THE baby, Joe, was still nursing when Amelia felt the change coming on, the first stirring of appetite for the forbidden, the faint current of unnatural strength, the hint that she would become the thing she feared and hated. She glanced toward the apartment's living-room window. Its white curtains were parted, showing that night had arrived as gently as first snow, shadows lodging among the buildings in drifts, melted in spots by the yellow warmth of the street lights. Now that she was thinking of it, she could taste the cool metal of twilight in the autumn air. Soon the moon would crest the hill above town. For the first of its three nights full, the moon would work on her weakly; she could resist change for a little while. But not all night.
Where was the babysitter?
Gently, Amelia pulled Joe free and tucked her breast back into her bra, buttoning her shirt. Rising from the folding metal chair, she carried the baby to the closet where she had set up his crib three months before.
Pregnancy had protected her from the moon change, and she had thought nursing would, too. She had prayed that this frightening mother-change in her body had driven out the other, unwelcome change entirely. For a year it had. Just in case, since Joe's birth she had arranged for a babysitter each full moon. Of course, the first time she really needed a sitter, the sitter was late.
Whom could she call? She glanced over her shoulder at the phone. The sitter first. Then, maybe, the man who had moved into the apartment downstairs two weeks ago. Amelia usually had trouble talking with strangers, especially men, but something about this man—his smell, perhaps, a musty, stale-sweat-in-body-hair scent that she would have dismissed as unclean, save for its strange attractiveness—had reassured her. They had spoken by the mailboxes three times. He had patted Joe's head with a gentle hand, and Joe had not minded.
What would Mother think of her even considering calling a strange man to look after her child?
Blast that thought. If Mother were alive and knew Amelia had a child at all, she would disown her daughter.
She put Joe in his crib and wound up the music-box mobile above it. By the light of a shell nightlight, plastic cardinals and bluebirds spun to the tune of Brahms' lullaby. The baby stared up at the birds. Amelia tucked the blanket in around Joe.
He was such a good baby. Gentle, quiet, undemanding. Just the way she had been as a baby, according to her mother. The way she had been all through girlhood.
She kissed Joe's forehead.
Change gripped her breasts, flattening them against her chest, her body shifting to absorb and redistribute tissue. She backed out of the closet and lay on the rag rug in the tiny living room, her eyes clenched shut, her mind grappling with the change, holding it at bay. When the hunger woke to fullness in her, would Joe be safe?
▼▼▼
Kelly Patterson sat on the dirty laundry in his armchair and looked at his apartment. In the two weeks since he had moved in, he had managed to get it as messy as any other place he had lived—crushed beer cans mingling with wadded potato chip bags and filthy socks on the floor, an assortment of dirty shirts and jeans draped across most of the furniture, and a couple of crumpled TV dinner trays on the lamp table, right next to the rings left on the wood by wet cans. Sawdust he carried home from the construction site in the cuffs of his pants and in the waffles on his workboots mixed with everything else, but its clean wood scent couldn't compete with the odor of decay, which was almost a color in the air, spiced but not diminished by the scent of soured beer.
By morning it would all be cleaned up and he would have to start over. No matter how much he challenged his animal self, it always rose to the challenge and exceeded it.
Kelly scratched a stubbled cheek. The night Sonya-the-sudden had bitten him—he had forgotten that she had asked him not to come by that night, and he had an album he was convinced she should hear—the night she had bitten him, he had visualized a lot of scenarios, but never one to match this reality. Who would ever guess that somewhere inside his sloppy self lurked a finicky creature?
Maybe he should stop teasing himself, leave the place neat once and see what his alter ego would do when housekeeping didn't get in its way. Adult-onset lycanthropy. It was still so new and weird. There were lots of experiments he hadn't tried yet. Like, what would he do in the woods? Maybe he should throw a couple blankets, kibble, and a dog dish into the Jeep, drive out into the woods and check it out—if not tonight, tomorrow. But he had never had any woods sense. What if he got lost? Lost, forty, and naked in the early morning. An ugly thing to contemplate.
