Feral Pride (7 page)

I met Nora and Freddy, who’s also present, earlier this weekend. Nora’s one of those older southern ladies who own their curves and rule their kitchens. Freddy’s a trim fashionisto in his early forties who runs the catering department. She says, “Those FHPU brutes hurt our Kieren.”

I’ve never met Kieren Morales, but I’ve heard of him. He’s Clyde’s closest friend, a Wolf studies scholar who was wrong about the existence of weresnakes. According to Aimee, he doesn’t like Yoshi because the Cat “ogled” somebody. I’m guessing Kieren’s girlfriend.

“Kieren!” Aimee exclaims, sinking into a chair. “What happened? When?”

“This morning.” Cleaning his wire-framed glasses with a red napkin, Freddy reports, “Meara was in Buda, having just delivered wereraccoon triplets. Roberto had already dropped off Meghan at preschool and gone to teach a class at UT. That left Kieren home alone.”

Kieren’s mother, Meara Morales, must be a healer. Werepeople don’t go to human doctors or hospitals. I had to get creative on my physical examination forms for track and cross-country. Before realizing I was a Cat, my mom took me in for immunizations, eye and hearing checks, but, fortunately, I was never outed with a blood or urine test.

Running a hand through his thick hair, Clyde looks stunned. “How bad is —?”

“Both of his arms are broken,” reports a stunning freckled redhead, perched on the edge of the table at the front of the room. “Both shoulders separated, most of his ribs cracked or broken. He has a concussion and spinal compression fractures, so right now shifting is too dangerous. He’ll have to heal in human form for a while.” She raises her UT sports bottle, and I notice her hand is badly scarred. “The FHPU came looking for you, Clyde,” she adds, meeting his gaze. “Their pet werebears roughed him up, trying to get information. He managed to break out through the back door and lost them in the neighborhood.”

Freddy motions us in. “Thank God they didn’t shoot him.”

Clyde says, “Quincie, when can I —?”

“As soon as he’s up to it,” she replies. “His mama is with him. He’s resting now.” Her voice has an eerie calmness to it that’s pricking at my instincts.

Yoshi and I stay where we are, in the doorway.

“At least Meghan wasn’t there,” Aimee says, as ever grasping at the bright side. Glancing at me, she adds, “Kayla, this is Quincie P. Morris, the owner of this esteemed establishment. Quincie, meet our newest best friend, Kayla Morgan.”

I raise my hand in a halfhearted wave, and her responding nod is almost dismissive. I get the distinct impression that Nora and Freddy have already filled her in on me.

I’m oddly fascinated by this Quincie girl. She’s toying with a turquoise-and-silver cross necklace. Crucifix? I write off her rudeness to emotional overload. No hint of shifter to her scent. She’s dressed in faded overalls over a T-shirt and red-wine cowboy boots. Yet she exudes “predator” and holds herself like Sanguini’s is her territory.

It makes no sense in the face of an unarmed teenage human girl, but my inner Cat is screaming at me to run fast, run far, and climb the tallest tree I can find.

Yoshi steps into the room at the mention of the death of his young weredevil friend Teghan.

“Paxton didn’t survive his visit either,” Freddy puts in.

That name is new to me. With this Paxton, I don’t detect the kind of grief surrounding Teghan’s death or the outrage over Kieren’s injuries.

“Teghan and Paxton were on Daemon Island,” Yoshi says, mostly for my benefit. “He was dealing transformeaze to werepeople at an underground club downtown and working for the yetis to capture shifters for the hunts. But he did help us escape.”

“Thanks to Aimee,” Clyde adds, and she brightens at the praise.

“We already called Mei and James to warn them,” Chef Nora says. “And Brenek in Chicago, but we can’t find Noelle.” More island shifters, I assume.

Yoshi relates that the FHPU went to his grams’s antique store, searching for him and Ruby. He mentions that his sister is out of state on her honeymoon, and everyone’s delighted by that news. Then Clyde reports that his parents packed up “the kits” and his gecko and left town after an FHPU visit, too. What’s happening inside feels a lot like family business. Quincie keeps glancing my way like she’s not convinced they should be talking so freely in my presence.

