“Are you sure you’re talking about hyenas?” I asked the first bear who’d spoken. His name was Earl.
“Darn right,” he said. “Can’t be no other creature. Wolves they ain’t, and I don’t know of any other critter with that kind of description. They must be hyenas—like you.”
“And what shape shifters live around here?” I asked.
Earl said, “Our kind has lived in these mountains for as long as anybody can remember. I reckon we must’ve come with the first settlers, but nobody knows for sure. They say there was wolves here way back when, and some tried to come back a few years ago, but we chased ’em out.”
“What gave you the right to chase them out?” Manny asked, his aggression only slightly reduced.
“Well,” said Earl, “with all these no-tails movin’ closer and buying up prime habitat, we gotta claim somethin’ for our own. There ain’t enough room to share.”
“Them no-tails is gettin’ bold,” said another bear, the one they called Bobby Dee.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“They go anywheres these days,” Bobby Dee said. “Thinkin’ they own the whole danged planet. Used to be a time when they was scared of creatures in the forest, and kept their distance, but now they think they got a right to explore. We even see them way out here from time to time.”
“And they get mad when we stray into their territory,” said Earl.
Bobby Dee nodded. “Like what happened to ol’ Gus.”
The other bears grumbled in agreement.
“What’s that mean?” I asked.
“Ol’ Gus was just lookin’ for food,” said Bobby Dee. “He wasn’t tryin’ to hurt nobody. All he did was knock over a couple of trash cans in some no-tail’s driveway, and that no-tail shot him. Claimed he was a ‘nuisance’ bear, and that was an excuse to shoot.”
We’d been walking back the same way we’d come, with several bears dragging the dead pig behind us. I honestly didn’t see how it was going to fit in our car, but the bears insisted on helping any way they could.
Earl asked, “Any of y’all know what’s goin’ on with them eagles down in South America?”
“What?” My jaw dropped open. Manny had mentioned that’s where my family might’ve been taken, and we all knew that eagles were involved, but he hadn’t said much more about it.
Flicking his head toward a smallish bear, Earl said, “Sallie Jane seen some eagles around here a few weeks back—them kind that change into people.”
“What … actually … did you see?” I asked, directing my question at the smaller bear.
“It was nighttime,” Sallie Jane started. “Them eagles wanted us to come with them, or somethin’ like that.”
“Come with them?” I asked. “What for?”
“Somethin’ about startin’ a whole new society—a place where shape shifters run things. Like … a wild place,” she said, “where no-tails ain’t allowed. They said it’s paradise, where every critter lives the way it should.”
That’s where my family was taken? If it were true, how come those birds came in the middle of the night and busted up our house? Why wouldn’t they ask my family to come nicely? Or pass out brochures, advertising this paradise?
“Well, why didn’t you go?” asked Manny.
Sallie Jane shrugged. “We got it good enough here. But they said they’d stop by another time, when we started seein’ things their way.”
“Their way?” I was confused what that might mean.
“That no-tails is bad news, I reckon.”
Bobby Dee snorted. “Like we didn’t know that already.”
The group of bears talked more about how no-tails were clearing a habitat outside the park to build vacation homes, but I couldn’t get more information on South America or this supposed paradise.
Two minutes later, we were within twenty feet of our car, and it was clear that the pig’s carcass wouldn’t fit—not with the four of us also having to crowd inside. Besides, we all had full bellies, so the meat wasn’t really necessary for the rest of our trip.
“How about y’all just take this pig for yourselves?” I offered. I said “y’all” because it felt like the right word to use.
Earl wasn’t so eager to accept my offer. “It might fit on the roof. …”
Driving with a half-eaten pig strapped on top of our car? It was something we might’ve tried in John’s Gore—where nobody would see us on the back roads and through the woods—but driving down the highway like that would get us pulled over pretty quickly. Manny asked, “What’s wrong with leaving it here?”
