“How quaint.” She hands me a plastic bag from a stack on the unoccupied counter, and I realize I’m supposed to be loading up. Sandra adds, “I was sent to infiltrate the store as an in to Tornquist Senior’s businesses. He built much of his fortune catering to his fellow werebeasts. A lot of shifters are Enlightenment Alley regulars. Perhaps it’s the influence of their animal forms, but they tend to be environmentalists, and of course the Wolves are huge readers. There are currently six Canis dirus sapiens in our Women Who Run as Wolves Book Club, which meets on the second Thursday of every month.”
I can forget appealing to Sandra’s social conscience. Scanning the shelves, I see that there are no razors, no metal nail clippers. I remember knives being pre-set in the breakfast room. Maybe I’m allowed sharp objects only in supervised company.
“Between us,” Sandra continues, “I’m lonely here. I’m not of the deific, and the interns come and go. At first, you’ll be expected to help with menial chores, but I have high hopes of fast-tracking you to assist me when the occasion arises. Say, when I’m back in Austin or when clients are in residence on the island for a hunt.”
Joy. I’m her new protégé. Or maybe she’s keeping a close eye on me until she’s sure I can be trusted, in which case — wait. “Hunt?” I repeat, tightening my grip on a roll of Lifesavers candy. “What hunt?”
That evening, Cameron, the cook, lifts one of the glass mugs I polished and holds it to the overhead light. “Flawless. You really did work in a pro kitchen.”
“Five stars from Tejano Food Life,” I reply, covertly studying his horns. I’ve seen plenty of faux devils dining at Sanguini’s, but Cameron is the first real demon I’ve ever met. He has a spiked red tail sticking out of a hole in the back of his jeans.
Not my first choice for companionship, but he’s at least distracting me from obsessing over the upcoming hunt. I can’t believe they even call it that, a hunt, as opposed to, say, a psycho killing spree. Plus I can’t really talk to the interns. I think a couple of them can understand some of what I’m saying, even if they don’t know enough English to reply. One girl even proudly showed me her semester-one English textbook. But it’s hard to communicate anything meaningful, and I despise them for being here willingly . . . assuming they are here willingly. I’m honestly not sure about that, either.
Cameron moves to the stove and stirs the yak-leek soup. “Taste test?”
I sip from the ladle. “Do you have kosher salt?”
He pivots to the spice cabinet. “I have sea salt.”
Cameron oddly reminds me of that Westlake shrink my parents took me to after they broke the news that they were getting a divorce. Easy to talk to, charming even, but like it’s somehow costing you more than you can afford. He smells splendid, though, like cotton candy and peppermint.
While he tinkers with the first course, I load the chilled mugs onto a round tray and deliver them to the candlelit table in the formal dining room.
Right then, ten of the so-called deific file in, chatting about the market price for gold versus the strength of the U.S. dollar and the possible influence of the euro on both.
I grab the chilled pitcher of pale lager and weave around them, ducking in again and again to fill mugs. I’ve already positioned a glass of ice water at every place setting. For the most part, they consider me beneath their notice, which is a relief. I scan the table once more, mentally confirming that — yes — I left four more pitchers so they can pour their own refills. (Cameron assured me that trying to keep up with their drinking on a mug-by-mug basis is a lost cause.)
The one lady of the house gets a glass of V8 served with a green straw and garnished with green olives. She’s apparently in a family way.
Strolling out, I can’t resist sneaking a closer look. They stand upright and walk with a humanlike gait, but their arms are slightly longer and their jaws are noticeably bigger than those of Homo sapiens. From what I understand, they originally hail from some remote wintry homeland but have been steadily infiltrating the rest of the globe since the invention of air-conditioning, which is why it’s so blasted cold indoors.
“Tell me, Cameron,” I begin, back in the kitchen. “What’s a chipper culinary fiend like you doing playing chef to a pack of overgrown fuzz balls?”
He fills soup bowls and places them on my tray. “I wouldn’t underestimate them, kiddo. Those fuzz balls have been around since before the Neanderthals debuted on the scene. They outlived them and Homo erectus and the hobbits.”
