He glares at Yoshi. “You said this look works for me.”
“It does,” I chime in, a second too late.
Nora reaches for the remote on the coffee table and mutes the TV. “No drinking and, sure as heck, no drinking and driving. I understand that this is something y’all feel like you have to do. But that’s no excuse to pile on unnecessary risks. All three of you have my phone number. First sign of trouble, holler, and I’ll be there in a flash with a three-hundred-pound werebear and a machete.”
AT HALF PAST EIGHT P.M., the bouncer at Basement Blues flicks his eyes at us. “No.”
“We’ve got ID,” Yoshi counters.
“Hers is no good here, so you two aren’t welcome, either,” he decrees, gesturing toward the sidewalk. “Move along.”
I trudge down the ramp. “Me?” I exclaim. “I’m the weak link?”
Clyde mutters, “I can’t believe we did all that for nothing.” Planting his crutches firmly ahead of him, he swings forward, again and again, toward Yoshi’s car.
As we pass the nearest alley, I say, “Wait. Sanguini’s isn’t the only place with a rear entrance for employees and deliveries.”
The boys follow me around the building and down the short concrete staircase to the propped-open back door. This time Yoshi won’t have to bust our way in. Once inside, we pass a door labeled STORAGE and another labeled OFFICE.
A guy in a white cook’s uniform rounds the corner and asks, “Can I help you?”
“Restrooms,” I say. “We’re looking for the restrooms.”
He’s apparently heard that before. “You took a wrong turn at the stairs. Retrace the way you came, around the corner, and then left past the red-carpeted staircase.”
Seconds later, we march up the stairs and stop to stare in wonder.
I get it now. We weren’t turned away because I look too young, but because I smell too human. So far as I can tell, I’m the only non-shifter in the club.
At first glance, Basement Blues is crowded, dark, and smoky, bordered on one wall by a mirrored old bar, its worn wooden floor dotted with two- and four-tops.
Then through the haze, I begin to make out the patrons more clearly.
Partially shifted wereraccoons throw back brews, tear into peanuts, and toss the shells to the floor. Next to them, a bumpy-headed I’m-not-sure-what orders an Irish whiskey from a waitress with Deer legs. Everyone is in mid-shift and holding it steadily.
“How are they all doing that?” Yoshi asks.
From what I’ve been told, it’s no small trick to halt and hang on to a transformation in process. Most werepeople can’t manage it, and I’m guessing that being inebriated is no help. It’s also risky. Faced with a shifter in mixed form, too many humans would automatically reach for a gun.
“There’s a new black-market drug,” Clyde replies. “It’s called ‘transformeaze.’ Gives you amazing control in the short term, but if you get hooked, you’ll never take normal shifts for granted again. You can become like a rabid animal. Some werebadger from British Columbia disemboweled his own newborn kits.”
It hangs unsaid that Yoshi is unusually masterful at holding his shift.
“Hey, don’t look at me!” He leads us in. “This Cat man is all natural.”
I ask, “Why would anyone want to —?”
“To get off,” Clyde says. “This joint is probably a cover for prostitution.”
“Or maybe they just want to show their fur,” Yoshi replies as we make ourselves comfortable at an available four-top. “Do you always assume the worst in people?”
“How do we find this Tornquist guy?” Clyde asks, ignoring the question.
I reach into a sequined black clutch bag, hand him the band flyer, and gesture to the corner stage, where Fayard & the French Horns are setting up. They’re Bears all right. Huge, every one of them. “They’re his clients.”
Right then a thick-bodied woman with a fleshy, bulbous nose and long neck passes us on her way to the bar. I whisper, “What is she?”
Yoshi flags the waitress. “Wereparaceratherium.”
At my puzzled look, Clyde clarifies: “Hornless rhino.” He moves the red votive candle to one side and rests his crutches against the brick wall. “How is it you can ID so many kinds of shifters, Yoshi? Aren’t you from Hayseed, Kansas, or something?”