Earl breathed in deep and sighed. “Well, seein’ as we met a real-life hyena, I want to make the most of it. Maybe Queen Ayaba’ll think good of us.”
“Why do you want that?” I asked.
Bobby Dee cracked a smile. “You’d better start learnin’ about your own kind, son.”
After a little more back and forth, we finally convinced the bears to keep the pig, with a promise that I’d speak highly of them to this “Queen Ayaba.” We said our goodbyes, changed back to humans, got dressed, and squeezed back into our car.
As soon as the wheels started rolling, I fell asleep, and when I awoke, night had fallen. The car wasn’t moving anymore.
Picking up my head, I glanced over at Manny. He was staring back. A greenish glow emanated from his eyes in the darkness, even when he looked like a person.
“Where are we?” I asked through a yawn.
“Louisiana.”
“Really?” Pinpricks surged over my skin. “Then why’d we stop?”
Manny flicked his head at the driver’s seat. “You aren’t the only one who needed some rest.”
When I looked up front, I understood. Paco was sound asleep, and so was Manny’s mom.
“Besides,” said Manny, “Señor Salazar thinks we’re better off driving through the city in the daylight. New Orleans isn’t the safest place, you know.”
I nodded. From what I’d read in reference books, the “Big Easy” had been murder capital of the United States quite a few times.
“What’s the deal with hyenas?” Manny asked abruptly. He’d obviously been pondering that question.
“What do you mean?” I stammered.
He raised an eyebrow. “Those bears were going to rip us apart, but then you said you were a hyena, and they all got real nice.”
“I don’t know why they did that,” I had to admit.
“Are hyenas really hunters?” Manny checked to make sure his mother remained sleeping. “Because I didn’t believe that stuff my mom told me.”
“You and me both,” I replied.
Soon the sun started rising, and Paco and Manny’s mother stirred, stretched, and yawned. Nobody mentioned anything about hunting for more food, and I was totally fine with that.
“¿Para Nueva Orleans?” asked Manny’s mother. When she looked at me, she smiled.
“Vámonos,” Paco said with a nervous glance in my direction—a glance that told me he wasn’t sure what to think of me.
And to be honest, I didn’t know what to think of myself, either.
We entered the bustling streets of New Orleans as the sun was shining its early morning glow on the buildings, and it felt like a homecoming—something I’d never known in Vermont. Maybe it was the vibe, the sounds, the smells, or my shape-shifter “sixth sense,” but something told me this was a place for hyenas—not wolves, not bears, not jaguars. I wasn’t the only one who felt it, either, since my companions were obviously set on edge.
“¿Dónde vamos?” asked Paco, pitching the question to Manny’s mom. His eyes were darting to the right and left as he drove.
Manny leaned toward me and whispered, “They don’t know where to go.”
“Didn’t your mom have a vision to tell her?” I asked.
With a shrug, Manny said, “The visions never come in very clear, so she’s not sure where we need to be.”
My mind poked and prodded for every morsel of i
nformation that I could shake from my memory. I’d read about New Orleans while researching Mardi Gras for a school project, back in the days when I liked history, before starting class with the dreaded Mrs. Petticone. Now what could I remember? The city was first settled in 1718 by the French. Sold to the United States in 1803, it became a refuge for plantation owners who fled from the Haitian Revolution, along with their slaves. There was also a vibrant black culture, which was apparent in the food, traditions, and music for the region.
Probably the perfect place for a hyena community, I realized. Hyenas were originally from Africa, even though my great-grandfather was from Russia. That was still a mystery to me.
A name suddenly flashed in my brain. It was one of the most famous places in New Orleans, where slaves once gathered to dance and play drums.
“I know where to go!” I said.
“Where?” asked Paco. Manny’s mother set her gaze upon me.
“Congo Square.”
“Where’s that?” Paco asked.
I tried to remember the location. “It’s in Tremé, I think. In … um … Louis Armstrong Park.”
