Feral Curse

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  Evan and Tanya were playing a lively game of Clue with Junior when we left. Peter’s lying low. According to his latest text, Freddy is en route with Darby and the carousel figures that had been shipped to North Texas and Oklahoma. Nora already brought in the coyote pair, the snake, and the bear. We have zero leads on the missing cat. If the damn thing turns up long distance, we’ll have to figure in transport time.

  I don’t want to think about what our chances of success might be if we don’t bring together every last piece of Ben’s soul. But we’re doing the best we can.

  “What about college?” the mayor presses. “You a UT man?”

  “I’m debating between a couple of West Coast schools,” I say, remembering the Cal Tech poster in the tree house. Total BS; it’s not entirely clear I’ll even graduate on time. But if I end up following Kayla across the country, I may eventually need that cover story.

  I haven’t talked about the intensity of the spell, but I feel compelled to stay close to her . . . and, for some reason, to prove my chops as a mathlete — whatever the hell that’s about.

  “Kind of late in the year not to have made a decision, isn’t it?” Mayor Morgan asks.

  Playing the role of the soon-to-be-left-behind girlfriend, Aimee puts in, “Some of us think Yoshi should consider someplace closer to home.” Then, as if it’s too painful to talk about, she begins peppering the mayor with questions about her make-believe report on small towns.

  Brilliant. I’m tempted to kiss her again for reasons that have nothing to do with Clyde.

  As Mrs. Morgan muses on some consortium out of Longyearbyen, Norway, that’s buying up a ton of local land, much of it from folks who lost everything else in the wildfires, Kayla serves me and the Wild Card and herself four enchiladas. It’s twice what the Homo sapiens at the table receive, and I suppose she figures her folks will write off his and my appetites to the fact that we’re growing boys. Truth is, either of us could finish off the platter.

  I wonder again how dangerous Peter is to her. I’d go out hunting him, except that would leave her vulnerable. Sure, Clyde, being half Lion, could kick any Coyote’s furry butt, and Kayla’s not without claws and teeth herself, but I can’t trust anybody else to handle it.

  We’re lingering over the last of the coconut macaroon pie when Clyde’s phone buzzes. “Sorry,” he says. “I have to answer this.” He excuses himself from the table to do so, taking the call in the foyer. I hear him mention his friend Kieren’s name and something about the national news. He leans into the kitchen, motioning for Aimee to join him, and, excusing myself, I come, too. Kayla immediately begins clearing the dessert plates.

  There’s something about the look on Clyde’s face.

  The Wild Card leads us outside to the front porch. “Thanks, man,” he says into the receiver. He ends the call, fiddles with the phone a second, and then holds it so Aimee and I can see. Clyde puts his arm around her, reclaiming his rightful role as her real boyfriend. But it’s not a territory display for my benefit. This is all about her. “It’s your dad,” he announces. “About his work. Does he ever talk to you about that?”

  As the INN video loads, she says, “He mentioned that his company had been bought out. I have no idea what he does these days. Something techie, I guess. Why?”

  The Barbie-esque, plastic-looking anchor begins, “This morning on AM Live we welcome Graham Barnard live from MCC Implants in Hong Kong. Mr. Barnard, your company is touting a recent breakthrough in mind-control technology. You do realize that the very existence of such devices is frightening to —”

  “Stephanie, that’s exactly the kind of alarmist accusation and misconception that I’m here to set straight. Our innovative new chip is specifically designed to modify shape-shifter thought and behavior only. Each also includes a tracking capability, triggered by elevated levels of a hormone that rises when one of the monsters begins a transformation.”

  “Oh, God,” Aimee whispers. “Not this again.”

  Again? Somehow I get the feeling she hasn’t told daddy she’s dating a Lion-Possum boy.

  On-screen, Stephanie says, “You’re implying that the device could be used to protect the general public, but that presumes you have some means of rounding up werepeople and —”

  “I sense that you’re sympathetic to the creatures,” he replies.

  Monsters, creatures — nice, Graham. Very nice.

