Feral Curse

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  Dad was supposed to be at the historic Opera House to announce the winner of the Little Miss Pine Ridge Pageant seven minutes ago. Instead, he presents Darby with a cup of hot cinnamon tea. “You sure you’ve never seen him before, pumpkin?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Positive.” I wish he’d stop asking me that.

  Peso is tiny. He could get hit by a car or . . . Then again, I can’t bail now. The Deer is completely unstable. He could impale one of my parents on his antlers . . . I think.

  I’m starting to lose my patience. I tend to get that way when a situation turns illogical and exhausting. “Who are you, Darby?” I don’t even know if that’s his first name or last.

  He wipes his eyes. “I’m in the school band. I play the clarinet.”

  How very not helpful. Or interesting.

  Mom sets a heaping garden salad in front of him. It’s a safe bet that a Deer’s a vegetarian.

  Dad moves to my side. “You find Peso. We’ll see what we can do here. Darby may calm down enough to reason with if you’re out of the house.”

  I’m sure the Deer’s ears picked up every word. I gut-check my instincts, and feel no sense of danger or urgency except my own concern for my dog. Impaling seems unlikely.

  “Call it a plan,” I reply, making a run for it out the back. I wince as Darby cries out at my departure. The door shuts behind me with a bam, and it’s like I can breathe again.

  Passing the storm shelter and then beneath my tree house, I rest my gaze briefly on the fresh hole where Peso dug his way out under the fence. His Chihuahua scent is pronounced here, mixed with that of a mystery canine.

  The new dog in the neighborhood — I’ve caught wind of it more than once in the last couple of weeks, outside my school and the public library. Almost like it’s following me around, which is silly. It’s probably curious, trying to noodle out what I am.

  A lot of animals got lost during last autumn’s wildfires.

  “Peso! Peso!” I jog through my neighborhood, wondering if he’s camped out, living large at the taco booth downtown. Everybody loves Peso. Anyone who saw him out and about would keep an eye on him. But this weekend, there are a lot of strangers in town for the Founders’ Day festivities.

  I’m almost to the library when I hear his familiar barking. “Peso!”

  Ahead in the shadows, an athletic male figure appears at the top of the ridge overlooking the park and river walk. He bends to gently set down the wiggly Chihuahua, and I rush to meet Peso halfway, cradling him in my arms, laughing as he licks my nose.

  “I take it that’s your dog.” The voice sounds downright flirtatious.

  Great. A pervert. I set Peso down to calm himself. “That’s right.”

  I don’t scare easily. Besides, I’m faster and stronger than any human, and anyone who dared to mess with a local girl in Pine Ridge would have to fight off the whole town. All I have to do is scream. This is not the kind of place where people don’t want to get involved.

  It occurs to me that I’m being melodramatic and probably the guy simply wants a cash reward and that I should really get back home to see how it’s going with Darby.

  My lips part as the stranger drinks me in with his eyes. For a flush moment, I feel rare and exquisite, but then I realize what he sees in me. Or rather scents.

  I casually move in for a closer look. Never before has a Chihuahua-friendly dude this intriguing set foot in Pine Ridge. He smells like the sun on spring grass, and, most important, he’s the first male Cat I’ve ever met. He’s Asian or Latino. Dark-wash jeans and a snap-up Western shirt that should look old-school redneck but instead outlines his slender muscles just right. He’s sexy. He’s breathtakingly sexy. But another shifter in town?

  “Hi. I’m Kayla. I live here.”

  Please don’t be a pervert.

  He raises an eyebrow. “At the library?”

  “In Pine Ridge. You’re not local, right?” Smooth, Kayla, very smooth.

  God, there’s so much I want to ask him. I know practically nothing about what it means to be what I — what we — are. I need — make that, I could really use — a friend. Someone to trust.

  “I’m Yoshi.” He lowers his voice so no passing human could hear. “Yoshi Kitahara. You don’t happen to know a werecoyote with lousy people skills?”

  I briefly register that the name is Japanese and that he looks mixed race. Eurasian, I’m guessing. “Werecoyote?” I shake my head. “Because?”

  He glances back toward the river. “Because he tried to eat your dog.”

