by Beth Dranoff
“Not yet,” I said. Then I remembered. “Not altogether.”
“She did a partial,” said Sam, suddenly there and full of the helpful. I glared at him.
“Shut up,” I said.
“Takes power to do that,” Anshell commented. “Years of practice.” He turned to Sam. “You’re certain? A partial shift?”
Sam nodded.
“Huh,” said Anshell.
“What?” I wanted less cryptic and more information.
But then Morgenlark was strapped into the gurney and the unmarked white van was ready to go and maybe we could continue this conversation some other time.
Anshell climbed into the passenger seat with a parting chin bob, tossing Sam the keys; he caught them without looking. Clearly a reflex. Shifter?
Sam glanced at Anshell, then at me.
“I have to go,” Sam said.
“So I see.” Yup, casual. That’s me. Do I ask for his number? What was the protocol for defying death through shared battling of baddies?
“Okay. Well.” He held out his hand and shook mine solidly. “Nice meeting you then.”
“Right,” I drawled back at him, giving him my best lazy grin. “Next time I need a good fight, I’ll give you a call.”
Sam laughed. It was a nice laugh.
“Yeah, you do that.”
“Okay then,” I said.
He hesitated once more. “Be careful out there.”
“You too.”
As I watched him hop into the van and take off, I was tempted to follow, if only to find out where this mystery hospital was. But now, sitting on the now-empty street with my engine idling, all of the post-fight adrenaline started to ebb and I realized how damned tired I actually was.
And hungry, for that matter.
Enough street fighting for one night. I was going home to crash.
Chapter Eight
I managed to get home without further incident. No cops, no accidents. The only thing I stopped for was a bacon cheeseburger with a side order of poutine from an all-night diner. I was famished.
Poutine, my favorite French-Canadian import: fries, plus cheese curds, plus gravy. Mmmm, yummy cholesterol goodness. Short-term gain for long-term...ah hell, who knows what’s even going to happen tomorrow? Might as well enjoy myself in the now.
I dragged myself and my steaming paper bag of dinner up the twenty-five concrete stairs leading to the door of my studio. Not the coolest of neighborhoods, but given that the entire strip is overshadowed by an uninhabited hulking castle, it’s not bad either.
Casa Loma is a Toronto oddity. Local lore holds that it was built by a rich financier who lost much of his money in a bad business deal. Unfortunately for him, it was one of the assets he had to sell off to become solvent again. Now it’s a bus-clogged tourist spot, a frequently used movie set, and a popular place to throw fancy black-tie parties.
“Dana.”
Speaking of shadows...
“I’m tired. It’s been a hell of a night. What do you want?”
“What do you mean, what do I want? I want to know,” Jon said, stepping out of the darkness of my stoop, “if you’re all right.” He seemed to waver a moment under the incandescent glow of the street lamp’s beam, then solidify. A trick of the light. Really.
I sighed.
One look at Jon and it was clear that sleep wasn’t in my immediate future tonight. Oh yeah, sure, I have control over my own environment and I can stand up for myself, but I was tired and I didn’t feel like fighting and having some company would be nice.
So I shrugged instead of arguing, clicked open the lock and went inside, leaving the front door open. An off-handed invitation, hardly direct, but it’s as good as he was going to get.
After a moment’s hesitation, Jon came in and closed the heavy metal door behind him. He set the deadbolt firmly in place before turning around, coming up behind me. He put his arms around my waist and buried his mouth at my neck. A hug, not a bite.
I tensed, surprised, then relaxed into his embrace.
“I was worried about you,” he breathed into my ear. “The hospital. But then I heard you were okay. At work.” He paused. “Why are you home so late?”
“You know,” I said, resting my head on his shoulder. “Work stuff.”
Jon nuzzled my neck a moment longer, then stepped back and inhaled deeply. He looked at my bag of food, then at me.
“Something did happen tonight,” he said, letting go of my waist and walking around in front of me so he could look into my eyes. “A plain burger, that’s hunger. A cheeseburger, you’re close to your period and craving calcium. A bacon cheeseburger plus poutine...something happened tonight to seriously upset you. What?”
I rolled my eyes and walked over to the bag of food. Grabbed it and started towards the couch, trailing shoes and extraneous clothing as I went. I plopped down, put up my feet, pulled the food out and started eating. Jon watched me, patient, waiting for me to start talking.
Which, after about five minutes of concerted chewing, I did.
By the time I was done, Jon was sitting across from me in my overstuffed winged armchair, his jacket off, scratching the diamond stud in his left earlobe absently.
“Shit, Dana, I’m sorry,” he said.
Talk about understatement.
“Are you really a shifter now?”
“No idea,” I replied. “But the evidence seems to point to yes. Thoughts?”
Jon shook his head. “This is nuts,” he said. “You were immunized, weren’t you? A small scratch shouldn’t be turning you furry.”
“Tell that to my claw hand,” I replied, spearing a chunk of greasy yumminess. “Maybe I should look into the expiry date of those vaccines I got.”
I forked another piece of gravy-soaked potato and cheese curd goop, and chewed thoughtfully.
