He urges me to try it. By now I don’t have a problem undressing in front of a packmate, although I secretly wonder if things would be any different should Rowan decide to choose me as more than just a colleague. The thought sends my heart racing, and I can’t hold anything else in my mind. I go fully bass, my wolf form suddenly feeling out of place in another person’s territory. I try to summon in my mind the lowest frequency I have ever heard– contrabassoon! Lowest keys on a Bösendorfer piano! I try to curl my tail and shorten my teeth, but I can’t manage to go beyond a lupine body. It seems that I am useless in the wake of my fantasy about Rowan.
Finally I sigh in frustration. “I don’t get it. How is this supposed to be beyond the quintessential essence of wolf? I didn’t sign up for all of this training to come across as a harmless doggie!”
Teddy is serious for once. “Don’t be a speciesist. Dog shifters have been around since their domesticity to help restore order. I’m sure you’ve heard of François ‘Papa Doc’ Duvalier, yes?”
“Dictator of Haiti, and a pretty sick fuck, from what I’ve read,” I reply, slowly donning my clothes. “He died before I was born, but every now and then, something comes up in the papers about him, or about his son. What does this have to do with shape-shifting dogs?”
“Yeah, he was a pretty sinister fellow. He was also a voodooist. Not to knock the voodoo around here in New Orleans, but this guy was a paranoid voodooist. At one point he was out of commission from a heart attack and had a man named Clémont Barbot hold down the fort for him. He later began to believe that Barbot had transformed himself into a black dog and was planning to supplant his position. So the nutjob ordered all black dogs in Haiti to be killed. Shifters today still wonder if Barbot was a shifter too. But no one will ever know the answer, because Barbot was eventually killed under Papa Doc’s orders. It’s a shame; Barbot might have prevented countless executions and tortures. We can only hope that whatever is threatening the shifters now doesn’t involve a megalomaniac dictator.”
On that note Teddy restores some levity to our vibe with a juicy belch. We swap a few sick jokes and hang out until it’s time for me to wander back to the brewhouse and set up. Plus Teddy has some especially juicy gossip for me about The Maestro. Apparently the Dude was stupid enough to attend a recent costume party dressed as a Nazi soldier. He had tried to drive home intoxicated, crashed his car into a telephone pole in a “bad neighborhood,” and was thrown into Orleans Parish Prison central lockup near Broad Street—still dressed as a Nazi, of course. The fact that he chose to call Teddy to bail him out is a sad testimonial to how badly he must have alienated himself from the rest of society.
Teddy is grinning so wickedly, I know there’s even more to the story. “I ended up getting all of his identity information, which revealed that not only is he much older than he claims to be …” He pauses for dramatic effect. “But also his real first name is Yngschwie!” He pronounces it “ING-shway.”
I don’t believe what I’m hearing. “No!” I shove his shoulder hard. “You’re making this up! That’s just Pig Latin for ‘schwing’!”
He shakes his head, clapping in wicked merriment. “Nope! I could never make this shit up. See, this is what happens when you name your kids something that can’t be found on the little license plates for their bikes. It makes a person grown up bitter and douchey!”
“It’s funny,” I muse aloud. “It seems that a great many musicians might also be shifters, but I get the feeling that Yngschwie Holstein isn’t one of them.”
Teddy gives me a penetrating look. “Gee, ya think? If he has any animal trait at all, it’s that of a one-trick pony.” He snorts derisively. “And one-trick ponies, musical or otherwise, are seldom shifters. Chances are that if a person can’t reinvent himself, he probably can’t convert his physical body structure either.”
Before I leave, he gives me the parting gift of alternate lyrics to Duke Ellington’s “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore,” a staple on casual jazz gigs:
Missed the toilet last night (dunnnn dun, da-dun)
Shit all over the floor (dunnnn dun, da-dun)
Cleaned it up with my toothbrush
Don’t brush my teeth much anymore!
On today’s gig I am of The Unseen. This is an easy happy hour gig. Most of these folks who are in regular rotation are University of New Orleans music majors, with the exception of Ronnie Twigg, the piano player. The only constant member is the bass player, but he’s been missing for a week and the band needs a sub. No one has any idea why he’s suddenly vanished, and I certainly can’t chime in with my own chilling theory.
