Shifting Again

by Shifting Again (ant

  As dawn turned the east grey, Cian had risen to go, beckoning Corin to follow. No fool, and knowing what lay under the Hill, Corin had seized him and held him pinned. Cian had cried and begged piteously to be allowed to take his leave of his mother. Corin--thinking of his own mother weeping over her boy, vanished under the Hill, refused. He held tight. Cian had changed in his hands and he had a maid, fair as a rose on the first of June. He held her, her body curving in all the wrong places.

  The maid turned into a fish, flopping and smelly, walloping him in the face, the scales cutting his hands. He bundled the fish in his discarded shirt and held on. The fish became a shaggy wolf. Corin had grinned and shifted himself at this. In wolf-shape, he held his mate pinned to the ground, biting at his ruff, tempted to mate with him to establish dominance.

  The Cian-wolf was gone and a snake slithered beneath Corin’s furry belly. He shifted quickly and held tightly, grasping the serpent which grew by the moment, its fangs dripping poison that made his arms swell and blacken. It bit him, and he watched the venom race up his arm, but clutched Cian.

  The snake became a brand of fire. His fingers seared, melding to the wood. Corin screamed, but did not let go. As the first rays of sun struck them, Cian was himself again, and Corin was whole. Cian faded. Corin held him and shouted at the girl on the highroad. She carried a yoke with milkbuckets on it. She saw the gypsy youth holding another and went to him.

  “A ladle of the milk, lass, throw it on him,” Corin shouted.

  She did without thinking, and Cian solidified, lying naked in Corin’s arms. After making sure he was real and himself, Corin stood. He dug five florins, their salmons bright in the morning, out of the pouch in his far-flung clothing and handed them to the girl.

  “My thanks for your help. Take the payment for your milk. I’ll be getting my sweet home now.” Corin began parceling his clothing between them.

  She shouldered her yoke and smiled, knowing it would be a tale for the grandchildren, but no one would believe her now. “I’ll be off. A good morning to ye.”

  The pony was gone, and Corin found himself nicking trousers from a house’s clothes line for decency’s sake. They’d found the gypsy band near Cork, but Cian had never fit in. Eventually, the tribal leaders decided a werewolf and a sidhe were too dangerous to travel with and cast them out. They’d taken passage to America almost immediately, planning to lose themselves in the enormous country. Later, deciding they would never see home again, they took citizenship.

  But Corin’s gypsy blood and Cian’s wanderlust had made it hard to settle down. They’d roamed and roved, aging gradually, until here they were, in Memphis. One of the last places Corin ever wanted to live. He’d argued for Canada or at least Vermont, civilized lands as opposed to the South, which he saw as a vast cultural wasteland of homophobes.

  He hoped, for their safety, he was wrong. He looked again at Cian in the twilight. Too many years of caution restrained him from taking his lover’s hand. They were old. Let the brave children, like the two girls he had seen kiss before the cafe, demand their acceptance and be bold and open. With age came awareness of mortality and fragility.

  They walked, side by side, north. Cian turned his nose up at Celtic Crossing and the penny-whistle that floated out the open door of the faux-Irish pub. They passed Black Lodge Video and the houses. At the railway bridge, they crossed Cooper and headed back south, passed the drum shop, the David Mah gallery and the yarn store.

  The Memphis Gay and Lesbian Community Center had a rainbow banner out for the Cooper-Young Festival, a change from the usual subtle yard sign. Cian tipped his head and Corin shrugged.

  The cheery person at the desk greeted them and had them initial in before offering a tour. A small place, but warm and welcoming. The crowd watching Ginger Snaps in the TV room waved in vague acknowledgment.

  “Thursdays are always movie night,” the guide explained. “Have a schedule.”

  “Thank you.” Cian gave a small bow and they left. He looked it over as they walked. “Blue Suede Bears? You certainly qualify, lover.” Corin snarled at him.

  They passed Jasmine, Tsunami, Dish and the Blue Fish. At The House of Mews, they paused. Even though Corin kept well back, the cats caught his scent. He had to go sit in the gazebo on the corner while Cian soothed the animals. A tiny calico bristled, her tail a bottle-brush as she bounced, puffed and spat. Cian calmed the panicky cats and Corin stayed well out of scent range.

  They turned the corner onto Young and peered into the galleries. The Java Cabana filled the evening with the scent of coffee and the sounds of slack-key folk-rock. Cian gestured south.

  “Let’s see that labyrinth at First Congo that I read about.”

  Corin shrugged. “Neither of us took to the New Faith.”

  Cian smiled. “A labyrinth is much more my people’s tradition than theirs. It’s a meditation, of sorts.”

  The painted lines on the asphalt were having no effect on Corin. He leaned against the church and watched, smelling the neighborhood and the people. The end of the sunlight gleamed on Cian’s hair as he walked the lines that curved upon themselves. Corin was content to watch his lover’s unearthly grace, his slow glide through to the center of the labyrinth and back out.

