Do it.” I grit my teeth as he slides in the needle.

  Freddy strides across the wood-plank flooring. He shakes hands with Barnard. “Thank you for your valuable contribution. We’ll bring your daughter home safely.”

  I’ll bring her home safely.

  Barnard shrinks back a bit, passing Noelle as he exits the building. He leaves his briefcase of poison where it is.

  I watch him go. “Freddy, promise me you’re sure that whatever —”

  “The transformeaze in your system was analyzed in the newly established interfaith coalition lab in Cedar Park.” Freddy sets up a standing trifold mirror in the corner. “We’ve studied its chemical composition, and in theory —”

  “Analyzed?” Noelle enters the patio. She brought Leander’s car for me to use. “How long has Barnard been —?”

  “I get it.” I rock back on my heels. “You injected me with the transformeaze that was on Agent Masters.” That’s why there was time to analyze it. They switched the briefcases. “What’s the point? Why bother to make nice with Barnard?”

  It’s Noelle who answers. “He’s trying to help. There’s hope for him, and whether it means much to you or me, it might mean the world to his daughter.”

  “What’s more,” Freddy adds, “there’s the mother lode of documents incriminating MCC Enterprises in the file box he brought with him.”

  YOSHI — decked out in black leather holsters and cool secret-agent weapons — strolls into the barn. He takes one look at me and cracks up. “Nice pants.”

  “Nice grandmother.” According to Freddy, they’re “amethyst” harem pants. The zebra-trimmed robe, fastened at the neck with a gold medallion, matches.

  I’m also sporting the priciest digital watch money can buy — its face surrounded by yellow gold encrusted with yellow diamonds. On loan from Leander, his signature bling. It’s been synchronized with the runners’ watches distributed to the rest of the team.

  “Yoshi has a point,” I admit. “I look ridiculous.”

  With a smirk, the Cat wanders over to study the relief map of the resort property and parkland. His smug expression turns intent. I’m glad he’s partnered with Quincie. They’ll be there for Aimee, if I can’t. I’d been stressed enough about her hanging out with her dad at MCC’s retreat. But this . . . he left her there with them. It’s the difference between taking a routine guided tour of LexCorp and being held captive by the Legion of Doom.

  “The pants leave room for a Lion’s tail.” Freddy hands over a chunky jeweled leather belt. “Purple is the color of royalty, and to add the finishing touch . . .” He attaches a satin purple cloak around my neck. Raising the hood, Freddy says, “So you don’t panic any innocent drivers you happen to pass on the road.”

  Freddy plucks a slim silver flask from inside his tailored suit. He takes a swig of it and begins coughing. “Hundred-ninety-two-proof Polish vodka,” he chokes out. “I’m regretting it already.” Gesturing to Yoshi, he adds, “How about we give the Lions a moment to compose themselves?”

  I wait until the swinging porch door shuts behind them. When Noelle and I broke up, I never imagined this in our future. “Why are you working for Leander? What do you do for him anyway?” I need the conversation, the distraction.

  “It’s prestigious. It’s a paycheck.” Noelle stretches her arms over her head. She’s not self-conscious about her body the way human girls (and human-raised Kayla) sometimes are. “Technically, I’m his chauffeur. Not the most interesting job, but it’s not all bad. I get to drive a reproduction 1935 Supercharged Auburn Boattail Speedster, and Antonio is a beast in the sack.”

  “Antonio?” I echo.

  “The Liger general. He’s sympathetic to you, being a Wild Card shifter himself.”

  He
’s a general now? Werelions don’t only have a monarchy. They’ve got an army. Leander could’ve supplied more muscle for this operation. But then more of them would know it’s not him, off to face the monsters. I restrain myself from making the Tony the Liger joke. “What about your career?”

  Noelle’s wearing a black Gothic military coat and pants with a cap. “My what?”

  “That’s why you got hooked on transformeaze in the first place, right? So you’d get more attention in the underground club scene?” I tracked down Fayard & the French Horns on the Web and listened to some audio clips. “Sanguini’s could use a singer who knows how to purr. After this is all over, tell Quincie — the redhead in chain mail — that I said so.”

