Feral Curse (14 page)

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” I tap the screen. At his blank look, I add, “The moola. What are you, made of money? The carousel figures are all priced at over a thousand dollars. The ponies are nine grand!”

“Well, they are in good shape,” he replies. “Ponies are popular, and we’re talking Dallas. You’d never get that much for them —”

“It doesn’t matter!” I exclaim. “We don’t have that kind of —”

“What about your parents?” he replies, wandering to the window to check on Aimee and Peso again. “What do they know about Ben’s spell?”

I drop my tortilla chip. “They’re devout Christians. They would completely freak out if I told them he’d dabbled —”

“The type of Christians who believe all shifters should be burned at the stake?” Yoshi wants to know. “Yourself exempted, of course.”

I push up out of the chair. “No, the type of Christians who do unto others as they would be done unto, but not incidentally would also do
anything
to protect their only child from any connection to maleficent and destructive magic.”

“You don’t have to tell them the spell part,” Yoshi counters, sauntering toward me.

“Then how would we explain . . .” I begin as Aimee strolls in and releases Peso from the leash. I add, “Never mind. My parents aren’t rich.”

“You could fit my grams’s entire apartment in the front half of your house,” he replies.

“Enough already!” I counter. “My mother is a real-estate agent. Of course we have a great house.”

“Oh,” he says. It’s nice to have shut him up.

Ignoring us, Aimee moves to the laptop and clicks through the open windows showcasing the animal-shaped carousel figures. “So we need deep pockets and discreet drivers. I’ll take Yoshi’s car and head to Austin to round up help. You two check on the local antiques shop; see what they still have in stock here. Once we’ve got all the figures, we’ll reassemble the carousel and reverse the spell.”

She makes it sound like no big deal.

She and Yoshi are either cockeyed optimists or nuts.

“What’re you going to do?” I exclaim. “Rob a bank?”

“No,” she says, matter-of-factly. “I’m going to explain the situation to a couple of my friends who’re crazy rich, supernatural savvy, and love me more than s’mores. If they say no, then we’ll have to steal the carousel figures, but I seriously doubt it’ll come to that.”

“Steal?” I echo. “What do you mean —?”

“Kayla,” she says, getting up in my face, “we are talking about enchanted antiques. Malevolent magic. If we have to get clearance from heaven above to justify protecting the unsuspecting wereperson population from them, I will make that happen. Understood?”

“I —”

Yoshi snaps his fingers. “Don’t involve any shifters whose animal forms —”

“Are represented on the carousel.” She blows her bangs off her forehead. “Obviously.”

I hate feeling like the weak link. “Aimee,” I begin in a softer tone, “is there a way to warn the shifter population? Put the word out that the enchanted carousel figures are out there and should be avoided or at least dealt with on a strictly hands-off basis?”

She and Yoshi exchange a long look, like they’re communicating telepathically. “Maybe,” Aimee replies. “I’ll see what I can do.”

AFTER AIMEE TAKES OFF
in my car, I pull on my still-damp clothes and hike downtown with Kayla. “The shifter community in Austin must be tight-knit,” the Cat girl says.

“I’m still fairly new in town,” I admit. “Through Clyde, Aimee is a lot more plugged in than I am. Plus, she has friends at work. They will give her the money, no worries.”

“What?” Kayla asks. “What work? She can’t
tell
people. . . . Who?”

“Relax.” I laugh. “Aimee knows who to trust. She washes dishes at a vampire-themed Italian restaurant called Sanguini’s. It’s this Goth cosplay hot spot, and the food is —”

“I’ve heard of it,” Kayla admits. “Wasn’t someone killed there?”

I nod. “The original chef. The owner and the current chef both have heaping bags of cash, and they adore Aimee. They’d do anything for her. If she says she can get funds and drivers, she can get funds and drivers. She’s awesome that way.”

“‘She’s awesome that way,’” Kayla echoes. “And you’re just friends.”

“Aimee is dating Clyde,” I reply.

“I can tell you’re thrilled for them,” Kayla replies, too smug.

