The Wild Harmonic

by Beth W. Patterson

  Rowan steps up to the vocal microphone to deliver his warning. His voice is not that of a lead singer, but it carries authority and power, and when he sings, people listen.

  Madwoman, self-coronated

  On her brow a crown of schemes

  Forces tribute without merit

  From her throne of stolen dreams

  Cult of traitors seeks her mercy

  Begging at her feet for scraps

  She will slay them all and sundry

  Where her kingdom overlaps

  We herald the end of this top-secret era

  Beware of the woman they call the Chimera!

  The story continues to unfold in lyrics about what the SIN has finally discovered: a woman of multiple aliases known as the Chimera, and a shifter herself. A rarity that could shift into not one animal form but several, she began to fancy herself some new messiah. She began a cult some years ago, brainwashing her first followers by denying them food, sleep, and autonomy until they began to develop what is known as Stockholm Syndrome, the dysfunctional need for a victim to protect his captor. Now she usurps the animal form of every shifter she overtakes, growing more powerful, more deadly, and more insane. She can tell creation to unmake itself… The unfolding truth I hear makes me quiver, and I grit my teeth, determined to add my strength to this broadcast.

  We cannot turn corporeally onstage of course, if only because none of us can play our instruments without long fingers and opposable thumbs. But we converge in bass form on the astral plane, a network of energies, a collective consciousness. Now our message is amplified beyond the range of hearing.

  Down below my hands are working expertly. But my extended self is running with the rest of the pack. We touch souls and stand as one. Five people, five digits together, combined to make one strong fist held high in defiance. I gaze out into the audience. As above, so below. They cluster bodily around the stage, their animal forms dancing high above with us on the astral plane.

  Gradually others trickle onto the stage to join in: Lydia with her trombone, Aydan with her bağlama, and even Tim on his clarinet. Then the floodgates open and more musicians swarm us, adding their voices. I know most of these people, and love a great many of them, even though I didn’t realize they were shifters. I am incredulous, for among them I see members of The Round Pegs, Descendientes, The Tomb of Nick Cage, Delta Funk, and a dozen other staple bands of New Orleans. Even Father O’Flaherty is lending his sweet tenor voice, making his way onto the stage like a great waltzing bear. My heart is tight with emotion: gratitude for my allies, overwhelm at the staggering number of shape-shifters who dominate the music scene, and angry resolve toward these unknown adversaries. They strengthen the message, and in one unified crescendo we launch our signal.

  Our collective message is sent, spreading outward in concentric waves. A moment later I feel an echo of response in my gut and running strongly up and down my spine. I can sense that everyone else feels it too: the other musicians, the audience, the staff and the technicians. We are read loudly and clearly.

  I don’t know how long the song lasts—twenty minutes or an hour mean nothing to me. I only know that it reaches a blissful peak and we all end together on Rowan’s cue, letting the sound and the message resonate for a second before the wild cheers set in.

  My pack is elated. They are all clustered around me, hugging me. Sylvia presses her cheek to mine, crooning, “You did it, Buzz! It was your strong survivor spirit, stronger than the rest of us combined. You were the flame that ignited the warning fires, that launched our signal when you played through the poison, and you converted our message into waves. Like Saint Francis, you transformed and freed yourself.”

  We did it. We did it together. I am drunk on raw emotion: relief, pain, love, and a dozen other vibrations that I can’t even identify right now.

  I feel even more responses coming back at us from all over creation. The message is viral now. My whole body resonates like a violin.

  *One*

  CHAPTER

  10

  CODA

  “Well, you are doubtlessly the darling of the pack!” exclaims Sylvia blithely. She brings me another cup of coffee from the barista. We are sitting at a table in CC’s Coffee on Magazine Street, not far from my apartment. “See, I told you the bra would help!” she teases.

  I sip my coffee and grin foolishly. While I don’t doubt that an inflated sense of pride is a sin, it’s probably innocuous enough to be happy with one’s accomplishment, especially when it involves possible salvation of all blended beings. My spoon slips and dings against my saucer in a perfect C sharp. My pitch is back! Thank the gods!