  We’ve got to hurry, except . . .

  The shift’s not coming.

  What is this, performance anxiety? Part of me wants to ask Noelle to wait outside, but she has experience with transformeaze. “Something’s wrong. I don’t feel any different. Amped up, but . . .” My stomach aches where Yoshi’s grandmother kicked me.

  Noelle extends her claws. She runs the backs of them across my shoulders. It feels better than it should. She asks, “You’re used to forcing the shift, suffering through it. You know why your friend Yoshi is so fluid?”

  Do we have to talk about him right now? In a robotic voice, I ask, “Why is my friend Yoshi so fluid?”

  She whispers in my ear. “He’s embraced his feral side. He’s confident in his manhood.”

  Okay. “Look, I’m flattered. But getting it on with you is not going to make me more confident.” Though it might do wonders to release tension . . . Never mind, never thought it. “Also, I, um, have a serious girlfriend.”

  The Lioness laughs. “That was presumptuous. I’m talking instinct, community, pride.”

  “I don’t need riddles,” I say. “I need . . . step one, step two.”

  “Step one.” She turns my chin with one finger. “Look in that mirror.”

  I see golden fur, golden eyes, my mane.

  THE MORALESES’ VAN is overloaded with hand-painted parasols, oversize baskets, glass jars, antique-looking birdcages, silver and mauve pillows . . . “What is all this stuff?”

  Dr. Morales pushes down some mauve tulle that overflows onto my seat and starts the engine. “It’s for the wedding Meara’s coordinating this week at Umlauf Sculpture Garden.”

  All around us, coalition operatives are converting the B&B into a hospital. Mrs. Morales will be leading a medical team onto the resort grounds. They’ll be dropped off three minutes after Yoshi and Quincie. Chatter centers on removing neural implants from the kidnapped shifters, but they’re preparing to treat injuries, too.

  Meanwhile, Junior arrives with Father Ramos as Noelle and Clyde — what an outfit — exit the screened-in porch. I catch sight of Yoshi in the crowd. He’s laughing and twirling around a girl who looks so much like him that she must be Ruby. (She’d better be Ruby.)

  “That’s Yoshi’s sister,” Dr. Morales confirms. “She and Brenek . . .” The professor gestures to a huge young guy who’s suiting up. “They didn’t want to risk getting held up at the border, so they snuck into Texas in a hot-air balloon.”

  Dr. Morales backs the van out and pulls onto the country road. “We have a lot in common, Kayla. I’m a professor of electrical engineering at UT, and from what I hear, you’re on full scholarship next year to Cal Tech.” He winks at me. “You do know that Texas has a perfectly good engineering school right here?”

  I suspect that’s not all we have in common. He smells human to me, which means we’re both the only one of our respective species in our households. “I wouldn’t be surprised if my scholarship offer has been withdrawn,” I say. “Now that the world knows . . . or at least is wondering if I’m a werecat.”

  Dr. Morales shakes his head. “On Friday the California Institute of Technology added the protection of werepeople to its nondiscrimination statement. It’s expected that more academic institutions will follow suit.”

  I caused that. The fact that I’m supposed to be in the next freshmen class meant that they had to figure out what to do about my newfound fame. “I wonder how many of my potential future classmates will choose to go elsewhere rather than study with me.”

  “I wonder how many will choose Caltech because the school has let it be known that shape-shifters are welcome on campus.” It’s the kind of thing the dad of two hybrid Wolves would say, but he doesn’t push it.

  Instead, Dr. Morales asks for directions to my house. It’s a short drive past the water tower, through fields of corn and cotton, into the old neighborhood. He says, “Here we are!”

  Home. It’s been a long week away. The media has given up on my appearing. For now, they’ve moved on. The front door of my white Victorian opens, and Peso darts out. I thank Dr. Morales, get out of the van, and kneel as my Chihuahua flings his hyper, wiggly body at my shins.

  I don’t have helicopter parents, but I can’t blame them for hovering. I don’t even mind it — up to a point. I’m still dressed for battle. It’s not far from the B&B to the outskirts of the resort. Is Yoshi waiting for the Birds to drop the knockout gas? Is he already in the woods?

