Feral Curse

  A smile tugs at the Cat’s lips. “I don’t see where that’s our problem. I say we keep all this, and he’ll come after us, trying to get it back. We can use it to set a trap.”

  That’s inviting trouble, but the Coyote almost killed my dog. His behavior is escalating. He may come after me, or even my parents, next.

  ON THE WAY TO HER HOUSE, Kayla tells me about Darby, the mournfully love-struck, skittish Deer she met earlier this evening — a perfect stranger to her before today — and how his animal form was represented by a figure on the carousel, too.

  “A real heartbreaker, you are,” I tell her. “You think the spell that brought us here may be influencing our behavior and pointing us your way?”

  “I was raised to believe in math and miracles, not magic,” she says, carrying Peter’s wallet, belt, folded clothes, and shoes. “But I can’t deny that something strange is happening.” Kayla hesitates at the gate. “How about you? Do you feel any different than normal?”

  I unleash my trademark smile. “I do find myself strangely fixated on you.”

  Kayla bites her lip, clearly exasperated, as the silence becomes awkward. Moving into the backyard, I understand that her inviting me to bunk overnight inside the — Jesus — fully restored Victorian mansion would prompt too many parental questions.

  It also makes more sense that I stay outside to intercept Peter whenever he makes his move. I cased out her tree house when we swung by earlier with the Chihuahua.

  I’ve crashed in much rougher places. It’ll do for tonight.

  “I’ll be able to smell the Coyote coming.” I leap onto a thick branch, showing off how well my Cat agility hangs on in human form. “Trust me, Kayla. He’ll never make it to your door.” The windows are more vulnerable, but I don’t mention that. Coyotes may not climb well in animal form, but in boy shape he’s closer to a primate.

  Once she hands up Peter’s belongings, our bait, I add, “You should get inside. Double-check all the locks.” I continue up, adding, over my shoulder, “Go on. Get out of here.”

  Kayla frowns. But within two minutes of going into her house, she sprints back outside with a sleeping bag, pillow, and leftover barbecue brisket in a doggie bag labeled DAVIS FAMILY HOME COOKIN’. The girl is a saint.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she whispers from the tree-house entrance. “You could just go home to Austin and forget —”

  “Forget having been magically transported over thirty miles?” I reply. “Besides, antiques — cursed or otherwise — are my family business. I may be able to figure this out.”

  In her moment of hesitation, I can’t help studying her. Kayla is a dazzling specimen of womanly Cat flesh. She’s got a lean sexiness, high breasts, and the kind of tapered neck that’s begging to be nuzzled. She could shake me out of my funk over Aimee.

  I wonder what Kayla looks like in Cat form. Just thinking about it, I’m salivating.

  “If you say so,” she finally replies before hurrying inside for the night.

  I jump down, haul up my provisions, devour dinner, and do what I can to settle in.

  Inside the tree house, it’s fairly civilized, and I revel at being surrounded by her scent. This place offers me a glimpse into the lovely Kayla. Battery-operated lamps and radio, throw rugs, two smiley-face beanbags, a copy of Mechanical Engineering magazine, and tacked-up posters of the Cal Tech campus and Scotty from Star Trek. Serious geek cred. Aimee would approve.

  Must stop thinking about Aimee.

  I’m not sure the “friends” thing is working for me.

  Then again, do I have any other friends? No.

  Anyway, the tree house looks to be a prefabricated cabin inserted into and among the thickest branches. It’s too bad. A simple platform would’ve offered better visibility and been quicker to launch from if necessary.

  Leaving Peter’s belongings and Kayla’s sleeping bag behind, I scale to the shingled gray roof of Kayla’s home. This way, I’ve got a 360-degree view. It’s less comfortable, but that’s okay. I’m exhausted, and with an erratic werecoyote on the prowl, I can’t afford to doze off.

  So it’s not a mansion. It’s still huge — I’m guessing five bedrooms, all upstairs, and maybe one behind the kitchen on the first floor. It’s the kind of place you’d see on a holiday tour of homes.

  I glance at my watch and then retrieve my phone to text Ruby, asking that she lock up and tell Grams that I’m staying overnight with a friend. Then I check messages and realize Aimee has called me a half dozen times.

