by Nina Berry
We kept an eye out for tails for the next few miles, but by the time we hit the freeway we felt sure we’d made it away clean. Caleb got off the northbound 15 and headed south toward the 95. Amaris pulled out some bottles of water and chips, and a contented munching sound filled the car.
“Okay, so that was cool,” November said after about fifty miles. “But it would’ve been way cooler with Arnaldo there.”
“Hell, yeah,” said London as Siku grunted in agreement.
“What’s going on with . . . all that?” Amaris asked, her voice a little low and timid. “I mean, why do you have to go get him?”
“His dad has cut him off from the world,” I said. “His father is . . . he drinks a lot, and he really hates shifters from other tribes. We don’t know exactly what’s going on there, but after those Tribunal raids on our houses, we need to be sure he’s safe.”
“And we’re going to steal him from his parents,” London said, then glanced around as the rest of us looked uneasy. “Well, that’s what’s really going on here, right? And only if he wants us to. I mean, most shifters don’t like other tribes. Like my parents—they think you all can’t be trusted because you’re not wolves, but they’ll still let me go back to school with you. But Arnaldo’s dad is locking him away from the world.”
“He hits Arnaldo and his brothers,” November said baldly. “It’s bad.”
“Where’s his mom?” Amaris asked.
Silence for a moment. “She’s dead,” said November. She didn’t say that the Tribunal had killed her, but I could tell from the sudden tightening of Amaris’s face that she was thinking exactly that.
CHAPTER 6
Arnaldo’s family’s house lay next to the still, blue-black water of Alamo Lake. The sun had set not long ago, and in its place the sky thrust up a wall of red-orange topped with fading lavender and indigo.
The building’s black silhouette was low and unremarkable except for a narrow tower made of haphazard iron bars and wooden planks that emerged from its center to loom at least five stories up. At the top was nothing but a wooden platform.
To me, it looked like an observation platform, a good spot for an eagle to watch from, to look for prey, and to take off for the hunt. Nothing moved on it now, though for all we knew it held a camera that was even now pointed right at us.
Siku, November, and I had done our best to sneak up to the edge of the backyard, leaving the others in the SUV about three hundred yards back. Now we waited for a signal, keeping an eye on the rusty swing set, the ragged vegetable garden, and the stepping-stone path that led up to the back door.
Probably the kitchen door, I decided, peering at it again over some acacia. But I couldn’t be sure. There was so much we didn’t know. We’d assumed Arnaldo was here, at the only address Caleb could find in Morfael’s files. But no one had heard from him in weeks. He could be thousands of miles away for all we knew, maybe a prisoner of the Tribunal.
Or, and I didn’t let myself think about this long, he could be dead. We were flying through the dark with no moonlight to show us the landscape.
A sprig of acacia snapped off in my hand with a crack. November glared at me, and I mouthed “Sorry.” I was tense. Coming here had been my idea. I’d looked for signs of a setup, just as I’d told my mother I would. I didn’t find any, but that didn’t mean it was safe. If I was leading my friends into a horrible trap, I had no one else to blame.
Tires crunched on gravel on the other side of the house. It was Caleb in the SUV, with London and Amaris, driving right up to the front door. November cocked her head, catching the sound, then Siku. He cautiously straightened to his towering full height to peer at the house over his concealing shrub.
Heat rose up from the ground around me, released by nightfall. I caught the sound of a stirring creature rustling under the sand nearby, and a faint breeze brought the scent of frying onions. Someone inside the house was making dinner.
Then we heard three raps on wood. Our friends were knocking on the front door. I nodded at Siku and November, and we crept up on our toes, past the vegetable garden. November snuck out her lock picks as I peeked cautiously through the small window in the door.
Relief flooded through me. Arnaldo stood there, all gawky elbows and bony hips, stirring a mix of onions and other vegetables in a saucepan. His head was turned toward the front of the house, so I saw only the back of it. He looked taller, skinnier, and hunched with weariness, as if the last month had stretched him thin. His dark brown hair had grown long, brushing the collar of his plain brown T-shirt.
