Feral Curse Read online

  THIS AFTERNOON KICKS OFF Founders’ Day weekend in downtown Pine Ridge, and three blocks away from the festivities, strolling home through my historic neighborhood, I can still hear the Brazos Boys jamming to a Willie Nelson tune.

  The residential streets are lined with cars, both the locals’ and a growing number from all parts of Central Texas. The economy is still puttering. Regional getaways are the hottest thing in travel, according to Dad. The B&Bs are booked solid. So are the chain hotels along the highway.

  I like the energy, the activity. It makes me feel a little more anonymous than usual, grateful that people have something to talk about besides the tragedy of Kayben.

  I spent the last few hours volunteering at the Adopt-a-Friend booth, offering up kitties, pups, and one hefty rabbit to good homes. Sure, it meant taking a lavender-scented bubble bath and rubbing dots of Peso’s canned food on my pulse points to mask my Cat scent. But I didn’t mind. Least I could do; that’s where I got Peso.

  Now I’m starving, the cook-off contest doesn’t start until dawn tomorrow, and my mother doesn’t believe funnel cakes qualify as a food group. She insisted that I hightail it home for family dinner as usual. Never mind that, outside of election season and the Fourth of July, there’s no busier working weekend in Dad’s year.

  At the corner of Cedar and Main, I pause to sip sweet tea from a straw and watch the moving-company truck pull out of what used to be Ben’s gravel driveway. The house has already sold. His mother is relocating to Tualatin, Oregon. Her younger sister owns a preschool there.

  It’s been about ten weeks since Ben died. Mrs. Bloom says she wants a fresh start.

  I think she’s running from the memories.

  I don’t blame her. No matter how hard, it’s key to focus forward. Otherwise, we could spin in grief for the rest of our lives. New-student check-in at Cal Tech is exactly four months from today. I’ve got a studio apartment (with a Murphy bed!) already lined up and a stack of new office supplies ready to pack. I love office supplies, color coding, and, for that matter, packing.

  I considered living in a dorm, but a shape-shifter needs more privacy than that. What if I had a bad dream and accidentally started to shift in my sleep?

  I’m no longer mad at Ben, not for reacting the way he did to my secret or for that ridiculous “cure” spell or even for dying. Burning his stuff, the remnants of our memories together — that was enough. I don’t feel the need to burn down his house or anything, especially since no Bloom will ever live there again. I still feel sort of responsible for his death, but the love part . . .

  The love part is murkier. I’m not even sure who I’m mourning, the real Ben or the person I thought he was. But when I promised to love him forever, I meant it. And it wasn’t contingent on him loving me back or even being part of my life.

  It’s something I can do to honor him, to own whatever we were together. I can love him for the rest of my life, quietly, with dignity, no matter how much it hurts or whether anyone else knows it. There’s no such thing as an expiration date on forever.

  At least Ben did me one favor: he kept my secret to himself. Or, at least, if he did tell someone, he chose well — somebody who either didn’t believe him or is keeping it quiet. It’s been more than two months. I would have heard otherwise by now.

  Beneath the canopy of budding pecan trees, I force myself to turn away from what used to be Ben’s home and continue down the uneven sidewalk toward mine.

  Mr. Roberts waves at me from the rocker on his front porch, and I wave back. Come morning, he’ll be dressed in his Marine uniform, marching with the other Korean War vets in the parade, or at least strolling proudly.

  Pine Ridge is my hometown, and I will miss it. Once I’m off to college, I’ll return for visits, of course, holidays, maybe another summer or two. Still, I’m already thinking about top-tier engineering internships across the country. Maybe a semester abroad. Tokyo or Berlin.

  Internet rumor has it that no city in the world is as welcoming to shifters as Paris.

  Who knows? Maybe I’ll minor in architecture or art history.

  I’ll focus on my studies. I’m graduating at the top of my high-school class. I’m a National Merit semifinalist. I’ve got a full ride, tuition, and books. I’ll make my parents proud.

  Another block and I hear the crying boy well before I can see him. I recognize my mother’s voice, speaking in low, soothing tones, trying to coax him into our house.

