Feral Pride (16 page)

Following Junior’s lead, I crouch behind the corner of overarching cream-colored canvas that’s fastened to the ground. Boreal and Crystal are up front, and so is the demon Seth.

“Payment is due,” Seth informs them. “In fact, it’s overdue.” Raised up, he looks taller than Boreal, over seven feet high. There’s another two or three feet of tail resting on the stage. “We have masterminded this chance to redeem your defeat on Daemon Island. When humans obtained specimens of your species, we redirected their fear and attention to werebeasts. Now, where is the tribute you promised?” He’s big on using the royal
we
.

“Crystal and I offer the boy,” Boreal replies in his gruff voice. “We are the only parents he has.”

Junior takes my hand in his big, furry one. He’s afraid.

“I make no offer whatsoever,” Crystal counters, her hand protectively on her swollen belly. Ah, she’s the one who outed Kayla to the world. What, among snowpeople, is a feminine voice could easily be mistaken by human ears for Junior’s barely adolescent male one.

Crystal adds, “It’s a relief that we managed to rescue Junior before our enemy werebeasts could use him to force us to the world stage. We’ve had too many near misses lately.”

That’s what they thought we were planning?

Crystal goes on, “How often have we been disappointed or betrayed, relying on for-hire werebeasts or humans to represent our interests? Junior has lived among them. For a
Homo deific
, his expertise is unique and priceless. Having been saddled with this failure of a husband, I deserve the glory of a successful son.”

Seth yawns, revealing fangs much larger than they looked on Oliver’s phone screen. The demon says, “You owe us
two
children anyway.” He snorts. “
Children.
We are far more costly than an entire herd of your species’ go-to sacrificial yaks.”

Boreal protests, “I didn’t expect or ask for —”

“Nevertheless,” Seth says, lingering on the
S
’s. “We shall continue with this project so long as it’s compatible with our goals. However, absent payment, we are not in your servitude.”

Just what the mortal plane needs, a rogue hell-spawn demon with delusions of grandeur.

“Look what you’ve done!” Boreal clutches his head. “We can’t summon a demon and not pay him. That’s courting disaster! We’ve completely lost control of the situation!”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Crystal replies, wagging her finger. “How many times have I told you to check with me before breaking out the cauldron?”

“You told me to do whatever was necessary to vindicate . . .”

Seth exits after them, chuckling.

I wait until they’re out of earshot. What time is it? I’ve got to get back to the retreat before Dad comes looking for me. “In Pine Ridge, they found you along the river walk?”

“Yep.” Junior pushes up on his knuckles to stand. “Crystal and Boreal were going to swoop in, pick me up, and leave Texas that night. Then it looked like their baby was coming any minute, but no.” He shakes his head. “False alarm. In the meantime, the doctor says she’s not supposed to travel. She’s not even supposed to be out of bed.”

I feel for Junior. Granny Z abandons him for a new life in Florida. He finally encounters members of his own species, and look who he ends up with. Crystal wants to use him to improve her societal status, and Boreal considers him a bargaining chip. It wouldn’t ever occur to them that we wanted to take care of the kid and enjoyed having him around. The snowboy may be young and overly trusting, but the same could be said about me. It doesn’t mean we’re stupid or useless.

“I have an important mission for you.” I reach into my windbreaker pocket and hand Junior my burner phone. “Can you make it to the welcome wall at the front of the resort?”

“WHAT ARE WE DOING HERE?”
Clyde asks on Sunday morning in a residential neighborhood in the Hill Country southwest of downtown.

Our Lion king video is viral, and the reaction so far from Seth? Crickets.

I wonder if my parents are at church right now. Until the world found out I’m a werecat, I never would’ve doubted it. But the way our minister condemns shifters, I’m not sure. We talked about going somewhere else, but it’s complicated. My mother grew up in that church, and politicians like Dad have to pick their battles.

Freddy must’ve summoned us to this new-construction ranch-style house for a reason. It’s about twenty minutes from downtown, faced with white stone, set back from the road, and secluded from its neighbors. Our scents spooked a deer when we got out of the car.

Yoshi raises his fist to knock, but a priest has already opened the door.

“Welcome,” he says. “Come on in.” He’s soft-spoken, in his late thirties, and has this remarkable kindness to his expression. “Hello, Kayla. I’m Father Ramos.”

“My parents?” I ask, pausing in the doorway. “How are they —?”

“Mayor Morgan and your mother send their love.” The priest cradles my hand in both of his. “They’re holding to their story that the video was simply a badly timed teen prank.”

I’m not Catholic, but it’s awkward, talking to a man of God about how my parents are lying on my behalf. Not that I sense any judgment on his part — it’s more of a weariness rising in me. I’m exhausted by so much not being what it seems.

Before I can ask, Father Ramos adds, “Peso is home now, too.”

“Dog person,” Yoshi mutters, shaking his head. “You . . . Whoa.”

I track his gaze to what must be the reason we’re here: Junior, bustling in to greet us with a fistful of napkins and a platter of fish sticks. “Hi, Cats! I brought you tasty treats!”

“What the frak is he doing here?” Clyde demands.

“Aimee sent him,” Freddy replies, cleaning his glasses. “Before anyone says something you’ll regret, it wasn’t Junior who called in the FHPU or disseminated the video of Kayla.”

“Aimee sent you?” Clyde steps forward. “Is she okay? How did —?”

