Feral Pride Read online

  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.

  The Cats have settled at a bright yellow metal picnic table alongside the colorful outdoor play area to wait for the state trooper. They’re free of the cuffs and wrapped in blankets from the trunk. After a potty break, we left Peso in the backseat with the window cracked.

  Clyde is across the street at the mega truck stop, picking up clothes for Yoshi and Kayla.

  Male shifters usually shave twice a day, but Cats (their Lion cousins included) tend to be noticeably less hirsute in human form than, say, Wolves or Bears. I hardly ever see the boys this furry. It’s amazing how fast they can pass for grown men.

  Of course, Yoshi’s almost a grown man. He’ll graduate high school in six weeks or so, assuming he can yank up his grades. Tonight’s drama aside, I’m not worried about him. Yoshi has style and swagger. He uses his lean, muscled swimmer’s build to full advantage. He used to be that guy your mom warned you about, but lately he’s gravitating toward something real.

  “Here goes nothing,” Jess muses aloud as we exit carrying plastic trays loaded with food and drinks.

  As we approach the table, the cop jogs over from the parking lot, the soles of his polished black combat boots hitting concrete. I envy Jess’s light jacket. It’s in the mid-sixties, not that the werepeople, who run warmer, seem to notice the cold. Seconds later she tosses a boxed Quarter Pounder at the trooper. It’s a gesture that says (human or not) she isn’t intimidated.

  The stocky weredevil grunts, catching the box. He sniffs before he opens it. We’re hoping the beef improves his mood.

  By the time I’ve unscrewed the cap from my water bottle, the shifters have each inhaled half a burger. Yoshi breaks the silence. “What’s on your mind, Officer?”

  The weredevil turns to gesture with a fry at Kayla. “I’m wondering how you could be so stupid as to get caught on video, and this weekend to boot. Your image is everywhere. There are already websites selling tote bags and Frisbees with your face on them.”

  At the risk of stereotyping, this isn’t the first Tasmanian weredevil I’ve met, and they skew cranky. Yoshi, apparently thinking the same thing, laughs. “You don’t happen to have a vicious little sister? Eighth-grader named Teghan?”

  “Yoshi Kitahara?” The cop is frowning so deeply it looks like his forehead might split.

  Yoshi spreads his arms in self-congratulation. “Guilty as charged.”

  “You got the brat home safe!” The trooper offers his hand across the table. “Call me Oliver.” The two shake. The lingering mistrust evaporates. It turns out Oliver is Teghan’s cousin. Central Texas werepeople are tightly networked. Everybody seems to know one another within two or three degrees of separation.

  This winter Yoshi and Teghan were among werepeople who were captured and brought to a remote tropical island in the South Pacific to be hunted for sport by billionaires — including magic users and the undead. Yoshi not only saw to it that Teghan survived their hunt. He played big brother to her through the whole ordeal, and they catch up now and then over donuts.

  I got snatched, too, but since I’m human, my captors decided I’d be more useful as kitchen help, and Clyde was caged — he was on crutches at the time. This was before he discovered that he was half Lion. But afterward he found himself among the hunted as well.

  Clyde returns at a brisk pace from his shopping errand and hands Kayla the bag. With his Lossum (Lion + Possum) hearing, he didn’t miss any of the exchange.

  “She’s dead now,” Oliver says. “Teghan. Murdered.”

  Kayla, who retrieved a plain gray T-shirt and black sweatpants from the bag, pauses in her effort to slip them on under the blanket. Clyde sinks onto the yellow metal bench.

  Yoshi’s the first to respond. “What?” He covers his eyes. “Who?”

  “Don’t know,” Oliver replies. “It looked like a professional hit — execution style, which makes no sense. There’re a couple of shifters from the Austin Police Department investigating, but it seems like the only case that matters right now is the governor’s kidnapping.”

  “The governor was kidnapped?” I exclaim. “The governor of Texas?”

  Oliver glances from one of us to the next. “You haven’t heard about the weresnake?”

  “I’LL SHOW YOU.” Oliver boots his phone, fiddles a moment.

  With Jess maneuvering the blanket to protect Kayla’s modesty, the Cat girl finishes getting dressed. Then they join Yoshi in coming around the table so that they can see.

  It’s a clip from an Austin TV news station. The screen fills with the Serpent’s head. It’s a mottled beige color with darker brown triangle patterns flaring from the eyes and two short horns rising from the nose. Orange eyes. I’ve met weremammals and werebirds, but werereptiles?

  Clyde slips his arm around me, and I snuggle in.

  “Herpetologists are saying it resembles the Gaboon viper from sub-Saharan Africa,” Oliver informs us. “No word yet on whether this Vipera sapiens is literally venomous, but it might as well be.”

  The Snake opens its jaws. Assuming its head is roughly on scale with a human’s, its fangs are over three inches long. “I am Seth.” The voice is raspy, lingering on the S.

  Believe it or not, that’s not the weirdest part. It’s that he’s talking comfortably as a full-on Snake. A wereperson in animal form has to partly retract the shift to speak at all.

