by Witt, L. A.
“The more information I get, the better I’ll be able to help you.”
Oh, I’m sure. “Fine. I was resisting it because I didn’t want it.”
“You wanted to continue shifting?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I enjoy creating feelings of fear and revulsion in everyday people who are trying to mind their own static, heterosexual business. It amuses me.” I inclined my head. “Would it help if I started laughing maniacally at this point, or would that be too much?”
He glared at me, then looked at my statement once again. “I’m curious, Mr. Nichols, why you wouldn’t consent to something like that? Seems like it would make life easier for you.”
“Oh, you know what? You’re right.” I folded my arms across my chest. “And I suppose when I was in my female form, I shouldn’t have resisted if a man tried to rape me. After all, it might feel good, right?”
He eyed me. When he opened his mouth to speak, though, I cut him off.
“Is there someone else I can talk to?”
“Someone else?”
“Yeah. Maybe someone who has a clue? Or, you know, is interested in helping me file this report instead of asking inappropriate and irrelevant questions?”
He set his jaw and pushed his shoulders back slightly. “Are you telling me how to do my job, Mr. Nichols?”
“Well, you’re implying rather heavily that I should accept this implant in spite of the fact that you obviously know jack fucking shit about shifters.” I shrugged. “I’d say that makes us even, wouldn’t you?”
He shot me another glare, and I expected some sort of snide comeback, but he stood. “I’ll go see if one of the detectives is available. This is more their territory anyway.”
“Thank you,” I said through my teeth.
After he’d gone, I rested my elbows on the table and rubbed my temples. I should’ve known this would happen. In this city, which wasn’t nearly as progressive as it liked to think it was, cops were notorious for blowing off shifters who’d been the victims of crimes. If we didn’t want to be targeted, we shouldn’t make ourselves targets. Whatever the fuck that meant. I shuddered and thanked God I wasn’t here to report a sexual assault.
Maybe this was a mistake.
No. No, of course it wasn’t. Why should I let this slide? My parents hated what I was, and they’d spent the last decade or so making sure I felt like utter slime. I could almost believe my mother had acted with good, if misdirected, intentions. Gary, though? No way.
“Do you think I just woke up one day and decided to change genders?” I’d shouted at my stepfather in my youth. “This is who I am. It’s what I am.”
“It’s unnatural,” he’d said.
I’d narrowed my eyes. “Then take that up with your God, since He’s the one who made me this way.”
He’d glared at me with fire-and-brimstone eyes. “God will send you to hell for what you are.”
Love you too, ‘Dad.’
I sat back and scrubbed a hand over my face. Millennia of civilization, and shifters still weirded people out, terrified them, inspired murderous hatred. I could live a million years and never understand why. In some cultures, most of them centuries gone, we were revered as gods. In others, we’d been invaluable for espionage, especially during World Wars I and II. Sometimes no one cared about our existence, sometimes we were useful, sometimes people wanted us exterminated.
At least these days it wasn’t as bad as during, say, the Inquisition. Still, it wasn’t exactly sunshine and roses. We marched out of step with the accepted biological cadence, and people didn’t know what to make of that. I still wasn’t sure why it made anyone feel threatened. We weren’t contagious. It wasn’t like Officer Daly was suddenly going to sprout ovaries if he showed me a little compassion.
The conference room door opened and a man in a shirt and tie stepped in. He closed the door behind him and approached the table.
“I’m Detective Reilly.” He extended his hand, but I didn’t take it.
Glaring up at him, I said, “So are you going to tell me all the reasons I should be glad my parents did this?”
“No, I’m not.” With that, his facial features softened, blurred, changed. In seconds, I was face-to-face with a blonde woman. Then, her features melted together again, and his male form returned. “Better?”
I relaxed and extended my hand. “Sorry about that,” I said quietly as we shook hands.
