Feral Pride (14 page)

A few minutes ago, Kieren’s mom sent us up with mini cans of Dr Pepper, tiny silver straws, and matching napkins. The Wolf is still bandaged up, and Quincie is seated next to him on his waterbed. Downstairs, his dad and sister Meghan (she’s four or five) are playing Wii Ping-Pong in the great room.

Meanwhile, I’m checking out the map on the wall (a seventeenth-century museum-quality lithograph under Plexiglas). Kieren is resting his hand on an old leather-bound book that’s supposed to tell us how to defeat the demon. He’s a Wolf studies scholar, which means he’s an expert on history and magic and the demonic.

(According to Grams, werewolves are an overrated, superstitious species preoccupied with their own moon mythology, but she doesn’t think much of me either.)

At Kieren’s desk, Kayla is using his computer to research Whispering Pines Resort. It’s off 71 on the way to Pine Ridge and, according to the business page of the
Bastrop County Examiner
, the site of MCC Enterprises’ corporate retreat.

Looking over from the screen, Kayla adds, “MCC bought the resort in late January.” This morning, during our shower rotation, the Cat girl scrubbed off her fake tattoos. She’s been wearing a pair of shades we found in a kitchen drawer instead. “This is odd. The neighboring state park has been closed. The website cites fire damage, falling trees. I thought all that was cleaned up months ago.”

I come up behind her and nudge the Wolf. “You had something to tell us?”

Kieren tries to sit up and winces. “Mrs. Levy found a reference, saying Seth’s mission — or at least that associated with his breed of demon — is to create discord . . . strife. It feeds on it. I found another entry. It was heavily footnoted, riddled with disclaimers. Translation may be an issue, but it looks like no weapon of this earth can destroy him.”

“Very Whedon-y,” Clyde geek-speaks, sipping Dr Pepper.

“Very Eden-y,” Kieren counters. “We’re talking an age-old evil with a long history of success and a flare for the dramatic. Manipulative, petty, ambitious, boastful —”

“Consider it handled,” Quincie replies, giving the Wolf a quick peck on the forehead.

Then, like the matter is settled, they start chatting about some chick named Sabine from Chicago who recently sent them all friend requests on Catchup.

“Hang on,”
I say. “If ‘no weapon of this earth’—?”

“Quincie will kill the monster,” Clyde declares, rubbing his hands together like that solves everything. Realizing Kayla and I aren’t convinced, he adds, “Trust me. She kicks ass. She’s defeated Count Dracula, Lucifer . . . this smarmy vampire chef named Brad.”

“Brad,” Kayla echoes. She couldn’t sound less impressed.

The Wild Card assures her, “It was a big deal at the time.”

Quincie blows her curly strawberry bangs off her forehead. “Lucifer was only partially manifest . . .” At the appalled expression on Kayla’s face, she adds, “Never mind. I’ve got a connection. I’m sure he’ll help us. He’s experienced at this sort of thing.”

Uh-huh. I’ve about had it with these people and their secrets. With Aimee away, Kayla’s the only real friend I have in the group. Last fall Kieren spent a night in Grams’s barn on his way to joining a Wolf pack up north, which obviously didn’t work out. I don’t know why.

Anyway, we stayed up late, talking over a twelve-pack of Coors. We’d probably be like bros by now, but he claims I keep staring at his woman. He’s imagining things.

I don’t mean anything by it. I swear I’m trying to stop.

Moments later, armed with fresh mini Dr Peppers, tiny silver straws, and matching napkins, Kayla and I excuse ourselves to give the others some privacy. At Meghan’s insistence, we go to say hi to the Moraleses’ three German shepherds. They’re all sporting different colored bandannas in the backyard — a mother, Angelina, and her quickly growing pups, Concho and Pecos.

The dogs are all over Kayla and wary of me, which suggests their reaction is less about our Cat scents than my attitude. “What did you make of all that nonsense?” she whispers. “Count Dracula? Lucifer? They’re
kidding
, right?”

Thinking it over, I reply, “I hope not.”

THE FOUR-STORY
Whispering Pines hotel is designed in a huge semicircle, with the lobby, ballrooms, conference rooms, and signature restaurant in the center as well as two lodging wings to each side, all connected by a long curved promenade. Beyond it, between the parking lot and the Colorado River, there’s a fenced-off, under-construction amphitheater and a stand-alone, four-story lodging building that have yet to open for business.

At this morning’s buffet breakfast, I learned that ground broke on the site shortly after MCC bought the resort. It’ll showcase its own performance troupe as well as musical acts traveling between Austin and Houston.

“Sit here and try to learn something,” Dad orders in the partitioned hotel ballroom.

So far, he’s escorted me to two engineering lectures and a biochemistry lecture. I’ve done my share of eavesdropping, but so far nobody has mentioned the FHPU or
Homo deific.

I don’t know what I was thinking. I have no idea how to spy. The only thing I’ve picked up is that MCC is incredibly paranoid about hacking — probably because they’ve indulged in it themselves. As a result, they’re heavily into face time and obsessive about shredding paper.

“I’m on my own for dinner, then?” I ask. Dad hasn’t left my side since we arrived, but I’ve got a copy of the glossy MCC retreat schedule. Tonight’s three-hour session follows this evening’s cocktail and hors d’oeuvres reception and is labeled “senior executives only.” There’s a concurrent one labeled “junior executives only,” which basically leaves me out altogether.

“Order room service.” Dad straightens his bow tie. He’s giving a talk on media relations this afternoon. “I have to step away now. Interview with INN.” Earlier, we visited the conference room where he and his staff are fielding media. “I’ll meet you here in an hour.”

