I should have known Yo Pe wasn't a true worshiper, Tez groused. Not if he carved a representation of me that looks so drab and homely.
Of course the statue had appeared more enticing back in the day. At that time, it had been coated with colorful paint, encircled by iridescent green quetzal feathers, and handled with supreme reverence by the were-jaguar who called out the name of his god. Yo Pe had coated himself from head to toe with charcoal to link himself to the deity sometimes known as Black Tezcatlipoca, and he'd even procured white turkey feathers to create a headdress in a further show of respect. How could Tezcatlipoca resist such well-deserved flattery?
Enough dwelling on the past. It was time for the god to break his body free of the figurine so his earthly form could rejoin his spirit, allowing him to go about the important business of revenge. Luckily, the being holding Tez's prison in his long-fingered hand was a were-jaguar, despite the complete and utter lack of mention of the species on television and radio. Now if the shifter in question would simply offer up a prayer to his god....
I'm waiting....
But the were-jaguar seemed completely unaware of Tezcatlipoca's presence, although the shifter's thoughts were broadcasting so loudly that Tez had no trouble tuning in. Loneliness, yearning, blah, blah, blah. When would Tez's followers learn to break free of their human thought patterns and embrace the solitary power of the jaguar?
Still, if this was what Tezcatlipoca had to work with, he'd accept the slightly sub-par worshiper. After all, it wasn't as if other were-jaguars were lining up to take the shifter's place. And even manipulating the life of this whiny brat had to be more entertaining than treading water within his oceanic prison.
But as hours passed and the shifter resolutely refused to pray to his god, Tez became more and more agitated. Was it possible that Tezcatlipoca had been entirely forgotten here on earth? That would be a disaster since, without at least the hint of a prayer, Tez couldn't wedge his way into the shifter's thought patterns and mold him to the god's will.
Sure, the deity was still able to capture thoughts that came streaming out into the ether. But utilize his usual deft ability to meld with the minds of worshipers and trick them into carrying out Tez's bidding? Apparently not in the cards.
Tezcatlipoca had just about decided to tune out his sole non-worshipper after all so he could tune back into the nightly news when a familiar name caught his ear. Ixchel the woman had called herself. And even though the pronunciation wasn't quite right, Tez recognized the moniker as that of one of his sister gods. (For goodness sakes don't call them goddesses if you ever wanted to have a chance of getting back on the female deities' good side!)
Pay attention! Tez told his worshiper. Ixxie would never allow one of her followers to avoid her gaze for long, the female gods having a much more hands-on approach to worshiper management than Tezcatlipoca had ever been able to fit into his short attention span. And when Tez's sister god dropped by, she would likely be able to help Tez regain his proper form. After all, Ixxie had always harbored a soft spot for Tezcatlipoca's handsome face. (Take that, Yo Pe!)
But the shifter completely ignored Tez's orders. Or perhaps the were-jaguar was simply so cut off from his cultural heritage that he couldn't hear the words of his own god? Either way, the worthless worshiper walked away from Ixxie's namesake with just a hint of the shifter's typical melancholic longing to slow his step, but with the clear intention of leaving the goddess's follower behind. (Oops, hope Ixxie didn't catch that slip....)
It was only after the shifter had dropped Yo Pe's traitorous figurine back into his pocket and prepared to shift that Tez realized that he would be able to influence his worshiper after all. Because, even this long after the god had last walked the earth, were-jaguars could only change form by tugging on the coattails of Tezcatlipoca's power. And the jaguar god had full control over whether those shifts succeeded or failed.
Or, in this case, drifted entirely awry and ended up turning the were-jaguar into a common pussycat.
Chapter 8
Ixchel woke up to a phone line miraculously restored, to her cell on the car seat and the key slipped into the vehicle's ignition...and to a stray cat napping on her doorstep.
"Well, hello there," the vet said to the black ball of fur. He was a tomcat, she saw as the animal rose and stretched in a leisurely fashion, and one that was well socialized despite the fact that the male clearly hadn't been neutered.
