Moon Runner 01 Under the Shadow

by Jane Toombs

  At last he decided on a plan. He'd explain to Dr. Kellogg that he had to be away for three to five days each month, then he'd find a safe place, away from humans and hope to God he'd survive the shifting without hurting anyone. There were swamps near the lake where no one ventured. He'd heard tales of twenty-foot man-eating alligators, poisonous snakes and vicious catamints prowling the swamps-- but what had his beast self to fear from animals?

  Sherman rose in the gray light of predawn and left the bachelor quarters. Tentacles of mist from the lake wavered among the giant oaks, much like the gray moss draping their branches. Before the doctor roused he meant to walk the boundaries of the plantation fields. He must choose swampland far enough away to keep from discovery and yet not so far he couldn't get there on foot within an hour or two since he didn't dare ride Rawhide when the moon was full.

  He was prowling through overgrown brush far from the house, slave quarters and other outbuildings when he discovered a tumble-down shack all but hidden by vines, near the edge of a vegetation-choked swamp. Poking around, he found two other decaying huts. Abandoned slave quarters? he wondered. Whatever they'd been, they had no use for him.

  As he turned away he caught a glimpse of what looked like iron bars embedded in the side of a mound covered with wild grape vines. Clearing even a part of the thick growth away took some time but at last he recognized what he'd found. A cage.

  He shuddered and stepped back, momentarily transported back to the horror of being trapped in the grizzly cage. Controlling his irrational spurt of panic, he forced himself to examine his find. The rusted iron bars were set solidly in unpainted gray cypress wood. The remnants of a chain barred the door. He yanked the rusted links apart and the door creaked open on rusty hinges. The cage was large enough for a man to sit but not to lie down in. A slave cage? He had no way of knowing.

  Despite his brush slashing, the contraption was still half-hidden by the luxuriant growth. If live grape vines were pulled across the front, the cage would be hidden completely. The rust hadn't seriously damaged the iron and cypress wood, he'd learned, never rotted. If the cage were fitted with a heavy bar on the inside and a stout chain and padlock to replace the old one....

  Sherman swallowed. God, no. He couldn't stand to think of being locked in a cage again, couldn't bear to lock himself in a cage.

  Yet he could see it would work. Hands could use a key where a beast's paws could not. Hands could slide a bar into place that paws couldn't release. He'd be safe. They'd be safe--Guy and his father. And the slaves. And even that bastard Gauthier.

  The alternative was the swamp with its unknown perils. While the beast might survive there--what about before the change? Sherman didn't think he'd be any match for a twenty- foot alligator.

  He stared at the iron bars for long moments. Finally, grimacing, he yanked grape vines into position until they covered the cage completely. He'd buy the chain and the padlock. He'd attach a heavy bar. And if he couldn't stand being caged, he'd try the swamp, alligators, snakes and all. Two days before the moon would be full, the unwelcome restlessness settled into his bones. "I must leave by noon," he told Dr. Kellogg at breakfast.

  The doctor frowned. "Francois tells me there's a bad storm blowing in from the gulf," he warned. "You'd do well to delay your departure until the storm subsides."

  Sherman glanced toward the window where sunlight streamed past wine-colored velvet draperies into the dining room.

  The doctor followed his gaze. "I've never known Francois to be wrong, he seems to have a sixth sense about the weather. If you'll delay leaving until later this afternoon you'll see that he's right. You haven't lived through one of our three day blows, son. They must be experienced to be believed."

  Guy wandered into the room, yawning. "Sorry, papa, I overslept."

  "I'm trying to convince Sherman a gulf storm is on the way," the doctor said.

  "So Francois told me." Guy looked at Sherman. "You're not thinking of traveling in the midst of a hurricane?" Sherman didn't relish the thought of being locked in a cage under any circumstance and getting rain-soaked didn't make it more appealing. There'd be little point in enduring the discomfort if storm clouds cloaked the moon for a night or two and prevented the change. He could safely wait until late afternoon to see if Francois' prediction was right.

  By noon, clouds drifted across the sun, the wind died and a sense of oppression hung over the plantation. The doctor told Sherman he was free to spend the afternoon as he liked.