  “Peso!” I bend to look my pup over again, running my fingertips across his short, bristly coat. He’s panting, skipping in circles. He doesn’t seem injured.

  I swoop him up again and straighten.

  Yoshi asks, “Any ideas as to what’s going on?”

  “I . . . Lately, I’ve picked up a new canine scent around town. I dismissed it as a stray.”

  He rakes a hand through his thick, dark hair. “You think it’s the same werecoyote?”

  My nod is almost military. It’s not like there’s a local pack. I realize aloud, “He’s been stalking me.”

  Yoshi insisted on walking me home, and along the way, we decided the Coyote wasn’t a problem we could ignore. “Not many werecats are dog people,” he observes at my gate. “I’m not.”

  Humph. If ditching Peso is necessary to functioning in the Cat world, I can live without it.

  I’ve done fine on my own this far.

  Yoshi adds, “If you want to track the Coyote, this detour is only giving him more time —”

  “I’m not bringing Peso with us,” I say. “He’s been through enough tonight.” Gesturing behind the live oak in my backyard, I add, “Stay here. I’ll only be a minute.”

  Yoshi flashes a tantalizing smile. “Too soon to introduce me to your parents?”

  I feel myself blush. Is he always like this? I’d bet yes. Good-looking, a shade too cocky, and it’s working on me. Can he tell I’m attracted to him? Worse, can he smell it? “Stay.”

  “All right,” Yoshi calls as I cross the yard. “But if you tell me to heel, I’m gone.”

  Very funny. It’s a relief to put some distance between us. In light of the Ben fiasco, I’ve sworn off guys . . . until I meet someone who for sure won’t mind that I’m a Cat.

  Then again, on that score, Yoshi automatically qualifies. I glance over my shoulder, and he waves at me. Smiles again, even cockier.

  I shouldn’t have looked.

  I LET PESO INTO THE KITCHEN, and he scampers on the Mexican tile floor to his food dish. As I pour in some kibble, Mom comes in. “Ah, good!” she exclaims. “You found him.”

  I’m close with my parents. I didn’t hesitate to confide in them when I first sprouted whiskers and a tail. But given today’s drama with Darby, I feel somehow embarrassed about there being another shifter-related problem (in the form of the Coyote) and a new shifter companion (in the form of the Cat) so soon. For the moment, I’ll keep both to myself.

  “Where’d Darby go?” I ask.

  “The Best Western. As luck would have it, they had one cancellation. Darby’s brother is driving down in the morning to bring him home to Fort Worth.”

  “Fort Worth?” I reply. That’s — what? — three and a half hours away. “Doesn’t Darby have a car in town? How’d he get here?”

  Mom grabs a rag and wipes down the table. “He claims all he remembers is having been dragged to some art exhibit with his family at the old stockyards and then coming to his senses at the carousel in our park.”

  I’m sure somebody’s already missing him, probably worried sick. “Okay if I go for a run?” I ask. I’m on the track team, and I ran cross-country in the fall. But in my house, “go for a run” is code for gallivanting around in Cat form on our acreage across the river.

  If I wait too long between shifts, it’s like an itch beneath my skin.

  “Be careful,” Mom says, kissing my forehead. “And don’t stay out too late.”

>   There’s no local predator that can take me on. But theoretically, hunters are a threat, even though we have PRIVATE PROPERTY: NO HUNTING signs posted every fifty yards along the barbed wire.

  It’s not only that I look like a wild animal. With my spotted coat, I can’t pass for a cougar. So, if I’m seen, even if I manage to escape, it’s more likely that I’ll be recognized as a shifter — in which case, bring on the pitchforks and bloodthirsty mob.

  Or it’s just as likely I’d be mistaken for an exotic cat who’s escaped from an illegal private zoo or owner, which could mean unwanted attention of another sort. I tried to dye my fur once, but it reboots to its natural spotted pattern with every shift.

  “I’ll be back before you know it.” I pause with my hand on the doorknob. “Let’s keep Peso inside the house unless someone’s with him, at least until traffic lightens up in town.”

  Mom agrees, and a moment later, I rejoin Yoshi behind the gnarled oak.

  He’s talking on the phone. “No, no, for the time being, I’m fine in Pine Ridge,” he says. “The Chihuahua is fine, too. I ran into his owner, who was out looking for him, and now we’re going after the Coyote —” He blinks at me and tells whoever, “I’ll call you back.”