  He continues, “But every day in America’s cities, violent crimes go unsolved and, consequently, unattributed to the beastly criminals who’ve committed them. And only last week, a weretiger devoured toddler Jacinda Finch in Westchester County, New York.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Clyde protests. “That’s —”

  Aimee and I shush him. Werepeople aren’t perfect. We’ve got our bad and good, just like humans. But the vast majority of so-called shifter attacks are really animal attacks or mimicry of that specific type of carnage by criminally insane humans trying to pin the blame on us. I doubt Clyde knows for sure about the case being reported (though he might, through his contacts), but weretigers are rare outside Asia, eastern Russia, and North Korea. The odds of a Tiger child murderer in the U.S. are slim to none.

  Regardless, who or whatever it was slaughtered a rich, pretty, blue-eyed blond girl whose parents videotaped her every hiccup, and that means it’s become a media sensation.

  “Public opinion is on our side,” Graham adds. “In the last election cycle, the governors of thirty-two states promised to take tougher measures to protect their citizens from the exploding shifter threat. It’s just that until now —”

  “Experts agree that shape-shifters are at most less than one-half of one percent of the U.S. population,” Stephanie interjects. “And most live in seclusion in remote, wooded areas.”

  Not true. Not by a long shot. But that is what most humans believe.

  “Despite the media flurry surrounding each incident, their violent crime rate is statistically insignificant,” she continues. “Given current economic conditions, why should states spend —?”

  “Nowhere is safe!” Graham shouts, leaping from his chair and slamming his fists on the table. “They’re everywhere. Cities, suburbs, small towns. Just waiting for their chance.”

  “Our chance to do what?” Clyde mutters. “Hunt juicy, free-range human toddlers?”

  “Clyde!” Aimee exclaims, and even I know he went too far.

  The Wild Card apparently realizes it, too, and shuts down his phone. “That’s basically it,” he says. “Except that, oh yeah, fifteen of those governors, including ours, God bless Texas, have announced that, beginning next fall, the state will engage in mandatory genetic testing of government employees and public-school students. Which means this will be my last semester at Waterloo High, but of course everyone who withdraws to homeschool will be automatically under suspicion.” He blinks at us. “Kieren sent me a link to that story, too, if you want to see.”

  “I’m sorry,” Aimee says, and I notice that she’s trying not to cry.

  “Hey,” Clyde replies, gently raising her chin. “It’s not your fault. I just thought you should know about your dad and —”

  “You were right,” she admits. “I do need to know. I have to talk to him and —”

  “It can wait,” I put in. “We have our paws full now.”

  The plan is for Junior to lead Evan and Tanya to the park later tonight, after the Founders’ Day weekend crowd has cleared.

  Once Freddy and Darby arrive, they’ll load up all the various figures and haul them to the park. It may take more than one trip, depending on the size of his rental truck.

  I add, “If we’re shooting to replicate the timing of the spell, we’ve got about four and a half hours to find Peter and the other Cat figure.” I don’t have to point out that it’s raining off and on, too, and that there’s electricity in the sky, like the night Ben died.

  “Make it three and a half,” Kayla says, walking out her front door. “I’ve never put toge
ther a carousel before. Are any of you mechanically inclined?”

  “I personally rebuilt my car,” I reply.

  “Really?” Kayla’s smile is infectious, and I remember her dog-eared copy of Mechanical Engineering in the tree house.

  Realizing we’re being stared at, I take a step back. “What’s so funny?”

  “Smitten kittens,” Clyde mutters, and Aimee elbows him.

  Kayla bites her lower lip. “I’ll tell my parents we’re going out.” She retreats inside.

  “Was that necessary?” I ask, annoyed that Clyde’s hyperaware of the spark between me and the Cat girl. “Do you always have to be such a —”

  “Do you always have to chase tail?” he counters. “I mean, sure, Kayla is a sultry —”

  “You think she’s sultry?” Aimee asks.

  He tosses his hands in the air. “She’s a Cat. It’s a Cat thing.”

  It’s not a smart answer. Right before he and Aimee got together, Clyde hooked up with that Lioness. It was hot and short-lived. I doubt Aimee has forgotten.