  ***

  The sun had set, and there were no cars coming. Cian stole a kiss, pressing Corin between the wall of the church and the stairwell.

  “Home now, lover. You’ll get your mating.”

  Corin growled, feeling the pull of the nearly-full moon. “Home, elf. Now.” The last trailed into a near-howl. He looked embarrassed at losing control.

  Cian kissed him again and took his hand. “If we cannot walk freely in our own neighborhood, we may as well be caged.” Corin looked over his shoulder for the three blocks home. “Jumpy again, love?”

  Corin sniffed. “There’s another wolf in the neighborhood. Male. Only one. He’s not home, but I can smell his den. We’ll make his acquaintance after the full. “

  Once up the back stairs of the shop, he relaxed a little, and resisted the urge to piss on the corner of the stair-rail. Inside, he drew Cian close and kissed him. His lips demanded, his teeth scraped, his tongue invaded.

  Cian was caught, trapped by the feral lover that bore him backward toward the small, creaky bed they shared. He barely managed to slip out of his shirt before Corin’s hands were on him, rough and uncaring. After many decades, and many shredded articles of clothing, he knew what to expect. Cian seized the lubricant from the bedside table as Corin bore down on him, kissing him until the bed-springs groaned more loudly than he did.

  “Noisy bitch,” Corin growled. He tore his jeans open, resisting as Cian tried to slow him enough to get him lubricated. His ordinarily-bushy eyebrows had swallowed his forehead. His neat small beard had spread over his jawline, and up onto his cheeks. His normally hairy chest resembled a pelt. His eyes blazed yellow.

  “Corin, acushla,” Cian soothed, his slender hands fast with the lubricant and his own khakis. “A 'fbn, my own sweet wolf.” He loved Corin in this mood. He loved all of Corin’s moods, but the primal desires of the alpha wolf who claimed and mounted as his due, with none of the sweet give-and-take of lovemaking, with no hesitation, aroused him until he could no longer think.

  Corin cuffed him, batting at his shoulders until he rolled over. Once ready, Cian obliged and gave himself over the wolf.

  Corin slammed in, as if heedless of all save the pull of the moon in his blood, the warmth of his mate beneath him, the urgent need in his balls. Cian whimpered softly and Corin humped at his mate, wanting to be deeper inside. He wrapped his arms around Cian’s body and bit at the back of his neck, the tight heat sending him close to the edge.

  Cian pressed back into the thrusts, feeling the fur of Corin’s belly against his ass, his back. He whimpered again when Corin’s teeth closed on his neck. He knew lycanthropy wasn’t contagious, but he shuddered anyway. He kept a steady, soothing stream of Gaelic endearments flowing, broken only b
y the small yelp when Corin slammed hard into him with a soft howl of orgasm. Claws scraped at his sides, but he ignored them as they melted back into human nails.

  Corin pushed away as if he was ashamed of himself. The excess hair melted away, his hands were normal again. It had been almost a year since he’d lost control of the beast like that. He lay down beside Cian and drew him in. “Oh, my lover. I’m a sorry man, I am.”

  Cian kissed him sweetly. “For what, Wolf?” He pressed close to Corin’s stockier body. “All I ask is a bit of relief of my own. I love you so. Even and especially like that.”

  Corin touched the area of the scratches. “I hurt you again.”

  “Small enough to pay for such loving.” Cian always reassured him and Corin never believed him. He kissed his beloved wolf again. “Please, darling Corin, my need is great upon me.”

  “And I’m a selfish old wolf.” Without another word, Corin took Cian in his mouth, his tongue too long just from the deep musk scent of his mate. He sucked Cian deep, and flickered his tongue over Cian’s balls, smooth and hairless and typical of the Sidhe. He extended the tongue and laved Cian’s perineum and touched it to Cian’s abused opening.

  “Ah, Darling.” Cian could never handle being rimmed. At the second stroke, he came.

  Corin withdrew, swallowing with a smile. “Yer a pushover, O’Brian. Two licks of your sweet arse and you shoot like a Dublin fountain.”

  Cian pulled him in, laughing. “Only for you, my gypsy love.” He sang softly in the Old Tongue, and Corin was asleep in his arms in moments.

  ***

  The e-mails, chats and phone calls had flown fast and furious since Christmas. Furball couldn’t come for spring break. Both were busy for Memphis in May. BB was in the middle of a huge project with a final deadline over Memorial Day and Pride. Furball was teaching the second summer session, and in class or grading all of July.

  Finally, they’d said ‘Screw it’ and agreed to Cooper-Young Festival at the end of September. It was just their luck it fell on the full moon. “And, BB, if you don’t make this, it’s your tail this time,” Furball threatened.

  Paul growled playfully. “Going alpha on me, Danny boy?”

  “No. But nine months is too fucking long. Especially when there isn’t any fucking.”

  Paul laughed. He loved it when Dan dropped his ‘meek and mild college lit professor’ routine. “Got my tickets already, Furball. I’ll be there. And I can’t wait to see the farm. You know, it’s going to be the first full moon I’ve been outdoors since I was 14?”

