Feral Pride (13 page)

Clyde doesn’t move toward the swing beside me. He’s not in the mood to play.

I try again, swaying. “You could tell me why you’re so pissed off.”

“I’m not. I’m trying to figure something out.” He combs his fingers through his thick hair. “What would reassure people like you — sane humans — that werepeople aren’t scary, dangerous monsters? Especially when people like your dad are selling millions of dollars of products on the idea that we are?”

Are we back here again? I ask how things went with his biological father, and suddenly the conversation is all about mine. “Even if Graham Barnard walks away from MCC — and I’m going to talk to him about that — someone else would take his place.”

“That excuses him?” Clyde stops my swing, grabbing a hanging chain in each hand. “I guess you’re pro-shifter when it doesn’t cost you anything.”

Oh, please. “It’s complicated. Werepeople don’t live in your own separate world. You live in —”

“Yours?” His claws have come out. His saber teeth are down.

“Ours.” I fight the urge to scramble backward off the swing. It’s Clyde, my Lossum. He’s emotional tonight. Something went wrong at the zoo, and that’s not all but . . . “Would it
always
be a bad thing, taking away a werepredator’s ability to shift?” I don’t mention the big herbivores like the Elk or Rhinos, but they can do a lot of damage, too.

Clyde’s eyes have gone gold. “Because?”

“Take young adolescents,” I reply. “That’s an unpredictable time. You’ve said so yourself. Or look at those scars on Quincie’s hand. Kieren’s claws did that. I know it was an accident. But if it weren’t for his mother’s healing abilities . . . Don’t you think he’d give anything to take that back?”

“Do I think Kieren would surrender his free will or Wolf nature to a bunch of arctic asshats and corporate bigots? Not so much, no.”

“My dad . . .” Is not a corporate bigot? Of course he is. But I believe people can change, and part of me understands why Dad thinks the way he does.

Last fall, when Yoshi’s big sister, Ruby, was working as a spy for the interfaith coalition, she staked a soulless vampire named Davidson Morris (Quincie’s uncle, no less). Then Ruby lost herself to her inner Cat to the point that she began lapping up his blood.

Quincie, who walked in on the scene, told me about it.

I was shocked. Ruby’s tough, every inch a Cat, but also a vegetarian.

I don’t like the way Clyde is looking at me, and I’m fed up with dominance posturing. Prince Not-So-Charming isn’t alpha to me. I duck out from under his arms.

“Are you afraid of me?” He sounds hurt. “Seriously? Your best girlfriend is a vampire.”

Marching toward home, I clarify, “I’m not afraid. I’m annoyed.” He should be able to smell the difference. “Don’t bring Quincie into this. It’s not her fault, what she is. She’s never killed anyone.” She doesn’t play stupid head games either.

“I didn’t choose
this
life,” my boyfriend counters, trailing after me. “If I killed someone in Lion form, would that be it for us? Would you just move on to the next boy shifter?”

Now I’m baffled. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t think I’ve noticed that you’re werecurious? Or is it that you’re trying too hard to prove you’re not like your dad? Not that he’s such a bad guy.”

I’ve about had it with Clyde’s sarcasm. “My father is not Lex Luthor!”

“No, he’s Luthor’s flunky. He’s the guy who writes Luthor’s speeches and announces LexCorp’s new kryptonite ray gun and tells the reporters at the
Daily Planet
that Lex isn’t available for interviews. Your dad’s not smart enough to be Luthor.”

I’ve never heard this edge to Clyde’s voice before, but shouting at each other in a public park isn’t exactly stealthy. “You’ve lost your Lossum mind.”

“Have I?” he replies as we cut under the canopy of a pecan tree. “First, my buddy Travis the Armadillo, then Yoshi the Cat, and now me. You keep trading up the food chain. You didn’t want me when I was a bald-tail weremarsupial. You didn’t become my girlfriend until I turned out to be a Lion, too.”

