by Eden Winters
“Convention?”
“Yeah, every year the small animal, nonpredator organizations meet to keep up with who’s where, who’s in command, and to work out swaps. The ‘furry’ movement provides us excellent cover. Before they came into play, we had to be more discreet.” She sopped up a blob of barbeque sauce with a roll and popped it into her mouth. “Nothing like a group of grown men dressing as animals to help us blend in.”
“What do you mean ‘swaps’?” The last thing Seth wanted to hear about was some kind of kinky wife-swapping venture.
“It’s a gene-pool thing. If we have too many single ladies, and another town has bachelors out the ying yang, we’ll issue an invitation for outsiders to join us, or vice versa. Kinda like a huge annual shifter mixer. But it’s not just a singles’ club. Say you got a good strong leader type in an area that has plenty, and you’re lacking leadership in another. You can find candidates at the cons. Turtletown up north of us found their last leader at a con.”
“You said the passel didn’t like outsiders.”
“We’re a bit exclusive, I’m afraid, but that’s not the same everywhere. Others view diversity as progress and a way to exchange ideas. Anyway, our vet met his wife at a convention, though typically foxes throw in with the predators.”
The only convention Seth ever attended was Comic-Con. What kind of exhibits and lectures would he find at a shifter con? “Burr Removal Made Easy”? “Hiding in Plain Sight, Level One”? “What groups come to the convention, if not predators?”
“Skunks, rabbits, raccoons, squirrels, us. Occasionally the chipmunks send delegates. The reptiles have their own get-togethers.”
“Wow! Reptile conventions? Cool!”
“We’re a well-kept secret. And we need to stay under wraps. Now, the next convention is in Anaheim—Oh, eat up.” She tipped a few more ribs onto Seth’s plate. “Full moon tonight. You’re gonna need your strength.”
Seth stood on the front porch, fully naked. Over the rise, he sensed humans and possums, the possum number rising and the human falling as the townsfolk assumed animal form. In their midst, fighting for control, stood Dustin. Seth’s heart lurched. No blood sang in his veins like Monica said it would, no tingling toes heralded a change. He tipped his face up at the sky, a lone tear sliding down his face. It wasn’t meant to be. He’d let the family down.
“I’m sorry, Seth. I can’t hold on any longer.” Monica sat on the lawn one moment, her possum alter ego replacing her in the twinkling of an eye.
Folding himself down on the top step, Seth wrapped his arms around his knees. How he’d hoped to finally find a place where he fit. Was he destined to remain on the outside looking in forever?
Dustin wandered the edge of the yard, furry mind filled with human sympathy.
“But I wanted to be a possum tonight!” Seth screamed at the fickle moon. One moment later, he was.
Night sounds Seth normally took for granted sharpened, and he wondered if real possums appreciated the difference. Wait! He wondered! He did a happy little possum flip, if somewhat awkwardly. He wondered! He had his human mind! On the edges of his consciousness, Dustin and Monica conversed before Dustin shrank back into the shadows, apparently satisfied. Monica hunkered down a few yards away, wary eyes sweeping the yard.
Chirp, chirp! What the hell was that? Seth scuttled around, searching the grass for whatever produced cheeping to give a foghorn a run for its money, volume-wise. Chirp, chirp. A fat cricket sat a few feet away, singing to lure a prospective mate. Seth stared at the angular, skinny legs, only one thought in his head: Yummy! He pounced, as much as his cumbersome body allowed, catching the cricket unawares. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Oh! Like potato chips! Also like potato chips, one simply wasn’t enough.
Seth spotted another cricket and wobbled over, filling his mouth before his prey hopped away. Stupid cricket. The third and fourth proved equally easy.
I am the crickinator! Seth considered simply opening his mouth and ambling the length of the yard, scooping up insects like a whale netting plankton.
Eventually his seemingly bottomless belly filled, and he experimented with his new body. Locomotion wasn’t a problem if he simply moved without trying to figure out the mechanics. However, the moment he became aware of having four feet to contend with, he stumbled and fell. Should he place the two on the right in tandem, or right front, back left? Splat!
