Feral Pride (2 page)

“Wereperson” is a sometimes preferred term for “shifter.” (I don’t mind either one, so long as nobody’s calling me a “freak of nature” or a “monster” . . . or insulting my hair.) We’re in no way supernatural, even if our bodies can perform a few tricks that are beyond our human cousins. We’re no recent mutation either. We trace our evolutionary line back to at least the Ice Age.

That’s not breaking news. Werecats and, for that matter, werewolves and weredeer and Raccoons and Vultures (among others) have been common knowledge among
Homo sapiens
since the mid-1800s. Some humans, like Jess and Aimee, are cool with us, but the rest . . . not so much. The not-so-much crowd, they’re the majority. Or at least they’re louder.

The great thing about being in a cop car is that other vehicles give us wide berth. I don’t like it, though, Aimee sitting on Clyde’s lap with the seat belt stretched across them. We’re doing seventy-five miles per hour, and I’ve only got one best friend. She’d be safer back here. It’s cramped but she’s tiny, and it’s not like she has to touch my naked bod — not that I’d blame Clyde for objecting. (I am irresistible.) She could sit on the other side of Kayla. That would press the Cat girl tight against me. Nudity before and after shifts isn’t a big deal among werepeople. But this is
Kayla.
I should be getting more credit for not staring at her rack. Like a ticker-tape parade.

“Clyde, what did I tell you?” Jess moves to the far right lane to let a camper trailer pass.

“Don’t touch the center console,” he replies with a sigh. He’s such a baby. He keeps playing with the radio, camera, and light-bar controls. Which, granted, are pretty cool.

We debated taking back roads (or at least avoiding tolls), but ultimately decided that I-35 North, the fastest route to Oklahoma, was worth the risks. Not for the first time, I strain against the cuffs and feel the metal give a bit. If I had the strength of a werebear, I’d be free by now.

Kayla and I discussed trying to shift ourselves free, but trapped in this position, my head bent from the low ceiling, our arms restrained behind our backs — no way. That’s not superficial, stage-one stuff — like fur, eyes, claws, teeth. We could throw a joint out of socket or puncture a lung with a rib bone. We’ve got it made over humans when it comes to healing (when our forms shift, we largely reboot ourselves), but bone and organ injuries are tougher to repair than flesh.

“Werepeople are portrayed as archvillains a lot,” Aimee points out. “Cheetah isn’t supposed to be an
Acinonyx jubatus sapiens
like Kayla, but I doubt most Wonder Woman fans put much thought into the difference.” Are we
still
talking about this?

The squad car has been pro cleaned, but somebody threw up in this backseat within the past couple of weeks. I’m getting a headache, and it’s not helping that Kayla’s Chihuahua won’t shut up. Most small animals panic in the presence of werepredators. It’s novel that, because he’s Kayla’s, Peso is so comfortable around us. Still, we should’ve left him in Pine Ridge. If he scrambles over my junk one more time, I swear . . .

“Better an archvillain than a sorry-ass villain,” Clyde chimes in, scratching his freshly grown beard. He’s a Wild Card shifter, half Lion, half Possum (he can choose between forms).

Staying clean-shaven is key to passing as human, at least until we’re out of high school. Passing — hiding in plain sight in human form — is the way most of us survive. Especially urban shifters, but even country boys (like I used to be) do their best to act average. There are species-only communities like Wolf packs, but Cats are too independent for that sort of BS.

“Besides,” Clyde goes on, “Cheetah started out as a pathetic
Homo sapiens
woman in a cat suit. It helped enormously to reinvent her like that. Think about it: How could some random society babe with a personality disorder pose a serious challenge to Diana?”

They do that all the time — or at least Aimee and Clyde do — they talk about superheroes and sci-fi characters like they’re on a first-name basis. For hours . . . this has been going on
for hours.
I’m finally bored enough to join in. “You’d sign off on a random society dude with a personality disorder challenging her.”

