Feral Curse
Page 13
“I’ll behave,” the Bear promises. “Sorcery, huh? Yeah, I’m starting to believe you. I caught that Cat girl’s scent, and for no reason, I was furious.”
“Furious?” Clyde echoes as we move to help Tanya out. “Is that it exactly?”
“What difference does it make?” I say, retrieving the padlock keys from my pocket.
“Let her answer the question,” he replies.
“Yes,” Tanya says. “No.” The chains drop from around her wrists, and I catch them before they fall. Tanya rubs the skin as I bend to free her ankles. “What I feel when I look at her, even think about her, it has a touch of . . . I guess it’s shock to it . . . a numbness and this deep, longing sadness. Like grief. But he’s determined, too.”
“He?” I echo, glancing up at her. “He who?”
“I don’t know,” Tanya replies, brow furled. “It’s like I’m . . .”
“Haunted,” Clyde concludes like he knows what he’s talking about.
Anchor: Today we welcome back Dr. Uma Urbaniak, a university professor of prehistoric anthropology. When Dr. Urbaniak was last on the show, she told us about the remains of a 2,000-year-old humanlike male that she unearthed on a dig in Kazakhstan.
Dr. Urbaniak, I trust that you’ve already been consulted about the fresh remains of a white furry creature, remarkably like the fossilized one you found, that were taken by fishermen from a lifeboat off the coast of Costa Rica. Is this a hoax like the jackalope, or have we finally found Bigfoot’s cousin?
Dr. Urbaniak: It’s my conclusion, and that of every other expert who’s examined it, that the animal is authentic and more closely related to Homo sapiens than Homo shifters.
Anchor: According to a confidential source, that’s not all. It also had braided hair, its teeth showed signs of modern dental treatment, and, most disturbingly, an autopsy revealed a brain chip. Come clean: Have we stumbled upon a hidden species that’s poised to take over the world and enslave humanity?
Dr. Urbaniak: I refuse to speculate on anonymous rumors.
Anchor: Then, hypothetically speaking, if what INN’s source says is true, what would be your analysis of that fact pattern?
Dr. Urbaniak: Hypothetically, I would first consider the possibility that the new species was a rare and pampered genetic mutant or genetically engineered animal and that the neural implant was used for tracking. Like a microchip in a house cat.
Anchor: Tracking, you say. But doesn’t the technology currently exist to use brain chips for mind reading and behavioral control?
Dr. Urbaniak: I wouldn’t know. I’m an anthropology professor.
PESO IS CURLED UP, snoring at Aimee’s bare feet beside me in bed. She didn’t want to hole up with Tanya, Evan, and Junior at the cabin — too far from the action. She offered to crash in the tree house with the other boys, but who knows when they’ll get back, and with Peter on the loose, it didn’t feel right to leave her outside all alone.
Not that she’s defenseless. Her tranq gun is propped within arm’s reach against the nightstand. She’s assured me that her friends Freddy and Nora — both fully human and therefore safe from Ben’s spell — volunteered to retrieve the already-purchased carousel figures and bring them to Granny Z’s cabin in a matter of hours, before the sun sets again.
Freddy, whoever he is, has the most ambitious schedule. He’s already rented a truck and left for Oklahoma. He plans to road-trip all night, pick up the otter figure in Bartlesville when the store there opens. He’ll grab the two bighorn sheep in OK City on his way back south, along with the wolf and ponies in Dallas, the deer in Fort Worth, the second otter figure in Waco, and the cat at Yoshi’s grandmother’s antiques mall. Nora’s after the coyotes in Fredericksburg and San Antonio, the snake in Corpus Christi, and the bear in Houston.
I heard Yoshi say something about Father Ramos’s interfaith coalition contacts — they’re members of a covert group of religious types who’re shifter supporters — from some of those destination cities who might be handling pickup and driving to meet them to save time. Bottom line: Not a small favor. It feels strange, being in the debt of strangers. But then again, they’re doing it for Aimee, who’s doing it for Yoshi.
