Quincie sets me aside — like I’m nothing — and rushes to Joshua. She takes her guardian’s hand. She brushes his dreadlocks out of his eyes. He’s a holy being. A lesser vampire, a soulless one, couldn’t touch his blood-stained skin. Not without being destroyed. Quincie is special.
Whatever. I made my point.
DOWNSTAIRS IN THE KITCHEN, Clyde and I try to sell Kayla on the idea that Joshua doesn’t need a doctor or, for that matter, the undivided attention of an entire ER. “Joshua is . . . robust,” I say. “It wasn’t as bad as it looked.”
“Uh-huh.” It was Kayla who cleaned up the not-insignificant puddle of blood on the hardwood floor. Rinsing the mop, she asks, “How dumb do you two think I —”
“Shh!” Clyde cocks his head. “Someone’s coming. It’s not Yoshi.”
“What now?” the Cat girl whispers.
The sharp knock at the back door is impatient. This time it’s a friend. Meara Morales, Kieren’s mother. Quincie must’ve called her. Miz Morales barely nods at us before jogging upstairs with her worn leather doctor’s bag. Miz Morales isn’t supposed to know what Joshua is either, but at this point, that’s between her, Quincie, and God.
“Everything’s fine now,” I announce to Kayla. “Miz Morales is an amazing healer. She brought Clyde out of a coma last fall.” I don’t mention that the spell she used blew the roof off of her house. Repairs were finished only a few weeks ago.
“You were in a coma?” Kayla exclaims. “What happened?”
“It’s been a hell of a year,” he replies.
A few minutes later, Miz Morales returns with her bag. “Joshua’s passed out from the shock, which is a mercy. I created a patch. It’ll hold him until I can figure out something better. For now, I’ve left Quincie in charge.” It’s an alpha female werepredator tone (with the barest trace of her Irish homeland), and none of us question her. I’m sure that “temporary patch” is mystical in nature.
I introduce Miz Morales to Kayla. I don’t have to explain the Cat-Wolf part. Their noses will tell them that. “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” the Cat girl says.
My mom wishes I was that polite. In Pine Ridge, Kayla explained that everyone held her, the mayor’s daughter, to a higher standard.
“I have news from Father Ramos,” Miz Morales says. She sets her bag by the door and grabs one of the Bears by the shoulders. “Give me a hand, will you?”
As Clyde lifts the same Bear’s feet, Miz Morales says, “The FHPU is a fake federal agency. They don’t exist.”
“You’re sure?” Kayla asks, tossing Masters over one shoulder.
“Unless the White House is lying to the Vatican,” Miz Morales replies.
Feeling like a weakling, I open the door and look around outside to make sure nobody’s around. Then the shifters load the FHPU team into a white van labeled ENDLESS LOVE BRIDAL PLANNING. When Miz Morales isn’t healing werepeople, she tames bridezillas and, when necessary, their mothers.
“Of course the FHPU is fake,” Clyde says, like he realized it from the start. “Why would the feds care about Daemon Island? It’s not a U.S. territory. This is payback from the arctic asshats.”
Kayla asks, “What’re you going to do with them?”
“The Bears?” Miz Morales checks their pockets. “Turn them over to the interfaith coalition. If they’re sellouts, they’ll be questioned. If they’ve been controlled using implants, surgeons will be called in for the extractions and then they’ll be questioned.”
Something occurs to me. “Be careful. The FHPU . . . or whoever’s behind this . . . could be tracking those Bears right now, using the same chips.”
“Noted. Thanks, love.” Having found nothing so far, the Wolf healer moves to rummage through Masters’s wallet. Seconds later, she holds up a plastic security card with his photo on it.
Clyde looks at me. “It’s an MCC Enterprises employee badge.” This day just keeps getting better.
Yoshi runs up the driveway, carrying a briefcase. Curious Cat, he’s broken the locks. “Look what I found in their trunk!” He opens the lid, revealing two rows of fluid-filled glass vials, half of them with green caps and half with red caps, along with metal syringes packed in foam padding.