  Seth says, “I’m sure you recognize my distinguished guest.” The video cuts to show the forty-something governor. Her light brown curls are a mess, her mascara is smeared, and her red suit is rumpled. She stares into the camera like she’s challenging us somehow.

  The Snake takes center screen again. “On behalf of shape-shifters everywhere, we have taken the governor of Texas as a declaration of war against the human race. Rest assured there will be no peace until Homo sapiens accepts its rightful role as our subordinate.”

  With a flick of his finger, Oliver shuts his phone down. “Hit the air early this evening, but on the down low, the governor went missing on Friday. People are wigging out. There was talk going around that state and local police would be sent door-to-door, looking to arrest any shifter they could find. A bunch of cops resigned in protest or threatened to.” We heard something about that back in Pine Ridge. Now it makes more sense. Oliver adds, “Anyway, the whole operation turned out to be a BS rumor, and it’s just a matter of paperwork before everybody’s back on the job.”<
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  “Is there any proof the Snake isn’t acting alone?” Jess wants to know.

  “Bear DNA was found in the governor’s mansion,” Oliver says. “For what that’s worth.”

  “No demands?” Jess asks, her ice cream melting. “No list of grievances?”

  “Did I miss something?” Kayla adds. “Did we elect a Snake as our spokesperson?”

  Yoshi shakes his head and takes a T-shirt out of the bag. It’s a V-neck pink women’s XL with sparkly angel kittens on front. He pulls it on.

  “Hang on,” Clyde says. “I thought there was no such thing as a werereptile.”

  “That would make Seth a Cryptid,” I reply. They’re apparently more common than I thought. That Pacific island — Daemon Island — that served as the stage for the shifter hunt? It was run by a different kind of Cryptid, members of an intelligent, secretive, largely unknown species. Furry snowpeople devoted to technology (especially air-conditioning) and eco devo, prone to family drama and bad hairstyles, self-described environmentalists, who’re fond of eating yak.

  Yoshi slams his fist into the center of the metal table, denting it. The noise is too big. We all brace for someone to come running out of the restaurant and scold us. No one does.

  “Sorry about that,” he says. “I’m okay.” He takes a breath. “The symbolism of a weresnake sucks. A lot of humans already believe shifters are demonic. There’s that ridiculous story floating around the Internet that the snake in the Garden of Eden was a shape-shifter.”

  “It’s not only on the Internet,” Clyde adds. “And it’s been floating around since before forever.” He picks up his apple pie and addresses Oliver. “How bad is the fallout?”

  Oliver draws his gun and looks at it like he’s aching to shoot somebody. “The Snake and the governor could be anywhere. The whole state’s on lockdown.”

  “Lockdown?” Kayla asks, stealing the last of Yoshi’s fries.

  Oliver puts the weapon away. “They’re mostly symbolic, but there’s a roadblock on every highway heading out of Texas, at the Mexican border, the docks. TSA is on the lookout. Human bigots are nothing new, but the Snake has given regular people a reason to be afraid. And you . . .” He toasts Kayla with his vanilla shake. “You’ve become the most recognizable shape-shifter in Texas.”

  The high-profile kidnapping of Governor “Laughin’ Linnie” Lawson by a weresnake named Seth may well boost her viability as a potential candidate for the U.S. presidency.

  That’s assuming, of course, she’s rescued alive.

  “I have the best job in the world,” Lawson was quoted as saying last month. “My heart is here, in the heart of Texas, serving the fine citizens who sent me to the governor’s office.”

  Despite a flurry of recent gaffes, few doubt Lawson will run. Presidential hopefuls often deny plans to seek the nation’s highest office until they’ve fully gauged their resources, weighed the opposition, and can capitalize on an opportune news cycle.

  The question has always been: How can she hope to overshadow the dynasties that have dominated presidential politics for the past several administrations? Supporters admired her brass and boots, but outside the state, her reputation dwindled. Or in other words, pundits have asked, why take Laughin’ Lawson seriously?

  The kidnapping is a game-changer. Although the native Dallasite was elected with a more moderate stance on shape-shifters, she’s taken a much harder line in recent weeks.

  Lawson has become a household name, an international media sensation in her own right. In the short term, she may come off as a victim, but as the living symbol of threatened humanity, leaders from both major political parties are rallying behind her.

  “WE’RE GOING HOME,” Yoshi and Clyde both announce. Hearing the other speak the same words at the same time antagonizes them both. On reflex, they glare at each other, and Yoshi hisses. If they were in Cat and Lion form, respectively, they’d be lashing their tails.

  Aimee sets her hand on Clyde’s wrist, and that ends it. He breaks eye contact first, and then Yoshi preserves his composure by pulling on sweatpants and flip-flops. I reach for the bag to retrieve a pair of flip-flops myself.

  When they say “home,” they mean Austin. Jess’s relatives can’t protect us if we can’t cross into Oklahoma, and there’s no way we’re returning to Pine Ridge anytime soon.

  “Call it a gut feeling,” Oliver says, “but I suggest y’all lose your phones. Get off the grid. Make it harder for anyone to track and make an example out of you.”

