Feral Curse

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  Good practice for college? One reason I don’t lie often is because I’m horrendous at it.

  “Just be careful,” my father replies. He reaches for the syrup, then, reconsidering, withdraws his hand. “If you catch so much as a glimpse of Darby — I mean, he’s supposed to be leaving town, and he seems harmless enough, but —”

  “You’ll be the second to know,” I promise. “After Sheriff Bigheart.”

  It’s the right answer.

  I wait until Dad departs for Founders’ Day and then give it another five minutes for him to clear out of the neighborhood. Meanwhile, I book upstairs to my bedroom, Peso at my heels. I pull on a pair of shorts, tucking a copy of the spell into the front pocket, and a tank top that’s a little lower-cut at the bust and higher-cut at the midriff than, strictly speaking, makes my father comfortable.

  I’m not dressing for Yoshi. I’m dressing so that I can shift fast if I need to, and that works best without restrictive material binding my human form.

  I may have given up on romance, but the thought of nakedness can be distracting. I doubt it’ll come up, but if so, the whole transformation process works best starting naked, and that could mean naked me and naked Yoshi, if only to . . . What are we doing, anyway?

  Oh, right. Tracking my Coyote stalker — focus, Kayla, focus.

  Taking stock of the clouds darkening overhead, I’m proud of myself for picking up the human girl’s scent before I see her. I’m getting better at that. “Yoshi?”

  “Come on up,” he calls from my tree house.

  Given the crash I heard earlier, I didn’t expect to find Yoshi alone. But the newcomer doesn’t look threatening. She has vanilla-blond hair with turquoise streaks, a small silver hoop through her left eyebrow, and tiny crosses tattooed around her pale neck. Yoshi introduces her as “Aimee,” and he says her name like she means something to him.

  They’re seated, cross-legged, on my fuzzy throw rugs. She’s fiddling with her phone, and he’s flipping through one of my Mechanical Engineering magazines.

  Her smile is welcoming. “Howdy.”

  Her tongue is pierced, too.

  I wave, feeling small-town, clean-cut, and dull as cardboard.

  “She’s going to stand out,” I say with a gesture. I’m not all that worried about it, but I need some way to explain my up-and-down stare.

  Pushing to his feet, Yoshi laughs. “Please. Your dad waltzed out dressed like an undertaker.” Yoshi waves the magazine. “Do you understand any of this stuff?”

  “Of course.” Not really, but I will someday.

  Yoshi tosses the magazine aside. “I’m getting an A in phys ed.”

  Aimee snorts with laughter and still manages to be adorable.

  I’m not sure what’s so funny. “I take it Peter Villarreal didn’t make an appearance?”

  As Yoshi shakes his head, Aimee says, “He’s pretty low-profile online, too, but I friend-requested him.”

  “Most shifters are,” Yoshi puts in. “Low-profile, that is.”

  I’m not, and there’s some subtext I’m not quite getting. Is he saying I’m a lousy wereperson? Maybe I don’t know much about my shifter heritage or culture, but I refuse to believe that there’s one right way to be a Cat or that he’s better at it than me. Why is it important to Yoshi to be better at it than me, anyway? What does he have to prove?

  Aimee leans forward. “Kayla, I read up on the guy, Benjamin Bloom, who died on the carousel. I’m sorry. I’m sure you grew up with him. But do you know anything about the history of the ride? Sometimes with magic attached to an object, a seemingly insignificant detail about it becomes important.”

  “Come again?” Yoshi says. “Where did you —”

  Aimee swats him on the leg. “You said to research the mystical angle and . . . Kieren texted me the information.”

  “Kieren?” I hate being the odd-wereperson-out. “Who’s Kieren?”

  “Good friend of Aimee’s.” Yoshi makes a show of yawning. “Stuck-up, insecure Wolf-studies scholar, dating a hot redhead — also a good friend of Aimee’s — who, incidentally, hates me (the Wolf, not the girl) and probably any other guy who dares to speak to his woman.”

  “How can anybody be stuck-up and insecure?” I want to know.

  “Kieren doesn’t hate you,” Aimee replies in an exasperated tone, and I can tell they’ve had this conversation before. “Or ‘any other guy.’ But you shouldn’t have ogled —”

  “Ogled? I did not ogle. I was being friendly and —”

  “Kieren said to call if we needed him,” she puts in, as if that’s the end of it.

