The private resort road is narrow and winding. According to Noelle, this car is worth more than half a million dollars. I’m barely going twenty miles per hour. I’m not supposed to look like I’m in a hurry. Kings don’t rush.
Metal clangs against concrete. In the rearview mirror, I spot a werejavelina tossing Leander’s bumper to the side of the road. She takes off running after me. Javelinas are nothing to mess with. They can clock over thirty miles an hour.
I hit the accelerator. Two steps later, she wobbles and keels over. Knockout gas.
Moments later I cruise by a spa on my left, a restaurant to my right. I pull in to the main hotel entrance. There’s no bellhop to open my door or take my keys.
It’s like the resort has been abandoned.
That’s when I hear it: “Every day in every way, we will contribute to the profit margin of Homo deific.” It’s muted, rising from somewhere between the parking lot and the river.
I stroll along the front walk, beyond the golf carts for shuttling guests to their cars. I turn at a fenced-off pasture of skittish draft horses and donkeys. They’re huddled against the far side of their enclosure. My arrival does nothing to calm them down.
The amphitheater is in sight. The wind carries dozens of shifter scents. Bear, Elk, Raccoon, and Rabbit. A hint of the arctic asshats.
The grounds are softly lit by wrought-iron lanterns hanging from wrought-iron posts. The underground sprinkler system kicks on to water the lush green grass and wildflowers.
No one in the crowd reacts to my entrance. I stroll up the center aisle. I’m flanked on both sides by a huge variety of werepeople frozen in mid-shift. They’ve been given a Transformeaze injection and are being controlled with brain chips. It’s like they’re toys that somebody forgot to wind up. To my right, I spot Aimee seated behind a media console. She’s positioned between Boreal and Crystal (I recognize Crystal by the huge furry boobs and the baby.)
Not to be a diva, but, hey, I dressed up. I’m supposed to be royalty.
Shouldn’t somebody be paying attention to me?
“Good evening, Leander.” Seth slithers in from stage left. “I see you’ve reconsidered your stance against transformeaze.”
Leander had a stance? “I have a human-form identity to protect.” I position myself, feet planted shoulder-width apart, arms crossed over my chest. It’s a kingly pose.
“So you do.” He tilts his scaly head. “Clyde Gilbert.”
At my name, Aimee exclaims and Crystal scolds, “Hush.”
Seth announces, “Earlier today King Leander Gloucester of the Werelion Pride sent an emissary offering you, his bastard son. All he asked in return is that I publicly renounce my claim to weresnake identity, release the governor of Texas, and abandon the Homo deific.”
“When you say ‘offer,’ what’re we talking?” I want to know. “Am I supposed to wax your scales? Polish your horns? Shovel your demon poop?”
“You’ll be dragged to hell. Screws will be twisted into your skull. Torture wheels will shatter your bones. Skin beetles will devour your —”
“Will you keep talking? For freaking eternity?” I spread my arms wide. “Because that would be torture. But, hey, I’m all yours.”
“Clyde, no!” Aimee yells. Crystal hushes her again. One of their armed guards moves forward from the back of the room to threaten her into silence.
“How noble!” Seth takes a sweep around the stage. He’s apparently inspecting the decor. Fake white architectural columns have been positioned in a semicircle in front of an ocean-blue cloth backdrop. “How inspiring!” He laughs. “Alas, I refused Leander’s offer for the same reason I would have refused Boreal’s. Neither cares enough about their children for the offering to rise to a sacrifice.”
I glance at Leander’s showy watch (8:28 P.M.). I wish I could let Aimee know that the werebirds dropped the knockout gas over the woods ten minutes ago. The coalition teams were dispatched five minutes afterward. Quincie should be here at any second.
“Now I’m giving you a choice.” The demon slithers to confront me, nose to nose. In a mocking voice, he explains, “You, in all your Lion king finery . . . Either you agree to slaughter the governor, for the world to see, or I’ll kill a certain perky but pesky human.”
Frak. Seth swivels his head toward the media counsel. “Bring her.”
A guard hauls Aimee away from Crystal. He shoves her between me and the demon. Aimee regains her balance. She blinks up at me and mouths, “I’m sorry.”
