Feral Curse

  Brightening at the prospect, Lula leads me up a steep, narrow staircase, decorated on either side with silk holiday wreaths, each dolled up with a fake, sparkly bird and big red velvet bow. They’re tacky and a noticeable quality point beneath the rest of the goods on display. “Local artist,” she whispers in a confiding tone. “Minister’s wife. Personal favor.”

  Ah. There’s a sign on the attic door that reads PRIVATE, but it isn’t locked. There must not be much crime here in Pine Ridge, or it could be that people are that trusting.

  I follow Lula into the attic, and there they are: one deer, one snake, a bear, a wolf, and both hares, buffaloes, elk, hogs, raccoons, and armadillos. We’re golden!

  No, wait, the other cat is still missing.

  Which means it’s already sold, and any associated web listing has probably been already taken down. Not good. I’m pretty sure we need the whole set. “Austinites will go gaga over these babies,” I say, weaving between the massive elk and stout dillos. “The whole Old West carnival theme has great regional appeal, and they’ve got that spooky vibe, to boot. Top-notch conversation pieces.” I make a show of bending to more closely examine the merchandise. “Some wear here and there . . .” I’d normally work harder to bargain her down, but it’s not my family’s money I’ll be spending, and Pine Ridge could use the cash infusion. “On the knees, ears, chins, and tails, but that adds to the rustic appeal.”

  “Exactly what I’ve been saying,” Lula agrees with a clap of her hands.

  “Did you unload any of them to locals?” I almost swing up to sit on a buffalo before remembering that I’m supposed to be acting professional. “I get where that might be awkward, what with what happened, but these are unique, fairly irresistible to the right buyers.”

  “Locals?” Lula echoes. “Nope, like you say, awkward.”

  She smells like she’s lying. “Kayla mentioned something about Ben bringing her photo with him the night he died. She seemed upset about it, but it’s only natural he’d carry a pic of his girlfriend in his wallet. I wish I understood what went down so I could help her through it better.” Could’ve been smoother, but that’s my best shot.

  I give it a moment. Two. No dice.

  At least I tried. “Well, I can’t speak for Grams, but I’ll tell her —”

  “Kayla’s photo was taped to one of the carousel cats,” Lula blurts. She moves to shut the attic door. “Eleanor and I were the ones who found his body, you know.”

  “No!” I say, pretend-shocked. “I had no idea. How awful for you both.”

  She nods. “We think something horrible and satanic was going on.”

  Finally. Thank you. “Was Ben the horrible and satanic type?” Because I could seriously use some intel that didn’t come from his button-down and grieving ex-girlfriend.

  “No, no,” Lula assures me, pulling white drop cloths off a few other stored pieces for me to peruse. Freestanding brass lamps and coat hangers, a rocking chair, antique Victorian porcelain knickknacks. “Ben and Kayla both . . . wonderful kids, the crème de la crème of Pine Ridge. Churchgoing, good grades, athletic, and they had the sweetest young love. Everyone knew it. Never mind that he was white and she was black. Nobody said ‘boo’ about that.”

  Nobody? Lula just mentioned it herself.

  Humans can be petty and baffling. When your body can shift into animal form, I guarantee that obsessing over little things like the color it is in human form seems awfully ridiculous. Then again, there are age-old feuds among shifters, too. Cats and Wolves, for example. Orcas and Tusked Dolphins.

  She goes on, “Constance — Ben’s mama — she had him buried in the necklace that Kayla had given him for Valentine’s Day. It had a gemstone on it, a gold cat’s-eye gemstone.”

  “Valentine’s Day?” I echo, pretending to examine some uneven paint (a bad patch job) on the ear of one of the hare figures.

  “He died the very next night,” Lula reminds me. “Broke that darling girl’s heart.”

  That darling girl. I haven’t gotten that off Kayla, that kind of sorrow. She could be blocking it. Shifters are better at that than humans. It’s tied up in what Grams so poetically calls “the inheritance of the wild,” a gift of our animal forms.

  In the battle for survival, you don’t have time to indulge every emotion, which in no way means that sooner or later, whatever you’re pushing down won’t explode.