Miz Morales pries out a green-capped vial, the side of which reads MCC INJECTIONS and, in smaller lettering beneath that, A DIVISION OF MCC ENTERPRISES. She unscrews the top and sniffs it. “Hmm . . .” Then she tries the red. “They’re indistinguishable from transformeaze, but . . . I’m not sure what we’ve got here.”
Transformeaze is a black-market drug that can temporarily halt a shift in progress. It’s nasty stuff. The formula is brewed using a demonic spell and can cost users their self-control. The Daemon Island snowmen, working through their dealer Paxton, were local suppliers.
Now MCC is manufacturing something like it? Or was MCC manufacturing it all along? The evidence is piling up. I might as well be the one to say it. “MCC and the FHPU could both be controlled by the snowmen.”
“Pretty elaborate ruse, posing as federal officials,” Kayla observes aloud, leaning against the side of the van. “Why go to so much trouble?”
“The arctic asshats routinely hire humans and crooked shifters as front men,” Clyde says. “They’ve even been known to raise demons.” He rubs his bristly chin. “Shifters have a long, not-always-friendly history with law enforcement. The arrival of a federal agent would scare most of us into cooperating. Add werebear muscle to that and . . .” He’s thinking about his family. “We should take off before they send someone else.”
I doubt Quincie will relocate Joshua, but I feel sorry for anyone who tries to mess with her right now. She doesn’t only have superpowers — she’s got connections. There’s a limit to how much hands-on help we get from heaven — something about free will. Still, when she shouts out to an angel, she can count on an answer back.
Miz Morales holds the vial up to the daylight, frowns, and returns it to the case. “Hang on, I’m lost. What snowmen? Aimee, what’re —?”
“She means the goddamn greedy yetis.” Yoshi opens the door and hides the briefcase under the front seat. “They live to make money off our furry hides.”
“The arctic asshats on the news,” Clyde says, in an effort to be more helpful.
“Those albino Bigfoot creatures?” Miz Morales asks, retrieving her medical bag. “I thought that was a hoax.”
“White fur, but they’re not albinos.” Clyde slides the van side door shut. “As for the hoax . . . that’s what they want everyone to think.”
“Let’s say these so-called yetis are in charge,” Kayla puts in, raising a finger to count off the players. “Homo sapiens are their target market. MCC is their corporate arm. The fake FHPU is their strike force. The chipped or sellout weresnake is their front man, and . . . that’s all I’ve got.” It’s a lot more than we’d put together an hour ago.
Except . . . I ask, “You really think they’re working with the weresnake?”
“If their MO is using shifters against shifters . . .” Kayla looks to the boys, who nod for confirmation. “The fact that a theatrical werereptile just kidnapped a state leader to declare war . . .”
“A war that would generate a fortune in sales for MCC’s brand-spanking-new product line . . .” Clyde continues.
“Seems like a huge coincidence,” Yoshi concludes. “Too huge.”
“Excellent.” Miz Morales stows her medical bag on the front passenger floorboard.
Really? It’s basically my worst nightmare. Clyde and I exchange a look.
Yoshi asks, “Excellent how?”
Hugging me good-bye, the Wolf woman’s smile is vicious. “Knowledge is power.”
OUR NEW HIDEOUT is a two-and-a-half-story Craftsman bungaloid mansion with a beige stucco facade and dark green wrought-iron balcony rails. Statues of sleeping dragons guard the entrance to the front portico. The inside has been recently restored, mostly appointed with what Yoshi describes as “Stickley furnishings.” The fridge is ful
ly stocked. His grams’s truck is parked in the detached garage. What my mom wouldn’t do to land a real-estate listing like this.
It’s another property that Quincie owns. “Inherited” was how Clyde put it. She inherited the restaurant, her home, and this house, too. That’s a lot of money in play, but a lot of loss, too. For some reason Clyde won’t talk about, Quincie herself isn’t fond of this place and almost sold it a couple of times, but for one reason or another, the deals fell through. Now, with the interfaith coalition’s safe houses compromised, it’s become useful.
I feel more secure than I have since leaving Pine Ridge. We napped in turns this afternoon. Freddy dropped off burner phones we can use in case of emergencies and warned us that the GPS had been disabled. I’m aching to call Jess and my folks, but I can wait.
The fact that the FHPU is bogus doesn’t mean it’s not still after us.
