Mark of the Moon

by Beth Dranoff

  “What’s it look like?” Jun replied. “Do I have a fortune cookie sticking out of my ass?”

  My turn to stare and raise an eyebrow. At least I could do that. Make the most of whatever small bit of movement I could manage.

  Jun ignored my attempt at attitude, opting instead to jump off the bed and pad towards a swinging door I hadn’t realized existed. “Later,” it said, pushing the door open with its head and scooting the rest of its body through without pause.

  * * *

  I stared after the cat so long my vision wavered. No choice. I closed my eyes.

  And noticed that portions of the darkness were lighter than others.

  Huh?

  I opened my eyes and looked around.

  Light, coming from a large window to my right, glinting off the buckles still fastening me to the bed. Edges of white bleeding around heavy, brocade drapes of red velvet trimmed with black sateen cord. I took the leap of faith necessary: it must be day.

  But which day? Which week? Which month, even?

  How long had I been here, wherever here was?

  * * *

  I had another visitor: the first human I’d seen since regaining consciousness. Female. Her straight blond hair was pulled back and pinned into place by matching steel clips that tucked under a starched white cap with candy-cane red stripes. Her outfit could have been part of a matching nurse ensemble or some kind of white latex sex kitten costume. 1950s Doris Day or maybe Sally Field as Gidget or possibly a Tim Burton movie getup replica. The Nightmare Before the Day That Followed That Night. I stifled a giggle, somewhere between reality and hysteria.

  She did the normal medical things nurses do—temperature, blood pressure, listening to my heartbeat and tracking my breath going in and out by watching the rise/fall of my chest. She even took my pulse and made notes of her findings with a number two pencil on what might have been my medical chart.

  “What’s your name?” Conversation of any kind had to be better than this silence.

  “Gwen,” she replied, her smile starching wide.

  “Well hi, Gwen, it’s nice to meet you,” I said, polite, carefully keeping my face blank. I wasn’t sure yet exactly how nice it was to meet her, but I figured I’d try the honey versus the bees approach. “Any idea when I can go home?”

  Oops, wrong thing to say. Her perky veneer dropped momentarily. Blankness, and was that a flicker of hostility I caught before she schooled her face back to cheerful?

  “Soon, soon,” Gwen replied, re-attaching the clipboard to the end of my bed as she avoided my eyes and fixed the sheet on her way out. “Don’t forget, if you need anything, just press the button in your wrist restraint.”

  She pointed to a heretofore-unnoticed button on my right wrist cuff. Nifty. And left me to my thoughts.

  Great. Just what I always wanted. I closed my eyes.

  * * *

  I’m tied down. It’s then and it’s now and it’s happening all over again in my head. So many years ago. “How big you’ve gotten, dear,” he says, coming too close. “What size bra do you wear now?” His questions, his nearness, creeping along my skin like slime. “Tell me, do you masturbate?” The questions, the proximity. Holding my arms behind me in the alleyway, grinding himself into me. I can’t move, I can’t stop him although I know I should.

  Can’t.

  Move.

  The past made present once more.

  My mind feels like it’s about to snap. Sweat beads my upper lip, no pleasure now; nails poking into my palms, fingers curled tightly into fists. But there’s nothing to punch. Nothing I can do but lie here.

  With my emotional buttons, you’d think I’d avoid situations like the one I found myself most recently in with Jon.

  So then, why?

  Titillation perhaps. Confronting my fears. What happened to me before wasn’t my choice but this—whatever I make of it, whatever I take from it—is mine. I reclaim my ability, my right, to decide who does what with my body.

  At least until now.

  As I lie here, powerless to do anything but bite back a scream of frustration.

  No choice. Not right now.

  And so I wait.

  How did I get here? I try to remember. Jon. Friend. Vampire. Also, as I recall, a whiskered man who was clearly on intimate terms with that vampire. Huh. Go figure.

  I did remember ending up at Jon’s place after work. It wasn’t the first time.

