“It’s a great compliment, Maria. I’m really flattered.”
Maria beamed at me, then flashed her mom a look that was half triumphant and half an acknowledgment that she was in big trouble. She lifted Justin out of Gwen’s arms and led him around the garage toward the back door. Justin gazed back at me, looking like he was still trying to figure out why the magic words had failed to produce any candy.
Gwen watched them go, arms folded, her mouth a tight line. Then she turned and marched up the front steps.
Wonderful. I’d been here five minutes and had already caused an argument. Ah, the joys of family.
I SAT IN MY SISTER’S LIVING ROOM—COLONIAL-STYLE, a Wedgwood blue sofa, two beige wing chairs by the fireplace—while Gwen banged things around in the kitchen. She said she was making coffee, but mostly she seemed to be taking her feelings out on her appliances. A cupboard door slammed hard, and the floor vibrated under my feet.
I knew why Gwen was angry about Maria’s self-made costume, and I couldn’t blame her. Well, I couldblame her, but I could also understand. Ever since Gwen’s firstborn had turned out to be a girl, she’d been terrified that the child would grow up to become a shapeshifter. Just like Aunt Vicky.
Among the Cerddorion, only females have the ability to shift. And that ability manifests with the onset of puberty. With each year that went by, Gwen grew a little more afraid that Maria was going to turn out to be one of the monsters.
Well, not a monster, not really. A demi-human. That was the official classification for Gwen and me both. The only difference was that I was classified as demi-human (active) and Gwen as demi-human (inactive). That meant she no longer had the ability to shift; she just had some funky stuff going on with her DNA that could create more demi-humans down the line. So Gwen had all the rights of any norm—she could vote, travel freely, live outside Deadtown—and I had all the restrictions of a PA.
Gwen hadn’t always been ashamed of what we are. She’s four years older than me, and she’d started shifting before I could. And she loved it. In fact, hardly a month went by when she didn’t use up all three shifts. PAs weren’t out at that time, so she had to be discreet, but Dad encouraged her to experiment. Even Mom, always the worrier, remembered the early thrill of shifting and loosened the tight leash she normally kept on us girls.
Gwen’s favorite shift was a seagull; she adored soaring over open water. But she also tried out life as a cat, a squirrel, a deer in the woods. She even shifted into a baby elephant to do an undercover exposé for the school newspaper on animal cruelty at the circus—her English teacher couldn’t stop praising her for how vividly she’d imagined the life of a circus animal. Everything was great until Gwen landed the lead in her senior class play.
They were doing Our Town; her role was Emily. For weeks, all she could talk about was acting, the theater, how she was going to major in drama and become a Broadway star. She lost interest in shifting—which I thought was grossly unfair, because I’d just started. For stagestruck Gwen, though, nothing compared to the thrill of the theater, and she spent all her time at rehearsals and hanging out with her acting-crazed friends. I missed her. I volunteered to help backstage, but for the first time ever Gwen treated me like the pesky little sister, tagging along.
On the play’s opening night, disaster struck. My sister got stage fright. She walked confidently onto the stage, then froze up, her eyes wide and glassy. Her mouth opened, closed, opened, but all that came out was a piteous squeak. Then she shuddered and bent double, her limbs twisting, as though she were having a seizure.
I realized what was happening and ran to close the curtain, yelling at the other actors to get off the stage, to give my sister some room. Mom and Dad were with us in a flash, emerging from the audience to hold the teachers at bay.
Gwen writhed on the floor. Fur covered her face; her ears slid around to the top of her head. Her nose lengthened, and she sprouted whiskers. The shift’s energy field blasted out, billowing the curtain and shredding her costume to ribbons. All the while, she shrunk smaller and smaller. Soon, all that could be seen of her was a rustling inside the remnants of Emily’s dress. Gwen had changed into a mouse.
I scooped up my sister and carefully slipped her into my pocket as Mom gathered the scraps of costume. Dad spoke to the teacher who had directed the play and convinced her we’d already carried Gwen out to the car. The director made an announcement that Gwen had become ill and the scene started over, with the understudy thrilled to step in. No big deal. The audience thought Gwen had fainted. Back in those days, most norms had an enormous capacity to ignore what they’d seen in favor of what they’d prefer to believe.
