Feral Curse

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  I’d much rather dwell on Aimee. She walks almost everywhere and is naturally high-energy. Plus she’s taking tae kwon do two days a week. She’s got a cute little figure, different from Kayla’s. The Cat girl is all long, lean muscle with a tight round butt.

  I’m not saying it’s a competition. Truth is, there’s pretty much no female body type that doesn’t hold some appeal for me. . . . Still, I love a great ass.

  “Clyde is half wereopossum, half werelion?” Kayla asks. “How is that possible?”

  Stepping up and over a fallen tree, I reply, “Sometimes a Possum and a Lion love each other very, very much. . . .”

  “Actually,” Aimee puts in, “I think it was more of a strangers-in-the-night kind of thing that happened when his parents were separated. He didn’t even know about his Lion heritage until this winter.” Ducking beneath a branch, she adds, “They’re nice people, the Gilberts —”

  “I wasn’t judging,” Kayla replies. “I was realizing that, before this weekend, I hadn’t thought much about other mixed families — shifter and human.”

  It’s like she’s been reading my mind. “Your dad is Homo sapiens,” I say to Kayla, mostly so Aimee doesn’t accidentally out me to the Morgans on the theory that they can already scent my Cat-ness.

  Kayla extends her claws, more aggressively clearing the foliage. I do the same. Then Kayla says, “My mom is Homo sapiens, too.”

  “Uh . . .” I exchange a look with Aimee. “Are you sure it didn’t just skip a generation?”

  Not every wereperson is filled with shifter pride. Many pass as human, even in the most personal aspects of their lives, and some of those who identify as mixed human and shifter pray they don’t pass on their animal forms to their children. I understand that. It’s no doubt easier, less complicated, to lead a mono-form life. But the whole thing still pisses me off.

  “I’m adopted,” Kayla explains. “From Ethiopia.”

  In North America, it would be extraordinarily unusual for a Cat, or any shifter, to knowingly put his or her child up for adoption by humans, but maybe it’s different overseas.

  Aimee’s brow crinkles. “Do you know anything about your birth family?”

  “Before my first shift, I liked to think my biological parents were poor, desperate — that they wanted to give me a better future.”

  I can see where that would be more comforting than assuming that they’re dead or just didn’t want her. Ruby remembers our mom, but I don’t even have that.

  “I worried that maybe they had HIV or some other disease and couldn’t afford medication,” Kayla goes on. “Afterward, I wondered if maybe it was more complicated than that.” She shakes her head. “My Cat form came as a surprise to my parents. To me, too.”

  By which she means her adoptive parents. Yeah, I bet they were surprised. I ask, “Any other shifters in Pine Ridge?”

  “Just the fortune-teller,” Kayla replies. “Not that we’re close. I’ve never spoken to her.”

  I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for Kayla, growing up, alone and mystified by her very biology. Granted, Grams is far from nurturing, but I had my older sister, Ruby, too.

  No matter what, the first few times you transform, it’s scary, excruciating, and more than a little overwhelming. Accidents happen. Bystanders can get hurt.

  It’s rare, but young, unsupervised adolescent shifters have been known to accidentally kill themselves. And family pets.

  That said, traipsing through the woodlands, I am envious that the Cat girl has so much room to run wild in animal form. When I lived on Grams’s farm in Kansas, I would occasionally shift under the cover of the wheat field, chasing mice or crows.

  City living has caged me more than I like to admit.

  “WHAT HAPPENED TO the barbed-wire fence?” Aimee asks, smacking mosquitoes as we push through the far border of my parents’ property. I can hear a woodpecker hard at work.

  “I cut it,” I explain, steadying my new friend with a hand on her arm. “I cleared away as much of it as I could so the deer and other animals could escape.”

  “Escape what?” Yoshi asks.

  In reply, I lift up a thick, leafy branch, clearing their view. “The fires.”

  The Austinites gape at the destruction. They no doubt saw news of the wildfires last fall, but up close, the scorched earth looks literally apocalyptic. We’re faced with what appears to be an army of trees, upright but dead, charred halfway or higher up their trunks.