With a reluctant sigh, Paco flipped on his blinker, merged into traffic, and turned down a street with a sign that read CLAIBORNE AVENUE—TREMé.
“Your friends better have lots of money,” Paco muttered, pressing his foot on the gas.
WE PASSED ANOTHER SIGN FOR TREMé AND PULLED ALONGSIDE the curb on a street bordering Louis Armstrong Park. Paco parked in a two-hour spot, and we clambered out of the car cautiously. Manny’s mom dropped a few coins in the meter before we set off toward the park. The roadway was divided, with a strip of grass, flowers, and trees down the middle. A couple of those trees were palms, actually—a plant I’d only seen in dreams. The way their leaves sprouted from roughened, crisscrossed trunks reminded me of feathers from an ostrich’s tail: something I’d also only seen while asleep.
This was a place for hyenas, no doubt. I could feel it in my bones. When I found my family, we’d have to come back here.
Except during those first few moments, it appeared that everyone outside our little group was a no-tail human. My shape-shifter detector wasn’t picking up anything close by.
“Find who you need,” said Paco, sniffing the air.
“Quickly,” said Manny. “We don’t want to wait here all day.”
Manny’s mother remained silent; she wasn’t fidgety like the others. Perhaps she sensed that this was where we needed to be, too?
I took a deep breath through my nose and noted faint undertones of hyena scents, although the mixture of no-tail perfumes and food and incense was overpowering.
“We’ve got to walk,” I said. Those scent marks were going to take a while to track down.
Then I stopped.
It wasn’t a smell that caught my attention; it was a sound. Or sounds, actually. There was music. Beautiful. Sad, too—like nothing I’d ever heard, although the way it bounced and echoed inside felt as if it had always been part of me. When I turned my head, I saw a man slouched against a wall bordering the park, with a wrought iron fence towering behind him.
I zoomed in on him, like a large camera lens. The man was old and dressed in a threadbare suit, topped with a crooked hat, and he was cradling a guitar. His fingers shot over the strings with the skill of a multistep dance.
“You hear me prowlin’, baby,” he sang. His voice was raspy, like a heavy rock getting dragged through gravel. “You hear me prowlin’ around your back door.”
Every note from that guitar was like honey to a bee, or blood to a mosquito. There was no way to resist moving closer.
“And when the light of day come, baby,” the man continued, “you won’t see me no more.”
Completely fixated on the song, I stepped into the street and started crossing—with little realization of anything else. Cars screeched and honked, and I think Manny shouted, but the pull of the music was just too strong. I stumbled across the divider, shuffled my feet through flowers, and caused another commotion when I faced traffic flowing in the opposite direction. People yelled and hollered, except I didn’t make sense of a word they said. The only sounds I understood came through that man’s hauntingly soulful voice.
“Better let me in, darling, or else I’ll be headin’ on down the road.”
When my foot struck the curb, I stumbled, which caught the man’s attention instantly. His eyes were light green, his curly hair was white, and his skin was caramel brown. Darker freckles dotted his cheeks and nose.
“You got business over here, boy?” he asked. His tone wasn’t friendly.
“Me?” My mind scrambled for words. “No, I just … liked your song.”
The man nodded at an open guitar case. “Then show your appreciation right there.” Inside were piles of coins and a couple dollar bills.
I shrugged and said, “I haven’t got any money.” Checking over my shoulder, I saw Paco and Manny crossing the median strip. They walked carefully, since the cars I’d stopped were moving again.
When I turned back, the old man spit on the ground in front of me, missing my feet by no more than an inch.
He said, “No money? Then I got nothin’ to play for you.”
“Come on,” I pleaded. “Just one more song?” He was definitely a shape shifter, with a scent like Manny’s—I could tell as much standing this close to him.
After spitting a second time, the man pressed his back against the wall. Rising to his feet, he laid his guitar in the case, straightened his body, and glared at me. He was taller than I was, but not by much.
