The Turning Season

  “He’s going to be pretty needy for the next few days,” I warn. “He’ll be lonely. I hope Jezebel is patient with him.”

  “Yeah, he might make her crazy,” Joe says. “But I’ve been thinking. I have a couple of short runs down to southern Illinois next week. Maybe I could take him with me.”

  I’m not positive. “You might have to make a lot of stops. Let him run off some energy and do his business.”

  Joe shrugs. “Mark’s paying me by the trip, not the time, so I can stop as often as I like. And there’s a fair number of rest areas along the way. I think I’ll try it at least once and see how it goes.”

  The afternoon sun is dropping closer to the horizon and bathing the whole property in gold. The air is unseasonably warm today, but you can feel the chill lurking in the shadows—autumn waiting to pounce the minute you turn your back.

  “Want something to drink?” I say. “Water, soda, beer? Something to eat?”

  “A beer would be nice,” he decides. “Maybe some chips. But it’s too nice to go inside.”

  “Be right back.”

  A few minutes later, I’ve brought out a tray bearing snacks for all of us. I toss rawhide bones to the dogs and hand Joe a beer, keeping a single-serving margarita bottle for myself.

  “This is the life,” Joe says, knocking his bottle against mine and taking a long satisfied drag. “You must love it out here.”

  “I do. But sometimes I’m overwhelmed.”

  “Really? By what?”

  I make a broad gesture to include the whole property. “Sometimes there’s more than I can handle. I mean, not just making sure all the animals are fed and cared for, but maintaining the property, too. Keeping the barn painted. Keeping the sump pump working. Changing the furnace filter. Just—everyday stuff, but there’s a lot of it.”

  “You need a handyman.”

  “Yeah, I’ve thought that more than once! Alonzo comes out and works here a couple of weekends a month. Daniel—I told you about him, he lives down the road—sometimes he’ll swing by and do some work. And I manage. Some days better than others.”

  He lifts his shoulders in a slight shrug. “I’m pretty handy. Tell me a couple of the projects you really want done, and I can come out some weekend and help you with them.”

  “Well, that would be awfully nice of you,” I say. “But I don’t think I know you well enough to take advantage of you.”

  That makes him grin. “Maybe that’s the best way to get to know people,” he suggests. “By seeing how they react when you try to take advantage of them.”

  I laugh. “Oh, so now you’re thinking of ways to take advantage of me so you can find out what I’m really like?”

  “No, I think I’ll try to find other ways of getting to the real you. The Karadel at the core.”

  It’s ever so slightly alarming to think that he might find out who I really am. “Well, I hope you like her when you find her,” is all I say.

  He shifts a little on the bench and seems to be shifting the topic as well. “I think I’ll like her but I’m not sure she’ll like me in a minute,” he says ruefully.

  I draw back a bit so I can bestow a mock frown on him. “And what terrible deed have you done that’s going to turn me against you?”

  “I’m going to be gone next weekend.”

  “I hardly think I’m entitled to demand that you see me every weekend—”

  “Because I’m going bowhunting with a couple of friends,” he adds.

  “Oh.”

  “Just going to bring down my one deer and get it dressed and then freeze it and eat it, every bit of it,” he goes on in a rush. “It’s no worse than eating a cow, it really isn’t. Or a chicken. And I know it disgusts you and maybe I shouldn’t do it if I want you to like me, but I—”

  I fling out a hand. “You’re absolved. This is part of who you are. As long as you commit to eating the game you hunt, I won’t hold the hunting against you. Though you’d better not ever, ever ask me to go with you,” I can’t help adding.

  “Yeah, that didn’t even occur to me.”

  “So you’ll be gone all weekend?”

  He shakes his head. “Coaching Friday night again. We’ll go out Saturday morning, probably come back Saturday evening if I get my deer. My buddies might stay out through Sunday, so I figured I’d take my own truck so I can drive back when I want.” He glances over at me. “So maybe I could drop by on Sunday, if you were free.”

  “Maybe,” I agree. I’m still wondering when my next transformation will hit—surely within the next week—and I hesitate to make too many plans. “Celeste mentioned some barbecue in the park thing she might want to drag me to, so call before you come out. Or I’ll text you if I won’t be around.”

  “Sounds good,” he says. “Though you want to be careful at those barbecues.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Probably a lot of single guys looking to hook up with pretty girls. You just never know what kind of line they’re going to hand you.”

  I grin. “Okay. I won’t flirt with anyone. If someone tries to hit on me, I’ll just give them a cold stare, like this”—I demonstrate—“and they’ll leave me alone.”

  “Unless you meet someone who seems really great,” he allows. “Unless you meet the perfect guy.”

  “Hmm,” I say. “I’d have to think that over. I’m not sure exactly what I would consider perfect in a guy.”

  “Well, what sorts of attributes are you looking for? What kind of man do you want to be with?”

  The answer is on my lips before I have time to think it over. “Someone who makes me feel safe.”

  He’s silent so long that I think it might have been a stupid answer. I risk a sideways look at his face and observe, “You’ve gotten all quiet. Did that sound weird?”

