Feral Nights (5 page)

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 flies 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.”

It’s been going on two hours since the detectives bailed, locking the door behind them. I could break out, no problem. But I’m sure the vast majority of cops at the station are human, and it would be catastrophically stupid of me to attract any more attention to myself or do anything else that might out me as a shifter.

I’m about to go for it anyway when Zaleski returns with a couple of warm mugs. He takes a seat and gestures at the chair across the table from him.

“Where have you been?” I ask, pacing. “I’ve been waiting for —”

“Sit,” he replies. “I took your meeting with Richards at his warehouse.”

Oh. My coffee tastes bitter and watery. “Okay.”

As the Bear leans his chair back on its rear legs, I hope it can support his weight. “You really don’t know where Ruby is, do you?” he asks.

We’ve been over this. “No.”

“A lot of people believe she was a predator.”

He doesn’t say “werepredator.” I shoot a glance at the surrounding mirrored walls. Maybe I’ve seen too many cop shows on TV, but I can’t help wondering if someone is watching and listening from outside the room.

“Ruby was in 4-H,” I tell him. “The two of us worked part-time at our Grams’s antiques and bonsai shop. My sister graduated high school second in her class. She came to Austin. . . .” So far, everything I’ve learned about Ruby’s troubles in Austin point to her connection with the late Davidson Morris of Sanguini’s. So, what happened to Paxton, the guy who persuaded her to move to town in the first place? The one at the music-promotion agency who supposedly appreciates that she’s a Cat?

Zaleski stares at me like he’s trying to read my mind. If I share my last lead with him, will that help or hurt my sister? My instincts tell me that the detective wants to do right. But he wears a badge, and there’s no such a thing as fair justice for werepeople. Plus, Clyde mentioned something about Ruby supposedly killing a cop or two.

Zaleski brings the chair down on all fours. “She came to Austin and
what
?”

“Disappeared,” I reply. “What did Richards say?”

“Nothing much,” the detective admits. “With the families of victims, like Travis’s family, they mostly want answers. You know, closure.”

Even under the circumstances, I can’t help but sympathize. “About my sister . . .”

“I’m doing all I can to find Ruby. But no one has officially reported her as missing, and she hasn’t been formally charged with any crime. It’s probably smart to leave it that way, at least for now. At the moment, all I’ve got for her are questions.”

Fair enough. “Can I go?”

“You heading home to Kansas?” Zaleski asks.

He’ll smell it if I lie. “No.”

“Then lay low.” He gives me his business card, and now I have two of them. “If you do hear from Ruby, I’d appreciate a heads-up.” Zaleski sighs like he knows I’m holding out on him but can’t do anything about it. “Otherwise, you’re free to go.”

I follow him to the elevator. As I hit the button, Wertheimer pops his head out of a doorway down the hall and calls, “Hey, kid! You got somewhere to stay tonight?”

I’ve slept in my car before. I can do it again. “I’ll be all right.”

The detectives exchange a look. “No, wait,” Zaleski says. “I know a place.”

I’m not interested in a youth shelter. I duck into the elevator. “Thanks anyway.”

Outside, a couple of homeless guys shuffle by. One is pushing a grocery cart, and the other is singing an old Janis Joplin song. A girl wearing a backpack whizzes past me on a Vespa. Then, up ahead, the shadow I thought was a VW Bug steps onto the sidewalk. It’s a werearmadillo in animal form. Outside. In public. Downtown.

I’d say it had balls, but I don’t know anything about Armadillo physiology.

It’s huge, less cute than I would’ve imagined, more like a pissed-off armored tank. It’s not alone, either. Another Dillo steps in back of me from behind a truck.

I could leap over either one or dart to the side and outrun them. I could —

“Easy, my friends,” calls a sixty-something man in a pinstriped business suit, strutting down the middle of the street. “I just want to have a few words with the boy.”

“If this is about my sister,” I begin, “I have no idea —”

“It’s about both of you,” the approaching man replies, and that’s when I notice his revolver. “I’m sure Detective Zaleski has already mentioned that if Ms. Kitahara doesn’t turn herself in to me within seventy-two hours, our vendetta against her will extend to include you.”

As a matter of fact, Zaleski didn’t mention that.

“We’re here to make sure you understand that we have the power to follow through on our threat,” he explains. “Perhaps you’re thinking that as a Cat, you could flee. Or that you could even kill us the way your sister slaughtered my grandson.”

Karl Richards, I presume. He’s lost his mind. “I’m —”

“Shut up! You may be an über carnivore, but we Dillos prosper in both worlds. We are a proud people with close ties to the Weasels, Rats, and Opossums. We have friends and resources beyond your wildest imagining. You don’t know what it is to be hunted until you’ve been hunted by an Armadillo.”