“Don’t worry about it.” He took the seat the other cop had occupied. “I’m sorry about Officer Daly. I could have picked a dozen or so officers better suited for this than that cretin. The desk usually assigns me to any cases involving shifters, but . . .” He made a flippant gesture and muttered something under his breath. “Anyway.” He picked up the forms I’d been discussing with the officer. “Now, I know this is difficult, but start at the beginning and tell me everything you told Officer Daly.”
“It’s all on the statement.”
“Oh, you already filled it in.” He read it over quickly. “All right, to make sure I have this straight . . .” He skimmed the statement again. “They slipped you a drug? Do you have any idea what it was?”
I shook my head. “Not a clue. I’m guessing it was something in my drink.”
“And once you were mildly sedated from that, someone injected you with something else?”
“I think so.” I wasn’t even a hundred percent sure who’d given me the injection. I thought it was the pastor, but couldn’t be certain. Shaking my head again, I added, “It’s a little hazy.”
“Do you remember anything between the drugs kicking in and when you fully awoke? Any periods of semiconsciousness?”
My mouth went dry. There were memories, albeit fragmented ones.
Moving. Or rather, being moved. Something cold on my back. Voices. Hands. Was someone chanting? Praying? I only caught the low, repetitive murmur, but couldn’t make out the words. Opening my eyes, I couldn’t focus on anything. Anyone. “Hold him absolutely still.” Pressure on the back of my neck. Someone pulling my head down and my knees up. Sharp pain in the middle of my spine. Burning. Numb. “Candace, go in the other room.” Oh, God, no, don’t let her see this. Disoriented. Lost. Can’t breathe. “Don’t let him move at all.”
“Mr. Nichols?”
Detective Reilly’s voice startled me.
“Sorry.” I moistened my dry lips. “It’s all pretty vague. I don’t remember much.” What I did remember, though, I’d relived in all its terrifying, disoriented glory every time I’d tried to sleep.
“Were you forced to sign anything?” he asked. “A consent form, anything like that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
His lips tightened. “If there’s a consent form with your signature on it, that could give the defense some leverage, but they’d also have to show that it was performed in a proper medical environment.” He absently ran his thumb back and forth along the edge of his jaw. “What I don’t get is why they didn’t make any effort to cover their tracks. Your parents have to know you’re well aware that they were behind this. They had to know it would come back on them.”
“They did. This will make them martyrs.” I pursed my lips. “That’s one reason I hesitated to even file the report. Nothing will make them think they’re in the wrong on this. In fact, they’ll see it as persecution, and it’ll just make them feel more justified.”
Reilly wrinkled his nose. “So there’s no reasoning with them at all.”
“None. And hopefully prosecuting them won’t encourage other people to do the same thing.”
“I think more would be encouraged if you let this slide and didn’t press charges.”
“Good point.”
“I’ll get on the phone with the district attorney as soon as we’re done here. Obtaining an arrest warrant won’t take much.” He rested his elbow on top of the report and thumbed his chin. “We may need to have you undergo a psychiatric evaluation, just to cover our bases.”<
br />
I pressed my lips together. “Any chance of getting someone who’s sympathetic toward us?”
“Absolutely,” he said with a nod. “The department has two shrinks on the payroll, and they’re both fantastic. I’ve been to one in particular a few times myself.”
“And what about the DA? Will he actually pursue this?”
“Yes, he’s been an advocate for us for years.” Detective Reilly shuffled some of the pages around. “There was another case like this a year or so ago, and he pushed to have everyone involved go down for the maximum charges.”
“Speaking of which, how long would they . . . my parents . . . if they’re convicted . . .”
“How long would they go to jail?”
I nodded, ignoring the prickle of the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.
“Depends on the charges. When all’s said and done, even if the judge hands down a long sentence, they’ll serve a few years, at most. It’s not murder, and unless they have criminal backgrounds . . .” He raised his eyebrows. I shook my head. He went on. “Then they won’t be going away for life or anything.”
“What will happen to my sister?”