  “I can’t decide between two things to say in response.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  He spreads his hands as if to draw attention to himself. “I’m a big strong guy. I know how to handle myself in a fight and I’m pretty good with a couple different kinds of weapons. I could probably keep you safe.”

  My face burns because, of course, I realized all that as soon as I made the remark. “And the other one?”

  He angles his head to look down at me. His expression is worried. “What are you afraid of?”

  Now I feel my shoulders hunch with tension, but I don’t look away. “I’m not afraid of anything,” I say quietly. “But there are times I just want to—lay the burdens on somebody else’s shoulders for a while.” I gesture toward the rest of the property, the barns, the corrals, the trailers, the acres that I have already indicated are sometimes too much for me. “Sometimes I feel like I’m responsible for too many other lives. What if I stumble? Who takes care of me? I know that sounds selfish.”

  “‘Selfish’ isn’t really a word that comes to mind when I think about you.”

  I take a deep breath. Might as well say all of it, since I’m embarrassing myself with so much honesty. “And then there’s Ryan,” I add.

  “What about him?”

  “When we were dating. He was—he is—there’s always a lot of excitement around him. He made me feel—fluttery. But I never felt safe. I always felt that at any moment everything could blow up in some spectacular fashion.” I pause, then add in a rush, “Though to be fair, it never did. So I might not have had a reason to feel that way.”

  Joe’s expression is neutral, but I think I can read behind the mask. He’s only encountered Ryan in tangents—that night at Arabesque, that afternoon when he arrived as Ryan was leaving—but somehow I think Joe’s conceived a dislike of him. “If that’s the way you feel, that’s the way you feel,” he says. “Doesn’t sound like he’s the right guy for you.”

  “No,” I say on a sigh. “I came to that conclusion myself.” I make an
effort to lighten my voice. “So what about you?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t think Ryan’s the right guy for me, either.”

  I’m tricked into a laugh. “No, I mean—your perfect woman. What would she be like?”

  “She’d be happy I was in her life.”

  I wait, but he doesn’t add anything. “That’s it? That’s a pretty low bar.”

  He grins. “You know, I don’t think my ex-wife ever was that happy about me. I think at the beginning she thought she could make me over into someone more like she pictured. When it turned out I was too hard to change—”

  “Too much of a lump.”

  He nods. “I just made her miserable. I remember coming home one day, a little earlier than she expected. She had some music on and she was dancing across the living room, laughing and shaking her butt. She saw me and all the joy went out of her face. I said, ‘Hey, I like to dance! Let’s put on some more albums!’ but she just shook her head and turned off the stereo. I think that’s when I knew we’d gone too far down that road to ever get back.”

  The story has sad little hands that twine around my heart and give it a hard twist. I slip my fingers around his wrist. “Hey, I like to dance,” I whisper, standing up and tugging him to his feet. “Let’s put on some albums.”

  * * *

  Joe stays pretty late, but he doesn’t spend the night. We dance for a while, fast music, then slow. We sit on the couch and make out for even longer. At one point, he’s sitting there with his head thrown back against the couch cushions; I’m kneeling with my legs on either side of his, leaning in to kiss him, my hands on his cheeks.

  I pull back just enough to whisper, “I’m not going to sleep with you.”

  “Ever?” he whispers back, barely opening his eyes.

  I giggle. “Tonight. Just so you know. Takes the pressure off, don’t you think?”

  “I wouldn’t have phrased it quite that way,” he answers, which makes me giggle again.

  “Sometime,” I add. “I think. But tonight is too soon.” I kiss him again. “This is good, though.”

  His arms rise to wrap around me and draw me into a bone-cracking hug. “This is wonderful.”

  It’s not that far from midnight before he finally groans, heaves himself to his feet, and says he has to go. Jinx has fallen asleep next to Scottie on the living room rug, but he’s quick to rouse and offer to play. We both laugh, but I feel like crying again as I see both of them to the truck. Ridiculous to feel bereft and abandoned since I was trying to get rid of Jinx and I defined my boundaries for Joe. But I do. Once they’re both settled in the front seat, I lean in through the window to give Joe another kiss good-bye.

  “See you next week,” he says. “Remember what I said about those barbecues.”

  That makes me laugh, so I’m smiling as his headlights cut a thin swath of brightness through the absolute dark that crouches all around my property, just outside the reach of my house lights. But I’m depressed as I hurry back inside, and I can’t shake off the mood as I brush my teeth and change into pj’s and climb into bed. Scottie has followed me into my room, and I invite him to sleep at the foot of the bed, something I rarely do. But he makes me feel less alone. Less like the world is a big, empty echoing place and the sound of my voice cannot reach any other living creature.

  * * *

  Monday isn’t much fun. Three clients arrive before noon, and although I need the business and I like their animals, I’m tired as hell and it takes a supreme effort to give them the attention they deserve.

  I do spend a little more time with the last client of the morning, a long-haired Maine coon cat in calico colors. She’s brought in by an older woman named Patti who’s always collecting strays. “She hangs around the back porch a couple of weeks at a time, but she won’t come in the house,” Patti tells me. “She seems so tame, and she’s so gentle I even let Hayley hold her, but she is definitely an outdoor cat.”