So am I. Where the hell is Quincie?
“THE KNOCKOUT GAS should have taken effect by now,” Quincie whispers, abandoning our hiding place behind the Whispering Pines Resort welcome wall. She’s saying it as much to herself as to me. “Clyde should be inside the amphitheater.”
Zaleski and Wertheimer just carried an unconscious Darby out to Grams’s SUV and reported they’re “pretty sure” they weren’t caught on the security camera, which has been disabled. Grams is redeploying them a couple of miles east, along with Miz Morales’s crew.
Standing, Quincie points to the flock of werebirds as they retreat in the night sky. I’ve never seen more than a couple fly at a time. It makes me wonder what the world was like when there was room for Homo sapiens, Homo shifters, and even Homo deific to all live the way we pleased — together or in total isolation.
Quincie and I are one of the last pairs to be dropped off along the perimeter of the resort property. Most got a three- to five-minute head start.
“One question,” I say. “Grams said you requested me for your partner. Why?” Ruby was impressed. Grams, too, I could tell. I’m sure Quincie would rather be going in with Kieren, but he’s still far from a hundred percent.
“Aimee trusts you,” Quincie explains. “So do Nora and Freddy, even Clyde. If this whole thing goes south, I’ve got secrets I’d rather share with you than with any of the available grown-ups.”
The Wild Card cruised out in one of Leander’s vintage cars. He’ll keep the demon busy until Quincie can do her heroic thing, whatever that’s supposed to be.
I don’t want her to think I’m hitting on her. I really don’t want her to tell Kieren later that I hit on her. But it makes sense to ask, “Do you want me to carry you?” She can’t weigh much, and with my Cat strength and speed, we can move faster that way. Freddy offered us an armored SUV, but even yeti ears can pick up an oncoming motor vehicle. Better to slip in unnoticed so we can case out the situation before charging in.
Quincie adjusts her breath mask like it’s a nuisance. “Try to keep up.”
We take off on foot, not so full-out that we can’t be mindful of our surroundings, but fast enough to leave a human Olympian in the dust. We blow past the 19 MPH speed-limit sign.
Yowza. I don’t know Quincie that well, but we’ve got a best friend in common. Aimee never mentioned her doing any serious athletic training. It could be one of Quincie’s “secrets,” but why?
It’s awkward, running with so much gear. This is crazy. We’re racing through woods peppered with shifters whose brains are locked on “kill.” That thought pushes me faster, and Quincie has no trouble keeping up.
The private driveway from the highway to the resort campus is a nightmare . . . lots of curves and blind spots. Under a streetlight ahead, I spot a female figure lying in the road. “There!”
“I see her.” Quincie lowers her voice. “Should we be talking?”
I shake my head. Many species of shifters have great hearing. Our footfalls might be marginally quieter, taking the bordering grass, but the ground is uneven, and we’d risk tripping and injury.
When we reach the unconscious woman, I see she’s in her early twenties. From her scent and features, a werejavelina, as they like to be called in the Southwest. Hog women have formidable hips, breasts, and shoulders — plenty of fleshy goodness to lose yourself in. Pre-Kayla me might’ve asked her out once all this was over. “No dart. The knockout gas must’ve got her.”
“She smells
awful.” Quincie takes off her mask and drops it to the ground.
That’s natural for the species and the reason werejavelina herds tend to live in isolated communities like gated subdivisions. Even humans can pick up their scent.
I carry the Javelina off-road and set her behind a guardrail in the wildflower-dotted grass. It feels wrong to leave her, but our assignment isn’t retrieval. “Are you sure about that?” I ask, gesturing to the mask. “I doubt all the gas has . . . dissipated.”
“I’m good at holding my breath.” Checking her watch, Quincie urges, “Come on.”
I love how optimistic everybody is that our strategy will unfold according to schedule.
In the distance, I hear a skirmish off to our right. “Should we check out —?”
“No,” Quincie replies. “We investigate nada. Stay on target. Everyone’s counting on us.”
Counting on her, she means. God, she’s bossy — fast and bossy. She probably didn’t want to partner with any of the grown-ups because she’d have to be respectful to them.
