From what I understand, Ruby turned in an Oscar-winning performance as a spy Cat. But that was performing for strangers. I know her better than anyone. She’s lying.
Aimee told me about the throw-down between Noelle and Paxton back on the island, how he was her transformeaze dealer, and she . . .
Holy crap on a cracker! Paxton didn’t kill Travis after all.
I can’t call Clyde. Our phones were confiscated by the yetis, and neither of us has had a chance to replace them yet. But I know where they are. The Wild Card’s been jabbering all day about where to take Noelle on their big date.
Bette’s Barbecue is a roadside family-style restaurant nestled in the Hill Country on yet another of those Austin lakes that looks more like a river. It’s a rustic place, dripping in Texana. From what I understand, it serves enormous portions of meat, which — by werepredator standards — makes it a romantic destination.
The aroma in the air is smoky delicious from the moment I step out of my car.
Once inside, I breeze past the host, saying I’m meeting friends and, continuing to the dining room, spot Clyde and Noelle at a table overlooking the murky water.
The restaurant is crowded and I can’t separate out their voices in the din. However, both are scowling over platters of partially decimated ribs, sausage, and whole smoked chickens. Their sides — cole slaw, beans, and potato salad — are untouched. They’ve each been served a beer, suggesting that Clyde can suddenly pass for twenty-one with his fake ID, even without whiskers, and that Noelle really is about that age.
Me? I think she’s too old for him and definitely too much trouble.
Both catch my scent before I reach the table, and they seem almost relieved when I sit down in an extra chair. “Hey, Clyde,” I begin, reaching to rip off a chicken leg. “I need to borrow your date for a while. You don’t mind, do you?”
“What’re you doing here?” he asks. “I thought you were with Aimee.”
He still cares about her, and part of me is too happy for them to mind.
I take my time chewing and wash it all down with a swig of Noelle’s beer. Then I inform her, “This evening the cops turned Paxton over to Travis’s gramps and his boys. They all think Paxton’s the one who did the kid in. They’re out for revenge.”
I’m avoiding words like “wereperson” or “shape-shifter” or “werearmadillo” or “Cat,” but Noelle understands me. She knows I know.
The Lion sets down her fork, her tiff with Clyde forgotten. “Why blame Paxton?” she asks. “He wasn’t even —”
“Ruby told us back on Daemon Island.” Clyde fiddles with his red checked napkin. “She told us that Paxton did it.”
I explain, “They blamed Ruby, and knowing her, she would’ve sacrificed herself to save a friend, except Karl Richards — the grandfather — threatened to come after me, too, after everyone in our family, until he declared justice served.”
“I had no idea.” Noelle reaches into her purse. “Not about Ruby, Paxton, any of it. She probably figured he had it coming anyway, what with the drug dealing and kidnapping.” Noelle tosses a handful of twenties on the table. “We were friends, Ruby and me. Just friends; I’m straight as a rail. But good friends, you know? She helped me through a rough time.”
The lady Lion blows out a long breath. “Where are they, Paxton and the Dillos? Can you drive me there?”
An otherwise withdrawn Clyde insists on our taking his domino-covered SUV, which he has apparently named the Bone Chiller, to the Richards Heating & Air-Conditioning warehouse.
Noelle is silent on the drive, even when I promise to protect her.
I can’t speak for Clyde, given his friendship with the young Armadillo. He may be more of a threat to Noelle than the grieving family is. But it means something that the Lioness is coming along willingly. That she insists on trying to intervene.
Nobody protests when the speedometer hits seventy-five miles per hour in a forty-five zone.
None of us are fans of Paxton, but it would be wrong for him to die for a crime he didn’t commit.
The back wheels skid as Clyde turns into the drive, and I expect him to hit the brakes. Instead, he floors the accelerator, and the Bone Chiller crashes through the metal warehouse wall.
When we jump out, Paxton is strung up, hanging by his heels, in the middle of a circle of shirtless werearmadillos, each of them holding a baseball bat. Apparently they decided to torture him first, which is awful, except that it means he’s still alive.