  It’s easier to pass through with the groundcover largely burned away, but it’s more dangerous. “Listen for cracking, falling trees and limbs,” I say. “It’s not only the drought. The flames can burn all the way down through the roots, and the terrain . . .” As we continue through the rolling landscape, I add, “What with all the ash, it’s not so stable, either.”

  I never risk crossing my parents’ property line, so I’m surprised to see signs of recovery. As we continue on, I count three different kinds of what looks like sunflowers as well as tiny purple wildflowers and white ones resembling toy teacups.

  “Pines in Central Texas?” Yoshi asks as we pass one that’s been miraculously spared.

  “Lost pines,” I breathe. “People say they date back to the Ice Age.”

  He laughs. “They say the same thing about us shifters.”

  At the sound of splitting wood, I glance up and reach for Aimee. The branch is substantial and falling fast, but Yoshi leaps to intercept it, one-handed, before it can strike her.

  That was a superhero-level move. As in Superman or Captain Marvel or Wonder Woman — not one of those billionaire types with tons of interpersonal drama and toys.

  I’ve tested my speed and reflexes, but not my strength. Not like that. I’ve never really contemplated my full physical potential. Could I have caught that branch?

  No wonder Yoshi scoffed at my state championships.

  Suddenly, the fact that so many humans fear us seems more complicated than bigotry. They live farther down on the food chain. Throw in our intelligence, and certain species of shifters are apex predators. Werelions and Bears on land, wereorcas in the seas.

  But smaller Cats . . . we’re nothing to mess with, either. I wonder what it was like, between Homo sapiens and Homo shifters, in prehistoric times, before they somehow gained the upper hand. Did we make love or war? Did they hunt us, or did we hunt them? Just how bloody did it get? And how did we end up the losers?

  To pass the time (or for my own good), Yoshi lectures me on the history of werecats and the controversy around whether we’re distantly related to sabertooth tigers or at least sabertooth weretigers. He stops in place as if something occurred to him. “What about medical care?” he asks. “Did your parents ever take you to a human doctor?”

  “Only for weigh-ins and growth measurements. I’ve had annual eye tests from the school nurse. My mom has issues when it comes to mandatory vaccinations.” Extending my arms, I consider my health with a new appreciation. “I’ve never been seriously ill or broken any bones. Nothing like that. And once I . . .”

  “Reached adolescence . . .” Aimee tactfully supplies.

  Do all female shifters gain the ability to transform shortly before the first time they start their periods? Is that something this human girl knows and I don’t?

  “Once that happened,” I begin again, “there was no talk of taking me to a doctor.” Or, to be specific, a gynecologist. I’ve wondered if young female werecats get a different version of the facts-of-life speech. I never dared to imagine what it might be like, being intimate with a Cat boy in animal form. Then again, I never met one before Yoshi, but here he is, hiking a mere five feet away, alongside me and his not-girlfriend. I swallow hard, thinking about it.

  “You got lucky,” Yoshi muses aloud. “Shifters tend to heal better than humans. We’re immune to many of their diseases.”

  I already knew that. Embryonic human stem-cell research? Controversial. Embryonic shifter stem-cell research? Gaining steam with eac
h passing day. Last week on INN, a doctor claimed we could be the ultimate game-changer; we could hold the secret to their immortality.

  Yoshi adds, “I’m glad for you that your parents turned out to be so cool.”

  Me, too, but right now I’ve got more pressing things to worry about. Truth is, I’m not sure Madame Zelda stuck around after the fires. She may have packed up and left the area for good. A lot of people who lost homes last year did. A lot are still considering leaving.

  My dad insisted that we go forward with the Founders’ Day weekend festival, despite the toll the destruction and drought have taken on Pine Ridge finances. It costs about a thousand dollars to remove a tree before it falls on someone’s car or a house or a person. Roots untouched by flames can still die of thirst. Thinking it over, I’m personally grateful for what rain we’ve had, even if this weekend is supposed to be about attracting transplants and investors. Even if Dad is hoping it reminds the locals why they love the community so much.