  I’VE COMPLIMENTED AT LEAST two dozen people on their outfits (lace and ruffles are all the rage with the older ladies) or their children (several of whom have had their faces painted — a couple to look like cats), asked every passerby carrying a bag what they bought (printer’s-drawer miniatures are popular), and taken a thorough survey of public opinion on the festival cuisine. An Austin-based winery offering free tastings is moving product by the case, and the Davis Family barbecue pork ribs are to die for.

  I’d have already snagged a rack for myself, but I don’t want to abandon my post. While making small talk and waiting for Yoshi, I’ve been scanning to no avail for the werecoyote.

  Wait. Is that . . . ? Yes, I catch a glimpse of reddish hair, Peter’s wiry frame, and his long face. He’s barefoot but wearing Dylan Schmidt’s stolen San Antonio Spurs jersey and jeans. The Coyote’s intense gaze locks onto mine, and there’s something too intimate about it.

  I catch my breath for a moment, frozen in place. He shakes loose of the connection before I can, ducking behind a group of boisterous Bubbas in matching patch-covered leather vests and jeans.

  I’m up like a shot, but they’re big men, a half dozen of them, belly laughing at who-knows-what. A couple of new moms pushing baby carriages block me to one side, and a great-grandma shuffling along with the aid of a walker cuts me off on the other.

  “Excuse me, excuse me,” I say, my manners so well programmed that I feel guilty for being rude and weaving between them, even though Peter is . . . nowhere to be found.

  Where did he go? I turn all the way around, studying the crowd. He’s not at the booth selling Native American and cowboy art or the booth selling handmade pottery or the craft tent for kids or standing in line to use a port-o-john. He couldn’t have gotten far.

  I cross the street to scale the back side of a bald cypress. I make every effort not to be spotted in the branches, but the crowd is already distracted by the historical society board members parading down the sidewalk in head-to-toe steampunk, complete with parasols, bustle skirts, aviator goggles, and leather vests and bustiers. I’m very sure Pine Ridge’s actual founders never looked so magnificently coiffed. It’s all quite the spectacle.

  Dad was hoping to top last year’s record of 3,500 in attendance, and I bet we’re way past that. But there’s no Peter to be found.

  Dejected, I return to wait for Yoshi as he finally emerges outside the antiques shop. Lula gives him a grandmotherly peck good-bye, licks her thumb to clean her signature rose-plum lipstick off his cheek, and then scoots the parrot cage inside to lock up for the day.

  Thank God. That bird’s incessant chatter was getting on my very last nerve.

  Pretending like I don’t notice-notice Yoshi is making me all itchy.

  He slides on the bench, stretching his muscled arm behind me. Not resting on my shoulders, but the body language is possessive. A few passing sophomore girls, volleyball players, pause to stare and whisper. Or maybe they’re just marveling at his radiating sexiness.

  He has good news — all of the carousel figures, except one, are accounted for. “I’ll ask the sisters about the cat figure when I come back to purchase the others.”

  With Aimee’s buckets of money. I report my brief Peter sighting — at least I think it was him. “I have no idea where he could’ve skulked off to,” I conclude.

  “Hmm, Coyotes are skittish by nature, but . . .” Yoshi’s hand falls on my shoulder, and my skin tingles beneath his touch. “Where would you normally be this weekend?”

  It’s a rhetorical question. I stand, leading Yoshi deeper into Founders?
?? Day.

  At the booth with hand-dipped candles, Bitsy Metula is collecting signatures for a petition to forbid werepeople from working in private or public day-care facilities. You know, like the one shifter in this whole town — that would be me — even wants to be a professional babysitter. Talk about pointless posturing. I don’t stop to see which locals signed the sheet. I don’t want to know.

  After polishing off two racks of pork ribs respectively, Yoshi and I split an Almond Joy pie and wash it all down with lemonades. It’s refreshing not to have to pick at my food like I normally do at school or did with Ben. Yoshi doesn’t think twice about my appetite.

  The Cat takes my empty plate from me and tosses it — a small thing, but Ben would’ve expected me to clean up after him. Not that I should be comparing them. So I’ll stop. Now.

  “Let’s take the festival systematically,” Yoshi suggests, “street by street, table by table, booth by booth, and ask around.” He pivots toward the dunking booth. “Hopefully, somebody’s seen Peter. Talked to him.”