  What on earth? Picking up the pace, I quickly round the corner and see the two of them seated on the front step of my family’s two-story, newly painted white Victorian. The stranger is a long-limbed teenager with sunlit dark hair, his lanky body bent in grief.

  Is he a friend of Ben’s? A relative who missed the funeral?

  At the sight of me, his chin is up, his nostrils flare, and he freezes in place, his limpid brown eyes wide open.

  Peso, barking and waggling with glee at my return, meets me at the front gate of our picket fence and begins frantically hopping on his hind legs, begging for attention.

  “Who’s your friend?” I call to my mother, bending to scratch my dog behind the ears.

  I pause, savoring the wind. The stranger isn’t human. He’s a shifter.

  Or maybe I should call him a “wereperson.” I’ve read online that shifter-rights advocates prefer that word, using “were” as shorthand for shape-changer, though it literally means “man.”

  I don’t want to offend him, especially since he’s so miserable. I’ve always been able to read emotions better than most, but sorrow is practically radiating from the guy.

  Sorrow and a hint of fear.

  My first in-person encounter with another shifter. Wow.

  “He says his name is Darby,” Mom replies in a measured voice. “I think he may be lost.”

  Or mentally challenged, my mother’s tone suggests. Clearly emotionally unhinged. But not dangerous, and even if he is, Mom knows my Cat strength outstrips anyone in town.

  My mother addresses her next comment to our guest. “Darby, this is my daughter, Kayla. She’ll sit with you while I make a few calls.”

  Darby hasn’t moved, but he’s muttering something. He appears to be wholly focused on me, tears leaking down his face like whatever’s wrong, it’s my fault somehow. “Unworthy.” That’s what he’s saying. “Unworthy, unworthy . . .”

  Is he talking about me or himself?

  With a quick nod and a tight smile, I promise to look after Darby while Mom tries to figure out where he came from and what to do with him.

  We can’t turn an unstable teenage shape-shifter over to just anyone. “Wait,” I say. “Give me a few minutes, okay?”

  Mom fiddles with her gold square earring. “Just a few,” she breathes. Then she whistles to Peso, who trots in after her, giving Darby wide berth along the way.

  After thinking it over a minute, I take her place on the step and say, “Howdy.”

  No response, but Darby is slightly shaking. His hairline and underarms are damp. I wonder if I should get him a glass of water. “Where are you from?”

  I’m sure Mom already tried to get that out of him, but apparently, he at least shared his name. That gives me hope of learning more. “Why are you here?”

  If he’s not local, Darby wouldn’t know my mother is the go-to person in Pine Ridge. Granted, she’s the one who sells real estate and Dad’s the one who runs the city, but on the latter front, only technically. This is her hometown. Dad’s originally from south Dallas. My parents met on base in South Korea and settled here after they got out of the Air Force.

  “Unworthy,” Darby goes on. “Help me, my love. Help me, please.”

  My love? “Help you how?” I ask.

  Antlers burst from the top of his head.

  Antlers. In broad daylight. In front of my house.

  “Stop!” I exclaim, glancing to check whether anyone’s around. “What do you think you’re doing? You can’t. You just can’t —”

&nb
sp; “Kayla,” calls a voice from the sidewalk. “What is wrong with that boy?”

  It’s Sheriff Bigheart, Jess’s dad, likewise on his way home for dinner. He’s a trim, efficient man who somehow keeps getting elected despite the unsettling fact that he’s an Oklahoma football fan.

  This is not good. The sheriff may adore me, but he has an infamously reliable BS meter. I’d never dare to lie to him if the situation weren’t desperate.

  “He’s applying for a job at the Christmas shop,” I reply, patting Darby’s shoulder. Is he still shifting? Yes, God, his nose is starting to morph out. “Or he was going to, but you know how it is — bad economy. Nobody’s hiring, and he’s taking it hard.”

  “The Christmas shop?” the sheriff echoes. “Well, you can’t fault the kid’s enthusiasm.” He scratches his chin. “Hang in there, son! Times are bound to get better.”

  Grateful I have a big front yard, I forcibly lift Darby to his . . . hooves . . . and half escort, half carry him to the house entrance. He’s lanky, awkward to hold, and heavily muscled, but I’ve got more power in my arms, legs, and shoulders than most car engines. Or at least it feels that way. “You’re absolutely right,” I yell over my shoulder. “I’ll get some of Mom’s cheesecake pie in him, and he’ll be feeling jim-dandy in no time.”