“Stop!” Noelle shouts, running to the bleeding, battered Cat.
She extends her claws to cut him down. I rush to help while Clyde stands back, outside the circle of Dillos, taking it all in.
“What is the meaning of this?” Karl Richards demands.
As I lift Paxton onto my shoulder, Noelle says, “Address me, old man. I’m the one who killed Travis Reid. If you want to punish someone, fine. You’re looking at her.”
Richards tosses the bat, and it spins across the gaping room, landing with a clatter on the cement floor. “No, you’re trying to protect Tornquist. He’s your lover.”
“Not anymore,” Clyde puts in. “She’s telling the truth.”
His Majesty’s men let me haul Paxton to the SUV. He moans as I lay him out on a bench of the Bone Chiller. His jaw is shattered. He’s barely conscious.
From the exertion, I’ve broken the scab on my side open. Now I’m bleeding, too. “Rest,” I tell Paxton. “We’ll get you to a healer soon.”
Paxton’s no innocent. There are shifters who died because he brought them to Daemon Island. But he’ll have to answer separately for that to Zaleski and Wertheimer and in a way that makes us all out to be more than animals.
“I demand an explanation,” Richards declares in a calmer voice, waving off his subordinates, who retreat to a small office toward the rear of the warehouse.
Noelle stays where she is, holding the hangman’s rope like it belongs to her.
I casually position myself between the lady Lion and Richards, glancing from one to the other. “You followed Ruby that night,” I say to Noelle. “You followed her and Travis into the park. You and my sister were friends, but something was wrong.”
Noelle nods. “We weren’t getting along. She didn’t understand why I kept crawling back to Paxton. Ruby insisted I could succeed as a singer in fully human form — not only on the shifter circuit but anywhere.
“I was worried about her, too. I thought she was keeping secrets. I didn’t understand the change in her, the provocative way she suddenly dressed and acted. She smelled as if she was afraid for her life.”
“Davidson Morris was a vampire,” Clyde explains. “Ruby got close enough to find out what he and his buddies were up to, and then she staked him to hell. It was one of those covert, heroic, save-the-world things. Ruby is one of the good guys.”
“Oh,” Richards and Noelle breathe.
It’s satisfying, hearing the Wild Card sing my sister’s praises.
“The night Travis died, you were using transformeaze,” Clyde says. “Weren’t you, Noelle? Do you even remember what happened?” His tone is more sad than angry. “Do you even remember killing my oldest and best friend?”
Tears trickle down Noelle’s cheeks, but she keeps her head up. “The first thing I remember is Ruby tearing me off his already dead body. She tried to stop me. I don’t know what happened exactly. I must’ve lost all semblance of control, doubled back in Lion form, and by the time she —”
“It was too late.” His Majesty draws his revolver. “I lost my beloved grandson because of your ambition, your weakness, your predatory nature, because you’re a Cat.”
Clyde grabs his arm. “Enough killing! Noelle needs help. She didn’t mean to —”
“This isn’t a court of law,” Richards thunders. “I don’t care about intent. My grandbaby, my sweet young prince, suffered a horrible, painful, bloody death because of that woman. Why shouldn’t I have justice? Why shouldn’t I take a life f
or a life?”
“Because, Pop-Pop, I’m asking you not to,” replies a disembodied voice.
Goose bumps rise on my skin, but Clyde doesn’t look surprised. There’s more to him than I first realized, and not just because of his Lion within.
Meanwhile, Richards gapes at his grandson’s spirit, hovering protectively over Noelle. “Oh, Travis,” he whispers, lowering the gun.
AFTER LEAVING THE OTHERS in Nora’s care, I text Aimee on my way home from the warehouse and ask her to meet me at Travis’s shrine at the chain-link fence in the neighborhood park. In addition to saving Noelle’s life, he was right about my feelings for Aimee. I only hope that she can see past Yoshi to give me a chance.
Seated on the walk with her gypsy-style skirt tucked around her legs, Aimee has beaten me there by long enough to light a few blue votive candles.
“Any word from Quincie, Kieren, and Zachary?” I ask.
