Feral Nights (13 page)

“Craving as in sex or food?” I want to know.

“Blood, most likely,” Sandra replies, “but, really, any of the above.”

How flexible. “Why didn’t you just kill me? Why bring me here at all?”

“I could use the company,” she admits. “You were such a polite shopper at Enlightenment Alley. Your mother raised you right.”

It’s then that an almost seven-foot-tall, furry biped creature wearing round, wire-framed glasses proceeds from behind lime-colored curtains to the lectern.

It positions itself in the skylight glow and raises its hairy white arms as if calling an orchestra to attention. It says something in Spanish, and the group mimics it back to him. Then, in English, it looks at me and intones, “Every day in every way, you will contribute to the profit margin of
Homo deific.
”

Sandra nudges me, and I realize that I’ve been appropriated as the corporate handmaiden of a fugly love child of a Wookiee and the Abominable Snowman.

Given that I’m not inclined to test my anklet, for now I have no choice but to play along. Squaring my shoulders, I declare, “Every day in every way, I will contribute to the profit margin of
Homo deific.
”

“Good,” the snowman grunts. “Sandra, find the new one a purpose.”

There’s that word again: purpose. Sex, food, blood — what was my other option? House servant. I whisper, “I have restaurant experience.”

THE MOIST, WARM AIR
is briny, scented by seaweed. I squint through heavy eyelids, gazing for the first time at an ocean. I take in the white-crested waves, the epic blue.

This is no time to lose myself in wonder — frantic hoofbeats close in from the nearby jungle. Groggy, I can’t begin to defend myself against whatever it might be. Alone on the beach, I’ve got nowhere to hide. If I choose the sea, will it dive in after me?

I force myself to stand, shaky, as a feral hog bursts around an immense fern and onto the pale sand. It’s no Wilbur, and at over two hundred pounds of muscle, it’s barreling my way. I take an uncertain step, and, trying to project predator, plant my legs more firmly. It’s no use. I tumble, expecting to be gored.

Then an immense bear — no, a werebear — roars out of the greenbelt, giving chase. The hog gallops by. I don’t matter. I’m not the thing that’s trying to kill it right now.

Seconds later, the Bear overtakes the grunting hog with enormous claws. Sand sprays up, and a cracking sound rises from the swine’s thick neck. It’s a merciful kill.

I leverage myself on one elbow as the Bear bounds, splashing, into the sea. It disappears for a moment as if dancing in the waves. Beyond the uneven shoreline, dorsal fins veer in his direction. “Hey!” I shout. “Get out of there!”

Twice, maybe three times, I catch a glimpse of the Bear’s head.

“Shark!” I add, because so what if I’m wrong and they’re dolphins or it’s too shallow for them to come close in. Better safe. “Please! You’re a land mammal.”

I’m about to yell again when he surfaces, naked in human form.

Most werepeople don’t feel awkward about nudity. Fully shifting with clothes on is painful and trashes the outfit. It makes sense to start out in the buff, and you end up that way regardless. But I don’t know this guy at all, so I keep my gaze well above his waist.

“What’re you hollering about?” he asks.

“Uh . . .” I guess the fins are still fairly far out. “Shark?”

I saw
Jaws
on TV at an impressionable age.

He uses his hand like a visor to scan the horizon. “Not exactly,” the Bear calls, lumbering toward his prey. “My name’s Luis. I’m one of the good guys. You?”

I push up. “Yoshi.” Checking my pockets, I say, “They took my comb.”

He laughs. “And your phone, if you had one. Can I borrow your T-shirt?”

I stagger across the hot sand to meet him.

Luis adds, “I need to tie off the hog’s leg wound so it doesn’t trail blood.”

He must’ve almost caught it with his claws. Peeling off my sweaty shirt, I ask, “Who are you, Luis?”

“The biggest badass bass player west of I-35 and south of Seattle.” He rips off my sleeves and bends to wrap the leg. “How’d you end up here?”

I don’t mention Ruby by name or that she’s a murder suspect, but I hit the highlights of my story up to falling for Paxton’s trap at the garage. “Next thing I knew —”

“You woke up on the beach,” Luis says. “That’s how it usually goes. The lead-up details are different from shifter to shifter, but they usually involve the club somehow and Paxton typically dumps newbies here or at the farthest end of the island from their compound.” Luis lifts the hog to rest across his linebacker-size shoulders. “Welcome to the South Pacific. At least that’s where I think we are.”

“Looks like paradise,” I say, and it does. The sand is radiant, the jungle an enchanting green, the ocean frothy and inviting . . . except for the fins.

He laughs. “What’s your idea of paradise?”

I give it a moment’s thought. “Somewhere that nobody’s trying to shoot me.”

“Well,” the Bear replies, “you’re going to hate it here. Feeling up for a hike?”

“Sure.” My head is clearer now. I pull my now-sleeveless shirt back on.

“This is a small, private island.” Luis points up at sheer rock cliffs in the distance. “That mountain, volcano, whatever, is the far border or at least cuts off this hunk of land from whatever might be on the other side.”

“Private as in privately owned?” I ask, remembering that Paxton’s from money.

“Right,” Luis says, adjusting the hog. “They’ve stocked this island with a variety of shifters — like you and me — who’re considered hard kills. Desirable trophies.”

As we plunge into the jungle, I extend my claws to hack through tropical leaves and vines. “You mean someone’s
hunting
us?”

“Not at the moment.” Luis sets down the hog and pulls on tattered cutoffs that he left behind on a boulder, along with a canteen and binoculars. He secures the canteen to one of his belt loops and tosses the binoculars to me. “Keep your eyes open. Ears, too.”

