Feral Nights (11 page)

“I don’t need your help,” I inform him. “I’m completely capable of —”

“If you’re going to pass as a legally drinking man on the town,” Yoshi begins again, “you’re going to have to sell it. You need to market yourself as something more than a bug-eating, pimply, prey-faced teenybopper.”

“My skin isn’t bad,” I say, which, granted, isn’t my best comeback.

“It’s not so much about how you look. That’s fixable. It’s about how you see yourself, about confidence.”

I laugh. “You’re not seriously trying to go all fairy godmother on me?”

“Honestly? I’d just as soon leave you out of it,” Yoshi admits, reaching to tear my poster off the door. “But Aimee has been a big help so far, and she insists that you come with us. She claims you’re her hero.”

“Hero?” I say, reaching for my crutches. “Me?”

Holding open the door to All the World’s a Stage, Yoshi asks, “You got a steady girl?”

Maneuvering in, I’m tempted to invent a girlfriend from school. Being that he’s from Kansas (and hopefully will return there soon), it’s not like he’d know the difference. But why bother? I don’t care what he thinks. Much. “Nah, I’m playing the field. Why?”

“Just curious.” Yoshi scans the racks stuffed with costumes and vintage clothing. He pulls out a white long-sleeved button-up shirt. “Try this with pants. The collar will cover your tattoos.”

“Plenty of adults have tats,” I say. “Do you have any idea what a hassle it was for me and Aimee, being underage, to find a decent artist who could be bribed —”

“Sure, but the ink might draw a second glance. The idea is to slip in without anyone looking too closely. Besides, we’re shooting for twenty-one plus, not eighteen plus.” Yoshi glances at my high-tops. “Dress shoes — brown or black leather with laces or tassels.” He gestures vaguely at my crutches. “I can carry stuff for you.”

I hate that I need help. “Anything else,
Mom
?”

“Yeah,” Yoshi says. “Is there a reason we’re here instead of the mall?”

“Are you made of money?” I ask. “Buying new is pricey. Here, we can rent clothes for the night.”

Yoshi passes the shirt to a clerk to hang in the dressing room for me. Heading toward the shoes, he says, “Smart Possum.”

I try to tell myself he’s not being condescending.

THAT EVENING,
Nora answers my knock on the kitchen door. “Love the hair!”

“Don’t you always?” This afternoon a salon colorist muted the green highlights into brown lowlights and pinned it up to show off my neck.

Someone has hung a blue sheet in the kitchen, and I pick up a fake Alaska ID with Yoshi’s photo on it. I’ve always found mustaches cheesy, but his newly grown one makes me wonder whether it would tickle if I kissed him.

Of course that reminds me of the way his lips felt over cupcakes. It was a getting-to-know-you kiss, a left-me-wanting-more kiss, but what did it mean?

Was Yoshi just trying to make Enrique jealous? Or does he randomly kiss girls whenever he wants?

“All right.” Nora picks up her digital camera. “Try not to look too perky. Remember, you’re supposed to be at the DMV.”

Setting down my bag of clothes, I pose in front of the sheet.

I can hear a football game on TV in the family room. “How’re the boys?” I ask. “Have they killed each other yet?”

“They’re primping.” The camera flashes. “I’ll get this uploaded.” Nora takes a seat and gestures to the half bath off the kitchen. “You’re welcome to get ready in there.”

I duck in as she moves to transfer the image to Clyde’s laptop, muttering about how Detective Zaleski will have a conniption fit if he finds out what she’s doing. “Underage kids at a bar . . .”

Shutting the door, I wiggle into the classic black dress. The skirt is swishy, and the neckline shows off my padded curves. I accent the outfit with faux-pearl earrings, a long faux-pearl necklace (wrapped around my neck three times), and my vintage black rocker boots. They’re totally broken in, and the heels are low and squared. If necessary, I can run in them. From there, I add smoky eyeliner that, coupled with my already-black nails and newly tinted hair, creates a sort of mod-vintage-me look that hopefully will fit with what the scarce online reviews hinted about the club’s atmosphere.

Finally, I step into the living room, where Nora and the boys are studying my new fake ID. Clyde hands it to me. “Hot off the presses,” he says.

On some level, I register that the laminate is still warm.

On another, I’m flabbergasted by the guys.

Yoshi sports a black jacket over a blue shirt and black jeans. His mustache evokes swashbuckler, sword fighter — a romantic, dashing figure from the past.

Clyde is equally well coiffed, and I’m momentarily spellbound. It must’ve taken a professional stylist to smooth his wiry hair, accenting its wave and making the gray gleam silver. He’s grown a beard but shaved it close, creating a shadow that frames his long face, makes his cheekbones more prominent, and brings out the gold in his dark eyes.

He glares at Yoshi. “You said this look works for me.”

“It does,” I chime in, a second too late.

Nora reaches for the remote on the coffee table and mutes the TV. “No drinking and, sure as heck, no drinking and driving. I understand that this is something y’all feel like you have to do. But that’s no excuse to pile on unnecessary risks. All three of you have my phone number. First sign of trouble, holler, and I’ll be there in a flash with a three-hundred-pound werebear and a machete.”

AT HALF PAST EIGHT
P.M.,
the bouncer at Basement Blues flicks his eyes at us. “No.”

“We’ve got ID,” Yoshi counters.

“Hers is no good here, so you two aren’t welcome, either,” he decrees, gesturing toward the sidewalk. “Move along.”

I trudge down the ramp. “Me?” I exclaim. “I’m the weak link?”

