by Jane Toombs
"Guy told me you had married his mother late in life," Sherman said after a short silence.
Dr. Kellogg straightened. "To get what you most desire, the secret is to never give up. Never. Keep that in mind, son."
After fifteen minutes, the doctor allowed Sherman to remove the garlic necklace, then made him strip and examined him from head to toe, As Sherman put on his clothes again, the doctor slipped a gold crucifix on a gold chain over his head.
"We'll see if this has any effect," he told Sherman. You're as healthy a man as I've ever seen. If you're wondering, everything inside you is in the right place and I couldn't detect anything extra. I already know you're taller and stronger than the average man and that you heal extraordinarily fast.
"One oddity is that both your forefingers are as long as your middle fingers. That's a quirk mentioned in one of the books--werewolves have long forefingers. In most humans
the middle finger's longer."
Sherman stared at his hands. He'd never noticed.
"That gold crucifix around your neck bothering you any?" the doctor asked.
Sherman touched the cross. "As far as the smell's concerned, I prefer it to the garlic. It doesn't bother me at all."
"Scratch off garlic and crucifixes then," the doctor muttered, making notes. "Let's try the silver amulet next." He picked up a silver chain with a four-leaf clover fashioned in silver. "Take off the cross and put this on."
Sherman fastened the chain at his nape. A moment later he ran a finger under the chain where it touched his skin. "Itches a bit," he said, moving his shoulders uneasily.
Dr. Kellogg's gaze assessed him. "You seem edgy."
"I feel like ripping the chain off."
"Ah. The silver bothers you, does it?" The doctor leaned closer. "Red welts. The book was right."
"Can I take it off?" Sherman asked, scratching his neck. As soon as the chain was removed, the welts faded and the itching subsided.
"Most interesting," Dr. Kellogg said. "The silver irritated your skin almost immediately as well as affecting your mood."
"I've handled silver knives and spoons when eating," Sherman said. "And silver coins."
"Did the palms of your hands itch afterwards?"
"I've had itchy palms from time to time but I never thought to connect it with handling silver."
"You will after today," the doctor predicted. "Are you willing to undergo a bit of pain?"
Sherman nodded and, at the doctor's request laid his arm on the table. He watched apprehensively as Dr. Kellogg picked up a scalpel. How far did the doctor intend to go in the interests of science?
Clenching his teeth against the momentary stinging, he held his arm steady as the doctor sliced into his forearm with the sharp blade, making two small parallel incisions. Blood ran down his arm and dripped onto the table. Holding the edges of the first incision apart, Dr. Kellogg eased the silver chain into the wound.
The first cut immediately began to throb and Sherman grunted as fiery pain shot up his arm. The bleeding, which had begun to ease, increased in the first cut but not the second.
Dr. Kellogg counted off a minute, then removed the chain. It took five minutes more for the painful throbbing to ease. At the end of a half-hour the second cut was all but healed while the first still gaped open, oozing a few drops of blood.
"Silver definitely slows down your ability to heal," Dr. Kellogg observed, scribbling in his notebook. "And I'd wager my last dollar that whatever's harmful to you is also harmful to the beast. Didn't you say you thought the beast had been shot at and wounded?"
"Yes, when it escaped from the Californios' pit. Its bullet wounds were still healing when I came to myself."
"He, Sherman, not it. The beast is a male, just as you are. Remember, I saw him."
Sherman grimaced. He'd feared the truth, so avoided thinking about it. He hadn't wanted to face the fact that the beast might mate at some time. But, God, with what? He shuddered.
"You're worrying that he might find a female some day?" Dr. Kellogg shook his head. "I can't say it's impossible
but I do believe it's unlikely. True, you're one but I'm not convinced shapeshifters abound.
"Let's get back to the bullets. I'm convinced the beast survived them because they were lead. If the bullets had been silver, as the books recommend for killing werewolves, you might not be sitting here now."
