Feral Pride

  “Manpower.” I reach for an egg-sausage-cheddar burrito. I’ll say this for restaurant folk: They’re not going to let me starve. “Make that werepeople power. Allies, muscle, special skills.”

  The room quiets. I’m not sure if it’s because I asked the wrong question or the right one. Freddy winks at Nora. They seem endearingly charmed, but nobody’s in a hurry to answer.

  “Kayla,” Freddy begins, once I wipe salsa from my mouth. “Stand for a moment.” I don’t see a reason not to until he pulls a cloth measuring tape from his shirt pocket and begins to unwind it. “We’ve been expecting you.” Freddy wraps the tape around my back, bust level.

  Sweet baby Jesus! What’s he doing? Raising my hands, I say, “Excuse me?”

  “Sizing in the junior’s category — or any category — is inconsistent,” he explains. “If you’re going to be out and about, we can’t have you looking like the girl who’s been all over the news. It won’t take much. Clothes, hair, makeup — maybe a few piercings or a tattoo . . .”

  “I am not defiling my body with ink!” I exclaim. Aimee blinks at me, Clyde smirks, and I remember the matching half-inch-tall crosses tattooed around their necks. Aimee has tiny skulls on her ankles, too. “Nothing personal.”

  Freddy pockets the tape. “Runner’s build. I’ll pick up a mix of outfits and accessories — stealth ensembles, everyday wear, and red carpet. Shoe size? Bra?”

  I resist the impulse to cross my arms over my chest. “A bit personal, don’t you think?”

  Freddy catches himself up short. “Sorry, heat of the moment. I —”

  “Tsk.” Chef Nora hands me a pen and a white napkin from the Tia Leticia’s takeout bag. “Write it all down here.” She adds, “Freddy used to be a la-di-da event planner in Chicago. He’s done his share of styling young . . . and youthful-looking ladies and gentlemen.”

  “Youthful-looking” is apparently a joke that Yoshi and I aren’t in on, but everybody else in the room is mildly amused. I’m getting better using my instincts to gauge emotion, now that I’ve learned it’s something shifters excel at and not just my imagination on overdrive.

  Freddy is middle-aged and definitely gay (back in Pine Ridge, he mentioned a boyfriend). It’s not like he cares about my bust and booty for any reason beyond wardrobe. What’s more, his designer clothes are tailored, his fingernails buffed — my disguise could be in worse hands.

  I scribble my answers as Freddy asks Yoshi, Aimee, and Clyde for their sizes. When Clyde hesitates to answer, he gets measured, too. Meanwhile, Nora shoos Aimee out to go lie down on the sofa in the break room. “You’ve had a long night, hon. A nap will do you good.”

  Quincie pushes off the table to offer Aimee a quick hug first.

  “We need to wrap this up,” Freddy says as his phone buzzes. “Sergio will be in at any moment.” Frowning at his screen, he leaves the room after Aimee to take the call.

  Meanwhile, Nora hands an egg-beef-bean burrito to Clyde. “Protein,” she says. “It’ll calm your nerves. I can fetch some fresh crickets if you prefer.”

  Quincie moves to give Clyde’s shoulder a sisterly squeeze and reassure him that Kieren will be fine. From what I can tell, Quincie’s the Wolf’s girl. Clyde’s his buddy. But they’ve got their own friendship and history. I’m thinking that’s nice until I catch a whiff of blood — pig blood? — and realize Quincie’s drinking it from the sports bottle.

  What under God’s green earth? Has the girl never heard of trichinosis? The Cat in me isn’t totally repulsed, but it’s disturbingly icky behavior, especially coming from a human. It suggests she takes the restaurant’s Goth theme too much to heart.

  “Kayla asked about werepeople power,” Yoshi reminds everyone.

  Nora tilts her head, like she’s weighing him. “You can tell her about the coalition.”

  “I’m no expert on the subject,” he admits, reaching for his third burrito.

  “You’ll do for now,” is her reply. I don’t know Nora well, but I’d swear she’s up to something.

  Freddy strolls back in. “That was Karl Richards, the Armadillo king, looking for you, Clyde. He has a lead on the Snake. He wants to talk to you here tonight.”

  There’s an Armadillo king? The only armadillos I’ve ever seen were roadkill.

  “DUDE!” Joshua exclaims, drawing Clyde into a back-slapping hug in Quincie’s family room. He’s been expecting us. He’s got a sewing machine set up and stacks of folded clothes on the dining table beneath the art deco chandelier. The next hug is for me, and Yoshi gets a warm handshake. “You must be Kayla!” Joshua gives her cheek a quick air kiss.