Aimee does that cute crinkling thing with her forehead. “No, but Nora did say something to the effect that they were having a hell of a time in New England, whatever that’s supposed to mean. I think they may have run into car trouble or something.”
They’ll show up soon enough. School starts again on Monday.
“I’m getting rid of my SUV,” I say. “The Bone Chiller has done what I hoped, saved a shifter from other shifters. It wasn’t as much fun as I thought it’d be.”
“You saved someone with the car?” Aimee asks, knowing it was parked here in Austin while we were on the island. “Who was your sidekick on this mission?”
“Yoshi,” I reply, though it was more of a team effort.
“Yoshi was your sidekick,” she muses. “So you don’t still hate him?”
“Unfortunately not.” Which isn’t to say I’m crazy about the guy, either.
With her good hand, she tugs me down to sit with her. “How mature of you both.”
On a roll, I add, “I’ve decided to donate my wheels to the interfaith coalition so that the domino bones of those shifters fight on with good guys.”
“Very poetic.” Aimee reaches to cuddle a stuffed toy armadillo. “Have you talked to your parents yet?”
About the whole paternity, bi-species issue, she means. “Not yet, but I will. My mom first, and then we should probably talk to my dad together. Meanwhile, I’m still a Possum, too. Now when I shift, I can pick between my Possum or Lion forms.”
“Your dad loves you,” Aimee says, as usual cutting through the crap to the heart of the issue. “And whatever was going on with your folks back then, they’re long over it. They’ve moved on together.” When I don’t reply, she adds, “How’s Noelle?”
The Lioness will survive, thanks to the bond between Travis and his grandfather. I had such a strong reaction when I met her, and, in different ways, Yoshi and even Ruby before that. Having spent my whole life in a Possum family, it may have taken getting to know Noelle to call forth my Lion heritage.
“She’s probably still pissed at me,” I say. “We broke up . . . not that we’d really gotten together together, but anyway, she has more serious things to worry about now. My backing off, it just hurt her pride.” I’m overexplaining. “Get it? Lion? Pride?”
I sound like a goof, and not in a good way. “Don’t mind me,” I say. “I might as well be playing dead.” Again. “Want to bring me back to life with a kiss?”
Her laugh is tentative. “I’m not a fairy-tale girl.”
Aimee’s always been the courageous one. She kisses me anyway. Her lips are soft and tentative, her teeth demure, and her tongue tinged with tomato sauce. It’s not all passion and heat like Noelle, but it’s more real somehow, more satisfying.
With Aimee, I can do more than battle evildoers. I can watch sci-fi and play D&D and maybe even hit the paintball range someday.
Travis was right. Nobody fits with me, the whole me, better than she does. Aimee is the Barbara Gordon/Batgirl/Oracle to my Dick Grayson/Robin/Nightwing.
No, the Dinah Lance/Black Canary to my Oliver Queen/Green Arrow!
How I dig a hot blonde in fishnets!
All we need now is tights and capes.
Feral Nights is set in a fantastical multi-creature-verse that serves as a stage for many of my novels, and the events in Feral Nights are simultaneous to those in Diabolical, my immediately preceding book.
Diabolical, along with Tantalize, Eternal, and Blessed, was inspired by Bram Stoker’s classic, Dracula. Those four books may be read either as stand-alone novels or together to form what we authors call a super-arc. Big, building story. Big payoff.
You get the idea.
Feral Nights isn’t part of that conversation with Stoker or its overarching story line. It’s a spin-off, a new story line, but one with roots. Some of the settings, characters, and plot threads were introduced in the earlier quartet.
Feral Nights grew out of letters from readers asking for more of popular secondary characters like Clyde, Aimee, and Brenek. It grew out of questions like “What ever happened to Ruby Kitahara?” and “Where did that werebear rug come from?”
Around the same time, I became ever more fascinated with the question of whether, over the ages, different species of the Homo genus have shared the earth at the same time.
I’d already begun to explore that idea by including the various species of natural-born shifters alongside Homo sapiens in the fantasy universe, when it occurred to me to wonder, What if there was another branch of the family tree — an older yet crafty and sophisticated one — prospering unknown to the rest of the world?
