Moonburn

by Alisa Sheckley

  I shook my head, trying to find a way to reason with her. “Jackie, I don’t know what’s going on here, but this isn’t you. And when you come back to yourself, you’re going to regret the hell out of this.”

  “But I am not myself, Abra,” said Jackie, and for a moment, behind her faded blue eyes, I saw a flash of fire. “I am the goddess. Come,” she said, holding out her hand to an eighteen-year-old with a gigantic Adam’s apple that kept bobbing up and down in excitement. “Worship me.”

  I hightailed it back to Malachy before I could witness the service. “Malachy, we have to stop her. She’s turning herself into the village whore.”

  Not the village whore, said my mother’s voice inside my mind. The temple prostitute. And I remembered that in my mother’s film El Castillo De Los Monstres, the virgin daughter of Don Carlos had been transformed into the high priestess of Baal, and offered herself to all the men in the village.

  And Malachy was joining the line of men.

  “Whoa there, Boss. Wrong way.”

  His face was slightly flushed, and he dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. “I think I ought to just speak with Jackie for a moment. Ask her if she’s seen Red.”

  “Maybe we should stick to the original plan.”

  “Really, Abra, I should think you would see the logic of consulting with Red’s former girlfriend.” Malachy took another step toward the line, and seeing that someone else had taken his former position, was about to tap the man on his shoulder.

  “Come on, Malachy.” I grabbed him by the arm, and he shrugged me off, intent on reclaiming his place in line. “Malachy, this is wasting time.” Malachy didn’t even glance at me. I looked off, past the field behind the gazebo, into the tree line at the edge of town. Bruin was there. I couldn’t see him, but I could feel the heaviness in the air, the density of overlapping realities that marked his presence.

  Unless Bruin wasn’t there, and he had simply marked off this whole town as his territory.

  “Malachy, please,” I said, tugging at his arm. Red, I thought, where the hell are you? This morning felt like a hundred years ago.

  “Pardon me,” Malachy was telling the man in front of him, “but you’re in my place.”

  “I didn’t see no one standing here,” the man replied. He was wearing a Tractor Supply cap and carrying a jar of honey, either as gift or lubricant.

  “I stepped aside for a moment, but that was my place.”

  “Buddy, I am not letting you in front of me. And you don’t even have an offering.”

  “It’s you who have stepped in front of me, buddy,” said Malachy with cold fury. Seeing that there was no other way to get his attention, I stepped in front of Malachy and slapped his face. Hard.

  For a fraction of a second, I thought he was going to slap me back, or worse. But then Malachy touched his face with a wry smile and said, “Thank you, Abra. I think we had best move directly to the office. Whatever is influencing the people and animals of this town … without my medication, I am far from immune to it.”

  No shit. As I took Malachy’s arm again, I could feel the heaviness of the air, the electrically charged atmosphere of a summer storm, the heat-distorted shimmer of buildings in the distance. Every instinct told me to take cover, except that I was pretty sure that getting inside wasn’t going to protect me. I’d felt this wrongness before, although last time it had ruffled my fur, and I hadn’t had words to describe it.

  Now, with moonstone certainty, I knew that this storm was metaphysical, and it wasn’t just going to change the weather. It was going to redesign reality.

  As we walked away from Jackie and the queue of men in front of the gazebo, I could hear the man in the Tractor Supply hat tell the man in front of him, “What an asshole. I hate line jumpers.”

  “Stop breathing down my neck,” the other man replied.

  I had to literally drag Malachy by the arm to keep him from turning around.

  THIRTY

  As I secured the sleeve to the straitjacket, I asked Malachy, “Are you sure this is really necessary?”

  “No, but it’s so much fun. Of course I’m sure it’s necessary. Did you fasten it securely?” Malachy craned his neck to check himself in the mirror.

  I tested the strap. “I think I did it right. This is my first time putting a guy in a loony suit, you know.”

  “I think you need to pull it tighter.”