“What kills me is that I’m so hungry,” I continued, growling my frustration. “If I didn’t know about the whole shape-changer probability, I’d swear I was pregnant.”
Jon jumped at this, looking at me, hard. No smile now. “Are you?”
I laughed, once; short, sharp.
“No chance,” I replied. “You’re the only one I’m sleeping with right now, and we both know that vampires can’t procreate.”
Jon leaned back in the chair, tense shoulders relaxing a bit again, and began to smile proprietarily at me.
I threw a French fry at him.
“Don’t go getting any ideas,” I admonished. “Just because I haven’t had time to sleep with anyone else doesn’t mean we’re exclusive. Your furry friend proved that.”
“He’s an old friend of mine,” Jon replied, quietly. “We were together. We’re not now.” He shrugged. “And if his jealousy caused this to happen to you—Dana, I’m so sorry.”
“Me too,” I said. “What do you think is going on here?”
Jon chose his words carefully. “What you walked in on, in the parking lot, that sounds like a ritual thing.”
“A ritual.”
“Yes.”
“A dust-floating ritual?” Maybe there was a better way to describe it, but I couldn’t think of any right now.
“Not exactly,” he said. “I’ll ask around.” He glanced at the window. “I’ve got to go—it’ll be light in a couple of hours.”
“So go,” I said. Trying not to feel hurt, let down.
I didn’t even feel the air move and Jon was kneeling in front of me. He gently extricated the poutine container from my hands and moved between my legs. Kissed the inside of my left knee. Then looked up at me through long lashes, eyes flickering in the light.
“I don’t have to go just yet if you don’t want me to,” he said.
I leaned forward to cup his face
in my hands, his lips meeting mine. Then he pulled back and waited for me to say the words.
“Stay,” I said.
Jon’s smile turned predatory then, his hands running up the sides of my body to my armpits, shoulders, neck, then back down again. He stopped midway, running his long fingers under the waistband of my jeans. The logical part of my brain had already clicked off by the time the top button was undone, the zipper lowered, and everything was being peeled off. I lifted my ass off the couch to help, just a bit. Pants gone, underwear gone, I was naked from my belly button to the tops of my socks.
Sex and socks—a Canadian tradition.
Jon licked his lips and looked up at me. The glint in his eyes was positively wicked, and I knew he wasn’t done yet. He pushed my black T-shirt up, sucking at my nipples through my bra, bringing first one to a point with his teeth, then the other.
I was writhing now, squirming on the couch. Frustrated, I pulled the shirt off over my head. Jon unfastened my bra as I did this, drawing it down along my arms.
He was still fully dressed. There was something so hot about that. In sex, domination, submission, smell, touch, sound...it’s all bestial, all animal. Power and vulnerability. Jon had my thighs parted, my feet resting on his shoulders. His mouth was fastened to my core, drinking me in as I moaned my consent.
Oh. My. God. The things he could do with his tongue. And teeth. And fingers. Where were his fingers? Was it a finger? Did I care?
I shuddered through an orgasm, no doubt the first of the night.
Jon looked up at me, mouth glistening, and licked his lips. No, he actually slurped my juices off his lips. It would have been gross if he hadn’t done it with such relish. Hunger. His hunger—for me.
Not for the first time, I wished my lover was human.
And then it was too late. Good thing no condoms were needed with the undead; no risk of pregnancy or disease. I was tearing his clothes off, too much between us, needing skin on skin. He flipped me over so that he was on the couch and I was on top, straddling him. Wrapping his arms around my waist; my arms around his neck. A momentary kiss, a pause, and then he thrust up into me, I thrust down, and we both went over the edge.
No more thinking. Furry boyfriends. Strangers and daggers and feeding vampires. None of it mattered. Not in that moment.
We made animal sounds as our flesh slapped together, frequency building. Just when I thought I couldn’t get much higher, Jon’s eyes snapped open and his teeth clamped down on my left nipple. I arched and screamed through my orgasm. The taste of my blood flipped a switch in Jon, and he flooded me with his release.
Chapter Nine
In the pre-dawn light, I woke up alone.
The pillow beside my head still bore the imprint of him. He’d covered me with a blanket before he left. So considerate.
But of course he’d left. Couldn’t expect him to become a big pile of dust just for me.
It was still early, the short midwinter days making 7:30 a.m. seem like 6:00 a.m., with sunlight starting to cast its beams across my bed in defiance of the wicker blinds I pretended were an effective block against the light. The pattern on the bed looked like a mesh net, and its heat melted against me—and my growling stomach.
Hungry again. Awesome.
It was still too early to willingly relinquish my semi-somnolescent state. Coffee might be nice, but sleep was nicer. My stomach rumbled its protest. I ignored it. But rich Arabica, oiled and ground and roasted, infiltrated my senses. I inhaled deeply, eyes still closed. Definitely coffee.
The coffeemaker was at least twenty to thirty feet away from where I lay, and I hadn’t turned it on. So how could I smell coffee?
Ah, screw it. I let my mind drift, floating in that space between sleep and wakefulness.
My dreams were weird. Blood and pentacles and fur and whiskers and claws. Climbing up a mountain of cheese curds that kept crumbling beneath me. A marching band of instruments making ringing sounds. Since when do musical instruments make ringing sounds anyway?