  I hear a faint female voice protesting as he ends the call. “Your girlfriend?” I ask.

  It slipped out. Did it sound jealous? Am I jealous?

  No, no. Ben hasn’t been gone that long. It’s only normal that I’d be fascinated by another Cat. I almost feel like I can be myself, my whole self, with someone for the first time in my life. Almost. There are too many unanswered questions for me to sink too far into this potential friendship. For the foreseeable future, I’m tabling the whole dynamic.

  “Friend-friend.” Yoshi uses one hand for balance to spring over the picket fence.

  “Don’t show off,” I say, using the swinging gate. “Someone might see —”

  “I know how to be careful,” he replies.

  “Be more careful.” I gesture down the street. “Sheriff Bigheart lives in that blue house.”

  That gets his attention, and Yoshi’s manner becomes more subdued.

  As we skirt downtown, he mentions that he’s from Austin. “But only for a few months now. I’m living with my grandmother in a two-bedroom apartment near UT. We don’t have a big fancy house.”

  He says it with a hint of a grudge. Jealous? Competitive? Ben used to compare our houses, too. “Real estate is a lot cheaper here in the boondocks than in Austin.”

  “I know,” Yoshi replies. “In Kansas, we had a big farmhouse and livestock. The animals have been relocated to my sister’s land now. She has this giant hog named Wilbur that —” He nods toward the yoga studio. “Friend of yours?”

  Jess waves at me, coming out of an evening class. Her mom is waiting for her on the front step. They exchange a few words, glancing our way, clearly curious about my new friend.

  “Are you visiting someone in Pine Ridge?” I ask Yoshi, waving back.

  “You, apparently,” he replies.

  I’m in no mood for cryptic. It occurs to me that Yoshi, who I just met, is my only eyewitness source on the supposed werecoyote and that I’m chasing after them both into a badly lit, probably otherwise abandoned park, heavily obscured from downtown by tree and shrub growth. However much I’ve longed to have another Cat to talk to, I can’t automatically assume Yoshi’s a safe person. I’m glad that we were seen together and that he knows it.

  “That was Jess,” I say. “She’s one of my oldest friends and the sheriff’s daughter.”

  He nods, his gaze flicking back in that direction. “You have a lot of friends?”

  I shake my head. “Not close friends.”

  “Good,” Yoshi says. “Best we keep this between us.”

  Whatever. We cut across the bank parking lot, and for no apparent reason, I find myself wondering about Cat mating rituals. Are there rituals? Is that what they — we — call it? Mating?

  It sounds so animalistic.

  At the winding concrete path, I hesitate. “I’m not interested in anything physical.”

  “I can’t promise the Coyote will mind his manners,” Yoshi replies. “He scared off easy last time, but that doesn’t —”

  “No, I mean . . .” I didn’t used to suck at this. Before Ben, I was fairly composed — if not especially experienced — around boys. “I’m not interested in getting physical with you, romantically or sexually.” Wincing, I realize I didn’t need to reference sex at all.

  Without turning to face me, Yoshi shrugs. “I don’t need to come up with elaborate schemes to get girls alone.” His tone is matter-of-fact. “You said you thought the Coyote was stalking you. He’s bad news, and I’m not the type to let you deal with him on your own.”

  I’m not sure whether to be embarrassed or annoyed. “Because I’m a girl?”

  “Hardly. My sister, Ruby, who’s training to be a cop, could kick my ass on any random Tuesday. But have you ever been in a real fight?”

  Somehow I don’t think he’ll be impressed that I scared off a hawk. Once. Years ago. “There are shape-shifters in law enforcement?”

  Yoshi frowns. “There are shape-shifters pretty much everywhere. Not all of us keep to our own kind. It’s a dangerous way to live, but . . .” He begins jogging down the path, and after a moment, I follow. “Over here,” he calls, alongside the park play-scape. “You catch his scent?”

  I circle in, concentrating. “Yeah.” My voice goes hollow. “He’s been in my backyard.”