  As we come upon a large, tranquil pond, I spot the little log cabin built on stilts in the middle of the water, connected to the land by a curved wooden bridge with unfinished gray wood handrails. It looks unscathed, and the surrounding land is almost lush, dotted with wildflowers and wispy, lime-colored grass more than a foot tall.

  A few steps more and I see the tail end of a small orange flatbed pickup truck, parked on a dirt road leading from the lake to who-knows-where in the forest. Probably the highway.

  As I draw closer, the clouds above seem darker, denser. A large black bird, talons gripping, lands on a homemade sign nailed to the end of the bridge. It reads:

  “How much do you think it is after the first two minutes?” Yoshi asks. “Then again, how much business do you think she gets out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Maybe she put up the sign for our benefit,” I say. “If she’s really psychic, she’d know we were coming, right?” Twenty-four hours ago, I would’ve said I didn’t believe in psychics, but given recent events, I’m willing to keep an open mind.

  Aimee coughs. “If that bird says ‘Nevermore,’ I’m out of here.” She’s joking.

  “If it says ‘Nevermore,’ we all are,” Yoshi agrees. He’s not.

  The bird only squawks, but then distant thunder rumbles and a shower of rain chases us across the bridge. The only sign of life at the cabin is a fluffy, enormous, snow-beast-looking domestic cat sprawled, snoring, on a rocking chair beneath the overhang. He opens a lazy eye to regard us and yawns, stretching his front legs, as we walk by.

  I have my hand fisted to knock on the painted green door when, without warning, it opens. Madame Zelda, I presume, is compactly built, with swirling gold hair — long for her age but it works on her, and her features have a stronger feline cast to them than mine or Yoshi’s. Only the exoticness of her persona and occupation would allow her to pass for human.

  At the sight of us, she sits straight down on the wood-plank floor, pointing up at me with her mouth hanging open.

  At first I think she’s had a heart attack, but as I kneel at her side, she grabs my sleeve. “Whatever you’re about to do, girl, wherever your young heart leads you, it could bring bloody and eternal ruin down on us all.”

  “I . . .” Sweet baby Jesus. I glance at my companions. “I don’t know what she’s talking about.” Or do I? I think back to what I read on the National Council for Preserving Humanity website. The lunatics say we’re everywhere, waiting for our moment to take over the world. They claim it’s only a matter of time before a shifter is caught doing something so egregious that humanity will rise up to smite us. Yes, “smite.” How often do you hear that in a sentence?

  Has this older Cat woman foretold that I will somehow be the egregious one?

  “Well, that was dramatic,” Aimee puts in, bending to take Madame Zelda’s other arm and help me half walk, half carry the fortune-teller to a chair.

  “Time’s wasting,” Yoshi mutters. “She’s trying to run out the two minutes.”

  The cabin looks to be a one-bedroom — sparse except for the gauzy, colorful scarves draped over a freestanding coatrack and the round table featuring cypress incense, white votive candles, and a small crystal ball on a matching stand. Presiding over the table, Madame Zelda glares at us. “Who are you and what are you bothering me about?”

  I’m still unnerved by her earlier pronouncement. I’m a good girl, a straight-A student. I was Little Miss Pine Ridge at age five, with a sash, tiara, and everything. I’ve never brought ruin down on anyone. Except maybe Ben. Make that, except Ben.

  After we give our names, Madame Zelda squints at Yoshi. “Any relation to Irena Kitahara?” She holds her hand up. “Stands about so high, likes to torture tiny trees, mean as snot?”

  “My grandmother,” he replies. “How do you know her?”

  “First met at a Beatles concert in D.C. back in ’64. Ran into her the following year at a voting-rights protest in Selma. It’s been a Solstice-card relationship ever since.” She flicks her gaze over his muscled body. “Irena never mentioned you were such a looker.” Madame Zelda’s open assessment of Yoshi is unabashedly sexual and more than a little icky, considering the age difference, though he seems to take it in stride. Mostly to herself, Madame Zelda adds, “She did say you were an idiot, though.”

  Yoshi smirks at that, and suddenly, I ache that he gets cut down so much at home. Does he have a safe place in the world? One where he can trust that everyone is on his side?

