Dying to Live: The Shifter City Complete Series

by Liam Kingsley

  Pan studied himself in the mirror for a moment before twirling his electric-blue faux-hawk into a Cupie doll curl on the top of his head. He grinned into his own ocean-colored eyes, with their bursts of blues and greys and greens, then began straightening up the hair station. A whistled tune bubbled up from inside unbidden, a pure and unbridled expression of his uninhibited joy.

  “Thanking God it’s Friday?” Boris, his boss, asked in his thick Russian accent.

  “It’s the fifteenth, Boris!” Pan grinned. “You know what that means.”

  “Remind me,” Boris said with a twinkle in his eye as he gestured for the clippers.

  “It means that my favorite hair will be in for its monthly trim.” Pan handed Boris the clippers with an extra flip of his wrist. “All those thick, black waves with those curls at the ends…I could be wrist-deep in that hair for hours and never get bored. Not to mention the stud it’s attached to. Have you seen Killian lately? All that time at the gym is paying off.”

  “So ask him out already, why not?” Boris focused hard on the hair he was clipping, which made his accent even thicker.

  “Nah,” Pan said flippantly. “Never mix business with pleasure, right? Besides, I’m pretty sure he swings the other way. All the alphas do.”

  “Not all,” Boris pointed out as he tilted his client’s head the other way. “Or there would be no man-love babies.”

  “I guess,” Pan sighed. “But I mean really, what are the odds?”

  “Pretty good, actually,” the man in the chair said.

  Pan was almost startled when he spoke. He’d nearly forgotten that the head Boris was working on was attached to a hearing, speaking, person.

  “What makes you say that?” Pan asked.

  “Statistics,” the man grinned. “I work statistical analysis up at the lab. Been studying shifter patterns since this whole thing started. The first five hundred shifters were gay men. Out of the ten thousand shifters who live here, nearly sixty percent are gay men. The other forty have other things in common; red hair, heterochromatic eyes, exceptionally tall, particular genetic immunities, stuff like that. Specific genetic arrangements seem to be either more susceptible or just better suited to the shifter thing. Of course all of that data is based on the ten thousand we have here, so I could be wrong. The more shifters we bring in from the outside, the clearer the picture will be. Anyway, the point of all that was to tell you that it’s actually quite likely that the man you’re interested in swings your way.”

  Boris finished cutting his hair and dusted his shoulders off. The man examined his new haircut in the mirror (it was a nice, even fade up to a tight mass of black curls, which was one of Pan’s least favorite cuts to give, though it was one of the most appealing to look at), then shot Pan a wink. Pan’s heart fluttered at the possibility, but he shut it down quickly. He wasn’t going to do it, he knew that already. He didn’t like to chase nearly as much as he enjoyed being pursued. Besides, Killian was very obviously flirting with Eulyssa that morning, just as he had with every other woman Pan had ever seen him talk to. Still, the statistician’s bit of info piqued his curiosity.

  “That is fascinating,” he said sincerely. “Do you think that’s why shifter males can get pregnant? Sort of a give and take for the gene pool?”

  The man shrugged. “Not really my department,” he said. “But it sounds like it makes sense, so why not? Thanks, Boris. I’ll see you in a couple weeks.”

  “Any time, Nathan,” Boris said as he grabbed a broom. “Keep doing your good works!”

  “You too, buddy,” Nathan said. He winked at Pan once more as he walked out of the barber shop, leaving Pan feeling flustered and mildly confused. He began whistling again, using the music to dust away the stray thoughts which threatened to distract him, and greeted his first customer of the day.

  “Josey! What are we doing today? Mohawk? Braids? Dye?”

  “Ha-ha,” Josey said wryly. “Same as usual, Pan. Just trim it up.”

  Pan pouted briefly as he settled the tall, blonde man into the chair and wrapped the plastic cape around his shoulders. “Are you sure?” He asked, meeting Josey’s eyes in the mirror. “You know you could really do a lot with your hair. Look at this glorious mop of blank canvas! It would take color like a dream. We wouldn’t even have to do anything too crazy, maybe a red or a brown or oh! You know what, I could mix it up gold and brown, it would match your eyes! And then….”

