The Turning Season (5 page)

I already know what that bizarre hybrid would look like. She would have the enviable ability of a shape-shifter named Lanita, who can take whatever form she likes. If she couldn't have Celeste's gift for transforming at will, she would have the ability to stave off transformation for up to a week if circumstances dictated. She would be blessed with the knowledge that her time in animal incarnation would last no longer than a day.

But no shape-shifter I've ever met has the skill I really want. The ability to stay human forever.

You'd think that, instead of experimenting with the DNA of shifters, I would start doctoring myself with vials of human blood, but that's the very last trial I would undergo. Shape-shifters learned the hard way that we can't tolerate infusions from our genetic cousins, most likely because their blood can't handle all those extra genomes. Occasionally, a human-to-shifter transfusion proceeds without trauma, but other times it results in catastrophic consequences—delirium, madness, death. There are terrible stories of shape-shifters who are critically injured in car crashes or workplace accidents; ambulance drivers rush them, unconscious and bleeding out, to the nearest hospital, where the ER personnel try to save their lives with blood transfusions.

Most of the time, they would have been better off if they'd been left to die at the scene of the disaster. Most of the time, they die anyway, but not before they've gone on some kind of rampage—small and personal, or big and terrifying. A few years ago, a shape-shifter over in Missouri got a blood transfusion and ended up crazed, warped, and guilty of murdering five people.

So I'm wary of injecting myself with human blood, even in a small, measured amount.

Lately I've been thinking about making a shape-shifter cocktail, controlling for time, controlling for species. I figure it might be time to up the ante, assume a little more risk. There's no easy or foolproof way to tell if such a cocktail will work, since test-tube experiments don't yield much information and I refuse to experiment on one of the animals under my care. The only way to really know is to try the formula on myself. Since I want to become a cat on a reassuringly predictable schedule, I mix up a potion that includes equal parts of Isabel and Baxter, and I fill a syringe with the result.

And then I hesitate.

Every time I rest the tip of the needle against my arm, before I break the skin, I ask myself if the possible costs are worth the potential gains.

Delirium, madness, death. Versus the chance at a more normal life.

Every time, I have plunged the syringe into the muscle. Every time, I have said the answer is
yes
.

T
he instant I arrive at Celeste's place Friday evening, she says, “Oh no, you're not wearing
that
.”

I look down at my clothes—a cute purple sweater, low rise jeans, flat shoes with bronze accents. “What's wrong with my outfit?”

She doesn't answer, just shakes her head and pushes me through her cluttered apartment toward the tiny bedroom. Throwing open the closet door, she reveals a wildly disorganized riot of fabrics and accessories, and contemplates for a moment. “Let's see—where's that spangly red shirt?”

“I don't see how you think I can fit into anything you own,” I say. We're close to the same height, but I must outweigh her by thirty pounds. She's flat-chested enough to be able to wear spaghetti straps and short, form-fitting bodice tops that let her belly button (and navel ring) peek out. I don't go anywhere without an underwire bra that offers “maximum coverage.”

“Yeah, yeah, but this top is all stretchy—it looks good on anyone.
Here
it is.” She pulls it out of the closet and hands it over. “Man, if I had tits like yours, I would always be wearing scooped necklines and bending over like crazy.”

We're way past needing any modesty between us, so I peel off the sweater and pull on the red shirt, and holy God, it clings to me like a second skin. “
Celeste.
I look like I'm naked. I can't go out in public like this.”

“Well, you can and you will. You look great. Here, now you need brighter lipstick. And you want something for your hair? I have feathers.”

“I am
not
putting feathers in my hair!”

Celeste, of course,
is
wearing feathers, long streaming blue ones, clipped just behind her ear, so they spill out like a bright surprise from the chaos of her unbound curls. Her only other accessory is a gold necklace hung with a jingling collection of gems and charms. She looks great, of course, but part of it is that ingrained confidence, the conviction that she can carry off any style. I don't have that self-assurance. Whenever I try to dress up for a night out—fancy clothes and extra makeup—I always figure I look like a little girl trying to wear her big sister's wardrobe.

“Well, a sparkly little clip, then. Come on. We're going to a bar, not a prison. You should look like you expect to have a good time.”

In the end, of course, I agree to the faux-red-jewel barrette as well as the stretchy top, though I insist on a filmy patterned scarf that I can throw around my shoulders if I feel too exposed.

“You look cute,” Celeste decides, and off we go.