Before Aimee, girls were strictly for sexy fun time, a bit of stolen recreation in Grams’s barn loft or the backseat of my car. Kayla is the first shifter girl of my own age that I’ve really hung out with. It makes sense that she’s more perceptive than most human girls would be, even a sensitive one. Kayla can literally scent out my emotions.

It’s taking some getting used to, but I have no choice with her but to be real.

As we weave through the festival crowd on Main, I’m struck by how people here say “Howdy” as you pass them on the sidewalk. Unlike in Austin, folks in Pine Ridge talk the way I’d expected of Texans before moving down. You hear “y’all” in Austin, even “all y’all,” but hardly any vowels that go on for two beats. It’s the difference between “I’m going to the store” and “I’m go-o-in’ to the store” or, to be more exact “I’m go-o-in’ on down to the store.” To be completely honest, I didn’t expect to see African Americans in small-town Texas, either, but so far I’ve noticed maybe a dozen black folks (besides the Morgans) since I hit Pine Ridge.

I also can’t help noticing the row of U.S. and Texas flags flying from every storefront. There was a time when werepeople were notorious for draft dodging — fearful of being outed by the medical exam. But before DNA testing caught up to us, shifters served under General George Washington, fought on both sides of the American Civil War, collaborated with the French underground during World War II.

No doubt there’s a lunatic or two in this town who’d want to see me swing from the trees if they discovered the truth about my heritage. But if a foreign power threatened, I’d still do whatever I could to protect Pine Ridge and, for that matter, Austin and Butler County, Kansas. The fact that you’re being persecuted by your own nation doesn’t mean that you can’t be a patriot. Or that other countries aren’t worse.

“We’ll need something that belonged to Ben,” I say. “A tangible object.” I don’t mention the incantation, what with so many people around, but she knows what I’m getting at. We need to bring all the spell ingredients together, not just reassemble the ride itself.

I’ve never had an honest-to-God, big-time, double-capital-
R
Romantic Relationship, so I’ve never had any of the material crap that comes with them. But Aimee’s always forgetting her backpack in Clyde’s car, he’s always giving her this or that to put in her purse, and before my sister, Ruby, moved out, I discovered one of her girlfriend’s double-D purple lace bras hanging over the shower door (which is way sexier than finding a bra that belongs to your sister herself or, worse, your grams). Relationships come with stuff.

“I don’t have anything.” Kayla’s forehead puckers. “I burned it all.”

At least I can gauge her emotions as well as she can mine. When Ben’s name comes up, the main thing I’m getting off her is anger and more than a twinge of regret. Stages of grief and all that. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll think of something.”

“Don’t you mean
we’ll
think of something?” Kayla steps closer, speaking so low that only a shifter could hear. “His locker was emptied the week after he died. His mother has packed up and left town.” She releases a long breath. “What about Ben’s original copy of the spell? I might be able to get it from my friend Jess.”

I shake my head. “We’re looking for something more personal.”

She rubs her eyelids. “Nope, burned it all.”

“Woman scorned, huh?” I reply, trying to jar something useful out of her.

She chooses to ignore that. Pointing over my shoulder at the storefront, Kayla says, “I can’t go in there with you and act like the carousel pieces mean nothing to me. I was Ben’s girl. I signed the petition demanding it be disassembled. I’m supposed to be traumatized.”

Supposed to be?

Glancing at her sports watch, Kayla adds, “It’s almost six, the shop is closed Sundays, and we can’t afford to wait until Monday morning. The storm system will have moved east by then.”

Throwing an arm around her, I guide Kayla to a sidewalk bench. “You know these Stubblefield sisters, and you’ve spent a little time with me. Can I charm my way into their storage area, or should we come back later tonight and risk breaking in?”

Touching the lady Cat may have been a mistake. I’m hyperaware of her body heat, and the feeling seems to be mutual. Her honey-brown gaze locks onto mine, and however strong she’s fighting it, with a little more privacy and a lot less overriding drama, I’m almost sure I could talk Kayla out of her Levi’s. Almost.