  He makes it worse. “You’re my girl. We belong to each other.”

  She rises on her toes to look him in the eye. It’s not the sort of thing most werelions would do to a fellow werelion, unless under duress, but Aimee has picked up a lot about shifters and dominance. “‘Belong’ is a strong word,” she informs him. “I’m my own person. When you’re lucky, I share.”

  Clyde’s about to stammer I’m-not-sure-what when Kayla bursts outside again. “Peso’s gone! My window’s been busted open, and Peter’s scent is heavy in my bedroom.”

  WE SPLIT UP — me and Yoshi, Aimee and Clyde, searching the neighborhood for hours. The Lopezes’ gazebo, Miz Kralovansky’s butterfly garden, Mr. Sweeney’s prize rose garden, Bed & Gravy B&B, and behind the Bighearts’ shed. No Peter, no Peso. No fresh prints around my house, either. The Coyote must’ve strolled right down my street, right up my front walk.

  I don’t care if he’s ensorcelled, bewitched, or moonstruck wacky. If he harms one quivering hair on my precious Chihuahua, I will slice him into wet meaty hunks.

  “Any other weekend,” I mutter, not for the first time, “somebody would’ve spotted a stranger with my dog, but everybody’s downtown.”

  “We’ll get him back,” Yoshi says as we circle around the street corner.

  I appreciate the solidarity. “Competitive, huh?” I nudge, intrigued by the spell’s effect on him. “And that’s unusual for you?”

  “With girls, definitely. Even with my sister, we never had any major issues with sibling rivalry.” He rocks back on his heels. “I guess you could say I’m competitive with Clyde, but . . .”

  “Standard male jockeying for dominance?” I suggest.

  His eyes narrow. “Standard werepredator jockeying for dominance.”

  I stand corrected and appreciate that Yoshi’s doing his level best to keep it under control. I wonder how much energy that’s costing him.

  The Cat’s car is parallel parked a couple of houses down from mine. Clyde and Aimee are standing alongside it, talking to a trim, elegant-looking man with bleached-blond hair and wire-frame glasses.

  “Darby took off,” he announces as we approach. “As we got closer to Pine Ridge, he became more and more agitated and then started crying uncontrollably when we reached the cabin. He jumped out of the truck and made a beeline for the woods.”

  “Great,” Yoshi says. “Now, two of the enchanted shifters are AWOL.”

  “A Deer is going to be easier to catch than a Coyote,” Clyde points out. “They’re not as smart and they’re prey shifters.”

  Yoshi starts at that. “Somebody’s gotten a big head since discovering his inner Lion.”

  “The term ‘prey shifters’ is offensive,” scolds Aimee. “Not to mention stereo —”

  “So is being lectured on our culture by a Homo sapiens,” I reply. I don’t mean to snap at her. It’s not that I don’t like Aimee. She’s sweet. She’s helping. It’s impossible not to like her. But I hate that she knows so much more than I do, and a goddamned Coyote stole my dog. We don’t have time for Darby’s self-indulgent theatrics or her —

  “You must be Kayla,” the new arrival says, defusing the moment by offering his manicured hand. “I’m Freddy.” He steps neatly in front of Aimee, subtly blocking her with his own body. Like I’m going to claw her throat out.

  I take his hand anyway. He’s helping, too.

  “Aimee told me your dog was missing,” he says.

  I blink back tears. “I’m fine.”

  He shakes his head. “No, you’re exhausted. Your nerves are shot and you’re being forced to adjust to a whole new and disturbing view of how the universe works. You’re still grieving your spectral boyfriend, and a handful of people you’ve never met before — who, let’s face it, are what you might call big personalities — are acting like they have all the answers and are pulling you in a dozen directions at once.” His voice is soothing. “Have faith, Kayla. Things can only get better. I’m sorry that I have to go.”

  “What?” I exclaim, releasing him. “Why?”

  Freddy draws himself up. “Our friends at the interfaith coalition have put out the word for ‘suspected werepeople’ — whatever that’s supposed to mean — to brace themselves for surprise visits from the state police.” He glances over my shoulder at the others. “And maybe some city police officers, too. Our hometown force included. Detectives Zaleski and Wertheimer have already put in their resignations from the Austin Police Department, and they’re not the only cops to do so. A handful of human officers also walked out in protest, saying there’s no cause and that it’s a civil-rights violation.”

