The Wild Harmonic

by Beth W. Patterson

  Rowan dips his head in approval of our pack folklorist before bringing us back to the current situation. “In modern genetics, chimera is a pretty broad term, sometimes used to categorize humans with two different blood types or two sets of DNA.

  “The Stygian Mode discovered in Father O’Flaherty’s possession turned out to be a heavily encrypted codex for all shifters following the Chimera. O’Flaherty himself was trying to solve the mystery as discreetly as possible, so concerned was he over being discovered by the wrong people.”

  “He told me that he had tried to pass himself off as a comic book enthusiast,” supplies Sylvia. “Some of his fellow berserkers, the bear people, had donated some rather valuable items to make for a convincing alibi. If he had been caught with The Stygian Mode in his possession, he knew could feign ignorance about the book’s true purpose, not to mention report anyone trying to retrieve it.”

  Rowan nods. “Lydia and her intelligence team were able to decipher the code and verify the identity of our nemesis, confirming my suspicions. The woman responsible for all this chaos is a polyshifter, a shifter who can assume two or more forms. Her real name is Idona Brume. Some theorize that she was the offspring of some biopunk; however, she was born long before any such studies in genetics were ever made. In reality she is the offspring of a lycan and a kelpie.

  “She is reported to be able to shift into over two hundred forms, or combinations thereof, making her a ‘splitter,’ a polyshifter who can take features from several beasts at once, like griffins or manticores. This is how she almost always transmogrifies, although she prefers to keep her own face, narcissist that she is. The team handling the scientific part of the case believes that it has something to do with the manipulation of viruses, which can replicate DNA.

  “Financial reports reveal that she has tremendous fiscal backing, which is officially named Chimera Enterprises. We have already seen evidence of this in how Gabriel paid for Buzz’s hospital expenses from the Chimera’s coffers. Brume may not have even noticed, so deep are her pockets. Her allegedly inviolable stronghold is estimated to have cost around nine figures.”

  Sylvia murmurs, “Just think of how many impoverished communities that kind of money could feed … provide clean water, housing, education, medicine …” She trails off, but her eyes are ferocious.

  Raúl’s eyes are troubled. “She accrues it criminally, of course,” he says. “Lydia told me that one shifter in business with her managed to escape her snares, but didn’t live long enough to tell the whole story. This man had been a canny stockbroker. Brume had offered him power, luxury, and protection from her forthcoming war in exchange for a loan of an exorbitant amount of money. But when the time came for him to collect, she was reported to have assumed a dragon form and replied, ‘Let’s just think of this as a tribute gift, shall we?’ and promptly bit off his head. I doubt that Brume realized that in his cockroach form he was able to survive decapitated for an entire week. So she did not bother to squash him as he shifted and scuttled away. He somehow managed to report to some shifter leaders—mostly insect forms—with signals, written cues, and pheromones before finally dying. But even he was unable to pinpoint her location.”

  Rowan shakes his head in sorrow. “It appears that she will stop at nothing to unite all shifters on her side, eliminating the ones who do not comply, as well as annihilating innocent humans.”

  Teddy wrings his hands. “Damn, she is guano-crazy!” We pause until he elucidates, “Bat shit.”

  “That she is,” admits Rowan. “She is a commanding, intense woman. Back when I knew her, she desperately wanted to be the center of attention at all times. She has gone even more power-mad since I last saw her. Back then she was addicted to exercise, and sources say that this has only gotten worse—linked to her obsession with her own beauty and the subjugation of others.”

  “How did you know her?” asks Teddy.

  He does not drop his gaze, but as his mate I can smell his extreme discomfort in spite of his shielding. “We used to have a bit of a thing going.”

  It feels as if I have just taken a cannonball to the chest. Everyone seems to make a point of not looking at me.

