Yoshi raises his fist to knock, but a priest has already opened the door.
“Welcome,” he says. “Come on in.” He’s soft-spoken, in his late thirties, and has this remarkable kindness to his expression. “Hello, Kayla. I’m Father Ramos.”
“My parents?” I ask, pausing in the doorway. “How are they —?”
“Mayor Morgan and your mother send their love.” The priest cradles my hand in both of his. “They’re holding to their story that the video was simply a badly timed teen prank.”
I’m not Catholic, but it’s awkward, talking to a man of God about how my parents are lying on my behalf. Not that I sense any judgment on his part — it’s more of a weariness rising in me. I’m exhausted by so much not being what it seems.
Before I can ask, Father Ramos adds, “Peso is home now, too.”
“Dog person,” Yoshi mutters, shaking his head. “You . . . Whoa.”
I track his gaze to what must be the reason we’re here: Junior, bustling in to greet us with a fistful of napkins and a platter of fish sticks. “Hi, Cats! I brought you tasty treats!”
“What the frak is he doing here?” Clyde demands.
“Aimee sent him,” Freddy replies, cleaning his glasses. “Before anyone says something you’ll regret, it wasn’t Junior who called in the FHPU or disseminated the video of Kayla.”
“Aimee sent you?” Clyde steps forward. “Is she okay? How did —?”
“Hang on.” Yoshi grabs his arm. “We have some questions —”
“Take it easy,” I say, noticing Junior’s furry white cat, Blizzard, curled on a rocking chair. “He’s just a kid.”
Freddy’s phone buzzes. Second later he ends the call and reaches for the remote.
Seth’s face fills the television screen. “Good day, human scum. I’m here with Governor Lawson to announce that she will be publicly executed at 9:30 P.M. eastern/8:30 P.M. central tomorrow as shape-shifter subjects around the world — and in our live studio audience — cheer.
“The remainder of this missive is directed to the Lion king. Your Majesty, I am baffled by our misunderstanding and your choice to air it in this distasteful public forum. By all means, please do consider yourself invited to join us in celebrating the true savage glory of werepeople!” His smile is terrifying. “By now, you should know where I am.”
Coverage transitions back to the news desk. “Eight thirty?” Clyde echoes. “Whatever happened to midnight? Midnight is spooky, pivotal, loaded with symbolic —”
“Midnight is lousy for live coverage,” Kayla says. “Seth thinks in terms of TV ratings.”
Blizzard yawns, stretches, and then hops onto the rug, before exiting in search of food.
Father Ramos gestures toward the seating area. “You might as well settle in.”
The boys choose the matching wagon-wheel recliners, and I take the rocker.
The fish sticks taste crispy delicious, even better with the tartar sauce.
After assuring us that Aimee’s unharmed, Junior fills us in on what’s going down at Whispering Pines. He hasn’t actually seen the governor, but he’s overheard that she’s on the property. He explains that the MCC execs are being shuttled out now as chipped werepeople are being dispatched to guard the five or so miles of woodland around the resort.
Junior warns, “They’ll tear apart anybody who tries to stop the governor’s execution.”
THE MCC RETREAT ended at noon, and the suits have been exiting Whispering Pines in airport-bound commuter vans ever since. Beats me where Dad vanished to, but I’m grateful for the chance to slip around the fence to the new lodging building beyond the amphitheater. It’s the most logical place at the resort to hold the governor and maybe even . . .
A familiar face peeks out at me from behind a tree trunk.
“Tanya!” I rush to give her a hug. “Are you all right? Where’s Darby?”
“Aimee,” she replies, her voice flat. At shifter speed, she draws a Taser to zap me. “Every day in every way, I will contribute to the profit margin of Homo deific.”
I’m aware of the pampered soft grass beneath my body, the flagstone under my sore shoulder. I ache all over like my body was unscrambled wrong in a transporter malfunction.
The scene onstage is colorful chaos . . . mid-shift werebears riding giant unicycles, mid-shift weredeer bouncing shiny red balls on their antlers, mid-shift raccoons tumbling . . .