  “Pan,” Josey interrupted. “I gotta be at the coffee shop in half an hour. Talk me into it next month.”

  “Alright,” Pan acquiesced with a sigh. He didn’t mind doing basic maintenance on the heads of all the shifters in the city, but he truly believed that they were stagnating in survival mode. They had their own empire within these walls, why should they be beholden to human standards of professional dress? But it seemed he was alone in his opinion; the others who lived here were intensely conservative in their dress and expression, as if clinging to a static sort of arbitrary normalcy. His job was to give them what they asked for, but he didn’t know how long he could keep doing this job without slipping up and giving someone exactly what they needed. He finished up with Josey quickly, as usual. There wasn’t a whole lot to a monthly trim, and Pan performed the superficial surgery quickly and without a whole lot of conscious thought. It was effortless work, but it was the farthest thing from fun. Once Josey left, the shop was empty save for himself and Boris. The only other appointment on the books for the day was Killian’s, and Pan grew restless at the thought of staying in one place all day on the off-chance than someone would drop in.

  “I think I’m going to go pester the textile techs again,” Pan told Boris thoughtfully. “Eventually they will cave in and make something other than these awful scrubs.”

  “No,” Boris said firmly. “Fridays are favorite days for walk in. You stay.”

  “But you’re here,” Pan pointed out. “And you know where I’ll be, you can call me back if it gets busy.”

  Boris glared at him, and Pan sighed.

  “Alright, you win,” he said. “But I am not staying inside all day.”

  “Fine. Go sweep walk.”

  “The boredom will kill me.”

  “So be killed,” Boris said with a shrug.

  Pan glared and snatched the rough broom from the back room. He acted more annoyed than he was. After all, if it weren’t for these minor spats with Boris, Pan was certain that he would have died of boredom ages ago.

  Boredom was the least of Killian’s problems. He slid through the doors ten minutes late (which was really forty minutes to those who knew his routine), and could already hear the sounds of chaos from beyond the second set of sliding doors.

  “Morning, Jane! Is everyone here?”

  “Yes,” she said sternly, though her eyes looked relieved. “They’re waiting for you in the courtyard.”

  “Thanks, darlin’. Do me a favor and put this back there? Thought I needed it, can’t use it, it’ll have to wait till Monday.” He slid his briefcase across the front desk, and she stashed it in a cubby by her knees. Her expression softened at his term of endearment, and he knew he was off the hook for the moment. He took a deep breath before stepping through the second set of sliding doors. This was the part he dreaded most about coming to work late. The second he stepped inside, eighteen pairs of eyes locked onto him, and then he was swarmed.

  “We thought you died!”

  “Where were you? Ms. Lee doesn’t know where the Band-Aids are, and I scraped my knee!”

  “You didn’t scrape it, there’s nothing there!”

  “I did too scrape it! Just ‘cause it heals doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt! It bleeded, Andrew!”

  “Baby!”

  “Meanie”

  “Mr. Killian, why weren’t you here? Mr. Brad told us we had to play outside but it’s cold!”

  “It’s not cold, you big baby!”

  “I’m not a baby, Jem’s the baby!”

  Killian put two finger
s in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. The sixteen kids winced and covered their ears, then quieted.

  “Everybody inside! Take your tables, you know where to go.”

  “But why….”

  “I can’t hear questions until your butts are in their seats!”

  “Your ears still….”

  “Lalalalalala, I can’t hear you!” Killian slapped his hands over his ears. He derived a twisted sort of pleasure from turning the kids’ more annoying habits against them. He thought that it probably made him a bad teacher; but it also made him a sane one, so he figured it was a fair trade. The kids finally realized that he wasn’t going to engage until they did as he said, so they filed into the long, wide classroom and took their tables. With so few children, most of the teaching happened in a single long room, though the entire ten-story building had been set aside for that singular purpose. A reflection, Killian knew, of Broderick’s hope that the shifter population would continue to grow. The hope wasn’t far-fetched, Killian decided as the kids arranged themselves; there had already been a significant population increase.

