Feral Pride (20 page)

“Yoshi has a point,” I admit. “I look ridiculous.”

With a smirk, the Cat wanders over to study the relief map of the resort property and parkland. His smug expression turns intent. I’m glad he’s partnered with Quincie. They’ll be there for Aimee, if I can’t. I’d been stressed enough about her hanging out with her dad at MCC’s retreat. But this . . . he
left
her there with them. It’s the difference between taking a routine guided tour of LexCorp and being held captive by the Legion of Doom.

“The pants leave room for a Lion’s tail.” Freddy hands over a chunky jeweled leather belt. “Purple is the color of royalty, and to add the finishing touch . . .” He attaches a satin purple cloak around my neck. Raising the hood, Freddy says, “So you don’t panic any innocent drivers you happen to pass on the road.”

Freddy plucks a slim silver flask from inside his tailored suit. He takes a swig of it and begins coughing. “Hundred-ninety-two-proof Polish vodka,” he chokes out. “I’m regretting it already.” Gesturing to Yoshi, he adds, “How about we give the Lions a moment to compose themselves?”

I wait until the swinging porch door shuts behind them. When Noelle and I broke up, I never imagined this in our future. “Why are you working for Leander? What do you do for him anyway?” I need the conversation, the distraction.

“It’s prestigious. It’s a paycheck.” Noelle stretches her arms over her head. She’s not self-conscious about her body the way human girls (and human-raised Kayla) sometimes are. “Technically, I’m his chauffeur. Not the most interesting job, but it’s not all bad. I get to drive a reproduction 1935 Supercharged Auburn Boattail Speedster, and Antonio is a beast in the sack.”

“Antonio?” I echo.

“The Liger general. He’s sympathetic to you, being a Wild Card shifter himself.”

He’s a
general
now? Werelions don’t only have a monarchy. They’ve got an army. Leander could’ve supplied more muscle for this operation. But then more of them would know it’s not him, off to face the monsters. I restrain myself from making the Tony the Liger joke. “What about your career?”

Noelle’s wearing a black Gothic military coat and pants with a cap. “My what?”

“That’s why you got hooked on transformeaze in the first place, right? So you’d get more attention in the underground club scene?” I tracked down Fayard & the French Horns on the Web and listened to some audio clips. “Sanguini’s could use a singer who knows how to purr. After this is all over, tell Quincie — the redhead in chain mail — that I said so.”

We’ve got to hurry, except . . .

The shift’s not coming.

What is this, performance anxiety? Part of me wants to ask Noelle to wait outside, but she has experience with transformeaze. “Something’s wrong. I don’t feel any different. Amped up, but . . .” My stomach aches where Yoshi’s grandmother kicked me.

Noelle extends her claws. She runs the backs of them across my shoulders. It feels better than it should. She asks, “You’re used to forcing the shift, suffering through it. You know why your friend Yoshi is so fluid?”

Do we have to talk about him right now? In a robotic voice, I ask, “Why is my friend Yoshi so fluid?”

She whispers in my ear. “He’s embraced his feral side. He’s confident in his manhood.”

Okay. “Look, I’m flattered. But getting it on with you is not going to make me more confident.” Though it might do wonders to release tension . . . Never mind, never thought it. “Also, I, um, have a serious girlfriend.”

The Lioness laughs. “
That
was presumptuous. I’m talking instinct, community, pride.”

“I don’t need riddles,” I say. “I need . . . step one, step two.”

“Step one.” She turns my chin with one finger. “Look in that mirror.”

I see golden fur, golden eyes, my mane.

THE MORALESES’ VAN
is overloaded with hand-painted parasols, oversize baskets, glass jars, antique-looking birdcages, silver and mauve pillows . . . “What is all this stuff?”

Dr. Morales pushes down some mauve tulle that overflows onto my seat and starts the engine. “It’s for the wedding Meara’s coordinating this week at Umlauf Sculpture Garden.”

All around us, coalition operatives are converting the B&B into a hospital. Mrs. Morales will be leading a medical team onto the resort grounds. They’ll be dropped off three minutes after Yoshi and Quincie. Chatter centers on removing neural implants from the kidnapped shifters, but they’re preparing to treat injuries, too.

Meanwhile, Junior arrives with Father Ramos as Noelle and Clyde — what an outfit — exit the screened-in porch. I catch sight of Yoshi in the crowd. He’s laughing and twirling around a girl who looks so much like him that she must be Ruby. (She’d
better
be Ruby.)

“That’s Yoshi’s sister,” Dr. Morales confirms. “She and Brenek . . .” The professor gestures to a huge young guy who’s suiting up. “They didn’t want to risk getting held up at the border, so they snuck into Texas in a hot-air balloon.”

Dr. Morales backs the van out and pulls onto the country road. “We have a lot in common, Kayla. I’m a professor of electrical engineering at UT, and from what I hear, you’re on full scholarship next year to Cal Tech.” He winks at me. “You do know that Texas has a perfectly good engineering school right here?”

I suspect that’s not all we have in common. He smells human to me, which means we’re both the only one of our respective species in our households. “I wouldn’t be surprised if my scholarship offer has been withdrawn,” I say. “Now that the world knows . . . or at least is wondering if I’m a werecat.”