Without blinking, she replies, “Let’s try your charm first.”

“What’s your secret? What’s your secret?” The parrot whistles in his vintage brass cage as I stroll past it, baring my teeth.

Grams would dismiss Stubblefield’s Secrets as a foo-foo shop, stocked with clichéd reproductions and rehabbed antique furniture for the shabby-chic and organic, hand-painted upholstery crowds. Peacock feathers punctuate sparkly gold urns, cherub figurines perch on silver-flecked black-granite-and-ironworks tables, and polished cobalt-blue toy marbles mimic water in shiny brass bird fountains. The mini TV on the counter is tuned to ESPN.

A plump calico house cat — a store cat — lounges on an armoire, chewing on the remains of a feather. I watch an equally plump little kid (I’m guessing age three or four), holding a giant swirly orange-and-white lollipop, approach the cat and reach with sticky fingers for her tail.

The cat hisses once, ears back, meaning it, but the kid and his mother, who’s trying on vintage straw hats, pay her no mind. The pudgy little hand inches up again, and, turning so no one can see my face, I hiss simultaneously with the calico, magnifying the sound.

The brat recoils, bursting into tears, but the calico graces me with a look of approval.

We understand each other, she and I. She knows biting or scratching a child would jeopardize her meal ticket, but someday she’s going to shred and devour the annoying, chatty parrot in the antique cage positioned outside the front door. It’s just a matter of time.

The place reeks of potpourri and warm scented oils — apple, cinnamon, and citrus. My eyes are watering from the stench. I hate potpourri. It should be outlawed.

No, even worse than that are the princessy old dolls displayed in lacy pink-and-white baby clothes. I hate their freakish, staring painted/plastic/glass fake baby eyes. I hate the way they’re lined up on the high shelves, toys kept out of the reach of children.

That said, the dolls obviously are the store’s signature items, and if you log on to the shop website, they’re what’s featured on the home page. On the next shelf down, more are posed, most of them designed and decked out to mimic little girls.

“Nice selection,” I say as an attractive seventy-something woman wearing vintage rhinestone cat-eye glasses bustles by. “But that Madame Alexander Cissy is a tad pricey considering that her ring is missing, don’t you think?” I don’t fit the typical dealer profile, so the posturing is all about street cred.

Her clicking heels stop short on the bronze-colored concrete floor. She looks me up and down and says, “Are you one of those fancy boys?”

I think she means gay. On average, humans tend to be way more uptight about sexual orientation than shifters. When my sister came out to Grams, the only comment over fried steak and mashed potatoes was “So long as you’re happy and she’s a werecat . . .”

I wonder if my grandmother would approve of straight-A Kayla, even if I was the one to bring her home. She’d have to. Kayla’s perfect — smart, pretty, smart — nearly annoyingly so.

God, that’s a tempting thought. Kayla could hold her own against Grams’s barbs or totally disarm her with the über-polite good-girl, small-town chitchat. It’s practically a super weapon against adults. If we survive this, I may have to go for it.

“My family’s in the trade,” I explain, fishing a damp Austin Antiques card out of my wallet and handing it over.

The shopkeeper tilts her hair-spray-shellacked head up at the shelf. “And you can see that her tiny doll ring is missing?”

Oops. I’ve been so busy showing off my antiques savvy that I forgot to camouflage my inner Cat. “My name’s Yoshi.” I unleash the smile. “I’m in town, visiting a friend — a Miss Kayla Morgan — so I thought I’d stop by and say howdy. My grams and me, we’re new, doing business in Texas —”

“Well, isn’t that nice? I’m Lula, and you’re a friend of our dear, sweet Kayla?”

Bigger grin, no matter that she reeks of vanilla rose fragrance. “I am. I thought she could use some cheering up, and . . .”

A woman who looks so much like Lula that she must be her sister (and stinks just as badly) is wrestling a huge, ornate, gold-framed beveled mirror from behind the counter.

I’m moving before it starts to slip and grab it with both hands before it shatters against the concrete floor. “Here you go. Safe and sound.”