  “One more thing,” my black-clad confidante says tentatively. “I’ve been curious about something. Now that you have survived two types of toxins that are harmful to lycans, I’ve been curious to see if something I once read is true. Hold out your hand.”

  I extend my palm trustingly, but wince as I see her withdraw a small velvet pouch from her pocket. She gingerly grabs the silver rosary with a small cloth, keeping it away from her own skin and pours the object into my open hand before I have a chance to object. And nothing happens. Whatever fusion took place in my system as the toxins were mixed then expelled, I am now immune to silver. This is fantastic. It’s one more way I can go undetected as a lycan if I am wearing some sort of bling that is obviously silver. I play idly with the rosary in wonder.

  “So what happens now?” I ask.

  “So it appears that someone is going home to Turkey for a spell; in fact her taxi should be pulling up at the airport soon. She says her visa has expired, but she plans to come back. And she has news … for you.”

  “News?” My heart suddenly pounds, and I cannot touch another drop of coffee. “Sylvia, what is it?”

  She sighs. “You know I have to hold confidentiality sacrosanct. Let’s just say that I have a feeling that there is something she would like to tell you ….”

  I bolt for the coffee shop door, nearly leaving my car keys behind me on the table in my mad dash.

  My car screeches to a halt in front of the curbside kiosk where Aydan is waiting in line to check in. She smiles sadly. I can tell she’s been expecting me.

  She is as gracious as always. “Birch! I am glad that you came to tell me goodbye. I have had such a great experience playing here and learning so much. The people are amazing, and the food…!” She forces a smile. I don’t know what she’s working up toward, but I feel as though I am about to have a heart attack.

  “And Rowan was such an amazing engineer and producer. I can’t wait to play this Sufi-funk fusion CD for my friends at the conservatory back home. Rowan really made it come to life in a way that only a lycan can.”

  She drops her bags and lets her hands fall to her sides. “Look, I didn’t just come over here for the music. Last year my brother was abducted, and my family believes that it was connected to the attacks on shifters everywhere. My brother Kemal is a fine percussionist, and played with Rowan years ago. So I thought that Rowan could help us, since he is one of the top musical Alpha lycans … Rowan and Sylvia were sworn to secrecy about this, but I think things would have been easier if I had told you as well.”

  I wish she would just get to the bloody point. Her eyes drop to the ground as she says slowly, “You do know, don’t you, that werewolves mate for life?”

  I still don’t understand, but I nod miserably. I don’t want to think about this. I can’t endure thinking of him with someone else, especially with this exquisite creature that I can never hope to be. I can barely contain myself. “What’s your point?” I spit in a fit of impatience.

  The whine of a jet overhead sends us both cringing, hands over our sensitive ears. When the noise subsides, she turns to face me again, ignoring the impatient grumbles of the people in line behind her.

  She gently lifts my chin with her hand, forcing me to look her in the eye. “Don’t you think that a werewolf would have to be extremely careful choosing a companion?
Especially one descended from a long line of Alphas?”

  I still don’t get it. My vision is blurred with tears again.

  She sighs. “He’s had to hold out for so long to make certain that the timing is right and that his judgment is accurate. Birch, he loves YOU.”

  I stare dumbly at her. The words don’t register.

  She drops her eyes. “I never stood a chance with him. Just as we are trained to pick up frequencies, I knew from day one that you two had a special resonance.”

  I refuse to let myself be flooded with hope. Or I try, anyway. Maybe I just desperately want this to be true.

  “It’s not your looks, or even your musicianship, although you should be happy with both. It’s your untamed spirit. I envy this about you.” This surrealistically beautiful woman, this genius musician, envies me?

  “But Buzz—may I call you Buzz? You are already a very pretty woman. Strip away another layer or two of the poison you’ve been infected with over the years. It’s still warping your self-esteem, and it’s going to hold you back on your musical journey unless you learn to love yourself. Be well. Perhaps we will play together somewhere down the road.” A car horn blares, urging me to either unload something or move on. I glance in the reflection of the window and for once decide that I can live with what I see.

