Read Online Feral Curse by Cynthia Leitich Smith - Free Book Online
Authors: Cynthia Leitich Smith
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could have persisted into modern day?
Dr. Urbaniak: I didn’t say it proved anything. But if this individual was a wereape and a representative one, I’d be surprised if wereapes still exist . . . unless they have significantly shrunk in stature or exist in utter isolation. These furry fellows would stand out from the crowd.
Anchor: And if they are a species of man, not animal or shifter?
Dr. Urbaniak: Then it’s more likely that they fell victim to climatic change or, over generations, interbred with other werepeople or
Homo sapiens
until they were indistinguishable.
Anchor: Interbred? You heard it here first, ladies and gentlemen. Hybrids among us! Next thing you know, your grandchildren will be swinging from the trees!
(Dr. Urbaniak tosses her notes into the air and marches off camera.)
DESPITE YOSHI’S REASSURING TEXT, it’s hard to sit still for breakfast. But I’m famished, and I’ll probably need the energy. Besides, I don’t want to make Dad suspicious.
My father is already dressed in period clothing — a top hat and three-piece silver-gray suit, complete with bow tie, shiny silver buttons, and pocket watch. Spiffy, but he’ll be melting by noon. Dad sets a steaming stack of six pancakes in front of me.
Seated in my nightshirt and terry-cloth robe, I sneak a fingertip taste of the banana-walnut topping and maple syrup. Delicious.
“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” I say. “Especially since you’re —”
“Better not to think about it,” my father replies, referring to his diet. He’s been low carb and low fat for two months and has lost only three pounds.
In contrast, my shifter metabolism means I could consume a baron of beef, a vat of cheesy broccoli macaroni, and a full pan of peanut-butter-fudge brownies every night without gaining weight — in fact, it’s necessary for me to keep going.
After another moment at the stove, Dad joins me, his plate boasting only one pancake, and a whole-wheat naked one at that. “Dig in,” he tells me.
Mom just left to meet clients in the nearby Tahitian Village Community (no, we’re nowhere near Tahiti, and to make things even more confusing, the streets have Hawaiian names). Founders’ Day weekend or not, Saturday is showtime for real-estate agents.
For a while, my father and I make chitchat about the local weather forecast. This weekend is critical to the downtown merchants and B&B/restaurant owners. It seems like Central Texas is always in a drought, but for the next couple of days, he’s hoping not to get rain.
We always do this, have breakfast together. Dad calls it his most important meeting of the day. Sneaking Peso a piece of turkey bacon, he asks, “What are your weekend plans?”
“I . . .” I hate lying, but Jess already spotted me in town with Yoshi last night. I’m pretty sure the werecoyote was a no-show, so we still have him to deal with, and especially given that the town’s so crowded for the festivities, it’s just a matter of time before someone mentions to my mayor-father that I’ve been seen with a nonlocal boy.
That boy himself is something of a mystery. Yoshi has zero Internet presence — I looked before turning in. If I say I know him from student government or running or UT’s Engineering Summer Camp and Dad punches his name into a search engine . . .
Not that my parents don’t trust me. I’ve never given them a reason not to, except for, fine, right now. I still don’t want to reveal that Yoshi is a fellow Cat, either, not so soon after the Darby debacle, but also because that would be outing him to humans, which is a no-no, even if they are humans I love and trust.
What’s more, I’m not ready to introduce him as a friend — we just met, and I’m not a hundred-percent sure I can trust
him
yet. Not with Mom and Dad.
“Something wrong, Kayla?” Dad asks, and I realize he’s stopped eating.
I shake my head, offering a hopefully reassuring grin. “I thought I’d go out today and
Dr. Urbaniak: I didn’t say it proved anything. But if this individual was a wereape and a representative one, I’d be surprised if wereapes still exist . . . unless they have significantly shrunk in stature or exist in utter isolation. These furry fellows would stand out from the crowd.
Anchor: And if they are a species of man, not animal or shifter?
Dr. Urbaniak: Then it’s more likely that they fell victim to climatic change or, over generations, interbred with other werepeople or
Homo sapiens
until they were indistinguishable.
Anchor: Interbred? You heard it here first, ladies and gentlemen. Hybrids among us! Next thing you know, your grandchildren will be swinging from the trees!
(Dr. Urbaniak tosses her notes into the air and marches off camera.)
DESPITE YOSHI’S REASSURING TEXT, it’s hard to sit still for breakfast. But I’m famished, and I’ll probably need the energy. Besides, I don’t want to make Dad suspicious.
My father is already dressed in period clothing — a top hat and three-piece silver-gray suit, complete with bow tie, shiny silver buttons, and pocket watch. Spiffy, but he’ll be melting by noon. Dad sets a steaming stack of six pancakes in front of me.
Seated in my nightshirt and terry-cloth robe, I sneak a fingertip taste of the banana-walnut topping and maple syrup. Delicious.
“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” I say. “Especially since you’re —”
“Better not to think about it,” my father replies, referring to his diet. He’s been low carb and low fat for two months and has lost only three pounds.
In contrast, my shifter metabolism means I could consume a baron of beef, a vat of cheesy broccoli macaroni, and a full pan of peanut-butter-fudge brownies every night without gaining weight — in fact, it’s necessary for me to keep going.
After another moment at the stove, Dad joins me, his plate boasting only one pancake, and a whole-wheat naked one at that. “Dig in,” he tells me.
Mom just left to meet clients in the nearby Tahitian Village Community (no, we’re nowhere near Tahiti, and to make things even more confusing, the streets have Hawaiian names). Founders’ Day weekend or not, Saturday is showtime for real-estate agents.
For a while, my father and I make chitchat about the local weather forecast. This weekend is critical to the downtown merchants and B&B/restaurant owners. It seems like Central Texas is always in a drought, but for the next couple of days, he’s hoping not to get rain.
We always do this, have breakfast together. Dad calls it his most important meeting of the day. Sneaking Peso a piece of turkey bacon, he asks, “What are your weekend plans?”
“I . . .” I hate lying, but Jess already spotted me in town with Yoshi last night. I’m pretty sure the werecoyote was a no-show, so we still have him to deal with, and especially given that the town’s so crowded for the festivities, it’s just a matter of time before someone mentions to my mayor-father that I’ve been seen with a nonlocal boy.
That boy himself is something of a mystery. Yoshi has zero Internet presence — I looked before turning in. If I say I know him from student government or running or UT’s Engineering Summer Camp and Dad punches his name into a search engine . . .
Not that my parents don’t trust me. I’ve never given them a reason not to, except for, fine, right now. I still don’t want to reveal that Yoshi is a fellow Cat, either, not so soon after the Darby debacle, but also because that would be outing him to humans, which is a no-no, even if they are humans I love and trust.
What’s more, I’m not ready to introduce him as a friend — we just met, and I’m not a hundred-percent sure I can trust
him
yet. Not with Mom and Dad.
“Something wrong, Kayla?” Dad asks, and I realize he’s stopped eating.
I shake my head, offering a hopefully reassuring grin. “I thought I’d go out today and
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