  “I must be,” she whispers, gaping up at him.

  Kayla’s not the type to gape at a good-looking guy or even a smoldering-hot guy, though she’s always sneaking peeks at Yoshi. But Joshua is transcendent, a celestial wonder. From the top of his dreadlocks to the tip of his silver-painted toenails, he’s divine.

  Literally. Clyde and I figure that he’s Quincie’s new guardian angel. She’s a wholly souled vampire, the heroic and cuddly kind, and her undead state is top secret (beyond us, only Kieren, Nora, and Freddy are in the know). Earthbound angels are supposed to operate on the q.t., too. But Clyde and I aren’t stupid, and we’re friends with Quincie’s previous GA, the angel Zachary (who inspired the marble statue in Sanguini’s herb garden). Besides, Joshua’s too spectacular to be believable as a mortal, and his belt buckle reads HEAVENLY.

  Yoshi doesn’t know any of that. It’s not my place to tell him or Kayla. Not that Yoshi seems the least interested. He’s slipped into antiques-dealer mode, inspecting the colorful rustic rug hanging on the wall behind the television. The handmade baskets and figurines as well as a few of the paintings and rugs were collected by Quincie’s late father on archaeology trips to Central and South America. Her parents died in a car accident back when she was in middle school. Nora and (sometimes) Freddy live here now, along with Joshua, who bunks in the attic.

  “What’s all this?” Clyde asks, picking up a box of laundry detergent marketed to hunters.

  “I’ve been busy.” Joshua holds up a black short-sleeve T-shirt. “Charcoal lined. Your odor molecules are supposed to bond with the charcoal.”

  Smart. With werepeople, scent is everything.

  Ever-sensible Kayla picks up a box of dryer sheets and turns it over to study the directions.

  “We’ve got sealable plastic bags,” Joshua adds. “Odor-free soaps and shampoos . . . baking soda to brush your teeth with. You’ll want to change clothes and shower as often as you can. Freddy is bringing by your other clothes tonight.”

  Being in a crowded place (like Sanguini’s) should make it easier to blend, even more so because of the competing aromas of food, wine, and guests’ perfumes.

  Before we left the restaurant, Quincie handed me a thousand dollars cash. She said to take off work for the time being in case somebody shows up there looking for me and Clyde.

  The upshot? If I’m going with my fave Lossum later to meet Pop-Pop Richards (also known as the Armadillo king), we’ll need to look different enough from ourselves that even fellow staffers don’t recognize us.

  Suddenly, the shifters tense. “Stairs,” Clyde says, grabbing a stack of clothes. “Attic. Roof, if we have to.”

  When threatened, Cats run and climb. Kayla and Yoshi likewise load up, leaving only the sewing machine behind. In a smooth motion, Joshua unplugs it.

  From what Clyde has told me, earthbound angels smell virtually indistinguishable from humans. There’s a hint of vanilla, but they sweat like the rest of us. So, the remaining problem is me. I’ve been in the car with two Cats and a Lossum for hours and chowed down first breakfast with a Tasmanian weredevil. A Bear’s nose could detect that. “I’ll shower.”

  I’m on the third stair when I hear the knock. Joshua takes his time answering. I’ve reached the master bathroom when the pounding begins.

  Running water mostly drowns out Joshua’s enthusiastic greeting as I shimmy o
ut of my clothes and under the spray. I picked Nora’s bathroom on purpose. The chef has a passion for heavily aromatic bath products. Apple-scented shampoo, black orchid body wash. Perfect.

  I hurry to lather and rinse. I slip on her heavy robe and tie the terry-cloth belt tight. I have to lift it to keep from tripping as I scamper back downstairs, where — as feared — Joshua is offering an angelic, dimpled smile to two 350-plus-pound men I assume are werebears and an officious-looking twit in an FHPU uniform. Joshua’s managed to hold them at the front step.

  “We received a tip that the owner of this home, one Quincie P. Morris, under the legal guardianship of Meara and Dr. Roberto Morales, employs a Clyde Gilbert at her restaurant up the street,” reports a thin male voice. “Do you know him? Has he been here recently?”

  Playing dumb, Joshua asks, “What has the boy done wrong?”

  No answer. Addressing his burly companions, Agent Masters asks, “What do you smell?”