His skin was the same smooth brown, except for stripes of darker, almost purplish coloring just above his elbow. They looked like bruises, as if someone had grabbed his arm with enough strength and violence to leave a lasting mark. The thought made my blood rise.
Then I caught the muffled voices filtering through the house, the same voices Arnaldo was listening to. He froze, no longer stirring the simmering vegetables.
One voice was unmistakably Caleb’s, low and filled with subtle vibrations. I couldn’t quite catch the words, but he was answered by another male voice, sharper in pitch, and angry.
November was about to start picking the lock, but I held up my hand, signaling her to wait, then scratched faintly on the door.
Arnaldo whirled toward the sound, as tense and swift as if he’d heard a gunshot. I waved at him reassuringly through the window, but at the sight of me his dark eyes grew wider with alarm, his angular body stiff. I beckoned, but he shook his head and made a shooing motion with his hands.
“What the hell is going on?” whispered November.
Siku grunted, backing up her impatience.
“Arnaldo’s alone in the kitchen, and I want him to come with us, but he’s trying to tell me to go away.” I looked at Arnaldo through the window again and emphatically mouthed: “Open the door.”
He glanced back toward the front of the house, every muscle tense, then stepped over, unlocked the kitchen door, and inched it ajar as quietly as he could. He only let it open far enough to poke his beaklike nose out. His bangs had grown out too long, tangling with his eyebrows and catching in his black eyelashes. His voice was low and urgent. “You guys can’t be here. My dad will kill you. I mean, literally kill you.”
Warm, delicious dinner-scented air wafted past us through the gap between door and jamb. It made November jiggle with hunger. “I didn’t know you could cook!” she whispered.
Arnaldo stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Did you hear what I just said?”
“We heard you,” I said. “Grab a coat and your wallet and come with us.”
“Why? What’s going on?” Arnaldo looked over his shoulder again. “I can’t leave my brothers here.”
I frowned at him. “Wasn’t your house raided by the Tribunal? All of ours were.”
“What? No! No raids here. It’s been really quiet. We’re fine. Sorry I haven’t been in touch, but my dad took away our phones and computers.”
Siku shook his head, his long black ponytail swaying. “Why would the Tribunal get DNA from everyone else who raided their compound, but not from you?”
“And you’re not fine.” I pointed at the bruises on his arm.
Arnaldo slid that arm behind his back, out of view. “It’s no big deal. We’re really off the grid here, so maybe the Tribunal just couldn’t find us. But if my Dad finds you here . . .”
“It is a big deal. Get your brothers and come with us,” I said. “We won’t leave you with him.”
“Arnaldo?” A small voice spoke behind him, and I saw a boy of about thirteen standing in the doorway. He had a version of Arnaldo’s impressive nose and hooded eyes, currently wide with a mixture of fear and wonder as he stared from me to November’s small face at my elbow to Siku towering above, then back to Arnaldo. “Who’s that?”
Arnaldo inhaled deeply, as if girding himself, then said, “They’re just leaving, Luis. Go back to the dining table.”
“Maybe we sho
uld go,” said Siku. I could hear his feet shuffling uneasily in the dirt behind me.
“Are they shifters from other tribes?” Luis took a curious step toward us. His feet were bare, the cuffs of his brown trousers neatly altered to let down the hem. “You’re not a raptor, are you?” he asked me.
I started to shake my head, but Arnaldo moved between us, turning to face Luis. “I said, go back into the dining room now, Luis.”
“Papi says the other shifter tribes are thieves and killers,” Luis said, his voice getting louder. “Are they trying to hurt you, Arnaldo? I’ll protect you!”
“No, Luis!” Arnaldo put out both hands in a calming gesture.” These are my friends! I told you, I met other kinds of shifters at the school—”
The front door slammed. Arnaldo cut himself off and threw us a terrified look.
A man’s piercing voice called, “Arnaldo?”
Arnaldo’s eyes pleaded for us to go. Siku and November backed up behind me, and I started to close the kitchen door, but too late.