  I’ve been a bartender at the Swan Song for about three years now—a pit-stop job that took out an extended lease on my life, even though I still preferred to think of myself as a month-to-month-type employee. I also did a little freelance writing on the side, which was how Jon and I met.

  Goth Libertines, a local magazine covering dark happenings across Southern Ontario, had hired me to do a piece on a local Toronto artist who was rumored to be of the sunlight-deprived variety. All pumped up, I’d dropped by his Parkdale-area gallery on Queen Street West one bright Tuesday afternoon. The black blinds were down and the front door was locked.

  Frustrated, I’d gone next door to grab a cup of coffee—black, one sugar. I asked the blue-haired woman with the clashing caramel-brown, stenciled-in widow’s-peak eyebrows about the cafe’s supposedly mysterious neighbor.

  “Oh him,” she said, motioning at the concrete wall. “He’s an odd one.” She nodded, sagely, unconsciously fondling the small gold-chiseled cross she’d fished out from the crevice of her ample bosom. “Won’t see him before the sun goes down.”

  “Why’s that?” I kept my voice even, neutral with a hint of bored superiority.

  Except that she wasn’t as dumb as she looked.

  “You know,” she said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “he’s one of those.”

  “One of what?” I bit back on my desire to shake the woman.

  “One of those hippie types.” She waved a French-manicured hand, nails like dipped liquid-paper-soaked claws, for emphasis. Or maybe it was to ward off a fruit fly. “You know, the kind that spend all day in bed with other hippie types, doing drugs and,” she lowered her voice to a stage whisper, “all kinds of other immoral activities.”

  Maybe she really was that dumb after all.

  I thanked her for her advice and left the diner. Three hours and twenty minutes until sundown, three hours until my shift started. I’d have to leave a note. Which I did, folding the paper up as neatly as possible and shoving it through the gallery’s mail slot. The prickling-hair sensation of being watched followed me as I walked to my truck.

  I got off work about eight hours later and, on a whim, headed back towards the gallery.

  The usual neighborhood residents—drifters, hookers and dealers—were scattered in and out of the shadows cast by flickering overhead streetlights. Storefronts were a mix of festive colors flanked by dark interiors. Two thirty a.m. on a Wednesday wasn’t a big time for shopping, even in downtown Toronto. I passed blocks of darkened shops.

  Traffic was nonexistent, unless you counted the potential johns trawling for a date. Nobody honked as I eased my truck to a stop across from the gallery.

  The dark drapes were still drawn but I could see yellow highlighting the edges in flickers, as though people were moving around on the other side. I cracked the frost-stiffened window of my truck open. Even from this distance, I could hear music and tinkling glasses and the murmurs of blended conversations.

  A party in the middle of the night in the middle of the week? Was it an after-hours bar? Or could it be a hangout for those who preferred moonlight to sunlight?

  Maybe I should leave.

  My cell phone buzzed, unknown name unknown number flashing on the call display. Very helpful.

  “Hello?”

  “Will you be sitting out there all night or do you plan to come i
n and join the party?” The voice was male: deep, rich, throaty. The drapes were pulled back to frame a man, his head surrounded by what looked like a wavering halo. It was a trick of the lighting; I knew this, consciously. But it still freaked me out. An angelic vampire. Right.

  Even from here, I could see the man was beautiful.

  I’d thought about my shots, calculating the span of time between now and my last booster. Checked to make sure the tattoo (Hebrew for “life”) was still brightly emblazoned on my ankle, even as I touched my right ear to confirm that the tiny Celtic silver cross still dangled from its hoop of matching silver. What can I say—I’m equal opportunity when it comes to religion-based self-protection. One last move to settle the stake in the front pocket of my jacket, the dagger to the right of my tailbone, and one more tucked into the side of my boot.

  “Everything good to go?”

  “Fine.” It may have come out a bit sharper than necessary. Another breath to cover my overreaction. “You are Jon Grizendorfer, the owner of this gallery, right?”