Yoshi drapes his arm around the back of my chair. “Grams entertained a lot of out-of-town company.” Turning to me, he adds, “Cats, Wolves, Bears, Deer . . . those of us whose distant animal kin are still around and about our same size have a huge advantage over other types of werepeople. If we’re spotted in full shift, humans tend to assume we’re animals. That can still be a problem during hunting season, but —”
“I understand,” I say. “The animal counterparts of some of these werepeople no longer have descendants. In a place like this, they can shift fully or even partially —”
“Without being assumed a monster,” the waitress interrupts. “You snuck in a human? Boys, we don’t cotton to kinky stuff here.”
Yoshi flashes a toothy smile. “She’s my sister,” he explains. “Adopted.”
The waitress taps a hoof and sasses, “You Cats will give teat to anything.”
I can’t believe she’s flirting with him. She must be at least thirty.
He winks and orders a pitcher of beer and three glasses.
She makes a note. “I’ll bring you a bottle of our featured microbrew, predator. Plus, water for your sister and the scavenger.”
Clyde grabs her wrist, and the Deer freezes in place. Her eyes widen, like it’s painful for her to keep standing there, and his lips pull back like he’s ready to snarl. It’s an odd way for a Deer to react to a Possum. Then again, it’s an odd way for Clyde to behave, too. “A pitcher,” she finally chokes out. “Three glasses. My apologies, sir.”
“Hey,” Yoshi interjects. “Enough, already. You’ve made your point.”
Clyde lets go, glowering. “Listen, Mr. Metrosexual —”
“Hush,” I put in. “We don’t want to attract attention.”
The band starts up, and we’re finally quiet. I like their music. I like their black fedoras. I like the whole scene, except that I’ve never felt more out of place.
Yoshi, on the other hand, is clearly in his element. He rests the back of his chair against the wall. He can see the whole room that way.
As the waitress drops off our beer, I’m coughing smoke. I’ve never seen so many people smoking cigars and cigarettes in public — it’s illegal, I think. And speaking of illegal, Clyde pours me a beer before Yoshi can. I gulp, grimacing at the taste. I should’ve ordered water.
After the set, Yoshi says, mostly to himself, “The band is missing their bass player and lead singer.” He stands. “I’ll see what I can find out. Wait for me here.”
“You can’t tell us what to do,” Clyde calls after him.
“Stop picking at him,” I say. “Your attitude isn’t —”
“Chill,” Clyde says. “The piano player just waved someone over. It could be Tornquist.” He pushes up and grabs his crutches. “Let’s find out.”
I DIDN’T WANT Clyde and Aimee to chase after me, but I am eager to talk to Paxton. I follow a broad bull Elk in a gray suit from the stage to a corner booth that can accommodate up to ten.
Behind the circular black table, a twenty-something guy lounges with his arms stretched to either side like he owns the place. He’s fit but bulky for a Cat.
I take in the backward baseball cap, the heavy gold chains, his puma-blond hair, pointed ears, and claws. It’s the chains that put it over the top. He looks like a twit.
“You’re Paxton Tornquist Junior?” I ask.
“Guilty,” he replies through extended saber teeth. “Do I know you?”
“Name’s Yoshi.” I slide into the leather booth. “You know my sister, Ruby.”
“I knew her,” Paxton informs me. “Biblically, if you get my meaning.”
It would’ve been hard t
o miss it. I resist the temptation to call him a liar.
“But that doesn’t make me anybody special,” he adds. “Ruby would do a corpse if it paid her rent — would and did. She’s very open-minded, or at least very open.”
Last night, I clocked the Possum for saying less. Tonight all I care about is answers. “Any idea where I can find her?” I ask.
“Yoshi, we should go,” Aimee says as more Elk approach.
I’m trapped behind the table. She and Clyde were smart to stay out of the booth.
Paxton sips his vodka. “You’re, what? A high-school kid? Ruby finally cuts free, and here you come, sniffing after her. Grow a pair, and get a life already.”
I make a grab for him, but Paxton’s already sprung to land in a tucked position on the table. Then he steps down like it’s nothing, like I’m nothing.
He fingers Aimee’s fake pearls. “You smell nervous and horny. Too bad you look like Tweety Bird in drag.”
I’m lunging, my claws extended. Massive Elk arms restrain me from both sides.