“Would not!” Clyde exclaims. “I bow to the awesomeness that is the Amazon princess.”

“What if it was Bruce Wayne?” I counter as a trio of motorcycle riders cruises by. “Society dude. Major issues. If he’s Superman’s fail-safe, shouldn’t he be able to take down Wonder Woman, too?” That shuts him up. I’m not a geek, but I hear them jabber about this stuff all the time. It seemed like the thing to say to score points with the girls.

Besides, this whole conversation is whistling in the dark — talking about anything except what’s really wrong. We’re retreating to safety. Wolves would stand their ground and fight, but Wolves are idiots. There’s a reason werewolves are the first shifters that humans name among monsters — often in the same breath as Count Dracula and Frankenstein.

“It makes you think, doesn’t it?” Aimee asks, glancing over at the semi in the next lane.

She’s still fretting about whether people assume some comic-book feline fatale is a shifter and what that means for the media or society or both. She’s like that. We’ve only known each other for a few months, and she’s already dragged me to three political rallies (textbooks, immigration, gay marriage). I don’t mind. The women are cute, and snacks are plentiful.

Aimee and I, we’re platonic, but she might’ve been my girl if it weren’t for Clyde.

Then again, if Aimee and I had gotten together, I wouldn’t be in this what-might-happen place with Kayla. No, that’s crazy — the Aimee part, not the Kayla part. It’s not like I was madly in love with Aimee. I like her — a lot. She can be flaky and exhausting (in a Goth/New Age/hippie way), but she has this incredible faith in the universe. It’s contagious.

You could say I love her as a friend. I do. I love her as a friend. So what’s my damage? Aimee was the first girl I cared about as more than booty and, of all the other guys in the world, she chose Clyde Gilbert instead of me.
Clyde. Gilbert.

What can I say? This Cat man has his pride.

“Bruce Wayne isn’t some random society dude with a personality disorder,” Clyde insists. “He’s the
ultimate
society dude with a personality disorder. There’s a difference.”

“Tell that to Tony Stark,” I reply, hoping I remember right that he’s Iron Man.

“You
wish
you were Tony Stark,” the Wild Card informs me.

Aimee yawns. We’re coming up on Denton, Texas, en route to Jess’s aunt’s house in Pawhuska, Oklahoma (otherwise known, I’ve been told, as Osage Nation). We left Pine Ridge not long after midnight, and it’s around 4
A.M.
now. Werepeople have more endurance than humans. Of course Cats relish naps and I sure could use one, but Aimee and Jess must be exhausted.

Peso barks, scratching the tops of my thighs — again. It’s all I can do not to hiss him into quivering submission, but Kayla would have a fit.

In the rearview mirror, I glimpse flashing lights coming up fast from behind.

“Should I floor it?” Jess asks, and suddenly we’re all wide awake.

WE’RE FIVE TEENAGERS,
two of whom are naked and cuffed, in a borrowed police vehicle with a small, highly vocal, constantly-in-motion dog. Plus, Kayla is hugely recognizable.

Aimee cranes her neck to look. “I doubt a high-speed chase is the way to go.”

I have a mental image of helicopters and live TV. “That would be bad.”

Clyde snorts. “What? You don’t think we’re getting enough media coverage?”

I ask, “Other suggestions?”

“We split up,” Kayla begins. “Shifters, jump out. Humans, say we kidnapped you and forced Jess to drive. Play dumb. Claim you don’t know anything, and take Peso home.”

At least she agrees that we shouldn’t have brought the dog.

“Bad idea.” Jess turns down the radio. “Sweetie, this is a police car. The back doors don’t open from the inside, and in case you didn’t notice, your windows are barred.”

Humans tend to underestimate shifter strength. I bet we could kick the doors open, but leverage is an issue. Again, I struggle against the metal binding.

No use, not that I’m down with leaping onto the highway. The fact that shifters heal fast doesn’t mean a semi couldn’t flatten us for good.