It's about a ten-minute drive to the Square, then a ten-minute hunt for street parking, and by this time, it's dark. Celeste is practically skipping as we cruise up the street, passing two other bars and a restaurant as we aim for the new place. It's got an old-fashioned neon sign out front featuring the word ARABESQUE above a martini glass and a woman's bright red mouth puckered for a kiss.

“Wow. Arabesque. Gotta be the first time anyone in Quinville ever said the word,” I observe.

“Don't be snarky,” Celeste says. “Though, I have to admit, the first time I heard someone pronounce it, she called it Ara-bes-kyoo. Took me forever to figure out what she meant.”

I'm still giggling as we arrive at the door, where there are two guys sitting on tall stools taking cover money and stamping hands with special ink. Apparently Celeste knows one of them—young, long-haired, with the kind of dreamy looks you see in models on romance books—because she exclaims, “Marcus!” and instantly starts flirting. Using one hand to dig for my wallet, I hold out my other hand to the second attendant so he can stamp it.

“Have to see your ID first,” he says. “Sorry.”

I look up at him, laughing again. “Really? No, I'm flattered.”

He laughs back. He has a round baby face that looks made for smiling and big dark eyes filled with bright curiosity. He's seated, so it's hard to tell, but I'd guess he's six-one or six-two, kind of bulky, a big guy who probably has to work at it to stay in shape now that he's edging out of his twenties. Probably doubles as the bouncer, since the slimmer, prettier Marcus doesn't look like he has the body strength to throw someone out into the street.

“We're supposed to card anyone who's under thirty,” he says.

“Okay, so now I'm not as flattered,” I say, handing over a five dollar bill and my license.

He takes them both but doesn't look at either. He's tilted his head to one side, assessing me. “I'd say—twenty-five,” he estimates.

“Dead on the money,” I admit. “Do you guess height and weight, too?”

He's grinning again. “No. I don't want people looking at
me
and saying, ‘I bet that porker weighs four hundred pounds.'”

“Surely it's more like two twenty,” I say before I can stop myself.

He looks impressed. “Pretty close.”

“I work with animals. I've gotten used to guessing weight just by looking. Well, I can do it with live creatures. I can't look at a
car
and know how much it weighs.”

“What kind of work do you do with animals?”

I glance at Celeste, but she's deep in conversation with Marcus, and no one has lined up behind us, so there's no reason to stop talking to the bouncer. “I'm a vet.”
Sort of.

“Here in Quinville? I've been looking for a place to take my dog.”

“Well, I'm kind of on the fringes of Quinville. Off W a ways. What kind of dog?”

“Black lab. Her name's Jezebel.”

“What's wrong with her?”

“Maybe only that she's ten years old.”

I nod sympathetically. “Yeah. You know, ten years—that's a long time for a big dog. So she's slowing down? Anything else?”

He nods. The round face looks briefly sad. “She limps a little, like her back leg hurts. Maybe she has arthritis.”

“Maybe. Or a torn ACL.”

“Like football players get?”

“Pretty much.”

“Would you be willing to take a look at her?” he asks.

“Sure, but there are plenty of places here in town. I mean—where've you taken her before? I assume you
have
kept her rabies shots up to date?”

“Yeah, but I just moved to Quinville about a year ago, and I didn't like the first vet we tried. He was kind of—” The bouncer shrugs. “He made me wonder why he wanted to be a vet, to tell you the truth. Didn't seem to like animals much.”

“You do wonder sometimes why people choose their professions,” I agree. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Celeste rest a hand on Marcus's shoulder. It looks like a good-bye gesture, so I assume she's about concluded her conversation. “I guess you better stamp my hand so I can go in,” I say.

“Gotta double-check first,” the bouncer replies, flicking on a little flashlight so he can study my license. “Looks like you're of legal age— Karadel? That's your name? Wow, never heard that one before.”

“My grandmothers were named Karen and Adele, so it's not quite as exotic as it sounds at first,” I reply.

“I like it. It's pretty. I'm just Joe.”

“Nice to meet you, Joe,” I say, and hold my hand out. He carefully inks the back with a stamp that features a bold A in the center of some swirly vines. “Will this glow in the dark?”

He grins. “I don't know. I never bothered trying it on myself.”

Celeste is beside me, nudging me toward the door. “Enough chatting. Let's go in and get a drink.”

Absurdly, I give Joe a little wave as we walk off, and he waves back. Celeste leans close enough to whisper in my ear. “See? That red shirt is magic. He liked your boobs.”

“And here I thought it was my sparkling personality.”

“Boobs
always
make a personality more sparkling.”

