Feral Pride

  Aimee fumbles for the pointless door latch. “What if something happens? We’ll be helpless, trapped in here. What’s taking them so long?”

  I can’t resist. “Yoshi’s taking a dump.”

  Aimee gently elbows me. I can hear the smile in her voice. “He is not.”

  The pristine facility is designed to resemble a grist mill. We’re the only vehicle in the lot. The American flag flutters in the light wind. There’s no sign of the Cats coming out of the front entrance. Not yet. I pull Aimee closer and press a kiss against the crosses tattooed around her neck. “Sure he is. He let loose a couple of silent farts, getting out of the car.”

  “You’re horrible!” she replies, laughing. “You’re crude and gross and unromantic —”

  “And you love me,” I whisper.

  Aimee goes silent. I didn’t mean to get so serious. Or at least I didn’t mean for her to take it that way. Not in the backseat of this ungodly uncomfortable cop car that stinks like vomit (not that her human nose can tell) in a parking lot off I-35. We goof off all the time, but she knows it’s real for me. I know it’s real for her, too. But we’ve never said the L-word like that.

  She slips her small hands over mine. “I do,” Aimee assures me. “I love you. Even when you’re . . . crude and gross and unromantic and snacking on crickets . . .”

  “I hardly ever do that anymore.” It’s a habit from my Possum-only days.

  She laughs. “You try kissing someone with bug breath.”

  “Hey,” Kayla begins, opening the front passenger-side door. “I brought you both waters.”

  “Thanks.” Aimee accepts the chilled plastic bottles through the window in the cage. The Cats may not recognize the disappointment in Aimee’s voice, but I do.

  I can’t leave Aimee hanging. I have to tell her that I love her, too.

  “YO!” I lead Kayla and Yoshi through my front door. Aimee’s apartment isn’t far from here. We dropped her off a few minutes ago. “Mom? Dad? Babies?”

  No answer. The pacifier on the floor isn’t unusual. Neither is the stuffed toy possum that’s been tossed on the couch or the rattle dangling off the coffee table.

  Dad’s schoolwork is missing from the kitchen (he’s studying to get certified as a science teacher). The coffeemaker is cool to the touch. Dad’s an early riser, usually up by 6 A.M. It’s going on 9 A.M. now. Morning rush hour slowed us up getting into town.

  The refrigerator art catches my eye. A mishmash of baby handprints in four different colors. I remember Mom sitting the plump kits (Clara, Cleatus, Claudette, and Clint) on an old bedsheet around the butcher paper. “Messy,” she admitted, “but look how happy they are.”

  “That scent,” Kayla begins. “It’s —”

  “Werebear,” Yoshi finishes. “It’s fresh. I detect Homo sapiens, too.”

  Nobody I recognize. Werebears are the strongest shifters on land. They can scent out fellow werepeople faster than Wolves. The males look like NFL linebackers. Ditto for most of the females. Cutting across the family room, I check the bathroom off the hall, my parents’ room. Their bed isn’t made. Mom’s purse is gone. No diaper bag in the nursery. My leopard gecko isn’t in my room either. His tank is missing. Where’s my family?

  I think of Lula, Teghan. I wander back down the hall. “What if they’re dead?”

  “Don’t be paranoid.” Kayla meets me halfway. “Where do y’all store the luggage?”

  At least Yoshi had the sense to wait in the family room. I fling open the master bedroom closet. The luggage is gone. “Why would they take Jara Hamee?”

  Trailing after me, Kayla asks, “Who?”

  “My gecko.” Along with the stink of diapers and my mom’s spicy perfume, I detect anxiety. My parents packed up the kits and took Jara Hamee with them because they weren’t sure when any of us would be coming back.

  I reach for my phone. I scroll to the text from my mom: Don’t come home. FHPU is looking for you. We’re in Amarillo. Stay away from AB.

  Amarillo. They must’ve gone to Aunt Jenny and Uncle Victor’s. There’s nothing about my meeting them there. If the FHPU came here, I don’t blame them for taking off. Especially with the quads to think about. On average, shifter parents aren’t less protective than humans. But they don’t go full barrel as long. By the time we’re in high school, it’s expected that we start to look after ourselves. But stay away from AB? Aimee Barnard? Why?

  “I’m going to grab a few things,” I mutter. “Then we should move out.”