  “How big is Austin’s shifter population?” I ask.

  I’ve always read that our total U.S. population is estimated at something like one half of one percent, but there’s nothing to say that the human sources typically quoted know what they’re talking about, and it’s in the best interests of shifters to lie.

  Aimee’s grin is wry. “Seems bigger every time I turn around. About the carousel?”

  For a lot of reasons, I’m glad she’s here, nudging me forward. As the mayor’s daughter, I know more about the carousel than most. “The city council bought it from a traveling carnival that passed through town. There was a lot of talk about the fortune-teller, a Madame Zelda, who signed the papers, especially when she purchased retirement property adjacent to some acreage my parents own across the river. But no one ever saw her again. I think . . .”

  “What?” Yoshi presses.

  I meet his steady gaze. “She’s . . . like us.”

  “She’s a Cat?” he replies like it’s no big deal.

  Horrified, I check Aimee’s reaction. She doesn’t seem flustered. Then again, she doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by relaxing in the company of two werepredators, either. It’s stunning to think that the idea of what I am might seem like neutral news to anybody, that there are Homo sapiens out there, in addition to Mom and Dad, who’re allies, friends, and maybe even more.

  She’s a better person than Ben was, that’s for sure. Then again, maybe she’s known about us her whole life. Maybe if Ben had had more of a chance to get used to the idea . . .

  I remember him calling what I am a “nightmare.” I remember him saying I was speaking for Satan when I tried to defend myself. Maybe he never would’ve changed, no matter what.

  “It’s okay,” Yoshi says. “Aimee’s cool.”

  Aimee extends her hand to me. “He’s right,” she says. “I am cool.”

  We shake. I have two sets of skin, and I’m nowhere as comfortable in either of them as she is in hers.

  Seconds later, down in my backyard, Yoshi’s rumbling stomach is audible. I can smell the remains of pork chops — Aimee must’ve brought him breakfast — but he’s still hungry.

  I could eat something else myself. I gesture, leading them on. “This way. I’ll give you a tour of quaint, historic Pine Ridge, or at least our culinary highlights.”

  “Damn tourists!” Miz Schmidt exclaims from the clotheslines straddling her backyard. “Can you believe it?” she asks us. “Somebody stole a pair of Dylan’s jeans and his brand-new Spurs jersey. That cost me sixty bucks.”

  “The Coyote,” Yoshi whispers next to me on the sidewalk, and I know he’s right.

  When it comes to backyard clotheslines, Peter normally would’ve had more selection on a Saturday, but only a few local housewives are willing to take their chances with the forecasted rain. “Sorry to hear that,” I call. “I’ll keep an eye out for the jersey in town.” Put mildly.

  “White with black lettering,” Miz Schmidt tells me. “Number twenty-one.”

  “Got it,” I say. “Hope your day gets better from here.”

  Founders’ Day weekend features a cook-off, and the traditional categories are salsa and fajitas; chicken; pork; brisket; and chili. It’ll be a while before any of the fancy stuff’s ready to sample, but the festival food vendors should be up and running by now.

  Aimee, Yoshi, and I stroll through the
neighborhood past a long line of joggers and power walkers, all in dark-green T-shirts, participating in the Founders’ Day 5K. I can already smell buttered popcorn, Elgin sausages, and turkey legs roasting from two blocks away.

  As she passes, Brittney’s mother calls, “There’s our state champ, Kayla Morgan!”

  The winded crowd cheers as they boogie on by.

  Pine Ridge pride. I’m told the yearbook is dedicating a double-page spread to me.

  “State champ?” Aimee asks.

  “Cross-country. Track — hurdles and 1,600 meters.” Lowering my voice, I add, “I take it easy on them.”

  “You’re still cheating.” Yoshi’s tone is sharp. “And showing off.”

  What’s his problem? I mean, sure, I have a certain genetic advantage, but it’s not like I knew that when I fell in love with running. Some humans have more natural athletic ability than others, too, and they don’t have to give up sports because of it. No, they win championships.

  Yoshi adds, “The fact that you can outrun humans doesn’t mean you can keep up with me.”

