Feral Pride (15 page)

Well, I’ve got news for them. The interfaith coalition should have custody of Junior now . . . and oh.

Aimee Barnard.
Turns out that I’m “contained,” too.

Am I? What’s that supposed to mean? I know that the FHPU kidnapped Tanya and Darby from Pine Ridge. If we’re all “contained,” could they be at Whispering Pines, too? It’s a huge property and only twenty minutes from Pine Ridge.

If they’re here, I have to find them. I have to at least try.

These are
my dad’s
files. He knows . . . I’m still not sure what exactly, but more than I ever imagined. It looks like Clyde was right about him. I feel like I could throw up.

I put the box back under the desk and glance both ways in the hall before returning to my own suite. The maid is still progressing steadily from room to room. She seems oddly oblivious.

Seconds later new birding binoculars are waiting for me on the puffy white comforter at the foot of my hotel bed. I recognize them from one of the shops downstairs. I was there until close today, sorting through the golfer and trophy-wife apparel for something to wear this weekend. Adjusting the thermostat again, I realize I should’ve bought a sweater. The binoculars are a gift from Dad, I suppose, for breaks between sessions. Or maybe they’re a peace offering.

Think, Aimee, think. If I were holding a weredeer and a werebear prisoner, where would I put them?

Grabbing the binoculars, I peer out the floor-to-ceiling window of my suite. A bonfire down and across the river catches my eye. It’s near the water, and we’ve had rain over the past several days. But that’s a huge flame, too near the forest parkland, given our long-standing drought. What I wouldn’t give for a Cat’s vision.

Hmm, Dad left for the ballroom over an hour ago, and he’ll stick around after the session to shake hands and schmooze afterward. MCC has an absolutely-no-hooky rule about the retreat program, so the suits should all be busy. I’ve got time to investigate now.

I take the elevator downstairs and exit to the rear of the property, taking cover in the shadows of the butterfly garden. I turn at the s’mores fire pit and follow the cement path where it veers off to the riverfront. There’s no bridge to cross, the water’s high, and the moonlight’s dim.

A flash of white catches my eye, and I raise the binoculars. There’s too much brush. I drape the strap around my neck and start climbing the nearest tree.

I raise the binoculars again, catching my breath at the scene. Three snowpeople — a male, a juvenile, and a pregnant female — stand side by side with their heads bowed. Two more of their species raise a third, laid out on a platform, to rest over the flames.

It’s a funeral pyre. Could that be Frore? Frore, whose braids hung in his eyes and whose yak-potato stew I drugged so my friends and I could steal a boat off Daemon Island? It was his body the fishermen found on that lifeboat. His fellow
Homo deific
stole it back.

I recognize the mourners as Boreal, Crystal, and Junior.

It’s a solemn occasion, even if I wasn’t one of Frore’s biggest admirers.

“SETH MIGHT IGNORE OUR VIDEO,”
Kayla says for the tenth time as she and Yoshi reposition the breakfast table in the hideout house. “Or claim it’s a hoax.”

“It is a hoax,” Yoshi puts in. “We’re trying to pass off Clyde as Leander.”

Yeah, we are. The tech’s set up and ready to go. If the real Lion king won’t step up, this Wild Card prince will have to do. “We can’t keep hiding forever. It’s past time to shake things loose.” I’m hanging bedsheets over the sheer curtains to mute the glare. “Should we mention the arctic asshats? If we say Seth’s a hell spawn, doesn’t that beg the question of who sacrificed a yak or whatever to raise him?”

“Seth is the scary one,” Kayla replies as a grandfather clock bongs upstairs. “Besides, not everyone believes the yetis exist, and those who do —”

“Bigfoot freaks aren’t going to help our credibility,” Yoshi adds. “But going toe-to-toe with a demon, the clergy couldn’t hurt. Nora talked to Father Ramos. Our contacts at the interfaith coalition are ready to hit the airwaves and back us up.”

It’s a PR war. We’re trying to stop speculation that werepeople want to rule the planet. And we’re trying to clear us in the governor’s kidnapping. If we’re lucky, we’ll rattle Seth and his friends. I can’t resist pointing out, “Snake demons don’t have toes.”

“Thank you, Clyde.” Kayla moves to the kitchen counter. She crosses out a line from her script. “Shorter is better.” Chewing on her pen, she asks, “What do y’all think of the word
besmirched
?”

A HOTEL IS
a twenty-four-hour business. I set the alarm for 5
A.M.
, sure Dad won’t be up that early. I get dressed, grab my windbreaker, and hustle downstairs. I feel vaguely guilty about how much I love the colorful blown-glass chandeliers and the blown-glass sculptures affixed to the walls; more are displayed on the grounds and in the gardens. I’m drawn to the modern and historic sepia photos of Pine Ridge. I recognize Main Street, the Opera House, the beauty parlor, and of course the Old West carousel on the riverfront.