Sherman stared down at the two incisions. The second had closed but the first was still open, its edges an angry red. Because of the silver. If Don Rafael had known about silver bullets he undoubtedly would have used them against the beast. And killed him.
"Do you think what's in these books is common knowledge?" Sherman asked apprehensively.
"The books are little more than a compilation of old wives' tales. Folklore. The writers of the books heard the stories somewhere. I suspect that among the ignorant and superstitious tales of werewolves and vampires persist--as well as the remedies to use against them.
"Here in New Orleans, we have voodoo, practiced mainly by the Negroes but believed in to some extent by many Creoles. There's a tradition of shapeshifting in voodoo where the affected person changes into a snake. Is it true? Two days ago I'd have laughed at the question, but now--who knows? I have no idea how one could kill a man-snake but a voodooienne would be able to tell me. That's what I mean about folklore."
Distracted for a moment from the realization of his vulnerability to silver, Sherman asked, "What's a voodooienne?"
"A voodoo queen. Here in New Orleans she's usually a free woman of color, not a slave. She's exactly what the title implies, a queen to her followers, their conjurer of magic spells, mixer of powerful potions and seeress who looks into the future. She's respected, admired and feared."
Dr. Kellogg peered at the inflamed incision. "Looks nasty, doesn't it? Let's give the arm a good cleaning with soap and water."
The cut took two days to heal and left Sherman with a healthy respect for the dangers of silver in an open wound. Plus the understanding the beast was more vulnerable than he'd thought--if a hunter knew about silver bullets.
Whether it was the inflammation or being shut in the cellar away from the moon's rays or a combination of the two, he passed through the full of the moon without shifting.
Guy booked passage on Le Halbran, a ship sailing on the first of July and organized his farewell party for the last day of June. Since there was no way for Sherman to avoid attending, he patronized Guy's tailor, spending what seemed to him an inordinate amount of money for what Guy termed a frac--a frock coat--and trousers, both in sober black. When he wanted to choose a waistcoat as colorful as St. Vrains', Guy persuaded him to change to fawn.
"The frivolous doesn't suit you, mon ami," Guy insisted. "Always dress soberly to contrast with your immense vitality--you'll intrigue the women, if nothing else."
The night of the party, Sherman had no trouble finding a place on the dance card of any Creole belle he approached. When the lines formed for the quadrille, he maneuvered adequately, thanks to Guy's coaching, and also did well waltzing. He enjoyed holding one pretty, perfumed coquette after another in his arms--what man wouldn't? But it made him ache for more than a dance. Damn it, how could he stand being a monk all his life?
It was well after midnight when the party finally ended. The three men retired to the library for a nightcap.
"It was quite remarkable how everyone took to you," Dr. Kellogg told Sherman as he handed him a snifter of brandy. "Men and women alike."
"I noticed," Guy said. "When I saw the Ice Princess flutter her eyelashes at him I decided Sherman has some sort of secret allure."
Dr. Kellogg nodded. "I wouldn't be surprised."
Guy raised his eyebrows, causing Sherman to ask hastily, "Who's the Ice Princess?" He didn't care but he also didn't want Guy to question the doctor's remark.
He listened with half an ear as Guy went on about how aloof the woman was. Finally Guy yawned, set down his glass, rose, said his goodnight
s and left the room.
"It affects animals as well," Dr. Kellogg said.
Sherman blinked. "What?"
"This fatal allure of yours. The books on shapeshifting mention the phenomenon and I've seen it happen. Look how fond my dogs are of you--even my favorite, Jefferson, prefers you to me. The horses will do anything you ask. That swayback dun of yours all but reads your mind. Even Madelaine's caged canary sings every time you enter the morning room."
"Yet the stable cats won't come near me," Sherman said, going on to tell about the bruja's cat. "I think they sense what I am."
"Perhaps. Cats are said to be sensitive to ghosts, why not to shapeshifters? But I'll wager all animals fear the beast. Jefferson fawns on you when you're a man but, when he was tracking you, your changing certainly sent him howling for home." The doctor set down his glass. "I've located some aconite. During the next full moon we'll see what happens if I put some sprays of the plant in the cellar with you."