  Jim-dandy. Just brilliant, Kayla. It’s an expression Grandma Morgan uses. I’m not even sure what it means. At least “pie” is convincing. It’s the quintessential remedy hereabouts for just about anything.

  “Who is that?” Sheriff Bigheart asks, leaning against the fence. “I don’t recognize him.”

  At the same time, I shove Darby into my foyer. Blocking the street view, I wave good-bye — with a big smile — and, pretending I didn’t hear that last question, slam the front door.

  Then I count to three and turn to face the naked, fur-covered boy, rocking in a fetal position on the hardwoods. Darby must’ve managed to wiggle out of his clothes before they got thrashed. They’re in a pile beside him. He’s still saying it: “Unworthy of your love.”

  HOLY CRAP ON A CRACKER! I’m flat on my ass, my ears are ringing, and every muscle burns. Wiping a dab of blood from my nose, I realize I’ve landed (appeared?) on a carousel platform. The upright poles and seat figures have all been removed. A large, heavy plastic tarp has been draped over the whole thing and secured to the ground with metal stakes.

  I’m guessing that the fact this — whatever the hell it is — happened to me right after I touched the carousel-cat figure at the antiques mall is not a coincidence. It’s magic.

  I hate magic.

  I let out a long, shaky breath. I’m sore all over, but I can see as well as I ever could in the dark, and I still know who the president is. My ears prick at the sound of rockabilly music.

  With a groan, I force myself to my feet, raise a hunk of the tarp, and duck out under it. I take in the surroundings, the empty park grounds ahead and the tall woodsy hill behind me. Checking my digital watch, I see that no real time has passed since I left Grams’s antiques mall. Whatever happened, it was instantaneous. Or my watch is malfunctioning.

  Where am I? With pained steps, I take another look at the carousel. I pull the tarp partially back up again and am struck by the sheer strangeness that the ride has been turned into a sort of giant picture frame featuring huge images — taller than me — all of the same guy.

  He’s young . . . I’m guessing about my age . . . dressed for football, for baseball, in a crown of thorns and a saintly white robe, and, finally, in a graduation cap and gown.

  I draw my phone from my back jeans pocket and confirm the time reading on my watch. Then, using GPS, I locate myself, spitting distance from Main Street in Pine Ridge, Texas, which apparently is about an hour southeast of Austin.

  Damn. Glancing around, I spot the lights at the top of the ridge and a long concrete staircase leading up. The ringing in my ears has faded. Now I can hear not only the music but also voices talking from above as well as flowing water and the honking of a goose down here.

  Geese? And wood ducks. Yeah, there’s a river over there, reduced to a stream by the drought. And a highway beyond that.

  Lacking any better ideas, I call my best friend, Aimee, also known as She Who Cracked My Heart — not that best-friendship is a bad consolation prize. I know she’s working tonight, but it’s either her or Ruby, who’s out with my grandmother. I’ll be in enough trouble when Grams finds out I left Austin Antiques unlocked and unattended. No need to rush that.

  When Aimee answers, I say, “You know our pact to give a shout out if we ever find ourselves kidnapped, beaten up, or somehow targeted by the mysterious supernatural?”

  “As opposed to the regular, run-of-the-mill supernatural?” Over the clangs and shouts of the restaurant kitchen, I hear her say, “Clyde, cover for me. It’s Yoshi.”

  I’m sure he’s thrilled to hear it. Clyde is her boyfriend. They have part-time jobs as dishwashers at Sanguini’s on South Congress. He and I aren’t best pals, but we play nice for her sake. Usually.

  “Start talking,” she tells me. “Start with you. Do you still have a pulse?”

  I can imagine her bustling out of the commercial kitchen, fielding the call in the rear parking lot. “I think I’m all right,” I reply. “Nothing’s bleeding or broken.” My nose is still spotting, but it’s not bad.

  I catch sight of a middle-aged lady. She’s jogging this way on the river walk, wearing earbuds, and, under her breath, singing along to an early Carrie Underwood song.

  Hiding behind one of the enormous mounted photographs, I whisper what I know so far.

