Feral Nights

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  “You’ll want to eat that before it gets cold,” I nudge, gesturing at the stew.

  Through dangling white braids, he flicks his dismissive gaze at me, if only because I’m the intern who speaks English. I’m a curiosity, like a mule who can talk.

  Gripping my tray, it’s all I can do not to drool over his broad shoulders at the forty-foot-long motor yacht. Do any of the shifters have nautical experience? I’ve heard the snowmen mention Guatemala and Costa Rica and bribing government officials to look the other way. I’m not sure where we are exactly, but I suspect Paxton knows.

  At least Clyde is safe in his cage, waiting impatiently for me.

  Yoshi could be dead by now.

  It doesn’t look like Frore is hungry. I risk trying to draw him out. After all, he’s the rebel, the one who’s been left behind. “Why do y’all need so much money, anyway?” I ask. “Given the way humans have persecuted shifters, I understand why you’d be reluctant to go public. But what’s the point of —?”

  “What a shockingly sophisticated question,” he remarks.

  Setting aside the paper, Frore says, “That’s what we call Sasquatch talk. These days, the battle for survival-of-the-fittest takes place within the world economy. We’re pursuing a diversified plan, buying out major world banks, defense manufacturers, real estate. . . . We own twenty percent of Texas, and in hopes of further dumbing down Homo sapiens, we have underwritten the production of several reality-television shows.”

  “You’re kidding.” It just slipped out.

  Frore makes a guttural huffing noise that might be a laugh.

  “Cameron wanted your opinion of the stew,” I prod, now that the snowman’s defenses are down. “Boreal has been complaining that his cooking is too salty. The demon thinks this batch is better, and I agree, but neither of us has the discerning taste buds of your species.” Somehow I manage to keep a straight face.

  With a harrumph, Frore mutters, “Boreal complains about a lot of things.”

  But he lifts the bowl and slurps. Frore has big, clumsy hands, and maneuvering silverware is a challenge for him — for all of them — though Boreal insists on it in the formal dining room.

  After downing the entire meal, Frore drops the bowl, licks his chops, and wipes his mouth with the back of his furry hand. Raising a finger, he says, “The level of saltiness is fine, but I recommend trying more onion, less garlic.” Then he slumps to the side, unconscious.

  I shove him out of my way, grateful for the chair wheels.

  The console switches are labeled in the symbol-based native language of the snowmen. Unsure which controls the high-frequency barrier, I turn all of them off.

  Then I fling Frore’s rifle into the sea.

  Throwing open the front door of the darkened lodge, I smell smoke and hear shouting. It must be the distraction that Cameron promised.

  I jog toward the ocean and peer through the greenery that separates the two buildings on the compound. The guards have abandoned their cliff-top posts and set down their guns to fight a fire raging at the taxidermy workshop. Crawling between ferns, I drag their weapons into hiding beneath the huge leaves — anything to slow them down.

  I consider taking a gun for self-protection, but I don’t know how to use it. Besides, this isn’t like playing paintball with Travis or shooting holy water at the undead. The interns are people, not monsters.

  In any case, Boreal apparently didn’t have a sprinkler system installed in the workshop, either. Or, for that matter, any fire hydrants on the island. So the interns are running back and forth to the beach to fill plastic buckets with seawater.

  It’s no use. Cameron is hell spawn, and this is demonic fire. Only he can put it out. If anything, the water is making things worse. I wonder . . . Did he enchant only that one building, or will the entire island soon be engulfed in insatiable, unstoppable flames?

  SNARLS TURN TO YELPS. The werewolves are in trouble.

  After ordering Teghan to stay hidden in the tree, I jump down, take a running start, and vault over a tiger-pit trap. I slide in the mud as I land — the wet ground is slicker than hell, and we’re low on moonlight, even in those rare spots where it manages to peek between the trees.

  “James!” I call. “Mei!” No answer. I hate straying too far from the kid, but . . .

  “Psst,” responds a melodious voice from above. At the top of a rocky incline, some fifteen feet high, the dazzling, voluptuous woman looks like she stepped out of nineteenth-century Spain. Her black veil drapes halfway down her high-necked, long-sleeved bronze-colored gown. If she’s carrying concealed, there are a lot of places to hide a weapon in that outfit.