He sighed. He stood up and went to the curtains, parted them a crack to check the progress of the night.
There was a thump from upstairs, then a drumming of heels. What was going on with Amelia-the-mouse? Mouse brown hair, mouse dark eyes, alive with the mouse wish to be invisible. Had someone come to visit her, and were they having a go? He had tried to imagine a man who could be the father of her baby, and failed; Amelia was a walking wall of don't-touch-me, though some of the shrug-off softened when he talked to her about the kid. Who could get close enough? Though there was something about her that tempted a person . . .
There was another sharp heel thump on his ceiling, and a low cry that sounded more desperate than satisfied. He straightened out of his habitual slouch, staring up, wondering if she needed someone or something.
The hot silver fire ran through him, starting from his heart and flowing out to his extremities, traveling like flame along gas lines. His fingers tightened on the curtain. He drank a long breath in, feeding the silver fire. Smells sharpened and sounds intensified; he knew that somewhere in the room was a rat he would soon enjoy catching and eating. He could hear it chewing on leftover pizza in the corner.
A floor away, he could hear Amelia, moaning his name. His first name. Something had to be wrong with her; he couldn't imagine her ever calling somebody male and older than she was by their first name, not under normal circumstances.
He chomped his lip, the pain waking him of change, dousing the silver fire. It was First Night, the loosest night of change; he could overmaster it, at least for a while. He gripped the knob of his front door. For a while. What if change caught him in Amelia's place? Scare her out of her skin. She'd get him in trouble, no question.
"Kelly!" she cried.
He opened his door and glanced out. Across the hall, Peter-the- snoop was peeking out. Peter waggled his eyebrows at Kelly and slid his door shut. Kelly sighed and ran for the stairs.
▼▼▼
Amelia had the phone's handset in her fist, but she couldn't dial the phone, not with change gripping her. Anyway it was too late. If the sitter hadn't left her building yet, she'd never get here in time.
Soon change would consume Amelia, and she would lose all her normal feelings, her restraints, her cares and concerns. She would go prowling, looking for victims. Before that happened, she must get help for Joe.
Her lower body locked, and the little tail began to grow between her legs. Clenching her fists, locking her elbows, she forced the tail back inside her.
"Kelly!" she cried.
Change whispered through her mind: Kill inhibitions. Mate with impulses. Take the night and make it yours. Your feet are made for wandering, and desire is your master.
The doorknob rattled, turned.
She panted short harsh breaths. She could feel her hips slimming, her shoulders changing. Her skin simmered as hair sprouted on chest and arms and legs and back.
Kelly, messy Kelly, slipped into the apartment. " 'Melia?" He knelt beside her.
She unclenched a fist long enough to grip his arm. "Joe," she said, her voice already low and harsh with change. "Will you watch Joe for me?"
"I, uh," he said. His face looked funny, and his smell had changed, though it was still just as enticing. She could feel the racing heat in him against the palm of her hand. "Okay—" he said, on a rising note.
She cried out. All her muscles locked, holding her still while the rest of change happened and she became the monster.
It was going to happen. Kelly was going to change in front of somebody for the first time since Sonya had talked him through it. And this time it wasn't going to matter, because—
He wondered who or what had bitten Amelia.
What she was turning into didn't seem to be an animal. Its outline was human.
She shuddered and panted and sweated in front of him, her face twisted in pain and revulsion.
Change didn't hurt him like that. For him, it was as good as sex.
Amelia writhed. He felt he should be watching her, maybe soothing her somehow—a wet towel on the forehead? What?—but his own silver change pulsed through him, and he could no longer hold it off.
▼▼▼
Grinning, Adam sat up. Then he glanced down at his lap and frowned. Damn Amelia, the stupid bitch. Why hadn't she changed into his clothes? How could she let him wake up still in a skirt? Didn't she even care how he felt? He grabbed handfuls of skirt and ripped it off his body, enjoying the strength in his arms. And this blouse, so obviously feminine, pastel pink, soft and wimpy like the bitch—it had to go too.
