I found a shelf dedicated to witchcraft and sorcery. Interesting stuff, particularly a volume entitled The Powers of the Succubus. I was skimming along through Chapter 2 with raised eyebrows (plucked I might add) when the woman in the sari fronted me.
“Would you like some help?”
“Actually I would,” I said. “I was hoping … to be able to meet (I almost said “find”) Adele.” I was going to add that I was a friend, but I didn’t think that would wash. “I’m a fan of the store,” I said. “I’ve heard so much about it. I’m visiting from out of town.”
The way the woman pursed up her face suggested she was rather protective of Ms. Bixley, and my cop sense told me that in a place like that they’d have a pretty good idea of people who’d been in before. I gave her a big flash of pearly whites. Gone were the yellow from all the booze and smokes.
“Adele is very busy,” she said, but she took my arm and began whisking me toward the polished wooden stairs. “But since you’re from out of town.”
I gave her another shot of blinding white teeth when we topped the stairs. Plus I was going to make a purchase. The Powers of the Succubus.
“Adele,” the woman called around a partition, “You … have a fan from out of town. Do you have a moment?”
We rounded the partition into a loft space where an older and considerably plumper Adele Bixley in a black dashiki and a quartz pendant sat rapping at a laptop beside another desktop computer at an old-fashioned roll-top desk overflowing with books and manuscript pages. A heavily papered bulletin board hung on the wall over her workspace and light poured in through high ceiling transoms. It was a space-lift feeling to see her again—this way.
She wore bifocals now and on top of the cubbyhole part of the desk was a skull and a Venus figurine. Books and CDs were stacked on the floor everywhere. There was a framed poster for some movie called Suspiria—along with a mounted stag head that looked straight out of a Scottish castle.
The sari woman swished off downstairs as Zandra waddled up from the roll-top.
“You’d like a book signed?” she asked, and seemed to expect me to hand her one.
Then the coin dropped and I realized the book in my hand was the wrong choice.
“You’re … Titus Logan …” I said stupidly.
“A secret that is becoming ever more widely known,” she grunted. “I’m off to Minneapolis for a writers’ festival tomorrow. I’m very busy. I see you don’t have a book for me to sign. How can I help you?”
“Why … Titus Logan …” I gawked, trying to take in the changes since I’d seen her last.
“Sometimes I like pretending to be a man,” she sniffed. “But it’s not something that isn’t public knowledge. It helps me separate the tasks of running a bookstore and crafting fantastic fiction. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”
“I need help,” I said. I didn’t know how else to put it—but the way I put it seemed to pique her interest.
“What kind of help?”
“I need to know … about creatures who can change shape and appearance,” I said, my voice collapsing to a whisper.
“Shapeshifters?” she answered crisply. “What kind? Skinwalkers? Windigos? Werewolves?”
I glanced at the two Titus Logan paperbacks beside her desk. She Speaks the Night … Horns and Haloes. They were sensational and cheap looking, but I was proud of her. The bulletin board over her desk was thick with fan letters and news clippings.
“I … I didn’t know there were so many … kinds,” I gasped, feeling like an idiot. What the hell did I hope she could tell me?
“We have an excellent reference book in stock called The Encyclopedia of Therianthropy,” she announced. “That’s the proper name for a shapeshifter—a therian. It covers all the famous shapeshifters, from the Greek God Proteus to the Berserkers, the Norse warriors who were thought to be able to turn into bears. There’s everything you need to know about werewolves and vampires—the Tengu—Japanese bird monsters who can become human … selkies or seal maidens … the white buffalo woman. There’s a very good essay on the Frog Prince theme and Beauty and the Beast … in addition to some interesting speculation about genetic engineering and the possible influences of new biotechnology in an article called ‘The Shape of Creatures Yet to Come.’ It’s very comprehensive with some brilliant illustrations.”
“But—what about people—who think they’re becoming something else?”
