The Turning Season (16 page)

Joe nods and sips his wine. “Said we had a shape-shifter right here in Quinville, Illinois.”

“How on earth did you respond to that?”

“Well, Sheriff Wilkerson was the one who questioned him. His deputy and I just stood there trying not to laugh. I thought it would be cool, though.”

“What would be cool?”

“To be able to do that. Become something or someone else. Especially in a situation like that, you know, when you needed to defend yourself.”

Aurelia's voice is quizzical. “But, of course, you know that's not possible.”

He grins. “I know. Doesn't make it any less cool.”

Unexpectedly, Alonzo joins the conversation. “What animal would you be?” he asks. “If you could choose?”

Joe thinks long enough to show he's giving the question serious consideration. “A dog, probably. One of the bigger breeds—shepherd or Lab. Collie. How about you? What would you be?”

I don't think anyone has ever asked Alonzo this question, either, because he takes a moment to ruminate. “Wolf, probably. So no one would want to mess with me.”

“Yeah, but if you're a wolf and you're living in the city, it's kind of dangerous, don't you think?” Joe argues. “Better to be a dog. Nobody will shoot at you when you change shapes.”

“I wouldn't live in the city if I was a wolf,” Alonzo said. “I'd live in the country. Out by Karadel.”

The briefest look of alarm crosses Bonnie's face. This conversation is getting too close to the truth and she wants to end it now. “We've got ice cream for dessert,” she says. “Does everybody want a bowl?”

Everybody does. Bonnie and Aurelia come to their feet, and I think they're both going to scoop and serve, but Aurelia surprises me by stopping next to the peace lily, bending over, and picking me up. I'm too stunned to contort in her arms, trying to get free, though I let loose a piteous little wail. She returns to her seat and settles me on her lap, stroking my fur. Which is practically standing on edge because I'm so agitated.

“Do you like cats, Joe?” she asks.

He makes an equivocal sound. “They're okay. I'm more of a dog guy.”

“Too bad. This one's a stray and we've been trying to find a home for her.”

At that, Alonzo is unable to repress a sound that I recognize as choked laughter.

Joe smiles sympathetically. “Yeah, if you feed them a few times, you find it hard to get rid of them,” he says. “And then pretty soon you get attached to them and you can't bring yourself to give them away.”

“Exactly. Are you
sure
you don't want this one?”

I want to kill her. If I were a proper size, Celeste's bobcat, I swear I'd do it. She lifts her hand to stroke me again and I turn my head fast enough to nip her wrist. When she mutters, “Ouch,” and raises her hand to her mouth, I take the opportunity to hiss and jump from her lap. The minute my feet touch the floor, I practically teleport into the kitchen, where I take refuge under the small desk built into one corner.

I can still hear Joe's voice, and he sounds amused. “No, ma'am. I'm going to be bringing home a puppy in a few days, so the timing seems wrong. Besides, she doesn't seem very friendly.”

“She might not like
me
,” Aurelia says. “But I bet she'd be nicer to you. I really think you ought to find out.”

*   *   *

I
t's barely dawn Monday morning when Bonnie and Aurelia take me back to my place. I ride with Bonnie in my Jeep, while Aurelia follows in her BMW. Aurelia has a court date at nine, which is why we leave so early, but once I get over my disgruntlement at being woken up, I don't mind. I want to go home. I want to be in my own place, surrounded by my own idiosyncrasies. I am tired of depending on the kindness of friends.

Though I am unutterably grateful for those friends.

Bonnie sets the emergency brake on the Jeep, unlocks the house to pile all my belongings on the kitchen table, then heads back to the BMW. In minutes, they're on their way back to Quinville, the luxury car almost soundless as it pulls away. I roam the property just to make sure everything is in order—not that I could do anything about it if it wasn't—but I don't see anything amiss. Jinx and his littermates bark at me furiously as I pass by, which rouses Daniel, who pokes his head out of one of the trailers to see what all the commotion's about. When he spots me, he just nods and goes back inside. He's about as communicative in human state as he is when he's a dog.

