Feral Nights (7 page)

“Fine,” she agrees. “That we know of. But the Dillos have supposedly threatened to extend the price they’ve put on Ruby’s head to him. Assuming he’s not at fault, Yoshi shouldn’t be the one to pay. That would be wrong, Clyde, horribly wrong, and besides, Travis’s true killer would get off free. You tell me: is that justice?”

I like Aimee. I do. But she’s always obsessing over some cause, and besides, there’s nothing I hate more than arguing with someone who’s making more sense than me.

I head south on Congress Avenue, cruising by the 1950s motels, the costume shop, Sanguini’s, and the Tex-Mex restaurant. “What else did Yoshi want to talk to you about?”

“What do you think?” Aimee says. “Finding Ruby, making sure she’s safe. He’s concerned about her, which is only natural. It also suggests that he’s a decent guy.”

I snort. “You like him. You think he’s hot.”

As I swing into the Bouldin Creek neighborhood, Aimee stares out her window, ignoring me. Within a block, the landscape changes to a mix of new construction and small cottages, some of which are decorated with holiday lights year-round.

Once I put the SUV in park outside her apartment, she replies, “I don’t even know him.” That’s when I realize she’s seriously pissed. “How superficial do you think I am?” Aimee goes on. “News flash: being in the presence of a robust-looking male in no way shuts down my capacity for rational thought.”

“Robust?” I reply. Do
I
look robust? What does
robust
mean, anyway?

Aimee gets out and marches off without bothering to close the passenger door behind her. I unbuckle my seat belt and wince as I stretch to reach it.

Someday, I will learn when to shut up.

I WAKE TO THE ELECTRONIC CHIME
of my mother’s laptop. At least Mom didn’t try to rouse me for church. I usually work until close on weekends, but over winter break I’ve been going in every night to make some extra cash.

Dad hasn’t paid child support since he took that tech job in Hong Kong, or, at least, he keeps claiming there’s a persistent glitch in his bank’s direct-deposit system.

My mom is a former Pottery Barn manager, trying to remake herself as a life coach. She still works part-time as a sales clerk at Barton Creek Square Mall and is talking about going back to school to study psychology. Meanwhile, our employee-discounted furniture is awesome.

I rise from the foldout sofa bed and, yawning, mosey down the hall.

At her bedroom door, I begin, “Mind if I take a rain check today?” We’d been planning to hit a Jimmy Stewart movie marathon. “Something has come up with —”

“Your friends?” she asks, pivoting in the desk chair. “Again?”

Before I can reply, Mom adds, “Forget I said that.” She straightens. “I have friends of my own. Being a mother is important to me, but I won’t stoop to guilt trips or model to you that a woman is incomplete without a man and children to define her.”

Uh-huh. “New self-help book?”

She holds up a copy of
The Single Mother’s Guide to Raising Herself.
“Am I becoming that predictable?”

I laugh. “I find it charming.”

Sounding more like her usual self, she asks, “Are you off with Clyde?”

“Not exactly,” I reply, sitting on the corner of the bed. “There’s this boy. He’s visiting from Kansas.” Kansas has a nice, wholesome connotation. “His name is Yoshi, and he’s staying with Nora.”

“Is he cute?” Mom asks.

“More than cute,” I confess, recalling the fit of his jeans. “More like smoldering.”

LAST NIGHT WHEN ZALESKI ANNOUNCED
I’d be staying with his “lady friend,” I wondered if he might actually trust me. Then I realized that he was spending the night, too. Today I wake up in the cluttered attic to the aroma of Nora’s promised chicken-fried steak and eggs Benedict, and the world smells brighter.

There has to be a rational explanation for the allegations against Ruby. She’s probably in hiding somewhere safe, waiting for everything to blow over. Today I’ll do my damnedest to find her and straighten it all out.

I pull my jeans back on and rummage through the T-shirts that Nora left stacked for me on a nearby rocking chair. I pick a black short-sleeved one that spells
COEXIST
out of the religious symbols of various faiths.

Standing in front of the mirrored door to an antique wardrobe, I’m combing my hair when the reflection of a stack of boxes labeled DM catches my eye.

DM as in Davidson Morris? It’s got to be.

With a glance at the empty stairwell, I cross the attic and dig in. The contents are a jumble — toiletries, old checkbooks, Hawaiian shirts — like someone tossed everything in without bothering to sort through it first.

“Yoshi!” Nora calls from downstairs. “Grub’s on!”

“Coming!” I reply. I’m about to give up and sneak back later when a red envelope catches my eye. I pull out a birthday card with a coffin pictured on the front, the trim lined in real red felt. I don’t get the punch line on the inside, but the return address is for Ruby Kitahara.

Jackpot! I shove the envelope in my pocket and return the boxes to their approximate original positions.

“It’s getting cold!” Nora calls again.

Two staircases later, I gratefully accept a nearly overflowing plate. (The crispy hash browns go a long way to soaking up the hollandaise sauce.)

Nora says that she already shooed out Zaleski and invites me to church.

“No, thanks.” I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “I’ve got . . .” Should I tell her that I’m off to track Ruby? Won’t she relay anything I say to Zaleski? “A date.”