Royal blue balloons pop off a mid-shift wereporcupine. Mid-shift weregoats butt horns. Mid-shift wereopossums juggle. They’re dressed in bright spandex designed to show off their tails, performing courtesy of neural implants and transformeaze.
Boreal adjusts his spectacles. “Arch your back! Play to the camera! Remove that fabric from between your buttocks!” Addressing Seth, he adds, “We’ll open with a brief, dizzying array of acts by the shifter vermin and then segue to your execution of the governor.”
With so many species of werepeople showing their fur, viewers at home will assume they’re all Seth’s followers. That they’re being used, humiliated, is simply a bonus to him.
“No, no!” the demon exclaims. “This won’t do!” He’s weaving back and forth across the stage. “We want something classic, something old-school that will permeate the human psyche.”
“But you said . . .” Boreal consults his clipboard. “I have my notes right here.” He’s flummoxed. “I suppose we could try a contortionist act —”
“Aren’t you listening?” Seth asks, lunging toward him. “We’re nixing the whole concept. If you want to revive it as a family-friendly resort attraction, like the tweet-tweet hummingbird garden, that’s your business. But not for our big moment!”
I can’t help thinking hummingbirds don’t tweet when a mid-shift Fox falls from a trapeze. Is that the maid from turndown service? I gasp at the sound of breaking bones.
Seth’s head pivots in my direction. “She’s awake.”
Snowmen grab my upper arms and drag me, struggling, to the stage area.
“This one broke its neck,” Boreal reports, leaning over the fallen Fox.
“Dispose of it,” Seth orders, offhandedly. “No time to waste and no healer handy.” He raises himself up and rears back as if to strike. “Greetings, Aimee Barnard.”
I’m not in the mood for chitchat. “Tell me, Seth, what’re you doing with that loser?”
As snowmen haul away the werefox, the demon circles me. “When it comes to exploiting werebeasts, Boreal is one of Homo deific’s leading visionaries.”
If humans and shifters clash, MCC Enterprises is poised to profit. Stirring up prejudice and fear is Seth’s easy path to discord. It’s a tidy arrangement. But since Crystal nixed Boreal’s sacrifice play by refusing to surrender her unborn child and Junior, the snowpeople have lost control of the situation. The demon is calling the shots.
“I grant you,” Seth goes on, “that he struggles to grasp the finer subtleties of showmanship. However, sometimes his efforts are truly inspired. Speaking of which . . .”
With a flick of the demon’s tail, Boreal draws back red-and-white-striped curtains to reveal a balding, middle-aged man dressed for success but lashed to a large spinning wheel, painted in a bull’s-eye. It’s Dad.
DAD GOES HEAD OVER FEET, round and round. His eyes are shut tight. Is he crying?
At least now I know he’s not one of the bad guys.
“Stop that,” I yell. “He’ll throw up!”
“Boreal,” Seth calls. “Spin it again!”
“I thought you might fasten the governor to the wheel, spin her, and throw until you . . . miss.” Boreal rushes to present Seth with a selection of butcher knives on a literal silver platter. “The circus theme could still serve, and it’s already paid for.”
“You don’t have arms!” I shout. “How are you going to throw anything?”
I try to bite the snowman to my left and end up with a mouthful of white fur. “You are not going to kill my father!” I exclaim, spitting it out.
&
nbsp; “Silence,” Seth says, and a thick, heavy palm covers half of my face.
“Greetings, Mr. Barnard.” Arms ending in tapered hands extend from Seth’s scaly torso. He throws and misses. His blade strikes wood between Dad’s neck and left shoulder. “We instructed you to personally resolve, by which we meant eliminate, or contain, your child.”
Or maybe Dad was pretending to be one of the bad guys, but he betrayed them.
“I did contain her!” my father insists. “She’s not a werebeast. She’s not disposable like the others. I brought her here to prove she’s no threat.” Disposable?
“You think not?” Boreal asks. “Junior is gone! His reintroduction to the human-shifter world could prove the existence of my species. It was up to me to contain him! It would be my failure, my responsibility.”
The snowman spins Dad again, and Seth selects another knife to throw, this time missing my father’s crotch by two inches. When the wheel slows to a teeter, Seth asks, “Last words?”