“Hang on.” Yoshi grabs his arm. “We have some questions —”

“Take it easy,” I say, noticing Junior’s furry white cat, Blizzard, curled on a rocking chair. “He’s just a kid.”

Freddy’s phone buzzes. Second later he ends the call and reaches for the remote.

Seth’s face fills the television screen. “Good day, human scum. I’m here with Governor Lawson to announce that she will be publicly executed at 9:30
P.M.
eastern/8:30
P.M.
central tomorrow as shape-shifter subjects around the world — and in our live studio audience — cheer.

“The remainder of this missive is directed to the Lion king. Your Majesty, I am baffled by our misunderstanding and your choice to air it in this distasteful public forum. By all means, please do consider yourself invited to join us in celebrating the true savage glory of werepeople!” His smile is terrifying. “By now, you should know where I am.”

Coverage transitions back to the news desk. “Eight thirty?” Clyde echoes. “Whatever happened to midnight? Midnight is spooky, pivotal, loaded with symbolic —”

“Midnight is lousy for live coverage,” Kayla says. “Seth thinks in terms of TV ratings.”

Blizzard yawns, stretches, and then hops onto the rug, before exiting in search of food.

Father Ramos gestures toward the seating area. “You might as well settle in.”

The boys choose the matching wagon-wheel recliners, and I take the rocker.

The fish sticks taste crispy delicious, even better with the tartar sauce.

After assuring us that Aimee’s unharmed, Junior fills us in on what’s going down at Whispering Pines. He hasn’t actually seen the governor, but he’s overheard that she’s on the property. He explains that the MCC execs are being shuttled out now as chipped werepeople are being dispatched to guard the five or so miles of woodland around the resort.

Junior warns, “They’ll tear apart anybody who tries to stop the governor’s execution.”

THE MCC RETREAT
ended at noon, and the suits have been exiting Whispering Pines in airport-bound commuter vans ever since. Beats me where Dad vanished to, but I’m grateful for the chance to slip around the fence to the new lodging building beyond the amphitheater. It’s the most logical place at the resort to hold the governor and maybe even . . .

A familiar face peeks out at me from behind a tree trunk.

“Tanya!” I rush to give her a hug. “Are you all right? Where’s Darby?”

“Aimee,” she replies, her voice flat. At shifter speed, she draws a Taser to zap me. “Every day in every way, I will contribute to the profit margin of
Homo deific.
”

I’m aware of the pampered soft grass beneath my body, the flagstone under my sore shoulder. I ache all over like my body was unscrambled wrong in a transporter malfunction.

The scene onstage is colorful chaos . . . mid-shift werebears riding giant unicycles, mid-shift weredeer bouncing shiny red balls on their antlers, mid-shift raccoons tumbling . . .

Royal blue balloons pop off a mid-shift wereporcupine. Mid-shift weregoats butt horns. Mid-shift wereopossums juggle. They’re dressed in bright spandex designed to show off their tails, performing courtesy of neural implants and transformeaze.

Boreal adjusts his spectacles. “Arch your back! Play to the camera! Remove that fabric from between your buttocks!” Addressing Seth, he adds, “We’ll open with a brief, dizzying array of acts by the shifter vermin and then segue to your execution of the governor.”

With so many species of werepeople showing their fur, viewers at home will assume they’re all Seth’s followers. That they’re being used, humiliated, is simply a bonus to him.

“No, no!” the demon exclaims. “This won’t do!” He’s weaving back and forth across the stage. “We want something
classic
, something old-school that will permeate the human psyche.”

“But
you
said . . .” Boreal consults his clipboard. “I have my notes right here.” He’s flummoxed. “I suppose we could try a contortionist act —”

“Aren’t you listening?” Seth asks, lunging toward him. “We’re nixing the whole concept. If you want to revive it as a family-friendly resort attraction, like the
tweet-tweet
hummingbird garden, that’s your business. But not for our big moment!”

I can’t help thinking hummingbirds don’t
tweet
when a mid-shift Fox falls from a trapeze. Is that the maid from turndown service? I gasp at the sound of breaking bones.

Seth’s head pivots in my direction. “She’s awake.”

Snowmen grab my upper arms and drag me, struggling, to the stage area.

“This one broke its neck,” Boreal reports, leaning over the fallen Fox.

“Dispose of it,” Seth orders, offhandedly. “No time to waste and no healer handy.” He raises himself up and rears back as if to strike. “Greetings, Aimee Barnard.”

I’m not in the mood for chitchat. “Tell me, Seth, what’re you doing with that loser?”

As snowmen haul away the werefox, the demon circles me. “When it comes to exploiting werebeasts, Boreal is one of
Homo deific
’s leading visionaries.”

If humans and shifters clash, MCC Enterprises is poised to profit. Stirring up prejudice and fear is Seth’s easy path to discord. It’s a tidy arrangement. But since Crystal nixed Boreal’s sacrifice play by refusing to surrender her unborn child and Junior, the snowpeople have lost control of the situation. The demon is calling the shots.

“I grant you,” Seth goes on, “that he struggles to grasp the finer subtleties of showmanship. However, sometimes his efforts are truly inspired. Speaking of which . . .”

With a flick of the demon’s tail, Boreal draws back red-and-white-striped curtains to reveal a balding, middle-aged man dressed for success but lashed to a large spinning wheel, painted in a bull’s-eye. It’s Dad.