“A date?” Nora cocks her head. “My, you move fast! Didn’t you hit town only yesterday?”

“Aimee,” I say. “It’s not a
date
date. We’re just going to hang out.”

Nora and I make small talk over breakfast. It’s a relief to finally meet someone in this town who seems genuinely glad to get to know me. She even knows a werewolf who spent a night in Grams’s barn last fall. Small world, I guess.

After mentioning that she’s Sanguini’s third and latest chef, Nora answers my question before I can ask it. “I’ve never met Ruby. She wasn’t there long and took off before my time.”

“Everyone talks like she’s a monster,” I say.

Nora’s smile is gentle. “I’ve known my share of monsters and even found it in my heart to love a couple of them.” She clears my plate. “You strike me as a good boy. This morning I’ll put in a prayer request for you and your sister.”

Aimee shows up on foot about five minutes after Nora leaves for services. I’m sitting on the hood of my car, scrolling through old text messages, looking for clues.

I’m amused that Aimee thinks fifty-something degrees is chilly. She’s sporting a green fleece jacket with a long matching scarf. It brings out the green in her hair.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” I ask. “I half expected him to tag along today.”

“Who, Clyde?” Aimee asks with a quirk of her lips. “We’re just friends.”

Best news I’ve heard in days. She’s swiped translucent gel onto her brows and lashes, baby-pink gel onto her lips. I wonder if that’s normal for her or an extra effort.

I have my share of experience with human girls — more than my fair share. But none of them knew I’m a Cat. Somehow the fact that Aimee knows changes everything. I’m not playing pretend. I’ve got no choice but to be the whole, real Yoshi.

I slide off the hood and inform her that Ruby moved to Austin to work as a music-promotion intern with a guy named Paxton. “Later, we can hit some clubs, ask around.”

“Does this Paxton have a last name?” Aimee asks.

Reaching into my back pocket, I shake my head. “That would be too easy, but he’s supposedly sympathetic to werepeople rights. . . . He might be attached to the local urban scene.” I wonder how tapped in she is, beyond her Possum “just” friend. It’s a big deal, confiding shifter heritage to a human — forbidden, for the most part.

“We’ve got all day,” Aimee says. “Any other bright ideas?”

Either I trust her or not. “Just one,” I reply, pulling out the red envelope. I unfold it and show her the return address. “Can you take me here?”

“Hmm.” Aimee studies Ruby’s loopy handwriting and then puts her palm out. “It’s not far. Give me your keys.”

STEERING HIS PRECIOUS CAR NORTH
on Congress and then west, I don’t mention to Yoshi that I’ve only had my driver’s license for a few months. Or that I failed the test the first two times I took it.

I’m familiar with Ruby’s high-end apartment complex. It’s located near married-student housing and the city golf course. I’ve passed it a million times on my way to have fruit tarts and iced tea with my mom on the lake.

As we cruise by Auditorium Shores, I explain that Ruby was leading a double life, pretending to be a living vampire.

Rolling down the passenger-side window, Yoshi asks, “What’s that?”

I take a breath. “A human being who drinks blood from virgin donors.” The way I see it, what consenting adults do on full-moon nights in Hill Country caves is their own business. Cruising toward Lake Austin Boulevard, I add, “There’s a whole subculture built around it.” According to the waiters, a handful of living vampires are among Sanguini’s regular customers. They dress gorgeously and tip even better.

“Kinky,” Yoshi replies. “Why would a Cat do such a thing?”

I’m not sure how much to tell him. A few minutes later, I pull the car up to the apartment key code/com system and finally say, “We think Ruby playacted to attract Davidson Morris so she could spy on him and his vamp buddies. By pretending to be a wannabe, Ruby convinced them that she sincerely wanted to be turned.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You’re saying my sister was some kind of secret agent?”

“And assassin,” I put in. “She staked Davidson Morris, remember?”

I dial the office and ask to be let in.

As the gate electronically retracts, Yoshi asks, “Working for . . . ?”

“The Cats?” I guess, mostly fishing. It’s the assumption we’ve been going on, but there’s not much meat to it. According to Clyde, Cats don’t have any form of organized government. They’re too independent for that.

Once I cut the engine, Yoshi says, “I don’t need you for this.”

Oh, please. “I’m not going to wait in the car.”

“What if we find something that leads us to Ruby?” he asks. “Your buddy Clyde has already made up his marsupial mind. The Armadillo king is ready to play executioner, the facts be damned. How do I know you won’t turn in Ruby to the Dillos —?”

“I won’t.” I get out of the car. “I wouldn’t. I want the truth, too.”

Yoshi joins me in the parking lot. “That’s not good enough.”

“I owe Ruby my life,” I admit. “Probably my soul, too.”

He flares his nostrils, trying to smell out a lie. “You? How —?”

“Long story,” I say, heading toward the stucco-and-limestone management office. When Yoshi stays put, I glance over my shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you well enough to tell you about it. If we could become friends, it would be different.”

“We can’t become friends?” There’s a trace of hurt in his voice. “Why not?”

“Travis was my boyfriend,” I snap. “Well, almost. Just leave it, okay?”

He does.