A chittering sounded in the general direction of Monica. Did possums laugh?
Oh! Worm! Seth pounced, squealing when his teeth sank into his own tail. Ow! That hurt!
After a while, he grew sleepy and headed for the house. He bumped his nose on the bottom step. How the hell did they get so high? Bouncing his front end lifted his paws an inch off the ground. He bounced again, and again, only succeeding in wearing himself out.
When he’d reached the point of giving up, Monica took pity and led him around the side of the house and underneath. An intricate possum highway existed under the structure, constructed of two by fours and sheet metal. On and on they rambled, entering walls and finally coming out under the bathroom sink.
Weary now, Seth slothed to his bedroom, where he plopped down on the area rug by his bed.
He awoke to sunlight streaming through the window, itchy possum hairs scratching his bare human skin, and the icky sensation that something had crawled into his mouth and died. Wait a minute. It had. Several things, actually. Something scratchy hung from his lip and he wiped it away, only to come away with a cricket leg clinging to his hand. Yuck. Cricket.
Seth slurped his second cup of coffee in a feeble attempt to clear the ick from his mouth. He peeled open one bleary eye to stare at Monica. “You didn’t sleep with me, did you?”
Monica snorted into her coffee. “Of course not! I slept in my bed.”
Bed? “How the hell did you get in a bed? They’re too damned high.”
“Didn’t you notice how your aunt kept a chair by every bed? You simply climb the rungs, jump to the mattress and tuck yourself in. Umm… in case you didn’t know, possums are natural climbers.” She narrowed her eyes, staring at Seth with faux concern. “Awww… did the widdle possum s’eep on the cold, hard floor last night ’cause he couldn’t get into his big, high bed?”
Not feeling particularly mature at the moment, Seth unwrapped one hand from around his coffee cup to flip her off.
She laughed. “You realize what you did last night, right?”
He shot her a “well, duh!” expression, which sapped his remaining energy—he dropped his head to the kitchen table with a bang.
“He didn’t change until the last of the passel did,” supplied a welcome voice from behind. Summoning the few remaining ounces of his strength, Seth lifted his head a fraction and swiveled around to the new arrival. Dustin stood barefoot and bare-chested in the doorway, clad in faded blue jeans, thin spots and holes showing in strategic areas. Even exhausted, Seth found the peek-a-boo display of skin fascinating.
“I fought to hang on, hoping to witness Seth’s first transformation,” Dustin said as he crossed to the coffeepot and helped himself to a cup. “I finally couldn’t control the change any longer. The moment I dropped my guard, bang! there you went. Tell me, were you fighting half as hard as I was?”
Fighting? “No. When I’d finally accepted it wasn’t happening, wham! I’m a possum.”
Dustin leaned down, searching Seth’s eyes. “Any disorientation? Headache? Nausea?”
Seth shook his head, stopping when the motion made the room spin. “Only due to cricket overload. I’m tired and swimmy-headed.”
Both Dustin and Monica’s eyebrows shot up toward their hairlines. “That’s all?”
“Yeah.”
Dustin’s wide-eyed surprise met Monica’s in a silent exchange Seth worried might be some form of telepathy. He slurped coffee in retaliation for them ignoring him. Was he supposed to have to fight, get headaches, and nausea? Maybe he should rethink that whole “living up to the family name” thing.
&nbs
p; “This is un-freaking-believable,” Monica murmured.
“What?”
Dustin plopped down in a chair across the table, staring at Seth like some fascinating circus attraction. “Irene didn’t have to fight. The moment the last person under her care turned, so did she. If I were meant to lead, remaining in human form, on guard, would be second nature. It’s not. If I took over now it might be years before shifting last comes naturally, if ever. Dude, you are the man, literally.”
A faint stirring of hope wriggled to life in Seth’s heart. “Does that mean Junior can’t challenge me?”
“No. He still can, but being top dog, um… possum, won’t come easy as long as you’re around.”
“Are you saying I’ll be okay if I go back to She-car… Chicago?” He shot Monica a dirty look for corrupting his vocabulary.
