Bearly a Lady

by Cassandra Khaw

  Bearly A Lady

  By Cassandra Khaw

  Book Smugglers Publishing

  Copyright Information

  Bearly A Lady

  Published by Book Smugglers Publishing

  Copyright © 2017 Cassandra Khaw

  Cover Illustration by Muna Abdirahman

  Cover Design © by Kenda Montgomery

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  978-1-942302-51-3 (Ebook)

  978-1-942302-50-6 (Paperback)

  Book Design and Ebook Conversion by Thea James

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without written prior permission of the copyright owners. If you would like to use material from the book, please inquire at contact@booksmugglerspub.com

  To Elena, my sister, the undomestic goddess of the high wire.

  Contents

  Cover

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Acknowledgements

  Inspirations and Influences

  About the Author

  About the Artist

  Book Smugglers Publishing

  Prologue

  London.

  The Big Smoke.

  IT’S LATE, AND THE STAR-STARVED sky’s a shade of indigo-black. Street lamps keep watch over lonely streets, even as the last drunks waddle unsteadily to the tube, singing Taylor Swift medleys at the top of their lungs. Occasionally, someone will trip and apologize to the cobblestones in a gently peevish manner.

  A girl erupts from a bar, trailed by a gaggle of equally inebriated friends, all female, all inappropriately dressed for the damp London weather.

  “Let’s go for some curry!” shrieks the first girl, after taking a moment to evaluate the options. There aren’t very many.

  A triumphant chorus of assent, but then:

  “Actually, I could go for a kebab?”

  “Wot? Really?” asks the first girl. “After we’d all said curry?”

  “Well, you said curry,” grumbles the dissenter. She’s paler than her counterpart, longer-haired, but otherwise indistinguishable from her sisters-in-booze. “I didn’t say curry. No one else said curry. We just made noises. I mean, it’s really up to you. You did show initiative, but I thought we could do both, you know what I’m saying? Curry and kebab? No one’s got a curfew, right?”

  “No.”

  “No.”

  “Um. Actually, me mom said she’d really prefer it, if I came home early.”

  That gives the group pause.

  “Oh. Sorry. I guess we should have asked.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I should have said something—”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorr—eek!”

  A girl screams, jumps back, finger thrust at the colossal silhouette barreling down an alley. It’s an imposing sight, about seven, maybe eight feet, of wide-shouldered muscle. The thing roars, a sound like the honk of an angry brass instrument, and suddenly everyone is screaming.

  The pandemonium continues for about another minute, girl and giant trading ululations before at last the stand-off is broken by:

  “Wait. Is that a bear?”

  And it is. Light coruscates across brown fur, catching in button-black eyes, and palm-long teeth. There is no question. This is irrefutably, inexplicably a bear.

  “—why’s it got undies on?”

  To everyone’s surprise, the bear suddenly looks down, and in a voice that sounds entirely too human, declares:

  “Bugger.”

  Chapter One

  IT HAPPENED AGAIN. GUCCI, VERSACE, Juicy Couture—nothing ever holds together during that time of month. I’m almost desperate enough to do Sports Direct next. I mean, it’s not exactly high fashion, but they do have that line of pretty lycra sportswear. And sales. Loads of sales. Sales pretty much every damn week. It’d be a cost-effective experiment. Really.

  “I told you. Granny undies.”

  I shoot Zora, my best friend-slash-roommate-slash-childhood-co-conspirator, a cold, hard look. The eviscerated remnants of today’s wardrobe (Prada, with a dollop of Calvin Klein) require somber observation, not wisecracking. “I don’t think you remember how this works.”

  “You bloat up once a month?”

  Bloat. Urgh. I barely resist shuddering. What an ugly word. “It’s not bloat. It’s a full-body transformation of my feminine figure.”

  “OH. You mean that. See, when normal women say a ‘full-body transformation of my feminine figure,’ what they mean is they’ve either gained or lost fifteen pounds. Normal women who don’t eat people when they’re PMS—­”

  “I didn’t eat anyone!”

  At least, I don’t think I did. Dimly, I remember a cluster of cooing girls, nervously fondling my pelt. One might have booped my nose. Could I have munched on one? It didn’t seem likely.

  Zora rolls her eyes, shoulder braced against the doorframe. God, I hate vampires. Four A.M. on a Saturday, and somehow she’s still sparkling.

  Not literally, of course. But you know what I mean.

  “The point is this is awful. Why haven’t we told normal people that we exist yet? Why can’t we just get along? If the world knew that there were werebears out there, werebear women with needs, then maybe, just maybe, we might be able to get an entire line of clothing made exclusively for the chic shapeshifter, and I wouldn’t have to—”

  “There is not enough latex in the world to fit over your bear butt.”

  I clack my jaw shut, indignant. That was below the belt. Even if she is right. Once a month, I put on about three hundred pounds, gain an alarming amount of hair, and spend the night worrying I’ve eaten someone. Of course, that’s nothing compared to the morning after when the clean-up crews come to tell you about all the dodgy bullshit you’ve been up to, and how much they’ll have to adjust your “special taxes.”

