Free Feral Curse by Cynthia Leitich Smith Page A

else for taking cover (post-traumatic paranoia), but it’s painful, waiting around.
    “I see you’ve made new friends,” a resonant male voice observes from the door.
    Great. It’s Kayla’s father. Still dressed like an undertaker.
    Apparently he didn’t want to get rained on, either.
    Eyes wide, Kayla spins to greet him. “Hi, Daddy.”
    Aimee grins. “How do you do, Mr. Mayor? I’m Aimee. I’m doing an oral report on small-town city governments for my U.S. government class. One of the chili teams referred me to your daughter and said she had the inside scoop.”
    Shaking her hand, Mayor Morgan says, “Kayla’s picked up a lot from me over the years. But why would you be doing a report on city governments for a class on federal —”
    “Extra credit,” she clarifies, and I appreciate how smooth a liar she’s become, practically as good as a shifter, and for most of the same reasons. Drawing out her phone again, she asks the mayor to pose for a photo, and he cheerfully obliges.
    Before getting to know Aimee, I never thought much about the human allies and lovers of werepeople, let alone the human family members. But from his scent, Kayla’s father is obviously in the latter group. He must be her stepfather, and it’s her mom who’s the Cat. Or maybe Kayla is part
Homo sapiens.
You can’t tell by looking or by scent, not in human or animal form.
    It occurs to me that he might’ve already been in office, or at least a professional politician, when he and Mrs. Morgan met. That would help explain his being in such a high-profile job now, despite his family’s mixed-species makeup and the risks that come with it.
    Even in twenty-first-century clothes, he’d be a distinguished-looking fellow — gray at the temples, a bit of middle-age girth around his belly. He’s got a politician’s charm and, unfortunately for us, the savvy to go with it. I only wish Aimee had come up with a cover story that had nothing to do with what he does for a living. It could be because I was raised without any, but I’m a big believer that parents mostly just get in the way.
    “Interesting tattoo you’ve got around your neck,” Mayor Morgan adds, as if on cue.
    The repeating crosses. In Austin, nobody blinks twice at ink, but here . . .
    “I’m a believer,” Aimee says, steady and sincere. “I believe in salvation. I believe in true everlasting life.”
    She’s not kidding. I’m not sure what religion Aimee is exactly, but she’s not one of those vaguely “spiritual” people. She believes deeply in heaven, hell, and especially angels. She believes that Earth is some kind of battleground for celestial forces.
    I don’t make fun of it; not anymore.
    “Good for you.” Mayor Morgan looks chagrined. “Who’s this?” he wants to know, turning his attention to me.
    “Aimee’s boyfriend, Yoshi,” Kayla announces. “They’re from Austin.”
    Right. Because an already-taken teenage boy is less threatening to the father of a teenage daughter than one on the prowl. (I’ve had my share of unpleasant interactions with fathers of teenage daughters — two of them involving firearms). I swing an arm around Aimee’s shoulders and give her a quick kiss on the top of the head. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
    I hope Clyde finds out about this.
    The sun breaks through the gray clouds not long after noon. We dash out to pick up a couple of roasted turkey legs for me and Kayla and a fluffy pink cotton candy for Aimee.
    I’m impressed by how quickly the Founders’ Day scene recovers. Bluegrass music rises from the performance stage. Restaurants and bars empty as festival-goers fill the streets, only to order more food and drinks outside.
    We double back and take a winding concrete ramp down to park, positioning ourselves to cross the pea-green water. It’s swollen and flowing at a brisk clip. The downpour has churned up a lot of debris. A bit of trash, vines, loose branches.
    “This isn’t good,” Kayla mutters, tossing her