  “Which means what for you?” Yoshi wants to know. “Damage control?”

  “Exactly. Nora and I are helping with outreach to expand the safe-house system. It’s about fifty percent psychology — who can we trust? — and about fifty percent logistics. You kids should be safe here in the sticks. You may want to stay put in Pine Ridge until the worst blows over.”

  He says it like there’s any guarantee it will blow over.

  After Freddy takes off, Yoshi points out what we’re all thinking. “If we don’t find Darby and Peter and the final cat carousel figure, then we’ll be missing parts of Ben’s soul, which means . . . I’m not sure what.”

  “Ten percent,” I say. Like that’s helpful. “Ten percent of his soul.”

  “Can’t we wait them out?” Aimee asks. “Peter and Darby, I mean. They’re both fixated on Kayla, right? They’re not going to wander far. We could —”

  Thunder cracks across the sky. “We can’t wait,” Clyde says. “Bastrop County has been in a drought for years. The night Ben died”— he gestures to the sky —“it was rainy. The electricity in the air may have made a difference. This spate of wet weather we’re having, it doesn’t happen every day, and it’s supposed to clear tomorrow for the foreseeable future. I get the feeling that the symptoms of the spell are getting worse.”

  Yoshi exclaims, “What do you mean, they’re getting worse? It’s not like I challenged Kayla to find Peter and Peso before me.” But from his tone, he’d clearly thought about it.

  “Yoshi,” Aimee says. “Your saber teeth are down. Your control is fraying.”

  Mystified, the Cat reaches to touch them. He looks like a CGI movie monster.

  Is that what I look like at the beginning of a shift? No wonder Ben reacted so strongly.

  Yoshi’s flabbergasted. “I didn’t realize . . .” He glances at me. “Even when I was younger, from my very first shift, I’ve been the master of my inner Cat.”

  Needless to say, a werepredator losing control can be terrifying. I press Clyde, “What does all this mean? What are you saying?”

  He taps his chin. “Either the reversal won’t work and we’ll have to settle for leaving that ten percent of Ben’s soul in Darby, Peter, and the missing cat figure, or the spell will draw the magically contaminated shifters to the carousel. The s
ame way it’ll draw lightning from the sky.”

  In other words, we really have no idea.

  “What about the cat figure?” Yoshi adds.

  Clyde shrugs. “It’s an inanimate object.”

  Ben may never be wholly souled again. I hate the sound of that. Will it mean he can’t go to heaven? Lord help me; my new friends may have a better grasp on the situation than I do, but it’s clear that’s not saying much.

  For the first time, I let myself really contemplate the fact that a part of Ben is living in Yoshi, in Evan and Tanya and Peter and Darby.

  Darby — the depressed part. Darby holds Ben’s broken heart. In a way, his sorrow is hardest to deal with because it’s totally my fault.

  I never could stand to see Ben sad. That’s why after his dad died, I took it upon myself to —“I’ll be back,” I announce. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  I don’t have to go to the bathroom, but I have an idea to investigate, and I don’t want Yoshi tagging along. Eye candy aside, I’m starting to feel smothered, and besides, I don’t want him scaring Darby off, assuming he’s where I think he is.

  I stroll straight through the house and out the back door. I risk running faster than a human could, even a track and cross-country state champ.

  Doesn’t matter. The neighborhood’s empty anyway. And it won’t be long before Yoshi and the others realize I’ve cut out. Of the three of us shifters, I’m the fastest, the one closest in Cat form to a cheetah. But I may still need the head start.

  Only moments later I nearly run into Sheriff Bigheart’s squad car. I hadn’t expected any traffic on the dirt roads, between the corn- and cotton fields.

  “Whoa, missy,” he says, rolling down the driver’s-side window. “What’re you doing out here by yourself in the middle of the night?”

  “Running,” I say. “I’m a runner. I run.” Shut up, Kayla.