The Turning Season

by Sharon Shinn

  I laugh but I’m far from sold. “Yeah but—some of my animals aren’t really animals. They wouldn’t be comfortable with a stranger around.”

  “Then hire Alonzo! Or Bonnie! Even Celeste, though you’d have to offer her something other than money.”

  “Really? She’s always broke.”

  He’s grinning. “Guess how much money she won in the Illinois lottery this week.”

  “Five thousand dollars,” I say. He nods. “You’re kidding. Wow, even by your standards, that’s kind of spooky.”

  “So you’d have to bribe her with something else, but I’m sure you’d figure it out.”

  “Maybe but—Ryan—I don’t know if it’s such a good idea. For you and me to go away on a romantic trip together.”

  There. I’ve said it out loud, though my spare and awkward sentences don’t come close to laying out the whole situation. I’m still half in love with you, but I’m pretty sure you’ll break my heart, and I just don’t have the energy to try to believe in you again. It’s almost more than I can manage to be your friend, but I care about you so much I can’t bear to cut you from my life altogether. You are the problem I cannot solve, the knot I cannot untie. I don’t think spending a week with you in New Orleans would make it any easier for me to find my way.

  He doesn’t look angry, but he doesn’t look convinced, either. “I know we said some pretty bitter things to each other last time,” he says softly. “But can’t we get past that? You matter to me, Kara. You’re the one I keep coming back to. If I thought I was going to die tomorrow, you’re the one I’d want to say good-bye to tonight. I just think—that kind of emotion is powerful enough that you shouldn’t just walk away from it when it gets too hard.”

  Almost, he persuades me. Almost, I believe him. With Ryan, I always feel like I’m in some low-budget thriller where the heroine is on the run, surrounded by perils, and the handsome, exotic stranger shows up and promises to keep her safe. I can practically re-create the theater experience in my head, the dim lights, the bright screen, the smell of stale popcorn and spilled soda. Sometimes the audience members are shouting, Don’t you trust him, girl! Run the other way! and sometimes they’re calling, Believe in him! Follow your heart! But I don’t know which kind of movie I’m in.

  I take a deep breath. “I’m as far past it as I’m able to be right now,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry. I’m doing the best I can. I want you in my life, I just don’t know if I can ever be more than friends with you again. And I’m sure not ready to go away for the week.”

  He stands a moment, stiff and unmoving, then he gives one sharp nod. “Fair enough. Not yet. Maybe not ever.” Now he offers me a clipped smile. “But maybe.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He sets down the empty can of Coke and stretches his arms as if his shoulders are tight. “Hey, if you were easy to win over, you might be a lot of fun, but you wouldn’t be Kara.”

  I’m able to snort in amusement. “Who isn’t fun at all.”

  His smile is wider this time. “I didn’t mean that. Exactly.”

  “C’mon,” I say. “Let me get you your drugs.”

  In a few minutes, I’ve administered a shot, slipped the rest of the vials into his cooler along with some baggies full of ice, and handed him another can of soda for the road.

  “So you going to go to New Orleans anyway?” I ask as I walk him out the door and over to his car.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I might think of some other spectacular way to blow my money.”

  “Well, drive carefully. If you do go. Or if you don’t. Just—you know. Be careful in general.”

  He lays a hand on my shoulder and smiles down at me for a moment. “So should my parting exhortation to you be, ‘Don’t be so careful. Go wild’?”

  I smile reluctantly. “I guess I’m just as likely to follow your advice as you are to follow mine.”

  He bends down and kisses me on the forehead, his lips lingering a moment longer than I expect. It is all I can do to keep from pulling my head back, rising on my toes, and pressing my mouth heavily against his.

  Maybe all that stops me is the sound of another car pulling onto the gravel. A truck this time, and the sunlight hits the windshield in such a way that I can’t tell who’s behind the wheel.

  Ryan and I fall apart. “Another client for Country Mouse Vet,” he says. “I’ll see you in a few days, I guess.”

  “Let me know if you have any problems with the serum. Or if you run out and need more. Or—you know. If you need anything.”

  He smiles, waves, and hops into the black convertible. He’s in motion and out of the compound before the other vehicle has even come to a complete standstill. But then the truck’s emergency brake squeals, the engine cuts, and the door opens. To my complete surprise, the man who steps out is the guy from Arabesque. The bouncer, the bowhunter, my onetime dance partner. Joe.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Joe stands for a moment with one foot on the running board, one hand on top of the door, looking like he’s ready to turn around and go home if I so much as blink at him. “Hey,” he says. “Is this a bad time to drop by?”

  I want to give my head a vigorous shake to clear it. There is too great a contrast between the complex emotions I experience as I watch Ryan leave and the simple pleasure I feel as I identify Joe. I’m not sure how quickly I can make the switch, how far I’ve retreated behind my guarded walls, if my voice will seem strained and unfriendly. I swallow hard to clear my throat and offer a smile.

  “Not at all,” I say, sounding normal enough. “Did you bring Jezebel?”

  His round face shows happy surprise. “You remembered her name.”

  My smile broadens. “Sometimes I remember animals’ names better than their owners’.”

  “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” He steps away from the door and gives a soft whistle. “C’mon, girl.”

  A thin but well-cared-for black Lab climbs gingerly out of the extended cab of the truck and looks around, scenting the air. Her eyes are bright and her coat is shiny, but I can tell just by the way she holds herself that she’s in a little pain. I drop to my knees to coax her over. When she trots forward to investigate me, she’s favoring her right hind leg a little. I run my hands over it, feeling for scar tissue, but there’s nothing obvious. I’m guessing her main complaint is old age.

