Feral Curse (13 page)

Not that Aimee, a petite human girl, seems the least bit intimidated. “Hopefully, we’ll have this cracked in no time,” she tells Evan in a soothing voice. “And between now and then, we can come up with a plausible explanation for your disappearance. I hate having to do that to your family, but right now you have to trust me when I say it’s necessary for your safety and ours.”

I can tell Yoshi doesn’t appreciate being dismissed. If he were in Cat form, his ears would be flat against his head, but he pivots, leading the other two guys away.

Aimee’s word carries a lot of weight.

As they trail after Yoshi, Junior claps the Otter on the back. “You can say you ran away to join a traveling carnival! We’ll call you Otter Boy. I even know some carnies who’ll vouch for you.”

The drying mud on my skin makes it feel itchy. Ditto the scrapes where my skin has already begun to knit. Passing what was once Ben’s house, I say to Aimee, “You’re not afraid.”

“Of what?” she asks, glancing around the historic neighborhood.

“Me, Yoshi, Evan, your boyfriend, Clyde,” I reply. “Werepeople in general.”

“From what you and Yoshi have said, I’m not a fan of that Peter guy, at least not so long as he’s in a mystical state.”

“Mutual,” I reply. “But that’s about his
behavior,
not his species.”

Aimee’s smile is slight, almost apologetic. “It’s not like I’m joining hands and protesting down the streets of Birmingham or even starting up an ‘I Like Shifters’ page on —”

“No,” I reply. “You’re loving people as individuals. You’re loyal to them, you sacrifice for them, and not to score political points or to congratulate yourself on your sensitivity.”

It occurs to me that I could be friends with her for real. We’re already moving in that direction, and it’s not like with Jess Bigheart or practically everyone else in the world. I don’t have to risk that she’ll reject me based solely on what I am. I already know she accepts me.

I don’t have to worry that revealing my secret will place her in any more danger than she’s already placed herself in.

“Thanks,” Aimee says, blushing. “Let me guess. You scored high verbal on your SATs.”

“I did better on . . . why?”

This time the smile reaches her eyes. “Call it a hunch.”

I pick up my mail on the way into the house. One letter doesn’t have a stamp on it or, for that matter, an address: just my name. “I don’t recognize the handwriting.”

“Hmm.” Aimee sinks to her knees, greeting the yelping Peso. “Hey, little guy!”

Meanwhile, I open the envelope in the foyer. “It’s Peter,” I announce. “He dropped by while we were out.” I hand her the letter. “And left this.” The note reads:

It’s signed with a Coyote paw print.

Aimee studies the words and the mark on the paper. “There are scarier things in the world that a lone teenage werecoyote, but that doesn’t mean we should underestimate him.”

I snatch the note away. “Call Yoshi on my parents’ landline in the kitchen. Tell him to come back to the house. I’m going to brush, rinse, and take a very long, very hot shower. Maybe two.”

“LEAVE YOUR SHOES ON THE STEP,”
Kayla orders at the back door, about a half hour after Aimee called to summon me to protect them. Not that she put it in those words.

I don’t admit what a relief that was. Or how much my ego appreciated it.

Kayla adds, “No mud on my mother’s rugs. Laundry and bathrooms are upstairs. Do
not
use the shower in the master suite; use the one off the hall. Once you’re clean, look in my dad’s wardrobe for an old bathrobe. Do
not
touch anything else in my parents’ room. Until you’re clean, don’t touch anything else — period.” When I roll my eyes at Aimee over her shoulder, Kayla says, “Go on. You’re nothing to look at and smell worse.”

“Are you sure it’s okay to leave Junior with Evan?” Aimee asks. “We barely know him.”

“We barely know Junior,” I point out, shucking my shoes off. “Besides, Evan’s an Otter. A randy one, but they’re known for their upbeat temperament.”

At her raised brow, I add, “Look, I’m not trying to stereotype. ‘Chipper Otters’ and all that. But he was decent company on the hike back to the cabin, though he did wax poetic about . . .” I try not to let my gaze fall to Kayla’s chest, but she catches me looking. “Your, uh, assets.” Smooth, Kitahara, very smooth. “There’s fresh water, plenty of food in the cabin cupboards, and fish in the pond. They’ll be fine until Father Ramos arrives to fetch Junior.”

“Speaking of which,” Aimee says, putting her hand out, “my phone?”

I return it to her, and she excuses herself to make the call.

By the time I return in Mayor Morgan’s frayed robe, the girls have raided the refrigerator for snacks. The microwave beeps. Aimee pulls out a ceramic bowl of steaming
queso
and sets it next to serving baskets of blue tortilla chips, veggie potato chips, and kettle corn.

Right now Aimee’s is our only personal phone that works, though the girls have slipped mine and Kayla’s into a zippered plastic bag filled with white rice in hopes that it’ll draw out the water. I’m not optimistic that it’s going to work. Lifting the bag, I shake the rice around like I’m breading chicken. “At least my phone was cheap. I can pick up a new —”

Kayla slams a hefty beef sausage onto a plate, cracking the ceramic, and then gasps at what she’s done. Aimee purses her lips, and though I don’t read people as well as she does, I can smell the frustration and anxiety coming off Kayla. She’s not quite at her wit’s end, but she doesn’t know her own strength. It visibly shocks her back to her previously composed self.

Kayla holds up one finger, takes a deep breath, and prompts, “Aimee?”

Straightening in a kitchen chair, Aimee reports, “Father Ramos is leaving Chicago after he ‘puts out a few fires.’ He hopes to pull in here tomorrow night around ten-ish, depending on traffic. He’ll call when he hits town limits.”

“That’s one problem solved.” Kayla hands me the note from Peter. “Technically, it helps that the shifters being teleported by the carousel are drawn to me —”

I scan it.