Screw that. I may be a total stranger to the redhead and she may rule this restaurant. But it’s my name and image that have gone viral, my species that’s been outed, and my longtime neighbor Lula who was gunned down in cold blood in my hometown park.

Besides, I earned my bright, shiny future. I want it back.

“WHAT ARE OUR ASSETS?”
I ask, inserting myself in the conversation.

Freddy rubs his forehead. “If you mean money —”

“Manpower.” I reach for an egg-sausage-cheddar burrito. I’ll say this for restaurant folk: They’re not going to let me starve. “Make that werepeople power. Allies, muscle, special skills.”

The room quiets. I’m not sure if it’s because I asked the wrong question or the right one. Freddy winks at Nora. They seem endearingly charmed, but nobody’s in a hurry to answer.

“Kayla,” Freddy begins, once I wipe salsa from my mouth. “Stand for a moment.” I don’t see a reason not to until he pulls a cloth measuring tape from his shirt pocket and begins to unwind it. “We’ve been expecting you.” Freddy wraps the tape around my back, bust level.

Sweet baby Jesus! What’s he doing? Raising my hands, I say, “Excuse me?”

“Sizing in the junior’s category — or any category — is inconsistent,” he explains. “If you’re going to be out and about, we can’t have you looking like the girl who’s been all over the news. It won’t take much. Clothes, hair, makeup — maybe a few piercings or a tattoo . . .”

“I am not defiling my body with ink!” I exclaim. Aimee blinks at me, Clyde smirks, and I remember the matching half-inch-tall crosses tattooed around their necks. Aimee has tiny skulls on her ankles, too. “Nothing personal.”

Freddy pockets the tape. “Runner’s build. I’ll pick up a mix of outfits and accessories — stealth ensembles, everyday wear, and red carpet. Shoe size? Bra?”

I resist the impulse to cross my arms over my chest. “A bit personal, don’t you think?”

Freddy catches himself up short. “Sorry, heat of the moment. I —”

“Tsk.”
Chef Nora hands me a pen and a white napkin from the Tia Leticia’s takeout bag. “Write it all down here.” She adds, “Freddy used to be a la-di-da event planner in Chicago. He’s done his share of styling young . . . and youthful-looking ladies and gentlemen.”

“Youthful-looking” is apparently a joke that Yoshi and I aren’t in on, but everybody else in the room is mildly amused. I’m getting better using my instincts to gauge emotion, now that I’ve learned it’s something shifters excel at and not just my imagination on overdrive.

Freddy is middle-aged and definitely gay (back in Pine Ridge, he mentioned a boyfriend). It’s not like he cares about my bust and booty for any reason beyond wardrobe. What’s more, his designer clothes are tailored, his fingernails buffed — my disguise could be in worse hands.

I scribble my answers as Freddy asks Yoshi, Aimee, and Clyde for their sizes. When Clyde hesitates to answer, he gets measured, too. Meanwhile, Nora shoos Aimee out to go lie down on the sofa in the break room. “You’ve had a long night, hon. A nap will do you good.”

Quincie pushes off the table to offer Aimee a quick hug first.

“We need to wrap this up,” Freddy says as his phone buzzes. “Sergio will be in at any moment.” Frowning at his screen, he leaves the room after Aimee to take the call.

Meanwhile, Nora hands an egg-beef-bean burrito to Clyde. “Protein,” she says. “It’ll calm your nerves. I can fetch some fresh crickets if you prefer.”

Quincie moves to give Clyde’s shoulder a sisterly squeeze and reassure him that Kieren will be fine. From what I can tell, Quincie’s the Wolf’s girl. Clyde’s his buddy. But they’ve got their own friendship and history. I’m thinking that’s nice until I catch a whiff of blood — pig blood? — and realize Quincie’s drinking it from the sports bottle.

What under God’s green earth? Has the girl never heard of trichinosis? The Cat in me isn’t totally repulsed, but it’s disturbingly icky behavior, especially coming from a human. It suggests she takes the restaurant’s Goth theme too much to heart.