From the day I realized my species, I’ve worried about ruining my folks’ lives because of it. Not only their careers — local politics and real estate are all about word of mouth — but also whether they feel safe and welcome in church and at the VA hall and on Main Street.
At almost 8 P.M., I’ve stationed myself on a landing. It’s the intersection of the front stairs, leading up from the foyer and the back stairs, originally designed to connect the kitchen to what I suspect once was the second-floor maid’s quarters. Aimee is downstairs in the front parlor, Yoshi in the upstairs library, and Clyde in the attic.
“Come up with me,” Yoshi says, appearing above in the hallway. “Or go downstairs with Aimee and watch out back. You can’t see much from there anyway.”
Actually, I’ve got a clear view of the nearest intersection.
Joshua’s blood is fresh in my mind. So is the memory of having been shot at last night myself. On the other hand, we don’t seem to be in immediate danger, and Yoshi wants a few minutes alone with me. He’s not pressuring. He suggested another option, keeping watch with Aimee, and offered the library rather than a bedroom or the sleeping porch.
We’ve yet to acknowledge between us his declaration of like this morning at his grams’s antique mall. Is it too soon after Ben’s death to think about another boy that way? It’s late April now, and Ben died the day after Valentine’s Day.
I can’t help wondering what it’s like to feel the silky touch of a fellow Cat, and Yoshi’s saunter beckons. Not that it’s completely physical. I like that he has the same instincts, knows how to work on a car, and helped exorcise my ex-boyfriend’s ghost.
I like that, despite his possibly psychotic grandmother, he’s got an open heart.
I liked him back when I was still the sweetheart of Pine Ridge. I could smell his desire as we traveled naked, side by side, last night in the car. I can smell it on him now. I’ve only known him a few days, but I’d known Ben my whole life and look where that got me.
In one fluid motion, Yoshi sets his palms on the broad oak banister and swings down the five steps separating us. It’s nothing I couldn’t do, but I wouldn’t. I’m too used to passing, to hiding everything about me that’s Cat. I feel a thrill as his hands rest on my hips. He has none of the doubts a human boy would. He can smell the desire on me, too.
“Hey, kitten,” Yoshi says, lightly massaging the small of my back. It’s an obvious nickname, but I love it. Is he going to kiss me? Should I kiss him?
I should kiss him. I’m about to when the doorbell chimes, and we spring apart.
Aimee calls, “Stand down.” I hear metal rings slide across the drapery rod above the beveled-glass front door, then the unlocking of the deadbolt. Aimee adds, “It’s Freddy and Jess.”
Jess! “Did she bring my car?” Yoshi calls. She did.
Yoshi uses a burner phone to tell his grams that she can find her truck parallel parked near Blanco and Ninth Street near the Moonlight Tower. He beeps off when she starts cussing him for having taken it in the first place. Then he and Aimee duck out to move his own car — a classic Mercury Cougar — into the garage.
Meanwhile, in the foyer, Jess and Freddy are loaded down with shopping bags. She’s also holding a case of supplies from her mom’s beauty parlor, and he’s carrying a few plastic-covered items on hangers. Raising her arms, Jess asks, “Where do you want all this stuff?”
“Upstairs,” Freddy says, taking charge. “The bedroom at the end of the hall.”
I give Jess a hand, noticing the Bikes & Babes shop logo. “How’re things at home?”
“Peso is at my house,” she says, tromping after me up the front stairs. “My family’s looking after him, and he’s having a bang-up time playing with —”
“What happened to my parents? Are they okay?”
“They’re fine, but . . .” Jess’s shoulders slump on the landing. “Peso couldn’t even go outside to do his business without cameras flashing. Some nut was selling rhinestone leather collars just like his outside your house, and there’s a forty-person cult in town that claims you’re the ancient Egyptian goddess Bastet.”
I admit, “That’s flattering, the Bastet part.”
Coming down from the attic, Clyde says, “You are kind of goddess-y.” Realizing that bordered on flirtatious, he asks, “Uh, where’s Aimee?”
“With Yoshi,” Freddy says. “They’ll be right back.”
I’ve definitely given the neighbors something to talk about. “The media, how’s —?”
