Feral Pride

  Dad may be a lot of things, but he’s not super stealthy. The file box is too big for the room’s safe, so he left it under his desk. I figure out the combination (my birthday) on my third try. I’ve wondered if MCC bought the resort as a security measure. They can do background checks on everybody with a key card, not that the maid seemed particularly on top of things.

  Perched on an upholstered bench at the foot of the king-size bed, I flip through the files. Nothing on diminished-rights employees, but I see lots of talking-points memos, product information sheets on the implants and shift-suppression drug, and several world maps, including one of the South Pacific. I recognize Daemon Island as the location of the X.

  There’s also a printout of a photo of Junior. A girl named Shelby Flores had posted it on her Catchup page in an online album of Pine Ridge Founders’ Day images. (She should change her privacy settings.) From the caption (“furry fun”), this Shelby probably assumed Junior was a guy in costume.

  My friends and I thought it was Junior who called the FHPU on us. From this, it looks like they came after him. A red stamp on the piece of paper reads ACQUIRED. I flip through recent articles on the Homo deific remains found in Kazakhstan and off the coast of Daemon Island. They’re stamped ACQUIRED, too.

  Another document references “damage control” and features a list of names and status updates. Skimming, I see that the deceased island and carousel shifters are listed as “resolved,” the rest as “unresolved,” and both Tanya and Darby as “contained.” There are names I don’t recognize, but Granny Z — under “Madame Zelda” — is likewise “unresolved,” so I’m assuming the rest are shifters (and perhaps humans) who knew Junior through the carnival.

  All the times I’ve heard MCC, I never wondered what the initials stand for. According to these papers, it’s the Meltwater Crisis Corporation. Their icy hunk of earth, their sanctuary, is disappearing because of us. The snowpeople want to wipe out everyone who’s encountered their species firsthand and realized what it was. That’s part of their vision of damage control.

  Well, I’ve got news for them. The interfaith coalition should have custody of Junior now . . . and oh.

  Aimee Barnard. Turns out that I’m “contained,” too.

  Am I? What’s that supposed to mean? I know that the FHPU kidnapped Tanya and Darby from Pine Ridge. If we’re all “contained,” could they be at Whispering Pines, too? It’s a huge property and only twenty minutes from Pine Ridge.

  If they’re here, I have to find them. I have to at least try.

  These are my dad’s files. He knows . . . I’m still not sure what exactly, but more than I ever imagined. It looks like Clyde was right about him. I feel like I could throw up.

  I put the box back under the desk and glance both ways in the hall before returning to my own suite. The maid is still progressing steadily from room to room. She seems oddly oblivious.

  Seconds later new birding binoculars are waiting for me on the puffy white comforter at the foot of my hotel bed. I recognize them from one of the shops downstairs. I was there until close today, sorting through the golfer and trophy-wife apparel for something to wear this weekend. Adjusting the thermostat again, I realize I should’ve bought a sweater. The binoculars are a gift from Dad, I suppose, for breaks between sessions. Or maybe they’re a peace offering.

  Think, Aimee, think. If I were holding a weredeer and a werebear prisoner, where would I put them?

  Grabbing the binoculars, I peer out the floor-to-ceiling window of my suite. A bonfire down and across the river catches my eye. It’s near the water, and we’ve had rain over the past several days. But that’s a huge flame, too near the forest parkland, given our long-standing drought. What I wouldn’t give for a Cat’s vision.

  Hmm, Dad left for the ballroom over an hour ago, and he’ll stick around after the session to shake hands and schmooze afterward. MCC has an absolutely-no-hooky rule about the retreat program, so the suits should all be busy. I’ve got time to investigate now.

  I take the elevator downstairs and exit to the rear of the property, taking cover in the shadows of the butterfly garden. I turn at the s’mores fire pit and follow the cement path where it veers off to the riverfront. There’s no bridge to cross, the water’s high, and the moonlight’s dim.

  A flash of white catches my eye, and I raise the binoculars. There’s too much brush. I drape the strap around my neck and start climbing the nearest tree.