  I duck into my bedroom to shove clothes into my old backpack.

  “Don’t forget your razor,” Kayla says.

  When I rejoin the Cats in the family room, they’re watching the TV news. There’s a sketch of an arctic asshat — yeti, snowman, Sasquatch — whatever you want to call them. They call themselves Homo deific. It means “God people.” As if.

  They walk upright. They’ve got heavy jaws, ape-long arms, and bulky torsos. They’re not shifters. They’re not humans either, but they are mono forms. They can’t shape-shift. They’re more closely related to Homo sapiens than werepeople.

  It was their kind that kidnapped us (minus Kayla) to Daemon Island. Where I was caged like an animal. Where Aimee became a house slave. One of them reported us to the FHPU. He video recorded Kayla shifting and sent the footage to the media. After pretending to be our friend.

  Anchor: Breaking news! Both the modern remains and a 2,000-year-old set of remains from the same newly discovered species have gone missing. It’s been speculated that they might prove the existence of wereapes or a primitive species of man. Possibly even the Missing Link.

  Reports that the contemporary creature showed signs of modern dentistry and a neural implant have fueled speculation of human-level intelligence.

  Last night the historic specimen, originally found in Kazakhstan, was reported stolen from the University of New Mexico, and the modern one, found off the coast of Costa Rica, likewise disappeared en route to UNM.

  In the past week, this so-called “Cryptid species” has set the scientific world ablaze. We’re live with Dr. Uma Urbaniak, the UNM professor of prehistoric anthropology credited with finding the fossilized remains.

  Dr. Urbaniak, is it true that a jury of experts was en route to join you in Albuquerque to examine, compare, and verify the authenticity of both sets of remains?

  Dr. Urbaniak: “Jury” may be overstated, but yes, a few of my colleagues had planned to visit.

  Anchor: Today supermodel Saffron Flynn said — quote — “I think it’s a hoax. Like Bigfoot. This professor lady is probably looking for attention or money or whatever.” Now that the specimens have disappeared, can you prove her wrong?

  Dr. Urbaniak: I am not in the habit of responding to criticism by supermodels.

  WHEN MY FRIENDS DROPPED ME OFF, Clyde gave me a Hollywood kiss good-bye. It made me feel better about what he didn’t say in the car. I’m trying not to overreact. We were interrupted, and Clyde’s been through a lot. Only a few months ago, he was talking big about graduating from sidekick to hero.

  We’re sophomores, a couple years younger than most of our friends, and this was back when he thought he was exclusively Homo marsupial. He even glued dominoes made from shifter bones all over his SUV and nicknamed it “the Bone Chiller.”

  Then, after Daemon Island, he was a changed man. Clyde’s as hunky as Yoshi, though he doesn’t own it the same way. My Lossum is broader through the shoulders, with silver-flecked, thick golden hair. More solid than slinky, he’s shot up this past year, filled out. His features have lost that pinched look he had when he was younger. It’s not all superficial. He also yanked up his grades and donated his “super” car to the interfaith coalition (a shifter-friendly organization of demon busters). Only problem? His Possum mom has been closemouthed about his biological Lion father. It’s been tough for Clyde to process — the paternity issue, being of dual species. Worse because of the secrecy.

  When I walk in the front door, Mom puts down h
er pink highlighter. “Where have you been?” she begins. “I just hung up with Sergio at Sanguini’s. I was about to call the police. You’re supposed to be at school. Don’t you have a quiz today in English?”

  Mom is set up on the sofa, using a foldout TV tray as a desk. She’s been trying to reinvent herself from retail sales to life coach. The titles stacked beside her include Coaching Yourself to Coach Others, 9 Secrets to Enduring Success, and my personal favorite: Embracing Your Inner Yoda. Next to all that is a copy of the Capital City News. I glimpse the banner headline — MONSTERS AMONG US? — above a grainy image of Kayla in mostly human form, but with pointed ears and long tail, next to a better-quality image of the weresnake Seth.

  “I left you three voice messages and sent a dozen texts,” Mom goes on. “You can’t keep disappearing like this. I know it’s been hard, the way things have been with your father, and I understand that teenagers test limits. That’s healthy and normal. I don’t want to squash your emerging woman power, but —”

  “I . . .” I want to protest that I don’t keep disappearing. But I did go to Michigan. That was the road trip that landed Clyde in a coma, and I was kidnapped — though it’s not like I planned it — to Daemon Island.