I don’t play jazz all the time, but I’ve brought along my doorstop-sized Real Book, the Bible of jazz fakebooks. We are more or less musical wallpaper at the brewhouse this afternoon. The diners do not notice us, but we are nonetheless what make their patronage special. A stronger energy, a real, raw energy that canned music does not convey. We imprint our vibes into them. Some will cherish the experience and we will be indelibly entwined in their subconscious memories. Some will drink too much and eventually become aggressive. We only help to bring out their true natures. What they decide to do beyond that is up to them.
Only one person seems determined to try some one-upmanship with us: a beady-eyed man with slicked back hair and too many teeth in his mouth when he smiles. His expensive suit and clean-cut looks do nothing to cover up for the loose cannon he seems to be underneath his swanky veneer. He never throws so much as a dime into our tip jar, but he makes certain that we see him drop in his business card. Every time we are about to go into a song, he steps up to the stage and tries to cut us off with some saga of his self-importance. The horns drown out his efforts to rope us into some sort of deal with his business in Indonesia. I can’t for the life of me figure out why, but it’s easier to just ignore him. “I can get you guys a gig in front of someone very important,” he croons, which reminds me of Cal. A shudder seizes my spine, but I keep playing and don’t respond. Finally he glowers at us. “What’s wrong with you people? Don’t you know who I am?”
I snicker, “Sir, if you don’t even remember your own name, I’m afraid I can’t help you there!” The guitarist cracks up, saluting me with high fives and fist bumps. Twigg folds himself over his keyboard like a praying mantis at a typewriter, and the drummer gives me a well-timed rimshot. The heckler’s obvious failure to unseat us radiates off of his body in palpable angry waves. Just as my suspicions are raised that he might have been trying to flush out some information about us, he dissipates into the background like a wisp of smoke. I later tuck the card away into my gig bag in case he has anything to do with this war on shifters, making a mental note of the tiny angel silhouette and the name of the business: Chimera Enterprises.
I reflect intensely on this power struggle afterward as I pack away my bass and stow the restaurant’s amp into its equipment closet. I realize that the wolves of the music scene—or simply musicians who fight back—are important for maintaining a natural balance. Perhaps it means that fewer drinkers are in the respective venue as a result, but we bring down only the sick-minded and weak of spirit: those who feel the need to harass an entertainer. Thinning the herd makes for a stronger, more appreciative audience, in which only the most intelligent listeners survive.
I want to find something to do with a pal, but everyone I know is on a gig … or recording. Realization snuffs out my smug amusement. That sickening feeling in my gut at the thought of that goddess Aydan possibly making love with Rowan right this very moment is more than I can bear, and I can’t face my pack-mates in this state. I suddenly and urgently need a painkiller before I go insane.
So once again I track down Yohan, who is in the middle of showing off a picture of some woman to his friends. It doesn’t take him long to figure out what I want. He drives me to his pad on Esplanade, in a house not too far from where Cat People was filmed.
He takes me more brutally this time, pushing my face down into the bed with surpris
ing force, teeth clamping down on my shoulder, clawlike fingers digging into my hips. The human must remain in control, lectures my instinct. No matter what, do not bite him back. This is not the time to let things get complicated, and nothing could get more complicated with a lover than inadvertently turning him into a werewolf. I welcome the pain, determined to let it take my mind off of Rowan, Aydan, and my career.
The exhaustion of the long day—trying to go contrabass at Teddy’s, playing a gig, and dealing with a shady businessman—forces me into an uneasy slumber in spite of Yohan’s jackhammer snoring. In fits and starts, I dream a jumble of gigs, assorted people from over the years all amalgamated into one confusing show. And in every corner I see Sand’s scornful glare and my pack is always lost somewhere in the crowd. Then something wipes my confusion clean and starts fresh, and I am suddenly in an ancient temple with Rowan. We are making love on a silk palette. The overwhelming feeling of rightness, of goodness and completion moves me to tears and my heart thumps me awake.
