Feral Curse (5 page)

I’m guessing that the fact this — whatever the hell it is — happened to me right after I touched the carousel-cat figure at the antiques mall is not a coincidence. It’s magic.

I hate magic.

I let out a long, shaky breath. I’m sore all over, but I can see as well as I ever could in the dark, and I still know who the president is. My ears prick at the sound of rockabilly music.

With a groan, I force myself to my feet, raise a hunk of the tarp, and duck out under it. I take in the surroundings, the empty park grounds ahead and the tall woodsy hill behind me. Checking my digital watch, I see that no real time has passed since I left Grams’s antiques mall. Whatever happened, it was instantaneous. Or my watch is malfunctioning.

Where am I? With pained steps, I take another look at the carousel. I pull the tarp partially back up again and am struck by the sheer strangeness that the ride has been turned into a sort of giant picture frame featuring huge images — taller than me — all of the same guy.

He’s young . . . I’m guessing about my age . . . dressed for football, for baseball, in a crown of thorns and a saintly white robe, and, finally, in a graduation cap and gown.

I draw my phone from my back jeans pocket and confirm the time reading on my watch. Then, using GPS, I locate myself, spitting distance from Main Street in Pine Ridge, Texas, which apparently is about an hour southeast of Austin.

Damn. Glancing around, I spot the lights at the top of the ridge and a long concrete staircase leading up. The ringing in my ears has faded. Now I can hear not only the music but also voices talking from above as well as flowing water and the honking of a goose down here.

Geese? And wood ducks. Yeah, there’s a river over there, reduced to a stream by the drought. And a highway beyond that.

Lacking any better ideas, I call my best friend, Aimee, also known as She Who Cracked My Heart — not that best-friendship is a bad consolation prize. I know she’s working tonight, but it’s either her or Ruby, who’s out with my grandmother. I’ll be in enough trouble when Grams finds out I left Austin Antiques unlocked and unattended. No need to rush that.

When Aimee answers, I say, “You know our pact to give a shout out if we ever find ourselves kidnapped, beaten up, or somehow targeted by the mysterious supernatural?”

“As opposed to the regular, run-of-the-mill supernatural?” Over the clangs and shouts of the restaurant kitchen, I hear her say, “Clyde, cover for me. It’s Yoshi.”

I’m sure he’s thrilled to hear it. Clyde is her boyfriend. They have part-time jobs as dishwashers at Sanguini’s on South Congress. He and I aren’t best pals, but we play nice for her sake. Usually.

“Start talking,” she tells me. “Start with you. Do you still have a pulse?”

I can imagine her bustling out of the commercial kitchen, fielding the call in the rear parking lot. “I think I’m all right,” I reply. “Nothing’s bleeding or broken.” My nose is still spotting, but it’s not bad.

I catch sight of a middle-aged lady. She’s jogging this way on the river walk, wearing earbuds, and, under her breath, singing along to an early Carrie Underwood song.

Hiding behind one of the enormous mounted photographs, I whisper what I know so far.

Aimee exclaims, “You beamed an hour away?”

“‘Beamed’?” I reply.

“Teleported,” she clarifies. “Like with a transporter from
Star Trek.
Only since this isn’t the twenty-third century, we’re definitely talking magic.”

I laugh. “Yeah, I already figured that much out.”

After a pause to digest the situation, she adds, “I can cut out of here if I have to. Do you want me to come and pick you up?”

“Isn’t your dad in town this weekend?” Aimee’s been going on about his visit for weeks.

“No.” Her voice sounds tight. “He canceled again. Something about media training at work. On the upside, he’s finally sending child support and he’s caught up on all of his back payments.” She sighs. “Really, Yoshi, it’s no big deal. I can tell my manager I’m leaving now.”

Aimee’s only a sophomore. She doesn’t have a car, but she could borrow one or pick up mine at Grams’s antiques-mall parking lot. Months ago I gave Aimee my extra set of keys in case of an emergency. This more than qualifies, except . . . “Have you ever driven on a highway?”

“Technically, no, but I have tons of experience asking for rides.”

