Feral Pride (12 page)

I don’t know her well. She’s a senior, and I’m a sophomore. Her reputation is more Gossip Girl than Mean Girl, but that’s always a fine line.

I glance up from Orwell (my make-up quiz is scheduled for after school) and bare my teeth. “The Weasels are a proud people with close ties to the Armadillos, Rats, and Opossums.”

She didn’t see that coming. Winnie shifts her weight in her pointy spiked heels.

“What do you want?” I ask. If she thinks implying I’m a Weasel is going to scar me for life, she’s out of luck. My boyfriend is half Possum, and he’s adorable — usually.

“You and that weresnake Seth aren’t going to win this war,” she says, pursing her lips. “There’s a reason that human beings dominate the planet.”

Before I can reply, the newly merged science and engineering clubs surround us and their glamazon president, Quandra Perez, says, “Stop making humanity look bad.”

I could handle Winnie on my own, but I’m touched that the S&E crowd is modeling
HUG A SHIFTER
T-shirts, each featuring a different well-known species (werebear, werewolf, werecat, weredeer, etc.) in animal form. Unlike a certain Lossum, I appreciate the people who’re on my side. I let them come to my rescue.

AUSTIN ZOO & ANIMAL SANCTUARY
closed three hours ago. It’s only us, the animals, and the handful of werecoyote employees who work here around the clock. The young Lion woman, Noelle, picked this meeting place and, as a precaution, sent us on a winding route to get here.

At the gift shop and office, Yoshi handed me a map while Quincie and Clyde reminisced about how their friend Travis’s family requested that donations be made to this place in his memory. Then she wrote a big-enough check to fund the whole operation through next summer.

Moments later, as we pass the zoo train station, Clyde whispers, “Do I look —?”

“Like a prince,” Quincie assures him.

Carrying the yellow map, I point the way. Along the sandy gravel path, the giant tortoises are unimpressed by our scents and the sleepy tiger merely licks his paw, but the coatis dive for cover and the fancy roosters collide in panic.

There’s no question when we see him waiting outside the tall chain-link lion enclosure that we’re looking at the werelion king. He’s broad shouldered, square jawed, and imposing with streaks of gray in his thick gold hair. He’s wearing an oversize gold-and-diamond watch.

Noelle introduces His Majesty as Leander Gloucester. My first time squaring off against royalty.

“I can smell the weremarsupial in you,” he says, circling Clyde. “It’s a foul taint.”

Suddenly, I’m a whole lot less impressed. Quincie’s blood-wine cowboy boot inches forward. I can sense the disappointment coming from Clyde. It’s not going to be a fuzzy reunion, the king and his long-lost son.

We’re here — Quincie, me, and Yoshi — as backup. It’s a balancing act, Yoshi warned us in the car. We want to show strength, not suggest Clyde can’t hold his own. Aimee wasn’t invited. I’m not sure if that was for her protection or because of whatever’s going on between her and Clyde. She didn’t come back with us to the hideout house last night.

“That ‘taint’ wasn’t a turnoff when you smelled it on my mother,” Clyde retorts, fingers hooked casually into his belt loops. “You asked for this meeting. What do you want?”

“I will not be spoken to in that manner by my own lowly half-Possum indiscretion.”

I can’t help wondering what the resident animal lions on the other side of the partitioned enclosure make of our standoff. There’s a white
CAUTION
sign warning visitors in red letters to
STAND BACK
because
FELINES MAY ATTEMPT TO SPRAY VISITORS
. Let’s hope not.

At the scuff sound behind us, Quincie pivots to face Leander’s . . . bodyguard? He’s some kind of massive Cat. I’m guessing six foot eight, 375 or so pounds. If it weren’t for his scent, I would’ve guessed Bear, and a big Bear at that. “Liger,” Yoshi observes aloud, filling in the blank.

Half werelion, half weretiger? It’s disloyal right now to say so, but cool.

I catch a hint of saber in Quincie’s unfriendly smile. I wondered what Clyde was thinking, bringing this human —
is
she a human? — girl.

It may be Quincie’s a human-shifter hybrid, and that’s camouflaging her scent. Whatever the deal, she’s not easily intimidated, even by the Liger. Meanwhile, Yoshi’s gaze is tracking Noelle, which gives everybody but me a partner.

Leander folds his thick arms across his rustic linen umber-colored robe — worn, I’m betting, as much for ease of disposal in case of an emergency shift as a status marker. “The Armadillo king and Noelle both tell me that you have grown into an impressive young man, resourceful in a crisis and possessing formidable allies.” He gestures to her. “She also claims you burned a multimillion-dollar island enterprise of the ice people to the ground.”

Ice people, yetis, arctic asshats,
Homo deific.
For a species that’s managed to go so untalked about for so long, they’re racking up a lot of names. I wonder again what became of Junior. We haven’t seen or heard word of him since Pine Ridge.

“None of that is news to us.” Clyde backs away. “Let’s go, people.”

I’m not sure we should give up so fast, but I don’t hesitate. Even Yoshi doesn’t buck against Clyde’s tone. Solidarity matters. We retreat. Me and Yoshi to one side of Clyde, Quincie to the other, we march four abreast, up the hill past the tortoise enclosure, toward the prickly pear cacti.

“Wait!” King Leander has chased us beyond the fenced-in tiger. “Wait, Clyde.”