“So you’re firmly on board?” I ask. “You live to contribute ‘every day and every way’ to their profit margin?”
Cameron garnishes each bowl with chives. “Hardly. I’m a demon. Demon. I bow only to the Prince of Darkness himself.” And yet he reaches for the pepper grinder.
“Any reason they decided to open up shop on a tropical island? I mean, it’s clear the snowmen aren’t here for the sunshine.”
Cameron gives me a look like I’m asking a few too many questions, but he doesn’t care enough to mind. “They tried a couple of hunts in the Arctic, but they ran into weather delays, a few clients froze to death, and there was an influx of mainstream media in the region when some whales got stuck in the ice. Here, all they’ve got to worry about is the occasional hurricane, which is what those huge shutters are for.” He chuckles. “Fuzz balls, snowmen . . . Just don’t call them cryptids. They find any implied association with Bigfoot undignified.”
“It must be hard, living completely undetected as a species.” Not that, under the circumstances, I feel sorry for them. “But I guess werepeople did it for centuries.”
As I hoist the tray over my shoulder, Cameron adds, “You’d be surprised by how much is out there in the world, in the underworld, even in us, waiting for its moment.”
Aren’t we the demonic fortune cookie? Before I can think more about it, there’s shouting from the dining room.
“Scoot!” Cameron urges. “I’ll load up another tray.” He holds the door open, whispering, “Serve the leaders first. Boreal, the one wearing spectacles? He’s the head male. His mate, Crystal, is opposite him. Frore, at Boreal’s right, with the braids hanging in his eyes, is the second-in-command.”
The rest are guards who watch over the grounds. Another shift has taken their place.
As I begin the dinner service, Frore says, “Lion genes should be dominant.”
Boreal tosses his spoon across the room. “Enough! I will not be swayed.”
Whatever that’s about . . . It’s only after the room falls quiet that I notice I’ve spilled soup on Crystal’s white fur. She dips her napkin into her ice water and dabs at it.
Should I apologize? Am I allowed to speak at all?
“Are you quite all right, dear?” Boreal asks.
“Yes, not to worry,” she replies, her manners dainty. “This one is new. It’s probably still in shock. Let’s give it a day or two to settle in.”
I exhale and deliver Frore’s soup, wishing I’d lobbied for a lower-profile job.
“I don’t know how you can tell them apart,” Frore replies. “They’re all so ugly.”
“That one is a female,” Boreal says. “You can tell from its tiny breast buds.”
He did not just say that. Then again, I can’t tell any of them apart, except for Boreal because of his specs, Frore because of his braids, and Crystal, who’s smaller than the males, rounded from the pregnancy, and whose fur hangs in fuzzy spiral curls, apparently due to a catastrophic home perm. I drop off the last bowl to a guard.
“They’re such bald creatures,” Crystal muses. “Like hairless house cats.”
“Hairless house cats,” Frore echoes with a shudder.
Ankle cuff or no, I’ve got to find Clyde and Yoshi and get the hell out of here. The lodge is off the grid. No Internet, no phone service.
No matter. I just have to keep up this chatty, disarmingly cute act, figure out what’s going on, and connive a way off of this island for me, the boys, and whoever else
needs saving. And then I’m going to adopt a hairless house cat and treat it like royalty.
PAXTON SHOWS UP, pushing a metal food cart, and shoves a plate of milky oats through a slot in the cage bars. He’s ditched the heavy gold-chain necklaces from the club, revealing ugly, deep scars around his collarbone.
“Where’s Aimee?” I demand. Travis hasn’t reported in yet, and I don’t know if that’s because he couldn’t find her or because he’s lost track of time mooning over her. Back when he was alive, he used to do that a lot.
“Your girl? Unless she’s managed to piss off the deific, which can be fatal, she’s their newest intern. Robotic, corporate, pedestrian fashion — tragic, let me tell you.”
Noelle finally filled me in on our kidnappers. “You’re one to talk,” I counter, “selling out your fellow shifters to a bunch of overgrown arctic asshats.”