“There are a couple of good books in stock about Inner Animals and Spirit Guides—and one addressing the Neo-Pagan and Roleplaying Games communities. Let’s see …” she said, waddling back to her desk and consulting the other computer screen.
She tapped away at the keys. “We’ve had a book called Greymuzzle and another called The Feline Mystique, but those are out of stock. There’s also one called Snake Clan on the shelves right now, which has to do with tattoo enthusiasts, but I haven’t personally read it. One of the problems of being a writer—so little time to read!”
“But … I mean … people who actually … who believe … that they’re …”
“Oh, the psychiatric aspect. In the main reference book I mentioned there’s a chapter on therianthropy and mental illness. Multiple personalities. BDD. And of course, there’s quite a bit of information available online. Just Google on Therianthropy or Shapeshifters. You’ll find tons of links. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”
“No!” I cried. “I don’t want information. I want advice!” And then I burst into tears, which is sometimes an excellent strategy. It certainly had the desired effect on Titus Logan. She offered me a chair and handed me a Kleenex.
“You know, my dear. I have the strangest feeling that I’ve met you before. But not in a way I can pin down.”
“Maybe in a past life,” I sobbed, trying to gather my wits.
“Perhaps,” she said without inflection. “In any case, you’re obviously distressed about something. I am, however, very busy. Please tell me how you think I can help. Briefly.”
“Let me put it this way,” I snuffled. “How do you kill an evil shapeshifter?”
“Oh!” she nodded, sitting back down herself. “I … understand now. You’re a writer! I might’ve guessed. Just getting started? And you’ve hit a block? You should come along to one of our Newbies Workshops. They’re every Thursday night at 7 PM.”
“I’m not a writer,” I answered firmly. “And I don’t want to steal your ideas. I’m after professional advice—of a more personal kind.”
The way I said that last bit must’ve made an impression on her because the tone of her voice changed.
“I’m not quite sure I understand the nature of your query then,” she replied, putting her laptop to sleep.
“I’m not sure of the nature either,” I said. “Because it’s outside nature. As in supernatural. Do you just make up stories about that sort of stuff? Or do you actually believe in it? Seriously.”
“Yes,” she answered after a long silence. “I didn’t use to—although I thought I did. But I only really started to believe when I started writing. Something happened to someone I knew.”
“What was that?”
“The book? It was a ponderous apprentice novel. The title was taken from a line by Joseph Conrad. ‘It was one of those experiences which throw a man out of the conformity with the established order of his kind and make him a creature of obscure suggestions,’” she recited.
It had clearly been a big deal for her. Still on her mind.
“No, I mean what happened—to your friend?” I interjected.
“Let’s just say it heightened my sense of the possibilities—and the dangers in life.”
“Something’s happened to me,” I offered.
Her eyes seemed to pass over every inch of me, scanning me like a metal detector.
“I’ve become a creature—of what did you say? Obscure suggestions.”
“I see,” she said, looking even more closely at me. I couldn’t tell if she wanted to call the po
lice or get out her notebook. “Tell me about it.”
“So you can get more material for your books?”
“Touché,” she said after a short pause, her face wrinkling into an expression of still deeper engagement. “Why don’t you—cut to the chase?”
I tried to think of how to put it. “I need advice … on how to kill a monster.”
The room went silent for an uncomfortably long time. Then she spoke.
“What form does this monster take—usually?”
“Female.”
“So,” she said after a long pause. “You’re asking me about how to kill a woman?”
I could tell she was running it down in her mind, trying to work out how whacked I was. What could she say to get me out of there as fast and as safely as possible? Then all at once her expression changed.
“Or rather,” she continued. “A creature who takes the form of a woman. And perhaps … can make others … change form too?”
“You’ve got it,” I said under my breath. By god, she did have some powers.
“Well, let’s be clear,” she said after another pause—sitting upright, smoothing her robe and adjusting her quartz pendant. “I’m no expert. So, let’s speak in hypothetical generalities.”
