Feral Curse Read Online Free PDF Page A

There’s no such thing as an expiration date on forever.
    At least Ben did me one favor: he kept my secret to himself. Or, at least, if he did tell someone, he chose well — somebody who either didn’t believe him or is keeping it quiet. It’s been more than two months. I would have heard otherwise by now.
    Beneath the canopy of budding pecan trees, I force myself to turn away from what used to be Ben’s home and continue down the uneven sidewalk toward mine.
    Mr. Roberts waves at me from the rocker on his front porch, and I wave back. Come morning, he’ll be dressed in his Marine uniform, marching with the other Korean War vets in the parade, or at least strolling proudly.
    Pine Ridge is my hometown, and I will miss it. Once I’m off to college, I’ll return for visits, of course, holidays, maybe another summer or two. Still, I’m already thinking about top-tier engineering internships across the country. Maybe a semester abroad. Tokyo or Berlin.
    Internet rumor has it that no city in the world is as welcoming to shifters as Paris.
    Who knows? Maybe I’ll minor in architecture or art history.
    I’ll focus on my studies. I’m graduating at the top of my high-school class. I’m a National Merit semifinalist. I’ve got a full ride, tuition, and books. I’ll make my parents proud.
    Another block and I hear the crying boy well before I can see him. I recognize my mother’s voice, speaking in low, soothing tones, trying to coax him into our house.
    What on earth? Picking up the pace, I quickly round the corner and see the two of them seated on the front step of my family’s two-story, newly painted white Victorian. The stranger is a long-limbed teenager with sunlit dark hair, his lanky body bent in grief.
    Is he a friend of Ben’s? A relative who missed the funeral?
    At the sight of me, his chin is up, his nostrils flare, and he freezes in place, his limpid brown eyes wide open.
    Peso, barking and waggling with glee at my return, meets me at the front gate of our picket fence and begins frantically hopping on his hind legs, begging for attention.
    “Who’s your friend?” I call to my mother, bending to scratch my dog behind the ears.
    I pause, savoring the wind. The stranger isn’t human. He’s a shifter.
    Or maybe I should call him a “wereperson.” I’ve read online that shifter-rights advocates prefer that word, using “were” as shorthand for shape-changer, though it literally means “man.”
    I don’t want to offend him, especially since he’s so miserable. I’ve always been able to read emotions better than most, but sorrow is practically radiating from the guy.
    Sorrow and a hint of fear.
    My first in-person encounter with another shifter. Wow.
    “He says his name is Darby,” Mom replies in a measured voice. “I think he may be lost.”
    Or mentally challenged, my mother’s tone suggests. Clearly emotionally unhinged. But not dangerous, and even if he is, Mom knows my Cat strength outstrips anyone in town.
    My mother addresses her next comment to our guest. “Darby, this is my daughter, Kayla. She’ll sit with you while I make a few calls.”
    Darby hasn’t moved, but he’s muttering something. He appears to be wholly focused on me, tears leaking down his face like whatever’s wrong, it’s my fault somehow. “Unworthy.” That’s what he’s saying. “Unworthy, unworthy . . .”
    Is he talking about me or himself?
    With a quick nod and a tight smile, I promise to look after Darby while Mom tries to figure out where he came from and what to do with him.
    We can’t turn an unstable teenage shape-shifter over to just anyone. “Wait,” I say. “Give me a few minutes, okay?”
    Mom fiddles with her gold square earring. “Just a few,” she breathes. Then she whistles to Peso, who trots in after her, giving Darby wide berth along the way.
    After thinking it over a minute, I take her place on the step and say, “Howdy.”
    No response, but Darby is slightly shaking. His hairline