“Go play dead,” Paxton replies. “You know why you’re still alive? You’re nothing but a companion animal for Noelle. Like when horse breeders let the old mares out to pasture with their prize champions. Piss me off, and it’s the glue factory for you.”
I could’ve lived without him saying that in front of the Lioness.
Carrying a platter of meat, piled high, he approaches the slot in her cage.
Noelle saunters over as if to accept the meal and, as he leans in, lashes out through the bars with extended claws.
Paxton jerks back and flashes his teeth. “Naughty kitty! I’d let you starve, if this gig weren’t so damn profitable.”
Spotting my crutches against the nearby tree, he sets the plate on the three connected bars at the top of one and moves to try to feed her again.
“Grab it!” I yell once the underarm cushion is within her reach. “The crutch!”
“What?” Noelle is already holding the platter of food. “What’re you —?”
With a sneer, Paxton tosses the crutch so it lands on the metal roof of my cage. He doesn’t know why I want it so badly. He’s just getting off on torturing me.
Returning his attention to Noelle, Paxton adds, “Yak ribs fit for a queen.”
She sniffs her food and retreats toward her hammock, and it’s then that I notice her limp. “I’m not interested in your favors,” Noelle says.
She’s not just talking about the menu.
“You sure?” he asks. “Clients keep telling the deific that they want to bag a head with a mane — makes for a nice trophy over the fireplace mantel.”
Noelle tears off a hunk of meat. “What would you know about having a mane?”
Paxton strikes a pose that I’ve seen Yoshi work to great success, but Paxton can’t quite pull it off. “If they can’t locate a male Lion soon, the deific might take a chance on breeding you with another type of Cat.”
Noelle shakes her head. “Remember what happened last time you got too close?”
She’s the one who’d marked Paxton. Is that how she injured her foot?
“You can only hold out so long.” He runs a suggestive hand down his chest. “You and I used to play together just fine, and we kitties have our appetites.”
Ew. Whatever was between Noelle and Paxton, it ended badly.
LUIS AND I SHOWERED and refilled the canteen at the waterfall. We tied the hog’s front and back hooves, respectively, together with vines, slipped a straight branch beneath them, and are hauling it (Luis in front, me behind him) on our shoulders. It’s not that heavy, but he’s taller than me, and I keep tripping on the undergrowth.
I’ve been able to smell campfire smoke for a while.
“Almost there,” Luis says. “They’re first-rate folks — you’ll see.”
Between birdcalls, I catch snatches of conversation on the wind. At least one of the voices is feminine. Moments later, through the greenery, I make out a few figures — two slender, one burly and bulky. I catch the scent of berry, fish, Wolf, more Bear.
“Hola, fellow castaways,” Luis announces. “This is my man Yoshi.”
As we toss the hog into a fire pit, Luis introduces Mei, James, and Brenek. They look wired but healthy, rested and well fed. I haven’t forgotten what Luis told me about the yeti-hosted “big game” hunts, but we’re a Cat, two werewolves, and two werebears. I can hardly think of a more impressive combination of land werepredators. What on earth would be stupid enough to come after us?
“Yoshi Kitahara?” Brenek repeats, extending an enormous hand. He’s about my age, maybe a little younger, with a midwestern accent.
I hesitate before shaking. “Do I know you?”
“I work with your sister,” he says. “Or at least I used to.”
It takes me a minute to process. “You know Ruby? I’ve been looking —”
“Eat first,” Mei insists, glancing at her digital watch. “Talk later. The humidity zaps your strength. Food will help.”
When I open my mouth to protest, Brenek adds, “She’s right. Enjoy. Catch your breath. Then you can join me on first night watch. If you’re not too worn out, that is.”
Ah. He wants to speak with me privately. Fine, I’ve waited this long.
Making small talk, I learn that the werewolves are newlyweds, New Yorkers, and second-semester grad students at UT. She’s in botany. He’s in engineering.
Wolves have a reputation for being book smart and hyper-competent. It can be annoying, but these two seem all right. Paxton captured them biking along the lakefront. They’d been planning to fly out for a five-day, six-night honeymoon in Orlando that evening. They’re still kicking themselves for not taking an earlier plane.