A tall man strode into the kitchen behind Luis and stopped, glaring at us. Everything about him was long, lean, and hard. His head was shaved, and his skin, a burnished bronze, lay like a metallic sheet over the bones of his skull, pointed cheekbones, and long, muscular fingers, curled now into fists.
Behind him came another boy, about fifteen, stockier than Arnaldo, with a fuzz of black hair coming in on his upper lip and a large yellow-purple bruise under his left eye.
I stared at it, and then looked over at Arnaldo. He slid his gaze away, lips pressed together into a white line.
Mr. Perez pushed past Luis in one swift but slightly tripping step, eyes darting. I got an impression of great power made sloppy, of intense focus that had been deliberately blurred.
“Papi . . .” Arnaldo said.
But his father ignored him, taking us all in. His thin lips drew up in contempt. “So. You dare to come here.”
He slurred a bit. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw November wrinkle her nose, then a strong sweet scent hit me—bourbon. Lots of it. Mr. Perez was drunk.
“We were worried,” I said. “The Tribunal raided our houses, so we wanted to be sure Arnaldo was safe. . . .”
“He’s safe because I keep him safe!” The alcohol didn’t affect Mr. Perez’s gaze. It fixed on me like the sights of a gun. “You’re that tiger-shifter who pulled him into danger. I’m the one who had to pull him out.”
“Danger?” November asked. “Was there recent danger?”
“So the Tribunal did come here,” I said. My heart began to race. This was bad.
Mr. Perez jutted his chin out, puffing up his chest. “What was I supposed to do? After you sucked my son into your deadly games, the Tribunal came here. They came to capture or kill me and my family.”
Arnaldo’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “They never came here! I didn’t see them. . . .”
“While you were visiting your friends,” he spat out the word, “they came. Dozens of them, dressed in their precious white, bearing their guns, and wearing their sunglasses.”
A strange premonition took me. “Yet here you are,” I heard myself say. “Alive and well.”
“Alive,” he said. “My sons are alive because that day I made a deal with the Tribunal.” He sneered again, but this time I could see the scorn was for himself.
“No!” Arnaldo lurched forward, hands up, begging for it not to be true. “No, Papi!”
“Sí,” said his father. “I pleaded for my sons’ lives that day. I promised them anything. So, when they asked, I gave them one of Arnaldo’s old hairbrushes, all of our computers and phones, and I swore to them that no one in my family would ever trouble them again.”
Siku’s voice rumbled. “Maybe we should go.”
“Yes,” said Arnaldo. He turned to us, swallowing hard. “Go. I have to look after my family.”
That was it. We had to go. My thoughts and feelings were tumbling over themselves, trying to find something good to hold onto, but of one thing I was sure. This was my fault. Then my eyes slid over the bruises on Arnaldo and his brother’s black eye. Not all of this was my doing.
“Who’s going to save your family from you?” I met Mr. Perez’s piercing gaze. If I’d had fur, it would have been standing on end. If I’d had fangs, they would have been bared. “We know you beat your sons, sir. We know you drink too much. If you don’t allow them to come with us, I’ll report you—to the department of Child Welfare.”
In the blink of an eye, Mr. Perez swooped across the room, pushed Arnaldo aside, jerked the door wide, and grabbed the front of my T-shirt with his powerful curved fingers. We were nose to nose.
“Then it’s better if I kill you now.” His hot, alcohol-scented breath poured over my face. I barely had time to remember my training . . . stomp on his instep, knee him in the groin . . . before a huge hand reached over me, grabbed Mr. Perez by the shoulder, and shoved him away.
“No killing,” said Siku as Mr. Perez stumbled backwards, arms flailing. He would have fallen if Arnaldo’s brother hadn’t caught him.
“Papi, please . . .” The boy squeezed his father’s arm.
“Cállate, Cordero,” Mr. Perez said. He jerked away from his son as if his touch stung.
In one furious move, November moved around me to get right in Mr. Perez’s face. “You’re worried about the Tribunal?” She had one hand on her hip, the other poking him in the chest. “The man who hits his own children? The man who’s all drunk and cross-eyed in front of his kids? What is wrong with you?”