  I raise the binoculars again, catching my breath at the scene. Three snowpeople — a male, a juvenile, and a pregnant female — stand side by side with their heads bowed. Two more of their species raise a third, laid out on a platform, to rest over the flames.

  It’s a funeral pyre. Could that be Frore? Frore, whose braids hung in his eyes and whose yak-potato stew I drugged so my friends and I could steal a boat off Daemon Island? It was his body the fishermen found on that lifeboat. His fellow Homo deific stole it back.

  I recognize the mourners as Boreal, Crystal, and Junior.

  It’s a solemn occasion, even if I wasn’t one of Frore’s biggest admirers.

  “SETH MIGHT IGNORE OUR VIDEO,” Kayla says for the tenth time as she and Yoshi reposition the breakfast table in the hideout house. “Or claim it’s a hoax.”

  “It is a hoax,” Yoshi puts in. “We’re trying to pass off Clyde as Leander.”

  Yeah, we are. The tech’s set up and ready to go. If the real Lion king won’t step up, this Wild Card prince will have to do. “We can’t keep hiding forever. It’s past time to shake things loose.” I’m hanging bedsheets over the sheer curtains to mute the glare. “Should we mention the arctic asshats? If we say Seth’s a hell spawn, doesn’t that beg the question of who sacrificed a yak or whatever to raise him?”

  “Seth is the scary one,” Kayla replies as a grandfather clock bongs upstairs. “Besides, not everyone believes the yetis exist, and those who do —”

  “Bigfoot freaks aren’t going to help our credibility,” Yoshi adds. “But going toe-to-toe with a demon, the clergy couldn’t hurt. Nora talked to Father Ramos. Our contacts at the interfaith coalition are ready to hit the airwaves and back us up.”

  It’s a PR war. We’re trying to stop speculation that werepeople want to rule the planet. And we’re trying to clear us in the governor’s kidnapping. If we’re lucky, we’ll rattle Seth and his friends. I can’t resist pointing out, “Snake demons don’t have toes.”

  “Thank you, Clyde.” Kayla moves to the kitchen counter. She crosses out a line from her script. “Shorter is better.” Chewing on her pen, she asks, “What do y’all think of the word besmirched?”

  Werelion king: Citizens of Texas, the United States, and the world, as king of the werelions and official spokesperson for the pan-wereperson community, I am compelled to inform you that Seth is not a Homo shifter. He does not speak for us.

  In fact, Seth is a demon, a creature of pure wickedness. He’s risen from hell on a diabolical mission to deepen the rift between werepeople and humans because, like you, we are children of God, creations of the Divine.

  Seth, you have demonstrated your willingness to communicate via the media. Consequently, I am doing the same. You have kidnapped, assaulted, and murdered werepeople. You have besmirched the reputation of all shifter-kind. You have threatened our human friends and allies.

  Enough. As king, it is my duty to resolve this matter. I condemn your actions against Governor Lawson. I challenge you to combat. Name the time and the place, and prepare to be vanquished.

  A HOTEL IS a twenty-four-hour business. I set the alarm for 5 A.M., sure Dad won’t be up that early. I get dressed, grab my windbreaker, and hustle downstairs. I feel vaguely guilty about how much I love the colorful blown-glass chandeliers and the blown-glass sculptures affixed to the walls; more are displayed on the grounds and in the gardens. I’m drawn to the modern and historic sepia photos of Pine Ridge. I recognize Main Street, the Opera House, the beauty parlor, and of course the Old West carousel on the rive
rfront.

  At the reception desk, I say, “I’m looking for my friends. They’re about my age. The boy is gangly-looking, the sensitive type. The girl is bold and tall — really tall for a girl — and has this lush, thick hair . . . like shampoo-commercial hair.”

  The wiry clerk twitches his nose and uses antiseptic gel on the counter to quickly clean his hands. “Did you lose your key card?”

  I blink at him. “No, I’m looking for my friends. Have you seen any other teenagers —?”

  The clerk twitches and cleans again. “The marshmallow roast begins at sundown.”

  Huh. Maybe he’s nervous. The hotel is hosting a conference for its new corporate owners. Word could be out that I’m an executive’s kid. “Thanks anyway.”

