Indigo Moon (21 page)

*

“Sam?” Isabelle approached the salesman.

“Yes?” He looked up, giving her a cagey look. She made a mental note to go home and clean up. It was bad if people were mistaking her for a bag lady, though she was as good as one. She’d found it impossible to stay in last night. The walls of her apartment had closed in around her. Her skin itched unbearably until she wanted to tear it off her bones. She had ended up in Oakes Bottoms again, roaming aimlessly until she’d fallen asleep under a birch tree, to be awakened at dawn by scornful and scolding squirrels.

“That guy that’s just left. The blond one?” She pointed vaguely at the parking lot and set a key chain on the countertop. “I think he dropped his keys.”

They were her keys. Her old keys, for the house she used to share with Barry. It had a For Sale sign on it now, and all her worldly goods had been removed one difficult afternoon.

“Oh, gosh.” Sam came alive with the possibility of a mini drama. “I know him. He owns a florist shop on Milwaukee. I’ll call in case he’s going straight there.” He reached for the phone.

Isabelle turned away. She had no need to strain to hear the conversation on the other side of the line. Her hearing had improved immensely these past few days.

“Hello, Enchanted Florist. Mel speaking.”

“Hi, this is Sam from the Naked Vintner over on Woodstock. Godfrey was just here and may have dropped his house keys. Tell him they’re behind the cash register if he wants to come by and collect.”

Isabelle moved for the door. She had all she needed.

“Thank you, ma’am. That was kind of you,” Sam called over to her. She exited with a friendly wave, her good deed of the day over.

The Enchanted Florist. She knew it. It was local to Sellwood, a small, rather quaint florist shop near the park. She used to love walking past it and smelling the blossoms. How weird that it should now be part of her tenuous link.

She had sat for weeks becoming sicker and sicker until she could deny it no longer. She’d been infected by…it. Her shoulder itched like crazy, she was ravenous, and always for meat. She could eat until she threw up, and then she wanted to eat again until the sweat ran down her face and meat grease dripped from her chin. She needed help. She needed medicine. And that’s when she thought of the potions in Ren’s kitchen and understood their purpose. They had stopped the aching, stifled the crushing need to devour everything in sight, and prevented these mad urges to run all night that she was succumbing to. The recipes had come from a Garoul almanac. A beautiful book. Isabelle would never forget it. She had diligently researched these almanacs. She could find out anything about books. Literary research was her profession and her all-consuming passion. At least in her old life it had been. Now there was something else all-consuming in her life, and it lived inside her.

The Garoul almanacs were rare and collectible, but hardly ever on the market. The family firm that produced them was reclusive. But they had a connection right here in Portland. A software firm called Ambereye.

Isabelle had slunk over to the Ambereye offices and picked up the glorious scent of wolven. She could not track successfully in a city this size, but she stealthily noted the license plates of cars that came and went.

The small, dark-haired woman in the wine shop worked at Ambereye. She had a special parking space, she was important, and Isabelle had followed her and found she lived close by to where she rented. The woman bloomed a rich Were scent with every move she made. Isabelle was fascinated by her.

The blond man she was shopping with, the one the wine merchant had called Godfrey. His scent lured Isabelle, too. Though the couple were not themselves wolven, they knew something of it.

Isabelle headed over to the Enchanted Florist to see if she could pick up further clues. It was a circuitous route home, but the flower displays would be lovely on a sunny spring day. Maybe she would even pick up some more of the intriguing scent that had zoned her in on the couple. It was the first sense of comfort she had had since returning to Portland. The subtle scent had bathed her like a balm, soothing her nipped nerves and the never-ending, itchy unrest she had felt since her return.

Godfrey. Now she had the name of one of them, and where he worked. She did not know the name of the woman, but she did know where she lived. She was closing in on them. Now her hunt could begin in earnest.

*

“What are you in the mood for?” Godfrey asked over the top of his menu.

“I like the Caesar salad here. I’ll go for that.”

“I’ll have the shrimp linguine. What wine?”

“Rosé. Something light and fruity to match this marvelous spring day. And the company.”

