Manhattan Moon

by Jae

  * * *

  The double doors crashed open, and two paramedics pushed a gurney into the psych ER.

  Shelby barely glanced up from her discussion with one of the psych techs.

  But then one of the patients in the triage area started screaming. “A werewolf! A werewolf! I knew it. They’ve come to kill us all.”

  Shelby whirled around. Her heart pounded against her ribs.

  The person on the stretcher was covered with a sheet, and one of the paramedics blocked Shelby’s view. All she could see was a bit of fur peeking out from beneath the sheet.

  Fur?

  It was light brown, streaked with a few ginger highlights. Shelby had seen that color before—it was the same as her own hair color and that of most coyote shifters.

  Her heartbeat sped up at the thought of a Wrasa being wheeled into the ER, where someone would surely discover what he really was. She tried to catch a whiff of his smell, but from this distance all she detected was a dizzying mix of sweat, fear, jasmine, and fish sticks that had been somebody’s lunch.

  Calm down. If this were one of us in coyote form, they would have taken him to the vet, not the psych ER. Besides, even in human form, Wrasa rarely suffered mental illnesses. Those who did were kept under close surveillance by their pack or pride.

  She circled around and took a position next to Nyla, who was trying to take the fidgeting patient’s blood pressure. But instead of encountering human skin, she found long fur. A bushy tail hung limply down the gurney.

  This can’t be true. Wide-eyed, Shelby stepped even closer. Then she let her gaze trail up his furry chest. Torn clothing covered the fur in some places as if the urge to shift had overcome him too fast to undress first.

  Her own skin started to itch as her adrenaline level shot through the roof.

  Her gaze traveled farther up. Shelby froze.

  The patient’s face was all human.

  A mask, complete with wolfish ears and large fangs, dangled on an elastic band around his neck. Shelby inflated her cheeks and blew out a long stream of air. It’s just some dumb Halloween costume.

  Instantly, she vowed never to work the night shift on Halloween again.

  When Nyla stripped off a glove that ended in fake claws, the patient pulled off the other one, then tried to get rid of the rest of his costume. “You wanna see more of my body, baby? Look, I have a perfect six-pack.”

  “No, thanks.” Nyla helped the paramedics restrain his wandering hands. “Hairy chests aren’t my thing.”

  Oh, really? Her comment caught Shelby’s attention. Had she been in her coyote form, she would have swiveled her ears to hear every nuance of Nyla’s tone.

  “Why not?” the patient asked, his voice loud and enthusiastic. “I’m exactly what you’re looking for. We must become one.” He threw his head back and glanced over at Shelby and the EMTs as if they were his attentively listening audience. “We’re all one. All of us. Only once you give away all your worldly possessions and accept that all people, all things in the universe, are connected, only then will you be enlightened as I am.”

  “Patient’s name is Lee Bowdan, twenty-six years old,” one of the paramedics said over the patient’s non-stop rambling. “No known allergies and not on any meds. He also claims he doesn’t have a psych history.”

  Nyla shot her a quick look, and Shelby answered by arching a skeptical brow. Yeah, right. Hypersexuality, pressured speech, loose association ... He’s manic for sure. But was it drug-induced or did he have a manic or bipolar disorder?

  “NYPD called us with an EDP,” the paramedic said, using the cop slang for an emotionally disturbed person. “He was standing in the middle of a Halloween party, trying to get people to throw away their wallets.”

  “It was for their own good,” the patient shouted. “They need my guidance to realize they won’t get to the heavenly spheres by clinging to money!”

  Heavenly spheres? Shelby added schizophrenia to the list of possible diagnoses. But before she could find out more, she had to bring him into one of the interview rooms. “Let’s go and talk about your fascinating ideas inside,” she said. This was when most patients lost control and began fighting against the people who wanted to help them. In some cases, they ended up medicated and restrained, so she wanted to get him inside as unobtrusively as possible.

  Without pausing in his speech, the patient let himself be wheeled down the hall. He didn’t seem to notice when the doors clicked shut behind him.

  “Frank, can you help Mr. Bowdan change out of his costume and into one of our fashionable gowns?” Shelby asked one of the nurses.

