by Eden Winters
Transformation was the time the shifter folk were at their most vulnerable, and Irene had told cautionary tales of foxes and coyotes that had nearly decimated the passel a century ago, catching them while shifting and feasting on their members. Occasionally a predatory bird still caused a scare, keeping the leaders ever watchful. When the last of the jacks, jills, and joeys scuttled off to the relative safety of the forest, mouths full of baked goods or insects, Dustin nodded to Monica, who let out a relieved-sounding sigh and released her hold on the beast within. Her long blonde hair shortened, fading to brown and gray, and he briefly spotted the sprouting of a tail. In the blink of an eye, a furred creature with beady black eyes stared up at him as if to say, “What ’cha waitin’ for?”
He’d expended too much energy fighting the change. The moment he dropped his guard, he shifted, without even time to register whether or not the process hurt.
Rather than feast on day-old bread, crickets, or grasshoppers, the way the more snippy members of the passel planned to pass their one mandatory transformation of the lunar month, he and Monica took turns with the elders monitoring the group. He patiently waited his turn to slither through the grass while searching for the perfect, juicy June bug.
Close to sunup, he made his final rounds.
Wait! Where was his receptionist, Tiffany?
A scream came from the house.
Scritch, scritch. Seth bolted upright in bed, tugging the patchwork comforter around his chin. His heart thudded a frantic beat in his ears. What was that noise? He inhaled shallow breaths. Old houses make noises, he told himself. It’s just the house settling.
He’d almost convinced himself when scritch scritch! There it went again. His heart banged against his ribs. He slipped one hand out from under the covers and snatched at the pull chain on the ancient lamp beside the bed, flooding a corner of the room with light but not chasing back the shadows completely. The bedside clock displayed 5:00 a.m. Something had the nerve to wake him at five freaking o’clock in the morning?
Scritch scritch came again, more insistent this time. Seth took a deep breath, eking it out in a relieved sigh. The cat. Irene must have had a cat after all, and the poor lost kitty wanted in. Or a mouse. Maybe a mouse. He turned out the light, plumped his pillow with a few well-aimed thumps, and nestled back down into the mattress.
SCRITCH SCRITCH SCRITCH! One second horizontal, the next minute vertical, Seth clutched the covers as a shield and turned on the lamp again. He listened. Where had the sound come from? Not his bedroom, right? Right?
Ever so slowly, he placed a hand on the nightstand, easing over the side of the high bed to peer beneath. Nothing but a few dust bunnies, well on their way to becoming dust rhinos. He eased one leg from under the covers. Slowly he wriggled from between the sheets, summoning every bit of his nonexistent courage.
Searching for something, anything, to use for a weapon, he spotted the sword above the mantel, famed to have belonged to his great-great-grandfather. In his youth, he’d been wowed, but grown-up Seth privately suspected the keepsake had come from an auction. Properly armed with the aged relic, he gritted his teeth. Please let the floor not squeak and announce his presence.
Scritch scritch? The nuisance’s telltale scratching came again, hesitant, questioning, as though the unwelcome nocturnal visitor daring to disturb Seth’s sleep now counted its days numbered.
One careful footstep after the other, Seth tiptoed his way into the kitchen, holding his breath while he flipped the light switch. Whatever lurked out of sight paused mid-scritch, drawing Seth’s eyes to the panel sealing in the water heater—the panel he’d replaced.
“Aha!” he told his unwelcome guest. “Can’t get in since I covered the hole, can you?” He shuddered. How many times had his aging auntie slept peacefully while a critter ran amok in her home? He recalled the chewed loaf of bread he’d found on the counter, and the massive amounts of decayed food. “You’ve mooched your last meal, my friend.”
Seth raised the sword over his shoulder, aiming to swing it baseball-bat fashion if necessary, and lifted the hook-and-eye latch holding the panel in place. He flung the door open and took a peek inside. “Holy shit!” Seth jumped back from the opening.
“Eeeeeeiiiiiiii!” screamed the thing, before fainting dead away.
Having been transported a few feet away without realizing how he’d gotten there, Seth crept closer, eyes riveted to the humongous rat lying curled up on the floor next to the water heater, the sword point leading him like a divining rod toward the immobile beastly mass.
