Feral Curse (4 page)

I run my fingers over a mounted swag of green shag carpeting, supposedly left over from the roll that covers a ceiling in Graceland.

Moving to the back corner, I see there’s a six-foot-tall, surprisingly tasteful
shoji
screen, painted in cherry blossoms. I push it back to reveal a carousel . . . cat?

A large, hand-carved wooden cat, wearing a leather Western saddle, with an upright pole stuck through it where the thick neck meets the broad back. It’s large enough for a man to ride and depicted in a sprinting position. The eyes are yellow-green, like my sister’s.

From the get-go, I’m kind of fascinated by the thing. I am, after all, a
Puma concolor sapiens,
and we shifters tend to feel a strong natural affinity to anything reminiscent of our animal forms. After so many generations in hiding, we like to see ourselves reflected in the world. It’s one of the many reasons I drive a classic Mercury Cougar.

The tag claims the carousel figure is cursed — a minus in conservative Houston but a mega plus in funky Austin — and goes on to say a teenage boy died on the carousel in an electrical storm and that the ride was broken up and sold off in pieces.

It’s not total BS this time. I heard something about that, the guy’s death, a couple of months ago on the local TV news. He was a high-school football star, and people take football damn seriously around here. If I’m remembering right, it went down in some nothing small town an hour or so outside of Austin.

A shame — what happened to him and, for that matter, to the carousel. If the rest of the ride was in as good condition as this cat figure, it would’ve been something to see.

I rest my palm on the pole, inspecting the other side for chipped paint or other damage.

Looks fine. Underpriced, though. The dealer should be able to get —

White-hot energy seeps into my hand. I gasp, wincing, as it travels up my arm, snakes across my shoulders, and, in a blinding flash, consumes my entire body.

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
—”

“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.