Right then, a tiny dog, panting hard, races across the picnic area. It’s being chased by . . . it’s too big to be a wolf. That’s a wereperson. A werewolf? No, it’s smaller, more slender, the ears are pointier, the tail bushier, and it has a bounce to its step. His coat’s reddish brown with white fur around the lips and a tawny belly, but he’s bigger than a werefox.

Coyote. Yeah, the wind-borne scent confirms it’s a werecoyote in full animal form.

What’s he thinking? I detect the faintest scent of Deer, of Cat, of the Coyote himself, but this is human-controlled territory. It may be dark, but the whole landscape is heavy with the scent of
Homo sapiens.
Besides: small dog, big bully. I may not be a dog person, but I hate bullies. “Aimee, I’ll have to call you back.”

I shove the phone in my pocket and take off. A short-legged little pooch like that has zero chance of outrunning a Coyote, but it’s managed to put a play-scape — specifically a spiral orange plastic slide — between itself and the large predator. When the shifter zigs, the dog zags.

“Hey, asshole,” I begin, closing the distance. “Step away from the Chihuahua.”

The Coyote snarls at me. I can tell by his eyes and tone that he understands what I’m saying, word for word, just fine.

Unless something’s gone terribly wrong, werepeople don’t lose our sense of self when we shift, and unlike our distant animal kin, he can’t tree this kitty by intimidation.

I can flash to Cat form in a heartbeat and with no recovery time. It’s all natural, a family predisposition that qualifies as a superpower. Or at least it’s fun to think so. But I won’t turn full
Puma concolor sapiens,
not this close to civilization. Not unless I have no choice in the matter.

It’s not just about passing as human. A cop or random citizen might panic at the sight of what they assume is a cougar and shoot. So I bare just my saber teeth and claws.

The Coyote responds with a lame bark-screaming sound, tucks his furry tail, and retreats sideways. I take a step, two, in his direction, and he bounds off toward the river.

Loser. Senses on high alert, I watch until I’m sure he doesn’t circle back around.

Then I crouch, trying to make myself less intimidating, and address the terrified pup. It’s practically burrowed into the ground under the lowest part of the slide.

After a moment’s hesitation, I extend the back of my hand toward its nose. I wish I had food to offer. Hell, I probably smell scarier to him than the Coyote did. But he whines and wiggles forward, which is so brave of him.

Humans may not be great at picking shifters out of a crowd — thank God. But animals can. I can’t help wondering why the wee pup isn’t more afraid of a werecat.

“Hey there, little fella,” I begin. “My name’s Yoshi, and I promise not to hurt you. But I think we’re both lost.” The name tag hanging from his rhinestone leather collar reads
PESO
.

AS FRIDAYS GO,
this one sucks. Not only is a teenage weredeer wailing at my kitchen table, my dog, Peso, is nowhere to be found.

As I’m peering out the back-door window, Darby says something semi-coherent. “You might as well go. I can’t hold on to you. You’re lost to me forever. Unworthy. I’m unworthy. Unworthy, unworthy, unworthy of your love.”

Mom glances over from the sink counter, where she’s chopping carrots.

Dad was supposed to be at the historic Opera House to announce the winner of the Little Miss Pine Ridge Pageant seven minutes ago. Instead, he presents Darby with a cup of hot cinnamon tea. “You sure you’ve never seen him before, pumpkin?”

“Yes,” I say. “Positive.” I wish he’d stop asking me that.

Peso is tiny. He could get hit by a car or . . . Then again, I can’t bail now. The Deer is completely unstable. He could impale one of my parents on his antlers . . . I think.

I’m starting to lose my patience. I tend to get that way when a situation turns illogical and exhausting. “Who
are
you, Darby?” I don’t even know if that’s his first name or last.

He wipes his eyes. “I’m in the school band. I play the clarinet.”

How very not helpful. Or interesting.

Mom sets a heaping garden salad in front of him. It’s a safe bet that a Deer’s a vegetarian.

Dad moves to my side. “You find Peso. We’ll see what we can do here. Darby may calm down enough to reason with if you’re out of the house.”