But Gwen was inconsolable. Her life, she insisted, was over. She refused to go to school for a week. And when she finally returned, it was to be shunned by her former friends. They blamed her for ruining the play, and someone—we never found out who—had seen something of Gwen’s shift. Rumors flew around the school, most of them even crazier than the truth. Gwen was called a freak, an alien, a mutant. Maybe if the monsters had been public then, kids would have thought she was cool. Maybe if Aunt Mab had taken on Gwen as her apprentice demon-fighter instead of me, my sister would have felt like there was some point to shifting. As it was, she felt like everything she’d ever wanted—her friends, popularity, a career as an actress—had been ripped away from her. Because she was Cerddorion. And she’d die, she insisted, if anyone ever found out.
Gwen never shifted again. She gave up her college plans and dropped out of high school. My parents objected. They pleaded. They even tried a threat or two. Gwen wouldn’t budge—stubbornness is a family trait. She found her own tiny studio in Medford and took a job at a pizza place near Tufts. And her mission in life became finding the right guy to get her pregnant. When a Cerddorion female gives birth, she becomes inactive, losing the ability to shift. Once being “normal” became Gwen’s driving force, she set out to catch a norm, with the intensity of a hunter stalking big game. Within three years, she’d married Nick Santini and gotten pregnant—not in that order. Nick was exactly the catch she was looking for. A Tufts grad who worked in finance, on campus for his five-year class reunion, he fell in love at first sight with the pretty waitress at the his old student hangout. Gwen was twenty-two years old the spring Maria was born. And with the birth of her child, she dedicated herself to out humaning all the human moms in her picket-fence suburban neighborhood.
Dad and I saw Gwen’s embracing of normhood as a rejection of everything that we were. Mom had a different view—after all, she’d made the same decision once. “Don’t judge your sister too harshly, Vicky,” she’d told me. “Maybe she’s not pushing her heritage away so much as she’s reaching toward something else.” I had no clue what Mom was talking about. All I could see was that Gwen wanted to be a norm.
Now, as if to prove that she was indeed the epitome of norm homemaking, she appeared in the doorway carrying a tray loaded with coffee and various pastries. All home-baked, I was sure. Gwen would rather die than have a store-bought cookie in her house. She smiled as brightly as any TV mom, kind of like Carol Brady, Clair Huxtable, and June Cleaver all rolled into one.
She put the tray on the coffee table and poured me a mug. We both like our coffee the same way, strong and black, but Gwen had set out a creamer and a little bowl of sugar cubes, complete with tongs. In the Santini household, appearances counted big-time. I warmed my hands around the steaming mug, breathing in that wonderful fresh-coffee scent.
“Gwen, about Maria’s costume—”
“Don’t worry about it. I overreacted. It’s just that I put a lot of time into the bride’s costume.” That wasn’t it at all, and we both knew it. She sighed. “I’m glad that Maria looks up to you. It’s just . . .”
“It’s just that you don’t want her to be me.” I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice, but it crept in anyway.
“I’m so scared that she’ll turn out to be Cerddorion.”
“What’s
so awful about that, Gwen? I’m not the only Cerddorion around, you know. You’re Cerddorion, Mom’s Cerddorion. If Maria’s one of us, so what?”
“Each year, she grows up a little more. She’s ten already. In a couple more years—”
“In a couple more years you’ll know whether or not she needs some specialized guidance. If she’s Cerddorion, I can help her.”
“You know, I married Nick partly because he’s pure Italian. I was hoping that that would . . . I don’t know . . . dilute my DNA or something.”
“Maria will be fine, Gwen. She’s a great kid. That’s what counts.”
Gwen looked at me dubiously. She was about to say something else when the doorbell rang, and the expression on her face changed to a strange combination of guilt and hope. Uh-oh. I’d seen that look before.
“Are you expecting someone?” I asked.
“I wasn’t sure. A friend of Nick’s said he might drop by.” She checked her watch. “He must have gotten off work early.”