  I exit the lobby through automatic glass doors and hail a bellhop in a lime-green uniform with turquoise piping. “Have you seen a lanky, dark-haired guy or a girl built like an Asgardian?”

  “Do you have your claim ticket?” he replies.

  I wish I had photos of Tanya and Darby. “They’re not with MCC.”

  The stout bellhop bobs his head. “What are the make and model of your car?”

  “I’m not leaving the hotel. I’m . . .” It’s like trying to talk to a telemarketer. The Whispering Pines staff has been trained too well. They cling to their scripts.

  Back in my room, I discover that the TV isn’t working. All I can get is the resort channel, which is alternating between a commercial for itself and the MCC conference schedule. I’m fiddling with the remote when a manila file is slid under the door. I flip it open and skim long enough to realize that “diminished-rights employees” are shape-shifters.

  Of course! The maid who does the turndown service is a wereperson. So are the guy at the front desk and the bellhop. They’ve been programmed not to stray from their job descriptions.

  MCC is staffing as many low-level positions as possible, throughout its holdings, with werepeople. The idea is to provide them with food, lodging, and medical care “only if the value of the werebeast is in excess of the costs of the treatment.” They’ll be kept under thumb with brain chips and shift-suppression serum.

  What am I doing? I’m an idiot. I fling open the door to chase down whoever slipped the info to me. I briefly hesitate, realizing I’ve locked myself out, and barely catch a glimpse of someone in a white full-length hotel robe disappearing through the exit down the hall.

  As I sprint to catch up, the maids whose housekeeping cart is parked two doors down acknowledge me with plastic smiles. Within seconds I barrel through the door to spot a hooded, robed figure, breathing heavily on the landing below. As loud as I dare, I call, “Stop!”

  Junior looks up. Junior, the snowboy who was raised in a traveling carnival by a fortune-telling werecat named Granny Z. Junior, who outed Kayla in the hugest way possible and reported us to the FHPU. Or did he? He’s blinking at me with teary blue eyes. “Hello, Aimee.”

  I descend the stairs slowly, so as not to spook him. “You left the binoculars.”

  Homo deific own the hotel. Junior’s with them. Of course he could get into my room.

  He nods eagerly, his voice guttural yet begging for approval. “And I made sure your room was across from the funeral pyre. I couldn’t leave you a message. They’re listening in on the hotel phone system.”

  “You could’ve knocked on my door instead of sliding the file under it,” I say.

  He rocks in place. “I was worried that you’d think I was like Boreal and Crystal.”

  Junior is a few years younger than I am. Kayla and I once trusted him. Even Yoshi and Clyde agreed to keep him close, and shifters can scent out deceit.

  Once I reach the landing, I set aside my doubts, trust my heart, and give Junior a hug. “I’m glad you’re okay,” I say. “I’ve been worried about you.”

  “Blizzard is with me, too,” he replies. Of course he’d never leave his pet cat.

  “What happened?” I ask, pulling away. “What are you doing here? Did you send that video of Kayla to the media? Did you call the —?”

  “That wasn’t me. It was her.” He motions me to follow. “Come. I’ll show you.”

  Junior escorts me outside onto the rear grounds of the resort, along the river, past the butterfly garden and s’mores pit and hummingbird garden and sweeping pastures of bluebonnets and Indian paintbrushes that have been babied through the drought. I ask, “Where’re we going? Do you know what happened to Tanya and Darby?”

  “The men in uniforms took them from Pine Ridge,” Junior replies. “I haven’t seen them since. Tanya’s strong, though, and she has a temper. Maybe they got away.” He raises a finger to his lips, urging quiet, and we pass a few groundskeepers. They don’t react at all to the sight of the furry teenage Cryptid. At the fenced-in construction site, a sign reads PARDON OUR MESS.

  The chain link is backed by green plastic sheeting, protecting the view from prying eyes. Junior and I cut across the lawn to the river and navigate around the rocky bank to reach the other side. There’s the amphitheater, which — despite the surrounding signage and barriers — looks finished, as does the stand-alone lodging building beyond it. Both flow architecturally and are in the southwestern color scheme of the rest of the resort. That must be where they’re housing their “diminished-rights employees” and themselves.