  Without another word, Aydan rolls her baggage to the skycap. I slip back into my car and head back into the city, astonished.

  I still hate her a little.

  I don’t know how I know that he’s parked outside my house. I also don’t know how I manage to get there from the airport so fast without getting a speeding ticket.

  He’s waiting for me by his truck, eyes hidden by shades, expression unreadable. I am led by blind faith, but as my legs automatically carry me toward him, we simultaneously reach for each other. And the next thing I know, our arms are around each other, mouths are pressed together, passionately but tenderly … more like some sort of long-forgotten homecoming.

  I can no longer maintain my cool. Tears blur my vision, and my hands refuse to quit shaking. All I can do is whisper, “Wow …” I feel as though all of the oxygen was momentarily sucked out of the atmosphere.

  Something is different, new. Then I realize that Rowan is neither shielded nor warded in any way. He has completely let his guard down around me. For the first time I smell affection and desire on him. I am utterly dizzy with incredulity as he pushes back his shades. His expression is still unreadable, but his eyes are kind. And when he speaks, I hear a completely different tone of voice—feather-light and intimate.

  “Do you want to go inside?”

  And somehow we are now inside my apartment. There is him, and there is me, and there is us. The rest of the world simply does not exist. I have never experienced such completion, not even with the pack.

  His lovemaking is nothing lupine … it’s all so blessedly human. The human within that needs no taming. No shielding. No heightened scents or sounds, no fur or posturing … just bare skin and hands and lips, experiencing everything anew. Foreheads pressed together, faces touching, slowly exploring each other’s bodies. I am so hungry to experience everything at once, but he gently but firmly leads the dance, compelling me to take it slowly and savor it. Some sort of inexplicable telepathy—he knows my yearnings before I can even guide him, and know his. I taste no pheromones, no spices … just a man who is sometimes as vulnerable as I am. Wonder blossoms across his face, and I know in this perfect moment that this is a new height for him as well. Two hearts pounding, gradually slowing and falling into synch with each other. It’s the most powerful transformation I have ever experienced. And then the cycle begins again.

  I had no idea that it could be like this. Awareness explodes in my brain.

  Many hours later, my every nerve is still resonating like vibrating strings. I prop myself up on one elbow and watch him sleeping. I take in the sleek strength of his broad, powerful shoulders, his long black eyelashes fluttering faintly in his dream. His face is youthful in his repose but his breathing is heavy, like that of a world-weary man. His perfect lips, curved into a hint of a smile. His hands, so expert on the fretboard or on my body, now tucked against his chest like a day-old pup. He’s so breathtaking … and he has chosen me. I am still beyond amazed.

  Perhaps he had waited for me this whole time—not to put me to a test as a suitable partner for him, but to allow me to come into my own. This conclusion feels right in my gut. I had to take a path that no one else could do for me. It was so that I may permit myself to be tested by my new world, and overcome every demon even through heartache. By waiting for me, he gave me the chance to build up the strength, skills, and courage to be a true warrior. For the first time in my life, I belong somewhere. And I still have all my bass chops.

  Was my fever dream real? Is he really a holy man? He has certainly performed a miracle just now. Maybe some part of him will never truly be mine, but I can accept that. For now, it is enough.

  Gravity suddenly drags me down like an external force—or perhaps it really is an external force—what do I care, as long as it’s benevolent? I can swear I see Rowan stir in his sleep just enough to make some room for me to snuggle against his warm body. And as I do, my two selves blend into one. I breathe in the scent of my mate, a scent meant for only me. Even in repose, his heartbeat is immensely strong. I nuzzle the back of his neck, drape my arm across his chest, and sigh deeply. As unconsciousness begins to settle over me like a soft blanket, all I hear is the distant echo of two howls, slowly blending into a perfect note …

  *One*

  INTERMISSION

  Story nothing without connection

  Funny nothing without foolishness

  Honor nothing without respect

  Idea nothing without dream

  —NOTE FOUND IN BIRCH’S TIP JAR

  ACT III

  VARIATIONS

  ON A THEME

  “Cage an eagle and it will bite at the wires,

  be they of iron or gold.”