I'd better be more careful what I wish for, she thought wryly, remembering her previous night's loneliness. But under the light of day, taking in a stray cat didn't seem like such a great idea after all. Sure, Ixchel had settled down...for the moment. On the other hand, she wasn't ready to make a long-term commitment to this little rural West Virginia enclave just yet. And cats weren't very good at handling transitions if their owner decided to pick up and move next week or next year. So, no, Ixchel wouldn't keep this stray cat, although she wouldn't ignore him either.
"Don't worry," Ixchel said, speaking aloud because socialized animals enjoyed the reassuring sound of a person's voice. Most pets didn't actually understand the words, but affection and confidence came through quite easily in the human tone, and the cat responded to Ixchel's reassurance by rubbing up against one ankle. "I can't keep you, pretty boy, but I'll definitely feed you until I find you a good home."
Leaving the door of the practice open behind her as she walked back inside, Ixchel wasn't surprised when the tom followed along behind all the way to the little kitchen at the very back of the building. She poured some dry kibbles into a saucer while brewing coffee for herself, then the pair reversed their journey, ending up back out on the front stoop in order to watch dawn come to the mountain.
It was surprisingly companionable to share her morning routine with another being, even though the cat was a bit standoffish and didn't leap up into Ixchel's lap the way she would have liked. The tom was walking with a limp too, and the vet filed that data away to be dealt with once she'd gained the animal's trust a little more and was able to pick him up without risking scratches. "You'll probably need some shots just in case you missed them," she murmured aloud, feeling pleased when the cat let her hand just barely glide over his back. "And I should neuter you too."
Was it her imagination, or had the cat's fur puffed up angrily at the very notion?
But her attention was quickly distracted by the shiny new car turning into her parking lot and rumbling over the gravel on its way to her front door. "Who could that be?" she wondered.
The practice wouldn't open for another hour, but this wouldn't be the first time a worried pet owner had seen Ixchel sitting outside in the morning and decided to drop by for an unscheduled consultation. The vet didn't discourage these drop-ins, even if they did impinge on her cherished quiet time. After all, if the human owner didn't have time to work herself (it was nearly always a woman) up into a tizzy while waiting for the practice to open, then the animal would arrive calmer and more collected as well. So Ixchel pasted a welcoming smile on her face and waited to see which pet had need of her services this time.
But the car's driver turned out to be a man. And as her visitor stepped out of the vehicle, Ixchel could see neither hide nor hair of any animal companion at all.
"Can I help you?" Ixchel asked, suddenly feeling exposed so far out in the boondocks, alone on the stoop of her practice. She rose to her feet, and the cat caught her mood and hissed before running away into the shrubbery. Never a good sign if an animal doesn't like a visitor's face....
"I hope so," the man replied, stopping several feet away as if sensing Ixchel's fear. He was a dapper gentleman, older than Ixchel but not so old that she didn't notice his lithe form and handsome face. In fact, the graceful movements of this second uninvited guest in the last twenty-four hours reminded the vet of Finn. On the other hand, something about her current visitor seemed darker and more dangerous....
Or maybe you're imagining perils that don't exist after being held up at knife point
last night. This second explanation did make more sense, especially since the current caller wasn't threatening Ixchel in any way. Instead, he reached out to offer a business card, which the vet accepted between timid fingertips.
"Martin Mirabelle, Ph.D.," she read aloud, then looked back up at her visitor with questioning eyes.
"I lead the dig over at the old Quizner place," he said lightly. "You know, excavating the Indian mound?"
"Oh, right!" Now Ixchel felt silly for having let her imagination run away with her better sense. She'd read about the archaeological site in the newspaper and had been intrigued by a huge Mexican statue turning up in the mountains of West Virginia not far from her practice. "I was thinking of coming to the open house next week. Are you out looking for donations?"
