The Turning Season (25 page)

“We could do that,” Helena says eagerly. “Juliet loves animals.”

I look at Juliet. By her expression, she doesn't love animals. And she doesn't trust strangers and she's worried about her sister and she's tired of being stronger than her mother but she doesn't think she has a choice. My guess is that she's about fourteen, but she's already been forced to function as an adult for far too long.

“We could try it for a couple of weeks, see how it goes,” I say softly. “If you guys don't like being here, or I don't like having you, you can move on. But if you decide to stay, Helena can look for a job in town and Juliet can enroll in school, and Desi can just hang out here on the property. I don't need rent money, but I
do
need your promise that one of you will feed the animals anytime I'm not able to.”

“Of course! Absolutely,” Helena says.

“What do you change into?” Juliet asks.

“It could be almost anything. Lately I've been an orange tabby more often than not—but last time I was a dog. No idea what it will be next time.”

“How often do you change?”

I shake my head. “That varies, too. Hard to predict.”

“That kind of sucks,” Juliet says.

I laugh. “It
totally
sucks. Which is why I need friends.”

“Everybody does,” Helena answers. But Juliet's face hardens and she looks away.

So I might become the first friend she's ever had.

*   *   *

I
t takes about an hour to get them settled into the trailer and then, even though it's pretty late by now, I walk Juliet through the barns and enclosures, pointing out all the animals and outlining their care. When she starts to look a little overwhelmed, I say, “Just remember two things. Give all of them water, even if you aren't sure what to feed them. And Bonnie's number is programmed into my cell phone, which I'll leave lying on my kitchen table. Call her if you need any help.”

“How will I know you've changed? I mean, if you could be any animal—how will I know it's you?”

I've never had to think about this question before, and it makes me laugh. “I don't know! I guess I'll follow you around until you realize I'm there, and you can actually
ask
me. ‘Karadel, is that you?' And then I'll bark or meow or something and you'll know.”

“All right.”

“I'll see you in the morning. Come for breakfast and we can go over everything I told you tonight.”

“All right. And—thanks. You know. For all of it.”

I want to pat her on the arm and tell her everything will be just fine, but she already knows it won't. So I just say, “Hey, we all take our turns helping each other out. Your turn's coming.”

“Can't wait,” she mutters, and turns toward the trailer. I head for the house, but call out cheerfully over my shoulder, “Talk to you in the morning!”

Of course, I don't talk to her the next day, because I shift overnight.

*   *   *

T
he pain of impending transformation wakes me around one in the morning. My hands shaking, I text Celeste, Bonnie, and Joe, informing them of my new tenants and letting them know that I won't be available for a while. Then I scribble a note for Juliet and leave it on the kitchen table along with the cell phone. That's all the prep I can manage before I run outside into the cold night, doubled over with agony. I drop to my knees and clutch my head in my hands, fighting back nausea and despair. When the transmogrification finally occurs, I'm so relieved to be out of pain that I merely lie there a moment, panting, before I extend my right forearm and try to determine what I've become. Thick brushy fur, sinewy leg, clawed and padded foot. Oh, this can't be good.

I push myself to all four feet and trot around to the side of the house, where I propped up a small mirror last week for just this purpose. The perimeter lights barely extend this far, but the moon is shining brightly, and anyway, my eyes are marvelously adapted for the dark.

I'm a wolf. Not Cooper's solid black, but a grayer creature with a white face and black-tipped fur. No wonder Scottie didn't accompany me outside; no wonder the puppies, locked inside the barn for the night, have started a frightened chorus of howling. I imagine the bunnies are cowering in their cages as well, and any small nocturnal creature that happens to be awake right now is slinking off to the safest place it knows.

A wolf. Swell.

It's different being a wild animal. Especially a predator—a fox, a coyote, an eagle. When I'm a dog or a cat, something with thousands of years of domestication built into my evolution, I have a greater affinity for humans. I like to be around them, take food from their hands, sleep curled up on the ends of their beds. I'm more social, maybe, more trusting.