  —HENRIK IBSEN, THE VIKINGS OF HELGELAND

  CHAPTER

  11

  AMBIENCE SYNTHESIS

  It’s been two weeks since we’ve had a pack meeting. I can’t really say that I have noticed. I’ve been too immersed in the joy of once again playing bass without searing pain. Plus Rowan has had me … distracted.

  Back in the Fontainebleau room, I still have to pinch myself from time to time. I feel as if I am living in a dream, a perpetual state of disbelief. But the twinkling in the eyes of my pack assures me that this is no head trip as Rowan gives me a quick kiss on my temple before we take our places. Bliss scurries down my neck as Raúl appears knowledgeable, Sylvia conspiratorial, and Teddy slightly wistful.

  Rowan is all business now, but flashes his white teeth at Raúl. “I believe that someone has an announcement to make,” he says, the velvet pads of his voice carrying his tone perfectly. I am snapped out of my reverie state like a toggle switch.

  Raúl cannot stop beaming. “I asked Lydia to make me the happiest man in the world. And she said that it would take a while for her to get Zildjian to come out with a customized line of cymbals for me …” He doesn’t really finish his joke, but he does a rimshot with his eyes. The air around us has gone completely still. “Seriously, she continued to play dumb until I got down on both knees and asked her point blank to marry me.”

  Sylvia lets out a squeal. Teddy gives him a convivial thump on the back, although his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. I throw my arms around Raúl, but I sense Teddy’s pain, trickling off of him in a slow leak. He still hasn’t let on more about his own heart’s desire, but this double whammy of recent happy developments is definitely taunting him.

  Raúl’s eyes are shining with tears. “Because of her connection with the shifter intelligence network, she has contacted my family! They are so relieved to know that I am alive … and now they will be able to come to the ceremony … I get to see them all again …” His voice br
eaks like a tiny pane of glass and we flood in through the cracks to envelop him in a collective hug, the occasional wordless whine of emotion surfacing from one throat or another.

  Slipping from him one by one at last, we turn back to Rowan, who has commanded us with his silence. We still haven’t heard the details of the insane mastermind behind the shifter attacks, and are anxious to figure out what to do next.

  “I guess it goes without saying that you guys were awesome at the showcase,” he begins. We all fist bump each other, and Teddy gives us polite golf claps. “Now that everyone has rested, it’s time to give you guys an update,” he continues. “Once I was able to put two and two together on this cult and the madwoman behind it, shifter leaders from all over the world began working around the clock to pinpoint her location. There hasn’t been any success with that, but we have still collected some information on her.

  “There are a few reasons why she is called The Chimera. I’m sure that you guys know the original Greek legend of Bellerophon battling the fire-breathing creature with lion, goat, and snake heads.”

  We’ve all heard the myth, but need reminding, so Teddy gives us all a rundown. “The Chimera,” he tells us, “was a lionine beast with a lion’s head, a goat’s head growing out of its back, and a tail that ended in a snake’s head. All three heads could breathe fire; I’d seriously love to know the biological mechanisms behind that! It was the offspring of Typhon and Echidna, which were monsters, although their names sound like afflictions of embarrassing places. Anyway! Bellerophon was ordered by King Iobates to fight the monster from the back of Pegasus, for some seriously fucked-up reasons that I’ll tell you guys another time. Some say that he himself had the idea to use lead weapons, some say that a goddess told him in a dream. He had the height advantage of fighting from the back of Pegasus, but it was the lead that did the Chimera in. He had a lead-tipped spear that he managed to lodge in its throat, but other sources say that he threw a ball of lead down its mouth. In any case, the lead melted into the creature’s stomach, killing it. Personally, I’d rather be tarred and feathered, but The Legend of Teddy Lee remains to be told some other time.”