I understand that the girl is impressive. How many teenagers own their own restaurants, inherited or not? She’s sexy in a not-trying-to-be-but-radiates-it kind of way, and she’s got a badass Wolf boyfriend who’s almost as smart as Kayla. But how does any of that translate into demon hunter? Especially when you’ve got your pick of trained operatives?
We blow past a horse crossing. The next hill is steep enough that even my gorgeous glutes feel it. If I’m remembering the map correctly, the resort complex is in the valley right below.
We’re running in sync, me and the coalition’s chosen hero, when I decide to go with it. These people know what they’re doing. Maybe Quincie’s one of Clyde and Aimee’s comic-book superheroes. God knows they talk about her like she’s Wonder Woman.
Does Wonder Woman have a sidekick?
Does this make me Wonder Girl?
Hang on. Where’d she go?
Holy crap on a cracker! She’s in a heap on the road, steps behind me. “Quincie!”
I rush to her side, discover the tranquilizer dart piercing the back of her knee, and yank it free. One of ours . . . friendly fire?
I don’t see, hear, or smell anyone, though the wind carries the lingering scent of the Javelina. I pull the chain-mail hood away from Quincie’s face and brush back her curly bangs. She fell hard. There’s blood in her hair. A shifter could shake it off, but . . .
My fingertips find her throat. No pulse.
“Come on,” I whisper, trying her slim wrist. Still nothing. She’s not breathing either. My partner for less than five minutes, have I already lost her? I risk raising my voice. “Quincie!”
It’s no use. She’s dead and so is our master plan.
“WELCOME, YOUR MAJESTY LEANDER,” the snake demon begins, centered in my screen. He’s wearing a headset microphone, like he’s a pop star at a concert. “I’m so pleased that you’ve come to recognize that there can be no lasting peace between humans and shifters. Homo sapiens must be punished for their atrocities against our kind.”
The feed is live, telecast on every network and all over the Web.
The spotlight swings to a mid-shift Lion dressed like Aladdin — it’s Clyde against the Roman-style architectural columns and the turquoise-blue material behind them.
A second spotlight illuminates Governor “Laughin’ Linnie” Lawson, her head and hair high, her red dress suit and makeup flawless. In one hand, she clutches a Bible over her heart. In the other, she grips a leather whip.
Seth laughs. “Look what we have here! A Christian. A Lion. How old-school is that?” Addressing the crowd, he commands, “Werebeasts, display approval of tonight’s execution! Show thirst for blood sport!”
The mid-shift audience leaps to its paws and hooves, howling, bleating, snorting, screaming, barking, and bellowing in apparent ecstasy. No sign of Aimee or the yetis. If they’re on scene, they’re being kept off camera. Seated cross-legged on a throw rug in my tree house, I can’t look away. What on earth is Clyde thinking? His ruse was never supposed to go this far.
What happened to Yoshi and Quincie? Something’s gone horribly wrong.
A poster of Montgomery Scott stares benevolently down on me. If the Enterprise were threatened, what would Scotty do?
Peso springs off the smiley-face beanbag to bark rapid-fire warning. My Cat ears recognize the way Jess climbs to my tree house, how she grips the midway branch with both hands and swings one leg up, how she says “oomph” once she reaches the base.
At the tree-house entrance, she asks, “Are you watching?”
“It doesn’t make sense.” Why did I let myself be driven away? I’m no soldier, that’s true. I was scared, but no more than I sensed from Yoshi or Clyde. My new friends need me. “I have to go.”
“Go . . . what?” Jess replies. “We’re going where?”
“Not us,” I reply, powering down my computer. “Me.” I’m caught short by the flash of rejection on her face. It’s worse because I’ve made her feel that way before. By way of apology, I explain, “It’s my fight.”
Peso’s hopping, his tail whipping back and forth. As I brush past her, Jess grabs hold of my arm. “Kayla —”
“They’re at Whispering Pines Resort,” I explain, breaking her grasp. Exiting the tree house, I add, mostly to myself, “I’m an Acinonyx jubatus sapiens. I can do this. I’m just as much of a shifter as the rest of them. I can run like a cheetah and —”
“Kayla, wait!” Jess calls, as I leap to the grass below. She dangles a set of keys. “We’ll still get there faster in my dad’s car, especially if we turn the flashers and siren on.” She glances down at my Chihuahua. “Should we leave the dog up here?”