When he’s acknowledged by name, Clyde turns and so the rest of us do, too.

“There is no such thing as a weresnake,” Leander announces. “Or, for that matter, a werereptile. The cold-blooded abomination that kidnapped the governor and declared war on humanity is a hell-spawn demon. An old one, from the first generation of horrors that rose from Lucifer’s flames.”

A demon? As in a
demon
demon? Seth is a scaly evil horned thing with a tail. . . . Not that I’m an expert, but I admit that does fit my personal definition of demon. I’m a devout Christian girl, a weekly churchgoer. I don’t want a damn thing to do with demons.

“What kind of demon?” Quincie asks like she knows what she’s talking about.

“The worst kind for people like us,” Leander says. “A shape-changer himself.”

IN THE BACKSEAT,
Quincie gives Clyde’s hand a quick squeeze. “His loss,” she whispers, even though the rest of us can hear her fine.

Up front, Yoshi lowers the volume on a Luminous Placenta song. “You done with him?”

“The Lion king?” Clyde buckles his seat belt. “We got what we needed, or a piece of it anyway. The yetis’ loudmouthed pet is demonic. Kayla, what can we do with that?”

His voice is full of bravado, and he says “demonic” like it’s business as usual.

“Me?” I ask as we leave the zoo parking lot. “What do you —?”

“You know about politics,” Clyde points out. “You grew up in a political family.”

“My dad is the mayor of Pine Ridge. We’re not the Clintons!”

The boys and I end up at an outdoor gallery, in the shadow of an honest-to-God castle that’s easily walkable from the hideout house. (Clyde says it used to be a military academy.) The street art on display looks to me like high-end graffiti: surreal, colorful images on exposed foundation, erosion barriers . . . I’m honestly not sure what all. It’s kind of overwhelming.

In Austin this is culture. In Pine Ridge it would be considered a white-hot mess.

We’re in hoodies and loose-fit yoga pants. The idea is to go unrecognized in outfits that wouldn’t restrict shifts, but we look like soccer moms. It’d be smarter to go straight back to the house, but all of us need space to breathe, especially Clyde.

We dropped off Quincie at the Moraleses’. She bought a stuffed toy wolf at the zoo shop for Kieren’s little sister. Quincie and Miz Morales are trading off taking care of Kieren and Joshua.

Either way, I feel bad for Clyde. Being adopted comes with its share of lingering questions. I’m sure Clyde didn’t like the few answers he got today.

I clear my throat as the boys, seated on a concrete barrier, tear into the takeout fried chicken. They’d better not finish it all by the time I’m done talking.

“Since the FHPU first appeared in Pine Ridge, we’ve been running. Hiding.” I stand like I’m giving a campaign speech. “Because that’s what werepeople do. We hide from
Homo sapiens.
Sometimes right in front of their noses, but we still deny who and what we are. Now there’s a new — or at least new to us — humanoid species out for our pelts, so we’re running and hiding from them, too.”

I’ve pricked the boys’ egos, but I have their attention. “The FHPU has been able to abduct and kill shifters in part because of the world we live in. The snake demon and the governor’s kidnapping have put everyone on edge. We need to change the conversation. We need a spokesperson people can rally around.”

“Who?” Clyde asks, taking a sip of sweet tea. “Kith —”

“Died,” I say. Palpate Kith was a werecat, a peace advocate who reached out to world leaders. The Gandhi of shifters, he was assassinated six years ago in front of UN headquarters. No wereperson has stepped up to fill the void. “We get out in front of the media with a Lion king, someone who can challenge Seth and give the talking heads something better to talk about.”

Yoshi tosses a chicken bone in the bag. “Leander will never go for it.”

“It’s not about reality.” I stand still and let my arms fall naturally to my sides. It’s confident body language. “I’m talking perception. The snake demon is invoking the story of Satan in the garden and linking the fall to werepeople. But in the animal world, lions are viewed as royalty, so when it comes to werelions, humans are primed to assume —”

“Pfft,”
Yoshi says. “Tell that to the wereorcas and polar werebears.”

“The massive werecarnivores are already on our side,” Clyde points out. “All we need is a male Lion.” He sits up straighter. “Someone majestic.” He raises his chin. “Someone inspiring.” Clyde’s grin becomes toothy. “It doesn’t have to be Leander.”

I ASKED QUINCIE
to tell Clyde that I wanted to meet tonight at the neighborhood park. This is our spot, at the chain-link fence that used to serve as a shrine to Travis’s memory.

At first, it was like the whole city turned out to leave homemade cards, signs, and mementos. Then the number dwindled to those of us who knew Travis personally, many choosing armadillo images — small stuffed toy animals and my favorite, a brightly painted
alebrije
of a dillo with wings. Now, it seems like any other hunk of chain link. Life goes on, or so people say. That may be, but the death of someone you care about changes you.

The long yellow convertible pulling in to the lot is Quincie’s, but the driver getting out is Clyde. He jogs over and, like nothing’s wrong, says, “Hey.”

“How did the meeting at the zoo go?” I ask, walking toward the swings.

He follows. “Quincie told you about that?”

Like he’s surprised. “The question is . . .” I sit, rocking back and forth. “Why didn’t you?” It’s not as though my beginner tae kwon do status would impress werepredator royalty, but I hate that he’s keeping secrets. “You could fill me in now.”