Was it dead? Had Seth killed the darned thing from fright? “I am the man!” Seth crowed. He hunkered down. He didn’t know much about animals except for small purse dogs he’d photographed, but the body lying on the floor wasn’t a rat. Was it a… possum? Made sense to find a possum in the house when you lived near a town called Possum Kingdom.
He poked the thing with the sword. Other than jerking with the motion of the blade, the hairy trespasser lay still.
Seth poked again, watching for sides to rise and fall with steady breathing. Nothing. He reached out a tentative hand and snatched the skinny tail, intent on tossing the creature outside and going back to bed. The moment he touched the wormlike appendage the animal squirmed. He let loose. The possum dropped back to the floor, immediately flipping into its “I’m dead, leave me alone” position.
“That’s the deal, is it?” Seth screwed up his nerve, grabbing the tail again and then barreling for the door. Both beady eyes flew open, as did a mouth full of sharp teeth. “Hsssssssssssssss,” went the possum. Oh, fuck! Seth ran faster, slinging open the front door. Jagged mouth-daggers ripped onto Seth’s arm.
“Aaaaaaaaahhhh!”
The possum dropped to the front porch with a heavy thump and scurried away into the night.
Seth clutched his bleeding wrist, staring out at the darkness. “It bit me! Son of a bitch bit me!”
Chapter 11
A missing shifter plus a howling human equaled major damage control needed. Waiting until dawn broke and the passel returned to human form had been sheer agony. Afterward, dealing with passel member’s petty grievances ate even more of Dustin’s time. The moment he’d extracted himself, he took off for Seth’s. It’s my fault, it’s my fault, it’s my fault, he chanted, his compact Ford Ranger burning rubber down Irene’s long drive. No, not Irene’s—Seth’s long drive. He hoped like hell Monica located Tiffany, and that the woman was okay. If she wasn’t, he’d soon hear from Andy.
A million scenarios played out in his head. What would he say, what would he do? How would he explain the sudden need to pay an early morning visit, when last night he’d claimed illness?
He passed the densely packed pine trees lining the drive, then pulled to an abrupt halt in front of the house. Irene’s truck wasn’t parked in its normal spot at the barn entrance. Dustin beat on the front door anyway. Where was Seth? Dustin’s blood ran cold. He visualized Tiffany sinking teeth into Seth’s arm, worst-case scenario playing out in his mind. Surely Seth hadn’t been injured badly enough to drive to the emergency room over in Crawfordville. Some doctors on staff had grown up nearby and knew the score, but an overzealous young intern might go into conniptions, believing he’d found something medical-journal worthy in Seth’s bloodstream.
Calm down. Maybe Seth decided to drive twenty miles to the nearest McDonalds for breakfast. Maybe he’d only screamed because Tiffany startled him.
Dustin hopped back into his truck, checking his watch—ten minutes past nine. He should be at work by now. He hit the speed dial on his phone for his office, in the unlikely event that Seth called or stopped by. Shit! No signal this far out in a hollow. Dustin sped back up the driveway, choking on his own dust. The moment the truck tires tasted asphalt at the top of the hill, his phone rang. “Dr. Livingston,” he answered.
A blubbering Tiffany yowled into his ear. “Oh, God, Doc, I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I really, really, didn’t mean to.”
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br /> “Calm down, Tiffany. You didn’t mean to what?” He gave her the benefit of the doubt, though he fully believed he knew what her next words would be. Was it too much to hope that she’d merely broken a window or something at the clinic or double-scheduled a nine o’clock appointment?
She hissed into the phone, probably meaning to whisper. “I bit somebody!”
Dustin’s heart stalled, then mule kicked his insides. “I’ll be right there.” He tossed his phone aside and stomped the gas pedal. Please let him make it to his office before all hell broke loose.
His heart fell the moment he spotted Irene’s truck parked outside his practice. He didn’t even have to enter the office. Weak as she was, the virus in Tiffany’s possum-form saliva had clearly jumpstarted Seth’s dormant strain. Pheromones leaked through the windows, the pungent scent of mature male possum calling to Dustin like a siren’s song.
