Feral Pride by Cynthia Leitich Smith Page A

in part because of the world we live in. The snake demon and the governor’s kidnapping have put everyone on edge. We need to change the conversation. We need a spokesperson people can rally around.”
    “Who?” Clyde asks, taking a sip of sweet tea. “Kith —”
    “Died,” I say. Palpate Kith was a werecat, a peace advocate who reached out to world leaders. The Gandhi of shifters, he was assassinated six years ago in front of UN headquarters. No wereperson has stepped up to fill the void. “We get out in front of the media with a Lion king, someone who can challenge Seth and give the talking heads something better to talk about.”
    Yoshi tosses a chicken bone in the bag. “Leander will never go for it.”
    “It’s not about reality.” I stand still and let my arms fall naturally to my sides. It’s confident body language. “I’m talking perception. The snake demon is invoking the story of Satan in the garden and linking the fall to werepeople. But in the animal world, lions are viewed as royalty, so when it comes to werelions, humans are primed to assume —”
    “Pfft,”
Yoshi says. “Tell that to the wereorcas and polar werebears.”
    “The massive werecarnivores are already on our side,” Clyde points out. “All we need is a male Lion.” He sits up straighter. “Someone majestic.” He raises his chin. “Someone inspiring.” Clyde’s grin becomes toothy. “It doesn’t have to be Leander.”

I ASKED QUINCIE to tell Clyde that I wanted to meet tonight at the neighborhood park. This is our spot, at the chain-link fence that used to serve as a shrine to Travis’s memory.
    At first, it was like the whole city turned out to leave homemade cards, signs, and mementos. Then the number dwindled to those of us who knew Travis personally, many choosing armadillo images — small stuffed toy animals and my favorite, a brightly painted
alebrije
of a dillo with wings. Now, it seems like any other hunk of chain link. Life goes on, or so people say. That may be, but the death of someone you care about changes you.
    The long yellow convertible pulling in to the lot is Quincie’s, but the driver getting out is Clyde. He jogs over and, like nothing’s wrong, says, “Hey.”
    “How did the meeting at the zoo go?” I ask, walking toward the swings.
    He follows. “Quincie told you about that?”
    Like he’s surprised. “The question is . . .” I sit, rocking back and forth. “Why didn’t you?” It’s not as though my beginner tae kwon do status would impress werepredator royalty, but I hate that he’s keeping secrets. “You could fill me in now.”
    Clyde doesn’t move toward the swing beside me. He’s not in the mood to play.
    I try again, swaying. “You could tell me why you’re so pissed off.”
    “I’m not. I’m trying to figure something out.” He combs his fingers through his thick hair. “What would reassure people like you — sane humans — that werepeople aren’t scary, dangerous monsters? Especially when people like your dad are selling millions of dollars of products on the idea that we are?”
    Are we back here again? I ask how things went with his biological father, and suddenly the conversation is all about mine. “Even if Graham Barnard walks away from MCC — and I’m going to talk to him about that — someone else would take his place.”
    “That excuses him?” Clyde stops my swing, grabbing a hanging chain in each hand. “I guess you’re pro-shifter when it doesn’t cost you anything.”
    Oh, please. “It’s complicated. Werepeople don’t live in your own separate world. You live in —”
    “Yours?” His claws have come out. His saber teeth are down.
    “Ours.” I fight the urge to scramble backward off the swing. It’s Clyde, my Lossum. He’s emotional tonight. Something went wrong at the zoo, and that’s not all but . . . “Would it
always
be a bad thing, taking away a werepredator’s ability to shift?” I don’t mention the big herbivores like