Oh God, oh God, she thinks. It’s happening. But I’m good. I can handle this. But then, as if she’s tied to a medieval torture rack, she hears the sickening crunch of her arm and leg bones growing longer. She screams for Isabelle to help her. Isabelle helps her to sit up slightly so she can inhale as much soothing mist as her lungs can hold. Slowly, she exhales and feels some relief. She glances down and sees that her top is saturated by a combination of saliva, sweat and tears. Lovely, she thinks.
Just as she’s calming herself down with some deep breaths, she hears a sharp crack. She looks down at her ankles and sees shattered bones piercing through her skin. She grabs on to Isabelle for explanations and comfort. Isabelle puts her arm around Sophie’s shoulders and strokes her hair while making cooing sounds. Sophie’s bed-shaking screams reflect both her pain and her fear.
She thinks she’s going to faint when her arms move and flail on their own. Her shoulders blades flex and her arm bones push through her skin. She sees her body deconstructing but feels nothing. Am I in total shock?
But then, shock is not sufficient to shield her senses when her back arches and her spine feels like its dividing. She’s blessed by unconsciousness.
When she comes to, Isabelle is beside her, holding her hand. “Am I going to die?” she gets out. “I can’t do this. Why is this happening to me. I’ve never hurt anybody in my life.”
“I know darling,” Isabelle says, squeezing Sophie’s hand. “Watching you suffer reminds how very, very terrible my own first transformation was. I’m so sorry you must endure this. I know it is far from fair.”
They are both quiet. With her head on Isabelle’s shoulder Sophie feels Isabelle trying to breathe for her, trying to spare her the effort of the in and out. Pain attacks once again. This time it’s her chest, her ribcage, splitting apart. She wants to use all her strength to scream the pain away, but her broken body won’t respond. Does she even still exist? Blackness.
****
Sophie is lost in a murky dense fog. She’s aware of Isabelle’s body close beside her. Her hand descends from the base of Sophie’s skull to the base of her spine and then back up. Just before becoming fully alert, Sophie scans her body to see what responds and what doesn’t. Her limbs feel connected and within her control. Reassured, she opens her eyes and looks up at Isabelle, who is petting Sophie the wolf. She tries to move, but Isabelle restrains her.
“It’s done,” Isabelle says softly. “The worst is over. You will never feel such pain again. But you must rest for a while before changing back.”
What do I do now? Sophie thinks. How do I communicate? What if I can’t change back? Change back from what? Nobody but Isabelle and Marko, and probably Enrique, know what’s happened to me. She wants to cry, then wonders if she’ll ever be able to cry again.
Isabelle reaches over to the nightstand for a hand mirror she’d made sure to place there. “Here, Sophie, meet your beautiful wolf.”
Sophie’s wolf closes its eyes and points her muzzle away from Isabelle. If she doesn’t see her wolf, she can pretend none of this is real once and if she changes back. Isabelle gently turns Sophie’s head, so she’s forced to look in the mirror. Hmmm. Even in the near dark, she can see she looks more like a beautiful silver and gray huskie than a wolf.
She turns her head, so her eyes meet Isabelle’s. Please, she tries to signal Isabelle, tell me what to do. Help me.
Somehow Isabelle understands. She sheds her outfit, folds it, and places it at the bottom of the bed. Effortlessly, it seems to Sophie, she shifts into her own wolf, who begins to nuzzle and sweetly sniff Sophie’s wolf from head to tail. She nudges Sophie into a prone position on her side and then spoons her, extending one paw over Sophie’s shoulder. The new wolf feels tension and fear ebb. The new pack mates doze.
The sky is a silky dove gray when Sophie opens her eyes. Within a beat, she remembers her ordeal and with relief senses she is back to being herself. She feels the warmth of Isabelle’s back against her own and is deeply grateful to not be alone. They both are under covers up to their chins. Sophie has no memory of putting on the white cotton nightgown she now wears. Not really ready to see the condition of her tortured body, she tests things out by stroking one of her arms. It’s smooth. It’s hers. Gently, trying not to rouse Isabelle, she painfully and with great effort eases an arm out from beneath the covers and looks. The limb is cross-hatched with ugly welts. She comforts herself with the memory of how quickly the fateful original bite had healed.