  Grades in this school were more approximate and fuzzy than grades on the outside world had been. With three teachers for only sixteen students, they were able to really focus on helping each child understand every concept, and so each child had a wide range of skills and understandings. Regis Jr., the eldest shifter child, was reading at a ninth-grade level, but only had fourth-grade math skills. Jem, the youngest shifter child, had trouble remembering her letters, but could understand eight-grade level science. The organic nature of the classroom pleased Killian, who had spent his teaching career prior to Regis Thyme alternating between elation and frustration with his kids and the system they were pushed through. Now that he was in charge of every part of their learning process, he was much more satisfied and confident in his choice of vocation.

  Because of their varied skill levels, the kids were arranged in age groups rather than grades. The eight five-year-olds sat at the yellow table; the five six-year-olds sat at the orange table; and the eldest three, who were nine, nine and a half, and ten, sat at the red table. The three-year breeding gap was never more striking than when all of the children sat together. The first three were accidents, accidents which nearly killed their parents; but once the doctors had figured out the new biology and passed that knowledge on to the Care building, people began to start families again. Everyone in Regis Thyme had left someone behind when they were forcibly relocated. New children would never replace the children who were lost, but they could give the mourning parents something to live for. And they had, in so many different ways. Killian loved them for that, loved them like they were his own.

  “Now that everyone is in their seat…sit down, David…who would like to ask me a question? Yes, Casey.”

  “Why were you late?” The cherub-faced six-year-old asked.

  “A terrible thing happened,” he said somberly. “I was sitting there, eating my breakfast, minding my own business, when… BAM!”

  The kids jumped. He had their undivided attention.

  “What happened?” Bella asked breathlessly.

  “Bright lights hypnotized my brain! Mindless droning began stirring my thoughts into oatmeal! I was trapped by the warm glow of electric mind candy, and I couldn’t escape!”

  Every child but Lucious, one of the older kids, was gazing at him in dumbstruck horror. Lucious, on the other hand, was giving him the face of someone who had just heard a brilliantly bad pun. He raised his hand slowly, almost languidly.

  “Yes, Lucious?” Killian said, his brown eyes twinkling with glee.

  “You were distracted by the TV, weren’t you,” he said flatly.

  “I was, in fact, distracted by the TV. I warned you guys about that thing, didn’t I?”

  “You should have knowed better,” Jem said in her most serious voice.

  “You are absolutely right, Jem, I should have known better. But now that that’s cleared up and we’re now running…fifteen minutes behind, what do you say we get down to business?”

  Groans and cheers mixed in a pleasing swirl of personalities, and Killian grinned. He and his two subordinate teachers retrieved the kids’ English notebooks and passed them out, giving instructions and helping the kids focus. It wasn’t long before each child had settled into their practice, and the three teachers stepped off to the side to observe.

  “What really happened this morning?” Lee asked in a whisper.

  “There’s some weirdness happening with wolves,” Killian replied in the same tone. “Packs are wandering around busy cities in broad daylight, then disappearing without a trace.”

  “Wolves? Real ones, or…?”

  Killian shook his head. “Media scientist says they’re natural, but I don’t know. They showed pictures of the Chicago wolves. The way they looked at the camera, the way they held themselves, something about their eyes…they feel kindred to me. I could be wrong, but I think there’s more to this than just some basic animal climate change weirdness.”

  Lee frowned. “He blamed climate change for city wolves?” She asked.

  Killian nodded, and she shook her head. “Doesn’t add up. Was it just Chicago?”

  Killian shook his head. “They said, L.A., Austin, Reno….”