  On the wicker coffee table, Mom’s burning Tibetan sandalwood incense to calm her nerves. I rub my eyelids and cross to our toffee-colored Rowling leather armchair (her Pottery Barn employee discount at work). “I can explain, but could you answer a couple of questions for me first?” Before she can protest, I add, “About Dad. What’s going on with him?”

  That shuts down her momentum. “Okay . . . He’s been promoted to VP of MCC Enterprises, so he’s moving back to Texas. It should be any day now.” Dad’s been working as the lead PR guy for MCC Implants (a subsidiary) in Hong Kong. “What do you mean, ‘What’s going on with him?’”

  We used to be so close, me and Dad. Before my parents fell apart, Mom used to joke that she was “the other woman” in the relationship. And then . . . It was like he forgot about us. We were an expensive nuisance from a life he’d left behind.

  But things have been better recently. He’s caught up on his child-support payments. He gave Mom a spa gift certificate for her birthday. I don’t have high hopes that they’ll get back together, but my life would be easier if they were friends.

  “This weekend I caught him on the TV news,” I say. “Did you know that MCC is making brain chips that can track and control werepeople? What with the kidnapping of the governor, the werecat video out of Pine Ridge, the death of that little girl . . .”

  “Jacinda Finch,” she prompts. It’s been all over the news as a “weretiger attack.” Finch was only four years old and the daughter of an Internet mogul from New York.

  I pick my words carefully. “All of that is great for Dad’s company. The more frightened humans are of werepeople, the easier it is for MCC to market and sell the implants.”

  Mom flicks at glance at the newspaper. “You know that your father and I disagree when it comes to werepeople.”

  Yes, I know. He thinks they’re monsters. She thinks they’re beloved children of Mother Earth. It’s romantic, my mom’s attitude. Clyde finds it at times funny, at times condescending. “The brain chip,” I continue. “Has Dad talked to you about it? Do you know how close it is to hitting the market? Did he mention —?”

  “What does any of this have to do with —?”

  “I’m sorry I lied to you.” My mother may be flaky, but she isn’t stupid. “I was in Pine Ridge.” I reach for the newspaper beside her. “At the Founders’ Day weekend festival.” I hold up the front page. “With my furry friends.”

  “I figured as much,” she replies, and I’m the one who’s surprised. “Your father called yesterday. He says he needs to talk to you in person. In the meantime, he’s demanding that you quit your job and sever all ties with Yoshi and Clyde.”

  I LEFT KAYLA AND CLYDE in the car. Grams isn’t exactly a people person. Or even a werepeople person. But she might lend me her pickup, and I promised Jess I’d leave the sheriff’s car in this lot.

  It’s quiet outside. Sunny, as usual. Few parked cars on this end of the shopping center. No sign of Grams’s truck. At this time of day, Donna’s Diner is the only draw. I could really go for a platter of fried chicken over waffles. (McDonald’s was nearly six hours ago.) The liquor store, the consignment boutique, the cupcake shop . . . nothing else opens for twenty minutes. Neither does Austin Antiques, owned by my grandmother. But it’s close enough to 10 A.M. that Grams should be brewing the purple acai green tea that’s offered, along with miso soup, to shoppers on a complimentary basis.

  I was babysitting the antiques mall when I unexpectedly went AWOL to Pine Ridge. I don’t have my keys, the walls are beige-colored brick, and the back door is made of reinforced steel. I risk Grams’s wrath by breaking the lock in front. The alarm that should go off doesn’t.

  Against the front wall, Grams’s prize bonsai collection sits pretty beneath the gold-framed beveled mirrors. Parallel to that, the polished gold pocket watches gleam next to white lace gloves and cameo brooches in the glass counter beneath the cash register. The ceiling is popcorn and the overheads are cheap fluorescent, but Grams does her best to class up the place. I don’t hear boiling water or smell fresh tea. My instincts are screaming that something’s wrong.

  Bam. The first gunshot rings out, and in one smooth motion, I flatten my body to the cracked manila-colored tile floor. A familiar voice shouts, “You damn fool!”

  Bam. I swivel my body into the first row of dealer booths and crawl behind the 1950s jukebox. “Grams! It’s me, Yoshi!”