“Yes!” My father is hanging upside down. “Let me and Aimee live, and I’ll return the Homo deific boy to you.”
“I don’t trust the human,” Boreal says. “He’s losing his hair and has an MBA.”
“You can hold on to Aimee as collateral,” Dad tells him.
He’s not seriously planning to leave me here and go kidnap Junior. When Mom finds out about this, he can kiss his visitation rights good-bye.
“Think about it. She and I also are the only Homo sapiens here. I’m a well-known media spokesperson for a major international conglomerate, your major international conglomerate. She’s a cute blond middle-class girl child. We would be missed. Questions would be asked. Human authorities would be persistent. Human media would make sure of it.”
Demons are known to enjoy deal making and to honor the letter — if not the spirit — of their agreements. Still wielding the knife, Seth circles the amphitheater. “Go on.”
Dad brings his pitch home: “I’ll return the boy to you. Then you return my daughter to me, along with a buyout, a six-figure bonus, and a full benefits package. As a result, these Homo deific, under the formidable guidance of . . .”
Seth’s bow is almost courtly. “I am Seth, the Original Sower of Discord!”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Seth. Bottom line: Y’all can execute the governor, start an interspecies war, make billions on MCC’s anti-shifter product line, and nobody will be the wiser.” Who is this person who looks like my father?
“Very well!” Seth replies. “Return with Junior — just the two of you — here to the theater in time for the show, and our agreement will be sealed.” Seth tosses the butcher knife, and it goes wide. “You have until 8:30 P.M. central, or your ‘cute blond middle-class girl child’ is forfeit.”
ON SUNDAY the sun sets in a smear of tangerine and lavender. I’m seated, cross-legged, on the long-leaf pine floor in the attic of the hideout house, staring out the arched window at the treetops. Leaves bud, blue jays battle, squirrels race. “We’re playing into Seth’s . . . fangs.”
“Yeah,” Yoshi agrees, coming up the stairs. “On the other hand, we’ve got no reason to doubt he’ll execute the governor. Our Lion king video is a hit, but most people still think Seth is a weresnake. They don’t believe in demons — they don’t want to. If Lawson dies and the public buys in to Seth’s declaration of war, it won’t be phony feds out for our skins. It’ll be real ones. And they’ll be gunning for anybody who can take animal form.”
Yoshi sounds so grown-up and responsible. I was sure, of the two of us, I was the more mature one. I tilt my head at a mournful, distant sound.
“Train whistle,” Yoshi muses. “The tracks run along Highway One.” He lowers himself behind me, straddles my back with his legs, and rests his chin on my shoulder. “You and me, kitten, we could hop a train tonight, ride it out of town, out of state, out of the country.”
It’s a seductive fantasy, but . . . “I’m all over the Internet, millions of views already.”
“You don’t look like that girl anymore.” His breath is hot against my ear. “Change your name. We could start over. Or forget me. You can have my car, Kayla. Go home to Pine Ridge, skip the big showdown. Take a page from the yetis. Claim the park video was a hoax. It might take some doing, but you can have your old life back.”
True, my future isn’t written. It wouldn’t be easy, but I might still be able find a way to pass for a human being again. I could, for the most part, go back to the Kayla I was before I confessed my heritage to Ben. Or I could put myself on the line, end up dead tomorrow, and I’ll have wasted tonight worrying about it. “I want to do something that matters.”
“Me, too,” Yoshi admits, his body heavy against mine. “But I’d rather do someone who matters.”
Did he really say that? I growl, twist to pounce, holding his hands above his head at the wrists, our bodies parallel. “We were having a serious conversation.”
“I offered you my car!” he replies. “I don’t get more serious than that.”
We bust up laughing, and Yoshi rolls us, so we’re lying side by side. I keep my voice light. “You think we’ll be all right?”
“Us?” He stays man-shaped but releases his saber teeth and glossy black fur. “We’re too pretty to die.” He’s resting one hand on the curve of my hip and the other under my breast. “Show me.”
Show him . . . oh. That’s sexy. I don’t have Yoshi’s control, but Cats are better at shifting than other werepeople. With superficial features, we can linger seconds longer in between. I showed Ben, and he ran from me, but Yoshi would never do that. I unleash, feral and needy, cradle the back of his neck, and urge his lips to mine.