  Following Junior’s lead, I crouch behind the corner of overarching cream-colored canvas that’s fastened to the ground. Boreal and Crystal are up front, and so is the demon Seth.

  “Payment is due,” Seth informs them. “In fact, it’s overdue.” Raised up, he looks taller than Boreal, over seven feet high. There’s another two or three feet of tail resting on the stage. “We have masterminded this chance to redeem your defeat on Daemon Island. When humans obtained specimens of your species, we redirected their fear and attention to werebeasts. Now, where is the tribute you promised?” He’s big on using the royal we.

  “Crystal and I offer the boy,” Boreal replies in his gruff voice. “We are the only parents he has.”

  Junior takes my hand in his big, furry one. He’s afraid.

  “I make no offer whatsoever,” Crystal counters, her hand protectively on her swollen belly. Ah, she’s the one who outed Kayla to the world. What, among snowpeople, is a feminine voice could easily be mistaken by human ears for Junior’s barely adolescent male one.

  Crystal adds, “It’s a relief that we managed to rescue Junior before our enemy werebeasts could use him to force us to the world stage. We’ve had too many near misses lately.”

  That’s what they thought we were planning?

  Crystal goes on, “How often have we been disappointed or betrayed, relying on for-hire werebeasts or humans to represent our interests? Junior has lived among them. For a Homo deific, his expertise is unique and priceless. Having been saddled with this failure of a husband, I deserve the glory of a successful son.”

  Seth yawns, revealing fangs much larger than they looked on Oliver’s phone screen. The demon says, “You owe us two children anyway.” He snorts. “Children. We are far more costly than an entire herd of your species’ go-to sacrificial yaks.”

  Boreal protests, “I didn’t expect or ask for —”

  “Nevertheless,” Seth says, lingering on the S’s. “We shall continue with this project so long as it’s compatible with our goals. However, absent payment, we are not in your servitude.”

  Just what the mortal plane needs, a rogue hell-spawn demon with delusions of grandeur.

  “Look what you’ve done!” Boreal clutches his head. “We can’t summon a demon and not pay him. That’s courting disaster! We’ve completely lost control of the situation!”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Crystal replies, wagging her finger. “How many times have I told you to check with me before breaking out the cauldron?”

  “You told me to do whatever was necessary to vindicate . . .”

  Seth exits after them, chuckling.

  I wait unti
l they’re out of earshot. What time is it? I’ve got to get back to the retreat before Dad comes looking for me. “In Pine Ridge, they found you along the river walk?”

  “Yep.” Junior pushes up on his knuckles to stand. “Crystal and Boreal were going to swoop in, pick me up, and leave Texas that night. Then it looked like their baby was coming any minute, but no.” He shakes his head. “False alarm. In the meantime, the doctor says she’s not supposed to travel. She’s not even supposed to be out of bed.”

  I feel for Junior. Granny Z abandons him for a new life in Florida. He finally encounters members of his own species, and look who he ends up with. Crystal wants to use him to improve her societal status, and Boreal considers him a bargaining chip. It wouldn’t ever occur to them that we wanted to take care of the kid and enjoyed having him around. The snowboy may be young and overly trusting, but the same could be said about me. It doesn’t mean we’re stupid or useless.

  “I have an important mission for you.” I reach into my windbreaker pocket and hand Junior my burner phone. “Can you make it to the welcome wall at the front of the resort?”

  “WHAT ARE WE DOING HERE?” Clyde asks on Sunday morning in a residential neighborhood in the Hill Country southwest of downtown.

  Our Lion king video is viral, and the reaction so far from Seth? Crickets.

  I wonder if my parents are at church right now. Until the world found out I’m a werecat, I never would’ve doubted it. But the way our minister condemns shifters, I’m not sure. We talked about going somewhere else, but it’s complicated. My mother grew up in that church, and politicians like Dad have to pick their battles.

  Freddy must’ve summoned us to this new-construction ranch-style house for a reason. It’s about twenty minutes from downtown, faced with white stone, set back from the road, and secluded from its neighbors. Our scents spooked a deer when we got out of the car.