  "I trust you're now convinced the storm is imminent and are prudent enough to remain with us until it's over," he added as he left Sherman and Guy alone.

  "I'd like you to see my studio," Guy said as soon as the doctor was out of earshot.

  Still uneasy about the weather, Sherman nodded a bit distractedly. He followed Guy up the wide, curving staircase, admiring the intricate carvings on the bannister rail as well as the gilded ceiling medallions. The gleaming furniture and rich fabrics of the house awed him while at the same time they evoked a nagging sense of familiarity.

  Guy opened a door off the second floor landing, revealing a spiral staircase winding up into the tower. Sherman climbed the steps behind him. Eight windows sent light streaming into the square tower; even with the sky overcast the small room was bright. An easel, a painter's table and a stool were the only furniture. Since the canvas on the easel faced away from the stairs, Sherman's attention went to the windows.

  Below them outside, Negroes busied themselves tying up shrubbery and closing house shutters. Not a twig on any of the oaks or magnolias moved. Lake Pontchartrain's waters, dulled to gray by the overcast, lay smooth as glass. In the distance, the Mississippi River snaked silver among the trees. Otherwise, except for splashes of vivid color where flowers bloomed, the entire countryside was green with exuberant growth. Remembering the browns and golds of California, Sherman understood Cump's complaint of California's barrenness, a lack of greenery he hadn't minded. He'd felt at home there. Yet he enjoyed the wild growth here, too. It was cities he hated.

  "What do you think?" Guy asked.

  Sherman turned and found Guy had turned the easel so the painted canvas faced him. He drew in his breath in mixed wonder and dismay.

  A cloud-plagued full moon barely illuminated the night. In the center, the octagon of the garconniere gleamed a faint ghost-like white, menaced by the shadows of trees. The dark figure at the far left of the painting was scarcely noticeable at first but, once seen, it drew the eye. On first glance the figure was a man's. A second look convinced the viewer the hulking darkness wasn't human, not human at all. Guy had painted a monster stalking through the grounds of Lac Belle.

  "Good God!" Sherman stared from the canvas to Guy.

  Guy smiled. "I thought you'd be startled."

  Sherman swallowed. Forcing words past his dry throat he asked, "What the hell is it?"

  "Loup-garou, we call such creatures here."

  Man-wolf. Werewolf.

  Had his secret been discovered?

  Chapter 10

  "I've always been drawn to the macabre," Guy told Sherman as they stared at his somber and sinister painting in the tower studio. "No matter what I intend when I begin, once the brush is in my hand I find myself painting the dark side of life. This one was inspired when by chance I looked from my window the night you returned from Le Noir and saw you walking to the garconniere."

  Sherman swallowed. Guy's artist's vision could prove dangerous.

  Guy smiled disarmingly. "Not that I see you as a monster. Something about the night suggested the theme." "The moon wasn't full that night." The words were out before Sherman thought.

  "Wasn't it?" Guy shrugged. "I must have recalled that a loup-garou needs a full moon to change from a man to a wolf. Tell me frankly, what do you think of the painting?" "I find it frightening."

  Guy looked pleased. "If you're moved, I've succeeded in what I tried to do."

  "Do you really believe in werewolves?" Sherman asked. "Why not?
Just because I've never seen one doesn't mean loup-garous don't exist. Actually, I'm intrigued by the possibility they might. Aren't you?"

  An impossible question. With no ready answer, Sherman shrugged. Never mind Guy's disclaimer, it disturbed him that he'd been the inspiration for the painting. Also upsetting was that the French tongue, like the Spanish and the English, had a word for shapeshifters. Were there others like him? God help them if there were. If shapeshifters had a God.

  Guy crossed to a window, peering down at the workers below. "Hurricane weather makes me restless, makes me long to meet a mysterious, dangerous woman, one a man can never be sure of. Perhaps that's why I ventured into Gallatin Street the night I was drunk--to find my unattainable woman."

  "The women on Gallatin seemed all too attainable," Sherman said dryly.