  An eighteen-wheeler pulls up as Aimee’s clearing the table. Yoshi and Clyde make a show of assisting her, and Jess’s lips curl into a half smile that means she’s picked up on the boys’ rivalry. I hate that Jess is in the middle of this mess, but her presence is reassuring.

  We were best friends. Then, a few years ago, I discovered my Cat heritage and pulled away — at first for her safety (transformations are scary at first) and then because . . . I don’t know. Keeping a secret isn’t much different from lying, especially when it’s the secret of your species, what you really are. It was all pointless. Turns out, she’s known I’m a Cat for some time anyway. Now it’s headline news. I was just starting to feel comfortable in my Cat skin, to really own it, when the shooting began. Everything’s changed so fast. It feels like our whole world is teetering.

  “Well, it’s been fun.” Oliver noisily sucks out the last of his milk shake. “I’ve got to check in before my dispatcher gets suspicious. And by the way, we never met.”

  From a distance, my Chihuahua lets loose with a mournful howl.

  “Jess,” I begin. “I want you to take Peso and go with Oliver.”

  Jess swallows the last McNugget. “I can’t just give y’all my dad’s car and —”

  “You’re too tired to keep driving,” Yoshi points out. “Once we hit town, I’ll leave it in the Austin Antiques parking lot. He can pick it up there.”

  “Talk to our folks,” I add. “Find out what you can. Report back.”

  When my parents adopted me from Ethiopia, they had no idea that I was a werecat. But they’ve always stood firm by my side, and Dad is in deep when it comes to Texas politics. Between him and Sheriff Bigheart, they’ll put together the behind-the-scenes scoop.

  “I guess I could say you were a runaway,” the weredevil muses out loud.

  “Pen,” Aimee demands, and the cop hands one over. She scribbles a 78704 address on a napkin. “You should be able to find us here,” she tells Jess, handing it over. “Or at least whoever’s home should be able to point you in our direction.”

  Aimee has decided where we’re going. Never mind that she’s a petite human or that with her turquoise-striped blond hair, tats, and piercings, she looks like a cute Goth elf. The boys defer to her, and, under the circumstances, I’m glad they’ve got someone in common.

  In the parking lot, I give Jess a hug. “A thousand times, thank you.”

  She whispers in my ear. “Sweetie, how well do you know these people?”

  How well is debatable. How long? It’s early Monday morning. I first met Yoshi on Friday night and Aimee, then Clyde, after that. I appreciate Jess looking out for me. She doesn’t seem worried about leaving with Oliver, but he’s a cop and she’s been raised around law enforcement. “They were there for me in Pine Ridge,” I say. “They’re here for me now.”

  Everyone’s waiting. I gather Peso in my arms and kiss his forehead, whispering, “Hey, little guy. Be good for Jess.” He’ll be safer, but I hate letting him go. My parents treasure me. But to Peso, I’m his whole world. Well, me, food, and squeaky toys.

  A moment later I can still hear him whimpering in the other car. Fortunately, Yoshi doesn’t hesitate to pull out of the McDonald’s lot. As we pass the sign pointing to I-35 South, I ask, “What now? Besides Austin, I mean. What happens when we get there?”

  I’m not good at lying low. I don’t like it, and I really have to pee.

  “It’s not obvious?” Clyde asks, taking Aimee’s hand. “
We’re going to rescue the governor from the weresnake. We’re going to prove that all shifters aren’t black hats, and we’re going to get the feds to back the hell off our collective ass. We’ll strategize from there.”

  “And we’re going to find out who killed Teghan,” Yoshi puts in.

  WE’RE AT A REST AREA a couple of miles south of Salado. It’s about an hour north of Austin, with traffic. Yoshi and Kayla are in the restrooms. She’s too much of a lady to squat by the road.

  The sun’s up. I’m primed to get home and get on with it. We’ve taken our hits, but we’re full-fledged heroes now. We’ve defeated dark forces and arctic asshats and even put Kayla’s ex-boyfriend’s preppy soul to rest. The feds took us by surprise in Pine Ridge. But we’re not losing to a bunch of trigger-happy humans or a fugly werereptile with attitude.

  Besides, for the first time in days, I’ve got Aimee all to myself.

  It took us a while to get here, relationship-wise. She almost clicked with my buddy Travis and then crushed on Yoshi. I was shocked when we got home from Daemon Island and she picked me over the Cat man. But it’s working. Us, that is. She’s my paintball buddy, the other half of our dynamic dishwashing duo. She can debate the differences between Bruce Wayne, Tony Stark, and Oliver Queen for hours.

  Staring through the barred back window, Aimee yawns. “You know, I bet there are security cameras here.”

  Probably. On the other hand, we’ve pulled over twice for fuel, and gas stations have surveillance systems, too. I loop my arms around her waist. There’s a limit to how paranoid we can be and still manage to function.

  “It’s a state rest stop,” I say, trying to reassure her. “Oliver says that we’re not technically wanted for anything.” Granted, that didn’t stop the feds from shooting at us — or at least at the Cats — earlier. “Besides, it’s too late now.”