“Except that we aren’t all friendly,” I say, finishing the note. Son of a bitch — what a psychopath. I sniff the piece of paper. It carries the faint scent of Coyote and cheesy fried chicken. Peter has been at the fest downtown. He’s walking the streets, not cowering, Coyote-style, in the shadows. He’s confident and unashamed.

I set the note on the table beside the popcorn. It’s written on the back of a deposit slip in blue ball-point ink. Now we know Peter stopped by the First National Bank of Pine Ridge, which means he’s probably been video recorded.

Given this documentation and the number of pics of Kayla on his phone, it wouldn’t be hard to prove he’s been stalking her. Still, that could draw unwelcome attention (and too many questions) to us as well, so I file that away as a plan of last resort. I never thought I’d consider turning a fellow wereperson over to human law enforcement, but if that’s what it takes to protect Kayla, I’ll do it.

Aimee asks, “What about the carousel figures? How could we track them down?”

As I circle around to the counter and pluck a knife from the cutlery holder, Kayla swings into the chair beside Aimee’s. The Cat girl says, “The Stubblefield sisters promised to resell them outside of Bastrop County.”

“Stubblefield,” I echo, moving to slice the sausage. “That name sounds familiar.”

“Sassy older ladies, sisters . . . They own Stubblefield’s Secrets on Main,” Kayla informs me. “It’s the two-story storefront across from the cotton-candy booth, the one with the antique birdcage on the sidewalk.”

Still carving the sausage, I say, “What with their Old West design, the carousel figures are fairly unique items. Can I borrow your computer?”

“In my bedroom,” she replies. “The password is CalTech1891.”

I’m sure she’ll change it later. But I should have a few minutes to poke around.

The ornately carved staircase groans as I jog up to Kayla’s room. Within seconds, I’ve booted her laptop and logged on. I do a main file search of “Benjamin Bloom” and pull up dozens of photos. Whenever Ben’s not looking at the camera, he’s looking at Kayla.

Every humanoid species — Tasmanian weredevils, yetis,
Homo sapiens
— has its own variation of body language (though we werepeople are reared to mimic the latter’s). The way he’s smiling, touching her arm, his eyes . . . I can almost see why Kayla trusted him with her secret. Poor kid. When their relationship went south, it must’ve felt like a meteor hit.

My instincts tell me he never meant for all this to happen. He never meant to put her in danger. However screwed up in the head, Ben loved her. On some level, she knows that.

It must make all of this so much harder.

I click to open the browser’s search history, highlight, and delete.

“I’M SORRY ABOUT YOUR BOYFRIEND,”
Aimee says again. “I mean, your ex-boyfriend.”

“I’m fine,” I repeat. I don’t know these people. I owe them because it’s my fault Yoshi’s here and Evan, too, and Darby in Fort Worth and even Peter, wherever he might be, and of course Aimee came on Yoshi’s account. But I don’t owe them the whole truth of Ben and me.

I’m not sure I even know the whole truth of Ben and me.

I just have to stop what’s happening.

I have to put an end to the misdirected spell, blessing,
whatever
and its effects, for good.

Peso’s scratching frantically to go outside. “I’ll take him,” Aimee announces, diffusing the silence. She gets up, snags the leash hanging from a hook, attaches it to his rhinestone collar, and exits the house. I turn to apologize to her — for I’m not sure what — when the door closes behind them.

Yoshi thunders downstairs with my laptop to work alongside me. Why did I give him my password? Oh, well, there’s nothing that interesting on my hard drive anyway, and I guess I needed a break, a few moments without him hovering. So much for that idea.

“Where’s Aimee?” he asks.

When I tell him, Yoshi peeks out the window at them and says they’re playing fetch. It’s a good call. Peso’s got energy to burn, and being cooped up in the house isn’t helping.

“Brace yourself, kitten,” Yoshi says, cracking his knuckles. “I’ve got some real-world skills to put to work here.”

I favor him with a half-smile. “Congratulations. You’ve mastered the search engine.”

Yoshi’s a wonder on the antique sites, though, pulling up a carousel snake figure in Corpus Christi, a bear in Houston, both bighorn sheep in Oklahoma City, a wolf and both ponies (plus their wagon) in Dallas, Darby’s deer in Fort Worth, Evan’s otter in Bartlesville and its mate in Waco, Peter’s coyote in Fredericksburg and its mate in San Antonio, and Yoshi’s own cat at his grandmother’s antiques mall in Austin.

I’m not sure about skills, but he’s definitely got real-world know-how.

“I used to volunteer regularly at the animal shelter,” I say, embarrassed by my compulsion to puff myself up a bit. “But my scent freaked out the dogs and rodents.”

Yoshi lifts an eyebrow. “So, you’re not all about machines. You like warm-bodied creatures, too?”

Flirt.

Finally, he announces, “We’re still missing one deer, one snake, a bear, a wolf, and both hares, buffaloes, elk, hogs, raccoons, and armadillos — basically the animals that humans find less sexy.”

I have no idea what he finds so funny. “As animals go, I’m pretty sure wolves are considered sexy.” Even if it is disloyal to my species to say so. “There’s a cat missing, too,” I add. The one that represents me, the one Ben used to cast the spell in the first place.

“Is it possible the unaccounted-for figures haven’t sold yet?” Yoshi asks, dipping a sausage slice into the warm, spicy cheese.

“They’re not on the display floor at the sisters’ store.” If the figures were for sale at Stubblefield’s, I would’ve heard about it.

“Is there a back room?” he suggests. “Or attic storage?”

“Attic,” I suppose. “It’s a two-story building.”

He drums his fingers on the table. “I’m in the business. I can say Grams is interested in buying for our shop and asked me to swing by and take a look. We can buy them.”