Clyde pitches in. “If the cop makes us get out of the car, we can take him.”

“In cuffs?” Kayla asks.

He flashes me a grin and holds the keys up for us to see.

Asshole! Leaning toward the open cage window, I snarl, “You said Aimee lost them!”

Aimee swats the Wild Card. “Not funny. I felt terrible!”

The cop isn’t messing around. He’s pulled up alongside us. Sensing the heightened tension, Peso starts shaking and drooling. He’d better not throw up.

“Pull over,” I say. “Clyde, can you knock out that separator thing?”

“Do not disturb the cage,” Jess orders him. “You’ll hurt yourself and my dad’s car, too.” She hits the turn signal. “Panicking won’t solve anything. We don’t need to give him another reason to be suspicious, and you can bet he’s got a dash cam.”

I hadn’t thought of that. “You speak cop,” I reply. “You take point.”

Jess pulls over, muttering, “No pressure.”

Grateful I’m the one behind the driver, I angle myself to conceal Kayla as much as possible. I release my fur over my lower half to mimic a pair of pants. A long shot, but it’s dark. I’ve got more control than most shifters, even most Cats. I hope the cop doesn’t look too closely. He’s getting out on the side of the highway behind us. “Jess, what’re we dealing with?”

“Trooper,” she replies, glancing at the rearview mirror. “Young guy; his gun’s out.”

“His gun’s out?” Aimee echoes. “Is that normal? That’s not normal, is it?”

“Hush,” Jess whispers, lowering her window. “Evenin’, Officer, is there a problem?”

He’s short, stocky in his crisp tan uniform. It’s not clear if we, as shifters, have any legal rights. He might shoot us all, not realizing until too late that Jess and Aimee are humans.

I tilt my head, trying to study the cop, not sure what to make of his silence. Then the breeze slips in. I open my mouth to sample it and exhale. “He’s a wereperson.” That doesn’t guarantee he’s on our side, but it improves the odds.

“A Tasmanian weredevil,” Clyde adds, like species matters at the moment.

“Damn, damn, damn, damn.” The weredevil spits and kicks at the gravel. “You’re them, aren’t you? The Cats everyone’s talking about.” Glowering, he holsters his gun. “We need to talk. Meet me at the next McDonald’s, and don’t even think about making a run for it.”

THE MOST AMAZING THING
about shifters isn’t their transformations or their animal-trait superpowers or, at least with certain species, their radiating sex appeal. All of that pales next to their appetites. They have sky-high metabolisms, and they eat more meals than hobbits.

Jess and I stroll into the twenty-four-hour McDonald’s. The dining area is nearly deserted except for a husband-wife trucker team nursing cups of coffee, a guy with a soul patch plucking at a bass guitar, and a pregnant woman with a sad face eating apple slices.

After a quick trip to the restrooms, we check out the menu options. It’s Monday. Back in Austin, the morning bell rings at Waterloo High in another five hours. I somehow doubt I’m going to make it. “We’ll take eight Bacon Habanero Ranch Quarter Pounders with large fries.” That’s two each for the werepeople, including the state trooper. They’d probably be happier with three, but I only have so much cash and I’m not sure how long it has to last. “Plus four vanilla shakes, four apple pies, a bottle of water . . .” I glance at Jess. “How ’bout you?”

“Diet Coke.” If she’s taken aback by the size of my order, she doesn’t show it. “Want to split Chicken McNuggets?”

I do. Addressing the clerk, I add, “We’ll also have an order of McNuggets —”

“Oh, and a chocolate cone,” Jess puts in, stifling a yawn.

“Make that two.” I like her. We met earlier tonight when she appeared out of nowhere at Town Park behind the wheel of our getaway car. Jess is calm, easygoing, with a good sense of humor . . . and human. It’s nice for a change, not being the only
Homo sapiens
in the group.