  “Of course I am,” he said with a voice like fingertips trailing through sand. He was waving now. Somehow he made it feel elegant, sexual.

  “Okay.” Forced calmness. I could do this. “Let me park and I’ll be right in.”

  “See you soon.” His voice descended to somewhere just above a whisper, gravelly yet smooth, pebbles on satin.

  “Soon,” I replied automatically, disconnecting the line and tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. I put the truck in gear and did a quick U-turn to park in front of the gallery. Parallel parking had never been so difficult.

  * * *

  I heard a door I couldn’t see swoosh open and then swing shut to my left. The hospital gauze-white curtain beside my bed was pushed aside by a new hand—ebony, fleshy, solid.

  But still not one I recognized. The muscular arm gave way to an equally muscular chest, obscured only vaguely by olive-green scrubs and a white lab coat.

  As the mystery man turned around to close the curtains, bending down to scoop something off a nearby chair, I couldn’t help but check out his ass.

  Nice. Even covered by baggy hospital-wear, it was clear he had no reason to hide it.

  The man turned back again and my reaction time must have been a little slow. His eyes were on mine before I managed to pull them up to meet his, missing the option of feigned indifference by a few seconds. Whoops.

  He grinned.

  “Caught you looking,” he said.

  I shrugged, going for casual. “And?” Oh yeah, I was good. Okay, so as good as you can be while attached to a bed, unable to move anything except for your eyes, eyebrows and mouth, but still. I cocked an eyebrow at him and waited. Patience being a virtue and all that. If it’s a virtue, it must be hard, right?

  Well, something was hard all right. His gaze. Taking me all in.

  Normally, I might be pissed. Strange guy, looking me up and down, and me in no position to do anything about it. Then again, normally I wouldn’t be strapped to a bed, unable to do anything but waggle my eyebrows menacingly.

  Right.

  “So, Dana,” Dr. Not-Yet-Known said. “My name is Anshell Williams, and I’m the resident on call tonight.” He examined my chart, all business now. “Your friend, Jon no-last-name-no-fixed-address, was concerned and brought you in.”

  “Is he here?” Hope, slim, wanting a familiar face in a strange environment. Even if that face was one of a vampire and a casual...friend. Playmate? Lover was a bit much. What was the politically correct term for a fuck buddy these days?

  “No,” Dr. Williams said, gauging my reaction. “But he did send flowers.” He motioned to the dead roses. Ah. Ironic symbolism made clear.

  Plus, daylight. Jon’s absence was becoming increasingly logical.

  “So,” I said, striving to sort through the weirdness. Don’t freak out don’t freak out don’t freak out. “Why am I here? What’s this so-called ‘medical condition’ that requires such extreme treatment in a facility that’s clearly not a government-run operation?”

  Dr. Williams stopped fussing with the tube he’d been playing with. He looked directly at me; I felt a cold stone of fear reach its long, grey fingers around my stomach and squeeze.

  “You may have been scratched by a were-cat,” he said. “So you may also have been exposed to the virus that causes felinthropy. Do you know what that is?”

  I nodded. “It’s what causes a person to turn into a cat. Right?”

  “More or less,” he said. “I see, according to your records, that you’ve been immunized against this through a broad-spectrum therianthropic vaccine you got about eight years ago. It’s possible that what you have is a mild case of the virus and the effects won’t be permanent. But you’re definitely showing symptoms.”

  “Effects?” My mouth strained to form word-shaped sounds. “Symptoms?”

  “Your changes.”

  “Changes.” My lips were numb and I wondered if this was what shock felt like. “I changed?”

  What are the words for a reality that makes no sense?

  * * *

  Apparently, yes, I’d changed. Into something involving fur and whiskers and pointed teeth. Nothing I could control, or even replicate on demand; the restraints there to protect me from myself, and stop me from harming those around me. But I was past the worst of it. Or so Dr. Williams thought. A few more hours of observation and then maybe I could go home.