Ixchel turned to head inside for her checkbook, always willing to support a worthy cause. But Martin's hard grip on her shoulder held her back. I didn't even see him move. The thought—and the strong fingers squeezing into her skin—was daunting, and Ixchel took a step away to remove the man from her personal space. And to give herself room to breathe.
With an abashed laugh, Martin moved back as well and raised his hands up in the air. "I'm sorry to have startled you," he said, the words an apology, and Ixchel provided a tentative smile in response. "But I'm not looking for donations," he continued. "There was a theft at the site last night. A priceless artifact went missing, and I'm pounding the pavement to determine if anyone might have seen the man who made off with it. The theft is a tremendous loss to science, such a shame to have an artifact of this caliber sold on the antiquities black market...." His voice trailed off, and Martin peered hopefully in Ixchel's direction.
So that's what Finn was up to. Her mugger had adroitly sidestepped every question the vet had tossed his way the previous evening, and Ixchel had to admit that she was almost relieved to hear that he'd stolen some sort of archaeological artifact rather than harming another person. But if he was only taking an old pot or arrowhead...then why did Finn end up with a bullet hole in his arm?
Martin's story didn't quite add up, and Ixchel found herself strangely protective of the mugger. So, even though the ethical choice would have been to tip off Martin about the previous evening's visitor, Ixchel simply shook her head. "That's terrible," she offered. "But, no, I haven't noticed someone like that around. In fact, I didn't see anybody at all last night after I closed the practice up. Just went to bed with a book...."
Clearly, the vet had protested too much, and her nonexistent poker face was less than believable. Because the archaeologist continued to pierce Ixchel with his gaze, obviously not buying her story.
"You're sure?" he asked at last. "You haven't seen a little figurine, about yea high, made of stone, obviously old?"
And now Ixchel looked at him quizzically. Would a tiny statue like that really be worth getting shot over? she wondered.
This time, her confusion must have come through as entirely genuine because the archaeologist shrugged. "Well, I appreciate you taking the time to talk with me," he said at last, turning back to his car. "And I hope you'll keep my card and give me a call if you hear any gossip about the matter. If that doesn't happen, then I'll look forward to seeing you at the open house."
His words were entirely cordial now, and Ixchel immediately regretted lying. Surely a Ph.D. like Martin wouldn't be mixed up in anything dicey? Whereas Finn was shifty, to say the least. Why she had felt called to throw in her lot with the latter rather than with the former was beyond her. Clear evidence of a traumatic childhood resulting in bad judgment as an adult.
And yet, the stray cat had run away at Martin's approach, and the tom remained hidden even as the archaeologist got into his car and drove away. So the vet held her tongue, despite serious second thoughts.
Well, Finn couldn't have traveled far on foot, Ixchel told herself sternly. Someone else will have seen him, and the statue will be back in the hands of scientists before I know it. So it won't really matter that I played fast and loose with the truth.
Her mugger's imminent capture should have made Ixchel feel better. But, instead, the vet found herself hoping that Finn was more wily than he appeared. Maybe he had managed to get clean away.
"And that, cat, is why I don't date," Ixchel said to the rustling shrubbery. "Clearly, I don't have the foggiest idea who should and who shouldn't be trusted."
Chapter 9
That was fast. Mirabelle had certainly shown up on the vet's doorstep quickly enough. And although Finn was pleasantly surprised not to have been ratted out, Ixchel was also the world's worst liar. The archaeologist had to realize that Finn had visited her practice the previous evening, and chances were good that the private security company Mirabelle had hired would be scoping out the joint in short order. Time to move on.
Slinking back into the woods, Finn stepped out of his feline form and unfolded his human body upwards. Then, turning directly back into the shift, he fell down onto four paws.
Unfortunately, those paws were still the size of silver dollars. Seriously?
Luckily, Finn had a pretty good idea what was going on. Having never enjoyed the dubious pleasure of transforming into a pussycat prior to the previous evening, obviously the purloined statue was at fault.