“Your dad’s handling it like a pro,” Jess assures me. “Father Ramos stayed to act as a family spokesperson.Everything that’s happened lit a fire in your dad. You should hear him. He feels guilty, Kayla, that’s he’s been so quiet about shifter rights up until now. There’s a lot of whispering about what’ll happen in Texas politics if Governor Lawson isn’t rescued. Oh, and you’ll never believe this, but —”
“There’s no such thing as the FHPU,” I say. “Miz Morales told us.”
“They never went public,” Freddy points out. “They couldn’t. It was a ploy to bully one small-town sheriff and a handful of shifters who’d likely be wary of human authorities.”
“They picked the wrong sheriff,” Jess says with satisfaction. She adds that the phony feds did, however, manage to get away from Pine Ridge with Tanya and Darby. There’s been no sign of Evan, Peter, or Junior the yeti.
“Anyway, they’re now wanted for kidnapping and murder and impersonating federal agents.” Jess drops her bags on the bed. “Believe me: nothing pisses off real law enforcement like fake law enforcement.”
“Daemon Island Inc. kidnapped and killed even more,” Clyde points out, joining us in the bedroom. “And did the big, wide oh-so-human world give a damn?”
“The big, wide oh-so-human world didn’t know,” Freddy (human himself) points out, hanging a few more purchases on a hook on the back of the closet door.
Jess certainly didn’t know. She has no clue what we’re talking about. “Kayla?”
Werepeople aren’t as secretive as yetis. From what I’ve gathered, our living among, even with, Homo sapiens isn’t that unusual. But the secrets we keep aren’t only for our own protection. Before I was outed as a werecat, my mom and dad led happy, successful, uncomplicated (or at least less complicated) lives.
Is Jess already in so deep that we owe her as much information as possible? Or will filling her in make her a target, too? In the end, I say, “It’s not my story to tell.”
Clyde goes silent at the window overlooking the portico balcony. For whatever reason, Jess takes that as no for an answer better than I would.
Then Freddy breathes life back into the room by unveiling some of the most spectacular outfits I’ve seen in my entire life.
MCC Injections has announced the development of a transformation-suppressing patch and vaccine to be administered to shape-shifters.
“We’re working with state and local government officials in Texas to make these options available to those shape-changing creatures who have no desire to pose as a threat to the human populace,” said Graham Barnard of M
CC Enterprises, the parent company.
The patch and vaccine will first be made available on a voluntary basis at pharmacies, medical clinics, hospitals, and private medical and veterinary doctor’s offices.
I LOWER THE WOOD BLINDS in the sunroom and turn to drink in the sight of Kayla.
Yowza. It’s a hair past 11 P.M., and we’re leaving soon with Aimee and the Wild Card for his big whoop-de-do secret meeting with the Armadillo king at Sanguini’s. Since we’re trying to stay low profile, the restaurant is a perfect rendezvous place. An ideal opportunity for disguise.
Exhibit the lady in front of me. Enhanced lashes, cat’s-eye eyeliner, and a fake silver spiderweb tattoo that spans her face and another that disappears beneath her gold satin bustier. (I love the word bustier.) The skirt is a black ballet tutu, revealing long, long, long legs and high, high, high heels. I could do without the hair dye, though it does what it’s supposed to.
The whole look is designed to draw attention from her exquisite face, to keep anyone from recognizing her as the Cat girl of Pine Ridge.
“What do you think of the color?” Kayla reaches to touch her hair. “People are going to notice a black girl with blond hair, but Freddy swears it’s a great distraction. He says no one will recognize me.”
I’d recognize her — by sight and scent — but I’m not most people. She looks sexy in a more obvious way. My fingertips play hopscotch between the threads of her tattoo. “I love it.”
I’ve kissed and been kissed by hundreds of girls, mostly human girls. Kayla is molten lava. She slides her hand in the back pocket of my jeans. I’m still betting virgin, but I pray she’s not committed to it as a lifestyle choice. We’re alone on the first floor. There’s a daybed behind us under the arched windows.
Freddy can always fix her makeup. Navigating past the rattan coffee table is tricky. The corner hits right at the back of my knee, jostling my balance, and I break the kiss. “Kayla . . .”
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