  There were implications. If the effects wore off I could go back to my normal life. Had this ever happened? No, but there was always a first time. Oh. The medic was making a funny. Ha. So I was stuck like this. A shifter. One of those things I’d been trained to hunt, teachings I’d abandoned when I’d quit the Agency four years ago.

  I didn’t have to do this alone. Anshell Williams said the words without being explicit about details. There were others. Of course—I knew this. But did I want to belong to a club that would only now be interested in having me as a member?

  Too much to process. Williams left me to check on another patient, although I suspected it was more to leave me with my thoughts.

  I did the only thing I could. Closed my eyes and let my mind drift backwards in time while I waited.

  * * *

  Jon’s party had been an illusion. When I’d walked through the front door all those months ago, it had been into an empty gallery. Instinct had my hand reaching up to toy with my Star of David earring, protection by touch, before dropping down again. Don’t leave home without it. The walls were filled with strange gothic imagery, bold reds and oranges, streaks of black and inlays of purple. I could almost taste the salty-sweet sin and debauchery they depicted. The artist had shielded his subjects behind strategically placed lace handkerchiefs, latticed fans and entangled limbs—artistic license taken so the works might be shown in public.

  Her voice in my head, years past. The slapping of her calf leather gloves, Coke-red to match her thinned-to-disapproving lips, as she smacked the edge of her podium for effect or maybe to wake us up. Madame des Vérités Cachées. Loosely translated: Mrs. Hidden Truths. A pseudonym, of course.

  Madame had been my Agency training officer in Covert Preternatural Operations, a mandatory seminar-level course for a graduate degree the University of Toronto doesn’t advertise on its website. “Watch for detail,” she’d say. “Art reveals. And always wear protection. It doesn’t have to be a cross to work; it just has to be some form of religious or superstitious artifact you believe in.”

  One voice out of the many I’d left behind.

  Shook my head to focus back on where I was now as the collection of protection charms dangling from my neck pinged against each other. Listened. To the music, the background noises, glasses clinking with ice cubes and voices that swelled and receded, piped in through speakers bolted into the
exposed red and yellow and brown brickwork throughout the room.

  So. I was alone with this beautiful and potentially dangerous man.

  The article. Right. What was my angle again? I fished around for some paper as I fiddled with my pen, capping and uncapping it between my thumb and forefinger, using everyday movements to focus my mind.

  Jon led me to two high-backed wing chairs, upholstered in blood-red velvet trimmed with black satin. A mahogany side table with rounded corners sat between the two seats. A bottle of red wine had been placed on a silver tray with two cut-crystal glasses, their bases upturned to protect from dust.

  Jon’s appearance contrasted starkly with the room’s decor—faded jeans, grey T-shirt under an untucked pale blue button-down denim shirt that framed his narrow hips, a worn black leather belt peeking through as he walked. His jeans were frayed at the cuffs, giving way to steel-toed, well-scuffed black suede cowboy boots. The overall effect heightened the blue-green swirls of his eyes, warmed the tone of his pale skin, and even his style—despite being a little too early ‘90s for me—still managed to work for him.

  The chairs, the table, the color scheme—even Jon’s wardrobe. Oh. I let out a breath I’d forgotten I was holding. “So, you’re going for the full treatment, eh?” I couldn’t help it.

  Jon’s acknowledgement flashed in his eyes, even as they widened in mock-innocence. I tried to focus on his lips instead. The taste of red wine rolling around on my tongue. Yeah. That was so much better.

  “You came here looking for a vampire,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to leave disappointed.”

  “I came here to do an interview with you.” I replied. Smiling even as I shook my head at him. “Are you up for it?”

  It all started that night. The drinks, the interview, the jokes and easy banter. From there we started meeting for coffee, more drinks and casual conversation. Always after dark. There was no question we got along—a lot of the time we spent together was spent laughing. But there was always a distance. We stayed away from sharing too many personal details. Which made the whole thing easier—on me, at least, if not maybe for him as well.