Shapeshifters Anonymous

by J. A. Konrath

  A bored looking man whose gray hair and loose skin put him somewhere in the sixties, peered at Weston through thick glasses. He wore jeans and a faded turtleneck sweater. From his stance, and his severe haircut, Weston guessed he was ex-military. He stood guard over the doorway, preventing Weston from seeing inside.

  “Sorry, sir. This is a private meeting.”

  The conversation in the room stopped.

  “This is SA, right?”

  “Yeah. But it’s invitation only.”

  Weston was momentarily confused, until he remembered the hotline conversation.

  “Talbot,” he said.

  “Tall what?”

  “Talbot. Isn’t that the password?”

  “No.”

  “It’s last week’s password,” someone from in the room said.

  “Sorry, buddy.” Old Guy folded his arms. “That was last week’s password.”

  “That’s the one I was told to use.”

  “By whom?”

  “The SA hotline woman. Tina or Lena or someone.”

  “Sorry. Can’t let you in.”

  “I brought you donuts.” He meekly held up the box.

  Old Guy took them.

  “Thanks.”

  “So I can come in?”

  “No.”

  Weston didn’t know what to do. He could call the hotline back, but he didn’t have the number handy. He’d have to find Internet access, find the website, and by then the meeting could be over.

  “Listen.” Weston lowered his voice. “You have to let me in. I’m a thespianthrope.”

  Several snickers from inside the room.

  “Does that mean when the moon rises you start doing Shakespeare?” someone asked.

  More laughs. Weston realized what he said.

  “A therianthrope,” he corrected. “I’m the Naperville Ripper.”

  “I don’t care if you’re Mother Theresa. You don’t get in without the correct password.”

  Weston snapped his fingers. “Zela. Her name was Zela. She liked to grab people’s nuts.”

  Old Guy remained impassive.

  “I mean, she said she was a weresquirrel. She horded nuts.”

  “I’ll call Zela.” It was woman’s voice. Weston waited, wondering what he would do if they turned him away. For all of his Googling, he’d found precious little information about his condition. He needed to talk to these people, to understand what was going on. And to learn how to deal with it.

  “He’s okay,” the woman said. “Zela gave him the wrong password. Said he’s kind of a schmuck, though.”

  Old Guy stared hard at Weston. “We don’t allow for schmuckiness at SA meetings. Got it?”

  Weston nodded.

  “Oh, lighten up, Scott.” The woman again. “Let the poor guy in.”

  Scott stepped to the side. Weston took his donuts back and entered the room. A standard church basement. Low ceiling. Damp smell. Florescent lights. Old fashioned coffee percolator bubbling on a stand in the corner, next to a trunk. A long, cafeteria style table dominated the center, surrounded by orange plastic chairs. In the chairs were five people, three men and two women. One of the women, a striking blonde, stood up and extended her hand. She had apple cheeks, a tiny upturned nose, and Angelina Jolie lips.

  “Welcome to Shapshifters Anonymous. I’m Irena Reed, chapter president.”

  The one who called Zela. Weston reached his hand out to shake hers, but she bypassed it, grabbing the donuts. She brought them to the table, and everyone gathered round, picking and choosing. Irena selected a jelly filled and bit into, soft and slow. Weston found it incredibly erotic.

  “So what’s your name?” she purred, mouth dusted with powdered sugar.

  “I thought this was anonymous.”

  Irena motioned for him to come closer, and they walked over to the coffee stand while everyone else ate.

  “The founders thought Shapeshifters Anonymous had gravitas.”

  “Gravitas?”

  “You know. Depth. Sorry, I’m a school teacher, that’s one of our current vocab words. When this group was created, they thought Shapeshifters Anonymous sounded better than the other potential names. We were this close to calling ourselves Shapeshifters R Us.”

  “Oh. Okay then.” He looked at the group and waved. “My name is Weston.”

  Weston waited for them all to reply in unison, “Hi, Weston.” They didn’t.

  “You’re welcome,” Weston tried.

  Still no greeting.

  “They aren’t very social when there’s food in front of them,” Irena said.

  “I guess not. So… you’re a therianthrope?”

  “A werecheetah. Which is kind of ironic, being a teacher.”

  He stared blankly, not getting it.

  “We expel cheetahs.” Irena put a hand to her mouth and giggled.

  Weston realized he was already in love with her. “So who is everyone here?”

  “The ex-marine, Scott Howard, he’s a weretortoise.”

  Weston appraised the man anew. Long wrinkled neck. Bowed back. “It suits him.”

  “The small guy with the big head, that’s David Kessler. He’s a werecoral.”