  What she definitely is is a shape-shifter. You wouldn’t know it by the incarnation, which is perfect to the last detail, but I read the truth in the flecked amber eyes fixed unwaveringly on my face. In this form, she seems to be about eight or nine years old; in her human shape, my guess is she’s in her late thirties or early forties. Starting to slow down a little as age or the wear and tear of transformation catch up with her. Probably has been used to foraging for herself but is starting to find the wild life a little too difficult, so she’s looking around for a more permanent situation.

  I wonder where she lives when she’s human. If she’s in cat shape for weeks at a time, maybe she’s not human very often or very long.

  “Definitely an outdoor cat,” I agree. “I wouldn’t try to make her an indoor cat after all this time. She’d probably be miserable—start peeing on the beds and the carpets. Maybe even stop eating.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want that!”

  “People think it’s a kindness to try to domesticate animals that have lived in the wild, but sometimes it isn’t,” I add. “It works for some of them, don’t get me wrong, but at her age—” I shake my head. “I wouldn’t risk it.”

  “What should I do, then?”

  “I’ll check her out, give her all her shots, make sure she’s healthy. And I’d suggest you bring her back every year for a check-up. But other than that, I’d say just do what you’re doing. Feed her. Give her water. When it gets cold out, make up a bed for her outside, or put a cat door in the garage if you’d rather. She’ll be fine.”

  Patti’s hands are stroking the gorgeous multicolored fur, and a low purr rises from the examining table. “Should I put a collar on her? With her rabies tags? So people know she’s not a stray?”

  The purr abruptly stops. Most cat collars today have safety features that make them ridiculously easy to unsnap, but Patti seems like the type to have a few old-school buckle collars lying around. I take a moment to imagine the terror of transforming to human stage with a small leather tourniquet strapped around your throat. Would you choke to death before your hands were fully formed enough for you to rip away the collar? “Honestly, I wouldn’t bother,” I say. “She’d probably spend every waking minute trying to get it off, and she’d probably succeed. Just seems like a waste of money.”

  “That’s kind of what I was thinking,” Patti says. “But I didn’t want to seem cheap.”

  I can hardly restrain my laughter when the cat starts purring again.

  Finally, Patti and her unconventional pet depart, and I have time to devour a quick lunch. Ryan arrives about twenty minutes later, looking unexpectedly sexy in a tight black T-shirt and snug black jeans. His fair hair is tousled, as if he went to bed as late as I did and hasn’t had time to shower today, and he hasn’t bothered shaving, either. Combine this unkempt look with the bandage still wrapped around his right hand and he projects an aura of attractive menace.

  “You look like you’ve had a rough few days,” I greet him sympathetically. “Did something happen? I mean, other than getting shot at?”

  He slouches at my kitchen table and guzzles a cola as if it’s the first sustenance he’s had for days. “Trouble sleeping,” he says. “I stay up too late doing work stuff, then I can’t get up in the mornings, so I drink too much caffeine so I can function, then I don’t want to go to bed at night.”

  I sit across from him at the table. “Can you take a couple of days off? Kind of get back into a normal cycle again?”

  He gives me a faint grin. “I don’t want to take a couple of days off. I wish I could just give up sleeping altogether. It annoys me that I can’t.”

  “That’s my Ryan,” I say. It occurs to me that he’s lying about the caffeine and that he might be using some more powerful stimulant to stay awake and focused. If he is, he clearly doesn’t want to admit to it, so I don’t ask.

  “I’ll be fine,” he adds.

  “How are you doing wi
th the serum?”

  “Great. Works like a charm. But it’s all gone now.”

  “Maybe that’s part of the problem,” I say. “Maybe your body needs to shift or it gets all out of whack. When’s the last time you changed?”

  He has to think about it. “Two weeks ago? It’s been fucking great.”

  The shape-shifter in me heartily endorses the sentiment, but the medical professional spots the flaw in the regimen. “Well, if you’ll pardon me for saying so, you don’t look great. Which you normally do. And if the only variable is the fact that you haven’t shifted, my advice would be to stop the injections for a few days, let your animal self come out, and see how you feel when you’re human again.”

  He gives me the bad-boy smile that has always been irresistible. To me, and to every other woman he ever met, I remind myself. “You think I usually look great?” he asks.

  “Wow, way to skip over the most important part of my speech.”

  He shrugs impatiently. “Maybe you’re right. I had the same thought. But there’s so much else to do and I don’t want to lose the two days and I—” He presses his lips together to force back the rest of the words. But it’s easy to fill in the blanks. And I don’t want to be a fucking shape-shifter to begin with.

  I stop myself before I make an offer I know I’d regret. You can stay out here while you shift if you want to. He used to do that pretty often—head to my place as soon as his body started tingling with the warning of transformation, spend a couple days with me in his animal incarnation, and then a couple of days in his human form. He did that even before we were lovers, though his stays in human shape were much briefer back then.

  I don’t know where he’s been going in the past few months when he feels the urge to shift, because there aren’t that many places in the city where it’s safe to suddenly be a fox or a hawk. Or that many places where it’s safe to leave the fancy convertible that you’ve driven to this theoretical haven.