  When Frank and Mr. Bowdan disappeared into the bathroom, Shelby turned to Nyla.

  “My money is on manic disorder with psychotic symptoms,” Nyla said. “He probably went off his meds.”

  Wanna bet? Your money against one date, Shelby wanted to say, but of course she didn’t. Cowardly coyote. “I’m not sure,” she said instead. “My nose is telling me it might be drugs.” Quite literally, but Nyla didn’t need to know that. When she had stood next to the patient, she caught a whiff of mushrooms on his breath.

  “You’re thinking psilocybin?” Nyla asked.

  Shelby nodded. “It’s possible.” The symptoms of a manic episode and the effect of psilocybin mushrooms sometimes appeared similar. “Can you make sure we get a urine sample from Mr. Bowdan?”

  “Of course.”

  When Nyla turned to walk away, Shelby called after her, “And —”

  “Make sure to keep him away from the vampire slayer mom and Mr. Fangs,” Nyla said for her. Her laughter rippled over Shelby. “Will do.”

  * * *

  Shelby closed the tiny fridge in the staff room and carried her ham-and-bacon sandwich to one of the tables. Next to her, the copier and the fax machine whirred, but Shelby ignored the familiar sounds in the small room and focused on the conversation going on at one of the other tables.

  Nyla sat with two of her colleagues, eating Chinese takeout. Her chopsticks moved in graceful arcs as she picked pieces of broccoli from her box and put them aside. Whenever they got Chinese takeout, Nyla ordered the Sesame Chicken and she always picked out the broccoli.

  Others might have wondered why she didn’t just order something else, but Shelby found Nyla’s persistence endearing.

  “Anyone ever have a patient with lycanthropy?” Julie, one of the third-year medical students, asked. “I read about it in one of my textbooks, and it sounds fascinating.”

  Shelby rolled her eyes. What was it with humans and their strange fascination with werewolves?

  “I don’t know about lycanthropy, but I once had a patient who came in growling and barking and bit one of the techs,” Frank said.

  Hmpf. No shape-shifter Shelby knew had ever bitten a human. In their animal form, Wrasa were more likely to run and hide if they encountered humans.

  Julie laughed. “Did the tech by any chance develop a strange preference for raw meat and start howling at the moon?”

  We don’t howl at the moon. Shelby frowned down at her ham-and-bacon sandwich. And we rarely eat raw meat.

  “Do they really think they can turn into wolves or other animals?” Julie asked. “You’d need to be pretty delusional to believe you can survive such a rearrangement of bones, joints, and organs.”

  “Maybe they read too much of that paranormal romance stuff like someone else I know,” Frank said and flicked a bean sprout at her.

  Julie threw her fortune cookie at him. “Hey, don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it. Some of those novels are really good.”

  “Too stereotypical for me,” Frank said. “I mean ... silver bullets, people who turn into wolves after being bitten ... That just exceeds my imagination.”

  Shelby secretly pumped her fist under the table. Amen, brother.

  “Not all of them are like that,” Julie said. “The latest J.W. Price novel isn’t even about werewolves. Her main character is a tiger-shifter.”

  Shelby sup
pressed a smile. Her colleagues couldn’t know that Ms. Price’s shape-shifters lived among them and weren’t just figments of a writer’s overactive imagination.

  Her gaze traveled to Nyla, who sat digging in her box of Chinese takeout and said nothing.

  Strange. Usually, Nyla joked around with the others. Like most of the staff in the psych ER, she used her sense of humor to ease the constant stress in their line of work. But now Nyla kept silent. She fiddled with her chopsticks but didn’t eat.

  The urge to go over and ask if everything was okay made Shelby forget about her own food, but if she did that, she would have to admit that she had observed Nyla from across the room.

  The staff room’s door opened.

  “Dr. Carson?” one of the nurses called. “I have Mrs. Clayburn’s therapist on the phone for you. He said you tried to reach him.”

  “I’ll be there in a second.” With one last glance at Nyla, Shelby laid down her sandwich and strode to the nurses’ station.