My eyes dart wildly around the room. The smell of old nicotine on Yohan floods back into my waking consciousness, and the week-old dishes in the sink reek of rotten food and avoidance. His snoring becomes even more dissonant. I take in the pinup girls smirking down on me from his walls, clearly offended by my mediocrity. The assorted pictures of him posing with various male comrades are fading, but one photo remains pristine: a beautiful red haired woman in a spotless, elegant picture frame. Clearly the one he wants to be with; his ex, I gather from stories he’s told me. Or maybe they never really broke up. Realization slaps me hard. I have never been anything in my adult dating life but someone’s consolation prize, backup plan, painkiller, comic relief, or a plaything to be eventually discarded. And here again I have allowed it, even sought it out.
With a subconscious swish, one more picture slips to the floor in an afterthought. This is clearly some cosmic invitation to pick it back up and examine it, so of course I take my cue to slip out of bed and pick it up … and turn to a solid icicle. It’s Yohan sitting at a bar somewhere next to Calvin Quinn. There’s no evidence that they are engaged in conversation, but the mere proximity marks Yohan as a traitor in my mind.
How recent is this picture? every neuron screams in my head.
Yohan stirs, drowsily calling, “Is everything okay, baby?”
Long-suppressed anger hits me in a lunatic flood. “No,” I snarl. “I am clearly wasting my time. What am I, your bronze medal? Do you take me for some stupid little bitch? Goodbye, and have a nice life!” My clothes are on in a flash, my gig bag is strapped to my back, and I slam the door on my way out, hearing his sleepy bewilderment, “Baby … baby, what did I do?”
Rage replaces base terror as I storm off into the sweltering gloom. It’s somewhere between midnight and pre-dawn, and there isn’t a soul on the street. This is an extremely dangerous time to be wandering the Quarter. But between the crushing self-loathing, my roiling anger at Yohan and Cal, and my trusty police baton in hand, I simply do not care. If there are any predators about picking up on my scent, they are probably also picking up on my insanity and steer clear of me. Twenty blocks later I reach my car with a clearer head and the realization of how stupid I was to walk at this hour, and how crazy I must have appeared to Yohan. I drive calmly home and fall asleep with a vengeance.
“So what would be the repercussions of being a little husky?” I ask Rowan. We’re back at the studio, and I wonder for the umpteenth time why I am never permitted to meet him at his house. I had given him the suspicious Chimera Enterprises card, which he studied with a long frown before tucking it with a strange precision into his wallet. Now am curious to hear his feelings on Teddy’s contrabass phase.
He either doesn’t follow me or is trying to be funny. “Your voice will sound strained, especially if it’s not natural for you to sing that way.”
“No, I mean that trick that Teddy does that makes his wolf form appear like a big, cuddly husky dog. Could we effectively go out in broad daylight and get the scoop on whoever is after us?” I sit down on the control room couch and make a concerted effort not to wince from my fresh bruises.
Rowan twists his mouth to the side. “I’ve been thinking about it. It would make us go unnoticed by humans who can’t detect a shifter’s ward. But something in my gut tells me to hold back on this until we get more information on who our nemesis is.” His gaze hardens as he locks eyes with me in a power play. “You’re struggling with something. We need to work on shielding some more. But first, maybe you’d like to tell me what’s bothering you?” It’s a command, not a question.
I am trying not to let my unbearable tension show. My meltdown with Yohan has rendered me vulnerable, and I am praying that his scent no longer clings to me. It doesn’t help that Rowan looks exceptionally good today. He appears to have gotten a haircut that accentuates his widow’s peak, and he’s wearing his blue Mesa Boogie grease monkey shirt that I love so much on him.
The abrupt clammering of the studio phone rings hacks my thoughts in two. I suspect that even without lycan senses I would be able to hear the conversation just as clearly, the caller is speaking so loudly. He demands, “How much it is to make a song?” With his usual patience, Rowan explains that it is a certain rate per hour, so the price is entirely dependent on how long the artist takes to record.
“Well, I wanna come in right now!” Rowan tells the man that he is booked up until next Thursday, which might even be true.
“Well then, fuck yo studio!” The guy hangs up.
Before I can even see Rowan’s face, I burst out laughing. His low growl only feeds my hysteria. I don’t even care whether or not he is pissed off right now; I simply can’t control myself. My love for him and the feelings I can’t express collide in the classic mishmash of nerves, where one has no choice but to either laugh or cry. The expression on his face of exasperated concern only makes me laugh harder, and the harder I try to calm down, the worse it gets. Helpless tears are now streaming down my face.