  “There, right there,” Lee interrupted. “First of all, wolves aren’t going to be that far south, not with this heat. It’s mid-October, and we just now, this morning, hit a fifty-degree low. Wolf fur is thick, thicker than ours by far. They have undercoats and they run hot. Even if they did somehow manage to wind up in the desert, they wouldn’t go to cities, you know why? Asphalt. Sand is a little better. Best would be somewhere cool and muddy, like a river bank or a marsh. But the middle of the city? L.A. streets turned to black slush this summer. What do you think that would do to paw pads?”

  “They’d be fried,” Killian mused.

  “Unless,” Brad interjected, “They happened to have a sub-dermal layer and super-fast healing abilities.”

  “I don’t know,” Killian said. “If this was a step in shifter evolution, why haven’t we seen it here? The first wave shifters are all here, wouldn’t they have changed too?”

  “Not necessarily,” Lee said. “There aren’t very many environmental pressures here. We designed our habitat, not the other way around. Without pressure, there’s no drive to change.”

  Killian was turning that over in his mind and formulating a response when a fight broke out among the six-year-olds. He hurried over to mediate, separating the two tiny shifters before they could hurt each other.

  “Hey, what’s the problem?” He asked.

  “Damian took my crayon!” Casey shouted, his face red.

  “Did not!”

  “Did too!”

  Killian looked around at the other three at the table. “Did Damian take Casey’s crayon?” He asked. The three girls exchanged looks, then nodded silently.

  “No I didn’t!” Damian shrieked. “I had it first! I did, I did, I did!”

  “Alright, Damian, let’s step outside and calm down,” Killian said, touching Damian’s shoulder.

  “No! I didn’t do anything wrong! I had it first!”

  “You still need to calm down. Let’s go outside.” Killian took Damian by one arm and began guiding him to the door. Damian, in a fit of rage, shifted from a brown-haired little boy into a furry, wolf-faced, sharp-clawed beast, and began thrashing and roaring. Killian, worried for the safety of the other kids as well as Damian, wasted no time. He wrapped one arm around Damian’s waist, pinning his hands, and another around his chest. He hauled him out into the courtyard as the child struggled and snapped. Damian, like every shifter, was stronger in his beast form. Now he was nearly as strong as Killian himself (who would never shift at work unless it was absolutely necessary, as it would endanger and frighten the kids), and Killian quickly lost his grip. Damian, enraged and thinking with his beast-brain, turned on Killian the instant he had the opportunity to s
ink his teeth deep into Killian’s flesh.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The flash of pain and rage sent a mane of fur ripping down Killian’s spine and made his eyes flash yellow, but he kept his composure and his form. He met Damian’s yellow eyes firmly with his own, giving him the Alpha stare. Damian released Killian’s arm and backed away, still snarling. Killian followed, never breaking eye contact, until Damian was backed into a corner. Snarls mixed with whimpers as the staring contest stretched on, then finally, with a shuddering breath, Damian shimmered back into his human form. His brown eyes filled with tears and his face with fear; fear of himself or Killian was unclear, but in the end it didn’t really matter. Killian would do the same thing in either case. He sat down beside Damian and set an arm over his shoulders, letting Damian lean into him.

  “Are you going to call my dad?” Damian sniffled.

  “Yes,” Killian said calmly.

  “What are…you going…going to tell him?” He asked between gulping hiccups.

  “I’m going to tell him that you lost control and hurt someone. I’m going to recommend…no, I’m going to insist… that you spend the next week in the Care building learning how to manage your temper, and learning how to stay in control even when you’re in your other form.”

  “I don’t get to come to school?” Damian wailed.

  “Not until I’m convinced that you won’t hurt anyone,” Killian told him. “It’s my job to keep you…all of you…safe.”

  “I won’t, I promise, I’m sorry, don’t make me go away, please, I won’t be bad anymore!”

  “You aren’t being punished,” Killian told him gently.

  “Do you hate me?”

  “Of course I don’t hate you. Listen, Damian. We all have problems that we have to work through. Every one of your class mates makes mistakes sometimes. I, Ms. Lee, and Mr. Brad all make mistakes sometimes too. Every one of us has lost our temper. Did you know that? Every single one of us, even me. Do you think I’m a bad person?”

  Damian shook his head.