  “Deprived. Love you, Handsome. See you Thursday.”

  “See ya, Babe.” Paul turned back to his packing. He wasn’t sure why he was bothering. He zipped the jumbo bottle of lube from Christmas into a plastic bag and threw it into his luggage. He’d spend nights in wolf-shape, and he didn’t plan to let his sweet boy out of bed by day. He guessed he had to make a good impression on the folks at some point. He had promised a trip to the Festival. He threw in his rainbow tie-dyed shirt, figuring that was about as gay as Memphis could stand.

  To say meeting the family hadn’t gone well was an understatement. Dan had met him at the airport, pausing only to steal a kiss in the parking lot. It was the last sweet kiss he got for the day. The large family farm was an hour north of Memphis and the traffic made him stare at his Furball trying to drive in it.

  “Is it always like this?”

  “Oh, this is light, sweetie. You should see the nutcases during rush hour,” Dan said, narrowly avoiding being sideswiped as a Buick zipped down the shoulder and pulled in right in front of him. Paul was sure he’d left claw marks in the armrest of Dan’s little Honda. He’d known the car for his lover’s the moment he’s saw it: small, battered, held together with duct-tape and liberal bumper stickers. The clincher was the one that read ‘Please forgive me. I was raised by wolves.’

  The trim white house sat well back from the road, the fence at the perimeter just a little stronger than the livestock would indicate. Paul looked uneasily at the horses grazing and the cows placidly chewing cud.

  “Oh no,” Dan moaned as they crunched up the tree-lined gravel drive.

  “What, babe? We forget something?” He really didn’t want to face the traffic again.

  “No, look at the darn cows.”

  “They’re lying down under the trees. So what?”

  “Stupid weather man. He said the rain was going north. We’re going to get wet tonight, lover, and maybe tomorrow, too. Wet wolves are miserable wolves. Trust me on that one.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “No, of course not. Not with your big warm basement and fluffy doggy bed.” He parked in the circle drive. “And your water bowl.” The last was practically snarled, and his nose was elongating.

  Paul seized his curly hair, getting tangled quickly. “Big words from the little bitch who dared mark territory in my basement.” He kissed his lover fiercely, almost biting. His own teeth felt too large, his tongue felt too long. He licked Dan’s face. “My mate. My beta wolf.” He nipped at Dan’s throat.

  A tap on the window startled him. A beautiful girl with the same big dark eyes as Dan was standing outside, knocking. If he’d been straight, he’d have melted right there. “Ravish my brother later. Mama says you have to come in now and say hello.” Her voice carried only the faintest of southern accents.

  The whole family had turned out to meet him. Paul overheard one cousin refer to him as

  ‘Danior’s mate.’ That left him feeling good but shaky at the same time. He was almost forty and settling down after a lifetime of being a lone wolf was daunting.

  Grandfather headed the table, gold teeth gleaming as he smiled at his favorite grandson.

  Grandmother was long dead, so it fell to Dan’s mother, sisters and various aunts, nieces and cousins to get dinner around. Dan’s father sat across from a unibrowed man that Paul guessed was Uncle Zoltan. His mountainously pregnant wife was exempt from the bustle.

  “Six months,” Zoltan smiled. Paul could smell the man’s pride as he stroked the woman’s belly. “We’re hoping for Christmas twins, right, Rita?”

  Aunt Rita smiled. “Someone has to carry on the pack.”

  Dan actually snarled at his aunt, the sudden change in demeanor startling. “So sorry we’re not all breeder-bitches.”

  “Danior!” Mama rapped him with a serving spoon as she passed. “Apologize at once.”

  “Mama, I’m not twelve and she is way the hell out of line.” Dan’s southern got more pronounced as he got angrier until “line” sounded like “laaahhhn” to Paul’s northern ears.

  “Danior Camomescro!” Mama rapped him again.

  Paul reached over and took his hand. “Dan. We are what we are.” He looked at Rita and

  Zoltan. “And if you have a problem with it, take it up with me and don’t snipe like gutter-trash.”

  The promised storm broke as if on cue, punctuating Paul’s statement. Grandfather laughed.

  “The boy has timing. Paul, when you say that, you are my grandson as well.” The rest of the family stared a bit. Paul’s stomach flip-flopped. “Listen, all of you. Our Danior has chosen his mate. And not a one will say another word because he has not taken a female.” The little man rose to his feet and leaned on the table. Too many teeth were in his mouth and the scent of wolf was heavy in the room. Even Paul felt the urge to roll over and show belly at the display of dominance. “Are we understood?”

  There was a general murmur of assent and Dan’s father looked quite unhappy. The conversation among the younger siblings and cousins continued, but the older generation cast dark looks at Dan and Grandfather. The excellent food was mostly wasted, and after dinner no one wanted any dessert. Evening was coming on and the weres withdrew from the rest of the family.