She ignored him to pick up the tale. “I’m not sure you should. In the past, I’ve heard of McDaniel wives who’ve carried out the duties for the Jack while husbands fought in wars. While the rightful Jack is alive, however, the designated leader senses them. In fact, one such lady experienced a sudden increase in ability the instant her husband died in combat thousands of miles away.”
“What now?” Seth scrubbed his hands over his face, suddenly even more tired.
“Now we get you ready to face the next full moon. Dustin had three cycles to name Irene’s successor. We’ve passed two. In just shy of a month, it’ll be time.”
“What do I have to do?” Was there a rule book somewhere Seth should be reading? Shapeshifting 101? Or maybe, Werepossum Culture Volume One?
Dustin answered him this time. “First, make sure the people know who you are, what you stand for, and why you’re the only rightful choice. Your family resemblance will go a long way toward ensuring your acceptance.”
Seth gave Dustin all the scowl he could manage to muster in his worn-out state. “Are you talkin’ ’bout my nose? ’Cause let me tell you, I got enough grief about my nose in grade school.” He passed a hand over his prodigious sniffer.
“I like your nose,” Dustin inclined his head to say, eyes crinkling at the corners. He leaned across the table and planted a kiss on the McDaniel family legacy.
“Alright, lovebirds, enough kissy-face.” Monica slammed her cup down. “Seth holds a legitimate claim, but still can’t be seen to be playing favorites between you and Junior. Dustin, between the two of us, we have to make sure he captures the hearts and minds of the townsfolk.”
Seth wrenched his attention away from Dustin’s suggestive gaze and the promises it held for later. “I thought all I had to do was fight Junior and win.”
“Seth, what century are you living in?” Monica gave him “are you serious?” glare. It wasn’t pretty. “Everything’s political now, and we’re off to do a little politicking.”
“Damn, I have to post flyers and stuff envelopes after all, don’t I?” Seth groaned, recalling his earlier misconception of what Junior wanted of him. Now, however, instead of Junior’s smiling face and a “Vote for Me!” slogan, Seth saw his own somewhat bewildered expression and “Vote for Me… Please!”
“We’ll stuff envelopes in the nude,” Dustin promised.
The clothes on Seth’s image on the imaginary flyers fell off.
Chapter 19
“Okay. First thing you gotta learn is the secret handshake.”
“The secret what?” Seth stared at Monica. Was she kidding, not that he’d ever seen her kidding before? Or had he?
“The secret handshake.” She approached, hand outstretched, a twitch at the corner of her mouth the equivalent of a caution flag.
After wiping his sweaty palm on his gym shorts, Seth slowly, slowly, brought his hand up toward the woman he half expected to pull some kind of kung fu move, leaving him sprawled on his ass. Particularly when they now stood in the barn, where she’d insisted they spread a layer of hay as padding before beginning Seth’s training.
“Now,” she explained, “the extra something the virus provides that allows us to shift gives off energy. That, along with a slight change to your natural scent, is how the folks in town can tell you’re now a jack.” Did she add “ass” or was that Seth’s imagination? “The stronger the energy, the more respect you’ll get from the passel. Remember how the Johnson boys toed the line in the grocery store? Well, they didn’t want to be on the receiving end of another jolt from me.”
“You’re going to shock me?” Seth jerked his hand back, cradling the appendage against his chest.
Monica’s lip twitching grew more pronounced. “Nothing that will do permanent damage, and like shifting at will, you can learn to control the amount of power, hide it if necessary, or amp it up to warn an enemy, though you seem to have inherited a natural shield. A minimal dose of shifter mojo is like taking a hit of some really good shit for these people, if that’s what you intend. Or you can deliver a hard swat, like I do occasionally to the triplets. Wins them over, or keeps ’em in line, depending on what’s needed. Now, quit being a wuss and give me your hand. I want you to concentrate, focus inward on your animal. He knows where the energy lives and will help you find it.”
This couldn’t possibly be a good idea. Seth raised his hand, mentally poking at his inner marsupial. It growled, rolled over, and hissed, Go away! I’m sleeping.
Monica rolled her eyes. “You’re the host body, your animal is a symbiont. You’re the boss.”
