The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller (12 page)

Once disgraced, he’d be banished from the county. No longer a revered figurehead of the town’s royal family, he’d have to battle in court just to see his kids again.

And to make it all worse, he knew that Mandee would have no compunction whatsoever about exposing their sordid affair. She’d do so in a hummingbird’s heartbeat if  it eased her frustration even for a fleeting moment.

Mandee was a cold-blooded monster. A beautiful selfish predator.

He had danced with the devil and now she was standing on his toes.

115

“One down, four to go,” said Felicia breezily. She was in the town’s only thrift store, shopping with Ruta, searching the racks for vintage treasures.

Ruta smiled wanly. Not her usual upbeat self.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m leaving town,” Ruta said abruptly.

“What? For how long?”

Ruta answered with a somber look.

“Oh no,” Felicia gasped.

“My dad got a job in Portland. We’re leaving this weekend. For good.”

“No. That can’t be. It’s… you can’t just up and leave me now. We were just getting started.”

“I know. I don’t want to go, you know that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Felicia felt betrayed. She had quickly developed a bond with Ruta, one that would be as painful to release as it was special. Not to mention what an effective team they were in seeking retribution against the boys.

“I am telling you. My folks just sprung it on me yesterday out of the blue. I didn’t even know he was looking for a new job. It’s some kind of big urgent project that requires his expertise. He said it’s too much money to turn down. They’re putting us up in a condo until we find a house.”

“You don’t have to go. You can stay with us. Tell them you want to finish high school here.”

“Please, Felicia. Don’t make this any harder than it already is. Your parents don’t even like me. And mine would never agree to let me stay behind. My mom is already insisting that I help her with the new house hunt.”

“But… you… can’t.”

“Our house is already sold. Some big development company snapped it right up. I tried to talk them into staying, I did. But my dad said this town is going to be going through some changes soon. He doesn’t think it’s a good thing either.”

“Ruta… What am I going to do without you?”

“You’ll be fine, sweetie.” Ruta stroked her hair. “But you’ll have to finish what we started, without me. Did you ever figure out who the fifth boy was?”

“No. Hey, if you’re not leaving ‘til this weekend, we still have time. For one more at least.”

Ruta shook her head. “Believe me, I’d like nothing more.” She cast a glance at the shopkeeper, who was keeping a wary eye on them but was too far away to eavesdrop. “I was high for days after we did Marky. I think it has something to do with the venom. It really gets my motor going. You know I’d be up for another round. But my folks want me home every day now, helping my mother pack. I’m not even going back to school. There’s too much to do at home. I’m supposed to be there now. But I couldn’t leave town without saying goodbye.”

Felicia hugged her tightly. Never wanting to let go. “Promise me you’ll stay in touch.”

“Of course I will. You’re like a sister to me. You are my sister. Now and for always.”

“You have my cell, right?” Felicia asked.

“Yes, of course I have your cell and you have mine. And we’re friended online. We’ll talk all the time. We’ll talk so much you’ll get sick of hearing my voice.”

“Not hardly.”

“And I expect a blow by blow as you finish what we started.”

“I’m not sure I can do it alone. I really don’t know if I’m up for it.”

“Of course you are, girl. Just check in with Granny if you hit any snags. And be careful. Please. Above all. Be careful.”

The shopkeeper put down the romance novel she’d been reading and eyed them suspiciously.
Just what I need. A couple of baby lesbians holding their secret rendezvous in my shop.
“Are you girls planning to buy anything? I’m ready to close up if you’re not.”

Ruta pulled a faux leopard skin coat from a rack and held it up to Felicia.

“This is so you, kittykat.”

She helped Felicia slip into it, then spun her around and took hold of the collar with both hands. “I’ll miss you. Stay as sweet as you are.”

The shopkeeper grimaced as Ruta kissed Felicia on the lips.

“And always listen to Granny. She’s a very wise old dear.”

115

“Felis silvestris grampia.”

Felicia spent a full hour researching species of small wildcats before settling on the nearly extinct Scottish wildcat. The European, Asian and African subspecies might have been bigger, more powerful hunters, but based on the pictures she found online, the Scottish “Highland Tiger” cat had the most distinguished coloration. Most of the smaller wildcats bore a close resemblance to domestic cats, particularly in their coloring and facial features. Felicia knew that would complicate her efforts to transition up to a new, more formidable feline.

The differences in coloration between the Scottish wildcat and the Maine Coon were subtle, to say the least. Would the fine black lining and rusty brown crosspatch on the nose of the wildcat be enough to spark her graduation to the next highest class of feline?

Don’t worry about it,
she told herself.
Ruta said intention and will power count. Just concentrate and imagine yourself as a wildcat.

As the sun went down she got her answer. Her transformation was much easier now than it had been the first few times. She knew it helped to strip down naked first, to keep focused on her reflection in the mirror, and to position herself in a way to accommodate the logistics of the shift without complications. By now she was used to the throbbing contractions of her muscles.

She rested a minute on the floor then leaped onto the vanity to check herself out in the mirror. Her image surprised her, and actually frightened her for a moment, until she realized she was staring at herself.

Aside from a body that was half again the size of a domestic cat, the most striking difference lay in her eyes. The aqua blue irises were as pretty as any cat’s eyes could be.

But above them was a menacing crease in her brow. A display of feral attitude that was evident at first glance.

As she admired her new incarnation she felt the untamed wildness of nature flowing through her core.

An eagerness to roam and hunt.

To exercise her teeth and claws.

An eagerness to kill.

