Free Feral Nights by Cynthia Leitich Smith Page B

Wertheimer finally relaxes. “So far as we’ve been able to figure, Tornquist isn’t guilty of anything except being your sister’s ex-boyfriend.” He rubs his eyelids. “We don’t even know for sure if they were romantically involved. But . . .”
    “But what?” I ask.
    Wertheimer clears his throat. “Several Austinites have been classified as missing over the past few months. We have a partial handle on what happened there.”
    “Vampires,” I inform Yoshi. “Including the one Ruby staked.”
    Wertheimer scowls at me for mentioning it (police cover-up) but goes on, “The number of total missing is higher than reported.”
    “Because the rest of the missing people are shifters,” Yoshi suggests. “Their loved ones are less likely to go to the cops, at least through regular channels.”
    “Vamps strongly prefer humans over werepeople for food,” I say. “And shifters can’t be cursed with their blood to become neophytes. This must be someone, something else that’s targeting the local wereperson population.”
    “Which is why we all need to be extra careful,” Wertheimer concludes. “Yoshi, you scamper back to Nora’s, flip on ESPN, kick up your kitty heels, and let me and Zaleski find your sister. If you want to woo the young lady, do it out of sight.”
    Does he mean me? Am I the one being wooed?
    “I’m not big on turning tail,” Yoshi replies. “But I’ll take it under advisement.”
    “See that you do.” With that, the detective exits the car.
    Yoshi starts the ignition. “Cops go on cruise retreats?”
    I smile at the idea of Wertheimer sipping a mai tai in an aloha shirt, cargo shorts, and flip-flops. “What kind of shifter do you think he is?”
    Clyde and I have spent quality time pondering the question, but it’s always felt rude to ask Wertheimer directly, especially since he isn’t officially “out” in that way to us.
    “Can’t tell,” Yoshi says, continuing south. “Which, given the long list of werepeople who’ve crashed a night or two in Grams’s barn over the years . . . He’s either a rare species, one I’ve never come across before or, possibly, a Wild Card.”
    “A Wild Card?” I prompt.
    “For a Cat and a Lion or, say, a Wolf and a Coyote to have cubs . . . They’re so closely related, it’s no big deal.” Yoshi lowers his visor. “But if you’re talking about two very different animal forms — like a Moose and a Boar, for example, either their offspring default to human-form only or they can alternate at will between human and the two animal forms. That’s what we call a Wild Card. They’re much harder to ID by scent.”
    I’ve never thought about it before, what happens when radically different shifters have kids. Then again, it was such a huge deal when Travis invited me into his world. I was reluctant to seem too curious. I let him share what he wanted when he wanted, and I have a general idea of how they all evolved, from the Ice Age on, living in seclusion or at least in secret. But so much is still a mystery to me.
    “About Tornquist . . .” I yank the band flyer out of my pocket and read: “‘Jazz Man Bookings presents Fayard and the French Horns.’ That’s Tornquist’s promotion company, and the group plays tonight at a club on Lavaca Street. If Junior is babysitting his daddy’s businesses, it’s possible he’ll show.”

I’M HUNGRY AGAIN. Weremammals have higher metabolisms than humans. Teenage males have higher metabolisms than anyone else on earth. I’m always hungry.
    Aimee joins me at a bright-yellow picnic table set in an otherwise empty lot alongside a silver food trailer where dolled-up cupcakes are sold. She’s bought a six-pack mix of chocolate, vanilla, and mango passion. The icing is swirled and dotted with multicolored sprinkles.
    “I’ve been thinking about the Dillos’ potential price on your head,” she says. “It’s very Han Solo. I mean, not yet, because they’re still hoping to —”
    “Kill my