  Aimee exclaims, “You beamed an hour away?”

  “‘Beamed’?” I reply.

  “Teleported,” she clarifies. “Like with a transporter from Star Trek. Only since this isn’t the twenty-third century, we’re definitely talking magic.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, I already figured that much out.”

  After a pause to digest the situation, she adds, “I can cut out of here if I have to. Do you want me to come and pick you up?”

  “Isn’t your dad in town this weekend?” Aimee’s been going on about his visit for weeks.

  “No.” Her voice sounds tight. “He canceled again. Something about media training at work. On the upside, he’s finally sending child support and he’s caught up on all of his back payments.” She sighs. “Really, Yoshi, it’s no big deal. I can tell my manager I’m leaving now.”

  Aimee’s only a sophomore. She doesn’t have a car, but she could borrow one or pick up mine at Grams’s antiques-mall parking lot. Months ago I gave Aimee my extra set of keys in case of an emergency. This more than qualifies, except . . . “Have you ever driven on a highway?”

  “Technically, no, but I have tons of experience asking for rides.”

  Right then, a tiny dog, panting hard, races across the picnic area. It’s being chased by . . . it’s too big to be a wolf. That’s a wereperson. A werewolf? No, it’s smaller, more slender, the ears are pointier, the tail bushier, and it has a bounce to its step. His coat’s reddish brown with white fur around the lips and a tawny belly, but he’s bigger than a werefox.

  Coyote. Yeah, the wind-borne scent confirms it’s a werecoyote in full animal form.

  What’s he thinking? I detect the faintest scent of Deer, of Cat, of the Coyote himself, but this is human-controlled territory. It may be dark, but the whole landscape is heavy with the scent of Homo sapiens. Besides: small dog, big bully. I may not be a dog person, but I hate bullies. “Aimee, I’ll have to call you back.”

  I shove the phone in my pocket and take off. A short-legged little pooch like that has zero chance of outrunning a Coyote, but it’s managed to put a play-scape — specifically a spiral orange plastic slide — between itself and the large predator. When the shifter zigs, the dog zags.

  “Hey, asshole,” I begin, closing the distance. “Step away from the Chihuahua.”

  The Coyote snarls at me. I can tell by his eyes and tone
that he understands what I’m saying, word for word, just fine.

  Unless something’s gone terribly wrong, werepeople don’t lose our sense of self when we shift, and unlike our distant animal kin, he can’t tree this kitty by intimidation.

  I can flash to Cat form in a heartbeat and with no recovery time. It’s all natural, a family predisposition that qualifies as a superpower. Or at least it’s fun to think so. But I won’t turn full Puma concolor sapiens, not this close to civilization. Not unless I have no choice in the matter.

  It’s not just about passing as human. A cop or random citizen might panic at the sight of what they assume is a cougar and shoot. So I bare just my saber teeth and claws.

  The Coyote responds with a lame bark-screaming sound, tucks his furry tail, and retreats sideways. I take a step, two, in his direction, and he bounds off toward the river.

  Loser. Senses on high alert, I watch until I’m sure he doesn’t circle back around.

  Then I crouch, trying to make myself less intimidating, and address the terrified pup. It’s practically burrowed into the ground under the lowest part of the slide.

  After a moment’s hesitation, I extend the back of my hand toward its nose. I wish I had food to offer. Hell, I probably smell scarier to him than the Coyote did. But he whines and wiggles forward, which is so brave of him.

  Humans may not be great at picking shifters out of a crowd — thank God. But animals can. I can’t help wondering why the wee pup isn’t more afraid of a werecat.

  “Hey there, little fella,” I begin. “My name’s Yoshi, and I promise not to hurt you. But I think we’re both lost.” The name tag hanging from his rhinestone leather collar reads PESO.

  AS FRIDAYS GO, this one sucks. Not only is a teenage weredeer wailing at my kitchen table, my dog, Peso, is nowhere to be found.

  As I’m peering out the back-door window, Darby says something semi-coherent. “You might as well go. I can’t hold on to you. You’re lost to me forever. Unworthy. I’m unworthy. Unworthy, unworthy, unworthy of your love.”

  Mom glances over from the sink counter, where she’s chopping carrots.