She considers continuing the body scan, but realizes she is too damn tired and sore to move a single human muscle. Just the act of closing her eyes is enough to pull her into deep sleep.
“Sophie, Sophie,” Isabelle softly says. “It’s two o’clock and you should eat and drink something to build your strength. Is there anything you feel a desire for?”
Sophie begins to uncurl from her fetal position but stops when every nerve ending across her body fires up. “Everything hurts,” she moans. “I feel like I was dragged behind a horse for miles across a concrete desert.”
“I know my dear, I do know,” Isabelle says sympathetically. “Let me see one of your arms so I can see how your healing is progressing.” She watches closely as Sophie peels her sleeve up a few inches. Isabelle blanches, but Sophie is amazed by how much less visible the wounds have become since she last checked.
“We will smoke the pipe one last time,” Isabelle consoles. “And, you will bathe in our whirlpool bath. With every hour your bones will ache a little less. Your skin will heal a little more. I promise.”
A few hours later, back in bed, Sophie notices the streetlights coming on in the park coming just as Isabelle enters with her dinner tray. The steak-tomato-basil omelet is so good she eats at a glacial pace to prolong the experience. The nightstand lamp has returned, and the dark torture chamber of the prior night is now a warm, golden boudoir. She wears her own familiar nightgown, her hair is clean, and she can still feel the pleasantly strong pulses generated by that wonderful tub.
Isabelle returns with a cup of milky tea and a crystal cordial glass of ruby port on a silver tray. “You look so much better Sophie, pinker.” She looks pleased and relieved.
“Well, I’m still pretty achy,” Sophie responds. “Are you sure it isn’t too soon to put away the hookah?” She says this only half in jest.
“I’m certain,” Isabelle firmly says. “Tonight, you will take Advil PM gel caps. They work very well, you will see.”
When Isabelle mentions that Marko and his father will be home in a few hours, Sophie tenses up and looks away from her hostess and mentor. She feels safe and comfortable with Isabelle, but the thought of seeing or being seen by someone else makes her shudder. It reminds her she is now a freak, and unlike Will and her family they know her secret.
Isabelle sees and scents Sophie’s extreme discomfort. “Don’t worry, my dear. You may stay in this room until they leave in the morning. Does that help?”
“Will they think I’m being strange or rude?”
“No, not at all. They know what you have been through and that you are still adjusting to your new and strange – for you – life. They will likely be grateful for not having to find the right words to show their concern.”
“Yes,” Sophie wryly says. “It’s like not knowing what to say at a funeral. Mere words just don’t do the trick. There’s certainly no Hallmark card for this situation.”
Just as Sophie, once again exhausted, is ready to put down the New Yorker magazine she began reading after dinner and turn off the light, she hears men’s voices. She pulls the covers up to her chin and scrunches down. She’s been dreading their return.
Although her door is shut tight, and they’re yards away in the front hall, she hears their every word and puzzles over the new scent they’ve brought home with them. It’s not a phew smell, more like a citrus aroma. She likes it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Waking at dawn, Sophie’s first act is to roll up her nightgown s
leeve to check the progress of her healing. Some welts have totally disappeared, while others resemble scratches that might be left by a fall into a rose bush. When she tries out her bones and muscles by shimmying in place, her body slightly protests. At least Will can’t see through my skin, she thinks.
As morning has yet to fully arrive, she plumps her pillow and pulls her covers back up. She needs to plan her exit and day. She wants to return home before Marko returns from school; it’s going to be pretty tense the first time she has to face him. What can they say to each other? Will he feel obliged to inquire after her health? Too weird.
Once again, she detects citrus in the air, then hears a masculine voice, somewhat deeper than Marko’s. He seems to be asking Isabelle a question in Spanish, a question that includes Sophie’s name. He is shushed, likely by Isabelle. A door closes. Sophie can hear the rumble of their conversation but can’t make out specific words.
