Feral Nights (14 page)

LATER, SANDRA TOURS ME
around the lodge like she’s a corporate recruiter. “This is where the interns gather for meals,” she says.

From what I understand, she’s the sole team member and every other human of our kind is a student intern, apparently now including me. I glance around the room. The furniture is black rattan, and the space is decorated with framed scrimshaw and an antique globe.

Like the uniforms, the long curtains are lime green with white trim. So are the chair cushions, rug, tablecloth. . . . A massive watercolor portrait of a snowman wearing wire-framed glasses is framed in black rattan with a lime-green mat.

How quaint and lovely, and never mind that I’ve been kidnapped and separated from my friends! Not that freaking out will help. I can do this. I’ll ask the right questions and somehow Nancy Drew my way to a workable plan.

“Does anyone besides you and me speak English?” I ask, having learned after the snowman motivational business meeting that she’s bilingual, English-Spanish. The other interns are all traditional college-age and from Central or South America.

“The deific leadership does,” Sandra informs me. “That and Spanish for business purposes. They’ve traditionally focused on the North American market. This is a new territory for them. In any case, they’re pleased to have another native English speaker on the island. So much of their business is conducted on the phone. They practice all the time, but it’s hard for them to feign a passably human accent.”

I never thought of my entire species as having an accent, but the snowman who spoke at the lectern did have a guttural voice. It might have had something to do with his physiology. Following her down the wide, carpeted hall, I ask, “What is this place? What do you do here, besides —?”

“I am Boreal’s emissary for face-to-face dealings with the human world related to this enterprise. Only so much can be done long-distance, even in this day and age.” Sandra lingers at a picture window to show me the view of the endless ocean below. “The interns are in training to do the same for his new and planned ventures throughout this region of the world.”

“Why would they —?”

“Money, of course.” Sandra rests her hand on my shoulder. “He finances their higher education, offers full medical coverage — including dental — from top-notch doctors, and generously supplements their families’ income back home.

“After winter break, most will return to their respective colleges to study finance, accounting, marketing, business, and the like. Those who maintain the property on a day-to-day basis — the maids and groundskeepers and handymen — are enrolled in independent studies or taking a semester off.”

I wish she would stop touching me.

Sandra goes on, “Your mother has been struggling financially since the divorce, hasn’t she? You know, my father abandoned my family when I was about your age.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a photo of a thirty-some-years-younger version of herself, standing in front of a beat-up trailer home with four younger freckled kids and a woman I assume is her mother. “Today, they’re living large in a gated community in Palm Beach. They think they won the Florida State Lottery. I got to go to college at MIT, went on to receive my MBA at Georgetown, make seven figures a year, and occasionally have free time to indulge my passion for community theater.”

I shiver under the air-conditioner duct. “I’m not all that academic.”

Stashing the photo away, Sandra nudges me toward what looks like a sundries shop. I wander in, studying the rows of toothbrushes and paste, shoelaces and sewing kits, Band-Aids, maxi pads, chamomile drops, cotton swabs, invisible tape. . . .

“We couldn’t leave you in Austin,” she replies. “You already knew too much, and I personally would never harm a fellow mono-form human being.”

If Sandra’s the reason I’m alive, I should probably keep courting her favor. “I’ve always loved visiting Enlightenment Alley. Ever since I was little, I thought it was magic.”

“How quaint.” She hands me a plastic bag from a stack on the unoccupied counter, and I realize I’m supposed to be loading up. Sandra adds, “I was sent to infiltrate the store as an in to Tornquist Senior’s businesses. He built much of his fortune catering to his fellow werebeasts. A lot of shifters are Enlightenment Alley regulars. Perhaps it’s the influence of their animal forms, but they tend to be environmentalists, and of course the Wolves are huge readers. There are currently six
Canis dirus sapiens
in our Women Who Run as Wolves Book Club, which meets on the second Thursday of every month.”

