Feral Nights, Page 3

  He bares tiny, pointed teeth. “Ruby killed one of my best friends.”

  It’s such a melodramatic thing to say, I can’t help laughing. “That’s ridiculous.”

  The Possum raises his chin — to me, a Puma concolor sapiens. He’s deadly serious, fiercely intense. No wonder he’s already going gray.

  “His name was Travis,” the boy declares. “He was a Dillo, only sixteen years —”

  “Sorry about your loss,” I counter. “But you’ve got the wrong Cat.”

  Ruby may be a predator by birth, but she’s also squeamish. When she was eight, my sister went on a hunger strike until Grams promised never to roast any of our own animals again. Ruby named every last chick on the farm and made a pet of her prize hog, Wilbur. No way would she take a life, certainly not a fellow shifter’s.

  “She wasted two cops, too,” Clyde adds. “Or at least she killed one and was an accessory to the murder of the other.”

  Like he even knows what “accessory” means. “I’m out of here.”

  He steps to the side, wobbling. “You’re not going anywhere. Two werebears are guarding that door until Detective Zaleski gets here.”

  Now he’s threatening me? It has to be a bluff, but I recognize the cop’s name from one of the business cards I picked up at the mail store.

  Calling my inner Cat, I welcome the ripple of fur across my face, the return of my saber teeth and claws. “You do realize, Clyde, that this means we’re trapped in here together?”

  He hollers, “Olek! Uri!”

  I let my mouth drop open and inhale. I don’t smell any Bears.

  Swinging the office door open, I’m suddenly faced with a total cutie pie in a wet white apron. She has a small silver hoop threaded through her left eyebrow and, like Clyde, a ring of cross tats around her neck. Her shoulder-length blond curls are striped a moss green, and she has the most adorable cleft in her nose.

  If I had to guess, I’d say she’s an elfin line cook. But her ears aren’t pointed, and her scent is that of a marinara-tinged human being. I hear her gulp, the rise in her heartbeat. Most girls would be afraid. She’s enticed.

  From behind me, Clyde shouts, “Aimee, where’s security?”

  “Stuck behind a fender bender on Mopac Expressway,” she replies, blinking at my Cat-man face as if I were Adonis with whiskers.

  It’s then that I believe the werebears actually exist. That they might show up any minute and hold me for some Texas cop who suspects my sister of multiple murders.

  Retracting my shift, I brush past the girl — Aimee — and hurry down the hall to the back exit. Coming around a domino-covered SUV, I weave between parked vehicles and past an athletic-looking Buffy wannabe with long blond hair in a dark trench coat, carrying a stake.

  Seconds later, as I hit my ignition, I hear Aimee calling my name.

  Too late. I have such a big head start that I might as well be gone already.

  I spare one more glance at her, standing in the back doorway of the restaurant. She’s really something. The kind of girl you’ve known your whole life — gone fishing with, joked with over algebra or while detasseling corn — and then one day you look up and realize she’s quietly exquisite. Except that I just saw her for the first time, and she already has that effect on me. Not that it matters, because I’ll never see her again and she’s apparently friends with that delusional idiot Possum.

  As I turn onto Congress Avenue, my cell buzzes.

  “This is Karl Richards,” a man says, “of Richards Heating & Air-Conditioning.” He informs me that Timothy from Home Post Office called him to say I swung by and invites me to compare notes on my sister’s whereabouts.

  The connection is sketchy. I can’t make out every fourth word.

  “Meet me at this address,” Richards concludes, rattling it off. “It’s a warehouse. Say, half an hour?” He ends the call.

  I slow to a stop at Live Oak Street. Ruby is missing, apparently suspected of murder. Perfect strangers want to chase me with werebears, turn me in to the local cops, and lure me to remote buildings.

  This country boy’s no idiot. It’s past time I figured out what’s going on.

  AT SANGUINI’S BACK EXIT, Aimee says, “We lost him.”

  I should’ve never left the chair behind. I would’ve been faster on wheels. “We’ll call the Dillos, Zaleski, patrol the neighborhood. If Yoshi’s looking for Ruby, he won’t stray far. She was last seen on Academy —”

  Just then Sergio bursts through the crimson drapes into the hall. He checks the manager’s office, sees that it’s empty, and begins, “What happened to —?”