  “I missed you guys,” I assure my parents in the foyer. “But my friends . . . I have to know what happens. I’ll be watching in my tree house on my laptop.”

  “Pumpkin,” Dad begins in a firm voice. “You can watch TV in the parlor.” They’re both former military — air force — and an order is an order.

  “Don’t make me.” I appreciate them so much more on account of Aimee’s dad and Yoshi’s grams. I decide to be honest. “I can’t feel everything I’m feeling about what may happen tonight and be the perfect daughter, the first daughter of Pine Ridge, for you, too.”

  They exchange one of those psychic parent looks.

  “Be yourself,” Mom tells me. “Be Kayla, whatever that means to you, and we’ll always be proud.” Shaking her head, she laughs. “Look at that blond hair!”

  “I like it,” Dad puts in. “Why not try something new?”

  “COME ALONG, PET,” Crystal says, carrying Drifa in a sling across her body.

  It’s almost showtime, and so far there’s been no sign of Dad or Junior. I’ve kept my ears open. Most of the Homo deific guards and medical staff have already left by helicopter, but no one has arrived. In the meantime, a chipped shifter at the Whispering Pines guard booth is turning away prospective guests, saying the resort is all booked for a private high-security event.

  In the amphitheater, the trapezes are still dangling, but the spinning wheel has been rolled behind the curtain up front, along with the juggling pins, throwing knives, oversize tricycles, and other props. The circus is off, at least for tonight.

  Instead, the stage has been redesigned to look like a coliseum.

  Two electronic message boards have been hung from the open-air metal rafters. A communications console has been positioned on a riser to one side of the audience. Mounted video cameras will capture whatever happens next.

  “So much for Seth’s Cirque du Shifters,” I mutter. No sign of him or the governor yet either.

  “It’s talking again,” Boreal says.

  Crystal replies, “It’s vocal, but smart for its kind and eager to please.”

  Every seat is filled by a silent wereperson in mid-shift. Transformeaze plus brain implants at work. From what I’ve overheard, some are kidnap victims, others purchased through the same illegal trade that supplies the vampire royalty and aristocracy with its “bleeding stock.”

  It’s hard not to stare. I hate to admit it, but I can see the sideshow appeal. Few humans are trusted by werepeople with the secret of their species. Even fewer have witnessed a shifter holding between human and animal form with the aid of the drug.

  I’m fascinated by the variety of species — Rats, Otters, Sloths, Buffalo — in the amphitheater. Some of them I can’t even identify in mid-shift. What will this look like to humans who don’t know any werepeo
ple . . . or at least think they don’t? The ones who have no idea their mail carrier is a Rhino or their dentist is a Rabbit. Those who’d never imagine their child’s soccer coach likes to howl at the moon.

  “I see you pulled in some of the werebeasts from the woods,” Crystal says.

  “Predators,” Boreal explains. “They’re scarier to humans.”

  He moves to center stage to warm up the crowd. “Werebeasts, repeat after me: Every day in every way, we will contribute to the profit margin of Homo deific.”

  The mid-shift audience intones: “Every day in every way, we will contribute to the profit margin of Homo deific.”

  I RECOGNIZE the slumped-over guy at the Whispering Pines guard booth as Darby. A coalition field team will bring him back to the B&B. I’m relieved that he’s okay. I never bonded with the Deer, but he’s been through enough.

  My plan is simple: Seth asked for Leander. He’ll get me and not know the difference. I’ll stall and distract him. Quincie will save the day. Then I’ll make up with Aimee.

  Leander usually travels with his entourage. But to avoid outing themselves, they’d need transformeaze injections, too. No way is Noelle going back on the juice, and I don’t trust any of the others.

  I shouldn’t have said Aimee’s father wasn’t smart enough to be Lex Luthor.

  He’s not. But that’s not the point. I should’ve cut her some slack. Look at how I puffed myself up, trying to impress the Lion king. His attitude toward my Possum parents isn’t much better than Barnard’s toward werepeople.