I repeat the version of my story that I told Luis. The conversation oddly reminds of me of Kansas, where the first question old folks often ask is “How’d you get here?”
“Fresh catch of the day,” Mei announces, presenting me with a two-foot-long roasted fish on a large palm leaf. “It’ll take a while to cook the hog.”
Suddenly ravenous, I eat with my fingers, periodically blowing on them to cool them off. The fish tastes like tuna-y heaven. James cracks open a coconut for me, too.
After a few bites, I say, “I appreciate the hot meal, but don’t the campfires give away our location?”
“It won’t matter with the hunters,” Luis explains. “But a plane might spot the smoke, and it keeps the bugs away. There are mosquitoes here the size of ponies.”
I’ve noticed. “What’s with the berry body paint? The holy symbols?” I can’t decipher the Chinese characters on Mei and James, but the newly inked crosses on Brenek’s neck, wrists, and pulse points remind me of Clyde and Aimee’s neck tattoos.
“The hunters are usually proficient in demonic magic,” Luis explains. “These markings may help protect us against certain spells.”
“And some vampires,” Brenek puts in. “It varies from vamp to vamp. But the wards are useless against guns, which can kill you just as dead and from a distance.”
I dip my fingers into the berry mix and paint COEXIST in religious symbols down my arms — just in case. I’m not a trained fighter. Ruby is so tenderhearted that she wouldn’t even let me chase squirrels.
Only Luis has survived a previous hunt. That makes him the expert.
“We know what doesn’t work.” He makes himself comfortable by the fire. “Infighting or taking an every-shifter-for-himself attitude. Our best chance of survival is working together.”
Clearly, he’s the alpha. That’s fine. I don’t want the job, and it’s less terrifying knowing that these fellow werepredators have pledged to back me up.
Posturing aside, most Cats aren’t all that independent. I didn’t make it twenty-four hours on my own in Austin before Nora took me in.
“Understood,” I say as Luis and James begin striking rocks together to make hand axes and knives. “You can count on me.”
While we’re still within hearing range of the other shifters, Brenek explains that hunts are traditionally announced by a horn blasting from the lodge side of the island.
“How do we know a warning is
standard procedure?” I ask. “Luis has only been in one hunt, right?” I’m doing better, navigating the dense jungle, letting my animal instincts take charge and flow.
“One of the shifters that Luis met, a pygmy wereelephant, had made it through three previous rounds,” Brenek explained. “She told him.”
It goes without saying that she died last time out. “Should we be doing a better job of hiding?” I ask again. “Our campsite isn’t camouflaged, and with the smoke —”
“Wouldn’t matter,” he replies, echoing Luis. “The hunters typically use locator spells or —”
“Then why don’t they just kill us with a snap of their fingers and be done with it?” As soon as the words are out, I’m embarrassed. I expect Brenek to reassure me or yell at me to stop being such a wimp.
“They might,” he says instead, and then he changes the subject to recent college and pro sports, claiming the Chicago Bears football team is actually named after local werebears. It’s entertaining, but total BS — I think.
It gets dark fast, daylight to almost pitch-black in maybe half an hour. Fortunately, Cats see well in low light. I block a palm leaf from smacking my face.
Unable to wait any longer, I finally ask, “Did you work with Ruby at Sanguini’s or the music-promotion company?” Before Brenek can answer, I figure out where I saw him before. “It was you! You were at her place with the priest.”
“Guilty,” he says, climbing the overlook rock. “I might as well admit that I recognized your scent from her apartment.” He glances over his shoulder. “Ruby lied to you. Or at least she didn’t tell you the whole truth.”
Reaching for a handhold, I follow him up. “Meaning?”
“Ruby, that priest — Father Ramos — and I are operatives for an interfaith coalition,” he says. “It’s an international initiative, over five hundred years old.”
“So you . . .” I think it over. “Hand out pamphlets and run soup kitchens?”
His laugh is joyless. “We stake vampires, hack up zombies, and trap renegade hellhounds. You know, if we’re lucky and they don’t kill us first.”