  “Cats, fresh, one’s off somehow . . .” is the answer. “Wolf, and lots of it. But less recent.”

  “I’d love to let you inside, Agent Masters,” Joshua says, covering his phone with one hand. “But you can’t be too careful these days. You don’t have a warrant, and I’ve never heard of the Federal Humanity Protection Unit. Funny thing, my state senator’s office hasn’t either.”

  Huh? Go, Joshua. Come to think of it, we’ve heard no mention of the FHPU in the media. It could be some shadow agency within the government — very Men in Black.

  As I come up behind him, Joshua’s tone is upbeat. “I’m trying the Capital City News now.”

  I ask, “Are these men harassing you?”

  Joshua holds up a finger. “Yes,” he says into the phone. “News desk, please.”

  “Who’re you?” The fed peers at my fresh-scrubbed face. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

  Joshua is talking to someone at the newspaper who’s trying to pull up the FHPU on the Web. “That’s right,” he answers. “Private property, and they don’t have a warrant.”

  The agent draws his handgun. “End the call.”

  Joshua does. He raises his hands, stepping in front of me. Are we the first to doubt this so-called FHPU? No. Back in Pine Ridge, Sheriff Bigheart ran into them, and then he and Jess made sure we escaped. Joshua says, “Now, let’s be reasonable, gentlemen. You don’t —”

  The twit fires his weapon, hitting Joshua in the chest. The shot may be quiet — silencer — but my scream sure isn’t. I can’t help it. It’s horrible. It’s blasphemous.

  Joshua staggers back from the impact, collapsing into my arms. He’s a tall, muscular guy, and it’s all I can do to break his fall. I glance up, and the gun’s pointed at me.

  I brace myself, but Clyde, Kayla, and Yoshi drop in full feline forms from the roof, landing hard on Masters and the Bears. A huge risk in a residential neighborhood in the light of day. Pound for pound, a werecat — even a Lion — is no match for a Bear, but my friends have speed and surprise on their side. In the fray, the door slams shut with everybody inside.

  I lunge over Joshua, trying to shield him from further damage.

  It ends fast. In seconds Agent Masters is unconscious, and the Bears are in chains kept stored in the attic. Yoshi’s able to quickly retract his hands to snap the locks in place.

  When Clyde raises a clawed paw to strike a Bear, I yell, “Don’t! It’s not their fault!” At least it may not be, if their behavior can be explained by neural implants. They look lost, baffled. Like somebody pulled the plug. The FHPU didn’t give them orders for this scenario.

  Yoshi chokes out, “Apply pressure!”

  Yes. Right. That’s what they do on TV when someone is shot. I press down with my palm, and it’s instantly drenched in blood. Meanwhile, my other friends’ bodies rearrange. Their bones grind, contract, lengthen, and snap. Their flesh twists like Silly Putty and glistens with a slippery liquid unique to Homo shifters. The scent is like a mix of mud and trees and sweat.

  Yoshi finishes first and with the least obvious pain. He hurries to bring me fresh kitchen towels to use as a compress. Then he gags the Bears with two more.

  I slide Joshua’s phone across the floor toward him. “Call Quincie!”

  “Quincie?” Yoshi’s naked, gleaming. “Shouldn’t we call 911?”

  Am I sure Joshua is an angel? Yes, yes, I am. What’s more, Oliver told us to lose our phones. We’ve got to be more careful. “No, get Quincie.” We’re at her house, off Congress and Academy, near the state school for the deaf. Sanguini’s is only a few blocks south of here.

  Joshua whispers, “It’ll heal on its own. Take a little time, but . . .” There’s so much blood, it’s hard to tell if the bullet missed his heart.

  Yoshi still isn’t convinced, and I don’t blame him. “I’ve got this,” I lie. I honestly don’t know how an angel’s physiology might differ from a human’s, but I’m sure we don’t want modern medicine trying to figure it out.

  “If you say so.” The Cat jumps over Joshua, offering an eyeful of his jiggling man parts (I’ll never be as casual about nudity as the shifters are).

  Clyde sits up, a whole lot of naked himself. “This FHPU jerk reeks of yeti.”

  Kayla, panting, confirms, “He’s right.”

  “Grab his keys,” I say. The Bears could tell Joshua’s no shifter. They couldn’t know he’s an angel, which means the FHPU is willing to murder anyone, even a human who gets in their way. If not for my friends, I might be dead.