  He’s insane. “I can’t just walk around town asking about some strange boy with . . . some other strange boy.” I hate the way it sounds, like I care too much what people think. But I can tell Yoshi doesn’t get it. He’s not the First Daughter of Pine Ridge.

  “I’m not that strange, and you’ve already been seen with me.” Yoshi pulls Peter’s wallet from his back pocket. “We’ll say we found this.” He opens it up, showing me the driver’s license in the clear sleeve. “Look, photo and everything.”

  Despite his whole man-of-action attitude toward Operation Carousel, Yoshi lingers at Jim Doyle’s display of artifacts found over the decades along the river. The old buttons and bullet shells, a gold pocket watch. Yoshi may be the last to admit it, but I suspect he secretly enjoys working at his grandmother’s antiques mall. I suspect he’s great at it. Maybe he’ll never win any academic awards or graduate from a fancy college. But he’s in no way stupid, and he’s better with people than I’ll ever be. No wonder he’s so good at sweet-talking women.

  We don’t have any luck until the Adopt-a-Friend booth. “I remember this boy,” Lisa says, stroking a whining mutt puppy. “He came by yesterday after you took off for dinner. He asked about Floppy, said he’d always wanted a pet rabbit. But there was something about his eyes I didn’t like.”

  I’m glad Lisa listened to her instincts. I’ve felt the call of the hunt in animal form, but I’d never . . . “Did he mention where he was staying in town?” I ask.

  Lisa sets down the panting dog. “You might turn that wallet in to Sheriff Bigheart.”

  We pushed too hard. “Great idea,” Yoshi agrees. “Kayla, let’s go find the sheriff.”

  It’s getting late. The streetlights and festival lights on the music stage have been turned on. “Let’s take a break,” Yoshi says, gesturing to the miniature train.

  We choose the “caboose” bench, three back from the next nearest passengers. The O’Donnell quadruplets (forty-something parents, fertility drugs), they’re in second grade now and making a huge racket. But that means Yoshi and I can talk without being overheard.

  “If we’re going to reverse the spell,” he begins, “we’ll need something that belonged to Ben. Do you have any ideas at all?”

  I’ve been thinking about it. “Coach Reiss retired Ben’s football jersey. It’s hanging in the school hallway, alongside the trophy case.” It’s been sheer hell, having to pass by it every day on the way to gym class. I can close my eyes and almost see him, owning the field.

  “Do you care about the jersey?” Yoshi asks. “Does it connect the two of you?”

  I shake my head. It’s blasphemy to say so in Texas, but I find football incredibly boring. I’ve always attended all the games, but that’s because everybody’s there. It’s a social thing, a community obligation. My parents go to network, and of course, dating Ben, I was expected to be cheering him on in the bleachers. I like baseball better, and in point of fact, Ben was better at baseball, but it’s not nearly as big a deal culturally.

  “Lula mentioned something about your giving Ben a necklace,” Yoshi says as the train chugs around the bend in front of city hall.

  “For Valentine’s Day.” It comes flooding back. The hours of babysitting to make the money, shopping the Web for just the right pendant, the way I hid the flat little white box between my mattresses and rehearsed in my bedroom mirror what I was going to say . . . only to completely blow it, to lose everything. Lose Ben.

  Mrs. Bloom had him buried in it as a gesture to me, I think, to what he and I shared.

  He’ll wear it forever. The present from me that ultimately triggered his death.

  Yoshi is quiet. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t move. He whispers, “I’m sorry.”

  “‘Sorry’ doesn’t change anything,” I say. “‘Sorry’ doesn’t make Ben less dead.”

  “That’s not . . .” Yoshi takes an audible breath. “I mean, I’m sorry we’ll have to steal it.”

  “Steal it?” What is he talking about? Why are he and Aimee so obsessed with thievery?

  The train stops, and he whispers, “We need to break into Ben’s casket, take that necklace, and use it to try to reverse the spell.”

  “That . . . That’s ungodly disrespectful!” I exclaim. “You —”

  “So is what’s happened to me and Evan and Darby and Peter,” Yoshi replies. “For all we know, the werecoyote was a sweetheart of a guy before your boyfriend’s spell got ahold of him. I am sorry for your loss, Kayla, and I’m sorry that this is necessary. But it’s not just about you.”