Dustin bolted through the door. Tiffany wasn’t in sight, Good. Maybe she didn’t cry all over Seth, apologizing for something he couldn’t understand. Best to break the “Congratulations, it’s a possum!” news gently.
He found Seth and Monica in an examining room.
“Quit being a baby,” Monica barked. “It’s only a scratch.”
Seth sat, wide-eyed and blinking on the edge of the table, clutching a bloody washcloth around his wrist.
“He won’t let me clean it, doctor.” Monica stepped back, dusting her hands together.
Dustin glared; his assistant glared back. “Monica, wait outside until I need you, please.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Hey, Seth. What happened?” Dustin nodded to Seth’s extended wrist.
“Something bit me.”
Dustin scrubbed his hands in the sink and applied gloves, though he actually didn’t need them. His human DNA effectively killed viruses only affecting animals, and his opossum DNA counteracted human viruses. While theoretically rabies affected both animals and humans, possums were mostly immune—a little known oddity and the basis of the thesis Dustin completed to get into the highly confidential shifter program at medical school.
He peeled back the washcloth, wincing at the severity of the bite. With a delicate hand, he cleansed the wound, gently probing the perimeter of the injury. She’d gotten him good.
As if scent alone weren’t enough to go by, the edges of the wound healing faster than normal underscored Seth’s virus status. Other changes would come.
In the back of Dustin’s mind hung a cloud of worry. With a newly awakened virus in his system, Seth’s going back to Chicago without knowing could prove dangerous. But there was time enough to plan for the future later. The virus alone couldn’t bring a shift, and some full-blood passel members lived their whole lives as carriers, never totally manifesting the full symptoms of Channing-Frost. Maybe the same would be true for Seth. One could hope.
“I need to take a blood sample,” Dustin said, more for Seth’s benefit than for medicinal purposes. He’d already guessed the results.
He moved in close, inhaling a musky whiff. Once more, an overwhelming need to possess Seth raged through him, an inferno out of control. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to return focus to the task at hand.
“What about rabies?” Seth asked.
“We don’t often get rabies.” Fuck! Get a grip, man! “I mean, possums don’t normally carry rabies. Their body temperatures are generally too low to sustain that particular virus.”
Seth narrowed his eyes and snatched his hand back. “Who told you it was a possum?”
Oh shit, you’ve done it now! Dustin backpedaled—hard. “Umm… well, if you’ll notice the edges of the bite, the pattern of the teeth. Plus, Irene told me she’d occasionally found one in the house.”
Seth relaxed, letting Dustin take his hand again. “Yeah, it was a possum.”
Forcing lascivious thoughts from his mind, Dustin slipped into doctor mode, collecting a blood sample and passing it out the door to Monica. Surely she sensed Seth’s changed status, probably what provoked her ire. Whoever’d let Tiffany slip off last night had a lot to answer for.
After cleaning the wound, applying a bandage, and issuing a few precautionary shots, Dustin opened the door at Monica’s insistent tapping. “Tell him, ‘welcome to the family,’” she murmured, sliding the test results into his hand and confirming Dustin’s previous conclusion. Welcome to the family, indeed.
He didn’t say anything until Monica gave up and quit listening at the door, then swiped his lips over Seth’s temple. “I want you to take it easy today, and if you notice anything unusual, call me, okay?” They needed to have a long talk later. For now, damage control.
Dustin spent the rest of the morning luring Tiffany, in possum form, out from behind a trash can in the ladies’ room.
By the time Seth left Dustin’s office, the steady throbbing in his wrist had lessened to an intermittent tingle. He flexed his arm as much as he dared and it seemed to function fine.
While in town, maybe he should stop by the grocery store for staples Monica didn’t seem aware of, like Hamburger Helper and beer.
A mom with two small kids in tow bowed her head and said, “Good morning, jack.”
Huh? Was Monica’s special brand of crazy catching? Putting the incident out of his mind for his sanity’s sake, he perused the shopping aisles. A wonderfully enticing scent hit his nostrils, and as if propelled by some unseen force, he found himself at the meat counter, shoulder to shoulder with three other men. He lowered his face into the cooler case, snuffling deeply. Mmmmm….