"Okay," he said, shifting once again, the speedy transformations making him pant slightly but otherwise leaving little mark. "Let's try this again." Setting the figurine down on a nearby log, Finn closed his eyes and shifted a fourth time...then stretched happily as his usual jaguar shape solidified around him. That's more like it.
Not that he was willing to leave the statue behind. Not after braving a gunshot wound to find it.
Which left the option of escaping on human feet. Finn had considered that scenario the night before, when Ixchel's car key lay serendipitously in the palm of his hand. It would have been so easy to hit the road in a stolen vehicle then swap the vet's car out for a hot-wired pickup a few towns over. By the time he'd hopscotched his way through half a dozen stolen vehicles, Finn would be all the way across the state and solidly off Mirabelle's radar.
But as he went to put the key in the ignition, the shifter had found himself wondering what Ixchel would go through in the aftermath of the theft. Would her insurance cover the loss? Would she be stranded out here on this seldom-traveled road until she was able to hire a rental vehicle?
Would she regret stitching up a stray thief's wound?
So, in the end, the shifter had closed the car door silently behind him and figured he'd make his escape on feline paws. And how strange is that, to feel guilty at the mere idea of a little larceny? Finn didn't keep himself in designer shoes by working a steady job. No, ever since donning his human skin fifteen years before, the shifter had put bread on the table through thievery.
At first, he'd stolen simple items—electronics from the mall to be fenced at the pawn shop, for example. But then Finn's research into archeology had drawn him deeper into the world of true valuables, and he'd begun pilfering ancient Egyptian artifacts and priceless Aboriginal ornaments. The way Finn looked at it, he wasn't really stealing. After all, no one had paid for those golden necklaces and clay pots in the last ten centuries. So it was a case of finders keepers...and Finn was the ultimate finder.
Which drew his thoughts to the one human whom Finn had built a long-term relationship with—Mick Carlton, the receiver of all his lifted items. Perhaps the solution to the shifter's current dilemma was to mail the figurine to Mick and ask the fence to hang onto it for him, which would allow Finn to transform into jaguar shape and throw his pursuers thoroughly off the trail.
The trouble was, while Finn trusted Mick not to turn him in to the cops, he didn't trust the fence not to cheat him of out every last dime in his pocket. And he definitely didn't trust Mick not to sell the figurine out from under him.
And Finn couldn't think of a single other human's address where he might mail the statue for safekeeping.
"This is absurd," Finn said to the lit
tle stone were-jaguar. Was it just his imagination, or did the Olmec figure suddenly appear smug? "You're supposed to be the source of were-jaguar power, a link to my people. Not an albatross slung around my neck."
But before the shifter could consider the matter further, his head whipped around. Immediately, Finn thrust the statue back into his pocket and began to run as fast as he could back the way he'd come, only this time heading toward the veterinary practice's back door.
Because a piercing human voice had cut through the forest just then, and Finn was certain he could identify the source. He'd just heard Ixchel scream.
Chapter 10
"We've got one walk-in dog with a fever. Beverley canceled her appointment...again. And there are three very handsome-looking men waiting out front."
"Three additional walk-ins?" Ixchel asked her receptionist absently as she scrubbed down her arms to ensure no germs carried over to the next patient. "Are they all here with the same animal? What kind and what's wrong?"
When the middle-aged woman didn't respond right away, Ixchel looked up at last and saw what could only be described as glee on Betty Lou's face. "No animals," the receptionist clarified. "They said they wanted to see you. Plus, one of the gentlemen is holding a rose...and he sure is handsome!"
Ixchel rolled her eyes as Betty Lou fanned her face to dissipate perceived hotness. "I'm sure the rose isn't for me," the vet murmured. Then, raising her voice back up to a normal speaking tone, she added: "But you might as well show your heartthrobs in. If Beverley's backpedaling on the neutering issue yet again, then I guess we've got a hole in our schedule. Hopefully I'll be able to get rid of the animal-less walk-ins quickly so I can fully focus on the dog."
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