I’m just the person (make that wereperson) at the center of this mess.
Still, Aimee seems to sincerely care about me. So far I’ve learned that her parents are fairly newly divorced, that she blames her dad for the split, and she prefers fake antiques to the real thing. (Her mother works part-time at Pottery Barn.)
I haven’t had a friend spend the night since my first shift. I didn’t ask my folks’ permission, but having snuck out, it’s not like I could wake them up and explain how it came to be that I invited Aimee to stay over.
On the other hand, if they find her here, it’s not like she’s Yoshi or Clyde. My father won’t shoot her or anything.
In my platform bed, she yawns and props her chin on one hand. “Feeling better?”
I’m not sure what exactly she’s referring to. I didn’t admit that I almost hyperventilated in Ben’s family crypt. I didn’t explain that I felt awkward and embarrassed and ashamed to retract my shift in front of the boys or that Tanya’s anger felt familiar somehow.
But it feels like I could. This is my safe place, and she is a safe person. I sit up, hugging my knees. “I was fine at Ben’s funeral. Fine.”
“I’m sure you were,” she says. “Mourning doesn’t always look like what we think of as grief. I know what it feels like to lose someone close, but —”
“But what?” I want to know.
“It could be that this isn’t all about Ben.” Her words sound bigger in the dark of my room, in the quiet of the night. “Back in Austin, protestors are marching on the capitol this weekend, groups both for and against shifter rights. On TV, Fox is advertising an autopsy documentary of a wereraccoon who was gunned down in his own front yard. Just yesterday, a dead Wolf was found swinging from a tree in suburban Seattle.”
I want to protest that it’s not like I’m ignorant of everything that’s going on. But between my parents and living in Pine Ridge, it’s fair to say I’ve led a sheltered life.
Aimee adds, “You’re a werecat, and eventually, you’ll have to deal with the good and bad that comes with it. It could be that you’re mourning the human you’ll never be.”
I hear someone settling on the roof. Yoshi’s back. At least I hope it’s Yoshi.
“Look,” I say, “I’m getting out of Pine Ridge. I’m going to Cal Tech. I’m going to start over and meet new people who don’t care that my daddy is the mayor here and who have never heard of Benjamin Bloom. Being a Cat doesn’t have to change anything for me.”
I don’t need Aimee to point out how ridiculous that sounds.
Telling one person other than my parents has already changed my whole life — not to mention what it’s done to the teleported shifters.
Aimee graciously tries to reassure me that I’m not completely wrong. “Werepeople and humans aren’t that different. Culturally, it’s like anything. It depends on how you’re raised, how you want to live. If two species can have babies together, they can’t be that distinct.”
I gape at her. “That’s possible? Human-shifter hybrids?”
News to me. It’d be news to the general population. Talk of hybrids is used by hate groups to stir up fear —“tainting the blood” and all.
Her nod is vigorous. “Kissing cousins, you might say.”
She says it like she’s done some kissing in her time.
“I read an article that speculated that upwards of thirty percent of people who consider themselves humans have some trace shifter DNA,” Aimee adds. “A scientific article that didn’t suggest it was a bad thing.” She twirls a turquoise curl around her finger. “But most werepeople who claim some Homo sapiens ancestry tend to self-identify with their shifter species.”
Might as well. Much of the general public would certainly consider anyone who’s, say, half Otter a full monster.
Humans and shifters are basically one big family, though I guess you could say the same of all Creation. We’re all children of God. I stretch my legs out and rest my head back on my pillow. “Do you think you’ll have kids with Clyde someday?”
Aimee swats my arm. “You mean, in twenty years?” She pauses, apparently thinking it over. “Well, I never imagined that my future children could have prehensile tails or manes, but you know, it’s not like that’s the worst thing that could ever happen.”
My lip quirks. Then a mournful howl rises in the distance and I stiffen. “Did you hear that?” I whisper.
“Hear what?” Aimee asks with a frown, aware her ears are nothing compared to mine.
Another howl, followed by high-pitched yipping. “Peter, I think. Howling. Will Yoshi go after him?”
