New York Fantastic

by Paula Guran

  Ryan realized it, too. The silence stretched between us for what felt like an age before he said, “Waheela smell like cold.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “We do.”

  It is hard to be a predator in any world, but harder still in a world where all is ice and snow and cold, forever. The waheela grew large, to fight off all who would challenge us, and then, when that was not enough, we grew difficult to track, to confound those who we would hunt. The scent of a waheela in human form is indistinguishable from fresh-fallen snow. Even in our great hunting forms, we leave behind meaningful scent trails only when we are wounded. We had been taken; we were in a room where the only abiding smell was the smell of the cold. It was thus clear that we had been taken by waheela.

  “Ryan?” My voice was suddenly brittle in the cold, dark air, like ice that was on the verge of breaking.

  “Yeah, Istas?”

  “I have been very fond of you, and am glad to have entered into a casual mating relationship, despite the differences in our species and cultural backgrounds. I hope that you have not regretted your time with me.”

  “What? Of course not. Istas—” Confusion and burgeoning panic sharpened his voice to a killing edge.

  In some stories of the waheela, we can grab the wind itself to use as a weapon, when the need is upon us. If only all stories were true. I sat up taller in my chair, as tall as the chains allowed, and wished that I had my parasol. I have always felt braver when properly accessorized.

  “We are ready for you,” I said. “You have toyed with your prey suffi-ciently, don’t you think?”

  A rectangle of light opened at the far end of the room, not so bright as to be blinding, but enough to sting my eyes, which had long since adjusted to the dark. Three figures made their way inside, and they smelled of nothing, nothing but the cold. Their steps were soft as they walked across the room; predator’s steps, designed to make as little noise as possible. I had stopped walking like a predator long ago, preferring shoes that politely announced my presence to the potential victims around me.

  The three waheela walked until they had come to the very edge of where the light reached, and stopped, silently waiting to see what I would do next. They were all male, with dark hair and eyes, and brown skin. Waheela could pass for Canada’s First People, when we had to, and in a way, I suppose that was not a lie. We had been there longer than most after all, as cold and unchanging as the glaciers.

  I cocked my head. “Hello, Father.”

  The tallest of the three figures nodded in return. “Hello, eldest of my daughters.”

  I was not the firstborn female of my litter, but the dead are not the family of the living. After my sister was eaten, I became eldest. I looked at the shadowed figures behind him, and asked, “Why have you come here with my brothers? Why have you followed me down into the human lands? I went into exile of my own volition.”

  “Your mother is dead,” he said calmly. “You are the eldest of my daughters.”

  In the land of the waheela, the words he had just uttered made perfect sense. But this was the land of the humans, and I had been living here for a very long time. It took me a moment to realize what he was saying, what the words really meant beyond the thin veneer of his civility. They would have been easier in great-form, where nothing has two meanings: everything is only ever what it is, as cold and unforgiving as the snow.

  Clarity did not come easy, but it came. I stiffened in my chair. “No,” I said. “I refuse. I am in exile.”

  “You have exiled yourself.”

  “But if Mother is dead, then I have the authority to exile myself. I am in exile. You must find another.”

  My father growled. Even in man-form, it was a chilling, primal sound, commanding obedience from the tip of my head to the toes of my feet—my feet, which were still clad in my fine black boots with the heels that clattered when I walked. I rapped one of them against the floor, relishing the sound it made. I was Istas. I had run very far to become her, and I was not letting her go that easily.

  “No,” I said, calmly. “I will not go with you.”

  “Izzy?” Ryan sounded confused. I managed not to wince—showing weakness was beneath me, and here and now, I was my father’s daughter, whether I desired to be or no. “What’s going on?”

  Even in the dark, I could see my father baring his teeth in a smile. “You refuse me, but you forget that you are not the only thing we hold. How loudly will your little toy scream, eldest daughter? How many limbs must we remove before you will see reason?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, and then paused, rapping my heel against the floor again. It made a sharp, almost hollow sound. “Father, are we on the second floor?”