“I’m with you,” I nodded.
“Let’s say we’re collaborating on a book. You have this idea about a female shapeshifter. She’s evil—or at least a malign force. Does she have a totem animal associated with her?”
“You mean like what a tribe likes to eat?” I asked.
“No, no,” she shuffled back. “A totem animal is held in high regard not because it’s good to eat, but because it’s good to think. Is there an animal or creature associated with the Being?”
“A dragon,” I said. “A wyvern—a dragon with wings and a barbed tail.”
She paused again.
“Hm. All right. If we were contemplating how such a creature might be subdued—or ultimately exterminated … speaking hypothetically … we’d first consider fire. Mythologically, dragons have always been thought to breathe fire or to emanate from fire—and therefore, symbolically at least, turning the flames back on them has often been viewed as the best way to eradicate them. Dragons can also be stabbed—in the soft parts beneath the scales. And stabbing suits our female metaphor. The first problem is that the dragon’s fire must be withstood to turn it back on itself—and stabbing requires the guile and the courage to get very close. But a more serious problem is that even if we overcome these obstacles, a shapeshifter can’t be killed so easily. Only an attack via extremely personal means can undo a therian.”
“How do you mean?” I asked, leaning forward.
“The age-old practice of sympathetic magic,” she answered. “To eliminate a shapeshifter, we’d need a talismanic weapon that had been in the possession of the Being—but was now in our hero or heroine’s control. For a female creature, it would be especially important to have something intimately associated with her. Something that had her scent. Something both symbolically associated with her and directly, physically connected with her.”
“Supposing … we did?” I said. “What then?”
“This becomes a binding agent—a way of neutralizing her magic. Paralyzing her. She would then need to be stabbed and ritually set on fire—or to have her own fire quenched.”
“So,” I answered. “As … collaborators … that’s how you think the story should end?”
“The tactics need to be fleshed out—but the strategy is right,” she replied.
“What happens—if the strategy fails?” I asked.
“One of two things,” she said after a moment. “Either we must find another hero to do the deed. Or the dragon’s wings get wider and the barbed tail gets sharper.”
“Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been very generous. I wonder … would it be too much for one last request?”
“A last request?”
“It could be. I’d like … to have my fortune told,” I said.
On the surface, she didn’t seem to miss a beat, but her words gave her away.
“Yeah, I thought as much. What’ll it be, a palm reading? Or the cards?”
There was the old carny grout in her voice again, softened with snake oil and weariness.
“Neither,” I answered. “I want you to tell me what you see. Just you.”
“Prosperity, health and romantic happiness,” she sighed.
“No, I mean it,” I said. “The truth.”
“The truth?” she smiled wistfully. “That’s what people say they want and then don’t want to hear. That’s why I started writing fiction. Besides, what makes you think I know the truth about anything? I write paperbacks under another name. I run a bookstore.”
“I want to know what you see,” I answered. “I may not like it, but I want to hear it.”
“Very well,” she said with a deep inhalation. “Believe what you will—and don’t blame me.”
She closed her eyes and slowly became like a figure in a wax museum. After at least a minute she spoke, but in a far-off, reluctant voice.
“I see health, prosperity … and a long life. An unusually long life. I see … things I don’t recognize … I can’t describe them. And something to do … with a dead policeman. I see both peace—and violence … I see … some kind … of happiness. And … some … some kind of evil. Or maybe …”
She seemed to collapse in her chair, with a look on her face that reminded me of Serena coming out of a seizure.
“Thank you,” I said finally, getting up to leave. “Are you OK?”
“Yes,” she answered mechanically. “What did I tell you?”
“I think—you spoke the truth,” I said.