When I'm wild, more feral instincts take over. I'm at a higher state of alert, jumpier, more inclined to melt into the woodlands and live by my wits. I have a harder time connecting to the Kara at the core.

I'm more inclined to run away and never come back, leaving all my unsolved human problems behind me.

In fact, I have a strong desire to do that right now—jog off the property and disappear into the patchy treeline just to get away from the smell of civilization. I'm not exactly hungry, but I'm already thinking about food, and the odor from the rabbit hutch reminds me of how many delectable treats might be found just off the edge of the property. I'm still human enough that I have no intention of trying to break through the cage and snack on the creatures that have been so long under my care—but wild enough that I can imagine just how delicious they would taste if I did.

Every instinct in my body, civilized and feral, shrieks at me to leave.

But I ought to stay, to let Juliet know what I've become.

The dilemma leaves me agitated and on edge, and I'm not really thinking clearly. With a snarl at my own reflection, I turn away from the mirror and lope across the back of the property, away from the animal enclosures and their rich scents. I will stay away until daybreak, finding somewhere to sleep away the rest of the night, and return in the morning.

And if I forget, or can't bend my body to my will, then so be it. Juliet can muddle by as best she can, or call Bonnie for help, or break down in tears and beg her mother to leave as soon as they can load the car. I can't worry about it.

I see a flash of movement in the distance, a small shape darting from a cluttered field toward the shelter of an oak. I bound across the field, thinking of nothing but the hunt.

*   *   *

A
s with my most recent transformations, my time in animal state is short, but turning human again presents a few logistical problems. That is, less than thirty-six hours later I wake up in broad daylight, more than a mile from my house, buck naked on a chilly October morning. Well, hell.

It's too cold to simply sit there, shivering and waiting till nightfall, so I just have to make my way homeward and hope my new tenants aren't too freaked out when I show up nude and dirty and covered with scratches. I'm only a
little
worried about running into a concerned citizen—a hunter or a hiker or some misguided bird-watcher—who would either run shrieking in the opposite direction or believe me to be an assault victim and come to my aid by calling the cops. I'm some distance from any major roads and I know all the back ways to my property. So it's not total strangers I'm concerned with. I just don't want to embarrass Helena and her girls.

I make it without incident to the border of my property and pause a moment in the shade of a flaming maple to assess the situation. There's no one immediately visible in the open area, which is good—but Joe's truck is parked next to Helena's white car.

Which is bad.

He has come here to help out while I'm gone or to await my return, either way determined to show me that he wants to support my alternative lifestyle. Though I am not ready for him to be quite this supportive. I don't mind so much that he will see me naked, since we've been heading in the direction of clothing-optional for a couple of weeks now, but I'm not ready for him to see me so raw from my animal state, still marked by traces of wildness. There is a scent, an aura, a patina that clings to me for a few hours after I change back. I feel like I am waking up from a bender and I am not yet completely myself.

Or I am entirely myself and have not yet had time to reset the filters that help me make it through normal human interactions.

Either way, I don't want to see him. But I'm cold and my feet hurt and I'm on the edge of miserable, so I have no choice. I push myself away from the tree and dash the final fifty yards as fast as I can manage.

Someone has left a blanket on the porch, and I snatch this up moments before all the doors on the property seem to open at once—the one to the barn, the one to the trailer, the one to the house. Juliet, Helena, and Joe.

I stick one hand out of the blanket that I have hastily wrapped around my body, and I wave a little frantically at the women. “I'm back—I'll talk to you as soon as I've showered,” I call, then I turn toward the kitchen door.

“Hey!” Joe says, sounding delighted to see me. Jinx is frisking at his feet, and he greets me with a few friendly barks. I can see Jezebel and Scottie sitting more sedately inside.

I pause long enough to scratch Jinx on the head, but I don't make eye contact with Joe when I straighten up and push past him into the house. “I am
not
talking to you until I've cleaned up,” I say. “Do
not
follow me out of the kitchen.”