“Très drôle—” Godfrey’s cell phone rang. “Hello…No, not yet. I’m with Hope at Daguerre…Yes, just down the block…No. They’re in my pocket.” He plunged a hand into his pocket. “Call him back and tell him they’re not mine. Okay. Bye.” He put his phone away. “Well, that was odd.”

“What was?”

“Apparently, I left my house keys at the Naked Vintner, but I have them here.” He patted his pocket to a reassuring jingle. “I had to admit I was a mere several yards away stuffing my face with you, instead of dropping by work as promised. Now I’d better go show my face.”

“If you were my boss I’d keep you on your toes instead of gadding around town with your fancy woman.”

“I’m not gadding around town. I’m taking the day off to celebrate my fancy woman’s good health. And you already have a boss to keep on her toes. Poor Jolie.” He sighed. “But she does seem to thrive under your special brand of authority.”

“That’s because I’m a den mother.” Hope shook her head. “Don’t ask. She’s reformed my household into some sort of pack home. The other day I caught her putting Tadpole in charge while she was gone. I swear his tail has been bristlier and his strut cockier since she walked out the door.” They both burst into giggles at the thought of Tadpole as a guard dog, and quickly stifled their laughter as the waiter approached for their order.

After lunch they window shopped along Milwaukee to the Enchanted Florist so Godfrey could see his staff for a few minutes.

“It’s her again.” He pointed surreptitiously across the street. “Over there, on the seat outside the bookstore.”

Hope glanced over and noticed the woman from earlier. She sat in the sun, her face raised toward its weak rays. She hadn’t seen them yet and it gave Hope a chance to examine her without having to fend off that morose, lost stare. The general untidiness and skinniness concerned her. This was a very unhappy person. But there was something more that Hope could not quite put her finger on. The scrawny, rangy body held an economy of movement, an understated confidence and strength that reminded her of something else—

“Hope! They’ve got the John White London collection. Let’s go see.” Godfrey ducked in the door of a shoe store, abandoning Hope on the sidewalk. She turned to follow, and threw one last look at the seat outside the bookstore. It was empty.

“Excuse me. Do you have these in a ten?” Godfrey’s voice drifted out the open door. “And in tan? Hope, come see.”

Hope looked up and down the sidewalk. There was no sign of the woman. She must have moved at lightning speed. With a mental shrug, she stepped into the shoe store to give Godfrey her full attention.

*

“Don’t you just love the smell of new shoes?” Godfrey held a John White brogue to Hope’s nose.

“Ick.” She ducked away. “Stop that, or we’ll crash.” She was driving him home after a pleasant afternoon of browsing in bookstores, boutiques, and shoe shops. Aside from wine and shoes they had a cache of paperback books on the backseat, along with some beautiful imported gerberas Godfrey had snatched from his shop for her “special” news.

“Godfrey,” she said. “What did you make of that strange woman we saw at the wine shop and then later on Milwaukee?”

Godfrey shrugged. “I’m not sure. I mean, is it that odd to see someone twice in one day? She was just shopping.”

“No way was she shopping. She was odd. Did you get any…vibe from her?”

“Vibe? No. She looked a bit tatty to me. Why? What’s up?”

“Nothing. She just seemed a little lost, I suppose. I can’t explain it.”

“Lost gals are your forte,” Godfrey said. “Look at Jolie. She was hopelessly lost until you scooped her up and rocked her hairy little world.”

A soul in torment. That’s what I thought when I first saw her.
Hope frowned. Godfrey’s inadvertent comparison made her uneasy, as if she had missed a vital clue. How could she compare that scrap of woebegone she’d seen in the wine shop to her Jolie? Jolie was strong and strapping, and though she looked like she might snap anyone who annoyed her in two, inside she bubbled over with love and kindness. Yet Hope had seen that same haunted look in her eyes, too. Before she had told Jolie she loved her. Before they had made a commitment to each other, and a home together, and the promise of a happy future.

Her mind drifted to the bottle of champagne wedged on her backseat so it wouldn’t topple. With her latest prognosis she felt more confident in that future than ever. The threatening cloud always hanging over them had passed. They had huffed and puffed and blown it away. Soon Jolie would be home and they would uncork the bottle for a private celebration.