Seth poked again, harder this time. Yeah, yeah, yadda, yadda, his inner beast seemed to say, yawning and stretching a many-toothed mouth wide. A sensation began in his fingers and toes and moved inward, a mass influx of raw power. Every hair on his body stood on end.
“Good, good.” Monica nodded encouragement. “Now, concentrate that power to your hand.”
Imagining a movie poster he’d seen of Iron Man, Seth shoved the tingling sensations toward one palm. Confidence surged through him, and he no longer hesitated to slap his palm against his teacher’s.
The smirk left Monica’s face. She sailed backward, smacking into a stack of hay bales. The hay tumbled to the ground. One long braid stuck out from beneath the pile.
“Monica! Monica! Are you all right?” Seth flew across the barn, grabbing bales and flinging them aside. Dear God, let him not have killed the woman.
Monica lay flat on her back, staring at the rafters. “Holy shit!” A dazed grin split her face. “I can’t wait to see the sparks fly when you hit Junior!”
They practiced a few more times, until Monica stumbled out of the barn. “Okay, enough for one day.”
Was she drooling a little? Seth swore the tips of her braids smoldered.
She gave him a coy smile and approached her truck. “One more for the road?” She held out her hand. Had she forgotten she was staying at the farmhouse?
Daaaaammmmmn!
“I thought you said we were going to work out.” Seth shot a puzzled glance from the fallen tree to the ax slung over Monica’s shoulder. Dressed in a red flannel shirt with the sleeves ripped out and overalls with only one gallus fastened, she could have posed for a certain paper towel maker should they ever feel the need to be more inclusive in their advertising.
“This is a better workout than any gym machine can give, plus you’ll be killing two birds with one stone.”
Personally, Seth held firmly to a motto of “live and let live” when it came to bird killing, but he’d keep his mouth shut, particularly when Monica hefted a weapon capable of dismembering errant teens in horror flicks.
“Put your gloves on.”
Seth obeyed, choosing to pick his battles. Dustin trusted Monica to teach Seth the ins and outs of shifter-hood, though how chopping wood related to turning furry he hadn’t yet worked out.
“Swing with your shoulders, but take the hit in your arms. You don’t want to jar your back.” She demonstrated, neatly cleaving a limb from the tree.
Seth winced in sympathy for the poor tree. Monica swung the ax easily and with deft precision. Exactly how
much practice had she had, and on what… or whom?
“Here, you try.” She handed over the ax.
Seth raised the weapon of moss destruction over his shoulder, baseball-bat fashion, hoping he’d still have all his toes at the end of the day. He brought the blade crashing down. The head bit into the tree trunk, wedging in deep. Shock waves traveled up his arms and into his shoulders. “Oh shit!” He released the handle and attempted to shake sensation back into his fingers and arms.
“Don’t aim for the middle. That’s what a chainsaw’s for. Instead, hack the limbs off.”
Seth pulled and pulled, but the ax wouldn’t give up its hold on the tree. Monica snorted and lent her substantial strength to the effort. The ax jerked free, nearly sending them both tumbling to the ground.
Monica wrapped her arms around Seth, guiding the next chopping motion, and together they neatly liberated a limb from the tree. “Perfect!” Monica exclaimed. “Once you’ve chopped the limbs off, cut them into pieces about fifteen to eighteen inches long.”
Seth couldn’t figure out whether to exult at the praise or be pissed with himself for seeking this woman’s approval. It was as though Monica somehow channeled his aunt’s spirit, and by pleasing Monica, he might win his late aunt’s “atta boy.”
His self-styled tutor wrested the decision from his grasp. “I’ll be back in a few hours to check your progress. Have fun!”
Leaving Seth no time to react, Monica hopped into her truck and scratched tires out of the field, pissing him off beyond reason. He took his frustrations out on the tree.
Monica returned two hours later, bearing a jug of sweet tea and a smile. A pile of chopped wood sat beside a tree trunk now devoid of any limbs. “Now, let’s go win over one of Junior’s strongest supporters, who’d probably issue a challenge herself if she weren’t too old. Help me load the truck.” It seemed “help” actually meant, “You load the truck while I supervise.”