  I couldn’t care less about keeping up with him. I’m about to say so when Aimee elbows him — hard — and rain starts to fall.

  AFTER THE FIRST FLASH OF LIGHTNING, Kayla picks up the pace, veering from the booths and tents to lead us to the public library at the edge of downtown. Apparently, the festival will go on all weekend, rain or shine, but an electrical storm merits an intermission.

  “Cute little town you’ve got here,” I tell Kayla as I hold open the door for the girls.

  She makes a show of rolling her eyes. “That’s not condescending.” When I don’t take the bait, she adds, “Look, not everyone can afford to live in Austin or wants to. There’s something to be said for caring about the people you pass on the street.”

  As we walk by the magazine display, Aimee stays out of it.

  I press the issue. “Admit it,” I challenge Kayla, winking at the librarian behind the checkout counter. “You’re bored. You’ve been bored your whole life until now.”

  “What makes you think you know me?” she quips, leading us toward a gallery display of pastoral paintings (heavy on the wildflowers) by local artists. “We just met.”

  “I lived most of my life in the country,” I admit. “But my grandmother’s land was only twenty minutes outside of Wichita.”

  “Exciting,” Kayla shoots back, turning at an overhead sign marked YA. “I’d rather live an hour outside of Austin than in downtown Wichita.”

  “Are you insulting Kansas?” I want to know. “Besides, I currently live —”

  “That’s enough!” Aimee exclaims. “Play nice, or I’ll have to separate you.”

  We spend most of the morning waiting out the bad weather in the teen room, where I sit at a circular table, flipping through graphic novels while the girls visit, the two of them gazing, side by side, out the floor-to-ceiling window. Aimee’s been chattering, making girl talk, mostly about Clyde, and using her phone to show photos of the two of them together. It’s not like her to go on about him like that, at least not around me, but she’s doing a good job of putting Kayla at ease.

  “This is what we looked like after dominating the paintball range on Valentine’s Day,” Aimee says. “Are you going out with anyone, Kayla?”

  Telling myself I’m not that interested in her reply, I sense a spike in anxiety, frustration, and something else — sadness — from the girl Cat. But her answer is curt.

  “No.” She adds, “I’m not a huge fan of Valentine’s Day.”

  I sense a bad boyfriend. Aimee takes the hint and steers the conversation back to the weather. I’d rather hear about the fortune-teller, but this is a public place, and we don’t need to broadcast our plans to all of Pine Ridge.

  Given that the spell-caster guy, Benjamin Bloom, was killed by lightning, I don’t blame Kayla or anyone else for taking cover (post-traumatic paranoia), but it’s painful, waiting around.

  “I see you’ve made new friends,” a resonant male voice observes from the door.

  Great. It’s Kayla’s father. Still dressed like an undertaker.

  Apparently he didn’t want to get rained on, either.

  Eyes wide, Kayla spins to greet him. “Hi, Daddy.”

  Aimee grins. “How do you do, Mr. Mayor? I’m Aimee. I’m doing an oral report on small-town city governments for my U.S. government class. One of the chili teams referred me to your daughter and said she had the inside scoop.”

  Shaking her hand, Mayor Morgan says, “Kayla’s picked up a lot from me over the years. But why would you be doing a report on city governments for a class on federal —”

  “Extra credit,” she clarifies, and I appreciate how smooth a liar she’s become, practically as good as a shifter, and for most of the same reasons. Drawing out her phone again, she asks the mayor to pose for a photo, and he cheerfully obliges.

  Before getting to know Aimee, I never thought much about the human allies and lovers of werepeople, let alone the human family members. But from his scent, Kayla’s father is obviously in the latter group. He must be her stepfather, and it’s her mom who’s the Cat. Or maybe Kayla is part Homo sapiens. You can’t tell by looking or by scent, not in human or animal form.

  It occurs to me that he might’ve already been in office, or at least a professional politician, when he and Mrs. Morgan met. That would help explain his being in such a high-profile job now, despite his family’s mixed-species makeup and the risks that come with it.