“Oops, sorry. That pack’s going bad.” A white-jacketed man rushed forward, grabbing the rancid hamburger meat and hauling it away.
Three forlorn faces stared at Seth. “Get used to it, jack,” one said, giving him a comradely clap on the back. “Happens all the time.”
Well, that was strange, but at least he didn’t seem to be the target of the hostility Monica reserved for outsiders. Seth finished his shopping and hurried back to the farmhouse. He suddenly found himself craving the sliced turkey he’d considered throwing out two days ago.
A Cadillac Escalade turned in behind him. He parked the truck in its spot in the barn, and returned to the front yard to find a portly gentleman waiting by the front door. “Mr. McDaniel? Hi, I’m Wilson Levitt, and I’d like a few moments of your time, if you don’t mind.”
Seth had spoken to a realtor or two, but no one by the name of Levitt. “What can I do for you?”
The man grinned, showing nearly as many teeth as the possum from the night before. “It’s not what you can do for me, but what I can do for you!” He extended a beefy hand, holding out a “Levitt Real Estate Development” business card.
Seth shuffled his shopping bags in order to take the card. The man seemed oblivious to Seth’s predicament. “Now, what you got here, one hundred, one hundred fifty acres?”
“Two hundred seventeen, mostly wooded.” Seth had done some homework before his arrival; mature timber enhanced the property’s value and made a strong selling point.
Levitt puckered out his lower lip. “Well, I’m afraid those pesky trees’ll depreciate your properly values, son.”
“Do what? The place is set out with oaks and pines.” Seth spent a good deal of time checking lumber prices too.
“Yeah, but to get to the land, we’ll have to cut those down and haul ’em off; but don’t you worry none. Because I’m a generous man, I’m prepared to offer you nine hundred dollars an acre.” He beamed as though he’d offered Seth the moon.
Seth fought hard to tamp down his anger. “Now wait a damned minute. I’ve done some comparisons, and the going rate for land around here is two thousand dollars an acre. At least fifty acres have mountain views and can pull in as much as $20,000. And I can sell the timber and bring in one hell of a lot more.”
The slimy little shyster rubbed his hands together, shaking his head. “May be prime land, once developed. There’s a lot of work to be done here. Build acces
s roads, haul off those useless trees. There’s also the little matter of the swampland.”
“Swampland? We’re in the foothills, there’s no swampland here!”
“Oh, yes, there is. Why do think no one’s approached you before now? I’m the only one generous enough to take this useless land off your hands. Why, there’s rumors going ’round of an Indian burial ground here. Who in their right mind would buy an Indian burial ground?”
Through clenched teeth, Seth suddenly made a spur of the moment decision, hoping like hell he wouldn’t regret his rashness later. “The land is not for sale at any price. It’s my family’s land, and I intend to stay here.”
“Okay, you drive a hard bargain. Nine hundred twenty-five dollars an acre, and that’s my final offer.”
“No thank you, and please get the hell off my farm.”
The man opened and closed his mouth a few times, but nothing intelligible came out. Finally, he managed a wavering, “You’re turning down my offer?”
“Yep.”
Levitt’s face turned a horrifying shade of puce. “Mark my words, Mr. McDaniel, in a few months you’ll come crawling to me, hand out, begging me to take this useless parcel off your hands.”
Through clenched teeth, Seth growled. “I’ll take my chances.”
“I guarantee no one else will offer anything close to what I’m offering.”
“Again, I’ll take my chances.”
It took another fifteen minutes and behavior bordering on rude to squeeze the man back into his vehicle and make him leave. “I’m the only one who’ll even talk to you,” the charlatan claimed in parting.
He was wrong. Four other realtors extended the same “generous” offer the same day. An entirely unpleasant sensation squirmed to life in Seth’s gut each time he thought about selling. The land, the house, was all that remained of his family ties. To simply walk away… well, it didn’t feel right. In desperation, Seth found a leftover piece of plywood from his kitchen patch job and hand-lettered a sign: Land not for sale. Realtors will be shot on sight. He posted the sign by the main road. Let them come now!