  “Uh-huh.” Leaning against the swing set, Yoshi folds his arms over his chest. “Okay, enough mystery. Let’s see what we can rule out. Are you a sorcerer, wizard, alchemist, magician, or non-peace-loving-non-wiccan variety of witch?”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Absolutely not. I am a Methodist.”

  Yoshi runs a hand through his shiny hair. “I want to ask you something else. Follow me.”

  Seconds later, we’re standing in front of the antique carousel, or what’s left of it. Stripped of the carved animal-shaped figures, it looks like a lonely wood-and-metal corpse.

  Yoshi steps up on the platform like that’s no big deal, like it isn’t some sort of sacred space. He’s the first person I’ve seen do that since Ben died, though of course the Stubblefield sisters and Sheriff Bigheart and whoever installed the photo display must’ve tromped all over it.

  Yoshi extends his arms to both sides. “What do you know about this thing?” He gestures at the photo of Ben in his Jesus costume. “And exactly who is Mr. Wonderful?”

  I don’t want to have this conversation. “Why?”

  Yoshi sinks to sit on the edge of the carousel platform. “This is where I teleported in, after touching a carved cat figure that I’m betting used to be attached to it.”

  Any other day, I would’ve dismissed the idea outright.

  Tonight, in the moonlight, anything seems possible. Is that how Darby got here? He mentioned the carousel, too. I ask, “Teleported, like on Star Trek?”

  Yoshi laughs out loud at that, and the genuineness of it prompts me to tell him about Ben and how he died, though I leave out the part about him being my boyfriend. I’m not sure why. It’s not that I don’t trust myself to talk about it without welling up. I’m past that. I am.

  “Yeah,” Yoshi says finally. “I remember seeing the story in the news.” He opens his mouth like he wants to say something more but can’t find the right words.

  I nod, letting him off the hook, and then Yoshi and I trace the werecoyote’s scent and faint paw prints to the river.

  “We should sweep the area,” the Cat says. “I’ll go this way. You head down there. But don’t wander far.” He moves toward the bridges, and I do another quick pass through the picnic area before turning in the other direction.

  “Over here!” Yoshi calls from the patch of woods between the park and downtown.

  I leave the riverbank to meet him on the stairs leading to the parking lot
outside the library. “Our Coyote left his clothes on a branch, along with this.” Yoshi hands me an ID. “Kitten, say hello to Peter Villarreal of San Antonio, Texas.”

  Did he really call me “kitten”? I make my way up the stairs to the nearest streetlight for a clearer look, confirming the scent. Peter looks a bit like I’d imagine from his animal form. He’s wiry with a prominent nose, pronounced ears, inquisitive expression. He has a dimpled chin and the kind of auburn hair that glints red. I try to imagine him without the beard, given that simply shaving would dramatically alter his appearance.

  “Never seen him before,” I say. It’s like Darby all over again, except more threatening; both shifters seem unduly interested in me. And Yoshi hasn’t strayed far since we met.

  The Cat is still looking through Peter’s wallet, and I see that Yoshi has Peter’s phone, too. Pulling out a small piece of rectangular white paper, he says, “This restaurant receipt is for pulled-pork sliders and a Diet Coke. It’s dated thirteen days ago, from a biergarten in Fredericksburg, Texas.”

  I’ve been to Fredericksburg. It’s German, quaint, touristy — lots of antiques shops. A popular day-trip and weekend destination in much the same way my dad hopes Pine Ridge eventually will be.

  Yoshi hands me Peter’s phone, and after fiddling with it for a few seconds, I’m looking at an on-screen image of myself: me on my front porch. I keep forwarding: me playing fetch with Peso, me coming out of my fence gate, walking to school, walking from school, on the church steps, in my mother’s new “previously owned” Toyota. It’s nothing I hadn’t already put together, but the images make it more real somehow. Creepier.

  Thinking out loud, I say, “There was a coyote figure on the carousel.” Not to mention a deer and a cougar-ish cat. Parallel forms to Peter, Darby, and Yoshi.

  Magic at the carousel. Could Ben’s spell somehow have brought them here?

  “I’ve got to get home. We should return Peter’s stuff to the spot where you found it or he’ll know we’re onto him.”

  “He’ll know anyway,” Yoshi counters. “He’ll be able to smell us.”

  “But he’ll be naked,” I reply.