Scottie's happy to see me, though—he comes trotting up just as I'm nosing open the barn door, and he gives me a happy sniff of welcome. I bat playfully at his ear and he barks, but his tail is wagging. He follows me on the rest of my rounds and then we head for the porch, where we curl up side by side and take a nap. It's not even noon yet, but already I feel like I've had a full day.

By nightfall, I'm human.

It's wholly unexpected. I can't remember the last time my animal stage was as brief as forty-eight hours. I had been ignoring the twinges in my skull and the spates of blurry vision that usually presage my transformation back to my human form—a process that is always much less violent than the shift to animal. So I am sitting outside, in full view of anyone who might happen to drive up seeking veterinary advice, when my body goes through a single, painful convulsion and I am suddenly a naked twentysomething woman shivering in the twilight chill.

“Son of a bitch,” I say to Scottie as I jump up, almost lose my balance, and dive through the door. The change has been so rapid that I'm clumsy in my own body, and I bump into two door frames and one kitchen counter before I realize I'd better slow down. I'm so happy to be human again that I don't want to start looking for darker meanings, but I can't help but wonder if I've entered a new phase in my shape-shifting. More frequent and more difficult transformations into animal shape, offset by shorter periods in that alternate state.

I'm not sure I want to make that trade-off.

And if that
is
my new pattern, is it a naturally occurring one, or has it been catalyzed by my experiments with the blood of other shifters? But if I stop the injections altogether, will I go back to my wildly unpredictable schedule of transformations into a bizarrely diverse set of creatures—some far more challenging than marmalade house cats?

Damned if I do, damned if I don't,
I think as I skid into the bathroom and dial the shower water up to the hottest temperature I can stand. The operative word is
damned
. No poet ever dreamed up this particular circle of hell.

I step into the shower and try to wash away the despair.

*   *   *

T
he blinking light on my answering machine shows that I have ten calls to answer, but I don't play any of the messages back just yet. Instead, while my hair is drying and I'm sipping a cup of tea, I make the call that seems most important.

Joe answers on the first ring. “Are you all right? I've been so worried.”

It's not much effort to sound a little wan and stretched out. “You must have Caller ID.”

“Everybody has Caller ID. Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” I say. “But it'll be another day before I feel a hundred percent. It's like I have a migraine hangover.”

“Aurelia said you get them all the time. That's terrible.”

“Well, I wouldn't say all the time. Every two or three weeks, maybe.”

“That sounds pretty often to me! What does the doctor say?”

Oh, what
would
a doctor say about a condition like mine? “Doesn't seem to be curable, so the best we can do is try to control it with drugs.”

“But you
do
take drugs? You aren't just—just—trying to live with it and be brave?”

“Oh boy, do I take drugs,” I answer, though I know my invented concoctions aren't the kinds of medicines he's referring to. “I am so far from being brave about this. There are days I want to just throw my head back and howl”—which, in fact, I
have
done, in certain incarnations—“and rail at the injustice of the world. Why me? Why should
I
have this stupid condition? But I do have it, and I handle it the best I can, and there's no point in feeling sorry for myself.”

“Okay,” he says. “I'll just feel sorry for you instead.”

I smile. “But I mostly called to apologize,” I say.

“For getting
sick
? Don't be dumb.”

“It's just—that's not the way I wanted it to go. Our first date.”

“Yeah, well, you know, I have a theory about that,” he says. His voice changes in timbre a little; I get the notion that he's shifted positions, maybe stretched out on the couch to get comfortable for a long conversation. “Everyone's always on their best behavior on a first date. They want to make a good impression. But maybe that's the wrong way to go about it. Maybe we should show our worst sides on those first dates, so there are no nasty surprises in the future.”

“Unfortunately, I think there are worse things about me than a predisposition to migraines,” I reply. “So you still have a lot to learn.”

“Ready and willing,” he says.