  “Third,” he said smugly. “No one will overhear the screaming.”

  “Ah. That is pleasing. Ryan?”

  “Um, yeah, Izzy?”

  “Are you ready to rock?”

  Ryan’s surprised laugh was followed by the sound of a large, heavy object crashing through the wooden floorboards. My brothers shouted, rushing past me toward the hole that had suddenly opened up in the floor. My father snarled. I bared my teeth in a smile.

  “I believe you have lost a prisoner,” I said. “Pity, that. Now what are you going to do to entice me?”

  He grabbed the front of my dress, jerking me toward him until I heard the seams starting to give. Nose only inches from mine, he whispered, “I’ll think of something.”

  This time, I couldn’t stop myself from flinching.

  Waheela are not unthinking beasts, to be ruled by instinct. We are very thoughtful monsters, ruled by tradition, which is like instinct, only crueler. Once, it may have made sense for the eldest to rule in all things; once, it may have been fair to drag back runaway children and force them to rejoin a family they had chosen to leave. Those times are far behind us, lost in the distance of the past.

  My father’s hand gripped my jaw, forcing me to look at him as he studied me. His lip curled in a sneer when he considered my ponytails. “You dress like a human,” he spat.

  “You are wearing human clothing,” I countered. My brothers were gone, descending into the abandoned building as they searched for my missing boyfriend. I wished them all the luck in the world, including the greatest luck of all: if they were lucky, they would not find him. A fall from this height would doubtless have broken the chair that kept his chains in position. He would be loose. And most of all, he would be angry.

  Tanuki are therianthropes, like waheela: shapeshifters whose power comes from within, unlike the poor, diseased wretches infected with lycanthropy. Ryan could transform his body in a variety of ways, including convincing his flesh that it was a type of stone far denser than lead. He could not move when in statue-form, but he could do a remarkable amount of damage to things like non-load-bearing floors.

  “I am dressed for the sake of blending in,” said my father. “You are groomed. You have embraced the mockery they continue to pretend serves as a culture.”

  I blinked at him, startled. And then I laughed. “Truly? You call human culture a mockery? Our culture is a hole in the ground! Our culture is your teeth in my sister’s throat! How did Mother die? Hunters? A blizzard? Or you, coming in the night with claws bared and temper blazing? We don’t have a culture, Father! We have a war that we’ve been fighting against our own kind for centuries, and there will never be a winner!”

  His hand was hard against my cheek. I glared at him. He glared back, showing me his teeth.

  “You will come home,” he said. “I do not care what you want. Desires are for the warm lands.”

  “I left the cold.”

  “The cold never leaves you.” This time, his hand against my cheek was a caress. “You are never going to be as warm as they are.”

  I turned my head, fast as a striking snake, and sunk my teeth into his fingers. How he howled! And his blood was as warm as any mammal’s. There was nothing of the cold in him at all.

  He yanked himself away from me,
snarling. “Insolent bitch!”

  “I told you, Father. I will not come home with you. You’ll have to kill me first.”

  “So be it, then.” He primly removed his overcoat, tossing it off to the side. Then, without another word, he began to swell, human features first distorting, and finally vanishing beneath the onrushing force of the battle-form. He unfolded, shirt and trousers tearing away, until a great wolf-bear stood before me, fully eleven feet in height, with bearlike paws and claws the length of my palm. He roared, and it was the sound of an avalanche crashing down upon an empty valley. All the cold of Canada was in his bellowed declaration of dominance.

  I looked at him calmly. “Yes,” I said. “I know. But what can you do?”

  He stepped forward, barely bipedal, all-too-aware that the floor would barely support his weight; Ryan had made that very clear. Almost gentle now, he wrapped his paw around my chin, claws pricking the flesh of my cheek. He looked at me. I looked back.

  “How did Mother die?” I asked.