“That’s up to social services. How old?”
“Sixteen and a few months.”
“Any relatives in the area?”
“Not in this state, no.”
“What about your father?” He looked at his file. “You said your stepfather was involved in—”
“My father’s dead.”
Reilly acknowledged my answer with a subtle nod. “In that case, she’ll most likely end up in foster care, at least temporarily.”
I exhaled. “Fuck, I don’t want to uproot her like that.”
“Well, like I said, I’ll talk to social services. If there are relatives who are willing and able to take her in, we might be able to keep her from spending much time in the foster system.” He tilted his head slightly. “Legally, you can petition for custody as well.”
Guilt burned in my gut. My sister already hated me thanks to our parents, and I couldn’t imagine it would help matters if she was forced to live with me.
“I’ll get you the numbers for some relatives in California,” I whispered. “Please let me know what I can do to help. I don’t want her staying in foster care, but I don’t think I could take her in myself.”
“I’ll help you however I can.” He paused. “You’re doing the right thing here, Alex.”
“I hope so.”
After a little more paperwork, a promise to call when my parents were arrested, and a handshake, he showed me out of the station.
Outside, I paused on the steps. I couldn’t believe I’d just gotten the ball rolling to have my own parents put in jail. I wanted nothing to do with them, but they’d instilled in me a deep-seated belief about parents as authority figures, even when I was an adult. They were masters at guilt and manipulation, and it was a wonder I’d resisted the implant this long. Having them arrested? That went against everything they’d ever tried to drill into my head.
But it was done. The gears were turning.
Please forgive me, Candy.
I took a deep breath. There was nothing more I could do here, so it was on to the neurosurgeon to see about removing this thing from my spine and getting my life back.
All day at work, I was on pins and needles about Alex’s appointment with the neurosurgeon. Words and numbers on reports, screens, and whiteboards ran together. I barely heard a word of marketing’s presentation in the morning, and I was a fidgeting, pen-tapping wreck in the afternoon staff meeting. Whenever I could, I holed up in my office and obsessively refreshed my email in case he’d sent an update.
About an hour before quitting time, someone knocked on my office door.
“It’s open.” When the door opened, I looked up.
“Hey, hon.” Jordan shut the door behind her. “How goes it?”
I leaned back in my chair and laced my fingers together behind my head. “It goes. What’s up?”
“Nothing really. Just wanted to stop by and ask how things are going with Alex.”
“It’s better. We talked last night. I think we’re on the same page now. As much as we can be, anyway.”
“Well, good. Has he had any luck getting the implant taken out?”
“He had an appointment today.”
“And?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know yet. He hasn’t called. But I’m on my way over there after work.”
“Things going okay between you? As far as your relationship?”
“As good as they can be, I guess.” I took a breath. “It’s so weird. A few days ago, I was frustrated because she refused to discuss the idea of getting married, and now . . . now I have no idea what’s going to happen. We’re taking things a day at a time. This isn’t going to be easy, that’s for sure.”
Jordan shook her head. “I don’t think anyone expects it to be. It never is when a shifter has to come out to a partner.”
I sighed. “It’s so weird, this whole situation. I mean, last night, I kept looking at him and trying to see her. And once in a while, she was there. But other times, she wasn’t. And most of the time, I don’t know who I’m looking at.”
“That’s because you’re not looking for Alex, you’re looking for a woman.” Jordan folded her arms across her chest. “When he’s in that form, Damon, he’s a man. He’s not cross-dressing, he’s not pretending, he is a man. But he’s still Alex. What you need to do is stop looking for the woman you knew. Just look for the person.”
“Yeah, I know.” I stared at my desk instead of looking at her. “I’m still not sure how to feel about this.”
“About this?” she asked. “Or about him?”
I forced myself to make eye contact with her. “Both, I guess. And as far as our relationship . . . the physical side . . . I . . .” Even after Alex had suggested putting that part on hold, I still felt guilty about it.