  “He got away,” I explain. “Aimee and I are going after —”

  “No,” Sergio says. “Whatever it is, no, you’re not. At least not right now.”

  I gape. “But —”

  He pats my shoulder. “You have jobs to do here.”

  Sergio tightens his ponytail and heads into the kitchen. I’m not sure how much he knows about Travis’s murder and Ruby’s part in it. But Sergio’s a smart guy, a “people” person, and humans have instincts, too.

  “Can you cover for me at the sink?” I ask.

  “One sec.” Aimee ducks into the office and returns with a pen. “Yoshi has Kansas license plates,” she informs me, writing the number on my hand.

  “You memorized his license plate?” I exclaim. I didn’t even think of that.

  “I’m not a car person, but it’s a long body style from the sixties or seventies,” she goes on. “Turquoise. The paint looks new. Coming out of the lot, he turned south at the alley.”

  “Got it,” I say. “This will help a lot.” I grin. “Aimee, I could just kiss you.”

  “Really?” she replies, preening. “What are you waiting for?”

  I wish she wouldn’t joke around like that, but I guess I started it. “Tell Sergio I’ll just be a minute.” Gesturing toward the john, I add, “I’m going to call Zaleski.”

  On her way through the swinging kitchen door, Aimee warns, “Three minutes.”

  Detective Zaleski is a werebear, somehow related to the restaurant’s MIA bouncers. They’re his nephews or cousins or something.

  Given that human cops don’t tend to pursue shifter-on-shifter crimes, he and his partner make such cases an unofficial priority. They’re our system within the system.

  I wait until the guy in the ass-less black leather pants washes up and leaves, double-check to make sure the stalls are empty, and make the call.

  Once I’ve filled him in, Zaleski asks, “How about the kid himself? Height? Weight? Coloring?”

  I close my eyes, conjuring up a mental picture. “Not quite six foot. He’s in good shape — like he’s worked construction . . . or on a farm. You can tell he’s Ruby’s brother, but his eyes are brown, not green. Oh, and he has a serious affection for product.”

  “Product?” the detective asked.

  “Hair gel,” I clarified. “He’s one smug, country-fried SOB. He has on a blue Western shirt and faded jeans, torn at the knee. In shift, his fur darkens to almost black.”

  “You saw him in Cat form?” Zaleski exclaims. “In the restaurant?”

  “Only partly, and not in a public area,” I reply. “Face, teeth, and claws. He retracted it before anyone except Aimee and I got a good look at him.”

  The detective beeps off without saying thank you, but I know he’s grateful to finally have something solid to gnaw on.

  Werepeople avoid hospitals. Our birth certificates and immunization records are always faked. So we’re intentionally a lot harder to track than humans. Plus Ruby never mentioned any family or being from Kansas. Actually, she didn’t so much talk to people as hang all over Davidson Morris and make catty or flirty or purring noises.

  I rejoin Aimee, tackling the dishes. Avoiding any mention of species or murder, I update her on what happened between me and Yoshi in the manager’s office. “He’s all we’ve got,” I conclude, scraping leftover linguini l’autumno into the trash
can. “Not that we still have him, but he might know something that’ll lead us to Ruby.”

  “And if we do find her?” Aimee asks, wielding the sprayer. “What then?”

  I get her meaning. Hand-to-hand, paw-to-claw, the two of us couldn’t hold Ruby long enough for help to arrive. “I’m working on it,” I reply. “When the time comes, I’ll know what to do.” It sounds lame, even to me.

  Aimee opens the steaming, stainless-steel dishwasher, pulls out a rack of newly cleaned wineglasses, and reaches for the polishing cloth. “You know, it’s been almost four months since Ruby disappeared. If we haven’t seen her, the cops haven’t been able to find her, and her brother is looking, too, it’s possible —”

  “She’s dead.” I grit my teeth. “It’d be nice to know that for sure.”

  Aimee begins hand-drying the glassware. “You know how I feel about what happened to Travis,” she says. “I meant it when I said I’d help you, but this whole mission thing suddenly feels more —”

  “Real?” I ask as a busser drops off more dishes.

  “Dangerous,” Aimee replies.