  His answer would no doubt have involved teeth and claws and a rather unpleasant death, both for me, and for my dress, which was not designed to deal with that much blood. Instead, he was hit from the side by a beast almost his size, differentiated only by paler fur and a long striped tail. Father roared. Ryan roared back.

  I frowned. “This is very inconvenient.” I turned my head in the direction Ryan had arrived from. The younger of my brothers was standing where a door had not been previously, his shirt torn and stained with blood. “You. Release me. I am the eldest female now, and I command it.”

  Instinct is weak where tradition is strong. My brother knew that I was to be chained, and that Father would be unhappy if I were free. But as Father was in the process of having his head slammed into the wall by an angry tanuki, I was the only eldest in our family currently in a position to give orders. He grabbed Father’s overcoat from the floor; as I expected, the key was in the pocket. What other reason would someone so dismissive of human culture have for being careful of his clothes?

  My brother moved to kneel behind me, fumbling with the chains. When they fell away I stood, not thanking him, and began undoing the buttons on my dress as quickly as I could without damaging anything. It was time for this to end, and I was going to be the one to end it.

  Waheela have two forms: man-form and great-form. Neither is superior to the other. Both have strengths and weaknesses, and if I miss the animal grace of my great-form when I am in man-form, I miss the thumbs and fashion opportunities of my man-form when I am in great-form. Still. Great-form is well-suited to anger, and as I stepped out of my stockings, I allowed my anger to run free.

  Ryan looked up as I raced on all four paws toward the tangled mass of fur and teeth that was his clench with Father. He let go, rolling out of the way just before I slammed into my father’s chest, teeth seeking and finding his throat. He roared, claws scrabbling to find purchase on my back, but all he found was fur, thicker and more luxurious than any waheela who does not have regular access to quality hair care products could hope to grow.

  I bit harder, slamming my father into the floor, and held him there, putting as much pressure as I could against his throat. Eventually, his thrashing stilled, and he lay limp.

  Instinct told me to bite down, to end him. Tradition said the same. But I am stronger than both. I have learned to wear high-heeled shoes, and to walk among men without eating them. I released my hold, straightening and shrinking at the same time, until I was in my man-form once more.

  “Izzy?”

  “Did you kill my other brother?” I asked curiously, turning toward Ryan. He was naked, and had no doubt shredded his clothing when he transformed. No matter. We would take my father’s overcoat, and the taxi drivers of New York had seen stranger things.

  Ryan shook his head. “I didn’t think you’d like that. He’s passed out in the basement.”

  “Good.” I turned to my brother. He took a step backward. “I will not harm you, but I will not be so merciful a second time. Tell Father this is my territory. No waheela are welcome here; none save me. Come again, and I will kill you. Do you understand?”

  “I do,” he said, and tilted his head back, showing me his throat.

  I walked forward, resting my hand against the exposed skin. “Find a name, brother,” I murmured. “Find something stronger than tradition. And for the love of the north wind, find better trousers. Those are very unattractive.”

  Then I gathered my clothing and my boyfriend, and left.

  Ryan put Father’s overcoat on, shoving his hands into the pockets, and hung back while I flagged down a cab. By the time the driver realized he had picked up a half-naked man to go with the half-naked woman, it was already too late to drive past.

  I snuggled against Ryan in the backseat, trying to finger-comb my hair back into a semblance of order.

  “So,” he said finally. “That was your family.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Let’s meet your family next. I am sure it will be equally enlightening.” My stomach growled. I frowned. “But perhaps we should have more pizza first. I have burned a great many calories this evening.”

  Ryan’s laughter had a hysterical edge to it. He kissed the top of my head, and said, “Let’s do that, honey.”

  As he gave the address to the driver, I smiled. It had been a good night. I was stronger than tradition, stronger than the call of the cold.

  So long as that is true, I can stay.

  Fairy tales come true in New York, but one should always remember fairy tale justice is sure, if not always swift, and the punishment is appropriate.