I can forget appealing to Sandra’s social conscience. Scanning the shelves, I see that there are no razors, no metal nail clippers. I remember knives being pre-set in the breakfast room. Maybe I’m allowed sharp objects only in supervised company.

“Between us,” Sandra continues, “I’m lonely here. I’m not of the deific, and the interns come and go. At first, you’ll be expected to help with menial chores, but I have high hopes of fast-tracking you to assist me when the occasion arises. Say, when I’m back in Austin or when clients are in residence on the island for a hunt.”

Joy. I’m her new protégé. Or maybe she’s keeping a close eye on me until she’s sure I can be trusted, in which case — wait. “Hunt?” I repeat, tightening my grip on a roll of Lifesavers candy. “What hunt?”

That evening, Cameron, the cook, lifts one of the glass mugs I polished and holds it to the overhead light. “Flawless. You really did work in a pro kitchen.”

“Five stars from
Tejano Food Life,
” I reply, covertly studying his horns. I’ve seen plenty of faux devils dining at Sanguini’s, but Cameron is the first real demon I’ve ever met. He has a spiked red tail sticking out of a hole in the back of his jeans.

Not my first choice for companionship, but he’s at least distracting me from obsessing over the upcoming hunt. I can’t believe they even call it that, a hunt, as opposed to, say, a psycho killing spree. Plus I can’t really talk to the interns. I think a couple of them can understand some of what I’m saying, even if they don’t know enough English to reply. One girl even proudly showed me her semester-one English textbook. But it’s hard to communicate anything meaningful, and I despise them for being here willingly . . . assuming they are here willingly. I’m honestly not sure about that, either.

Cameron moves to the stove and stirs the yak-leek soup. “Taste test?”

I sip from the ladle. “Do you have kosher salt?”

He pivots to the spice cabinet. “I have sea salt.”

Cameron oddly reminds me of that Westlake shrink my parents took me to after they broke the news that they were getting a divorce. Easy to talk to, charming even, but like it’s somehow costing you more than you can afford. He smells splendid, though, like cotton candy and peppermint.

While he tinkers with the first course, I load the chilled mugs onto a round tray and deliver them to the candlelit table in the formal dining room.

Right then, ten of the so-called deific file in, chatting about the market price for gold versus the strength of the U.S. dollar and the possible influence of the euro on both.

I grab the chilled pitcher of pale lager and weave around them, ducking in again and again to fill mugs. I’ve already positioned a glass of ice water at every place setting. For the most part, they consider me beneath their notice, which is a relief. I scan the table once more, mentally confirming that — yes — I left four more pitchers so they can pour their own refills. (Cameron assured me that trying to keep up with their drinking on a mug-by-mug basis is a lost cause.)

The one lady of the house gets a glass of V8 served with a green straw and garnished with green olives. She’s apparently in a family way.

Strolling out, I can’t resist sneaking a closer look. They stand upright and walk with a humanlike gait, but their arms are slightly longer and their jaws are noticeably bigger than those of
Homo sapiens.
From what I understand, they originally hail from some remote wintry homeland but have been steadily infiltrating the rest of the globe since the invention of air-conditioning, which is why it’s so blasted cold indoors.

“Tell me, Cameron,” I begin, back in the kitchen. “What’s a chipper culinary fiend like you doing playing chef to a pack of overgrown fuzz balls?”

He fills soup bowls and places them on my tray. “I wouldn’t underestimate them, kiddo. Those fuzz balls have been around since before the Neanderthals debuted on the scene. They outlived them and
Homo erectus
and the hobbits.”

“So you’re firmly on board?” I ask. “You live to contribute ‘every day and every way’ to their profit margin?”

Cameron garnishes each bowl with chives. “Hardly. I’m a demon. Demon. I bow only to the Prince of Darkness himself.” And yet he reaches for the pepper grinder.

“Any reason they decided to open up shop on a
tropical
island? I mean, it’s clear the snowmen aren’t here for the sunshine.”