  Even in twenty-first-century clothes, he’d be a distinguished-looking fellow — gray at the temples, a bit of middle-age girth around his belly. He’s got a politician’s charm and, unfortunately for us, the savvy to go with it. I only wish Aimee had come up with a cover story that had nothing to do with what he does for a living. It could be because I was raised without any, but I’m a big believer that parents mostly just get in the way.

  “Interesting tattoo you’ve got around your neck,” Mayor Morgan adds, as if on cue.

  The repeating crosses. In Austin, nobody blinks twice at ink, but here . . .

  “I’m a believer,” Aimee says, steady and sincere. “I believe in salvation. I believe in true everlasting life.”

  She’s not kidding. I’m not sure what religion Aimee is exactly, but she’s not one of those vaguely “spiritual” people. She believes deeply in heaven, hell, and especially angels. She believes that Earth is some kind of battleground for celestial forces.

  I don’t make fun of it; not anymore.

  “Good for you.” Mayor Morgan looks chagrined. “Who’s this?” he wants to know, turning his attention to me.

  “Aimee’s boyfriend, Yoshi,” Kayla announces. “They’re from Austin.”

  Right. Because an already-taken teenage boy is less threatening to the father of a teenage daughter than one on the prowl. (I’ve had my share of unpleasant interactions with fathers of teenage daughters — two of them involving firearms). I swing an arm around Aimee’s shoulders and give her a quick kiss on the top of the head. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  I hope Clyde finds out about this.

  The sun breaks through the gray clouds not long after noon. We dash out to pick up a couple of roasted turkey legs for me and Kayla and a fluffy pink cotton candy for Aimee.

  I’m impressed by how quickly the Founders’ Day scene recovers. Bluegrass music rises from the performance stage. Restaurants and bars empty as festival-goers fill the streets, only to order more food and drinks outside.

  We double back and take a winding concrete ramp down to park, positioning ourselves to cross the pea-green water. It’s swollen and flowing at a brisk clip. The downpour has churned up a lot of debris. A bit of trash, vines, loose branches.

  “This isn’t good,” Kayla mutters, tossing her turkey bone into a trash can. “We could take the highway bridge — there’s a sidewalk — but by now Deputy Hoover has set up a roadblock to catch drunk drivers headed from the festival to the highway. He’ll wan
t to know where we’re going and why, and he’ll have a hissy fit if we take the historic bridge alongside it. It’s a landmark, but a hazard. Half the town thinks it should be torn down.”

  Aimee frowns in the general direction of the bridge. “It’s early in the day to be nailing intoxicated —”

  “Klas’s Kolachies opens for brunch at ten A.M. It’s famous for its dollar-fifty home-brewed pints and dart games. I’m betting a fair number of husbands took refuge from the storm and their shopping spouses there.”

  Kayla is so plugged in. Her life’s been completely different from mine. I merely existed at the outskirts of town in Kansas. I slip anonymously through Austin. I don’t care like she does. I’ve never had a community that meant anything to me.

  “We don’t all have to go,” I say as a blue heron takes flight from the water. “Aimee, you could wait —”

  “Like hell,” she replies, spraying her arms with insect repellent.

  I knew she was going to say that. Still, the water looks dangerous for a human, and Aimee’s got a wary expression on her face.

  I pick her up in a matter-of-fact, rescue-worker kind of way. “Unless you’d rather ride on my back,” I say, “consider me your first-class transportation.”

  The rising river isn’t wide. After scanning the surrounding greenery, Kayla makes something of a game of leaping from the protruding top of one limestone outcropping to another. I wade, unwilling to risk dropping Aimee, but I’m still across in less than three minutes.

  “Where does the fortune-teller live?” she asks as I set her on the muddy bank.

  Kayla gestures southwest. “I think it’s that way.”

  The Morgans’ property is woodsy and dense. I can hear birds in the distance, but they become quiet when we approach, the way all birds do when cats creep by. Somewhere in the treetops, a sentry squirrel warns his kind that predators have entered their territory.

  It’s slow going with Aimee along. Not that she’s out of shape, just that she’s a human, not a Cat. I still can’t believe Kayla thinks her state championships in track and cross-country mean anything. I could dominate in shifter high-school sports . . . if there was such a thing as a shifter high-school league. Maybe there will be someday, if the fanatics get their way and we end up living in total segregation. Not that I’m the type to dwell on political crap I can’t change.