Sophie wonders what Enrique’s question was, once again wishing she knew more Spanish. As soon as they’re alone she’s going to ask Isabelle what he said about her.
Immediately after her men leave the premises, Isabelle knocks on Sophie’s door and comes in. “Buenos Dias,” she says, moving to the window to part the curtains. It’s a shiny day.
“Por favor let me see now,” she instructs.
Sophie sits up and pushes each sleeve up past her elbow and extends her arms towards Isabelle. “Oh, this is wonderful,” the older, but not older-looking, woman exclaims. “You now look like you just had a spat with a naughty little kitty-kat. And your bones?” She kisses Sophie’s left temple.
“Still sore, but certainly better than yesterday,” Sophie says, moving from the bed to the window. “I’m fine to go home in a few hours.”
Isabelle’s expression reveals a concern she’s doesn’t voice. “Come into the kitchen and I will make more coffee. We still have much to discuss.”
As she moves toward the kitchen, she detects the aroma of onions, peppers –- red peppers – and tomatoes being sautéed. There’s the sound and sizzle of liquid hitting a hot frying pan. All that is mixed in with the sound and smell of water dripping through coffee grounds. Just before entering the kitchen, she hears the scratch of a spatula blending eggs with vegetables. Boy, her senses are certainly keen this morning.
“Huevos ranchero,” Isabelle says. “You like?”
“But, of course,” she says, taking a seat at the marble topped island. “Anything I can do to help?”
Isabelle smiles, shakes her head, and pours out two cups of coffee. Seeing Sophie look in the direction of the refrigerator, she pulls out half-n-half.
Sophie clears her throat, wondering how to bring up Enrique’s question. “Isabelle, I’m sorry to have eavesdropped but this morning I heard Mr. Perez asking you a question that included my name. Does he have a problem with me being here?”
“Oh no dear, he’s happy we were able to help you. He brought up something about which you and I should speak. It’s a delicate matter. He asked what your scent reminded me of?”
“My scent?” Sophie suddenly feels dirty. “Now I smell?”
Isabelle puts down her mug and places her hand over Sophie’s. “Of course not. But, every shifter has a unique scent that only other shifters can detect. It’s how we identify shifters who are in their human forms or whether a wolf is a friend or enemy. It’s something we all have.”
“When we first met, I caught a hint of gardenia. Was that your shifter scent?”
When Isabelle nods, Sophie takes a deep breath and plunges on. “Okay. How would you describe my scent?”
“My dear, you have a lovely scent. It’s a combination of the lilac and rose. Light and clean.”
“And only shifters are aware of it? My husband won’t be opening windows when I walk in our door?”
Sophie had anticipated many changes and problems, but unwanted odors were not among those considerations. Her encounter with the shifter on the subway now made sense. “If only shifters can detect each other’s scents, why could I smell yours right away?”
“Remember, before we met you had already developed enhanced senses. I am telling you the truth.”
Sophie is now rather tired of hearing the truth. She could do with a little unreality, which means going home and pretending none of this happened. Back to the time when she could be honest with everyone she loves. Weren’t those the good old days?
She gets up and goes over to the sink to rinse out her mug. When she turns around, she catches Isabelle’s concerned expression. It occurs to her that Isabelle is now the only person in her life with whom she can be completely herself. That Isabelle’s home has been a safe and protective cocoon.
“I feel like I’ve known you forever,” Sophie says, hugging Isabelle.
“If you consider that, in a sense, forever started on Saturday night, you’re right,” Isabelle says, stepping back and putting her hands atop Sophie’s tender shoulders. “Remember, we will continue your education on Thursday night.”
When it’s time for Sophie to leave, Isabelle refuses to allow her to take a cab or Uber. She summons Roberto so he can drive Sophie home in the family Mercedes. When he comes up to help with Sophie’s suitcase, she detects a slightly mossy scent, prompting her to whisper her suspicions in Isabelle’s ear. Isabelle smiles. “This building is our special community, of which you are now a member.”