  A HUNTSMAN PASSING BY

  RICHARD BOWES

  Good evening! Here I am back working the door at an exclusive event. Like old times. It’s been a while since we met. I’m not sure anyone else can see you in your coat of moonlight. Or what any of them would understand if they did.

  The secret behind my being able to recognize you is dyslexia. It’s how I found my identity and my job, how I got married and had kids. If I’d been able to read, God knows where I’d be now.

  My not being able to write things down is why my memory got good. It’s why, even though I haven’t done doors for a few years, I can still remember every face and name on the Lower Manhattan art circuit.

  Tonight they’re celebrating the memory of the late seventies. And back then no Downtown event was complete without me. So when they organized the party for the release of Victor Sparger’s Raphael! I was asked to provide security for old time’s sake.

  The idea of this event bothered me and I wasn’t going to do it. Then something I read to my kids recently made me change my mind. That and something my wife told me. (My wife, when we were wondering if you’d be here, told me to say hello.)

  Raphael! is one painter directing a film about another. People say that’s kind of a culmination of that whole scene. The movie’s set downtown thirty years ago when the art world was the buzz in New York’sear. Big money changed hands. Large reputations got made. Victor Sparger was “in” right from the start. Painter and sculptor, very smart and pretty talented, he knew all the right names: Picasso and Braque, Warhol and Geldzahler. He was and is a prudent man. He invested his earnings, cultivated his image, bought real estate. Then out of nowhere came Louis Raphael. And in magazine articles about the scene Victor Sparger suddenly looked like a footnote.

  In this film, Sparger gives the world a movie about Louis Raphael. He intends that people interested in Raphael will find out about him through Sparger. It’s not exactly crooked or illegal. But it’s unjust in some way that’s beyond the reach of human law.

  That kind of thing only gets resolved in fairy tales. Which I take it is why you are here before me in that blue and silver dress on this Bowery sidewalk. And why I bow you into Ling’s Fortune Cookie. You’re on everybody’s guest list whether they know it or not.

  The Fortune Cookie is new since the last time you were around. Back then the site was still an
upscale gay baths. Now it’s a Chinese restaurant with waitresses who happen to be Asian guys. Drag is the gimmick of the moment.

  From inside the door we get to see the aging, slightly raddled survivors of the Mudd Club plus their younger tricks and camp followers. The walls are hung with shots from the movie.

  Some of the stills are of Raphael’s paintings. Out of backgrounds of dark carnival colors, Caribbean faces stare. Like they’re looking out of a deep, rich night into this bright room. Not angry. Not happy. Glaring not at but right through the viewer. And scrawled on the canvases are phrases in Spanglish and pidgin French, slogans that—when you decipher them—are like bizarre ads. “Breathe Oxygen Every Day,” that one over there says.

  Raphael, of course, is dead. And Sparger has yet to make his dramatic entrance. It’s uncool to turn and stare at new arrivals. So everybody glances out of the corner of their eyes as the door opens. It’s obvious from their reactions that they see nothing but me surveying the room. I alone am aware of you. Everyone goes back to watching the murderers.

  Two of them are in the room. For an event this big, the jealous sculptor who threw his wife out the thirty-story window and the coke-crazed art dealer who tortured and butchered the fashion design student—both showed up. They arrived separately and alone. Once each realized the other was here, they tried to stay as far apart as possible. Like both are afraid of guilt by association.

  It’s the chance to witness this kind of encounter that brings out the crowds. Alert as forest animals, they watch a wife killer/sculptor powerful enough to throw almost anybody out a window, a sadist/gallery owner, sleek and taut, who could be at any throat in a moment. But those things won’t happen. Not to people who have survived Max’s Kansas City, The Factory, and Studio 54. The craziest part is that I’m here to keep out dangerous riff-raff.

  In the mundane world, justice is a contest between bad luck and cold cash. The sculptor walked free, the dealer only served time for tax evasion. I almost feel sorry for the murderers. Compared to some of the guests, they seem pathetic. And theirs isn’t the kind of wrong that concerns the Huntsman.