  Without turning to look at him, Guy waved a hand. "I don't mean whores or any woman who's for sale. I dream of a beauty who walks the dark side of life, a mystery woman whose offer of love carries the threat of death. Creole belles are pretty but dull--any serious involvement with them leads to an all-too-predictable marriage. That's not for me. I'll never find what I want here but, perhaps, in Paris..." His words trailed off.

  Guy's words sent a thrill along Sherman's spine. In spite of himself he imagined a woman who understood and forgave his terrible aberration. He pictured her, fair and lovely, dressed in white....

  Guy turned to look at him. "Do you know my mother and father loved each other for years? Yet they were forced by circumstance to wait until they were over forty to marry.

  I'm like my father in that way--if I can't have the woman I want I'll marry no other."

  "I'll never marry."

  Guy raised his eyebrows but didn't contradict the statement, saying mildly, "Every man to his own choice."

  I have no choice, Sherman thought bitterly. Any fair maid I desire, understanding or not, will be safe only in my dreams.

  "In the meantime, mon ami, New Orleans is full of beautiful and willing women," Guy added, crossing to the stairs. "I must introduce you to a few."

  Sherman followed him down to the second floor. Just because he'd vowed never to marry didn't mean he wasn't as susceptible as any man to a pretty and willing woman's charms. Dr. Kellogg had insisted the devices a man could use to keep from fathering a child were close to foolproof. Did he dare take a chance?

  "While we're upstairs, why don't you look at the bedrooms?" Guy said over his shoulder. "You'll be sleeping in one tonight so you may as well take your pick."

  Sherman frowned. "But I'm perfectly comfortable in the garconniere."

  "That building's not safe in a hurricane. You'll have to move in with us until the storm's over. No doubt papa's had one of the servants fetch your belongings. I've already made a bet with myself about the room you'll choose." Realizing he couldn't insist on remaining in the bachelor quarters, Sherman didn't protest further. Being in the house won't endanger anyone, he told himself firmly. The storm will prevent the beast from emerging.

  But he wasn't happy about making the change. At Guy's behest, he peered into one second floor bedroom after another, barely taking in the furnishings as he tried to quell his unease.

  "This one will do," he said finally, pausing at the door of a room where a pale green paper with twining ivy covered the walls.

  "The green room," Guy said. "I knew this would you suit you. I'd have been surprised if you'd chosen another."

  He did feel comfortable in the room, Sherman decided. Perhaps because of the green color, repeated in the carpet, the window draperies and the bedspread. Unlike some of the other bedrooms he'd seen, the furniture was of light wood with a graceful design.

  "My mother," Guy said, "claimed this was the most soothing room in the house. She insisted that, no matter how troubled a guest, after a night's sleep here he or she always woke refreshed. Not that I'm implying you're troubled--even if the way you pace at times does remind me of some great caged beast." He smiled at Sherman. "Perhaps that's why I changed you into a monster in my painting."

  Beguiled by the open, trusting smile, Sherman couldn't believe Guy had fathomed his secret. Guy might paint what he saw with his artist's eye but he didn't understand what he saw was the literal truth.

  "Lilette will bring you anything you need," Guy said. "You've only to ask." He winked.

  A bit taken aback, Sherman stared at him, wondering if Guy really meant it. Lilette was one of the upstairs servants, pretty, her skin the color of cafe au lait, her curvaceous body inviting a man's embrace. She'd smiled at him more than once in passing.

  "I know you've noticed Lilette," Guy went on. "A man would have to be blind not to. I starting watching her when I was twelve. But, as papa explained when I was thirteen, a man doesn't force himself on his female slaves unless he's a bastard like Gauthier. You don't own her, though. If she's willing--why not?"

  Since he couldn't explain why not to Guy, Sherman merely nodded in acknowledgement.

  Rain began before the evening meal but the full fury of the storm didn't hit until close to midnight. In bed, Sherman listened to the wind whip around the corner of the house, shrieking like Baba-Yaga in pursuit of her victims.

  He could all but picture the old, ugly witch with her sharp nose and teeth, picture her flying through the fury of the night in her strange chariot. Baba-Yaga, the evil eater of human flesh.