Dr. Morales shakes his head. “On Friday the California Institute of Technology added the protection of werepeople to its nondiscrimination statement. It’s expected that more academic institutions will follow suit.”

I
caused that. The fact that I’m supposed to be in the next freshmen class meant that they had to figure out what to do about my newfound fame. “I wonder how many of my potential future classmates will choose to go elsewhere rather than study with me.”

“I wonder how many will choose Caltech because the school has let it be known that shape-shifters are welcome on campus.” It’s the kind of thing the dad of two hybrid Wolves would say, but he doesn’t push it.

Instead, Dr. Morales asks for directions to my house. It’s a short drive past the water tower, through fields of corn and cotton, into the old neighborhood. He says, “Here we are!”

Home. It’s been a long week away. The media has given up on my appearing. For now, they’ve moved on. The front door of my white Victorian opens, and Peso darts out. I thank Dr. Morales, get out of the van, and kneel as my Chihuahua flings his hyper, wiggly body at my shins.

I don’t have helicopter parents, but I can’t blame them for hovering. I don’t even mind it — up to a point. I’m still dressed for battle. It’s not far from the B&B to the outskirts of the resort. Is Yoshi waiting for the Birds to drop the knockout gas? Is he already in the woods?

“I missed you guys,” I assure my parents in the foyer. “But my friends . . . I have to know what happens. I’ll be watching in my tree house on my laptop.”

“Pumpkin,” Dad begins in a firm voice. “You can watch TV in the parlor.” They’re both former military — air force — and an order is an order.

“Don’t make me.” I appreciate them so much more on account of Aimee’s dad and Yoshi’s grams. I decide to be honest. “I can’t feel everything I’m feeling about what may happen tonight and be the perfect daughter, the first daughter of Pine Ridge, for you, too.”

They exchange one of those psychic parent looks.

“Be yourself,” Mom tells me. “Be Kayla, whatever that means to you, and we’ll always be proud.” Shaking her head, she laughs. “Look at that blond hair!”

“I like it,” Dad puts in. “Why not try something new?”

“COME ALONG, PET,”
Crystal says, carrying Drifa in a sling across her body.

It’s almost showtime, and so far there’s been no sign of Dad or Junior. I’ve kept my ears open. Most of the
Homo deific
guards and medical staff have already left by helicopter, but no one has arrived. In the meantime, a chipped shifter at the Whispering Pines guard booth is turning away prospective guests, saying the resort is all booked for a private high-security event.

In the amphitheater, the trapezes are still dangling, but the spinning wheel has been rolled behind the curtain up front, along with the juggling pins, throwing knives, oversize tricycles, and other props. The circus is off, at least for tonight.

Instead, the stage has been redesigned to look like a coliseum.

Two electronic message boards have been hung from the open-air metal rafters. A communications console has been positioned on a riser to one side of the audience. Mounted video cameras will capture whatever happens next.

“So much for Seth’s Cirque du Shifters,” I mutter. No sign of him or the governor yet either.

“It’s talking again,” Boreal says.

Crystal replies, “It’s vocal, but smart for its kind and eager to please.”

Every seat is filled by a silent wereperson in mid-shift. Transformeaze plus brain implants at work. From what I’ve overheard, some are kidnap victims, others purchased through the same illegal trade that supplies the vampire royalty and aristocracy with its “bleeding stock.”

It’s hard not to stare. I hate to admit it, but I can see the sideshow appeal. Few humans are trusted by werepeople with the secret of their species. Even fewer have witnessed a shifter holding between human and animal form with the aid of the drug.

I’m fascinated by the variety of species — Rats, Otters, Sloths, Buffalo — in the amphitheater. Some of them I can’t even identify in mid-shift. What will this look like to humans who don’t know any werepeople . . . or at least think they don’t? The ones who have no idea their mail carrier is a Rhino or their dentist is a Rabbit. Those who’d never imagine their child’s soccer coach likes to howl at the moon.

“I see you pulled in some of the werebeasts from the woods,” Crystal says.

“Predators,” Boreal explains. “They’re scarier to humans.”

He moves to center stage to warm up the crowd. “Werebeasts, repeat after me: Every day in every way, we will contribute to the profit margin of
Homo deific.
”

The mid-shift audience intones: “Every day in every way, we will contribute to the profit margin of
Homo deific.
”

I RECOGNIZE
the slumped-over guy at the Whispering Pines guard booth as Darby. A coalition field team will bring him back to the B&B. I’m relieved that he’s okay. I never bonded with the Deer, but he’s been through enough.

My plan is simple: Seth asked for Leander. He’ll get me and not know the difference. I’ll stall and distract him. Quincie will save the day. Then I’ll make up with Aimee.

Leander usually travels with his entourage. But to avoid outing themselves, they’d need transformeaze injections, too. No way is Noelle going back on the juice, and I don’t trust any of the others.

I shouldn’t have said Aimee’s father wasn’t smart enough to be Lex Luthor.

He’s not. But that’s not the point. I should’ve cut her some slack. Look at how I puffed myself up, trying to impress the Lion king. His attitude toward my Possum parents isn’t much better than Barnard’s toward werepeople.