"I'm not familiar with aconite."
"Aconitum Napellus. Some call it monk's head or wolf's bane."
Sherman stared at him. "What effect is it supposed to have on me?"
The doctor shrugged. "Maybe none. We'll wait and see. In medicine the tincture is occasionally used in treating fevers. I may even have some in my drug cabinet, though I rarely use aconite--it's too poisonous. But the books specify that wolf's bane must not only be fresh, it must be in bloom. Since it's grown in many gardens for the beautiful blue flowers, I inquired around and found an acquaintance willing to dig up a plant or two for me. Luckily aconite blooms in June."
Wolf's bane, Sherman repeated silently, hoping it wouldn't affect him as noxiously as the silver. The name of the plant was vaguely sinister but, after all, he wasn't a wolf--or a werewolf, either. At least, not exactly. In any case, he trusted Dr. Kellogg and was willing to let him try anything and everything in a search for a remedy against the shifting.
Guy's ship sailed on schedule and the following week, due to numerous entreaties, the doctor began to see patients in the mornings again. Despite the many doctors in the city, Dr. Kellogg's patients preferred him, though many of them were satisfied to be examined by his assistant.
"Fine young man you've got there," an elderly gentlemen told Dr. Kellogg near the middle of the month. "You and me, we're not getting any younger. Glad to see you're training someone to take your place."
Sherman didn't believe anyone could take the doctor's place--he certainly didn't aspire to. How could he? He'd happily go on working with Dr. Kellogg for as long as he could. It would take years to learn all the doctor knew and even then he wouldn't be the man Dr. Kellogg was, he'd still be a shapeshifter. No patient would be safe with him when the moon was full--as it would be two nights from now.
That same afternoon the doctor had Andre, a burly, very dark-skinned Negro dig holes in the back garden for the three aconite plants sent by his friend. Sherman, watching the transplanting, noticed Lilette hovering near the back door and was aware Andre noticed her, too. When the doctor called Sherman closer to smell the blue flowers of the plants, Andre unobtrusively drifted toward the back door.
The flowers had a faint, sweet odor, nothing special. Nor did the smell affect him in any obvious way. He doubted that putting a stalk of the flowers in the cellar tonight would make any difference.
Near the end of the evening meal, Sherman, increasingly restless, flung down his fork. "This chicken has no taste," he complained.
Dr. Kellogg sprang to his feet, hurried to Sherman and urged him from the chair. "Clear the table," he ordered the maid as he shepherded Sherman outside.
At the entrance to the cellar, Sherman balked. "It's too early." His voice rasped in his throat.
"Get down those stairs!" the doctor demanded.
Though he didn't want to obey, Sherman couldn't make himself ignore a direct order from Dr. Kellogg. The doctor clattered down the steps behind him and, without warning, shoved him through the open inner door so hard Sherman staggered halfway into the room. Even as he
turned, surprised and resentful, the door slammed, leaving him in darkness. He heard the rasp of the iron bar, then the lock clicked into place.
"You tricked me!" he protested hoarsely.
"No." The doctor's voice came faintly through the thick door. "We almost didn't make it in time."
The agonizing wrench in Sherman's gut prevented him from speaking. He was faintly aware of a subtle perfume in the air as he tore off his clothes and then--nothing.
Free! But not outside, where he should be. Where was he? In the absolute darkness he tested his surroundings and gnashed his teeth in rage. He was trapped. Somehow he'd been tricked into a cage. Not the same cage as before, a larger one.
The brick walls offered no chance for escape, so he tried the wooden door. He flung himself at the door, again and again. It shuddered slightly but refused to give. Angered, he clawed at the wood, ripping off long splinters. He lifted his muzzle to howl his rage into the darkness but suddenly held, sensing the man.
A man waited on the other side of the door. Men carried guns. He could survive the ordinary kind of bullet but the man outside this door knew his weakness. The bullets in the man's gun might be of silver.