“I think you need to go home and get some rest,” he finally tells me, and my giggles slam to a halt. My blood instantly freezes in place. Panic reaches into my ribcage and gives my heart a little squeeze. He’s rejecting me. I grab my keys and head for the door without even saying goodbye. The sky is darkening overhead, portending a gargantuan summer storm.
I drive home in shock, whispering, “Fuck yo studio,” to myself. As soon as I get inside I ward, go tenor, and slash at my shower curtain. The rod falls down with the first swipe of my claw. I let the beast out then and proceed to tear the whole thing to ribbons. The curtain is Cal, it’s Gabriel, it’s Aydan, and it’s the incessant douchebags that make my job miserable. It’s my own weakness; it’s my own stupidity. The vinyl yields easily to my sharp claws as I snarl, tear, and channel my hysteria and self-loathing into the object. The scent of vinyl, bathroom cleaner, mildew, and rage fills my nostrils. If this is insanity, it’s not nearly as colorful as everyone makes it out to be. The tatters become confetti as I shred the ribbons with my fangs. At last nothing remains and I roll in the pieces, the curtain rod a discarded bare bone. I finally exhale and return to soprano form, rising to two legs, covered in scraps and shocked at the damage as my last bit of human nature clicks into place. Did I really do this? I am left with a clear head, a huge mess to clean up, and the grave need for a new shower curtain.
Stein Mart is just a mile down the road from my apartment, so I march to my destination, trying to grind gravel and cement into sand beneath my feet. I almost choose a nice curtain that I won’t be tempted to shred again—a blend of polyester and vinyl with a Zenlike bamboo print. Then I think better of it and get the cheapest one in the store, just in case I need to let the beast out again someday.
On my walk home the rain begins to kick in: little teasing drops playing cat and mouse with the city, an opening number for what is to come. I get inside before the worst of it hits, remembering that it is now hurricane season. Bring it on, bitch! I challe
nge the powers-that-be. A floor-rattling thunderclap answers my thoughts, and I unplug my computer. Stripping out of my wet clothes and tossing my new purchase into the sink for the time being, I dry myself off, light a few candles, slip into full wolf form, and snarl myself into an uneasy, fitful sleep.
On the following gig at La Balcone, I try to keep my game face on. I have no idea who Naj is going to be at any given time: the sweet chanteuse or the unpredictable train wreck. This steady gig has officially become drudgery, and I am always exhausted and drained after each show. I’ve started to no longer care about my appearance on stage, reverting back to my jeans and t-shirts. My posture has gotten terrible and I keep catching myself slouching, as though trying to protect my heart. I can’t even focus my intention into my playing anymore, instead just going through the motions like the zombies I so revile. I was better off on Bourbon Street, which is saying a lot. John Milton and Dante Alighieri may have made terrifying portrayals of what hell might be like, but neither of them ever had to play on Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras. And this gig is getting to be even worse than that.
Naj knows that there’s something wrong. Shielded and warded, I still can’t keep the trouble out of my eyes. I am still able to maintain my usual verbal deflections toward hecklers. Even though I use passive aggression and humor to try to keep the rest of the audience at ease, some of these attention-seekers are cross with me for not being able to play their game and sulk out of La Balcone. I wish I could get away with using some of the more outrageous comebacks that Teddy uses (such as Why don’t you just shit on your fist and then punch yourself in the face?). But I know that even in these changing times of equal rights, most people are not prepared to see a woman get so ballsy, so I sacrifice my true sentiments in the name of the audience’s comfort level.
Lydia is barely within my line of peripheral vision as usual, but Sand is especially venomous today. She hisses at me to stay in the pocket, even though I am trying valiantly to lock into her fluctuating tempo as best as I can, even watching her foot so that I can try to anticipate her bass drum pedal. I try to get behind the beat with her on Yes, We Can Can. Then a straight walking bass shuffle is up next. I lean behind, listening for the cymbal snap, but even that is a bit unpredictable. I am a bass player, not a diplomat. Even so, she is so ostensibly upset I try to break the tension throughout the gig with forced smiles.
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