“Don’t you think you’re selling yourself and Travis and Yoshi short? Not to mention, me.” I poke him in the chest with one finger. “You’re wrong. I
did
want you. You were just too thickheaded and busy lusting after Noelle to realize it.”

ON OUR WAY TO WATERLOO HIGH,
Quincie fills me in on the meeting with King Leander and the news that Seth is a hell-spawn demon — unfortunately, not the first I’ve come across. In the snowmen’s island kitchen, I worked with a demon named Cameron.

In reply, I offer Quincie an edited version of last night’s blowout with Clyde.

“‘Werecurious’?” As we put the top down on her yellow 1970 Cutlass convertible (nicknamed “the Banana”), Quincie exclaims, “I cannot believe he said that!”

Me neither, but Leander must’ve been a huge disappointment. I understand now why Clyde was extra touchy on the subject of fathers. “His family’s in Amarillo. Kieren’s out of commission. I’m the person closest to him, so he took it out on me.”

“Eh,” Quincie replies. “He could’ve taken it out on Yoshi just as easily. I’m starting to think they both get off on the drama in their bromance.” She adjusts her backpack and slings an arm around me. “You don’t have to make excuses for Clyde.”

It reminds me of Clyde saying I’m excusing Dad. Is it so wrong to want to believe the best of people you love? At least Dad claims to love me back. That’s more than I can say for Clyde. It’s been two days since I told him in the car and nothing.

Once we’re inside the school, Quincie and her econ teacher Mr. Wu exchange a sharp high five as they pass each other in the foyer. Then we veer at the office and stroll by a
SAVE HUMANITY
banner featuring a drawing of Seth surrounded by a circle with a diagonal line through it. A janitor is ripping it down, and two girls selling prom tickets at a table are bitching about how the threat of interspecies war is a distraction from the social event of the year.

As arranged, Quincie and I stroll into the library and smile polite
hello
s at Mrs. Levy, an English teacher. She approaches the checkout counter with a biography of Cesar Chavez. Meanwhile, we turn toward nonfiction. There it is — at the end of the second row of shelves where Mrs. Levy left them, Kieren’s Spanish-language copy of
The Blood Drinker’s Guide
along with a half-dozen other musty tomes, a few in languages I don’t recognize. Probably paranoid, but we didn’t want to risk leading anyone to her house.

At the Moraleses’ request, his Wolf studies collection has been in safekeeping with Mrs. Levy for the past few months. Quincie carries the thickest books. She also picks up copies of
Teen Vogue
and
Seventeen
from a nearby rack. Trying to be discreet, we slide into a nearby table and prop up the magazines.

Mrs. Levy tacked a Post-it note to a relevant page. After fifteen minutes of nobody paying attention to us, I flip that book open. It’s not like my inability to sprout fur or fangs makes me any less capable of research.

I study the illustrations. We’ve got a snake wrapped around the Tree of Knowledge, a snake standing on two legs, artful use of foliage to protect Adam and Eve’s newfound modesty . . . Moving past Genesis, I skim entries on revenge snakes, poisonous snakes, and, on the upside, fertility and medical and ecological snakes. Ancient Greek snakes. Ancient Roman snakes. Kipling. Flipping ahead, the demonology section is exhaustive.

Quincie taps a bit of text: “Snake demons are known for their preoccupation with discord, from individual households to international relations.” It goes on to mention the Tudors and Franz Ferdinand. Quincie says, “I’ll see what Kieren can make of all this.”

Right then Dad — Graham Barnard of MCC Enterprises — walks in and scans the library. I take in the navy suit, blue shirt with white collar, brown horn-rimmed glasses, receding hairline. He looks older than I remember. When did he get back in town? This is not good. Or is it?

We need to talk. He wants me to stay away from Yoshi and Clyde. I want him to stop telling the world that werepeople aren’t people, and I need to find out what he knows. Most of all, I need to intercept Dad before he comes over here and gets a good look at these books.