  “It was back in the 1930s,” he discloses. “‘Talkies’ were beginning to replace silent films, and I was bouncing around from gig to gig, shifting from a pianist to a guitarist. The depression was fully upon us, but we never really felt the effects in Manhattan. I met this woman at one of my shows, and she was the first polyshifter that I had ever known, her blended heritage allowing her to switch from lupine to equine bodies when she chose. She was a runway model and a social butterfly. But the huge fly in the ointment was her ego and her jealousy. As they used to say, ‘if she can’t be the body, she won’t go to the funeral.’

  “She especially had an agenda against one of her peers and fellow models, a Scottish lycan named Dottie. Dottie was a fascination to many for her beauty and charming accent, but was loved by all who came to know her for her kindness and generosity of spirit. The words that people often used to describe her were ‘elegant,’ ‘poised,’ and ‘graceful.’ At any party, she could be completely holding court, but it was largely because she expressed so much genuine interest in everyone else. She did not think of herself as remarkable at all, and had a vested interest in helping others.

  “Eventually Idona and I parted ways, as I couldn’t take any more of her attitude and volatile mood swings. I still saw her from afar on the scene, as I had gigs to play that crossed into her own world. She immediately hooked up with a naga for several weeks. The official story was that he fled New York after they broke up, but no one ever knew where he went next. He was rumored to be dead. And Idona began to take on some of his traits that might further her career, her gait becoming more slippery as she glided down the runway. She began to possess three main animal traits instead of two, and craved more.

  “One night after attending a New York Philharmonic performance, Dottie and her husband were seen conversing and laughing with the legendary conductor Arturo Toscanini. Idona had just about had it. Dottie’s husband was soon murdered—found with a pair of fang marks to the ankle. At the funeral, I went alto to more effectively eavesdrop and I heard Idona’s whispered bragging about this ‘warning.’ How she could have just killed her rival, but that she wanted to make her suffer first, before executing her plans to take Dottie out. I had smelled that Dottie was with child by then, and the thought of Idona killing not only another innocent person, but also her target’s most precious hope was more than I could endure.

  “As people began to leave the graveyard, I pretended to offer Idona a lift to her flat. As soon as she got into the passenger seat, I warded and went full on tenor. Rage didn’t even begin to describe what nearly consumed me, nearly drove me to kill her—if only I had! She was so full of herself, she couldn’t even smell my lycan rage, choosing to believe that I couldn’t resist her and that I wanted her back as I bound her hands. I drove her to my apartment and managed to detain her in my bathroom, threatening to blow her cover if she tried to escape. For several hours, she laughed at what she thought was a game. In time she became bored, realized that I was not going to take her, and hissed at me that I was hardly a man for refusing her. And like water, she flowed into snake form, slipped out of her bonds and under the door, slithered out of an air duct, and I never saw her again.

  “Several days went by before some hawk shifters spotted her. They reassured me that by the time Idona was on the warpath, Dottie had already vanished. And I decided that if I wanted to stay alive, I would do well to evacuate as well and go back to my native El Paso. Dottie was said to have escaped unharmed and lived on elsewhere. I don’t think I even knew her last name.”

  My blood feels like putty in my veins. I swallow hard. “I know what her story is. Her surname was MacKinlay.” I feel the collective jolt from the pack, and I take a deep breath. “She was my grandma, and came down to Louisiana to raise my father. She always said that it was because New York
was no place for a widow to raise a child, which never made any sense to me. I guess she didn’t want to trouble us with the knowledge that she had been in danger, especially if it were to raise awkward questions.”

  This is the first time I have ever seen Rowan appear incredulous.

  My head spins, but I meet my lover’s eyes. “If you hadn’t detained Brume … I might never have been born.” I can’t bring myself to say her first name, as if speaking it aloud will somehow invoke her—or his old feelings for her.

  Teddy breaks the tension, pointing back and forth from our pack leader to me. “Rowan is a cradle robber, Rowan is a cradle robber,” he chants. The whole pack explodes into laughter, and I am so grateful to Teddy right now, I could almost give him my prized Fodera bass.