  WHEN I SET THAT GOLD CAT’S-EYE gemstone in the center of Ben’s palm, the single furthest thing from my mind was that, in the not too distant future, I’d have to rip it off his dead body.

  The only other option I can think of, though, is to call Ben’s mother and try to somehow explain why I need something that belongs to him that’s significant to both of us, especially when I had so much of ours and torched it all. No, no matter how terrible it may be . . .

  Ben won’t mind. He’s in heaven.

  At least I hope he’s in heaven. Using magic — shifter or otherwise — has to be a sin, but Ben was a Christian and Jesus forgives. Jesus is all about forgiving.

  On the plus side, Yoshi talked to Aimee. Operation Carousel has cash flow and liftoff.

  It’s past 2 A.M. on Sunday, God’s day, and here I am on the edge of town in the middle of Dogwood Trails Cemetery, standing outside of Ben’s family crypt.

  It hits me how far the Blooms — cotton farmers, originally — go back in Pine Ridge history, how hard it must be for Ben’s mom to start over. But then, she’s only a Bloom by marriage. Maybe after losing her husband and son, to her this land feels more cursed than consecrated.

  After shimmying out my bedroom window and down the honeysuckle trellis, I managed to pull some tools out of the garage, along with old sheets to wrap them in, and Yoshi stuffed it all in his backpack.

  I’ve barely said a dozen words to him since our conversation on the miniature train. He’s respected my silence, and I appreciate that. I hate what we’re about to do.

  “No security?” Yoshi finally asks, and I hear the relief in his voice.

  “This is Pine Ridge,” I reply. “Most people don’t bother to lock their doors.”

  He probably thinks I’m angry with him. It’s more complicated than that. Since Ben died, until Darby showed up, it was like I’d been sleepwalking. This weekend has been such a twisty emotional mix — scary and confusing, but at least I feel more alive again. I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to need these boys to reclaim my whole self.

  Maybe, though, it’s not about them. Maybe it’s just that the animals in them call to what’s primal inside me, and without that, I’ve been letting my head get in my way. As usual. I overthink everything. I’m out of touch with my own nature. With nature itself.

  The cloud cover mutes the moon, shadows the stars, but my Cat eyes c
an see anyway. I focus on the velvet of the night, the wildflowers that dot the grass-and-clover cemetery grounds. Bluebonnets, Indian paintbrushes, and prickly pear cacti, all a backdrop to more crypts, upright marble markers engraved with Texas stars or roses. A smattering of U.S. flags, one Confederate. Asshole. The trees bloom purple, like beautiful bruises.

  I used to love spring.

  “Why don’t you wait out here?” Yoshi says. He extends a claw to pick the lock, then retracts it. “The lock’s been broken,” he whispers. “Keep watch.”

  I hear a rusty creak as he opens the door. Yoshi smears Vicks under his nose before pulling on thick garden gloves. I force myself not to think about why.

  “No, wait,” I say, reaching for the Vicks. “I can’t let you do this for me.”

  Even with our heightened vision, the inside of the stone crypt is deathly dark, and it’s all I can do not to gag at the mint-menthol smell of the medication. How many Blooms are entombed in here, anyway? I brush my hand against a bouquet of . . . daisies, I think . . . that have been laid across Ben’s father’s casket. Mrs. Bloom must’ve left them here before leaving town.

  I’m surprised to discover she didn’t leave flowers to remember Ben, too, but I have more pressing matters to worry about. I slide the backpack off Yoshi and unzip it.

  Ben was buried in a hardwood casket, so after doing some online research, we brought pliers and screwdrivers to use on the thumb locks. A crowbar in case the lid has been nailed down. I fumble it, and metal clangs on concrete, too loud and scolding.

  “My fingers are tingling,” I whisper, testing them against each other. “It feels like all the air went away.” I glance at the door, still open a crack. “Did all the air go away?”

  “Easy, kitten,” Yoshi says, bending to pick up the crowbar. “Why don’t you wait outside? It’ll be over in a minute or two. Then we can set everything right and move on with our lives.”

  He sounds sure of himself. It’s tempting to let him handle it. Yoshi may not be totally objective, but he’s not remembering what it felt like to sway in Ben’s arms at the Homecoming dance. He doesn’t know what it felt like to have Ben’s warm lips linger at my ear.