I laugh. “But it doesn't seem fair,” I say. “I didn't get to see
you
in crisis mode Saturday night.”

“Are you kidding? I was flat-out terrified. Thought you were going to have a stroke or something. Trying to decide if I should take you to the hospital even if you didn't want to go. I
hate
being dumb and helpless.”

“Well, you seemed calm and collected, and I wanted to thank you for being so nice about everything.”

He laughs. “Wow, what kind of asshole would have done anything else? ‘Okay, you're sick, buh-bye. And, by the way, you
ruined
my dinner.'”

“Well, and then you came by Bonnie and Aurelia's house the next day to ask how I was doing.
That
was nice.”

“Oh, yeah. Did they tell you they invited me in for dinner? You were right about Aurelia. Just zeroed right in on me and wouldn't let up.”

“I thought you handled her really well, though,” I say without thinking. “Never lost your cool.”

“How would
you
know? You were sleeping in the other room. At least that's what they told me.”

Crap. “Bonnie repeated the entire conversation to me,” I say weakly.

“Yeah, right. You were probably sitting there in the hallway, listening to the whole thing. You probably
told
Aurelia to give me the third degree.”

I manage a laugh. We seem to have eased right by my careless remark. “Didn't have to. She took up that duty all on her own.”

“She asked if we were dating.”

“And you said, ‘I hope so.'”

“So let's plan another date.”

I smile into the phone. “Let's do it.”

*   *   *

C
eleste wants to hear every single detail of the calamitous dinner and the follow-up phone call, so Thursday I meet her in town for lunch. She's chosen the most relentlessly feminine establishment in Quinville, a tea room filled with antique furniture, lush stained-glass panels, and snatches of love-is-grand poetry stenciled on the lavender walls. The only men I see in the whole place are a couple of patrons I would bet are gay and the busboy I know is the son of the owner.

Celeste is wearing a long, flowing sundress printed with tiny pink flowers and a pair of embroidered flats that make her feet look no bigger than a child's.

“It would be easier to be your best friend if I were blind,” I say as I drop into the chair across the table from her.

She looks first surprised at such a greeting and then deeply amused. She shakes her hair back, and the wispy dark curls seem to float around her face. “Jealousy only makes you less attractive,” she answers.

“Bitch,” I say obligingly.

She laughs heartily. “Besides, you've got this very sexy vibe going on and you know it. Bonnie told me you looked pretty hot Friday night, despite being on the verge of puking your guts out.”

“Bonnie doesn't talk like that.”

“Well, okay, she described what you had on and
I
said it sounded hot, but can we get to the important stuff? Tell me about Joe. What was he like? What did you talk about? Do you like him?”

There are few more pleasant ways to pass the time than talking about someone who's been on your mind almost incessantly since you met him. No detail is too insignificant for Celeste, so she wants me to recount whole conversations, complete with my interpretation of his accompanying expressions and descriptions of my own carefully hidden reactions. Given the fact that our evening out was cut short, I think my recitation to Celeste actually takes longer than the dinner itself. At any rate, talking about it takes us all the way through lunch at the tea room and a follow-up cup of frozen yogurt that we buy from a nearby shop.

We carry the fro-yo as we promenade through the little city park that is sandwiched between the fire station and the VFW hall. It's a little chilly out, but sunny, and the park is packed. Within ten minutes, we meet six people Celeste knows and two who are clients of mine.

“If I ever develop amnesia, this is where I'm coming,” Celeste observes after an old man selling soft pretzels calls her by name. “
Someone
here will be bound to recognize me within five minutes.”

“Well,
I
recognize you,” says a voice behind us, and we both turn, smiles already on our faces.

They're instantly replaced by scowls when we identify the man who's accosted us. It's Bobby Foucault, the long, lean, walking pack of trouble Celeste tangled with at Arabesque. He's still handsome, but in a sinister sort of way, or maybe it's the bitter sneer that makes me think I see darkness in his features.