  Weston blinked. “He turns into coral?

  “Yeah.”

  “Like a coral reef?”

  “Shh. He’s sensitive about it.”

  “How about that older woman?” Weston indicated a portly figure with a huge mess of curly black hair.

  “Phyllis Allenby. She’s a furry.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Furries dress up in animal costumes. Like baseball team mascots.”

  Weston was confused. “Why?”

  “I’m not sure. Might be some sort of weird sex thing.”

  “So she’s not a therianthrope?”

  “No. She likes to wear a hippo outfit and dance around. Personally, I don’t get it.”

  “Why is she allowed into meetings?”

  “We all kind of feel sorry for her.”

  A tall man with his mouth around something covered in sprinkles called over to them.

  “You two talking about us?”

  Irena shot him with her thumb and index finger. “Got it in one, Andy.”

  Andy strutted over, his grin smeared with chocolate. He shook Weston’s hand, pumping enthusiastically.

  “Andy McDerrmott, wereboar.”

  “You… become a pig?” Weston guessed.

  “Actually, when the full moon rises, I change into someone vastly self-interested, and I talk incessantly about worthless minutiae going on in my life.”

  Weston wasn’t sure how to answer. Andy slapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to rock him.

  “A bore! Get it? Were-bore!” Andy laughed, flecking Weston with sprinkles. “Actually, kidding, I turn into a pig.”

  “You mean a bigger pig, right Andy?”

  Andy shot Irena a look that was pure letch.

  “God, you’re so hot, Irena. When are we going to get together, have ourselves a litter of little kiggens?”

  “On the first of never, Andy. And they wouldn’t be kiggens. They’d be pities.”

  “Snap,” Phyllis said. “Shoot that pig down, girl.”

  “So who’s the last guy?” Weston asked. “The big one?”

  The trio glanced at the heavily muscled man sitting at the end of the table, staring off into space.

  “That’s Ryan.”

  “Just Ryan?”

  Andy wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his sports jacket. “That’s all he’s ever told us. Never talks. Never says a word. Comes to every meeting, but just sits there, looking like the Terminator.”

  “What does he change into?”

  “No one knows. Has to be something, though, or Zela wouldn’t have sent him here.” Andy faced Weston. “So you’re the Naperville Ripper, huh? What kind of therianthrope are you? Wererat?”

  Andy frowned. “I’m not sure. I think I’m a werewolf.”

  This provoked l
aughter from the group.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Everyone thinks they’re a werewolf at first,” Irena explained, patting him on the arm. “It’s because werewolves are the most popular therianthropes.”

  “They get all the good press,” Andy said. “All the books. All the movies. Never gonna see a flick called An American Wereboar in London.”

  “Or The Oinking,” Phyllis added.

  Furry or not, Andy was starting to like Phyllis.

  Irena’s hand moved up Weston’s arm, making him feel a little light-headed.

  “Because we can’t remember what we do when we’ve changed, we all first assume we’re werewolves.”

  “So how can I find out what I change into?”

  “I set up a video camera and recorded myself.” Andy reached into his jacket, took out a CD. “We can pop it in the DVD if you want.”

  “Don’t say yes,” Phyllis warned. “The last time he put in a tape of himself and some woman doing the nasty. And it was real nasty.”

  “An honest mistake.” Andy leaned closer to Weston and whispered, “She was a college cheerleader, studying massage therapy. I was bow-legged for a week afterward.”

  “She was an elderly woman,” Phyllis said. “With a walker.”

  “Mind your own business, you furvert. You’re not even a real therianthrope.”

  Phyllis stuck out her jaw. “I am in my heart.”

  “When there’s a full moon, you don’t turn into hippo. You turn into an idiot who puts on a hippo outfit and skips around like a retarded children’s show host.”

  Phyllis stood up, fists clenched.

  “I’m ‘bout to stick an apple in your talk-hole and roast you on a spit, Ham Boy.”

  “Enough.” Irena raised her hands. “We’re adults. Let’s act like it.”

  “Does anyone want the last donut?” It was David, the werecoral, talking. “Weston? You haven’t had one yet.”

  Weston patted his stomach. “No thanks. I just ate my neighbor and her dog.”

  “I ate a Fuller Brush Salesman once,” Andy said.

  “Did not,” Phyllis countered. “You ate your own toilet brush. And a pack of them Ty-D-Bowl tablets. That’s why your poo was blue.”

  “So I can have the last donut?” David had already taken a bite out of it.

  Weston looked at Irena, felt his heart flutter.

  “Other than video, is there another way to find out what I am?”