Something warm was behind him. He narrowed his eyes. What had happened since last time? He turned and discovered a big black pointy- eared dog standing, staring at him with yellow eyes. Something funny about its paws—they were too big—but before he could get a good look at them, it leaned toward him. An edge of its black lip lifted, showing a canine. It made no sound.
"Shoo," he said. His voice wavered.
It took a step toward him.
He stood up, the shreds of skirt scattering around his feet. He stripped the shirt off and dropped it, then skinned out of Amelia's cotton underpants.
"Didn't know she got a dog," he said to the dog. He wasn't sure how it would behave toward him, either. Did he still smell enough like her to confuse it? He held out a hand to it, and it sniffed him, then backed up one step. "Look, I'll get out," he said. "Just gotta get some clothes first."
The dog sat, its gaze fixed on him.
He went to his closet, the one where she had kept a grudging wardrobe for him. But the clothes were gone. Baby music came from fake birds above a topless cage, and muted light from something orange on the floor. The closet smelled like milk and talcum powder and pee. "Christ!" There was a baby in the cage, a little baby who looked up at him with big eyes. How could she have a baby? A baby in his closet. A baby and a dog! He would have to do something drastic to her. She couldn't keep switching things around on him while he was sleeping. It wasn't fair.
He took a step toward the crib and the big dog growled, low in the back of its throat. He glanced at it. The hair on its spine was standing on end. He shrugged and headed for the bedroom, where he found his clothes in her closet shoved over against the wall, crowded out by her own. Dumb bitch. She'd wrinkled his favorite shirt. He slapped his thigh, wondering if she could feel it. It hurt him too much to try again.
The dog was watching him from the bedroom door. It showed him its pointed tooth again. He dressed hurriedly. "All right, all right," he said, "I'm going out! Just a minute." He found the black socks in her underwear drawer, and his loafers (she hadn't polished them in more than a month. How could that be?) in the closet among a jumble of her shoes. The dog growled when he rifled her purse. "I need money to go out, don't I?" he demanded. The growl lowered, but it kept coming. Adam ignored it. Amelia had twenty-six dollars in her wallet, and a smudy driver's license with a short-haired photo of her on it. If he got stopped, he always said he was a male impersonator. He looked enough like her to pass, which was an uncomfortable thought. She was so unattractive. But most of that was the way she carried herself, always flinching, eyes downcast; her wardrobe was full of dark, neutral colors.
He took her keys. As he walked past the growling dog, he kicked out at it, but missed. Its growl rose to a bark. It snapped at his leg, then backed off, following him at two paces until he reached the door. "Goodnight, sucker," he said as he locked the door from outside. "I hope you drank two gallons of water."
The little dark man with glasses was peeking out his door in the downstairs apartment, the way he always was. Adam made kissy lips at him. Anybody was fair game on Adam's nights—the more disgusting and repulsive the better. The little man ducked inside and slammed the door, and smiled.
▼▼▼
Amelia lay quiet, her eyes shut. His hateful clothes were tight around her hips, across her breasts, and she smelled alcohol and at least two different perfumes on Adam's shirt; the castor-oil scent of lipstick came from his collar where it nudged her cheek. She could feel the sickness gathering in her stomach and knew that soon she would need to dash to the bathroom to throw up everything: the knowledge of what the monster had done the night before (she couldn't really remember, but she knew it was awful), and the remnants of whatever he had eaten and drunk.
She gulped twice.
She realized there was a strange sound in the room.
Breathing.
Terror stilled her breath, her heart. Her hands clutched the sheet.
The breathing went on, undisturbed.
So he had done it. He had finally brought his prey home. She had a horrible moment wondering what might be in her stomach besides normal food and drink. Her gorge rose. She couldn't hold back any longer. She stood up in a rush, locked herself into the bathroom, and made it all the way to the toilet before she lost it.