  WISHING MY CAR wasn’t so conspicuous, I circle west and point it north on Lamar Boulevard. Minutes later, I spot a high-end grocery store where I grab a cup of hot tea and a slab of barbecue ribs from the dining-on-the-run aisle. I take the meal outside and choose one of the empty tables on the deck overlooking a playscape. The locals may think it’s too cold tonight, but I appreciate the opportunity to sit alone under the stars.

  The meat smells like heaven, though the sauce tastes a tad too sweet. I’m biased against any barbecue not from Kansas City, but the Texans don’t do a half-bad job.

  Pausing to wipe my fingers, I use my phone to key in a Web search and pull up dozens of articles about Sanguini’s. The original chef was murdered last August.

  Weeks later, the manager at the time, Davidson Morris, along with the replacement chef, Bradley Sanguini, and a local high-school vice principal were named prime suspects. Morris and the VP were found dead before they could be arrested. No word on “Sanguini,” which was supposedly only a stage name.

  Earlier this evening, the hostess asked me if I was looking for Davidson Morris’s Ruby. Is it his fault that my sister is missing, in trouble?

  I recognize her in the online photos, but it’s like she’s dolled up for Halloween. Ruby has added a bold white streak to her hair and gone heavy on the makeup. The black eyeliner and lipstick aren’t half as attention-getting, though, as the outfits.

  I don’t need to see that much of my sister’s cleavage. Nobody does.

  At the whoosh of the opening store doors, I glance at three blondes in sorority T-shirts, carrying trays of salads and coffee. Normally, I’d mosey on over and make plans to meet up with at least one of them later. Not tonight.

  I return my attention to the screen. Karl Richards’s name pulls up a handful of links related to his heating-and-air-conditioning business, a couple about the Greater Austin Chamber of Commerce, and one fairly recent obituary.

  I click the latter and start reading.

  It notes that Travis Reid, age sixteen, was “called home by our Heavenly Father on September 13. Reid was a sophomore at Waterloo High School, where he belonged to the Environmental Club and the Spanish Club. He was preceded in death by his grandmother Christina Acosta. Survivors include his parents, Isabel and David Reid; his sister, Sierra; his grandparents Barbara and Clarence ‘Dutch’ Reid; his grandfather Karl Richards. . . .”

  Oh, hell. Karl Richards is the grandfather of the dead teenage werearmadillo.

  A car door shuts. A stout, middle-aged man in a badly fitting suit is purposefully headed my way. I make a show of yawning and stand, leaving my trash on the table.

  I stroll toward the grocery-store doors and, out of the corner of my eye, notice him picking up the pace. So I veer right and turn around the back of the building.

  Once I’m out of his sight, I quickly check to make sure no one’s watching and then spring up the side of the wall. Latching on to the shingled roof with extended claws, I swing one leg over, then the other. I slip off my shoes, stay low, and cross the roof.

  From below, my pursuer lets out a frustrated grunt. I’ve lost him.

  I need to stay lost. My car is parked in the front lot, and I won’t leave it. Better to get gone fast. But it would be stupidly showy to leap down in front of the busy market.

  Fortunately, the dark of night and a row of ferns hanging above the shopping carts provide enough cover for me to slip down unnoticed, at least in theory.

  A guy carrying a jug of organic detergent glances from me up to the roof.

  “Excellent view,” I explain. “Have a nice night.”

  On the lookout for my pursuer, I hurry past the spaces reserved for the disabled customers and those with small children. I’m parked another two spots down, between a Harley-Davidson motorcycle and a Smart Car.

  Still carrying my running shoes, I reach for my door handle.

  Then a rumbling voice says, “Yoshi Kitahara?”

  It’s the biggest, broadest man I’ve ever seen. His suit is wrinkled. His tie is loose. Werebear, I’d bet on it. I ask, “Do I know you?”

  “Detective Zaleski of the Austin Police Department,” he replies. “The gentleman you so gracefully ditched over there is my partner, Wertheimer.” He thinks it’s funny.

  I default to charm. “Officer, I’m confused. I didn’t do anything —”

  “Did someone named Karl Richards contact you?” he asks, scratching his beard.

  I can’t think of a reason not to admit it. “He called and asked me to meet him.”

  “Don’t. The werearmadillos think your sister murdered their young prince. They’re out for blood.”

