Feral Curse (16 page)

“Do you care about the jersey?” Yoshi asks. “Does it connect the two of you?”

I shake my head. It’s blasphemy to say so in Texas, but I find football incredibly boring. I’ve always attended all the games, but that’s because everybody’s there. It’s a social thing, a community obligation. My parents go to network, and of course, dating Ben, I was expected to be cheering him on in the bleachers. I like baseball better, and in point of fact, Ben was better at baseball, but it’s not nearly as big a deal culturally.

“Lula mentioned something about your giving Ben a necklace,” Yoshi says as the train chugs around the bend in front of city hall.

“For Valentine’s Day.” It comes flooding back. The hours of babysitting to make the money, shopping the Web for just the right pendant, the way I hid the flat little white box between my mattresses and rehearsed in my bedroom mirror what I was going to say . . . only to completely blow it, to lose everything. Lose Ben.

Mrs. Bloom had him buried in it as a gesture to me, I think, to what he and I shared.

He’ll wear it forever. The present from me that ultimately triggered his death.

Yoshi is quiet. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t move. He whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t change anything,” I say. “‘Sorry’ doesn’t make Ben less dead.”

“That’s not . . .” Yoshi takes an audible breath. “I mean, I’m sorry we’ll have to steal it.”

“
Steal
it?” What is he talking about? Why are he and Aimee so obsessed with thievery?

The train stops, and he whispers, “We need to break into Ben’s casket, take that necklace, and use it to try to reverse the spell.”

“That . . . That’s ungodly disrespectful!” I exclaim. “You —”

“So is what’s happened to me and Evan and Darby and Peter,” Yoshi replies. “For all we know, the werecoyote was a sweetheart of a guy before your boyfriend’s spell got ahold of him. I am sorry for your loss, Kayla, and I’m sorry that this is necessary. But it’s not just about you.”

WHEN I SET THAT GOLD CAT’S-EYE
gemstone in the center of Ben’s palm, the single furthest thing from my mind was that, in the not too distant future, I’d have to rip it off his dead body.

The only other option I can think of, though, is to call Ben’s mother and try to somehow explain why I need something that belongs to him that’s significant to both of us, especially when I had so much of ours and torched it all. No, no matter how terrible it may be . . .

Ben won’t mind. He’s in heaven.

At least I hope he’s in heaven. Using magic — shifter or otherwise — has to be a sin, but Ben was a Christian and Jesus forgives. Jesus is all about forgiving.

On the plus side, Yoshi talked to Aimee. Operation Carousel has cash flow and liftoff.

It’s past 2
A.M.
on Sunday, God’s day, and here I am on the edge of town in the middle of Dogwood Trails Cemetery, standing outside of Ben’s family crypt.

It hits me how far the Blooms — cotton farmers, originally — go back in Pine Ridge history, how hard it must be for Ben’s mom to start over. But then, she’s only a Bloom by marriage. Maybe after losing her husband and son, to her this land feels more cursed than consecrated.

After shimmying out my bedroom window and down the honeysuckle trellis, I managed to pull some tools out of the garage, along with old sheets to wrap them in, and Yoshi stuffed it all in his backpack.

I’ve barely said a dozen words to him since our conversation on the miniature train. He’s respected my silence, and I appreciate that. I hate what we’re about to do.

“No security?” Yoshi finally asks, and I hear the relief in his voice.

“This is Pine Ridge,” I reply. “Most people don’t bother to lock their doors.”

He probably thinks I’m angry with him. It’s more complicated than that. Since Ben died, until Darby showed up, it was like I’d been sleepwalking. This weekend has been such a twisty emotional mix — scary and confusing, but at least I feel more alive again. I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to need these boys to reclaim my whole self.

Maybe, though, it’s not about them. Maybe it’s just that the animals in them call to what’s primal inside me, and without that, I’ve been letting my head get in my way. As usual. I overthink everything. I’m out of touch with my own nature. With nature itself.

The cloud cover mutes the moon, shadows the stars, but my Cat eyes can see anyway. I focus on the velvet of the night, the wildflowers that dot the grass-and-clover cemetery grounds. Bluebonnets, Indian paintbrushes, and prickly pear cacti, all a backdrop to more crypts, upright marble markers engraved with Texas stars or roses. A smattering of U.S. flags, one Confederate. Asshole. The trees bloom purple, like beautiful bruises.

I used to love spring.

“Why don’t you wait out here?” Yoshi says. He extends a claw to pick the lock, then retracts it. “The lock’s been broken,” he whispers. “Keep watch.”

I hear a rusty creak as he opens the door. Yoshi smears Vicks under his nose before pulling on thick garden gloves. I force myself not to think about why.

“No, wait,” I say, reaching for the Vicks. “I can’t let you do this for me.”

Even with our heightened vision, the inside of the stone crypt is deathly dark, and it’s all I can do not to gag at the mint-menthol smell of the medication. How many Blooms are entombed in here, anyway? I brush my hand against a bouquet of . . . daisies, I think . . . that have been laid across Ben’s father’s casket. Mrs. Bloom must’ve left them here before leaving town.

I’m surprised to discover she didn’t leave flowers to remember Ben, too, but I have more pressing matters to worry about. I slide the backpack off Yoshi and unzip it.

Ben was buried in a hardwood casket, so after doing some online research, we brought pliers and screwdrivers to use on the thumb locks. A crowbar in case the lid has been nailed down. I fumble it, and metal clangs on concrete, too loud and scolding.

“My fingers are tingling,” I whisper, testing them against each other. “It feels like all the air went away.” I glance at the door, still open a crack. “Did all the air go away?”

“Easy, kitten,” Yoshi says, bending to pick up the crowbar. “Why don’t you wait outside? It’ll be over in a minute or two. Then we can set everything right and move on with our lives.”