  “I’m afraid your arms are going to lose circulation. We can always tighten it later.” Despite the fact that Malachy had hours left before his medication wore off, he’d decided that we needed to put him in restraints, just as a precaution. And deep down, I had to agree with him. Something about the town of Northside had always amplified the effect of any preternatural weirdness, but thanks to the manitou, we were all in weirdness overdrive.

  “Later I may not be so cooperative. Pull it one more time.”

  With a grunt, I gave one last hard yank. I was sweating from exertion, and when I glanced down, I could see nipples through my long-sleeved white silk undershirt. I had dressed for winter, in layers, but it was too hot for sweaters now. Unfortunately, I hadn’t thought to wear a brassiere, and my breasts were still swollen and tender.

  Never mind. Focus on the present dangers. I took out my cell phone and tried to reach Red again. Again I got a signal but no response. I was about to close the phone when I saw that I had two new messages.

  “Abra,” Malachy said, sounding annoyed. “You’ve made this too tight.”

  “One minute,” I said, trying to listen to my voice mail. To my disappointment, the first one wasn’t from Red, but from my mother, who wanted to know if I’d been trying to call her. This, of course, was her way of letting me know that she was pissed off that I hadn’t been in touch.

  “Abra,” Malachy said sternly. “Can you please put that phone down and come help me?”

  “Just wait a moment,” I snapped, going on to the next message. This wasn’t from Red either. Instead, it was a woman named Galina Michailovna. Just my luck, I thought; she’s probably selling something. When I listened to what she had to say, however, my chest tightened with anxiety. “Ms. Barrow, this is a friend and colleague of Lilliana Kadouri. I was expecting to see Lilli at supervision today, but neither she nor her driver were seen since they dropped you off over a week ago.”

  Malachy was watching me, his eyes shrewd and watchful and touched with a faint, manic light. “Who was it? Is it Red?”

  “No,” I said, closing the phone. “Not Red.” A wave of grief began to rise up, ready to crash over me. Lilliana and her driver hadn’t been seen for a week. I thought of the dirt-stained note she’d left at the cabin along with my pocketbook and clothes, and the strange, heavy places where the manitous’ reality overlapped with our own. I remembered the scent of human blood, and the dead weekender. But that woman hadn’t been the only one to die while I ran around the forest, enjoying myself.

  And then, just as I began to press my nails into my palms and bite the insides of my cheeks in a burst of self-loathing, I knew with an intuitive flash: Lilliana wasn’t dead. She was a sensitive, a broadcaster as well as a receiver. She could play men like instruments. If anyone could keep Bruin from selling his sacrifice scheme, it was Lilliana.

  “Bad news?” Malachy’s voice was soft, almost kind.

  “Lilliana brought me back last week. She’s been missing.” Back when we’d both been working for Mal, I hadn’t really understood why he had plucked her from the Animal Medical Institute’s social work program. Now, of course, it made sense. Lilliana’s empathic gifts would have been a great asset in diagnosis—and in political maneuvering within AMI.

  “That woman is too resourceful to wind up mauled to death by a spirit bear,” said Malachy. “So what we have to do now is locate Red and begin searching.” He sounded so much like his old self that it seemed a bit peculiar that he was wearing a straitjacket.

  “You’re right,” I said, drying my eyes on my sleeve.


  “Of course I’m right. And now, if you’re done dabbing at the old mascara, I’ve lost all feeling in both arms. You’ve got to take this blasted thing off and do it again.”

  “All right.” I had started to unfasten the strap when Malachy began cursing. “Bloody hell, Abra, what did I tell you about listening to me?”

  I paused, feeling sweaty and tired and sore. “You said not to pay attention if you started to contradict yourself. But you didn’t …” I looked at Malachy. “Oh, crap. I almost fell for it.”

  “Very good. You’re learning.” Mal’s eyes dropped to my breasts for a moment, then lifted. “Now, loosen the straps. We have to check on the animals and finish preparing my medicine.”

  “Very funny.” I went to the closet and pulled out my lab coat. I didn’t like the way Malachy’s eyes kept dropping to my chest. Or, rather, I didn’t like what it implied about his deteriorating condition.