Cameron gives me a look like I’m asking a few too many questions, but he doesn’t care enough to mind. “They tried a couple of hunts in the Arctic, but they ran into weather delays, a few clients froze to death, and there was an influx of mainstream media in the region when some whales got stuck in the ice. Here, all they’ve got to worry about is the occasional hurricane, which is what those huge shutters are for.” He chuckles. “Fuzz balls, snowmen . . . Just don’t call them cryptids. They find any implied association with Bigfoot undignified.”

“It must be hard, living completely undetected as a species.” Not that, under the circumstances, I feel sorry for them. “But I guess werepeople did it for centuries.”

As I hoist the tray over my shoulder, Cameron adds, “You’d be surprised by how much is out there in the world, in the underworld, even in us, waiting for its moment.”

Aren’t we the demonic fortune cookie? Before I can think more about it, there’s shouting from the dining room.

“Scoot!” Cameron urges. “I’ll load up another tray.” He holds the door open, whispering, “Serve the leaders first. Boreal, the one wearing spectacles? He’s the head male. His mate, Crystal, is opposite him. Frore, at Boreal’s right, with the braids hanging in his eyes, is the second-in-command.”

The rest are guards who watch over the grounds. Another shift has taken their place.

As I begin the dinner service, Frore says, “Lion genes should be dominant.”

Boreal tosses his spoon across the room. “Enough! I will not be swayed.”

Whatever that’s about . . . It’s only after the room falls quiet that I notice I’ve spilled soup on Crystal’s white fur. She dips her napkin into her ice water and dabs at it.

Should I apologize? Am I allowed to speak at all?

“Are you quite all right, dear?” Boreal asks.

“Yes, not to worry,” she replies, her manners dainty. “This one is new. It’s probably still in shock. Let’s give it a day or two to settle in.”

I exhale and deliver Frore’s soup, wishing I’d lobbied for a lower-profile job.

“I don’t know how you can tell them apart,” Frore replies. “They’re all so ugly.”

“That one is a female,” Boreal says. “You can tell from its tiny breast buds.”

He did
not
just say that. Then again, I can’t tell any of them apart, except for Boreal because of his specs, Frore because of his braids, and Crystal, who’s smaller than the males, rounded from the pregnancy, and whose fur hangs in fuzzy spiral curls, apparently due to a catastrophic home perm. I drop off the last bowl to a guard.

“They’re such bald creatures,” Crystal muses. “Like hairless house cats.”

“Hairless house cats,” Frore echoes with a shudder.

Ankle cuff or no, I’ve got to find Clyde and Yoshi and get the hell out of here. The lodge is off the grid. No Internet, no phone service.

No matter. I just have to keep up this chatty, disarmingly cute act, figure out what’s going on, and connive a way off of this island for me, the boys, and whoever else needs saving. And then I’m going to adopt a hairless house cat and treat it like royalty.

PAXTON SHOWS UP,
pushing a metal food cart, and shoves a plate of milky oats through a slot in the cage bars. He’s ditched the heavy gold-chain necklaces from the club, revealing ugly, deep scars around his collarbone.

“Where’s Aimee?” I demand. Travis hasn’t reported in yet, and I don’t know if that’s because he couldn’t find her or because he’s lost track of time mooning over her. Back when he was alive, he used to do that a lot.

“Your girl? Unless she’s managed to piss off the deific, which can be fatal, she’s their newest intern. Robotic, corporate, pedestrian fashion — tragic, let me tell you.”

Noelle finally filled me in on our kidnappers. “You’re one to talk,” I counter, “selling out your fellow shifters to a bunch of overgrown arctic asshats.”

“Go play dead,” Paxton replies. “You know why you’re still alive? You’re nothing but a companion animal for Noelle. Like when horse breeders let the old mares out to pasture with their prize champions. Piss me off, and it’s the glue factory for you.”

I could’ve lived without him saying that in front of the Lioness.