In front of her building, Sophie declines Roberto’s offer to carry her bag up to her apartment. She can manage. After thanking him and waving him off, she walks over to the building’s front stairs and sits. It’s twenty degrees and there’s a glaze of ice beneath her butt, but she lingers. She’s still there when the street lights come on. What can she be waiting for?
She hears a voice, her favorite voice, calling her name. She rises when she hears his pace pick up speed. Will wraps his arms around her and she’s enveloped in his down parka. The fringe of his scarf tickles her nose. When she inhales she delights in the familiar, the wonderful, scent of Irish Spring.
Now, she’s home.
About the Author
Anne Marie Sommers worked as a speechwriter for many years in New York City government and in nonprofit communications. She holds a MA in Communications from the University of Florida and is the author of Manhattan Social Work and Alice’s Side: An Imagined Memoir.
Anne can be contacted via her email address
[email protected]
Or follow her on Facebook:
www.facebook.com/amsommers
and Twitter: @amsommers2
Sophie's Education
BOOK TWO OF SHIFTERS TAKE MANHATTAN
CHAPTER ONE
After shutting off the alarm, Sophie immediately turns to spoon Will’s long naked body with her own equally-bare limbs. Skin to skin. She inches herself up and slide’s an arm under Will’s so she can reach across his chest to pull him closer. He stirs slightly and backs into her so their bodies press tightly together from shoulders to toes. She kisses his back. He kisses the arm strapped across his chest. She pushes her knee between his legs. His thighs lock it in.
Sophie doesn’t want to move a muscle or stray an inch. This is where she wants to be. This is how she wants to feel. Safe. Loved. Seductive. Human. Normal.
Normal? She’s kidding herself. Lying to herself. A month ago, lying cocooned with Will at dawn after a night of lovely sex was normal behavior several days a week. And now?
Wouldn’t it be nice if the nightmare she’s been living for the past month is indeed just a dream, a very bad dream? That she’d never really been attacked in Central Park by a wolf who turned out to be a spoiled, selfish shapeshifter. That the bastard hadn’t entertained himself by sinking his wolf’s greedy fangs into her tender neck, changing her life forever. Turning her into one of his kind.
Oh, and that she hadn’t just had to spend four days with her new shifter mentor Isabelle Perez, who’d held her hand and kept her stoned on opium as she endured her first transi
tion into a wolf. An experience, she decides, that could be compared to giving birth to twenty-pound twins.
Yeah, she thinks with regret and scorn, I couldn’t have dreamt this up.
She extracts her leg from Will’s vise-like thighs and regretfully slides out of bed. At least she’s not as cold in the morning as she used to be. Small favors.
When she came home last night, two days after her transition, she’d had a lot to hide, a lot to worry about. Her arms had still shown slight traces of the trauma they’d endured. Her legs, especially at her ankles, where her femurs had splintered and broken through her skin, still had the faint pink lines common with fading scars.
Hiding her war wounds wasn’t the only thing she’d worried about. What if her behavior was off? What if Will thought she was acting weird?
Her turtleneck, jeans, and boots had kept her skin covered. To keep conversation and physical and emotional exposure to a minimum, she’d insisted they eat dinner in the living room with Netflix on and the lights down low.
She’d had a tense minute when Will asked if her conference had been any good. Conference? Oh. She’d forgotten she’d used a bogus Boston conference to justify her absence. He thought she’d been busy getting tips on how to better teach her kids to write.
At bedtime, still seeking camouflage, she’d pulled out a long flannel nightgown with an upright ruffle at the neck. A gift from her conservative grandmother. When Will came out of the bathroom, the light was out and covers pulled up. She was tired, still felt weak, and was ready for the night to be over.
Fortunately, as it turned out, Will wasn’t. He entered the dark bedroom sporting nothing but a handsome erection.
“Why are you dressed for the north woods?” he’d asked, reaching down to her hem and proceeding to push it up until he could get his head under the gown. “Let me see, what parts should I warm up first?”
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