  I should’ve updated her sooner.

  “Yoshi!” she exclaims. “You do not call someone to say you were magically teleported and then call to say you’re off hunting an unstable werecoyote and then totally blow her off! I was worried you were dead!” She pauses. “Are you dead?”

  “I’m not dead.” In fact, I feel more grounded, more myself, just hearing her voice. “Not undead. Not in immediate danger. I met a nice, pretty girl. We took a stroll under the stars, and now I’m at her place. She’s a werecat, to boot.”

  The first female of my species that I’ve ever met, not counting Grams, my sister, and my largely theoretical mother. I have crossed paths with a Lioness and a wide variety of other shifters — Grams’s barn in Kansas used to be a stop on an underground railroad for werepeople on the run — but my species tends toward the independent and elusive.

  Aimee’s voice becomes muffled. She’s covering the phone with her hand, no doubt updating Clyde on my situation. “Honestly, Yoshi! You didn’t call me back because you hooked up with some random —”

  “It’s not like that,” I protest. “She’s special.”

  “Oh, that’s good.” Aimee’s a sucker for romance, and I can’t help noting the lack of jealousy in her voice. “But there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “I’ve gone all white knight, but I can’t trust it. I can’t trust anything I’m feeling.” I’ve been ensorcelled once before, and it nearly got me killed. Even if it’s not Kayla’s fault — make that especially if it’s not Kayla’s fault — I’ve got every reason to be shaken.

  “It wouldn’t be like you to bail on a distressed damsel,” Aimee observes.

  Sweet of her to say so. “True,” I admit, “but it’s more textured than that. I’m also trying to win Kayla’s respect. When I came across her copy of Mechanical Engineering magazine, my first thought was that I wanted to get into MIT and show her who’s —”

  “MIT?” Aimee laughs. “Aren’t you flunking —?”

  “I’m getting all Cs and Ds, but yeah, I might not graduate this spring, and I don’t really care. Or at least I didn’t. I’m never going to college. We don’t have that kind of money and —”

  “And you’re not that ambitious,” she concludes. “How did you handle it?”

  “I flirted,” I admit. “Flirting is my default mode.”

  Aimee leaves that comment alone. After I fill her in on the supernatural aspect of the situation, she offers again to leave work and ride in with reinforcements. But more people on the scene could scare off Peter, and I’ve already set and baited this trap with his stuff.

  What might help is more information, and I’ve got a feeling Kayla’s holding out on me. “See what you can find out about Western-themed carousels and any teleportation spells with personality adjustment or brainwashing side effects. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  With that, I settle in to wait for the werecoyote.

  A rooster crows at dawn. Kayla and I exchanged cell numbers before she went in. I check my phone for texts. Nothing.

  My ears catch a soft crunch of grass. I roll over and glimpse the vague outline of a hand climbing up the oak from behind.

  Hello, Coyote.

  I’ve already crept to the edge of the roof by the time the intruder’s entered the tree house.

  Then I spring to a hearty branch. Extending my claws, I race up until I’m just below the doorway, then fly inside. Peter lets out an oomph! as we careen toget
her against the wall.

  That’s when my nose announces that I’ve made a huge mistake.

  Before I can retreat, a pointed cowboy boot slams into my solar plexus.

  Lucky shot. I suck in a breath and hit the floor hard, knocked to fully human form. It’s darker in here, but my eyes adjust immediately.

  As I start coughing, Aimee whispers, “Yoshi! I’m so sorry!” She’s holding a Taser gun.

  “Shh!” I scold, frantically texting Kayla: False alarm. “Do not tase me,” I say to Aimee. “I hate when people tase me. What are you doing here?”

  “You obviously need my help.”

  “But —”

  “But nothing. It’s not like I charge into these situations willy-nilly. I tried to recruit a guardian angel to handle it instead, and go figure: it turns out they answer to a higher power than me.”

  “Very funny.” Still, it was good of her to come. When Aimee said she wanted to be friends, she wasn’t brushing me off. She meant it.

  At the sound of a screen door opening, I stifle my next cough and struggle to my feet. Aimee and I trade a quick glance and, crouching down, peek out of the tree-house window.