  I pounce so hard on the opportunity for a subject change I can practically hear its neck break. “So, Raúl. Where are you guys gonna get hitched? There’s a great spot not far from my house … a bonafide labyrinth. Don’t worry, it’s only ankle-high, so you can’t get lost.” Raúl agrees to swing by with Lydia and check it out.

  Teddy and I exchange sympathetic glances. How is it that we all can sense each other’s emotional states, yet still feel the need to disclose so little? Perhaps privacy is the last remaining luxury of lycan life.

  As we all hug goodbye, Rowan’s pack phone rings, startling us all into an instinctual state of hyperawareness. He says very little when he picks up, but his mouth goes grim. Even with the encrypted frequencies and foreign words, we pick up vocal tones of extreme distress.

  When he hangs up, the silence in the room is almost a vacuum. “Aydan’s been taken,” he tells us in a flat tone. “She never even made it to her plane out of New Orleans.”

  A surge of guilt rises in my gut like bile. I could have stopped her, is my automatic irrational thought. Rowan swings his head to meet my gaze. “No one could have possibly known,” he assures me, reading my energies, smelling my emotions.

  Turning to face us all, he says, “This I promise to you all: no harm will come to anyone at the nuptial ceremony. I will personally see to that. We have much to be joyful about.” No one questions him.

  The wedding is like no other I have ever attended or played for. It’s small and informal, but there is no way anyone could ever try to recreate such a ceremony. The first cool weather of the year has everyone in high spirits, and the overall joy is infectious.

  A cluster of small children runs through the little clearing at the edge of the stables not far from Audubon park. Their bright eyes and ebony skin make it easy to imagine Raúl as a little one, and these nieces and nephews of his warm my heart as they romp like puppies in this strange new terrain.

  I’m not certain what theological aspect is being observed. Father O’Flaherty is to perform the ceremony, but I know that Raúl’s religious views are centered around the ancestral worship of his Tsonga people. And I’m not even certain what Lydia observes. Like Raúl, she is older than she looks, and I seem to recall her speaking about her roots in Voudoun.

  The altar contains two figures: an image of the nearly-forgotten Asherah, wife of Yaweh, holding a pair of snakes. The other is of Hecate with two dogs, or possibly wolves. The little arch is interwoven with wisteria vines, the clusters of flowers like floral bunches of grapes dropping purple blossoms in a lazy shower.

  Sylvia had tried to explain it all to me. “We are having a traditional shifter ceremony, and religion is simply out of the picture. What is the Divine but one eternal shifter, anyway? It shifts form according to where we are born and how we are raised. The Divine does not care about Its image. We are as little children fighting each other for the attention of our parents, each trying to win the most favor by capturing the most accurate depiction. Only we kill one another, much to the sorrow of our loving Source.”

  Speaking of which, Teddy and Sylvia are now off to the side of the altar, pretending to argue about theology, which dissolves into the two of them trying to kick each other in the butt. It’s some sort of discussion on the Flying Spaghetti Monster versus the Church of Subgenius. I have only caught the tail end of it, but I double over watching the two of them in action. Teddy puffs out his chest and states, “To quote Connie Dobbs, ‘I kick habits while the nuns are still in them!’” His subsequent attempted roundhouse is way off mark and he loses his balance. I am relieved to know that there is at least one other werewolf around who is as clumsy as I am.

  I recognize a few guests, including the flamboyant Dean deChanteloup from the Shifter’s Ball, hired to organize the caterers and florists, choosing only lycans with the most discerning noses. He’s chatting with P.H. Fred, who is enthusiastically proclaiming that while it must be glamorous to be a lycan, folks like us will never understand the simple pleasures of peeling a banana with one’s own feet or flinging poo. Dean is cackling his infectious laugh, and I insert my way into this animated discussion until the music starts.

  Sylvia has her Triton and a small amp set up, and Father O’Flaherty is standing patiently at the altar. My black-clad best friend begins to play a lovely Scarlatti selection. Lydia’s father, a majestic black man to whom she had introduced us earlier, leads the bride towards the arch, and as we stand to see her, the collective sound of breath catching in everyone’s throats flutters like breezes through branches in the little congregation.