  * * *

  Shelby let the door of the on-call room click shut behind her and leaned against the wall for a moment. Through the room’s tiny window, early-morning sunlight filtered in. Finally, the long and chaotic shift was over. The joking with her colleagues during sign-out had invigorated her for a while, but now exhaustion settled over her like a lead apron.

  Stripping out of her scrub shirt, she crossed over to the narrow bed where she’d left her street clothes.

  A knock on the door caught her with her Henley shirt partially on.

  “Yes?” she called and tugged down the shirt.

  The door opened, and Nyla stood in the doorway without entering. “I’m sorry to bother you. I know your shift is over and you have to be exhausted, but ...”

  “Oh, no, I’m not exhausted at all,” Shelby said. She was never too tired to talk to Nyla. “Please come in.”

  Nyla still didn’t enter. Her gaze was fixed on Shelby in a way that made her heart beat faster.

  She followed Nyla’s gaze down and realized that she hadn’t buttoned her shirt. Her bra peeked out from beneath the shirt’s placket. “Oh.” Quickly, she fastened two of the buttons.

  Nyla stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. Her gaze darted around, bouncing from the littered desk to the scrub shirt on the bed. She still didn’t say anything.

  Hurriedly, Shelby lifted the latest edition of Journal of Psychiatry from her desk chair. “Please, sit down.”

  When Nyla sat, Shelby perched on the edge of her bed. That left Nyla in the position of power and would hopefully make her feel more equal. She balanced her elbows on her knees and leaned forward, giving Nyla her full attention.

  They gazed at each other across the corner of the desk.

  Nyla licked her lips.

  Why’s she so nervous? A sudden thought made Shelby giddy. Is she trying to ask me out?

  Still not saying anything, Nyla reached up with her right hand and massaged her left shoulder.

  Shelby stifled the urge to get up and take over the massage. “Hey. You look exhausted. Everything all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just pulled a double shift. Tina’s out sick.” At the last word, she painted quotation marks in the air with her index and middle fingers, which probably meant that Tina was out partying on Halloween.

  Hmm. Then I doubt she’s got romance on her mind. Shelby swallowed her disappointment. A hot shower and a bed were probably the only things Nyla wanted right now. So why was she here instead of going home now that her shift had ended? “How can I help?” Shelby asked. “Want me to talk to administration about your shift schedules?”

  “Oh, no. That’s not why I’m ... There’s something else I wanted to ask you.” In the silence of the on-call room, Nyla sucked in a breath. “Let’s say someone is seeing things that aren’t possible ...”

  “Is there another patient you want me to see? I can stay a bit longer if you want.”

  “No. It’s more of a ... hypothetical situation.”

  Hypothetical situation? Shelby struggled to keep her expression neutral. What was going on with Nyla? “So this hypothetical person ... what kind of things is he or she seeing?”

  Nyla looked down and studied her hands. “A werewolf,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. She looked up. “And I’m not talking about Mr. Bowdan. I really saw —” She stopped and pressed her hand against her lips as if she wanted to take back the words. “I mean the hypothetical person saw a man change into a wolf.”

  This isn’t a practical joke, is it? It wouldn’t be the first time her colleagues tried to pull her leg, but Shelby sensed that this was different. The smell of Nyla’s fear burned her nose. Shelby’s heartbeat hammered in her ears. Great Hunter, what’s going on? Had a Wrasa been stupid enough to shift right in front of Nyla? She rounded the desk with two steps and knelt next to Nyla. “Nyla. Look at me.”

  Slowly, Nyla raised her gaze from her hands. Her eyes were even darker than usual, obsidian with fear and doubt.

  “What did you see?” Shelby asked.

  Nyla hesitated.

  Shelby squeezed her hand. Nyla’s fingers were cold against her own warmer skin. And so very soft. “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes.” The answer came without hesitation.

  “Then tell me.”

  “Earlier, when I got takeout from that Chinese place across the street ...” Nyla squeezed her eyes shut. “Something rustled in the bushes next to the parking lot. When I glanced over, I saw a man ripping off his clothes and dropping to his hands and knees. He groaned and obviously was in a great deal of pain. I wanted to go over and help, but he changed into a wolf before my eyes.” A shiver shook her. She opened her eyes and glanced at Shelby. “Am I going crazy?”