We shove away the crisis, the clock. I show Yoshi my spots, and he traces them with his tongue. This is how Cats were meant to be. I loop my legs around his waist, sinking into fur, flesh, and friendship. He knows what he’s doing, and I’ve always been a gifted student.
I can’t say that I love Yoshi, not yet, but I love all of myself when I’m with him.
MOUNT BONNELL ISN’T SO TALL that you can’t jog up it. If you’re in good shape or a Lion-Possum, or, in my case, both. There’s a long limestone staircase, complete with metal handrail. It cuts through the sage and cacti from the curving road to the top.
The summit is popular with tourists. At night the white stone and wood patio looks spooky and sacred. Vaggio Bianchi, the original chef at Sanguini’s, his funeral was held here. On that big flattish rock off to the downward-sloping side, that’s where my parents got engaged.
I requested this midnight meeting. Yeah, the midnight part was mostly me being dramatic. I’m surprised that Leander came alone. It’s a relief, though, that I’m not going to have to throw down with his ginormous Liger. The darkness is no problem. Both my animal forms see well in low light. That ability hangs on.
“It’s late, my son.” His broad back is to me. King Leander surveys the scattered lights below and across Lake Austin.
My son? Who does he think he is, Darth Vader? “I’m here to talk about Seth.”
“As am I.” Leander glances over his shoulder. “You had no right to call him out on my behalf. You are not the king of the werelions. I am.”
“Like I care. Besides, you’re not my father. You’re not my king. I was raised a Possum. I’m proud of the dad who’s there for me.”
“He’s not here for you now.” Leander turns. He raises a hand to say stop. “Now that you have invoked my name, the Pride fully supports my taking a stand against Seth.” Golden fur ripples across his face, his body. “It is expected that I thwart his attempt to stir hostilities between Homo shifters and Homo sapiens.”
His subjects all believe Leander’s playing hero. He’s pissed at me for putting his royal ass on the line. I step up on a stone border. “How did you get to be king?”
“By birth right,” he replies. “As will my eldest full-blooded Lion son after me.”
Good luck, bro, whoever you are. “You didn’t fi
ght to the death?”
As he yanks back his shift, Leander’s scowl is epic. “We are not animals.”
Touchy. Shows how much I don’t know about my Lion heritage. “I’ve battled Dracula Prime,” I announce without mentioning that the Count left me in a coma. “I killed a Scholomance-trained sorceress.” An accident. “I rode a wereorca in triumph as Daemon Island burned in my wake.” I didn’t start the fire. The Orca saved me from drowning.
I rehearsed this on the way over. I don’t only want Leander to step aside.
I want him to look at me and regret what he’s missing.
Channeling Camelot, I ratchet up my best kingly voice. “Of the two of us, who is more likely to triumph over Seth? I have no interest in revealing my true self as the victor. Should I perish, you will live on to rule as a symbol of courage and shifter solidarity.”
“I’ve had worse offers.” The scowl fades. Leander sinks to sit on the rock wall. “Seth relishes conflict and trades in children. His venom is deadly, excruciating, and acts quickly. He can also constrict, crushing his opponent, a combination that is unusual —”
“You said Seth is a shape-changer.” I jump down but remain standing. “Can he morph three heads? Become a machine-gun robot? Turn into supermodel Saffron Flynn? Split into an army of snakes — what?”
“Such an imagination.” Leander’s chuckle is weary. “The Book of Lions, the Book of Old refers to him as ‘the serpent.’ The Sower of Discord, the first of his breed. They say he can take the form of man, but no animal except the snake. The snake is his base form.”
“That’s it? He can turn into some guy?”
Leander isn’t amused. “In man form, he’s much of the reason being a wereperson is punishable by death in nations like Morocco, Saudi Arabia, and Singapore. That Iowa state senator who wanted to legalize human-shifter marriage? Seth was the one who released his sex tape with the weregenyornis.” The Genyornis are werebirds, originally from Australia. Homo sapiens’ bias is greater against shifters whose animal-form cousins have gone extinct.