The interior of Arabesque is a pretty standard urban bar scene—dark walls, dark flooring, dramatic lighting, but not enough of it, a lot of tables clustered together along the walls and in the middle of the room. There's a serving bar on one wall and a low stage in back, with a sizable dance floor right in front of it. The band is still setting up, which means we can actually hear ourselves speak, at least for the moment.

“A couple of my friends are meeting us here, I figured that was okay,” Celeste tells me as she pauses to let her eyes adjust so she can look around.

“Gee, kind of late to tell me if it
wasn't
okay.”

“Comma, bitch,” she adds.

I laugh. “But, sure, I don't mind.
Tus amigos son mis amigos.
”

That's not really true. I've met a bunch of Celeste's friends and found them all fairly shallow and interchangeable—pretty, empty-headed twentysomethings who share apartments and hold meaningless jobs and spend most of their time talking about the drinking they're going to do on the weekend. Seriously, I once had the most excruciating conversation with a girl named Tiffie who literally could not think of anything to ask me except where I liked to party. When I apologetically replied that I didn't get a chance to party very often, she said, “But which do you like better? Black Market or Galaxy? The mixed drinks are better at Galaxy, I think, but they have better music at Black Market.” I had no reply for this, so I just started asking her stupid questions:
Who's your favorite band? Do you ever get a chance to go to St. Louis or Springfield? What bars do you go to?
I had never felt so old in my life.

I don't see Tiffie at the table where Celeste eventually steers me, though the three girls sitting there could be her spiritual sisters. They're all slim and blond, dressed like Celeste in strappy little tops that look too small for them and cropped jeans that hug their boyish hips. They greet both of us happily and I give everyone the broadest smile I can summon, since I don't want to spoil anyone's mood, but I'm already sorry I'm here. I don't know these people, I don't like these people, I have nothing in common with these people, and I am a dead bore. I'd rather be back on the property mucking out dog cages.

“What do you want to drink?” one of the girls asks. “We just ordered another pitcher and a couple more glasses.”

“Beer is good for now,” Celeste says, and I nod. I don't plan to drink enough for it to make a difference.

“So how are you doing, girlfriend?” one of the other blondes asks Celeste. “We missed you Saturday night!”

Saturday night. When she was out at my place, watching DVDs with Alonzo, and never once complaining about what she might be missing back in town. Celeste doesn't even glance at me to see my contrite expression.

“Doing great. Ready to start
dancing
,” she says enthusiastically. “Anyone here we know?”

The blondes start reeling off names of the men they've spotted so far, one of whom I recognize as Celeste's most recent ex, then the waitress arrives with a foamy pitcher of beer and some fresh glasses.

“Let me get this one,” I say, because I feel like I should contribute
something
to the evening and I don't figure I'll be drinking much from later pitchers. I ask the waitress, “Could we have, like, pretzels or chips, too?”

“Sure,” she says. “Be right back.”

But she hasn't returned yet when the band members hit their first noisy chords and suddenly we're assaulted by a wall of music. One of the blondes starts dancing in her chair, shimmying her shoulders and moving her hips, but I don't recognize the song. Celeste leans over to shout something in the ear of one of her other friends, and I take a long, long pull on my beer.

It's going to be an endless night.

I know the second number, though, CeeLo Green's “Fuck You,” and Celeste turns to me in delight. It's our current favorite song, the one we play for each other when we're feeling down, so we both jump up and sashay to the dance floor. This early in the night, not many people are dancing and most of them are women, but the upbeat rhythm of the song shoves any thought of embarrassment right out of my head.

I don't know what it is about music. I can be in the most forbidding, curmudgeonly of moods; I can be feeling withdrawn, awkward, socially inept, despairing of ever connecting with another human being. And then a certain song starts playing and I just toss aside all inhibitions and go boogying across the floor. I don't care if I look stupid, I don't care what people think about me. I just dance.

One of Celeste's old boyfriends told me that he'd learned a long time ago that the women who were the most outrageous dancers tended to be the most inventive in bed. I think he was hitting on me; I was never sure. At any rate, he was still dating Celeste, so I didn't follow up. I always wondered if he'd have still believed his theory if we'd ever been lovers.

“Fuck You” is followed by a few other upbeat tunes, so I start to feel fairly happy, even when the blondes join us. Some guy I've never seen before snakes through the people on the dance floor to tap Celeste on the shoulder. She spins around, cries out in delight, and gives him a hug, then the two of them immediately start dancing at each other in a highly suggestive fashion. I grin and push my hair out of my face. When this song ends, I wave at the others and wind my way back to our table to finish my beer.