  Shelby clenched her teeth. When I find the damn stupid Wrasa who did this to her, I’m gonna have his pelt. “No.” Her voice boomed through the small room, louder than she had intended.

  When Nyla stared at her, she softened her voice. “No, I’m sure you’re perfectly fine. You’re the most normal person I know.”

  She desperately needed to convince Nyla of that—not just for her peace of mind. If Nyla told others about her encounter with the wolf-shifter, the Saru might hear about it. The Wrasa’s elite soldiers still liked to shoot first and ask questions later if a human knew too much about the shifters’ secret existence.

  “Maybe what you saw was just a large dog,” Shelby said. “Or even a coyote. You know there were a few of them running around in Central Park a few months ago.”

  At least, that was what they’d made the media believe. Only a handful of Wrasa knew that it had been a couple of Ashawe teenagers losing control of their newfound ability to transform into coyotes.

  A mix of hope and doubt shone in the dark eyes.

  She wants to believe me, even if her eyes told her something different.

  “That still doesn’t explain how a man changed into a canine,” Nyla said.

  “Let’s look at this logically, okay?” She stroked her thumb across the back of Nyla’s palm.

  “Okay.”

  “Then tell me, nurse,” Shelby made her voice playful, “what are the most common causes of visual hallucinations?”

  A half-smile crept onto Nyla’s lips. “Well, I’m fairly sure we can rule out dementia and brain damage.”

  “So,” Shelby said, “what other things can cause hallucinations?”

  “Drug intoxication or withdrawal.”

  “Are you taking any drugs?” Shelby asked.

  Smiling, Nyla said, “Not counting the two gallons of coffee I drank to make it through this shift, no.”

  “Next cause.”

  “Schizophrenia and other psychotic disorders,” Nyla said. She tried to sound textbook-like, but fear flickered in her eyes.

  Shelby pulled the desk chair around so that Nyla was now facing her directly. “Psychotic patients with visual hallucinations usually have more severe disorders than patients without visual hallucina
tions, right?”

  Nyla nodded.

  “Then it’s pretty unlikely that a person with isolated visual hallucinations and no other symptoms suffers from schizophrenia, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes.” The answer sounded like a relieved sigh.

  “What else is there?” Shelby asked.

  Nyla thought for a moment, then answered, “High fever.”

  With the hand that wasn’t holding Nyla’s, Shelby reached up and gently cupped Nyla’s cheek.

  Nyla leaned into the contact, and Shelby let her hand linger before she withdrew it. She cleared her throat. “You don’t feel overly warm. What else?”

  “Prolonged visual deprivation.”

  “You been blindfolded for any length of time lately?” Shelby asked with a playful wink.

  Nyla’s dimples appeared for the first time since she had entered the on-call room. “Do you ask all of your patients such indelicate questions, Doctor?”

  “Of course. Right out of the textbook. Are you avoiding the answer, nurse?”

  A gentle nudge made Nyla chuckle. “I think we can rule out visual deprivation too.”

  “Any other possible causes come to mind?”

  “Extreme stress or sleep deprivation,” Nyla answered.

  Shelby cocked her head. “Oh, you mean like working a double shift in a psych ER on Halloween during a full moon in The City That Never Sleeps?”

  Now serious, all hints of a smile gone, Nyla stared at her. “You think that’s it? Just stress and lack of sleep?”

  “During my residency, when I was working crazy hours, I once thought I’d seen a grizzly in my rocking chair.” The so-called grizzly had been her roommate, a bear-shifter, and she had turned Shelby’s beloved rocking chair into a pile of firewood when she sat down in it. But, of course, Nyla didn’t need to know those details.

  Nyla rubbed both hands over her face, hiding her expression. “God.” She groaned into her palms. “I feel so foolish. I never should’ve bothered you with this.”

  “Hey.” Gently, Shelby pulled Nyla’s hands away from her face and made eye contact. “You were worried about your mental health. You of all people should know that’s never foolish.”