  By the way, these taxes? They’re all determined by weight brackets; a legislative travesty, I tell you that. You wouldn’t believe how weremice abuse this gross oversight.

  And—okay. I’m three hundred and twenty nine pounds, to be exact, but nothing like round numbers for making a point, right? Besides, even if you’re splitting hairs, I’m firmly in the middle of my classification.

  Anyway, in retrospect, maybe I should give up on designer brands. Upper class society only functions in single digits, so I can’t really expect them to be able to cater to the needs of the modern shapeshifter. And there’s that whole issue of blood stains.

  But what if I just rung up someone in Zara? Tip them off on the existence of a whole new demographic and their cumulative spending power. Ask about pioneering some kind of self-cleaning fabric. I could be executive producer if they take up the idea, or whatever the equivalent is called in the high-street retail industry. It’d have to go through the Ministry of Supernatural Affairs, of course, but I could wait. It’d be so worth it. I—

  “Zelda. Zelda? Hello? You still ‘linked’ to Earth?”

  Damn my tree-hugging, video game-loving werebear parent
s to McDonald’s hell. “Lame doesn’t even begin to describe—”

  “Ableist.”

  “It’s—ugh. Don’t say that. You know I don’t—I’m sorry. Cultural indoctrination is a monster.”

  Zora flashes a grin that is all teeth. “As long as you acknowledge your errors, Paddington.”

  “God! Can you not?” I yelp, stomping towards the bathroom door. “Get out!”

  It’s not fair. Back in high school, Zora was the frumpy one, but now she’s the glamorous vampire with legions of glow stick-toting hunks and I’m Winnie the freaking Pooh. My only consolation is the fact I can go wherever I want, and a denial of entry is like a brick wall in Zora’s face. (You know, vampires can’t go where they’re not welcomed, etcetera, etcetera. It makes them amazing housemates, though. They’re pathologically incapable of stealing your blackberries.)

  I slam the door shut and press my back against the wood, careful to avoid putting too much pressure. My bank account can’t take the repair costs.

  Sighing, I move back to the mirror and squint at my reflection. Really, it could be worse. The monthly hirsuteness is annoying, but nothing meticulous waxing can’t resolve. And I suppose there’s the whole stigmatization of perceived fatness too, but fuck them. I can armwrestle that Mountain guy from Game of Thrones. Who needs the acceptance of bigots?

  Oh, and there’s also the fact the Change does phenomenal things to my cleavage. I like that part quite a bit.

  “You’re an earth goddess,” I breathlessly announce to mirror-me, who looks like she isn’t really buying that ultra-positive thinking crap, unfortunately. Self-awareness? Okay. Self-delusion. So not.

  “Earth goddess,” I mutter under my breath, hoping it’d sound less absurd the second time around.

  Nope. Still ridiculous.

  Grumbling to myself, I reach for my make-up bag (Kate Spade, special edition) and fumble at the zip. After two minutes of failing at what normally would take half a second, I take back what I said earlier. The Change is the worst. You have no idea how much you can miss manual dexterity until it’s gone.

  But werebear eventually triumphs over bag. With a roar of triumph, I grope for the eyebrow tweezer. And miss. Damn it. Scowling, I try again and this time I get as far as lifting it an inch from the bag before the tweezer shoots out of my grip and somersaults into the toilet bowl.

  Fudge.

  Frustration itches under my skin, kindling into something bigger, wilder. Like a bushfire, it burns fast. Before I know what’s happening, rage is boiling through every molecule of my being.

  “No, no, no, no.” I moan. But it’s too late. The last syllable stretches like taffy, dropping octaves, becoming low and guttural and unmistakably ursine. I barely have time to regret my no-sugar diet (emergency chocolate would be so good right now) before the darkness comes and wrenches me into a chokehold.

  “Zelda!”

  I jolt upright, wincing, at the sound of my name. Glass tinkles. Somewhere, someone is hammering furiously at the door.

  “Zelda!”

  Everything aches. The world is a blurred chiaroscuro of strange formations, every shape melting into the next. Everything looks like I’m peering through a curtain of salt water. In the distance, I can hear a vague hissing noise. I knuckle at an eye, and squint, hopefully. As far as I can tell, I’m still in the bathroom. And—­

  Ah. Crap.

  “Zelda! Open the door! Do not make me come in there!”

  “No!” I wobble onto my feet, wood and bits of mirror crunching as I go. “Don’t come in!”

  “I heard what you did, Zelda!”

  “I—I—I just dropped a few compacts! That’s all!”

  But Zora refuses to be persuaded. “That’s not what it sounded like.”

  “Well, it is.” I continue, looking about desperately for a miracle. It’s bad. Apocalyptically bad. The shower head’s been snapped clean off, the shower curtain’s in tatters, and I’m pretty sure that smell means I tried to mark my territory. Which is probably what Zora’s going on about.

  Also: ew, bear-self. Why?

  I relent.

  “Okay Something has gone a bit—” what’s the best word here? “—wrong, but it’s nothing our insurance can’t fix.”

  Maybe.

  Thank God for London Zoo. You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to convince people your home’s been vandalized by a ferocious animal when you live this close to captive wildlife. Especially when you’ve got a vampire roommate.

