Feral Nights Read Online Free PDF Page B

include his parents, Isabel and David Reid; his sister, Sierra; his grandparents Barbara and Clarence ‘Dutch’ Reid; his grandfather Karl Richards. . . .”
    Oh, hell. Karl Richards is the grandfather of the dead teenage werearmadillo.
    A car door shuts. A stout, middle-aged man in a badly fitting suit is purposefully headed my way. I make a show of yawning and stand, leaving my trash on the table.
    I stroll toward the grocery-store doors and, out of the corner of my eye, notice him picking up the pace. So I veer right and turn around the back of the building.
    Once I’m out of his sight, I quickly check to make sure no one’s watching and then spring up the side of the wall. Latching on to the shingled roof with extended claws, I swing one leg over, then the other. I slip off my shoes, stay low, and cross the roof.
    From below, my pursuer lets out a frustrated grunt. I’ve lost him.
    I need to stay lost. My car is parked in the front lot, and I won’t leave it. Better to get gone fast. But it would be stupidly showy to leap down in front of the busy market.
    Fortunately, the dark of night and a row of ferns hanging above the shopping carts provide enough cover for me to slip down unnoticed, at least in theory.
    A guy carrying a jug of organic detergent glances from me up to the roof.
    “Excellent view,” I explain. “Have a nice night.”
    On the lookout for my pursuer, I hurry past the spaces reserved for the disabled customers and those with small children. I’m parked another two spots down, between a Harley-Davidson motorcycle and a Smart Car.
    Still carrying my running shoes, I reach for my door handle.
    Then a rumbling voice says, “Yoshi Kitahara?”
    It’s the biggest, broadest man I’ve ever seen. His suit is wrinkled. His tie is loose. Werebear, I’d bet on it. I ask, “Do I know you?”
    “Detective Zaleski of the Austin Police Department,” he replies. “The gentleman you so gracefully ditched over there is my partner, Wertheimer.” He thinks it’s funny.
    I default to charm. “Officer, I’m confused. I didn’t do anything —”
    “Did someone named Karl Richards contact you?” he asks, scratching his beard.
    I can’t think of a reason not to admit it. “He called and asked me to meet him.”
    “Don’t. The werearmadillos think your sister murdered their young prince. They’re out for blood.”

IN THE BREAK ROOM, Aimee uses her fork to swirl cognac-cream fettuccine Alfredo with broiled alligator while I pick live crickets out of a squat glass jar. Nora, the chef, keeps a stock on hand for me to snack on. It’s a Possum thing. “About Yoshi —”
    “You’re obsessing.” Aimee dabs her lips with a napkin. “I only saw him for a few seconds, but . . . Well, I’ve seen a wereperson transform before. Or at least start to.”
    I’ve never exhibited so much as a hint of my bald tail to Aimee.
    “When Yoshi retracted his shift, it was different,” she adds. “He didn’t seem like he was in pain or that it was a strain on his body. I didn’t hear any bones grind or pop. It was seamless, like magic or time-lapse photography. The fur practically melted away as he morphed back to fully human form.”
    I drop a squirming cricket into my mouth and crunch. “Anything else?”
    Her expression turns dreamy. “His human face is as remarkable as his Cat.”
    What’s that supposed to mean? Remarkable can go either way — remarkably majestic or remarkably grotesque or, for that matter, anything someone might remark on.
    Is she attracted to him? Aimee hasn’t shown any interest in a guy since Travis’s death. It has to happen sooner or later, I guess, but that vacant, egotistical, pretty-boy kin to our archenemy? What’s she thinking?
    She takes another bite, chews thoughtfully, and swallows. “You do realize that the fact that Ruby is his sister doesn’t mean Yoshi is a bad person.”
    Aimee always looks for the good in people. I reach into my jar. “I’ve been researching