Clyde angles himself between Paxton and Aimee. “I’m no fan of Ruby Kitahara.” The petty loser bares tiny teeth. “Tell me where she is, and I’ll see to it that the Armadillo King pays you the bounty on her head. You won’t even have to get your paws dirty.”
“Out of my way, Tiny Tim,” Paxton replies, shoving Clyde into a table of drunken werebuffalo. One of the Possum’s crutches catches a big male in the groin.
“You don’t belong here, girlie,” Paxton informs Aimee. Then he points at me. “Basement Blues is supposed to be a haven for people like us.”
As he storms off, the band starts up again, and suddenly, I’m not sure if he’s intrinsically an asshole, hates me because I’m Ruby’s brother, or is just righteously pissed off that I brought a human into a shifters-only club.
Meanwhile, the moaning Buffalo shoves a beer-drenched Clyde into an overturned chair, but his heart isn’t in it. If he and his buddies wanted to hurt the kid, they would’ve gored or crushed him to death by now.
Aimee rushes to help the Possum to his feet. Again. She’s a lot less cavalier about Clyde when he might be hurt.
I trade a look with the Elk to either side of me. “You can let me go,” I say. “And I’ll walk out of here with my friends. Or you can try to kick me out and risk whatever happens next. My guess? You’re paid to keep this place from getting trashed.”
It’s the most successful argument I’ve made all day.
Exiting the club, I tell Clyde, “I don’t know why I let you tag along.”
“Don’t be such a baby,” he replies. “We came here for information. I was trying to get him to trust me. But you’re right: Paxton’s a tool.”
Finally, we agree on something. In the night air, I spot a hooded figure watching us from the roof. Then it’s gone.
“Did he seem high?” Aimee asks. “His eyes were dilated.”
“He was partly shifted,” I say. “That can signal fear or anger or —”
“Just what the world needs,” Clyde muses. “A werepredator on drugs.”
I’m not convinced. “Could’ve been the booze.”
We’re almost at the car when Aimee’s phone goes off. “It’s for you,” she says, covering the receiver. “It’s Paxton.”
Thinking only of my sister, I take the call.
“Sorry about that, man,” Paxton says. “What went down with Ruby — it’s complicated. Not something I can discuss in mixed company.”
“Where’d you get this number?” I reply. “What are you talking about?”
“After close, meet me on the roof of the parking garage behind the club. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t trust anyone. I don’t want the cops or the Dillos to know we’ve talked.”
“What did he want?” Aimee asks once I’ve ended the call.
Returning her phone, I say, “He warned me not to come back.”
We stop by Nora’s place so Clyde can shower off the stink of beer and smoke before going home. She bustles upstairs after him, promising freshly dried towels.
In the living room, Aimee pulls off her boots and joins me on the sofa. “Don’t get discouraged,” she says. “Paxton can’t be the only person Ruby worked with at Jazz Man Bookings. We’ll ask around. Once Tornquist Senior gets back to town —”
“How’s Clyde?” I’m not sure why I care. Maybe it’s because she cares.
“He’ll be okay.” Aimee casts a sidelong look up the stairs. “It’s mostly his pride.”
I almost tell her about Paxton’s invitation to meet him later. Then I remember the way he fingered her necklace, what he dared to say. Best I leave her out of it.
Was it only last night that I considered myself too smart to meet suspicious characters in dark, secluded locations? A lot has changed in twenty-four hours.
I jog downtown from Nora’s house, feeling vulnerable out in the open. But from a distance, my car is more recognizable than I am. I went running a lot back home, so I don’t have to concentrate to keep my pace comfortably plausible for a human.
By the time I turn onto Fourth Street, it’s almost two A.M. Music pours out of clubs as I search for Ruby in every girl I pass. My sister has her share of enemies in Austin, Texas. The question is: Does she have any friends? And if so, is Paxton one of them?
There’s a sign on the elevator: OUT OF SERVICE.
I jog up one ramp then another until reaching the roof. It’s roped off.
I don’t see anyone, but I do detect a faint trace of smoke and incense. “Hello? Paxton?”