I cracked open an eyelid. My cell was ringing and voice mail wasn’t kicking in fast enough. Damn. I answered without looking at the screen, belatedly hoping it wasn’t a telemarketer.
“Hello.” My voice was more of a croak as I closed my eyes again.
“Did I call at a bad time?” Lynna.
I groaned. “Late night. What’s up?”
“I called to see if you wanted to go for lunch,” she said. “Or would that be breakfast for you? I don’t know how you manage working those hours you work.”
Lynna worked freelance as a grip on various films and MOWs—movies of the week—shooting in and around Toronto. So really, her hours weren’t any different than mine. But since her job was more glamorous—on paper, anyway—she liked to rib me. It’s a game we play but I was too tired for it this morning.
“I manage fine if nobody calls me at the ungodly hour of,” I checked the clock on the far wall, “10:45 in the morning.”
“Fine,” Lynna said. “Want to hit Hermano’s Hideaway for lunch? I’ve got a craving for nachos and I’m looking to partner up on the fix.”
I tried to think. Lack of caffeine can be a dangerous thing.
“I’m fried,” I said. “But I’m also hungry. Noon?”
“You’re not going to roll over and forget this conversation as soon as we hang up, are you?”
I grunted, closing my eyes. Mumbled something about “no.”
“Dana!”
I jumped. “What? You don’t have to yell,” I said grumpily.
“Dana, sit up now.”
I sat. Or, more accurately, dragged myself into an upright position.
“Open your eyes.”
I opened my eyes.
“Now look towards the coffeemaker. See it?”
I grunted in the affirmative.
“Okay, now walk over to it.”
I did so, trying to avoid sharp corners. Then focused. There was a note propped up against the coffeemaker.
Dana—
I figured you’d be tired after last night.
Coffee is ready to go—flip the switch when you get up.
Sorry I can’t be there to share it with you.
—Jon
I sighed, turned the machine on, and sat down to watch the holy elixir of wakefulness drip through. Lynna kept up her stream of chatter, specifically designed—in my opinion—to wake me up by annoying me.
Which wasn’t really fair. Lynna Ghapoor is one of my best friends, and close female friends that stand by you just don’t come along that often. Especially those that honor and respect you—never mind supporting you—through questionable relationships, stalled career paths and periodic black spots. Sure, we all get them, but Lynna was sunshine to my impending hurricane of gloom; cutting through the crap by making everything lighter.
I glanced at the sparklingly clear pot of coffee, willing it to drip faster. No such luck. But the relative cleanliness of the glass made me realize that it had actually been cleaned with soap recently, and not by me.
Damn, another considerate thing.
Hello ambivalence, have you met my friend Jon?
“What?”
I’d forgotten that Lynna was on the other end of the line.
“Was it something I said?”
“No.” I retrieved my chipped mug—the bowl-sized one with pale green stripes—from the drain. “Jon washed my coffeepot when he put on coffee. All I had to do was turn on the machine.”
“Now that’s devotion,” she said. “What, no blood prints on the handle?”
I sighed. Lynna was less than fully enamored of my dalliance, no matter how many pots of coffee he might leave for me or how hot he makes them—or me.
But who could blame her? I wasn’t s
o thrilled with it myself. Especially if now it meant I’d caught the shifter virus through my association with him. I was in no rush to have that conversation with Lynna.
“Can I assume that since I hear movement and the sound of you thinking loudly, it’s safe for me to hang up and jump in the shower? You’re up for real now?”
“I’m up,” I said. “See you at noon?”
“Noon,” she agreed before hanging up.
I was free to stare at my brewing coffee once more. Finally, the beep.
Aaaah.
I felt the world start to come into clearer focus again. Sex is great, but sometimes the pleasure I get from that first cup in the morning—especially when I’m tired—is simpler. Less complicated. I may obsess about my relationship with coffee, but I never wonder where that relationship is going or whether or not it’s a suitable substance to spend my first waking hours with.
I took my obsession back to the couch with me and carefully sank into the pillows, cupping the mug in one hand and supporting it with my thigh. I let my mind drift as the steam floated around my face with each sip. Man, even the smell was like liquid ecstasy right now.
Speaking of. How could I turn furry if I’d been vaccinated against the therianthrope virus? It was illogical. I remembered the shots, remembered when I got them. Eight years ago. I shouldn’t have been at risk.
Shifters are either born that way, or they’re scratched that way. Even so, not everyone is susceptible to the virus—you have to be extra lucky, apparently, to catch it like I did. Which is odd, considering how similar shifter and human DNA is. Only 0.002 of the immunized population could be scratched and still have the change punch its way through. Okay, maybe that’s not the exact number—it’s been a few years since I signed the consent form. But there aren’t many. I remember that much.
Reality is that nobody knows the stats for sure. That’s because only a small portion of the non-afflicted population even realizes something beyond the norm exists. Where do you think all those toe-curling fairy tales come from—someone’s imagination? Right, sure, some of them probably do. But a more likely explanation is that someone saw something sometime and couldn’t explain it away, so instead they turned it into a bedtime story to scare children.