***

Oogie wrapped both hands around the inch-thick base of the plant’s woody stem and pulled with all his might. He grunted and strained and repositioned his feet to try again. The roots of the plant finally lost their tenacious grip on the soil and Oogie tumbled backwards.

The musky perfume of marijuana resin filled the air, mingled with the piney scents of the forest. Oogie lifted the plant high, admiring the fat indica buds thick with sticky resin. Even in the gloom of the woods he could see the tiny white crystals that gave the weed its heavyweight punch, glistening like fairy sparkles in the night.

Nice.

He pressed a bud to his nose and sucked in a lungful of the heady fragrance.

Best harvest yet. I’m set for a whole ‘nother year.

Oogie was quite proud of his pot growing skills. It was the one thing he was good at, and he often fantasized about the day when marijuana would finally be legal and he’d morph overnight from a renegade outlaw into a prosperous law-abiding tax-paying farmer. Well, mostly law-abiding. Some of his favorite activities would never ever be legalized.

A twig snapped in the woods nearby. Oogie froze in place and looked around, eyes and ears peeled for signs that someone had followed him to his secret garden. He remained still for a good long minute, weighing his options and how to react if he found one of his buddies snooping around.

They knew he had a secret pot patch, because he shared a big portion of his stash with them each and every year and they knew he never paid a cent for it. But if one of them wasn’t satisfied with his rationed sharing, and was looking to rip him off for more, he’d have to act accordingly. They’d find out he could be as vindictive as he was generous.

And God help any stranger he caught sniffing around. The switchblade in his pocket would cut through flesh and puncture vital organs as easily as it trimmed the sinewy branches of his plants. He’d searched long and hard to find a suitably lit yet secluded spot for his ganja garden, and wouldn’t give it up without a fight.

Then there was the possibility that the snoop might be a snitch for Johnny Law. Whatever the case might be, they’d be sorry if Oogie laid hands on them.

But nothing moved in the woods around him. In fact it was eerily quiet. Spookily quiet. A quiet that sent shivers up Oogie’s spine. No chirping of birds, enjoying their evening meal of grubs and worms. Not even the rustling of squirrels in the autumn trees.

After a minute of listening to the unmitigated silence, Oogie shrugged and returned to the task at hand. Taking care not to damage the precious buds or handle them directly, he methodically bent the main stem of the plant, folding it over and over into a tidy bundle.

He paused to take a breath, and was a little unnerved to find that the woods were still deathly quiet.
Way too quiet, even for this time of year.

He thought of Devil’s Point, and of old Granny Dola, and the stories of spook lights and poisonous snakes and other evils lurking in these woods.

I shoulda cut school and harvested this sucker in the daylight. But then there wouldn’t be as much resin in the buds. It’s better after a full day in the sun. Less dampness in the leaves. Maybe a bit more harsh, yeah, but that’s the way everyone likes it. If they ain’t coughin’ out their guts they think it’s some kind of gyp.

He stuffed the compacted plant into doubled plastic supermarket bags and tied the handles tight. Normally he’d have clipped off the larger branches first and stored them directly in a paper bag to dry, but this was the last plant of his annual harvest, and it was cold as Granny Dola’s teats in the woods. He just wanted to get the plant home where he could manicure it in the leisurely comfort of his nice warm bedroom.

His only problem now would be sneaking it in past his mom.
She’s probably flopped on the sofa watching some stupid reality show.

Hopefully she’ll be fucked half out of her brain on her prescription meds like half the stupid cunts in the country.

He looped the handles of the bulging plastic bundle over the apehanger handlebars of his vintage Schwinn Stingray bike. Switching on its headlamp to light his way, he wheeled it slowly through the woods. Lifting it over rotting logs and rocks and a clump of nettles, he finally reached the dirt trail that led to the nearest paved road.

As he climbed onto the banana seat, something moved in the woods behind him, softly crunching leaves underfoot.

Oogie felt an odd chill in his veins. A primal chill. Shrugging off a shiver, he started pedaling down the narrow trail.

Not normally one to be spooked by intangible threats, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being followed. He found himself pedaling harder and harder, ducking low-hanging branches, brushing past sticky shrubs, spurred on by a growing sense of urgency. But the carpet of slippery leaves and pine needles offered little traction to tires designed for smooth city streets, and he felt like he was churning through a muddy, slow motion dream.

Damn, it’s fuckin’ cold tonight. I’ll be happy to get my ass home.
But even as the thought formed in his mind he knew he was trying to fool himself. It wasn’t the cold air that was bothering him. Something in him, some normally dormant mechanism of survival, was urging him to flee the woods.

He was seriously frightened.

Suddenly he found out why. Without warning his head snapped backwards, slammed hard by something so big and heavy it nearly broke his neck.

And instantly it was attached to his face, a clinging whirlwind of fur and claws, scratching and tearing and biting his scalp and cheeks. Circling his head like a self-propelled buzz saw.

Stiletto sharp teeth and talons punctured his skin. Deep throaty growls and deafening snarls scorched his ears, a tapestry of sonic fury that merged with his own garbled cries into a paralyzing dirge of death.

Oogie’s heart almost exploded with fear as his bike toppled over and his head hit the cold hard ground. But whatever had attacked him was gone before he landed.

“Oooooh… what the hell…?”

Rolling into a sitting position Oogie ran a hand over his face. It came away coated with blood. He could feel its wetness and smell its coppery odor more than he could see it in the dark embrace of the woods, but the hot throbbing pain spreading over his face like a burning mask assured him he was verily fucked up.