  She waves a dead woodpecker by its tail feathers. “Here, kitty, kitty!” Her other fist opens, and a black leather leash slips down. “Pretty kitty.” The attached, jewel-studded collar is man-size. “Be mine? I’ll stroke your fur and give you fresh treats.”

  She tosses me the collar, I catch it on reflex, and her cool, delicate hand suddenly covers mine. She moves fast — faster than my Cat eyes can process. Teleportation-fast.

  I had no idea there was this much supernatural power in the world.

  “How’d you do that?” I ask. “Where are the Wolves?”

  Her eyes glint red. “You don’t care. You barely know them. Tell me, kitty Cat: Is it true that you have nine lives?”

  I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can hear her voice, but it’s a struggle to make sense of the words. “What was your name again?”

  “Elina.” She flings the dead bird away. “Don’t like shifter blood.” She pouts, reaching up to caress my cheek. “Too gamy, but you can please me in other ways.”

  I like the sudden feel of her in my arms, against my chest. “You’re a vampire.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Am not.”

  “Are, too.” Why don’t I run or fight? Why don’t I want to?

  “I am an eternal.” She buckles the collar around my neck. “I am eternity itself.”

  Her fangs are missing. What’s she planning to do, lick me to death?

  Come to think of it, there are worse ways to die.

  As I raise my claws, I’m not sure if it’s to strike or tease.

  The jungle melts away, and we’re transported to a castle courtyard. From a distance, I hear a cello, then a string quartet. All around, I see blurred figures waltzing in formal wear. A dashing young bald man in a tux, cape, and top hat winks as he passes by.

  “This is where the new eternal queen preens,” Elina informs me. “One of her many residences. I do hate her so. Since the sixties, she’s insisted on calling me ‘Elly May.’” At my puzzled look, she clarifies: “The 1960s.” Which doesn’t help.

  “You should have been queen. You’re an Old Blood, far more exquisite and merciless than she’ll ever be. And besides, she’s French.” Beats me what I’m talking about, but it seems to delight Elina.

  She rips my shirt in two and peels the sweaty remains off my skin. Her sharp nails trail down my chest, carving bloody lines. She circles one of my nipples, and blood wells. “I’ll have to share you with Victor, but you won’t mind. Or at least he won’t.”

  The waistline of my jeans doesn’t faze her. Neither does the top button. She adds, “I won’t let him hurt you more than you want to be hurt.”

  Her fingers explore places I’m soft and hard and harder still. So do her fingernails. I feel blood streaming, soaking my briefs. I’m powerless to do anything about it. So far, it’s all in fun, but if she becomes much more aggressive, I may end up a soprano.

  “I’ll inspect his toys,” she promises. “I’ll approve the when and where of teeth.”

  Her red lips glisten, beckon me closer. “I’ve never ridden a Cat,” she muses, nibbling my lower lip. “In all these long years, I’ve never —”

  A blow knocks us both off our feet, and a familiar voice commands, “Get your forked tongue off my precious baby brother, you ungodly arrogant whore.”

  THE COURTYARD DISINTEGR
ATES . . . the castle, the classical music, and the elegant dancers. I’m in the island jungle again. No, I never left.

  Elina’s face turns furious, like a gargoyle. She vanishes into mist.

  Not that she matters. My savior has my undivided attention. She’s painted red wings on her arms and shoulders, an eye on her forehead, dotted her nose, and drawn whiskerlike lines from its tip to either side.

  The effect is otherworldly. Is she the sister I’ve always loved, a murderous temptress, or some ancient Egyptian goddess, newly reborn?

  Wincing, I sit up. “Ruby? My God, Ruby, it is you!”

  How long has she been on the island? Was she watching me — watching over me — this whole time? I wonder if she really murdered the Armadillo boy, whether she knows the Dillo royal family has a price on her head, and why she never mentioned being a secret agent. I want to tell her how worried I’ve been, and how relieved I am to see her alive. Instead, I say, “Thanks, but I was holding my own with that one.”