I DUCK, covering Quincie’s body as a tranq gun flies at my face, the stock winging my right shoulder and skidding to a stop across the pavement. “Ow.”
When I raise my head again, I’m surrounded by giant werejavelinas in mid-shift form — snouts, glazed beady eyes, a half dozen of them, male and female, closing in from all sides.
“Hi, guys!” I say, pointing. “The Big Bad Werewolf went thataway.”
That’s the thing about having a mind-control chip shoved into your head. No sense of humor. I throw Quincie’s body over my shoulder, and a Javelina charges out of the shrub cover and stumbles up the pavement. He grunts, rubbing his short tusks together.
I might be able to dodge past them to the trees, but not carrying Quincie. She’d tell me to stay on target, to leave her body here. No way am I going to do that.
The Javelinas turn their thick heads, staring into the darkness behind me, unsteady on their feet. Someone’s coming. With my luck, it’s a stampeding herd of weremoose.
No, it’s a black-and-white cop car, Sheriff Bigheart’s car.
“Yoshi, jump!” That’s Kayla voice, coming from the front passenger window.
I spring straight up, not as high as I’d get without Quincie, but high enough to land on the roof of the squad car, and grab hold of the light bar as it crashes into two Javelinas.
“Sorry!” Jess calls. I hear her double-check with Kayla about shifter healing abilities.
“Raise the windows,” I yell, remembering the knockout gas. Superheroic Quincie might’ve wanted to risk it, but Jess is driving a moving vehicle.
“Oh, right,” I hear Kayla mutter.
As the glass goes up, Jess floors it and shouts, “Hang on!”
IT LOOKS LIKE monsterpalooza in the amphitheater. I take a clawed swipe at the governor. Her mascara’s smeared. She’s sweating through her red suit jacket.
Seth and Boreal asked for drama. They ordered me to put on a show.
I chase Lawson around the arena. My saber teeth snap and salivate.
I can’t stall forever. There’s a gun to Aimee’s head.
With a crack, Lawson’s whip slashes my furry golden brown chest. It’s true what I told my mom. Since finding out I’m a Wild Card, I haven’t taken Possum form. But I haven’t had a c
hance to master my inner Lion either.
I’ve had to be more careful, if that’s possible. An urban Possum, even a big one, could be written off as an animal. An urban Lion wouldn’t.
Black leather breaks my nose, and blood gushes out. The governor knows her way around a whip. She’s gotten in a few good licks. I knock the Bible from her hand. It flies into one of the architectural columns. I can only imagine how that’s playing on America’s screens.
The whip cuts across my eyes. It splits my right lid. Fresh blood clouds my vision. My claws catch the governor’s arm. I rip her sleeve, catching the skin beneath. Damn it!
“You may kill me, beast!” Lawson clutches her wound. Her voice is magnified by the lapel mic. “But you’ll never destroy my faith or the spirit of the people of Texas.”
It’s just short of a campaign speech. She’s putting on a brave face. She believes Seth’s declaration of war is real. She believes I want to kill her. The whole world must believe it.
“Enough, Leander!” Seth calls. “End this now.”
I can make out Aimee’s frantic voice, rising up, begging me to stop. I can’t. I’m trapped.
I’m . . . I . . . Color and chaos blur. I can’t focus. My inner Lion attacks. Lawson hits the ground. She gasps. The cries of the eager mid-shift crowd sharpen.
Prey, my Lion thinks. No, enemy. His jaws close over its lips, nose. Locks its mouth shut. His saber teeth puncture burnt, bitter flesh.
The Possum inside plays dead. The boy inside collapses.
I reject the foul-tasting meat. I throw back my mane. Raise my misshapen forearms and paws in victory. I roar, only Lion now.
I LOWER MYSELF from the roof of the squad car and rub my aching shoulder. “You’re saying Clyde might’ve already killed Lawson?” It makes no sense. Leander’s car is parked in the circle drive ahead of us. The rear bumper is missing. We are running a couple of minutes late.
That could’ve made all the difference.
Feral Pride Page 14