“You want something to eat?” he shouts after me.

“Yes! I'm starving! Carbs. Bready things.”

Twenty minutes later I've showered away my latest adventure, brushed my teeth, pulled on jeans and a sweater, and tied my wet hair back in a ponytail. I'm still ruffled, but human. It's an improvement.

I head to the kitchen, where I can smell toast and oatmeal. Joe doesn't listen when I ask him to keep his distance, but apparently he pays attention when I talk about food.

“God, I'm so hungry,” I mutter, plucking a piece of bread from the toaster and cramming half of it into my mouth without waiting for butter or jelly. He's pulling a pot off the stove and spooning a big mess of oatmeal into a bowl, but he turns to give me a smile. As soon as I've swallowed the bread, he leans over to kiss me, not even bothering to set the pan down first. I'm still annoyed that he's here, but I have to admit the kiss is nice.

“I've missed you,” he says.

“We have to talk,” I say, “but first I have to eat.”

He's already set a place for me at the table, and my plate is filled with all the things I crave most when I first shift back—bread, cheese, eggs, fruit, the quickest foods to deliver carbs and protein in a few hearty bites. I gobble down the oatmeal first, since it's steaming hot and he's sprinkled it with brown sugar and raisins.

Harder and harder to hold on to my irritation when he's doing such a good job of easing me through the transition.

It's not a proper mealtime, so he's not eating anything, but he sips a soda and watches me. I think he's trying to gauge my mood. Or maybe he's just cataloging the unfamiliar expressions and mannerisms I exhibit when I'm so fresh from changing.

“My mouth is full,” I say around a big wad of toast. “
You
talk.” Jinx is sitting as close to me as he can, his face hopeful, so I toss him a small chunk of cheese. I know, I know, but Joe doesn't stop me; it's pretty clear Jinx is used to getting scraps from the table.

“I had a chance to visit with your new tenants when I got here last night,” Joe tells me. “Interesting family. Juliet was wonderful with the animals, by the way, especially the puppies. Didn't talk much, though.”

“Yeah, I think it'll be great to have them here for a while. Give me more freedom.” I swig down half a glass of orange juice, then remember something. “Weren't you supposed to be working at Arabesque last night?”

It's probably my imagination that he hesitates a second before replying. “Marcus wanted the hours, so I gave him my shift.”

This doesn't seem to require an answer, so I just nod and take another bite.

Joe continues to fill me in on the events of the past couple of days. “Let's see, Alonzo put in a full day at his new job on Saturday—delivered about fifteen prescriptions. So far he seems to be really pleased with how it's going, Bonnie said.”

I laugh. “So now you're checking in with Bonnie every week? That's funny.”

“Well, we had stuff to talk about,” he says.

I finish the bowl of oatmeal and the last of an apple, then look around, trying to decide if I want another piece of toast. Or more cheese. A glance at the clock shows me that it's about ten-thirty. I can probably hold out until lunch and then get back on a normal schedule.

“That was good,” I say, relaxing enough to lean back in my chair. I put my hand down and Jinx edges forward to lick my fingers. “How did you know
exactly
what I'd want to eat?”

“I told you. I talked to Bonnie.”

“Listen. It was sweet of you to want to be here waiting for me, but—I have to tell you, I'm not sure I'm ready for this. I need some time to get back to myself, you know what I mean? It feels a little—a little pushy for you to be here without an invitation.” It sounds awfully mean, but I try to harden my heart. I have to set boundaries and I have to make him respect them. As I would respect his.

He nods soberly. “I know. I'm sorry. But something's happened and I wanted to be able to tell you in person and I didn't know when you'd change back.”

The oatmeal turns to iron in my stomach, and every muscle in my body cords with fear. I sit up straight and stop paying attention to the dogs. “What happened? To who?” I demand. If he was just talking about them so casually, it can't be Bonnie, it can't be Alonzo . . . “Celeste?”