He was safe inside the cage but, if he escaped, the man could kill him with the silver bullets. Frustrated, he dropped to all fours. He desperately longed to run under the moon in the sweetness of the night but all he could do was pad from one side of the cage to the other, back and forth, back and forth.
Somewhere in the night dogs howled in fear, sensing him. He was no dog, he wouldn't howl. If he didn't make any noise at all maybe the man would open the door to see what was wrong. He'd be ready, he'd strike him down before the man used the gun. Once he was free he'd never be tricked into a cage again.
Sherman woke naked, stiff from sleeping on a hard floor. He knew someone had called his name and he stared into the pitch darkness.
"I'm here," he muttered, climbing to his feet and wondering where in hell he was.
"What is the day, the month and the year?" Dr.
Kellogg's voice was faint, Sherman thought confusedly, as though he spoke through a door.
He tried to collect his thoughts to answer. The day?
He didn't know. The month? May? No, wasn't it June? July? The only date he was certain of was the year.
"1850," he mumbled.
"Day and month," the doctor insisted.
"July."
"Day?"
"God damn it, I can't remember!" Sherman cried.
Metal clinked, the door opened, sending dim light shafting into the room. The cellar. He was in the cellar. "Come out, Sherman," the doctor ordered. "Hurry."
He shambled through the door. Dr. Kellogg slammed it shut, draped a blanket over his shoulders and pushed at him, urging him up the stairs and into daylight. He was hurried into the house and thrust ahead of the doctor into the surgery.
"Thank God you changed back," Dr. Kellogg said.
Changed. Sherman's head began to clear. The beast had gotten free despite the darkness of the cellar.
"The wolf's bane," Dr. Kellogg said. "Never again. I pulled out those three aconite plants last night with my own hands and burned them. I'll destroy the flower stalk in the cellar as well."
"Wolf's bane," Sherman echoed, his thoughts still sluggish.
"It precipitated the shift. I wasn't even sure I'd get you locked in the cellar before the beast took over. My fault, I'll be more careful with the next thing I try."
"I remember smelling something sweet," Sherman said slowly.
"As if making you sniff the flower in the garden earlier wasn't enough, I had to put another in the cellar, trapping you inside with it." The doctor shook his head. "With that overdose of wolf's bane I feared you might not change back even with daylight."
"So wolf's bane causes a change rather than preventing one. Is that what the book said?"
Dr. Kellogg shrugged. "I'm afraid so. I had to
be convinced. At your expense. I'm sorry, son. It won't happen again."
In the cellar that night, Sherman managed to resist the urge to shift but the next night, when the moon was completely full, he shifted again. In the morning they found great gouges in the wood of the door.
"Before the next full moon, I'll line the door with metal," the doctor said.
To Sherman's great relief, he didn't shift during his final two nights in the cellar, though his need to kept him from sleeping.
"We'll wait until the next full moon to analyze whether or not this is an after effect of the wolf's bane," Dr. Kellogg told him. "If you don't shift next month, we'll be more sure the aconite was to blame this time."
As the days passed, Sherman continued to assist the doctor with patients. During their free hours, he submitted to one test after another. Holy wafers, consecrated for communion in the Catholic Church, didn't have any effect on him, nor did rowan branches or sprigs from ash trees. As
one busy day followed another, he could forget for hours at a time that he faced another five tormented nights when the moon next grew full.
By the end of July, the Lac Belle slaves sought him
out for medical advice, not Dr. Kellogg.
"Docteur, he be too busy," they'd say to Sherman.
He was pleased and flattered, though he always discussed each case and the treatment he'd given with the doctor afterwards.
"The slaves prefer you," Dr. Kellogg told him. "They feel you're on their side."
Sherman wondered if this was true. He was sympathetic to the Negroes, equating their hopeless situation with his own. Neither the Negroes nor he had any choice about what had happened to them. He was as much a slave to his shifting as they were to those who owned them.