Maybe they’d head up to Little Dip and take one of the smaller cabins farther back in the woods. There they would drink champagne and make love. And afterward Jolie would run, just as she always did when her heart grew so big and happy her human body could barely contain it.

And when the moon sank low, she would crawl back home to where Hope sat reading by the fire, waiting for her. Exhausted, Jolie would lie beside her and place her heavy head in Hope’s lap. And while the fire crackled, Hope would stroke the soft fur of Jolie’s throat. She could never keep her hands off Jolie in wolven form. She’d tickle her ear hairs until they twitched and run her fingers over the damp, leathery creases of her muzzle. She adored the texture of coarse fur and fine hide that covered Jolie’s stubby features. She’d trace the long curve of her canines and press her fingertip against each sharp point. The beauty of Jolie as a beast astounded her. Hope could gaze for hours into amber eyes that burned back at her, full of devotion. She could spend the rest of her life wallowing in that gaze, simply loving her monster.

“What the fuck is going on in there!” Her neighbor thumped on the paper-thin dividing wall.

Isabelle awoke with a start and found she was shaking. She reached up to stroke her damp cheeks.

“Stupid fucking bitch!” He fell silent with one last bellow.

She’d been crying in her sleep again. Always the same, every time. Same dream, same desolate heartache. She was running through a sun-dappled wood. Her powerful leg muscles churned; her claws dug deep in the earth for purchase, breaking open the scent of the forest floor. Ren was at her shoulder. Together they raced through the forest, leaping over fallen branches and weaving through the trees. Exhilarated, she hurtled into a meadow of blowsy wildflowers, and found herself alone. Ren had been ripped from her side. Lost and alone, Isabelle squatted among the blue buttons and bittersweet and threw back her head and howled.

Isabelle touched her throat. It was raw, as if she’d been screaming all night long. She struggled out of bed on weak legs, embarrassed she had agitated her neighbor again. She’d be evicted soon if she couldn’t control these dreams.

She went to the bathroom and ran the shower until the water was scalding hot, then stepped under it with a painful gasp. Isabelle didn’t look in mirrors these days. Her soapy hands told her she was losing weight. They ran over flaccid muscle and the ridges of her rib cage. Her hair lay lank and lusterless around thin shoulders. She knew how unkempt and anorexic she must look.

The hot shower did not work. She was listless and only half present, even though her skin stung from the hot water.

Isabelle roamed about the apartment naked until her skin dried. She moved to the kitchenette and poured a glass of water and gulped it down in one go, then she poured another and another. She itched, she moaned. She shuffled about, unable to settle. Outside, the streetlights glowed over wet streets, and rain rattled through the windblown shrubs before the building steps.

Isabelle pulled on some old sweats and sneakers and settled on the couch with her digital camera. She played with the buttons until she finally opened the slideshow of her Canadian vacation. Trees, mountains, and colorful birds slid by. Aunt Mary smiled up at her with Atwell cuddled in her arms. How she adored her aunt Mary. The woman had fostered her as a child and had offered only hope and happiness for the six years Isabelle had stayed with her. Mary was in Miami now. Isabelle had spoken to her once since her return to Portland, but had hesitated from telling her about her ill health or misadventures. What could Mary do besides worry herself sick? She was seventy-two and on the other side of the country. Isabelle would talk to her when she eventually knew what to say about this episode in her life.

The next shots were a series on river toads; the photos made her nostalgic for a holiday she could still barely remember. Then came the photograph she was waiting for, the one that mesmerized her. Ren and the mysterious stranger. They sat side by side on a fallen log. They had to be sisters, both dark and brooding, and both incredibly handsome women. One looked at her; a ferocious passion danced across her hooded eyes. Her cheeks dimpled as her lips creased into a happy smile for the camera. This was Ren. Ren with an unconcealed look of love for her alone. Isabelle’s stomach knotted at the loss of that day. She could not recall it, but here it was frozen and digitalized forever so she could look at it in wonder and longing again and again.