  Sure enough, there’s a fifty-something balding black man in robe and slippers, holding a shotgun. I’m fast, but not faster than a speeding bullet, and now I have Aimee to worry about, too. By Texas standards, is it a worse offense to be caught in a man’s daughter’s tree house with said daughter or to be caught in a man’s daughter’s tree house with someone else’s daughter?

  Trespass is taken seriously, either way.

  Across from us a second-floor window opens. “Dad!” Kayla calls. “It’s stray cats. They’ve been yowling all night. You want me to chase them out?”

  “Nah,” her dad says, retreating inside. “Go back to sleep and I’ll —”

  The door closes. Kayla disappears from the window, the lacy white drape fluttering closed.

  I whisper, “Is that pork I smell?”

  “You must be distracted. I would’ve thought you’d have picked up on that first.” Aimee puts away her weapon. “Javelina chops.” She gestures to a brown bag set to one side of the door beside a backpack that I’m hoping holds a couple of changes of my clothes.

  “Sure you’re not hurt?” I give her a quick half hug. “I thought you were the werecoyote.”

  “Obviously.” She grins up at me. “The wily Coyote?”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s hysterical.”

  I raise her hand to check out the new bling on her finger. It’s a ring. Not a fashion ring like my sister sometimes wears. A square-cut pink gemstone surrounded by tiny diamonds. Nothing that Aimee would pick out for herself. “Did Clyde get that for you?”

  Rings are serious stuff.

  Aimee shakes her head. “My dad, if you can believe it. I guess his new job pays well. He also sent my mom a spa gift certificate for her birthday, and they barely speak. I have no idea what he’s thinking.”

  Maybe he’s come to his senses and wants his family back. Aimee’s father is a sensitive subject. Moving to unpack my breakfast, I redirect the conversation. “How’d you get here?”

  “I took your car.”

  At least she’s okay. “Is my car okay?”

  She laughs. “I’m okay. The car’s okay. Are you?”

  “I’ll live.” Aimee’s been taking martial-arts classes, but lucky shot or no, I still didn’t think she could kick my ass . . . or at least my solar plexus. “Where’s Clyde?”

  “In Austin,” Aimee replies with a skeptical look. “We agreed that, given the shifter-specific nature of magic you’ve run into, it makes no sense to bring a Lossum into the mix until we have a better idea of what we’re dealing with.”

  Clyde is a Wild Card shifter, a Possum on his mom’s side and a Lion on his biological dad’s. He can choose between the two forms at will. He may have agreed to take a wait-and-see attitude, but I doubt he’d sign off on her rushing solo to my side, regardless of the risks. “‘Lossum’? Lossum sounds like a leaning flower.” So she snuck away before dawn this morning without telling him. He’ll be pissed. Eating with my fingers, I tear into the chops. “You could’ve let me know it was you, sent up a flare or something.” I still feel guilty for tackling her.

  “A flare?” she replies. “I was trying not to wake up the Morgans.”

  I’m confused again. “Who?”

  “Kayla’s parents.” Aimee takes the bag, retrieves a set of plastic utensils and a napkin for me. “Here, you’re making a mess. Her mom’s a real-estate agent. And get this: her dad’s the mayor. Seriously. The mayor.”

  “You’re kidding!” I exclaim, noting that Aimee did her homework. “Is he insane?”

  Werepeople have three options — live by ourselves on some remote chunk of earth, live in insulated all-shifter communities, or go mainstream and do our best to blend — something that comes a lot easier in urban than rural areas.

  Taking a political job in a majority-human small town is two shades south of suicidal. Doing it as a parent is child endangerment.

  Anchor: The International Journal for Anthropological Discourse reports that Dr. Uma Urbaniak, a University of New Mexico professor of prehistoric anthropology, has found the remains of a humanlike species that may have lived as recently as 2,000 years ago in Kazakhstan.