  “No, I’m serious, Abra. Obviously I can’t work while I’m in a straitjacket.”

  I pulled my arms into the sleeves. “You’ll tell me what to do, and I’ll be your arms.”

  “This was meant to be a test run, Dr. Barrow. Now, let me out of here—we don’t have much time left.”

  “Sorry, but nice try.” I opened the door to the room where we kept the animals, and there was a wild sound of howling and whining. It didn’t take a genius to figure that our canine patients had just switched from the toy and sporting groups to the hunting category.

  I held the door and gestured to Malachy. “After you.”

  Malachy gave me a familiar look of irritation. “I’m not playing around, you stupid girl. At least let me take a piss first. Unless you’d like to give me a hand with that, as well?”

  Shit. We hadn’t discussed this. “All right,” I said, coming around his left side.

  “Thank you from the bottom of my bladder,” Malachy said sarcastically.

  Ah, the British. None of this euphemistic “going to the bathroom.” At least he hadn’t informed me he needed to take a … my hands stilled on the straps. “Wait a minute. This is another test, isn’t it?”

  “You’re testing my patience, all right.”

  I still didn’t undo the strap. There was some quality of tension and alertness about Malachy that wasn’t quite right. And the image of myself, lying dead in this office, was a useful reminder to be cautious. “On the other hand, Mal, why don’t I help you undo your trousers?”

  “Now, there’s an idea,” said Malachy, and his eyes were burning with a fierce green light.

  Uh oh. “Mal, I thought you said we had hours left before you changed.”

  Malachy frowned as if I were losing my mind. “We do. Hours and hours. Now, let’s go see about the dogs.”

  I held the door for him, just like before. As he walked through, I said, “You know, Mal, something just occurred to me.”

  He turned and looked over his shoulder. “What?”

  I slammed the door in his face and locked it behind him.

  This isn’t Northside, I told myself. It looks like Northside, and it’s laid out like Northside, but this is a brand-new town, with brand-new rules. What looks familiar is what’s going to trip you up, so use your intuition.

  I really wished I’d worn a brassiere today.

  There was a pounding on the door as Malachy flung himself against the wood. “Abra! Let me out of here!” The dogs were racing around, too. Somehow, he’d gotten his shoes off and unlatched their cages with his toes.

  “Don’t get your panties tied in a knot,” I said, trying not to get flustered as I took out the large office scissors and cut the legs of my corduroys off at the knee.

  I had wasted two of my questions, but at least my fairy grandmother had managed to give me the ability to know what I knew. No more questioning my instincts. No more waiting for Malachy to give me permission or hoping Red would come to the rescue. I knew what was behind all this, and I knew what I had to do.

  “Let me out now,” Malachy said in a perfectly reasonable tone, “and I won’t fire you.”

  “I’m just changing my shirt,” I replied. “Give me a sec.” Working as quickly as I could, I used two wide dog leashes crisscrossed over my chest to create a makeshift bandoleer over my silk undershirt.

  “Come on, Abra,” Malachy said, coaxingly, but with just the right hint of impatience. Whatever was behind that door had some of Malachy’s cunning, and without the moonstone, I wasn’t entirely sure that I wouldn’t have fallen for it.

  “One more minute.” The tone was right, the words sounded like ones Malachy would have chosen, but the voice was a full register deeper, as if the chest around the larynx had expanded.

  “Abra!!!” The door shook and the wood began to buckle as Malachy kicked it, hard. Looking at where the wood was buckling, I swallowed a lump in my throat. Crap, he was big. For a moment, I just stared at the door, mesmerized, waiting to see if the next impact would break through the wood.

  You’re not watching a movie, kid. Keep working.