“I . . .” Mr. Perez swallowed with difficulty and then pushed his chin out again. His attempt to cover up his shame was hard to watch. “I love my boys.”
I knew then that he did love his sons, and I understood why Arnaldo wanted to stay. Mr. Perez was a desperate alcoholic who just wanted to keep his boys safe from the people who had killed his wife. He was doing the best he could. Too bad it wasn’t good enough.
“Come with us,” I said. “You and your sons. We can help you.”
Mr. Perez frowned as all three of his sons turned to look at me as if my hair had caught fire. November was nodding, though.
“Help me?” said Mr. Perez, as if the words didn’t compute. “But . . . you’re the problem.”
“Alcohol is the problem, Mr. Perez. Getting help for that is smart. Facing up to the real problems is the brave thing to do. . . .”
“Yes, come with us!” November bounced a little on her toes and winked at Cordero. “You know you want to.”
“Come with you?” Mr. Perez said, slurring all the more with anger. “Come with cats and rats, to live with wolves and bears? We’re nothing but food to you. And you’re nothing but trash to us.”
“You can trust them, Papi,” Arnaldo said. “They’re my friends.” He looked at me, November, and Siku. “Son mi familia .”
I knew just enough Spanish to know what that meant, and how hard it must have been for Arnaldo to tell his father that we were his family.
“This is your family!” Mr. Perez gestured to himself and the boys. “Not those bird-hunters. Only your blood, your tribe, is your family.”
“I know what Mama would say,” Arnaldo said. At the mention of the boys’ mother, Mr. Perez’s jaw set. “She would say families don’t hurt each other.”
“You heard me,” Mr. Perez said. “If they’re your family, you are no family of mine.”
Arnaldo’s brown face went gray. Both his brothers gasped. Luis tried to grab his father’s sleeve, but Mr. Perez pulled away. Cordero took Luis by the shoulders and edged him back toward the dining room.
Arnaldo’s chin was trembling. “Papi, please. I never meant for this to happen. I’m proud to be your son.”
“I am not your father.” Mr. Perez’s eyes were aimed at him like a spear.
For a minute, I thought Arnaldo would break down crying. But instead he took a deep breath and drew himself up to his full height, taller than his father now, slender a
nd taut. “What would Mama say?’
Mr. Perez winced, as if Arnaldo had struck him. “You are not my son,” he said, but it was not as convincing this time.
“Mama would say that you drink too much,” said Arnaldo. “I should have told you this long ago, but I was afraid.”
His father’s eyes were red and bright with unshed tears. The pain behind them made me look away. Somewhere inside, Mr. Perez knew he was failing his children.
“Mama would be ashamed of how you treat us.” Arnaldo’s voice was shaking. “She would want you to stop drinking, to get help.”
Tears streamed down Mr. Perez’s face, and his lips trembled, as if saying the words was almost more than he could bear. “Get out,” he said, and pointed at the door.
It looked like something out of an old silent movie—the proud father throwing his wayward son out of the family home by flinging out one arm toward the door. For a moment I couldn’t quite believe it. But it was all too terribly real.
Luis was crying silently, as if he’d learned not to let anyone hear his sobs, and Cordero stood behind him, arms around his shoulders and chest protectively. “It’s okay, Arnaldo,” Cordero said. “I’m here.”
I caught November’s eye and saw she was thinking the same thing. We couldn’t leave these boys with this drunken father. “Let Cordero and Luis come with us to the school too, Mr. Perez,” I said. “They could learn a lot there, and you could visit—”
“No!” Mr. Perez stepped between us and his two younger sons.
I hesitated. We outnumbered him. We could make him give us the boys.
“Please, go,” Cordero said. He was shaking. His voice wavered, but he cleared his throat, determined. “We don’t want to go with you.”
“Don’t you hurt Papi, dirty fur-carriers,” Luis shouted. “Get out of our house!”
“You sure?” November asked. “If you come with us, your brother won’t get any more black eyes.”
Cordero shot a glance at his father, who looked like he might tear November’s head off. “I was just playing outside. I fell,” Cordero said, his voice dropping, his eyes darting away.