  Dr. Urbaniak, some tabloids are reporting this discovery as the missing link. The television series Cryptid Crazy is featuring it as proof of the existence of yetis, a cousin to North America’s own Sasquatch. What do —

  Dr. Urbaniak: I’m of the opinion that what you see on-screen may be the partial remains of a previously undiscovered wereape in the midst of a shift. You’ll note how the shape of the head mimics modern humans, but the arms are proportionally longer. Furthermore, we’ve never before seen a member of the Homo genus of such height. This man stood over seven feet tall!

  Anchor: Are you sure he isn’t the prehistoric equivalent of an NBA player?

  Dr. Urbaniak: (No response.)

  Anchor: So, you’re saying that this proves the existence of wereapes. Do you think the species could have persisted into modern day?

  Dr. Urbaniak: I didn’t say it proved anything. But if this individual was a wereape and a representative one, I’d be surprised if wereapes still exist . . . unless they have significantly shrunk in stature or exist in utter isolation. These furry fellows would stand out from the crowd.

  Anchor: And if they are a species of man, not animal or shifter?

  Dr. Urbaniak: Then it’s more likely that they fell victim to climatic change or, over generations, interbred with other werepeople or Homo sapiens until they were indistinguishable.

  Anchor: Interbred? You heard it here first, ladies and gentlemen. Hybrids among us! Next thing you know, your grandchildren will be swinging from the trees!

  (Dr. Urbaniak tosses her notes into the air and marches off camera.)

  DESPITE YOSHI’S REASSURING TEXT, it’s hard to sit still for breakfast. But I’m famished, and I’ll probably need the energy. Besides, I don’t want to make Dad suspicious.

  My father is already dressed in period clothing — a top hat and three-piece silver-gray suit, complete with bow tie, shiny silver buttons, and pocket watch. Spiffy, but he’ll be melting by noon. Dad sets a steaming stack of six pancakes in front of me.

  Seated in my nightshirt and terry-cloth robe, I sneak a fingertip taste of the banana-walnut topping and maple syrup. Delicious.

  “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” I say. “Especially since you’re —”

  “Better not to think about it,” my father replies, referring to his diet. He’s been low carb and low fat for two months and has lost only three pounds.

  In contrast, my shifter metabolism means I could consume a baron of beef, a vat of cheesy broccoli macaroni, and a full pan of peanut-butter-fudge brownies every night without gaining weight — in fact, it’s necessary for me to keep goin
g.

  After another moment at the stove, Dad joins me, his plate boasting only one pancake, and a whole-wheat naked one at that. “Dig in,” he tells me.

  Mom just left to meet clients in the nearby Tahitian Village Community (no, we’re nowhere near Tahiti, and to make things even more confusing, the streets have Hawaiian names). Founders’ Day weekend or not, Saturday is showtime for real-estate agents.

  For a while, my father and I make chitchat about the local weather forecast. This weekend is critical to the downtown merchants and B&B/restaurant owners. It seems like Central Texas is always in a drought, but for the next couple of days, he’s hoping not to get rain.

  We always do this, have breakfast together. Dad calls it his most important meeting of the day. Sneaking Peso a piece of turkey bacon, he asks, “What are your weekend plans?”

  “I . . .” I hate lying, but Jess already spotted me in town with Yoshi last night. I’m pretty sure the werecoyote was a no-show, so we still have him to deal with, and especially given that the town’s so crowded for the festivities, it’s just a matter of time before someone mentions to my mayor-father that I’ve been seen with a nonlocal boy.

  That boy himself is something of a mystery. Yoshi has zero Internet presence — I looked before turning in. If I say I know him from student government or running or UT’s Engineering Summer Camp and Dad punches his name into a search engine . . .

  Not that my parents don’t trust me. I’ve never given them a reason not to, except for, fine, right now. I still don’t want to reveal that Yoshi is a fellow Cat, either, not so soon after the Darby debacle, but also because that would be outing him to humans, which is a no-no, even if they are humans I love and trust.

  What’s more, I’m not ready to introduce him as a friend — we just met, and I’m not a hundred-percent sure I can trust him yet. Not with Mom and Dad.

  “Something wrong, Kayla?” Dad asks, and I realize he’s stopped eating.

  I shake my head, offering a hopefully reassuring grin. “I thought I’d go out today and meet some new people. It’ll be good practice for college.”