  Aimee whispers to me, “You know that expression about it being a small world? Shrink it a thousand more times over, and you get a feel for shifter ties around the globe.”

  Shifter ties. Until now, I was a loose end.

  Madame Zelda reaches to raise Aimee’s chin with an insistent finger. “You’ve had some close calls, girl. You and your human soul.”

  “I can handle myself.” Aimee jerks her chin away. “What’s this about Kayla and ruin?”

  “Humph.” Madame Zelda slaps the top of the table, making the candle flames waiver. “Twenty dollars.”

  “Twenty bucks!” I exclaim. “For how long?”

  “Five minutes,” is the answer. “Seven. Depends on how long it takes me to get bored.”

  Yoshi’s right; the woman is a professional con artist. We can’t trust anything she says. Still, Aimee reaches into her pocket and extracts and presents a crumpled twenty.

  Meanwhile, I take a closer look at my surroundings. The cabin is decorated with tacked-up carnival posters advertising MAN-EATING SNAKE, ALLIGATOR MAN, and BEARDED LADY.

  I don’t see a kitchenette or even a hot plate . . . or how Madame Zelda could have electricity. Maybe that’s what all the candles are about.

  “Have a seat, children,” she says. “And call me Granny Z.”

  As we take chairs around the table, I default to my best manners. “Thank you for seeing us, Granny Z, ma’am. We’re here to inquire about the carousel you sold to the town.”

  “You drink?” Granny Z stands. She moves to cover the windows with long scarves and then pulls a six-pack of beer out of a cabinet.

  “No, ma’am,” Aimee and I reply. I’ve never had an adult offer me alcohol before.

  “I’ll have one,” Yoshi puts in with a half grin. He gestures to Aimee. “As you’ve noticed, this one is human.” Then to me. “And this one plays by human rules.”

  I’m not sure if there’s an insult in there, but Aimee doesn’t seem to take it personally, so I decide not to, either. “Nice place you’ve got here,” she says instead. “Very rustic.”

  “You’re a city girl.” Granny Z laughs, deep and throaty, and it feels like we’ve all come to some kind of understanding. “Not me. The road was my home for over fifty years.” She serves Yoshi a Shiner Bock. Then she rejoins us at the table. “Ralphie, my late husband, rest his cantankerous soul, hand-carved that carousel, and for the animal figures, he chose the forms of shifters traveling with the carnival at the time.”

  “A remarkable p
iece of work,” Aimee says, elbows on the table. “Say, um, was there anything unusual about the ride? You know, mystically speaking?”

  Granny Z sets down her own beer with a thud. “What happened?”

  As Yoshi fills her in on what we know so far, I retrieve the carefully folded copy of the spell Ben used from my shorts pocket and hand it over.

  The fortune-teller studies it and starts cackling. “Oh, mercy, children! This isn’t magic that humans can turn against us. The book this passage comes from is ours — The Book of Lions, The Book of Old. Benjamin Bloom was struck down for trying to use our faith against us.” Granny Z bites her lower lip. “How on God’s green earth did those NCPH bastards get ahold of this?”

  Yoshi’s eyes narrow. “Shifters are of the natural world. We don’t indulge in demonic —”

  “It’s not demonic,” Granny Z snarls. “It’s not a curse. It’s a blessing for healing. It’s thought to cure grief, lunacy, even bona fide demonic possession. Not all magic is malevolent, boy. But right as rain, this invokes a higher power and it can be deadly in the wrong hands.” She peers intently into the crystal ball in front of us and says, “Now, shush.”

  Seconds later, Granny Z’s eyes close and she sways back and forth, trancelike, in her chair. For a while, we all try to decipher whatever it is that she sees in the shadows that flicker across the crystal. But we’re left looking at each other, clueless about whether we should interrupt or leave her like that. Finally, Granny Z slumps forward.

  “Is she dead?” I whisper, horrified.

  “Of course she’s not dead,” Yoshi replies. “Can’t you hear her heart beating?”

  Excuse me, Mr. Cat, for not making a habit of listening in on other people’s organ functions. Then again, maybe I should. I focus. “Yes, I can hear her heart beating.”