“Kayla asked about werepeople power,” Yoshi reminds everyone.

Nora tilts her head, like she’s weighing him. “You can tell her about the coalition.”

“I’m no expert on the subject,” he admits, reaching for his third burrito.

“You’ll do for now,” is her reply. I don’t know Nora well, but I’d swear she’s up to something.

Freddy strolls back in. “That was Karl Richards, the Armadillo king, looking for you, Clyde. He has a lead on the Snake. He wants to talk to you here tonight.”

There’s an
Armadillo
king? The only armadillos I’ve ever seen were roadkill.

“DUDE!”
Joshua exclaims, drawing Clyde into a back-slapping hug in Quincie’s family room. He’s been expecting us. He’s got a sewing machine set up and stacks of folded clothes on the dining table beneath the art deco chandelier. The next hug is for me, and Yoshi gets a warm handshake. “You must be Kayla!” Joshua gives her cheek a quick air kiss.

“I must be,” she whispers, gaping up at him.

Kayla’s not the type to gape at a good-looking guy or even a smoldering-hot guy, though she’s always sneaking peeks at Yoshi. But Joshua is transcendent, a celestial wonder. From the top of his dreadlocks to the tip of his silver-painted toenails, he’s divine.

Literally. Clyde and I figure that he’s Quincie’s new guardian angel. She’s a wholly souled vampire, the heroic and cuddly kind, and her undead state is top secret (beyond us, only Kieren, Nora, and Freddy are in the know). Earthbound angels are supposed to operate on the q.t., too. But Clyde and I aren’t stupid, and we’re friends with Quincie’s previous GA, the angel Zachary (who inspired the marble statue in Sanguini’s herb garden). Besides, Joshua’s too spectacular to be believable as a mortal, and his belt buckle reads
HEAVENLY
.

Yoshi doesn’t know any of that. It’s not my place to tell him or Kayla. Not that Yoshi seems the least interested. He’s slipped into antiques-dealer mode, inspecting the colorful rustic rug hanging on the wall behind the television. The handmade baskets and figurines as well as a few of the paintings and rugs were collected by Quincie’s late father on archaeology trips to Central and South America. Her parents died in a car accident back when she was in middle school. Nora and (sometimes) Freddy live here now, along with Joshua, who bunks in the attic.

“What’s all this?” Clyde asks, picking up a box of laundry detergent marketed to hunters.

“I’ve been busy.” Joshua holds up a black short-sleeve T-shirt. “Charcoal lined. Your odor molecules are supposed to bond with the charcoal.”

Smart. With werepeople, scent is everything.

Ever-sensible Kayla picks up a box of dryer sheets and turns it over to study the directions.

“We’ve got sealable plastic bags,” Joshua adds. “Odor-free soaps and shampoos . . . baking soda to brush your teeth with. You’ll want to change clothes and shower as often as you can. Freddy is bringing by your other clothes tonight.”

Being in a crowded place (like Sanguini’s) should make it easier to blend, even more so because of the competing aromas of food, wine, and guests’ perfumes.

Before we left the restaurant, Quincie handed me a thousand dollars cash. She said to take off work for the time being in case somebody shows up there looking for me and Clyde.

The upshot? If I’m going with my fave Lossum later to meet Pop-Pop Richards (also known as the Armadillo king), we’ll need to look different enough from ourselves that even fellow staffers don’t recognize us.

Suddenly, the shifters tense. “Stairs,” Clyde says, grabbing a stack of clothes. “Attic. Roof, if we have to.”

When threatened, Cats run and climb. Kayla and Yoshi likewise load up, leaving only the sewing machine behind. In a smooth motion, Joshua unplugs it.

From what Clyde has told me, earthbound angels smell virtually indistinguishable from humans. There’s a hint of vanilla, but they sweat like the rest of us. So, the remaining problem is me. I’ve been in the car with two Cats and a Lossum for
hours
and chowed down first breakfast with a Tasmanian weredevil. A Bear’s nose could detect that. “I’ll shower.”