“You know what?” he snapped. “I’ve had enough of y’all pushin’ me around.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
The man puffed his chest and stepped closer. Now he looked really angry.
What had I done wrong?
“We got to eat,” he said. “But your kind makes that impossible.” I could sense he was ready to shift.
Without warning, the old man swung a hand to grab me, and his fingers took a firm hold on my shoulder. I could hear the fabric of my shirt tear as I twisted away, or maybe it was the sound of claws digging through the cotton sleeve. The more I struggled, the worse his grip hurt. My head spun to search for Paco and Manny, both of whom were behind me, although neither appeared interested in getting involved.
Gee guys, thanks a lot. They should’ve pounced on him.
The old man snarled, “Where’s your clan now, boy? Whatcha gonna do?”
Stunned by this sudden aggression, my mouth forgot how to speak.
Manny finally said, “Hey, man. Let him go!”
His words had no effect.
As for me, my whole body was frozen, despite the New Orleans sun beating down on me, causing sweat to collect on my brow. A shiny object in the man’s free hand had me paralyzed.
It was a knife.
Manny growled—to defend me, I hoped. He’d left my field of vision.
The knife inched closer. One thrust would mean certain death.
I tried to yank free, straining hard. The man’s claws pushed into my skin.
It hurt so bad that I giggled.
And another giggle answered my call.
The old man stiffened at the sound.
“What we got here, Griffe?” a booming voice asked, coming from someone not in view.
“Yeah, Griffe,” said another voice. “What’s goin’ on?”
While my mind struggled to process everything, the old man—Griffe—slackened his grip. When I turned to see who’d spoken, I saw five muscular figures, all of them over six feet tall and each dressed in a suit that looked like it cost ten thousand dollars. Their skin was dark, their heads were shaven, a couple wore earrings, and they looked distinctly related—like siblings or cousins.
Releasing my shoulder, Griffe drew back his knife. With eyes fixed on the ground, he said, “We ain’t got nothin’ goin’ on here, Mr. Fowrou.”
The man leading the group took a golden toothpick fro
m his mouth and pointed it in my direction. “I don’t know, Griffe. Looks like you was gettin’ awful close with this boy.”
I checked my shoulder and saw red spots where Griffe’s claws had poked through. Since it seemed that these five guys had come to defend me, I made sure they got a good look at the damage the old man had already done.
Another man shook his head and sucked his teeth. “You know, Griffe, physical contact with a young brother is a punishable offense, and you did more than just touch him.”
Young brother? My mind snagged on the words. Were they talking about me?
The old man’s eyes went wide. “What? Are you sayin’ that I did that to the young ’un?” He pointed at Manny. “No, Mr. Edi. It was him, I swear.”
“What?” Manny blurted, obviously taken by surprise. His lips turned into a slight snarl.
The man with the toothpick let out a giggle. “You gotta be kidding me, Griffe. We saw the whole thing from down the street.”
The other men stepped forward with menacing smiles.
“Let’s take him to Queen Ayaba,” said one of them.
“Aw, come on, now,” the old man pleaded, curling his body in submission. “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”
“Grabbing a hyena in broad daylight,” said another man in the group. He clicked his tongue in a tsk-tsk fashion. “And drawing blood from the young brother.”
Outnumbered and unable to escape, Griffe’s eyes darted around. “But how was I supposed to know that y’all hyenas could be white?”
The man who had been called Mr. Edi tossed a glance in my direction. “You know what? Maybe he’s got a point.”
Griffe nodded enthusiastically. “That’s what I’m tellin’ you. I didn’t know he was one of y’all until he giggled.”
Fired up with leftover adrenaline, I blurted out, “That’s not true!”
Griffe scowled at me, but his gaze quickly rolled to the lead hyena, and his expression shifted to despair. “Please, Mr. Fowrou,” he said, voice cracking, “please don’t take me to Ayaba.”
Earning My Spots Page 6