  Ah, the small, clear voice of my intuition. Even if it did sound a bit like my mother, I was getting pretty damn fond of it. Using a thin rope leash, I secured the waistband of my baggy corduroys. Next, I stuck the scissors in the bandoleer on my right side, so I could pull it out quickly. I grabbed two syringes of phenobarbital, still missing the secret sauce, and then quickly mixed up four syringes of Telazol, inserting one into each boot and two into my crude ammo belt. The two syringes of phenobarb went up, closer to my shoulders, because it was less dangerous if something went wrong and it went into me instead of whoever I was aiming at. I added one more rope leash, in case I needed to lasso a stray or gar-rote someone, and, remembering at the last minute that I preferred Rimbaud to Rambo, I stashed a bunch of doggie treats into my pockets.

  I was loaded for bear.

  And then Malachy kicked the door one last time. There was a loud crash as the wood gave way, and the wolfish dogs came hurtling out, snarling and circling as they tried to divide their attention between me and the guy who had torn the door off its hinges.

  “Oi,” said the creature as he stepped over the threshold. “I got a bone to pick with you.”

  He didn’t specify which bone, but I was guessing something large enough to count as one of my favorites.

  THIRTY-ONE

  My first impression was that there was a definite market for Malachy’s new version of the lycanthropy virus. A lot of guys would give their left testicle to achieve the kind of hulking, muscular physique that Malachy now possessed. He was still fully human, or at least he wasn’t part wolf, but his massively muscled arms looked a bit long for his body, and there was a demonic light in his heavily lidded eyes that didn’t bode well for my immediate future. The remnants of the straitjacket clung to his thick neck and heavy shoulders like a bizarre poncho, but he carried himself like a street fighter, on the balls of his feet, and as he approached me, his white teeth showed in a feral smile.

  “That was very naughty, tying me up like that,” he said in a thick Cockney accent. Typical upper-middle-class English class prejudice, I thought, giving his savage alter ego a working-class burr.

  “You did ask me to do it,” I pointed out, taking a step back and trying to calculate how long it would take me to get out the door.

  “Me? I didn’t ask you, love—that was fucking Malachy, the junkie wanker. You can call me Knox.”

  Oh, perfect. I didn’t know much psychology, but I figured that this kind of splitting wasn’t a sign of mental health. “I’m sorry, Knox, I made a mistake,” I said, trying to remember everything I knew about multiple personality disorder. I’d seen a TV movie once, Sybil, about multiple personalities. Sally Field had played the title roles.

  Turns out I didn’t really know anything about the disorder. “Sorry, Knox,” I said.

  “It’s all right,” said Knox, shrugging. “Happens all the time. What I don’t understand is, how can folks confuse us? It’s not like we look the same. I m
ean, do I look like that fucking nancy boy? Do I?”

  I shook my head, but Knox did look like Malachy’s younger, healthier, lunatic brother. His hair was still the same wild mass of black corkscrew curls, his nose was still a sharp blade, but his brow ridge seemed more pronounced, and his eyes glowed the way wolves’ eyes do at night. Still, the intelligence that filled them was unmistakably human, although there was an element of animal cunning and impulse in there as well.

  Ah, the ability to think in the abstract without any conscience to direct it. The definition of a sociopath. I was so glad that I had a moonstone necklace welded around my neck, so that I could really understand how badly I was screwed right now. “I must have made a mistake,” I said.

  “Indeed you did. And you hurt my feelings, see? Because Malachy is a sick old fuck. I don’t like being confused with a sick old fuck. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  I nodded. Maybe if I just kept going along with whatever he said, it would all be all right.

  “The way I sees it, you need to make it right.”

  “What can I do to make it right, Knox?”

  “Let me think … ah. Got it. You can let me tie you up.”

  So much for going along with him. “Sorry,” I said, wishing I could have laid my hands on a tranquilizer gun. “I can’t do that. Listen, Malachy, I don’t know how much of you is in there, but I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Already told you, darlin’—not Malachy. And how about being on the receiving end of some hurt?” said Malachy, smiling a very unpleasant smile. His canines were very sharp. “How does you feel about that?”

  “I feel pretty negative about that, Mal.”

  His green eyes flared with fury. “Call me that again,” he said, “and I’m going to make you very sorry.”

  Shit. He sounded so much like Malachy, and I was used to being with a man who looked like a beast on occasion. It was hard to believe that we couldn’t work this out in words.