  Irena’s eyes sparkled. “Yes. In fact, there is.”

  The group, except for Ryan, gathered in front of the chest sitting in the corner of the room.

  “Testing equipment.” Irena twisted an old fashion key in the lock and opened the lid.

  Weston expected some sort of medical supplies, or maybe a chemistry set. Instead, the trunk was filled with dried plants, broken antiques, and assorted worthless-looking junk.

  “Hold out your hand.”

  Weston did as told. Irena held his wrist, and then ran a twig lightly across his palm.

  “Feel anything?”

  Other than getting a little aroused, Weston felt nothing. He shook his head.

  “Cat nip,” Irene said. “It’s a shame. You would have made a cute kitty.”

  She brought the branch to her lips, sniffed it, and a tiny moan escaped her throat. Andy took it away from her and tossed it back in the trunk.

  “If we let her, she’ll play with that all day, and the meeting starts in five minutes. Here, touch this.”

  Andy handed him a longer, darker twig. Weston touched it, and immediately felt like his entire arm had caught on fire. There was a puff of smoke, and a crackling sound. He recoiled.

  “Jesus! What the hell was that, a burning bush?”

  Andy cocked his head to the side. “It was wolfsbane. I’ll be damned. You are a lycanthrope.”

  Everyone’s expressions changed from surprise to awe, and Weston swore that Irena’s pupils got wider. He shrugged.

  “Okay, so I’m a werewolf.”

  “We’ve never had a werewolf in the group,” David said. “How did you become a werewolf?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Weston recalled the masturbation scare tales from his youth, many of which involved hairy palms. He almost asked if that may have caused it, but looked at Irena and decided to keep it to himself.

  “Is your mother or father a werewolf?” Scott, the weretortise asked. “I inherited a recessive gene from my mother, Shelly. Been a therianthrope since birth.”

  “No. This only started three months ago.”

  “Were you bitten by a therianthrope?” David asked. “That’s how they got me.”

  Weston didn’t think that coral could actually bite, but he didn’t mention it. Instead he shook his head.

  “How about a curse?” Irena asked. “Were you cursed by a gypsy recently?”

  “No, I…” Then Weston remembered his evil next door neighbor. He’d been wondering about her ethnic background, and now it seemed obvious. Of course she was a gypsy. How could he have missed the signs? His shoulders slumped.

  “Oh, boy. I think maybe I was cursed, for brushing my teeth too loudly.”

  “You’re lucky.” David smiled. “That’s the easiest type of therianthropy to cure.”

  “Who wants to be cured?” Scott’s eyes narrowed. “I like being a weretortise.”

  “That’s because when you change all you do is eat salad and swim around in your bathtub,” Andy said. “I root through the garbage and eat aluminum cans. You ever try to crap out a six pack of Budweiser tall boys?”

  David put his hands on his hips. “I’m saying that Weston’s a carnivore, like Irena. They eat people. It has to weigh heavy on the conscience.”

  “Do you feel guilty about it?” Weston asked Irena.

  “Nope.” Irena smiled. “And I have the added benefit of not having to put up with any bad kids in my class for more than a month.”

  Weston wondered if it was too soon to propose marriage. He squelched the thought and turned to David.

  “So, assuming I want to go back to normal, how do I do it?”

  “Just go back to the gypsy that cursed you and pay her to take the curse off.”

  Oops.

  “That might be a problem, seeing as how I ate her.”

  Andy slapped him on the shoulder. “Tough break, man. But you’ll get used to it. Until then, it’s probably a good idea to get yourself a nice, sturdy leash.”

  “It’s time to begin the meeting. Let’s get started.” Irena leaned into Weston and softly said, “We can talk more later.”

  Weston sincerely hoped so.

  “Let’s begin by joining hands and saying the Shapeshifters Anonymous Credo.”

  Everyone around the table joined hands, including the silent Ryan. Weston noted that Irena’s hand was soft and warm, and she played her index finger along the top of his as she talked. So did Phyllis.

  Irena began.

  “I, state your name, agree to abide by the rules of ethics as set forth by Shapeshifter’s Anonymous.”

  Everyone, including Weston, repeated it.

  “I promise to do my best to use my abilities for the good of man and therianthrope kind.”

  They repeated it.

  “I promise to do my best to help any therianthrope who comes to me in need.”

  They repeated it. Weston thought it a lot like being in church. Which, technically, they were.

  “I promise to do my best to not to devour any nice people.”

  Weston repeated this verse with extra emphasis.

  “I promise to avoid Kris Kringle, the dreaded Santa Claus, and his many evil helpers.”