He sounds sure of himself. It’s tempting to let him handle it. Yoshi may not be totally objective, but he’s not remembering what it felt like to sway in Ben’s arms at the Homecoming dance. He doesn’t know what it felt like to have Ben’s warm lips linger at my ear.

“Did you hear that?” the Cat adds, raising his nose. “From outside?”

I didn’t. Then I do. A thick, heavy foot (paw?), much bigger than a Coyote’s, crushes straw covering a fresh grave. I know exactly where it is. Mr. Cruz died two weeks ago of a heart attack. He was a cheerfully grizzled man in his nineties, worked as a greeter at Wal-Mart for thirty-five years after a career in long-haul trucking. His death was sad but not shocking, which isn’t to say that anybody local would tromp all over his resting place.

Well, maybe a couple of the defensive linemen, if they were drunk.

But they don’t smell like . . . what
is
that scent?

I hear something like a huffing snort, and the fine hairs on my arms contract. “Yoshi,” I whisper. “Something’s coming.”

“Something’s here.” He leans out the crypt door to take a look. “Oh, crap.”

Before I can ask what’s wrong, he’s yanked outside. As I dare to peek, the crowbar goes flying from Yoshi’s hand and he gasps, his body slamming into an upright marble grave marker. That’s when I register the hot, soggy breath on the back of my neck.

Biting my lower lip, I slowly turn my head and find myself confronted with a werebear. Female, I think. It sniffs me and roars in my face, spraying gooey spittle.

My inner girl is screaming at me to run. My inner Cat aches to climb.

But what about Yoshi? He’s lying in a heap in front of a statue of the archangel Michael. What if he’s seriously hurt? God, what if he’s dead? In my hesitation, the Bear wraps a thick paw around my forearm, dragging me fully into the night.

My body takes over, and I wince as fur ripples across my breasts and stomach and my saber teeth and front claws extend.

I take a vicious swipe in the direction of the Bear’s eyes, and it (he? she?) lets go, but if anything, I’m more vulnerable in mid-shift. My muscles are realigning, my bones cracking.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline, but I haven’t experienced a transformation this far out of control in years. I have to get the hell out of these jeans — now. I manage to leap up and backward onto the top of the Bloom family crypt, but, if anything, I’ve made it easier for the Bear to grab me.

“Hey, meathead,” Yoshi calls weakly, crawling to grab the crowbar. “Eat this.”

I’m shocked by the strength of his swing, but the Bear manages to duck in time. That’s when I realize we can’t let it go any more than we could Evan or shouldn’t’ve Darby.

It,
she,
roars at me again, and, clumsily, I fight to unzip with hands morphing to paws. I can’t imagine half the town didn’t hear that roar.

Staggering back from the Bear’s reach, I break the zipper and shove the denim past my butt as my tail uncurls from the base of my spine.

I feel the prickly sensation of more fur rising and rip off my shirt. The Bear goes down with a
woof,
and, with my rear paws, I step out of my Nikes. I want to help Yoshi, I do, but I don’t know how to use this body in combat. I’ve never been in a physical fight in my whole life.

“Hang on,” Aimee shouts, newly returned from Austin.

I bound to the edge of the crypt to watch her shoot a dart into the neck of the bucking Bear while a Lion — a gorgeous full-grown male werelion — struggles to keep his claws in the Bear’s enormous shoulders.

Is that Aimee’s boyfriend, Clyde? Could he really be half Possum? No one could tell that now. He’s bigger, heavier than Yoshi’s Cat form or mine. The mane is breathtaking. So are the muscles. Yoshi’s sleeker, sexier, but I can see why he’s jealous, and not just over the girl.

The Bear snaps at him, but it’s no use. Whatever Aimee hit her with is potent. She sways, shakes her snout, and careens over, landing with a thud.

Swooping in fast and low, Aimee herself is decked out for the hunt in night-vision goggles. Smart call; they help her even the playing field.

“Where did you get all that equipment?” Yoshi asks, limping over.

“Paxton owed us the favor,” she replies, tossing a pair of faded black jeans in the Lion’s direction. “Here, Clyde, put these on.”

Yoshi opens his mouth as if to protest when he catches a glimpse of me in animal form and his jaw drops. I don’t know what he’s staring at. I don’t know what they’re talking about. Most of all, I don’t know what to do.

If I retract my shift, I’ll be naked in the company of boys, and if I don’t, I’ll be exposed in Cat form in Pine Ridge city limits — the ultimate no-no.

Clyde doesn’t hesitate to begin his transformation to human form, but he’s at least got something to put on. He’s probably used to changing shape in front of other werepeople.

The scent rising from him is intoxicating — like mud and blood, stirred with desire. I don’t blame Aimee for finding him irresistible.

I still find it odd that Clyde is a white guy who can turn into a Lion. It seems like he should be of African or Asian heritage, but now that I think about it, he’s a distant cousin to Ice Age lions and, from what I remember from the Discovery Channel, lions (and, for that matter, mammoths and woolly rhinos) did roam Europe at that time.

I pace on the roof of the crypt until Aimee notices me. “Guys,” she says, gesturing at the prone Bear, who’s likewise looking more human by the moment. “You get the new arrival secured and see if we can reason with her. I’m going to run back to Yoshi’s car and grab some sweats for Kayla.” She tosses me a grin over her shoulder. “Standard operating procedure. The pants will be too short for you, but they’re better than nothing.”

Thank the Maker. I’ll thank
Aimee
when I’m able to talk again.

“THAT BEAR KNOCK ANY SENSE INTO YOU?”
Clyde asks me, zipping his jeans up. He’ll strut shirtless as long as he can get away with it without looking like he’s making a point of leaving his shirt off.