“I understand. We talked about this. You can’t force attraction to anyone. Sexuality is what it is. But remember when you’re talking to him, Damon, he is still the person you fell in love with. Male or female, static or shifter, Alex is still Alex.”
I nodded. Deep down, I knew Alex was still the same person, but when I looked at him, I saw a stranger. A male stranger. How the hell did I reconcile this in my mind?
“Well,” I said. “Hopefully he’ll have the implant out soon, and this will be a moot point.”
“Except Alex will still be a shifter.”
“We’ll deal with that when we get there. Maybe it’ll be easier once she’s . . .” I trailed off. There was no way to word it without sounding like a jackass. “Once he doesn’t have to worry about the implant.”
Jordan shot me a knowing look. “Maybe. Well, good luck. And don’t forget what I said.”
“I won’t. Thanks.”
As soon as I was off the clock, I hurried out of the office and went straight to Alex’s place. Since he was expecting me, I keyed myself in as I often did, but the second I came through the front door, my heart dropped.
Two empty beer bottles sat on the coffee table. A third was in his hand, pressed against his forehead. His eyes were closed, his lips pressed tightly together. I knew that posture—and alcohol consumption—all too well.
Oh, shit. “What happened?”
Alex didn’t look up and didn’t answer.
My gut tied itself into knots as I sat on the couch beside him. “What did the surgeon say?”
“The short answer?” He stared at the floor, eyes red and distant. “I’m pretty well fucked.”
The knots wound tighter. “In what way?”
“The surgery is extremely risky and invasive.” His voice was slurred enough to make me suspect there were more empty bottles in the kitchen. “And there’s a possibility the implant itself is a time bomb. Some of the ones on the black market aren’t reliable. They can break down, and by the time any symptoms show, the damage is done.”
“What kind of damage can they do?” My heart sped up and my stomach wound itself even tighter. “I mean, how bad?”
“Nerve damage. Paralysis.” He paused. “Death.” He pulled the bottle away from his forehead and took a long drink. “And if it doesn’t interfere with nerves in the spinal cord, certain types of unapproved implants have this nasty habit of being extremely carcinogenic.”
“Christ,” was the only word I could get past my lips. The knot in my gut turned into a sick feeling. As worried as I’d been about the ramifications of all of this, it hadn’t dawned on me that this could kill him.
God, please don’t let me lose him . . .
Alex took another drink. “The good news is I dodged one bullet. Apparently the ER doc was right. When this procedure is done on the black market like mine was, it’s not unusual for it to get infected, which is really bad when you’re dealing with the spinal cord. Oh, and there’s that whole paralysis thing. And death. Can’t fucking forget death.”
I gulped. “And you’re . . . out of the woods for those?”
He nodded. “Most of it. Probably in the clear for an infection, and if the procedure itself was going to kill me or paralyze me, it would have happened before the drugs wore off.” He clicked his tongue. “Oh, yeah, and without an experienced anesth—anesthesia . . . someone who knows how to knock me out. Without one of those on hand to make sure the dosages were correct and monitor vitals, I could have had a potentially lethal reaction to the drugs. I guess that isn’t all that uncommon.” Lifting the bottle to his lips again, he muttered, “Lucky me.”
My mouth went dry. It was one thing to worry that our relationship might not survive this. It was another thing entirely to worry that he might not. “So, what now?”
“Now I go to a specialist who pretty much only deals with these implant things and see if he has better news.” He gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “Not holding my breath, though.”
“What is this thing, anyway? How does it work?”
“Interferes with the neuro . . . neuro—” He paused, the alcohol no doubt making the words difficult to enunciate. “The neurological impulse that triggers a shift. The electrical impulses, I guess.” Some unspoken thought held his attention for a moment. Then he shuddered, rolling his shoulders. He gestured with his beer bottle again and as he brought it up to his lips, he said, “Something like that anyway. The doctor lost me when he got into some of the neurosurgeon-speak.”