I’m sure the Deer’s ears picked up every word. I gut-check my instincts, and feel no sense of danger or urgency except my own concern for my dog. Impaling seems unlikely.

“Call it a plan,” I reply, making a run for it out the back. I wince as Darby cries out at my departure. The door shuts behind me with a
bam,
and it’s like I can breathe again.

Passing the storm shelter and then beneath my tree house, I rest my gaze briefly on the fresh hole where Peso dug his way out under the fence. His Chihuahua scent is pronounced here, mixed with that of a mystery canine.

The new dog in the neighborhood — I’ve caught wind of it more than once in the last couple of weeks, outside my school and the public library. Almost like it’s following me around, which is silly. It’s probably curious, trying to noodle out what I am.

A lot of animals got lost during last autumn’s wildfires.

“Peso! Peso!” I jog through my neighborhood, wondering if he’s camped out, living large at the taco booth downtown. Everybody loves Peso. Anyone who saw him out and about would keep an eye on him. But this weekend, there are a lot of strangers in town for the Founders’ Day festivities.

I’m almost to the library when I hear his familiar barking. “Peso!”

Ahead in the shadows, an athletic male figure appears at the top of the ridge overlooking the park and river walk. He bends to gently set down the wiggly Chihuahua, and I rush to meet Peso halfway, cradling him in my arms, laughing as he licks my nose.

“I take it that’s your dog.” The voice sounds downright flirtatious.

Great. A pervert. I set Peso down to calm himself. “That’s right.”

I don’t scare easily. Besides, I’m faster and stronger than any human, and anyone who dared to mess with a local girl in Pine Ridge would have to fight off the whole town. All I have to do is scream. This is not the kind of place where people don’t want to get involved.

It occurs to me that I’m being melodramatic and probably the guy simply wants a cash reward and that I should really get back home to see how it’s going with Darby.

My lips part as the stranger drinks me in with his eyes. For a flush moment, I feel rare and exquisite, but then I realize what he sees in me. Or rather scents.

I casually move in for a closer look. Never before has a Chihuahua-friendly dude this intriguing set foot in Pine Ridge. He smells like the sun on spring grass, and, most important, he’s the first male Cat I’ve ever met. He’s Asian or Latino. Dark-wash jeans and a snap-up Western shirt that should look old-school redneck but instead outlines his slender muscles just right. He’s sexy. He’s breathtakingly sexy. But
another
shifter in town?

“Hi. I’m Kayla. I live here.”

Please don’t be a pervert.

He raises an eyebrow. “At the library?”

“In Pine Ridge. You’re not local, right?” Smooth, Kayla, very smooth.

God, there’s so much I want to ask him. I know practically nothing about what it means to be what I — what we — are. I need — make that, I could really
use
— a friend. Someone to trust.

“I’m Yoshi.” He lowers his voice so no passing human could hear. “Yoshi Kitahara. You don’t happen to know a werecoyote with lousy people skills?”

I briefly register that the name is Japanese and that he looks mixed race. Eurasian, I’m guessing. “Werecoyote?” I shake my head. “Because?”

He glances back toward the river. “Because he tried to eat your dog.”

“Peso!” I bend to look my pup over again, running my fingertips across his short, bristly coat. He’s panting, skipping in circles. He doesn’t seem injured.

I swoop him up again and straighten.

Yoshi asks, “Any ideas as to what’s going on?”

“I . . . Lately, I’ve picked up a new canine scent around town. I dismissed it as a stray.”

He rakes a hand through his thick, dark hair. “You think it’s the same werecoyote?”

My nod is almost military. It’s not like there’s a local pack. I realize aloud, “He’s been stalking me.”

Yoshi insisted on walking me home, and along the way, we decided the Coyote wasn’t a problem we could ignore. “Not many werecats are dog people,” he observes at my gate. “I’m not.”

Humph.
If ditching Peso is necessary to functioning in the Cat world, I can live without it.

I’ve done fine on my own this far.

Yoshi adds, “If you want to track the Coyote, this detour is only giving him more time —”