  There’s no telling whether that’ll help or hurt my situation. Since she moved to Austin, Grams and I have come to a strained peace. She must’ve taken care of me as a baby — bathed me, changed my diapers, held my hands as I learned to walk. But mostly, growing up, Ruby and I fended for ourselves. Grams smacked us — sometimes claws in, sometimes claws out — whenever the mood struck her. Back in Kansas, she chased me off the family farm — at gunpoint — for a literal roll in the hay in our barn with a girl whose name I don’t remember. Bam.

  She’s a tough old puss. She used to run a safe house for shifters on the run. Truth is, she’s always been a bit trigger-happy.

  “Grams, come on!” I yell, backing into a brass hat rack. “I didn’t abandon the mall. I accidentally touched a cursed antique — a cat-shaped carousel figure — and teleported to Pine Ridge.” Bam.

  “I met a friend of yours there,” I continue. Bam. “Zelda. A carny Cat fortune-teller engaged to some guy she calls ‘the Old Alligator Man.’”

  The building goes blessedly silent.

  “Zelda’s getting hitched?” Grams mutters from approximately row five, booth seven.

  Based on the angle of the shots, I’m betting she’s tucked into a squat on top of the life-size bronze longhorn statue (retails for three grand).

  “Everybody’s getting married except me.” Raising her voice, she adds, “Yoshi, what dumbass thing did you do to set the feds on yourself and your sister?”

  My sister? “Is Ruby all right?”

  A sudden crash is followed by more clanking ones and shattering glass. I slip from my hiding place and leap, wobbling on my toes, to the top of the nearest booth wall. “Stop!”

  Grams springs out of a tight roll to face Kayla, both of them in partial shift — human form but fur covered, saber teeth barred. Grams growls, “Stupid girl.”

  When the longhorn statue fell, it shattered floor tiles and took down two booths to the left, spilling Magnum P.I. and Power Rangers lunch boxes, Princess Diana memorial plates, and vintage rhinestone hair bobs into the aisle. The Depression glass bottles and pitchers broke into multicolored pieces, dulled by the flickering fluorescent lighting. Our truck-stop flip-flops have flimsy plastic soles. I warn Kayla, “Watch your step!”

  Fortunately, Grams’s double-barrel shotgun was knocked out of her hands, which in no way means she and my
potential girlfriend won’t shred each other to dripping scraps of tissue. Even the most serene werepredators have our feral moments, and Grams is far from Zen.

  “I am not stupid,” Kayla replies, as they circle each other.

  Where’s Clyde? “She’s not stupid, Grams,” I say, jumping down. “That’s Kayla Morgan. A nice small-town werecat girl with perfect grades from a respectable family, and I like her.” I make my way over to stand between them. “In a capital R, relationship kind of way.”

  “You do?” Grams and Kayla both exclaim, straightening.

  At least the fight’s over. Grams’s surprise is that I care about a girl. Kayla’s . . . well, it’s not like I haven’t been flirting with her since we met, but she’s been haunted — literally — by an ex-boyfriend, and she picked up on my mixed feelings for Aimee. The way I see it, it’s time we both moved on. To each other.

  “Smart, eh?” Grams asks. “How smart?”

  “Academic scholarship to Cal Tech,” Kayla snaps back. “Engineering.” What with events of the past twenty-four hours, that’s probably shot to hell. I feel guilty now for envying that she had a future, one more satisfying than hocking antiques under Grams’s thumb.

  Grams nods slowly, gestures to me. “What do you see in him?”

  Of course. Then again, I do look like an idiot in this sparkly angel kittens T-shirt. Or at least I look like a five-year-old girl. I should’ve grabbed one of Clyde’s shirts when we were at his place, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. “What’s this about Ruby?”

  “She eloped!” Grams informs me. “Left with Little Miss Erika Saturday night on the plane for Vermont, said she’d been trying to call you all day. They’re still there.”

  “Ruby’s married?” My big sis has been seeing Erika only since February, but they’re sweet together, which is saying something for my sister, who’s training to be a cop and is almost as much of a badass as Grams. Ruby and Erika met cute at Carnaval Brasileiro. On Valentine’s Day, they got matching Hello Kitty tattoos on their right butt cheeks. I tagged along with them to South by Southwest, and by then Erika already felt like family. No surprise that Ruby couldn’t get ahold of me. I drowned my phone in the river earlier that afternoon. “About the feds . . .”