  That said, I, Zelda Joshua Andreas (don’t ask) McCartney, maintain that Zora’s powers wouldn’t work quite as well if we were living in a place like, say, Covent Garden. Mind control is like theatre, you see. You need to set the scene to get anything done.

  “You really don’t have to,” Zora sighs.

  “You totally do.”

  “Zel,” Zora begins, leaning forward. “Take it from someone who can actually mind control people. You don’t need mood lighting.”

  “But it helps.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  I curl my fingers around my nutella latte. The cafe we’re in is absolutely gorgeous. It has the most precious mix of Scandinavian furniture (IKEA-bought, but they make it look amazing, anyway) and Parisian art (at least, I think it’s Parisian) ever, and is just big enough to keep you from feeling guilty about hogging a table all day. “How do you know?”

  Zora inhales in that exaggerated way she does before she says something horribly patronizing. I use the lull to scope out our environment. Most of the customers look like they were bought wholesale (fake blonde hair, saleswoman grins, pink tracksuits, matching babies) from the Yummy Mummy factory. Here and there, I see a few laptop-wielding teenagers, hair dyed, faces full of existential angst. There’s even a sweet old couple for diversity’s sake, but they’re irrelevant to my search for eye candy.

  “Because I can control minds? Hello?”

  “But it isn’t an exact science, is it? Maybe what you’re actually seeing is confirmation bias—”

  “Please.” She lifts a palm. “Just stop talking.”

  Zora stirs her cranberry-tomato shake fitfully, tossing furtive glances over each shoulder as she goes. When she’s certain no one is watching, she pulls a flask from a pocket and drips a trickle of red fluid into the mix.

  I take it as a small victory. Zora never publically indulges in her need for the big B unless she’s feeling overwhelmed. And given that she hasn’t come back with an eloquent counter, I’m going to guess it’s because she can’t refute my brilliance. (There’s a tiny, tiny chance she’s just tired of this conversation, which we may or may not have had many, many times already, but I’ll take my early morning triumphs where I can.)

  Zora sighs rapturously as she imbibes the scandalous fruit, leaning back in her chair, eyes rolling up just a little. Blood has the same effect on vampires as Ecstasy does on humans from what I’ve been told. (You ever wonder why modern media’s all about glamorous vampires lounging in clubs? That’s why. Because they look ridiculous after they’ve fed.)

  Not that I would know. No one’s tried documenting the effect that recreational chemicals has on werebears because, you know, bears. I have a distant cousin who says it’s perfectly fine to do drugs, but he’s a total koala (I said distant cousin) so I doubt he’s in the position to comment on what a shot (Dose? Pop? Serving? Whatever) of Ecstasy might do to a Kodiak bear.

  Anyway.

  “So, are you ever going to ask Jake out?” Zora demands, without a shred of warning.

  I splutter latte back into my mug. “What?”

  “Jake,” Zora repeats, sliding forward again. “When are you going to ask him out?”

  My cheeks blaze. Jake. Jacob. Yes. Just like Twilight Jacob. Except infinitely hotter because real world werewolves are primal, physical beings with a take-no-prisoner attitude to sowing
their seeds. No mooning (ha-ha) about unless they’re hungry for a quick bite.

  “I don’t know.” I drag a finger across the rim of my cup, hoping it’d stir a miracle from the cream. “I have to check my schedule—”

  Zora flaps a hand, sniffing. “You don’t have a schedule.”

  “Yes, I do! I’m going out with Shaun from accounting.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Okay, he’s in the ICU, then. In a coma. Which you caused.”

  I clack my trap shut.

  Real talk: that wasn’t my fault. I told him to get his hands out of my knickers, but Shaun wouldn’t stop pawing at me, and it was very close to the Change. Obviously, things happened. Bad things, but most importantly, things that were not my fault.

  “There’s Tom—”

  “Who you think is terrible.”

  I wince at the memory of Tom hip-thrusting at a lamppost at 4am in the morning. “Lionel from the cafe down the street?”

  “Please.”

  “Reginald?”

  “You left halfway through your first date.”

  And there goes all my excuses. “I—”

  “I suppose there’s Janine. Actually, tell you what. If you ask Janine out, I’ll completely drop the subject.”

  I stop, frown, and poke my tongue into the inside of my cheek. Janine’s, well, Janine’s been a story. A story that could have become my greatest love story, all intelligent conversation, soft skin, and a mutual affection for Greek food. From what I hear, there was mutual interest for a few months. A lot of mutual interest, in fact, but circumstances conspired to keep us apart. In the end, we sort of gave up, and romance fizzled into unresolved tension. We’re still friends, though, but like everything in Britain, it’s all a bit awkward.

  (Not going to deny that I could have tried harder, but that isn’t what true love is, is it? True love is circumstantial. True love is serendipity. Eyes meeting across a crowded pub, a right word at the right time, a breath, a kiss, the feeling of everything coming together perfectly, like the stirring finale to a Disney movie. Not going “Oh. Sorry. Didn’t realize you were dating someone” for eight bloody weeks.)