  Ruby hauls me to my feet. “She had you in her thrall. And just FYI, that walking corpse is a soulless, psychopathic serial killer who’ll not only drain you dead but, just for fun, harvest the gelatin from your bones to make Jell-O shots.”

  “You’ve studied demonology?” I ask.

  “And seen a lot of monster movies,” Ruby replies, pulling me into a hug. Unbuckling the jeweled collar from my neck, she adds, “I cannot believe you left Grams at home alone with Wilbur!”

  I wish to God I’d found Ruby anywhere else. “Wilbur’s fine,” I say. “He has more friends in Butler County than the both of us put together.”

  It’s true. He’s a popular pig, a blue-ribbon winner. He got his picture on the front page of the Butler Eagle and everything.

  A roar explodes in the night — another.

  “Werebears?” Ruby mutters, dropping the collar.

  We’re off. Her stride is shorter, but she’s just as fast. She’s been training.

  “Careful,” I warn. “We dug pits —”

  “I know,” Ruby assures me, darting between two skinny trees. “I saw.”

  On the opposite side of camp, the werebears loom, enormous in full animal form. I can’t tell which one is Luis and which one is Brenek.

  Standing on hind paws, gripping each other’s shoulders, in the dark, they almost look like they’re dancing. But with snapping, bloodied teeth, there’s no mistaking the growls for play. One has a bloody patch where his ear used to be.

  “Cut it out!” I yell, trying to push them apart. “Brenek! Luis! What’s wrong —?”

  A front leg lashes out, knocking into my chest. Ruby catches me in midair.

  “Do not insert yourself into the middle of a werebear fight,” she scolds.

  “You can’t tell me what to do!” I exclaim, rubbing the already-sore spot where I was struck. “They’re not fighting. Or at least they shouldn’t be. They’re friends.”

  Brenek and Luis careen over, and that’s when I see red smoke hovering over them. “They’re ensorcelled,” Ruby whispers. No need to kill us if we kill each other.

  Scooping up a stone, I weigh it in my hand. I have to break the spell, like Ruby did with Elina and me. But as I pull back my arm to throw, Ruby says, “It’s too late.”

  One of the Bears is dead.

  As the smoke thins out, the survivor roars in anguished surprise. When it’s clear he won’t turn on us next, I drop the rock and it lands with a thud.

  Bones crack, and thick, dark hair retracts, finally revealing Brenek.

  Which means the Bear-form body on the ground must be Luis. Must have been Luis.

  Still mostly covered in fur, Brenek chokes out, “I don’t . . . How could I —?”

  “It’s not your fault,” Ruby insists. “They’re using magic to manipulate us.”

  Brenek’s nude, now man-shaped form is covered in oozing claw marks. But he can’t take his eyes off the friend he just slaughtered. “It’s not impossible to break a spell if you have enough willpower. Something I’m apparently short on.”

  “Luis could’ve killed you just as easily,” I reply. “You can’t blame yourself.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Ruby says at the same time. When Brenek remains frozen in place, she slaps him hard across his bleeding face. “Torture yourself later,” Ruby suggests. “In the meantime, we need you.”

  It’s tough love, and it works. Brenek notices her for the first time. “You’re here.”

  I recall that they know each other from the interfaith coalition he told me about.

  Glancing my way, Ruby asks, “What’s the plan?”

  My sister’s never been one to defer to me, though she used to always ask my opinion. It’s nice to see that hasn’t completely changed, even if she has been living a secret life. I say, “We have to find Teghan and the Wolves. Then make a run for the lodge and down to the dock. The hunters are a deadly distraction. We can’t keep letting them suck us in. All that matters is that we get to freedom and that nobody else dies.”

  Right then, Teghan, screeching, bursts into the clearing with James and Mei snarling at her heels. “Yoshi!” she yells. “Somebody, help!”

  I don’t understand. Why’re they so pissed at the kid? Are they enchanted, too?

  As the Wolves pass, Brenek snags one and rips off its head.

  “No!” I exclaim, swooping Teghan in my arms. “Brenek’s losing it again.” I lift her onto the nearest overhanging limb so she can catch her breath.

  Ruby breaks a smaller branch off the tree behind me. “No, he’s not!”