That said, Feral Nights is written especially for everyone who’s told me — if not in so many words — that they loved spooky adventure and sweeping romance and inspiring gallantry but saw themselves more as a first mate, a second-stringer, or a best amigo.
Speaking of y’all readers . . . Although the character of Cameron isn’t based on him, a student named Cameron that I met during a Houston/Pasadena area high school visit suggested I use his name in my next novel, preferably in connection to a demon king. Consider it done.
On a related note, the fictional Cameron’s mention of “hobbits” was a reference to Homo floresiensis, not the works of J. R. R. Tolkien. Just in case you were worried.
Avid readers and pop-culture fans may also notice references to Aesop, L. Frank Baum, Pierre Boulle, Johnny Capps, Lewis Carroll, Chris Carter, Bob Clampett, Richard Connell, Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Bill Finger, Ian Fleming, Gardner Fox, Gary Friedrich, William Golding, Hanna-Barbera, John Hughes, Carmine Infantino, Michael Jackson, Julian Jones, Bob Kane, Robert Kanigher, Rudyard Kipling, Jack Kirby, Noel Langley, Glen A. Larson, Stan Lee, C. S. Lewis, George Lucas, Bela Lugosi, Robert McKimson, Irene Mecchi, Jake Michie, General Mills, Sheldon Moldoff, Julian Murphy, Andrew Nance, George Papp, Charles Perrault, Mike Ploog, Jonathan Roberts, Jerry Robinson, Gene Roddenberry, Joe Ruby, Florence Ryerson, Louis Sachar, Franklin J. Schaffner, Leon Schlesinger Productions, Joe Shuster, Jerry Siegel, Ken Spears, Sir Henry Morton Stanley, David Stern, Jimmy Stewart, Roy Thomas, John Updike, Manuel R. Vega, John Walsh, Mort Weisinger, H. G. Wells, Joss Whedon, E. B. White, Woodrow Wilson, Edgar Allan Woof, Linda Woolverton, and Brian Yansky (who would make a fine necromancer, if he ever set his mind to it).
Alas, Daemon Island, Enlightenment Alley, Basement Blues, and Sanguini’s are fictional locales, as are the characters’ homes and various referenced publications. My apologies if you’re disappointed. I’d dearly love to sample Nora’s cognac-cream fettuccine Alfredo with broiled alligator and pine nuts, too.
On a final note, when Clyde and Aimee muse on themselves as a parallel couple to Dick and Barbara or Ollie and Dinah, they’re thinking of the good times.
As Aimee says, “Love is scary hard, even for superheroes.”
It’s also worth it.
My deepest appreciation to my editor, Deborah Noyes Wayshak; her assistant, Carter Hasegawa; my paperback editor, Hilary Van Dusen; and the additional editorial/production/design/marketing/sales
rock stars — especially Tracy and Jenny — who, day after day, make magic in the form of books.
I’d also like to thank my agent, Ginger Knowlton; her assistant, Anna Umansky; and the whole team at Curtis Brown Ltd.
Closer to home, cheers to the Austin children’s and YA literature community, particularly P. J. Hoover and Lisa Parker; to my very cute husband, Greg Leitich Smith; and to our own merry band of (were?)cats — Mercury, Bashi, Blizzard, and Leo, who raise the expression “wild things” to a whole new level.
www.candlewick.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2013 by Cynthia Leitich Smith
Cover photographs: copyright © 2013 by Tore Thiis Fjeld/Getty Images (island);
copyright © 2013 by Morton Beebe/Corbis (cat)
Photograph on title page copyright © Image Farm Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First electronic edition 2013
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2012942377
ISBN 978-0-7636-5909-7 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-7636-6368-1 (electronic)
Candlewick Press
99 Dover Street
Somerville, Massachusetts 02144
visit us at www.candlewick.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Yoshi
Clyde
Aimee
Yoshi
Yoshi
Clyde
Yoshi
Clyde
Yoshi
Aimee
Clyde
Aimee
Yoshi
Aimee
Clyde