At the reception desk, I say, “I’m looking for my friends. They’re about my age. The boy is gangly-looking, the sensitive type. The girl is bold and tall — really tall for a girl — and has this lush, thick hair . . . like shampoo-commercial hair.”

The wiry clerk twitches his nose and uses antiseptic gel on the counter to quickly clean his hands. “Did you lose your key card?”

I blink at him. “No, I’m looking for my friends. Have you seen
any
other teenagers —?”

The clerk twitches and cleans again. “The marshmallow roast begins at sundown.”

Huh. Maybe he’s nervous. The hotel is hosting a conference for its new corporate owners. Word could be out that I’m an executive’s kid. “Thanks anyway.”

I exit the lobby through automatic glass doors and hail a bellhop in a lime-green uniform with turquoise piping. “Have you seen a lanky, dark-haired guy or a girl built like an Asgardian?”

“Do you have your claim ticket?” he replies.

I wish I had photos of Tanya and Darby. “They’re not with MCC.”

The stout bellhop bobs his head. “What are the make and model of your car?”

“I’m not leaving the hotel. I’m . . .” It’s like trying to talk to a telemarketer. The Whispering Pines staff has been trained too well. They cling to their scripts.

Back in my room, I discover that the TV isn’t working. All I can get is the resort channel, which is alternating between a commercial for itself and the MCC conference schedule. I’m fiddling with the remote when a manila file is slid under the door. I flip it open and skim long enough to realize that “diminished-rights employees” are shape-shifters.

Of course! The maid who does the turndown service is a wereperson. So are the guy at the front desk and the bellhop. They’ve been programmed not to stray from their job descriptions.

MCC is staffing as many low-level positions as possible, throughout its holdings, with werepeople. The idea is to provide them with food, lodging, and medical care “only if the value of the werebeast is in excess of the costs of the treatment.” They’ll be kept under thumb with brain chips and shift-suppression serum.

What am I doing? I’m an idiot. I fling open the door to chase down whoever slipped the info to me. I briefly hesitate, realizing I’ve locked myself out, and barely catch a glimpse of someone in a white full-length hotel robe disappearing through the exit down the hall.

As I sprint to catch up, the maids whose housekeeping cart is parked two doors down acknowledge me with plastic smiles. Within seconds I barrel through the door to spot a hooded, robed figure, breathing heavily on the landing below. As loud as I dare, I call, “Stop!”

Junior looks up. Junior, the snowboy who was raised in a traveling carnival by a fortune-telling werecat named Granny Z. Junior, who outed Kayla in the hugest way possible and reported us to the FHPU. Or did he? He’s blinking at me with teary blue eyes. “Hello, Aimee.”

I descend the stairs slowly, so as not to spook him. “You left the binoculars.”

Homo deific
own the hotel. Junior’s with them. Of course he could get into my room.

He nods eagerly, his voice guttural yet begging for approval. “And I made sure your room was across from the funeral pyre. I couldn’t leave you a message. They’re listening in on the hotel phone system.”

“You could’ve knocked on my door instead of sliding the file under it,” I say.

He rocks in place. “I was worried that you’d think I was like Boreal and Crystal.”

Junior is a few years younger than I am. Kayla and I once trusted him. Even Yoshi and Clyde agreed to keep him close, and shifters can scent out deceit.

Once I reach the landing, I set aside my doubts, trust my heart, and give Junior a hug. “I’m glad you’re okay,” I say. “I’ve been worried about you.”

“Blizzard is with me, too,” he replies. Of course he’d never leave his pet cat.

“What happened?” I ask, pulling away. “What are you doing here? Did you send that video of Kayla to the media? Did you call the —?”

“That wasn’t me. It was her.” He motions me to follow. “Come. I’ll show you.”

Junior escorts me outside onto the rear grounds of the resort, along the river, past the butterfly garden and s’mores pit and hummingbird garden and sweeping pastures of bluebonnets and Indian paintbrushes that have been babied through the drought. I ask, “Where’re we going? Do you know what happened to Tanya and Darby?”

“The men in uniforms took them from Pine Ridge,” Junior replies. “I haven’t seen them since. Tanya’s strong, though, and she has a temper. Maybe they got away.” He raises a finger to his lips, urging quiet, and we pass a few groundskeepers. They don’t react at all to the sight of the furry teenage Cryptid. At the fenced-in construction site, a sign reads
PARDON OUR MESS
.

The chain link is backed by green plastic sheeting, protecting the view from prying eyes. Junior and I cut across the lawn to the river and navigate around the rocky bank to reach the other side. There’s the amphitheater, which — despite the surrounding signage and barriers — looks finished, as does the stand-alone lodging building beyond it. Both flow architecturally and are in the southwestern color scheme of the rest of the resort. That must be where they’re housing their “diminished-rights employees” and themselves.