Clyde mutters, “I can’t believe we did all that for nothing.” Planting his crutches firmly ahead of him, he swings forward, again and again, toward Yoshi’s car.

As we pass the nearest alley, I say, “Wait. Sanguini’s isn’t the only place with a rear entrance for employees and deliveries.”

The boys follow me around the building and down the short concrete staircase to the propped-open back door. This time Yoshi won’t have to bust our way in. Once inside, we pass a door labeled
STORAGE
and another labeled
OFFICE.

A guy in a white cook’s uniform rounds the corner and asks, “Can I help you?”

“Restrooms,” I say. “We’re looking for the restrooms.”

He’s apparently heard that before. “You took a wrong turn at the stairs. Retrace the way you came, around the corner, and then left past the red-carpeted staircase.”

Seconds later, we march up the stairs and stop to stare in wonder.

I get it now. We weren’t turned away because I look too young, but because I smell too human. So far as I can tell, I’m the only non-shifter in the club.

At first glance, Basement Blues is crowded, dark, and smoky, bordered on one wall by a mirrored old bar, its worn wooden floor dotted with two- and four-tops.

Then through the haze, I begin to make out the patrons more clearly.

Partially shifted wereraccoons throw back brews, tear into peanuts, and toss the shells to the floor. Next to them, a bumpy-headed I’m-not-sure-what orders an Irish whiskey from a waitress with Deer legs. Everyone is in mid-shift and holding it steadily.

“How are they all doing that?” Yoshi asks.

From what I’ve been told, it’s no small trick to halt and hang on to a transformation in process. Most werepeople can’t manage it, and I’m guessing that being inebriated is no help. It’s also risky. Faced with a shifter in mixed form, too many humans would automatically reach for a gun.

“There’s a new black-market drug,” Clyde replies. “It’s called ‘transformeaze.’ Gives you amazing control in the short term, but if you get hooked, you’ll never take normal shifts for granted again. You can become like a rabid animal. Some werebadger from British Columbia disemboweled his own newborn kits.”

It hangs unsaid that Yoshi is unusually masterful at holding his shift.

“Hey, don’t look at me!” He leads us in. “This Cat man is all natural.”

I ask, “Why would anyone want to —?”

“To get off,” Clyde says. “This joint is probably a cover for prostitution.”

“Or maybe they just want to show their fur,” Yoshi replies as we make ourselves comfortable at an available four-top. “Do you always assume the worst in people?”

“How do we find this Tornquist guy?” Clyde asks, ignoring the question.

I reach into a sequined black clutch bag, hand him the band flyer, and gesture to the corner stage, where Fayard & the French Horns are setting up. They’re Bears all right. Huge, every one of them. “They’re his clients.”

Right then a thick-bodied woman with a fleshy, bulbous nose and long neck passes us on her way to the bar. I whisper, “What is she?”

Yoshi flags the waitress. “Wereparaceratherium.”

At my puzzled look, Clyde clarifies: “Hornless rhino.” He moves the red votive candle to one side and rests his crutches against the brick wall. “How is it you can ID so many kinds of shifters, Yoshi? Aren’t you from Hayseed, Kansas, or something?”

Yoshi drapes his arm around the back of my chair. “Grams entertained a lot of out-of-town company.” Turning to me, he adds, “Cats, Wolves, Bears, Deer . . . those of us whose distant animal kin are still around and about our same size have a huge advantage over other types of werepeople. If we’re spotted in full shift, humans tend to assume we’re animals. That can still be a problem during hunting season, but —”

“I understand,” I say. “The animal counterparts of some of these werepeople no longer have descendants. In a place like this, they can shift fully or even partially —”

“Without being assumed a monster,” the waitress interrupts. “You snuck in a human? Boys, we don’t cotton to kinky stuff here.”

Yoshi flashes a toothy smile. “She’s my sister,” he explains. “Adopted.”

The waitress taps a hoof and sasses, “You Cats will give teat to anything.”

I can’t believe she’s flirting with him. She must be at least thirty.

He winks and orders a pitcher of beer and three glasses.

She makes a note. “I’ll bring you a bottle of our featured microbrew, predator. Plus, water for your sister and the scavenger.”

Clyde grabs her wrist, and the Deer freezes in place. Her eyes widen, like it’s painful for her to keep standing there, and his lips pull back like he’s ready to snarl. It’s an odd way for a Deer to react to a Possum. Then again, it’s an odd way for Clyde to behave, too. “A pitcher,” she finally chokes out. “Three glasses. My apologies, sir.”

“Hey,” Yoshi interjects. “Enough, already. You’ve made your point.”

Clyde lets go, glowering. “Listen, Mr. Metrosexual —”

“Hush,” I put in. “We don’t want to attract attention.”

The band starts up, and we’re finally quiet. I like their music. I like their black fedoras. I like the whole scene, except that I’ve never felt more out of place.

Yoshi, on the other hand, is clearly in his element. He rests the back of his chair against the wall. He can see the whole room that way.

As the waitress drops off our beer, I’m coughing smoke. I’ve never seen so many people smoking cigars and cigarettes in public — it’s illegal, I think. And speaking of illegal, Clyde pours me a beer before Yoshi can. I gulp, grimacing at the taste. I should’ve ordered water.

After the set, Yoshi says, mostly to himself, “The band is missing their bass player and lead singer.” He stands. “I’ll see what I can find out. Wait for me here.”

“You can’t tell us what to do,” Clyde calls after him.

“Stop picking at him,” I say. “Your attitude isn’t —”

“Chill,” Clyde says. “The piano player just waved someone over. It could be Tornquist.” He pushes up and grabs his crutches. “Let’s find out.”