“Gwen, you didn’t.” Even as I said it, I knew she had. No matter how many times I asked her not to, my sister was always—always—trying to set me up with a human boyfriend. She didn’t approve of my dating a werewolf. Can’t imagine why.
She got up and started toward the front hall, smiling sheepishly—but not quite sheepishly enough to hide her delight. “This guy’s great. His name’s Andy. He just joined Nick’s investment firm. He’s really cute—and he went to Harvard. As soon as you said you were coming, I called Nick and told him to invite Andy for dinner.”
“I’m not—” But she was gone. Damn. I did notwant to sit there and play nice on some blind date I didn’t even know I was having. So I did what any self-respecting, happily single woman would do. I ran and hid in the bathroom.
I closed the door, locked it, and leaned my forehead against the cool tile wall. How was I going to convince Gwen to stop doing this? The last time she’d fixed me up with one of Nick’s friends, I’d agreed, reluctantly, to meet the guy for dinner. When I got to the restaurant, he was waiting for me in the bar, sipping a Scotch on the rocks. I don’t think it was his first one, either—he weaved a little as we followed the maître d’ to our table. The way he stared made me feel like some kind of zoo animal. Before our appetizers arrived, he got down to business: “So you’re a shapeshifter, huh?” I nodded, and with shining eyes he took a rolled-up magazine from his jacket pocket. “Can you change into this?” The centerfold dropped open, and there was Miss July in all her silicone glory.
My last image of that date was Scotch dripping off his nose and chin.
Through the bathroom window, I could see Gwen’s kids running around in the backyard. They were playing tag, from the look of things. Maria ran very, very slowly, arms and legs pumping exaggeratedly, so little Justin could catch up and tag her. Gwen didn’t have a thing to worry about with that girl.
Muffled voices penetrated the door. Even by pressing my ear against the wood, though, I couldn’t make out what they were saying or who was speaking. I gazed longingly toward the window. Maybe I could climb out and join the kids in their game of tag. I’d even volunteer to be It.
I actually had my hand on the window latch before I could admit how silly I was being. I regularly confronted the nastiest demons in Boston, but I was afraid to be introduced to a norm in my sister’s living room? Okay, okay. I could do this. I unlocked the door, sighing. At least I got to be fully armed when I went to meet the demons. I didn’t have so much as a slingshot to keep Andy at bay.
As I opened the door, Gwen was talking, for some reason, about the heights and weights of her kids at their births. Andy must have been riveted. I almost felt a stab of pity for him. I walked down the short hallway and peered around the corner into the living room. Gwen sat on the sofa, her back to me. Facing her in one of the wing chairs was an elegant, for tyish woman in a taupe business suit. She wore her blonde hair up in a twist. Half-glasses perched on her nose as she wrote in a notebook, nodding.
No Andy. I was safe. I strode into the living room. When the woman saw me, her face lit up like a kid who’d just watched Santa Claus emerge from the fireplace. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Vicky, Gwen’s sister.”
The woman stood and extended her hand. “Yes, I know,” she said. “I’m so pleased to meet you.” Her hand was cold and a little damp. She shook hands vigorously and seemed reluctant to let go. I tugged my hand away, and we both sat down.
“Vicky, this is Sheila Gravett. She’s a doctor. She’s offering free health screenings to selected children from Maria’s school.”
Gravett—I knew that name. The woman watched me with intense interest, and a chill swept over me as I realized who she was. Gravett Biotech. The werewolf cloner. And she was here to ask Gwen about her kids? I narrowed my eyes at her.
“Why don’t you tell my sister the truth, Dr. Gravett?”
Gwen gaped at me. Gravett smoothed a hand over her already smooth hair and smiled, like she was glad I’d seen through her lie. She started to say something, but I cut her off. “The good doctor isn’t a pediatrician. She’s a research scientist—and president of Gravett Biotech. She’s trying to decode the Cerddorion genome so that her company can make a fortune off it. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”
“What I’m doing is in the interest of science. As I explained to you on the phone—”
Gwen blinked rapidly, like she was trying to process what was going on. “You lied to me? You wanted to”—she searched for the right word—“to study my children under the pretense of a medical exam?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Santini. In fact, I’m relieved your sister has revealed the truth. I don’t like to fabricate lies.” She shot me a cool glance. “But Vicky has been uncooperative, and I wanted a chance to meet you in person, to explain that this research can unlock the hidden mysteries of shapeshifting, for the good of your children, your family—for the good of this great nation.”