  “Yoshi,” I add. “You move Masters’s car . . . out of the driveway. Into the neighborhood, not too close to Sanguini’s. Then fetch Quincie.” I catch myself saying “fetch” to a wereperson and feel lousy about it. A least Yoshi’s not a Wolf.

  The Cat doesn’t seem to notice, though, and is dressed and gone by the time naked Clyde and naked Kayla are steady on their feet. Kayla grabs for the Mexican blanket folded across a nearby tufted chair and wraps herself in it. “Your friend needs emergency medical help, Aimee!”

  I wish I could explain. “Easy,” I whisper to Joshua, mesmerized by the blood. “You’ll be okay.” Or at least he said so, and I have faith in him. Angels are supposed to be immortal, but if they’re corporeal, they can be hurt. Badly. “You’re going to be okay, aren’t you?”

  CLIMBING THE STAIRS, Aimee scolds, “Don’t drop him!”

  “I’m not going to drop him.” I’m carrying Joshua. She’s applying pressure to his wound. It would help if hanging baskets didn’t stick out from the walls at weird angles. Or if his legs were shorter.

  I’m pissed that Joshua got shot, but he’s an eternal being. Aimee could’ve died. My family — my baby sibs — they got an at-home visit, too. Wereopossums are known to be skittish. But not when cornered or when there are young to protect. Things could’ve gotten ugly fast.

  If anything happens to any of them, so help me, I would kill again. There was this human woman, a hunter, on Daemon Island. Rich, like all of them. A sorceress. She shot Yoshi. He walked away with a scratch, but she was shooting to kill. No, worse than that. She was shooting for trophies. Werewolf heads above the mantle. A werebear-skin rug in front of the fireplace. A Tasmanian weredevil stole.

  I didn’t mean for it to happen. I started out a broken-down wereopossum. I was caged and useless. The arctic asshats had taken away my crutches. They separated me from all the other captive shifters except Noelle. She was caged alongside me because they planned to breed her.

  Noelle’s explosive sex appeal, along with the threat of a quickly spreading fire, triggered my first transformation to Lion form. I hauled ass into the jungle to rescue the hunted. What I didn’t know was that they’d constructed and camouflaged Burmese tiger pits. I pounced to stop the hunter-sorceress from firing again. She fell into one of the traps. I’ll never forget her scream or the way it cut short. She was skewered like a pincushion. One of the sharpened sticks went right through the back of her neck and exited her throat with a chunk of tongue on it.

&nbs
p; An accident, sure, but it was still my responsibility. I don’t regret what happened. Not exactly. She was a murderer. I acted to defend the others. But, bottom line, I’ve taken a mortal life. On some cosmic level, I’m in the minus column. The freaking least I can do is not drop a bleeding angel of the Lord God.

  “Careful around the corner,” Aimee nags as I turn into Nora’s room. There’s a photo of her son on the dresser. Ferns hang in the windows. Notes from the Sanguini’s cookbook are scattered all over her desk. The Moraleses became Quincie’s guardians last fall after her uncle died. They were willing to let her stay here, so long as Nora moved in to serve as the responsible adult. It’s the only bedroom in the house with an attached bath.

  “Should we have moved him?” Aimee asks. “We shouldn’t have moved him.”

  It’s too late to worry about that now. Joshua’s out of it, muttering about “brushing the warhorses” and playing Pictionary with someone named Idelle.

  “Wait!” Aimee whisks away Nora’s lacy bedspread, embroidered with bluebonnets. The sheets will be trashed by blood regardless. The mattress, too.

  As I lay down the angel, Aimee rushes to the adjacent bathroom for fresh towels. Yoshi hasn’t come back yet. Kayla’s getting dressed. I already threw my clothes back on.

  “Joshua?” It’s Quincie’s voice, from downstairs. She marches through the door before Aimee or I can reply. Preternaturally fast. Quincie’s eyes are red. Her Wolf’s down, now her angel, too. “I’ll take care of him,” she announces with fangs barred. “I’ll —”

  I slap her face. Hard. “Snap out of it!”

  Aimee charges out of the bathroom. “Clyde!”

  Quincie lifts me by the forearms. A full mane sprouts from my head. My saber teeth descend. “Mif o’ ’op o’ ebrythin’ else, ooo loose or mole, we are oyally kewed.”

  “What was that?” Quincie turns to Aimee with a raised brow.

  “He’s trying to say that if on top of everything else, you lose your soul, we are totally screwed,” my girlfriend translates. “Or maybe ‘royally screwed.’ But his throat has shifted too far for him to articulate it.”