I frown. “You’re saying Paxton —”

“He’s the least of your worries now,” Luis informs me. “It’s better if I show you.”

I’m already soaking wet from the humidity.

We keep hiking, startling a goat on the way. Luis explains that there apparently have been countless efforts to settle this island, sailors bringing with them pigs, goats, rats . . . what for us is easy prey. “The white-tailed deer is good eating. Stay away from the monkeys. They’re cute, but they steal and bite.”

“What about snakes?” I ask. “Scorpions?”

“Yep.”

“Are they poisonous?”

He gives me a look. “If one bites you, we’ll find out.”

“What about big predators?” I add. “Jaguars or . . . ?” I’m not sure what exactly, but I have a vague memory of watching giant poisonous lizards on the Discovery Channel.

“Not that we’ve seen,” Luis replies. “At least not in recent memory.”

Maybe there aren’t any, which is why smaller animals are so plentiful — no alpha predator — or maybe they were hunted to extinction. At least there’s food.

Fresh water, too, I discover as we hike up a stream.

“Shortcut,” Luis says. “Watch your step.”

The rocks are sharp, slippery. I cut my ankle twice. But it’s quicker going this way, and the waterfall is breathtaking. After a while, we’re back on solid land.

At the base of a thirty-some-foot-high ridge, Luis sets the hog down. I scale up after him, reaching the top first.

“Lay of the land,” he announces, panting. “Look there.”

I raise the binoculars. Beyond the jungle is a rustic three-story building. The area just ahead of it has been partially cleared and artfully landscaped. Escape can’t be that easy. Plus it’s an awful big building for just Paxton. “The bad guys?”

“Yep.” Luis points out to sea.

“A boat!” I exclaim. A small yacht, I think.

“One of theirs,” he tells me. “The only way to the dock is through the main building, and the rat bastards have set up a high-frequency barrier to keep us out.”

I think about it. “Like one of those invisible dog fences?”

“Only it makes your brain bleed out your ears. It runs from the natural rock wall far into the ocean,” Luis explains. “We’ve tested it. Didn’t go well.”

I consider how I got here. “Copters?”

“They come and go,” Luis says. “So far as we can tell, they only linger long enough to refuel. Not that I know how to fly a helicopter. Do you?”

“Not so much,” I admit. “Who are ‘they’ anyway? Besides Paxton.”

“Check out the top of that sheer cliff above the main property,” Luis suggests.

I do and, with a gasp, lose my footing. Only the Bear’s reflexes save me from tumbling down and breaking my neck.

Those armed guards can’t be albino wereapes. There’s no such thing as wereapes of any fur color. They’re not polar werebears. The body type is all wrong. Besides, they have the dome-shaped heads of modern humans.

“There’s a scientific explanation,” Luis puts in. “An evolutionary chart and a whole lot of big words to explain it. But I just think of them as goddamned greedy yetis.”

THE HOUR I JUST WASTED
trying to tear apart this cage succeeded only in making me as sore as I’ve been since first coming out of the coma last September. The thing making me really crazy, though, is that my captors left my electro-charged crutches propped just out of reach against the trunk of a nearby palm tree. No matter how hard I strain, my covert super weapons are resting a tantalizing six inches beyond my fingertips.

Lacking a better option, I stretch out on a rope hammock. There’s also a hanging water bottle and a pile of straw in the corner that I assume is supposed to be my toilet. I refuse to go until after my unspeakably sexy fellow prisoner falls asleep.

She may think she’s proving something, giving me the silent treatment. But I’ve been rejected by tons of girls. I don’t give up that easily. It’s time to give conversation another shot. “Do they feed us here, or have we been left to starve?” I doubt it’s the latter. She looks awfully healthy to me.

A honeyed voice replies, “Either Paxton will come or one of their pet humans. It may take a day or two.”

Is that what happened to Aimee? Is she being kept as a pet? Not that I’m hugely uncomfortable at the moment, with my ankles crossed and my hands behind my head. “You finally decided to talk to me?”

“I’m bored. You’re here.” My neighbor stretches her arms above her head. “I’m Noelle, by the way.”

“Clyde,” I reply. “I’ve never met a Lion before.”

“Lioness,” she corrects me.

And despite my winning personality, she keeps to herself for the rest of the afternoon.

Unlike the ravishing Noelle, I can’t sleep. (Lions, like all Cats, are known for their love of napping.) I grip the cage bars, stare out at the elusive crutches. All of this is Yoshi’s fault. I wouldn’t be in this mess if that Cat —

“Stewing about Yoshi is not going to help,” Travis’s voice scolds. “And no, I’m not psychic. I just know you that well.”

Chilled, I wobble back toward the center of the cage. “I . . . How? This isn’t the neighborhood park . . . and you were in that garage downtown, too.”

“The park was never a haunted place,” Travis begins, taking shape. “You’re a haunted person, or wereperson, if you want to get technical about it. I have some leeway to float around the astral plane, but for the most part, you’re my worldly anchor.”

“You watch me all the time?” I exclaim. “Like some kind of angel?”

“Nah.” He wrinkles his nose. “I can only move in a mile or so radius around —”

“Aimee!” I instinctively try to grab him by the shoulders. As my hands slide through his image, I say, “I think she’s in the lodge. Go check on her. Tell her —”

“I can’t tell her anything,” Travis insists. “In exchange for permission to linger on earth, I promised an archangel that I’d restrict my haunting to you.”