CREPT HOME IN THE CAR AS CAUTIOUSLY AS I COULD, my hands shaking on the wheel. What Zandra, Adele or Titus Logan had told me filled me with both terror and hope. I ran into Mrs. Ramona in the hall on the way in. She seemed very curious about me, but I wasn’t forthcoming. I didn’t ask her who was sneaking out her door in the night with an armful of laundry. Soon I knew the whole building would be buzzing about Ritter’s new girlfriend. But that was the least of my troubles just then.
Another delivery from Eyrie Street had arrived. Black evening wear. Very expensive and stylish, with some undergarments that would’ve raised the flag if I still had a pole. In a bottle shaped like a female genii, a new perfume called Misbehavin’. Her instructions were to come for dinner. Eight o’clock. What undid me was the command to “bring the cat.” The words of the Seer kept coming back to me.
But I wasn’t ready for war. Such a gross collision of will—an irrevocable challenge—needed more planning and intel. Genevieve was the only one who knew what was really happening to me. This was my one chance to see if I could get her to tell me. If not, then the Devil or Midnight first, more drastic action would be required. I suited and scented up. Then I shut off my cell and left it on top of the scanner. One of the songs on the oldies station heading over to Cliffhaven was called “My Girl Bill.”
When I arrived at Eyrie Street, Genevieve’s appearance once more astonished me. She was all crepe and powder like a moth, elegantly dressed in white with an accent of lilac, like some Four Seasons matron—a patron of the fine arts, not a priestess of the Black Ones. Clutching Pico, who seemed none too happy to be back in that house, I would’ve said the woman before me was in her late 60’s. Still, I knew it was Genevieve, and she grew progressively younger and more beautiful as the evening wore on.
For reasons she didn’t explain, dinner was served in the lower depths, in one of the private gaming rooms off the darkened casino, a candlelit chamber of oak with an immaculate white linen and crystal table set for two. Mutza was not to be seen, but maybe he had already done his service, for everything was in place, and the Madame of Eyrie Street dished out the food for us herself, an aromatic Mediterranean concoction, with some superb wine.
The quiet was so deep, I thought I could make out the distinctive ticking
of that ornate clock I remembered from my first night. Or maybe it was the rhythmic revolutions of a rodent wheel. Pico heard it too. The Dark Mistress had made me stuff the miserable thing in a cage stowed at my feet below the table.
We ate in silence. Or rather, I ate in silence. She knew my questions were gnawing at me, but she refused to address them, saying firmly that there would be time for them after dinner. “We are, after all, civilized.”
Instead, she told me about her travels, interrupting herself only to adjust my posture or correct my table etiquette. She’d been everywhere—Istanbul, Copenhagen, Montreal, Nairobi. She was on my last good nerve, but I had no choice but to listen, to bide my time—as her mesmerizing voice wandered, telling me about the guitars and cathedrals of Cebu where Magellan planted his cross … the Bund in Shanghai … or the sunlit apartment on the Reforma near Chapultepec Park in Mexico City where she’d brought more than a hundred men.
Then, after we’d finished the crème brulée with berries that she served for dessert with a sweeter wine, I got lost in her reminiscence about a hot summer night in Cairo, listening to the lute-like sound of the oud, a fat-bellied string instrument meandering up from the Nile. Suddenly, the story stopped cold, and with a foreboding change in her voice, like the snap of a doctor’s glove, she said, “Now it’s time for you to express further devotion. Bring the cat.”
I didn’t have a choice, so I gripped the handle on the cage as she led me back up through the labyrinth of hallways to a room in the back of the first floor. It had a glass roof and smelled like a hothouse, which in part it was. But in the center, on the white tiled floor, stood a large terrarium, inside of which was a long, thick and beautifully patterned snake—black predominantly with a white underbelly and gold diamonds along the top of its body and on its head.
“This is Caligula,” she said. “A diamond python. Isn’t he handsome? He’s not venomous, although he has a lethally strong grip, and the capacity to open his jaws to accommodate extraordinarily large prey. But he hasn’t been fed in a long, long time. So he’s very hungry.”
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