“What’s wrong?” Quincie asks. “Hey, isn’t that your —?”

“Yeah, it is.” On Daemon Island, it made all the difference that I was inside the snowmen’s headquarters. Not by choice, granted, but I don’t have to be kidnapped to infiltrate MCC Enterprises, and it’s our most tangible lead to Seth and the snowmen.

I reach to confirm the burner phone in the pocket of my windbreaker. Standing, I slide the books toward Quincie. “Tell Kayla and the guys that I’m going to talk to Daddy Dearest about a few things and find out whatever
I can.”

The limo is black and stretchy, a corporate rental with a new-car smell. It’s suspicious, Dad showing up and pulling me out of school — even if I didn’t fight it. I’ve barely buckled my seat belt when he turns half of his attention to his handheld.

“I’ve got a business conference outside of Austin this weekend,” Dad informs me. “I thought we could do a father-daughter brunch — I can’t tell you how tired I am of Chinese food — and catch up on each other’s lives. I’m thinking Mexican.”

“How about Tia Leticia’s Salsa Bar?” I suggest. “But I should call Mom —”

“I’ve already talked to her.” He sets his hand over the box of files on the black leather seat between us. “Your mother has a huge influence on you, and most of that’s wonderful. I freely admit that I haven’t been around as much as I would’ve liked, but I’m still your father. You’re still my responsibility. If she’s not able to rein in your . . . youthful impetuousness, I have no choice but to step in.”

Dad pushes a button on the door to raise the glass separating us from the driver. He’s still skimming his e-mail. “It’s come to my attention that you’ve been associating with werebeasts.”

I’ve been expecting this. “Werepeople . . .” I trail off as his expression turns condescending. It’s a controversial word, “werepeople.” I know Dad thinks it’s a stupid exercise in political correctness. The term literally means “man-people.” Some shifters object, too, saying it implies that their animals forms are something to be ashamed of. My friends tend to use “shifters” and “werepeople” interchangeably. Nobody close to me except Dad says “werebeasts.”

“Werepeople are individuals.” Recalling my friends’ road-trip conversation about Wonder Woman and Cheetah, I add, “Some are terrific. Some are terrible. Most fall somewhere in between.”

“You could say the same thing about pit bulls or sharks,” my father counters, pocketing his device. “Not all of them are dangerous. But I wouldn’t want one dating my daughter.”

Fine, but Dad has no idea who he’s really working for or how far they’re willing to go. If I try to tell him that his bosses are really furry white Cryptids and his coworkers include a shape-changing discord demon, he’s going to think I’ve lost my mind. I’ll need proof to convince him, along with whatever other information I can pass on to my friends.

“About your business conference,” I cut in, as hope dims that I can pry his mind open. “Your company is marketing implants that can control werepeople and a drug that can suppress their ability to shift. Can I come with you to learn more about all that?”

Before he can say no, I add, “It’s for my semester report in Mr. Wu’s econ class.” I’m not taking econ, but Dad wouldn’t know that.

“You
let
her go with him?” Clyde exclaims.

“Aimee’s father’s employer may not be a fan of werepeople, but Aimee herself is a human and his own child,” Quincie points out in Kieren’s upstairs bedroom at the Moraleses’ stone-and-stucco McMansion. “The FHPU never went to Aimee’s home or Waterloo High or came looking for her at Sanguini’s. Has Mr. Barnard shown
any
sign of being a threat to her?”

“No, I guess not.” The Wild Card stops pacing. If it were me or Kayla, he’d still be arguing, but Quincie and Kieren have more influence over him.

The Wolf puts in, “I’d be shocked if Graham Barnard has any idea —”

“Yeah, I know,” Clyde admits. “I still don’t like him.” There’s more to it than that. I sense his concern, that’s sincere. But he’s feeling guilty about something, too.