“Have fun,” I reply, and he’s off to work again.

Dad wasn’t always like this. He used to come with me and Mom to classic movies at the Paramount Theater and cooking classes (from fruit pies to wild boar) at Central Market. We’d all have these long talks about everything and nothing — like the secret lives of snails or how people are made of stardust — while camping on Lake Georgetown.

MCC has booked the entire resort complex. The amenities and activities are fairly standard: restaurants, shops, two golf courses, three swimming pools, two hot tubs, a gym, tennis courts, spa, horseback riding, and river rafting. The color palette is softly southwestern — turquoise, pink, peach, and lime green. If I were here with my friends, we’d have a blast.

The service is uneven. Two trays dropped at breakfast, and they were out of bacon. The towels in my bath were hung crooked, and I was missing a tiny bottle of shampoo.

Not that any of that exciting intel is going to help save shifter-kind.

As one fungible-looking gal or guy in a neutral suit approaches the podium to introduce another fungible-looking gal or guy in a similar neutral suit, I remind myself it’s
good
news that Dad didn’t lead me into the lair of the snowpeople (though the hotel air conditioner is cranked high), the clutches of the FHPU, or the fangs of the snake demon.

He’s an ignorant corporate drone seduced by an insanely high salary. But the upshot is I’ve sidelined myself, just when my friends need me most. When Clyde needs me most.

I make a gratuitous effort to focus as the presentation begins and straighten in my chair as I read the title: “The Boreal Retreat & Recreation Initiative.”

Boreal was the name of the egomaniacal leader on Daemon Island, and his headquarters was run much like a hotel — full dining and maid service, even a sundries shop of sorts.

I’ve only been exposed to a couple of dozen snowpeople, most of them security guards in passing — but for an internationally ambitious, technologically sophisticated, economic powerhouse species, they seem seriously committed to pampering.

The MCC speaker mentions the company having bought up a ton of nearby real estate — an effort made easier by property owners wanting to start fresh after the recent wildfires. He goes on to say that this hotel is among the latest of MCC’s acquisitions. “Our cost-saving staffing solution is already in place,” he adds. “I’m proud to announce that Whispering Pines is now serving as a test location for diminished-rights employees, drastically reducing overhead expenses and . . .”

The audience bursts into applause, and, within seconds, I’m the lone person seated in the midst of a standing ovation. What on earth is a “diminished-rights employee”?

PASSING DAD’S HOTEL ROOM
on the way to mine, I say howdy to the maid in a turquoise-and-peach uniform coming out his door. She has auburn hair, wide brown eyes, and a button nose that reminds me of werefoxes. “Turndown service,” she replies in a flat voice.

“Uh, this is my dad’s room, and I lost something, uh, my phone. I lost my phone, and I remember using it last when I was in here, and so I’m going to look for it. In my dad’s room.”

“Turndown service,” she says again.

I take that as a yes. I go in and shut the door as the maid moves on.

Dad hasn’t been with the company that long, but you’d think from his introductions at the podium that he’s been besties with the speakers since boyhood. The conference is a lot of rah-rah, but it’s also about consolidating MCC Implants and MCC Injections — not to mention a half-dozen other subsidiaries — into MCC Enterprises proper.

According to the execs, since Seth became a household name, demand for the shift-suppression serum and the brain chips has increased a hundredfold and the majority of the orders are international. Governments around the world are eager to contain “the werebeast threat,” and MCC is positioning itself as their solution. North America, the U.K., and western Europe are major target markets, but those bureaucracies move slowly. It’s anticipated (read: hoped) that “evolving political developments” (read: Seth’s declaration of war) will prompt “emergency expenditures” (read: looser moola). There was much grumbling at the podium about the presidents of both the United States and Ireland questioning the company’s motives and condemning the hysteria.

Dad may be a lot of things, but he’s not super stealthy. The file box is too big for the room’s safe, so he left it under his desk. I figure out the combination (my birthday) on my third try. I’ve wondered if MCC bought the resort as a security measure. They can do background checks on everybody with a key card, not that the maid seemed particularly on top of things.

Perched on an upholstered bench at the foot of the king-size bed, I flip through the files. Nothing on diminished-rights employees, but I see lots of talking-points memos, product information sheets on the implants and shift-suppression drug, and several world maps, including one of the South Pacific. I recognize Daemon Island as the location of the
X.

There’s also a printout of a photo of Junior. A girl named Shelby Flores had posted it on her Catchup page in an online album of Pine Ridge Founders’ Day images. (She should change her privacy settings.) From the caption (“furry fun”), this Shelby probably assumed Junior was a guy in costume.

My friends and I thought it was Junior who called the FHPU on us. From this, it looks like they came after him. A red stamp on the piece of paper reads
ACQUIRED
. I flip through recent articles on the
Homo deific
remains found in Kazakhstan and off the coast of Daemon Island. They’re stamped
ACQUIRED
, too.

Another document references “damage control” and features a list of names and status updates. Skimming, I see that the deceased island and carousel shifters are listed as “resolved,” the rest as “unresolved,” and both Tanya and Darby as “contained.” There are names I don’t recognize, but Granny Z — under “Madame Zelda” — is likewise “unresolved,” so I’m assuming the rest are shifters (and perhaps humans) who knew Junior through the carnival.

All the times I’ve heard MCC, I never wondered what the initials stand for. According to these papers, it’s the Meltwater Crisis Corporation. Their icy hunk of earth, their sanctuary, is disappearing because of us. The snowpeople want to wipe out everyone who’s encountered their species firsthand and realized what it was. That’s part of their vision of damage control.