  Lydia is the most stunning creature I have ever seen. Her cornrow braids are interlaced with one another like Celtic knotwork, shaped to her head in a sleek, intricate cap. Her adaptation of a traditional Haitian gown is at once classy and otherworldly, as if the fey had spun a flowing silver karabela dress, tailoring it to accentuate her curves. Raúl is grinning so brightly, it almost hurts to watch him.

  Father O’Flaherty raises his musical voice that needs no amplification.

  “So as you transform yourselves, you now transform one another. Beast and human, man and woman, wolf and serpent. Musician to musician and friend to friend. I wish for you both:

  “Instinct to listen to each other.

  Strength to support each other.

  Speed to defend each other.

  Reasoning to temper each other.

  Joy to lift each other.

  And love to encircle each other.

  Do you, Raúl, take this naga …”

  I can’t focus for a minute. Less than a year ago, I didn’t even know that there were other lycans here besides Rowan, and now this whole other world is widening faster than I can keep up. Rowan senses my overwhelm and squeezes my hand, grounding me.

  They walk the path of the labyrinth together, symbolizing their journey ahead. I sense powerful warding around the ceremony, but neither bride nor groom is asked to transform. A wedding, it seems, is an entirely human thing, and the transformation is within. I blink rapidly, realizing that we are getting to the good part.

  “… by the powers bestowed upon me—oh, for the love of Saint Brigid! Would you all stop crying?” A watery giggle ripples throughout the little congregation and Teddy blows his nose with a massive honk.

  “I now pronounce you … the most disgustingly sweet man and wife I have ever seen! Go on then, you may kiss the bride before I develop diabetes!”

  Dean shouts, “Mazeltov! Oh, shit, wrong wedding!”

  The recessional is Aaron Copeland’s “Hoedown,” á la Emerson, Lake, and Palmer, of course. Sylvia looks like a novelty greeting card: a nun gleefully rocking out, oblivious to religious mores.

  At the reception, the music of Gharwane piped is through someone’s jam box, and I hear people greeting each other in Haitian vernacular: “Onè” (honor) and “Respè” (respect). I take Sylvia aside. “I found this stuck in my gig bag the other night.” I hand her a folded piece of paper. “Someone wrote this little piece on the back of a flyer. I figured that you of all people would be able to make heads or tails out of it. It’s compelling, even if it doesn’t rhyme.”

  Sylvia nearly trances out, mouthing the words silently. A wondrous smile begins to
flow. “Ah, but it does rhyme,” she breathes. “Just not on paper or spoken aloud. This appears to have been written by a deaf person. Their concept of rhyme is not in the way that words are written—for how can you explain a word like ‘through’ rhyming with ‘new’ by sight? Their rhymes and meters are according to the visual similarities and flow of signs, and where they are in relation to the face or body. The meanings still carry vibrations, even though there is no sound. For all thought is vibration.

  “Many deaf people enjoy music as much as any of us do. They just perceive it in a different way. There are even some very accomplished deaf musicians. Not all deaf people are into music, suffice to say, but there is an entire subculture of deaf poetry, punctuated by things like eyebrow movements and facial expressions. I’m been to some deaf poetry slams, and it is unfathomably beautiful, even if it goes over my head. I still can appreciate it like a kind of dance that I can never hope to perform.”

  I still have so much to learn. I tuck the poem into my jacket pocket for luck. An odd tingle down my spine leads me to believe that it will come in handy someday.

  My hair finally dry, I give it a few more strokes with the brush before tucking it into a ponytail. Rowan slides up behind me and kisses the back of my neck. We’d had a blissful morning giggling like a couple of loons watching a few episodes of The Mighty Boosh, before the laughter heated up into a carnal urge that had to be attended immediately. A private glow fills me at the new delight of discovering Rowan’s outrageous strength firsthand. I don’t recall being so happy, ever—even if a cold lump occasionally grows in the pit of my stomach thinking about the Chimera. But for now, all shadows have fled my mind.