Oh, please. All we needed was a waving flag and the “Star-Spangled Banner” swelling in the background. “Okay, Dr. Gravett,” I said, “you’ve made your case. As you can see, Gwen isn’t interested. The front door’s that way.”
Gravett didn’t move. She leaned forward in her chair, watching Gwen, who twisted her hands in her lap.
I stood up and stepped toward the researcher. “Out,” I said. “I’ll pick you up and throw you out myself if you don’t get moving. I’m not kidding.”
Gravett looked at me, a challenge in her eyes. Her expression suggested she’d like nothing better than a chance to witness my paranormal strength. After another glance at Gwen, she sighed and got to her feet.
That’s when Gwen looked up. “Wait. If you decode this genome, does that mean—” Her eyes shone. “Does that mean you could find a cure?”
“A cure?” I couldn’t believe I’d heard her right. “For God’s sake, Gwen, it’s not a disease. It’s what we are.”
My sister turned to me, her face cold. “It’s what youare. I’m not. And I don’t want my daughter to be, either.”
Gravett pushed past me to sit down next to Gwen. “Once we understand how the shapeshifter gene works, we may be able to deactivate it, yes.”
The wheels were spinning behind Gwen’s eyes. You could almost see her calculating how much time the research might take versus how much time Maria had left until puberty. I wanted to shake her, to tell her to let her daughter be what she was—Cerddorion or human.
The grandfather clock in the corner chimed five. Gwen blinked, looking like she’d just come out of a dream. She stood. “I have to start supper,” she said. “I’ll think about it, Dr. Gravett. I have your card. I’ll call you.”
Gravett stood too, smiling that damned smug smile, and Gwen walked her to the front door.
“Gwen—” I began when she came back.
“Don’t start, Vicky. Just don’t. I’m not going to discuss it with you now.” She pushed past me and went into the kitchen. This time, no banging sounds emerged. The silence
was scarier.
I didn’t stay for dinner. Besides the fact that I still didn’t want to be introduced to Andy, the bad feelings between Gwen and me meant that this was not a good night to be sharing lasagna around the Santini family table. So I took a taxi to Needham Heights Station and caught an early train back to Boston. After the conductor punched my ticket, I sat and stared out the window. The light faded as we sped past graffiti-covered walls, gradually showing nothing but my own scowling face reflected in the glass. I was glad the light was gone, plunging Boston into the world of vampires, zombies, and other night creatures. The meeting with Gravett the mad scientist had put me in a bad mood. I was ready to kill some demons.
10
BOSTON’S NORTH END IS A WARREN OF NARROW, TWISTING streets lined with brownstones, mom-and-pop grocery stores, wholesalers, and some of the best Italian restaurants you’ll find outside of Tuscany. I drove down North Street and turned right on Lewis—the Jag whined in protest as I turned the wheel, then coughed a couple of times. Damn, I really needed to get that checked. I made a left on Commercial, which brought me to Atlantic and the waterfront. There it was, Commodore Wharf. I had to hand it to Lucado—he’d put up a good-looking building. Tasteful, even. Mostly brick, it rose ten stories and sported balconies, arched windows, and lots of glass. Modern, luxurious, but not out of place in Boston’s oldest neighborhood.
I parked in a visitor’s space and breezed past the doorman, who waved me through when I told him who I was there to see. The lobby was as classy as the building’s exterior: marble floors, dark wood paneling, leather chairs clustered here and there in conversation groups. Nice.
When I rang Lucado’s doorbell, it was a few minutes before ten. The door was opened by a massive chest with pumped-up pecs. At least, that’s what it looked like until I craned my head back to see the guy’s face. He was well over six feet tall, and he had the face of a prizefighter who’d won himself more poundings than prizes: beady eyes and a zigzagging nose that’d been broken in at least three places. Besides a too-tight T-shirt, he wore jeans and black boots. Strange uniform for a butler, so I was guessing this must be Lucado’s bodyguard.
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