The bumper of the lone parked vehicle — a black Lincoln Town Car — is covered with bumper stickers. Anti-oil. Anti-war. Pro-gun?
A leather sole scrapes the concrete floor as a dart pierces my right shoulder. “Ow!” As I yank it out, another hits my thigh. “Goddamn it.”
As I topple to my knees, black spots fill my vision. Dimly, I hear Paxton say, “Like I told you, it takes a Cat to catch a Cat.”
Then nothing. The world goes black.
“YOU’RE SURE THIS IS the right parking garage?” Aimee whispers as we inch our way to the top floor, our backs along the concrete wall. We have another long ramp to go.
“Yes,” I hiss, and it’s mostly true. With all the background noise downtown, I only caught every third word or so of what Paxton said to Yoshi on the phone.
After changing into more casual clothes, Aimee and I told our parents that we were spending the night with Quincie and Kieren, respectively. Fortunately, neither of us had previously mentioned that said friends were vacationing up north.
“I can’t believe Yoshi didn’t tell us about this,” Aimee says, not for the first time. She pauses, turning to face me. “Do you want to ride piggyback the rest of the way?”
“No.” I really don’t — talk about undignified.
“It’ll go faster,” she insists. “Don’t be a baby. I’m not going to drop you.”
I’m about to protest that I’m not a baby and that’s not the issue when Travis flickers into view behind her. I don’t get it. This isn’t the park. Why is he here?
He’s waving “No” and shaking his head.
Then I hear Yoshi’s voice from the next level up, and Travis is gone by the time Aimee’s head turns in that direction. Likewise from above, Paxton says something about catching a Cat, and Aimee whispers, “Yoshi’s in trouble.”
I’m not sure how much I care. But I can’t very well let her charge up the ramp without me, and besides, Travis just showed himself somewhere other than the park for the first time. Whatever’s going down, it’s huge.
I hop onto Aimee’s back, she wraps her arms around my knees, and as she motors up the ramp, I hold the crutches so they don’t drag.
On the rooftop, Yoshi is sprawled on the cement. He’s unconscious, and Paxton is wrapping his long legs in heavy chains. There’s a gun lying next to them.
Aimee stumbles, and for the third time in two days, I hit the ground hard. So much for stealth — if Paxton d
idn’t hear us coming, he certainly knows we’re here now.
Aimee pushes to her hands and knees, then hesitates, caught between her fight and flight instincts. She asks me, “You okay?”
“Paxton!” calls a woman’s voice. “Do something.”
As he reaches for the gun, I crawl a few inches with my bent arms to grab one of my secret-agent crutches. I’m raising it to fire at Paxton when a dart hits the side of my neck. My field of vision goes wavy, and it’s all I can do to whisper Aimee’s name.
When I wake up, I’m nauseated and achy, but I’ve become used to pain. I risk opening my eyes against the midday sun and discover that I’ve been transported to a large outdoor cage. The bars along the sides are thick, the floor and ceiling solid metal. I taste heavy, clean air, and note that the plant life is lush and tropical.
Inhaling, I detect an unfamiliar, Cat-like scent. “Where . . . ?” I whisper. “Aimee?”
I sit up to greet the golden gaze of the half-naked werelion held prisoner in the cage beside mine. Clearing my throat, I ask, “Who’re you?”
She yawns — gorgeous, sweaty, and unimpressed.
“WHERE AM I?” I demand, chasing Sandra down a slightly uneven lava-stone staircase. “What is this place? How long was I out? What are you doing here?”
Moments earlier, I woke up, shivering, dressed in a lime-colored sundress with white socks, sneakers, and sporting a locked ankle cuff in what looks like staff housing at a resort hotel. My own clothes and boots were left in a neatly folded stack on the dresser. I found my wallet (and cash) in the pockets, but no phone.
The woman I know as Enlightenment Alley’s store manager intercepted me, running out the door. “This is a small, privately owned tropical island in the Pacific,” she replies. “And it’s only Monday.”
I’m not in Texas. I’m not even in North America. I catch the stair rail, coming around a wide corner, slipping a bit on the polished bamboo floor. “Like Hawaii?”
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