  Since he remembered her so clearly, Baba-Yaga must come from the same country as he. What country? Did she really exist? With what he'd learned about his own shapeshifting, he could hardly dismiss her as a myth, though he didn't believe that, real or not, she prowled through the storm here in New Orleans. This wasn't her country any more than it was his. Besides, he'd sense anyone or anything as unusual as Baba-Yaga.

  The United States had its own witches--or at least California did. He'd sensed that Tia Dolores was a bruja from the moment they'd met. He hadn't yet sensed another during his travels but, if he encountered any, he'd know early enough to be able to avoid them.

  Thinking of Tia Dolores reminded him of Esperanza and his heart twisted with pain and jealousy. Esperanza was Don Rafael's wife now and he resented it, much as he tried to wish her well. He'd put her through such misery that the poor girl deserved to be happy.

  If he closed his eyes he could imagine her in his arms under the live oak in the courtyard. He could almost feel her softness, how she'd responded when--

  No! Esperanza was gone forever as far as he was concerned. Recalling their moments together only made it worse. Thinking about her reminded him of what Guy had said about Lilette's availability. Damn it, much as he'd like to bed her, he couldn't take the risk.

  Forget women, he ordered himself. Remember instead what you are. Remember that the moon, almost full, is high in the sky at this very moment and only the storm clouds keep the beast from emerging. Who knows what might happen if you bed Lilette during a full moon, storm clouds or not?

  True to the doctor's prediction, the storm lasted three days and the sky remained overcast for still another day and night. Sherman, by himself once more in the garconniere, fought his restlessness successfully on the following night and then the temptation to change was over for another month. As the days passed, he grew more and more attached to the Kelloggs.

  When the time of the full moon neared in June, he reminded the doctor after they'd finishing seeing the morning patients that tomorrow he had to leave for five days.

  Dr. Kellogg paused with his hand on the surgery door. "It's none of my business, but curiosity has always been my bane. You weren't able to leave last month for those five days. Yet you sent no messages to anyone nor did you go anywhere after the storm was over. I've wracked my brain to understand what it is you must do that's so important you must leave for five days every month but still so unimportant that missing last month's five days apparently made no difference."

  Sherman, unable to think of a reasonable excuse, blurted "I can't tell you."

  The doctor w
aved his hand. "As I said, I had no business asking. Please forgive me for being a nosy old man and by all means take your five days."

  Aware the nearly full moon rose near sunset, Sherman set off the next day in the late afternoon heat. As he tramped through the brush with sweat dripping from his face, he decided that New Orleans in June felt hotter than the California desert in midsummer.

  Clouds of mosquitos rose as he neared the swamps and he wondered if the beast was immune to the pesky bugs. He wasn't, though the bites healed quickly enough--a fact that hadn't escaped the doctor's eagle eye. It frustrated him that he'd found no reason for Sherman's ability to heal rapidly.

  Though Dr. Kellogg had no right to question him about the five days after he'd agreed to let Sherman take them, it was hard to resent the doctor's curiosity. Dr. Kellogg was equally curious about every unusual occurrence, be it odd symptoms in a patient, wilting sugar cane, a pink rose bush that suddenly produced one red bloom, or the mysteries of voodoo. Very little escaped his notice.

  Arriving at the vine-covered cage, Sherman carefully pulled away the growth. With his mouth set in a grim line, he opened the barred door and plucked the chain from inside. Holding the chain, he watched the sun dip behind the trees to the west. Since he didn't intend to spend a moment longer than necessary locked inside the cage, he waited, brushing away the mosquitos buzzing about his face. Until the restlessness began inside him, he could safely remain unfettered.

  A small brown bird, a scissor-tail, perched on a cypress limb and stared at him with one beady eye. Frogs chorused in the swamp. A damp scent of mixed rot and new growth permeated the air. Green plants surrounded him. Wherever he came from, he knew he'd never before seen such riotous growth as sprouted everywhere in New Orleans.

  Slowly, insidiously, blue shadows crept across the greenery. The sun was down; the moon not yet visible. He waited apprehensively. Was that quiver in his stomach the first twinge of warning?