When she had finished retching and loosened all the most torturous buttons on Adam's clothes, she rinsed her face in the sink. Something nagged at her. There was something she was forgetting, but she couldn't think, not with some stranger in her bedroom. She got her oversize red terrycloth robe from the hook on the bathroom door and put it on over her half-undone clothes, then peeked around the door.
A man was sleeping curled in her bed, a naked man. A long lanky leg lay folded on top of the quilt, and a long arm curled around his dark head; the rest of him was drawn up around his stomach. He breathed softly, not snoring the way she expected all men to snore.
What was she going to do?
Get some decent clothes, dress quietly, grab her purse and flee the apartment. Maybe if she waited long enough the man would leave, and then she could get back in and lock up. But he knew where she lived . . .
And what about—
What about Joe?
The baby's morning wail of hunger rose just then. Amelia watched, wide-eyed, as the man in her bed yawned and stretched, then turned to look at her.
It was Kelly, Mr. Patterson from downstairs. He knew who she was: was her first frozen thought.
Joe, used to being taken care of any time he made a sound, wailed a little louder.
Mr. Patterson sat up and yawned into the back of his wrist. "He's probably hungry." he said. "I couldn't find anything to feed him last night."
"What are—what are—" She hid her eyes with her sleeves.
"Well, excuuuse me," said Mr. Patterson. A minute later, he said, "You can open your eyes again. I'm covered by a sheet."
Hot tears streaked down Amelia's cheeks. She lowered the sleeves of her robe and glanced at him to see if he was lying, but he wasn't. He had a sheet up around his waist, shielding her from seeing the monster part of him. "Why aren't you wearing any clothes?" she asked, a little girl's voice coming from her mouth.
"Don't you remember anything about last night?"
Tearblind, she shook her head.
"Wait a second, that didn't come out right. Nothing happened between us last night, Amelia. Except you wanted somebody to take care of the baby on Change Night, and I guess I was the only person you could think to call."
"Change Night?" she whispered.
"Moon Night, some call it."
"Curse Night." She licked a tear off her lip and peered at him through salt haze. "How do you know about Curse Night?" He smelled like something she wanted for breakfast, and she didn't understand that at all.
"I change too."
Joe wai
led a little louder. Amelia stuffed her sleeve into her mouth and bit down. What kind of monster had she left the baby with last night? She dashed through the living room and into Joe's closet. He was red-faced and teary, but when she picked him up he settled down immediately. He didn't even smell wet. She went to the metal chair and sat, settling Joe on her thigh and offering him a breast. He sucked as if he were starving.
Mr. Patterson walked out of the bedroom, wearing the sheet like a toga. He glanced at her nursing Joe, shielded his eyes with a hand, and bent to pick up some clothes lying folded on the rug. "What bit you?" he said. He turned his back to her.
"I don't know." She heard the despair in her voice and wished she could unsay it. Her mother had taught her never to let a man hear her despair.
"How long have you been changing?"
"Since I was twelve." She hesitated. "It stopped while I was pregnant with Joe."
"How old are you now?" "Twenty-one."
"Do you know what you change into?"
She shuddered. "A monster," she said, and then, whispered, "Him."
"Do you remember being him? I remember being my other self. I'm not as different, somehow, as you are."
"I can't remember anything he does. I just know it's disgusting."
"Oh," said Mr. Patterson. He didn't say anything more for a little while. "I'm going to dress in your bathroom, all right? I think the less Peter-the-snoop has to talk about, the better."
While he was gone she got an extra diaper and draped it over Joe as he nursed so that no secret part of her showed. Her despair was so strong she worried about it getting into the milk and hurting Joe.
In a couple minutes Mr. Patterson came out. With him dressed and herself covered she could look at him again. "Mr. Patterson," she said in a low voice. Her worry about Joe made her strong enough to speak.
"Yes, Amelia."
"What do you change into?"
"A wolf. Kind of a wolf, anyway. Much more normal than your change, I imagine."
The Ultimate Werewolf Page 8