A rap at the window makes us both start, and I scramble up to raise it for Yoshi. “I’m sure that’s the Coyote,” he says. “But I can’t tell what direction it’s coming from. I think he’s circling the house, trying to lure us out.”
“Stay put,” Aimee replies. “Let him come to us.”
“You think?” I say, ready to accompany Yoshi on the hunt.
His nod is punctual. “Aimee’s right. We Cats rank among nature’s best, most graceful climbers. We give up the high ground only if we feel we’ve got no choice. Peter probably knows that. He’s either just messing with us or trying to tempt us to surrender our advantage. Trying to turn us from the hunters to the hunted. No way are we falling for that.”
Aimee briefly lays her palm against his cheek, and something passes between them. It speaks to a shared history of pain, maybe even fear. I decide to leave it alone.
“There’s still plenty of time to find Peter on our own terms,” Aimee says.
We all know that’s a lie. We have only a matter of hours. If we’re going to replicate the conditions of Ben’s death as closely as possible, our deadline is midnight tonight.
But Yoshi offers a jaunty salute. I lower the window again and settle back beside Aimee in bed. We lie quiet so long that I’d swear she’s asleep, except that her breathing hasn’t changed.
The howling goes on and on. It’s a haunting, mournful noise that makes my chest ache, accompanied by the click, click, click of the bronze pull chain on my lazy ceiling fan.
Partly to distract myself, I whisper, “Yoshi still likes you.”
“I know,” she replies. “He likes you, too.”
“He has good taste,” we say at the same time, and though it’s not that funny, we both start giggling, shushing each other so my parents don’t hear.
I wave good-bye to Mom and Dad on the church steps after morning services and mumble something about taking Peso for a walk.
Moments later, when I climb into my tree house, I discover that a half dozen ancient-looking, leather-bound books have been spread open across the wooden floor. At my arrival, the boys and Aimee freeze in place and exchange looks. They know something I don’t.
Clyde holds up a finger. “I have a theory,” he begins. “I don’t think the carousel figures and the ensorcelled shifters are the sum total of what’s happening here. There’s an attitude to the whole thing. A sentience. I think Ben is still . . .” He looks warily around the tree house. “With us.”
“Ben is dead,” I say straight out.
“I’m not talking about his body,” Clyde clarifies. “I’m talking about his spirit.”
“His ghost,” Aimee clarifies. “The question is why.”
They definitely discussed it before I got here. The tree house seems so much smaller than usual, filled with these strangers and their stuff and their messed-up ideas.
“Ben’s not in heaven?” I breathe.
“Or anywhere else in particular,” Clyde mumbles.
That pisses me off. “Ben may not have been perfect, but he was a good person. He genuinely believed that I was suffering from a curse, that he could save me from being a Cat and that I desperately needed saving. What he did, he did out of love.” Not that I felt that way about it myself, but Clyde didn’t know Ben. He has no right to talk. He has no right to —
“Your boyfriend tried to rip you in half using magic,” Clyde practically snarls in reply. “A spell he got off of some hate site, and you’re defending him on the grounds that it’s okay because he was a bigot!”
“He thought he was doing God’s work,” I say.
“I guess that bolt of lightning set him straight,” Clyde counters.
“You arrogant son of a —”
“Take it easy,” Yoshi scolds us both. “It won’t help to —”
“Hush. Just give me a minute, okay?” I say. Yoshi’s wearing Ben’s cat’s-eye gemstone necklace, which feels wrong. It wasn’t him I meant it for. Then again, Yoshi never would’ve rejected what the stone symbolized about me, whereas, given his attitude toward shifters, Ben wouldn’t have wanted to be buried in the damn thing anyway. “This stuff is for real?” I ask. “Ghosts?”
“Yes,” Clyde and Aimee answer. She adds, “It would help if we could ask Ben what his intentions are. By any chance, did Granny Z leave a forwarding address?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Is that even the same kind of psychic? Aren’t some of them into seeing the future and others into communicating with the dead?”