  The decapitated wolf-shaped body morphs seamlessly into human form, a fully clothed man, and not James. I’ve never seen the guy before.

  He falls in two pieces onto the jungle floor. It’s like a glamour has been ripped away.

  The second werewolf — no, vampire in wolf form — reveals herself as Elina. She’s not winded. There’s not a long, dark hair out of place. Her gown isn’t even wrinkled.

  “Darling, foolish Victor.” Glaring at Brenek, she says, “Bad Bear.”

  Then she lifts the head of her formerly undead — now dead dead — partner by his spiky hair and kisses it on the lips.

  Meanwhile, Ruby raises her improvised stake.

  I whisper, “Don’t look into her eyes.”

  “I’m not an amateur,” my sister replies. “While you’ve been on the farm, I —”

  “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” Brenek asks Elina, interrupting our bickering. “I’m talking Chicago. North Shore.” Despite everything, he smiles. “The castle courtyard. I was in Bear form. . . .”

  I can’t help wondering if it’s the same courtyard Elina showed me while I was enthralled. “Excuse me,” I pipe up. “Do you two know each other?”

  Elina’s jaw drops. She recoils from Brenek, tosses Victor’s head like a hot potato, and, hissing, dissolves into mist. My sister and I gape at the Bear for an explanation.

  “Chicago’s a tough town” is all he’ll say.

  NOELLE WOULD BE FASTER in animal form, on three good legs instead of one, but if she’d come along, her injury still would have slowed me down. So she’s scouting out the grounds, guards, and fire, strategizing our way through the lodge.

  Meanwhile, I’m tracking a hunter. If not for the handgun, it’d be hard to take her seriously. Remove the night-vision goggles, and she could be any suburban mom playing Mrs. Great White Hunter for Halloween.

  I run a big tongue over big teeth, feeling every inch the jungle king.

  I love it so much that I let the hunter get a shot off.

  “Yoshi!” shouts a female voice, and someone else says, “Get down!”

  I can’t see them through the plant life, though I never had such fantastic vision before tonight.

  Is Yoshi dead? Aimee will be heartbroken if the Cat doesn’t make it out alive.

  “Don’t move, or I’ll shoot!” the hunter calls. “I mean, I’ll shoot again.”

  “Liar,” a rumbling voic
e taunts. “You said the hunt meant nothing to you.”

  The woman takes cautious steps. “No need to take it so personally. I just want to bag a head or two before taking off to Cabo, if only to prove I was here.”

  As she raises the gun again, I pounce, using muscles that are new to me. I have no thought but to stop her from hurting anyone else.

  My front paws strike her shoulder blades, sending her flying. She somehow falls through the ground, screaming, and then goes deathly silent.

  Mystified, I tentatively explore the surrounding mud and undergrowth with my right front paw, testing for quicksand. Hunkering low, I feel more Possum than Lion as I creep to the edge of a previously camouflaged pit. What with the wooden spikes protruding from her broken body, the woman looks like a giant, grotesque voodoo doll.

  Navigating around the pit, I move toward where the shifters’ voices came from.

  I didn’t mean to kill the hunter. I’ve never want to kill anyone, except maybe . . .

  “Yoshi,” a feminine voice says again, this time more gently.

  I raise my Lion’s head to face Travis’s murderer, the infamous Ruby Kitahara. She’s with her brother and a huge, naked guy that I’ve never seen before.

  A girl drops down from a branch and tells Yoshi, “You were supposed to duck.”

  His side is bleeding. “Next time,” the Cat promises. “Don’t worry. It’s not bad.”

  Ruby rushes to check on him. “It’s not good either. The bullet only grazed you, but . . .” She gingerly examines the wound, and he hisses.

  “You’ve probably broken ribs,” Ruby says.

  He’ll live. It’s not like blood’s pouring out.

  I’ve been hurt way worse than that.

  The younger girl peels off her T-shirt, which is no big deal, given that her sports bra covers more than the average bikini top. She offers it to Yoshi. “Use this.”

  “Thanks, Teghan.” He applies the pressure himself, waving off his hovering sister.

  Makeshift hammocks. The remains of two — no, three — fires. The bones of a large hog. This must be where they made camp.