  IN THE BREAK ROOM, Aimee uses her fork to swirl cognac-cream fettuccine Alfredo with broiled alligator while I pick live crickets out of a squat glass jar. Nora, the chef, keeps a stock on hand for me to snack on. It’s a Possum thing. “About Yoshi —”

  “You’re obsessing.” Aimee dabs her lips with a napkin. “I only saw him for a few seconds, but . . . Well, I’ve seen a wereperson transform before. Or at least start to.”

  I’ve never exhibited so much as a hint of my bald tail to Aimee.

  “When Yoshi retracted his shift, it was different,” she adds. “He didn’t seem like he was in pain or that it was a strain on his body. I didn’t hear any bones grind or pop. It was seamless, like magic or time-lapse photography. The fur practically melted away as he morphed back to fully human form.”

  I drop a squirming cricket into my mouth and crunch. “Anything else?”

  Her expression turns dreamy. “His human face is as remarkable as his Cat.”

  What’s that supposed to mean? Remarkable can go either way — remarkably majestic or remarkably grotesque or, for that matter, anything someone might remark on.

  Is she attracted to him? Aimee hasn’t shown any interest in a guy since Travis’s death. It has to happen sooner or later, I guess, but that vacant, egotistical, pretty-boy kin to our archenemy? What’s she thinking?

  She takes another bite, chews thoughtfully, and swallows. “You do realize that the fact that Ruby is his sister doesn’t mean Yoshi is a bad person.”

  Aimee always looks for the good in people. I reach into my jar. “I’ve been researching shifter-on-shifter crimes. It’s the big carnivores that are most likely to be killers. No surprise there. But Cats? They’re a solid number two after wereorcas.”

  “Were . . . orcas?” Aimee whispers as the bar manager swings in.

  He grabs a blue bandanna from his locker and waves on his way back out.

  “Whales usually make their homes on land in coastal areas or on islands, but if they’re at sea too long, it’s like they lose themselves to their inner animal. Usually, they hunt fish and other sea animals, but sometimes . . .”

  Aimee looks at the gator meat on her fork and sets it down. “They eat sailors?”

  A cricket f
lies from my hand off the table.

  Aimee scrambles after it. Chef Nora will have my hide if the thing causes a health-inspection issue. “More like weredolphins, Otters, and Seals.” I force myself to my hands and knees under the table. “Some of them are sailors, though, now that you mention it.”

  “Your point being?” Aimee nudges, scanning the floor.

  I’m mostly showing off. She’s no fetishist, but it’s only natural that she finds shape-shifters fascinating. I’m pretty intrigued by human girls myself. “Cats are bad news. Not as scary as Orcas, but more murderous than Bears or Wolves. They’re sneakier, more manipulative. You can’t trust them.”

  “You’re prejudiced,” Aimee scolds, scooping up the insect. “Did you detect any particular scent to Yoshi’s shift? I didn’t.”

  It’s an important question, and it says a lot about how shifter-savvy she’s become that Aimee is the one to ask it. My werewolf pal Kieren tends to give off pine (like a furry air freshener), and, for no apparent reason, my own transformations stink like rotten eggs. It’s embarrassing and probably cost me the phone number of a sexy Raccoon at the last wereteen mixer.

  Shaking my head, I brace myself for the pain and push back up. “Yoshi could’ve used a shower, but that’s it.”

  I reconsider what Aimee said about how easily the Cat retracted his shift. For most of us, shape-changing is a messy, excruciating process. It takes a few minutes, even under the best of circumstances. Apparently, not so with Yoshi, and based on what Travis said about Ruby coming after him in the park, she can morph quickly to Cat form, too.

  I warn, “With the Kitaharas, their inner beasts lurk just below the skin.” As Aimee exits the break room, I exclaim, “Hey! Where are you going with my cricket?”

  “I’m releasing it outside,” she informs me. “My heroic gesture for the evening.”

  I VOLUNTARILY FOLLOW the detectives to the police station. It’s a bland, boxy building downtown by the interstate. Several squad cars are parallel parked on bordering streets.

  Zaleski and Wertheimer show me upstairs to a spare, fluorescent-lit room, then claim they’ll be back after they “take care of a few things.”