“I think most fortune-tellers are multitaskers,” Yoshi puts in.
I think about it. “Granny Z said Junior had ‘a touch of the sight.’”
Yoshi and Aimee both look at Clyde, who admits, “He’s probably the best we’re going to get on short notice.” Clyde runs a hand through his thick hair. “Besides, we’ve got nothing else to do until all the carousel figures get here.”
“There’s still one unaccounted for,” Aimee reminds us. “The second cat.”
“Wait,” Yoshi says. “What if we summon Ben and he lashes out at Kayla somehow?”
“What if, when we reverse the spell, he tries to hurt her then?” Aimee asks.
“I brought salt,” Clyde says, reaching to pull a cloth bag out of his back pocket.
“There’s garlic and holy water in the trunk of your car, Yoshi,” Aimee adds. Turning to me, she asks, “Do you have a cross, Kayla?”
I’m reminded of the black crosses tattooed around her neck. I notice the matching ones on Clyde’s neck, too. I wonder if she mentioned The Book of Lions to him. Given that he’s being raised by Possums, I wonder if Clyde’s ever heard of it.
“On a necklace,” I say. My parents gave it to me for my twelfth birthday.
“Can you put that on?” she nudges. “Just in case.”
I nod. “I guess.”
Who are these people?
“WHY ARE WE WASTING TIME HERE?” Clyde asks, sampling his chicken-fried cactus.
“I was hungry,” Yoshi says. He gnaws on his barbecued wings. “Weren’t you?”
Shifters. Hunger. Rhetorical question.
“Besides,” Aimee says, “Junior told me he needed time to practice the séance. He’s been busy teaching Evan and Tanya relaxation techniques.”
“Relaxation techniques?” Clyde echoes.
Aimee takes a sip of her sweet tea. “Deep breathing; yoga.”
That’s confidence-building. “The yoga yeti,” Yoshi replies. “He’s just a kid.”
“We’re here because,” I explain for the fourth time from across the picnic table, “I have to put in an appearance”— I gesture as if to the entire Founders’ Day scene —“or my parents will get suspicious. People will wonder where I am. They’re already wondering who y’all are.”
If it didn’t look like we were out on a d
ouble date, I’m sure somebody would’ve already hit on Yoshi and probably Clyde and Aimee, too. Her beauty isn’t as showy as theirs, but it’s true and adorable and you can tell she likes herself in a healthy way.
“People need to get a life,” Clyde announces. “Though that’s probably hard to do in a place like this.”
“Not a fan of small towns?” my father asks, strolling over. “That’s too bad.” Sticking out his hand, he says, “Welcome to Pine Ridge. I’m Mayor Morgan.”
“Kayla’s father,” Aimee says as they shake. Grinning up at my father, she adds, “Clyde is my cousin.”
We forgot to tell Clyde that we’d told Dad that Yoshi and Aimee were dating. Once you start lying, it’s scary how quick the fibs start piling up. Ashamed to make eye contact with my dad, I give my full concentration to dipping chunks of my pretzel in mustard.
Yoshi makes a show of massaging Aimee’s hands. “You’ll have to forgive Clyde,” he says with a wink. “You know how it is; there’s one in every family.”
“Shut up!” Clyde exclaims. “And stop touching her.”
Dad pats Clyde’s shoulder. “You tell him. I’m glad these pretty girls have such a dutiful chaperone. I feel strongly about my daughter’s personal space, too.”
I’m mortified, but then I catch a glimpse of Aimee. She’s looking at Dad in a longing way, like, however old-fashioned, she wishes her own father cared enough to fuss.
Granny Z’s cabin windows have been covered with beach towels. Junior has a different tablecloth in each hand. He holds up the baby-blue one. “Light-colored cloth attracts friendly spirits.” He pauses. “Is Ben friendly?”
Clyde visibly bristles, and I resist the urge to snarl.
“Is that a sensitive question?” Junior adds. I can tell from his posture and the leading way he says it that he’s mimicking Granny Z.
Nobody answers, and Clyde steps outside.