  I offer my hands, then scratch the top of her head, murmuring little doggie endearments. She drops to her haunches and watches me with a quizzical expression so pointed that I can almost read her mind. You’re not fooling me, you know. I know I’m old and I don’t have much longer to live, so don’t give me any of this “good doggie” crap. I’m smiling as I come to my feet again.

  “She’s smart—I can tell by the look in her eyes,” I say.

  Joe laughs. “So smart. It’s so easy to understand what she wants that I sometimes think she’s got ESP or something. She just puts thoughts in my brain. ‘Let’s go for a walk!’ or ‘Feed me now’ or ‘You see that kid? He’s in trouble!’”

  “Really? Like ‘The barn’s on fire and Jimmy’s inside’?”

  He shuts the truck door, strolls forward, and leans down to rub the sleek black head. “Yeah, one summer I was spending the weekend with my brothers out at Carlyle Lake. All these kids going by on Jet Skis and a bunch of other people water skiing. Every time someone would wipe out and be splashing around in the water, Jez would jump in and swim over like she was gonna rescue them. We had to head her off and haul her back to shore. Except once she got away from us and she did make it out to some poor boy deep in the water. She saved the kid’s life, because he’d lost his life jacket and he didn’t swim very well and he was terrified. And Jez just towed him back in. It was pretty awesome.”

  “I love stories like that,” I say. “Animals saving the day.”

  He’s taking a moment to gaze around the
compound, at all the buildings and fenced enclosures. From where we’re standing, we can see the aviary, the dog run, and a few cages where I keep the wildest animals separate from the rest.

  “Wow, look at all this,” he says in an admiring voice. “You’re like the witch in Thomasina or something.”

  “What’s Thomasina? Wait, did you just call me a witch?”

  “She’s a good witch. It’s a movie about a cat. You’ve never seen it?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Old Disney movie. Really good. Do you have a bear?”

  “Why would I have a bear?”

  “There’s one in the movie.”

  “I thought it was about a cat?”

  “Well, there’s a bear in it, too.”

  I can’t help myself. I start laughing. “You’re funny,” I say. Jezebel has angled her head and is looking up at him, one ear pulled back to express polite disbelief. “Your dog thinks so, too.”

  He bends down and tugs on her ear as if to pull it back in place. “She just can’t believe I sound like such a goofball when I’m talking to a pretty lady. She thinks maybe I should have practiced some better lines when I was driving out here.”

  “Oh, that’s what she’s telling you with her ESP, is it?”

  He straightens up and grins at me. “Something like that.”

  “Well, you’re doing just fine.” I nod toward the house. “Come on. Let’s take her to my office so I can look her over.”

  We circle around the porch toward the separate side entrance that leads directly to my office and exam room. Joe has to lift Jezebel to the metal table, but once there she submits with a dignified resignation to my poking and prodding.

  “I don’t think she’s torn anything,” I say finally. “I think she’s just suffering from old age and the beginnings of arthritis. I can give you some anti-inflammatories, some glucosamine and chondroitin. You also want to make sure she eats right and gets at least a little exercise every day. Nothing too vigorous, but the more she moves, the more she’ll be able to keep moving.” I shrug. “Same thing is true for humans.”

  He takes her face between his hands and leans down to touch his nose to hers. “You hear that? No complaining when I say it’s time to go for a walk.” He laughs when she twitches her eyebrows at him. “Okay, maybe I’m the one who’s too lazy to go for a walk. But that changes right now.”

  I make a spur-of-the-moment offer. “Not sure this is a good idea, but I have a couple of puppies who are ready to go off to good homes. If you think she’d tolerate another dog in the house, that’s one surefire way to keep her active. Because these puppies are nothing but active.”

  He looks uncertain. “I don’t know. I’m gone a lot. Not sure I have time to train another dog. Are they Labs? I’ve always been partial to big dogs.”

  “Beagles. Well, part beagle. Part God knows what.”

  He shrugs. “I can take a look, maybe. They’re here?”

  “Yeah, they’re in the fenced area you saw as we came in.”

  “Sure. I’ll meet them, anyway.”

  He lifts Jezebel from the table, then follows me to the tiny sitting room where I keep a desk, a filing cabinet, pharmaceutical samples, dog treats, and cleaning supplies for wiping down the exam room. He drops into the chair across from me while I rummage in the cabinet for some drug samples, and even though I’m not looking at him, I can tell the exact moment his eyes fall on the painting behind my desk.

  “Oh, wow,” he says. “That’s you.”

  I glance up at him, over at the long horizontal painting, and back at him. I’d guess only about one percent of the people who come into my office realize that I’m the subject in the image. Even people who know me well sometimes don’t recognize me in this pose. I’m on the floor, asleep, a colorful quilt covering my body, my dark hair fanning out behind me. There’s one kitten curled up next to my stomach, another one balanced precariously on the mountain range of my hip and rib cage, and a third one batting at one of my loose curls. Sunlight is streaming in from an unseen window, turning the hardwood floor to amber, the colors of the quilt to jewels.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Painted a long time ago. I think I was eighteen.”

  “Why are you lying on the floor?”

  “I was playing with the kittens and I fell asleep.”

  True as far as it goes. I had, in fact, been one of the kittens earlier in the day, and we had been romping around with the boundless energy of youth until we all collapsed in a heap in the middle of the floor. As happens to me so often, I transformed in my sleep. Janet had covered me with the blanket, because, of course, I was naked. Cooper had snapped a photo, and later recreated the scene in oils. I appear in about a dozen of his other paintings, but this one is my favorite.

  “Who’s the painter?”

  “Cooper Blair. He lived here with Janet Kassebaum—you know, the vet who used to own this place. He was an artist.”

  “That’s right. You told me about him. That’s a great picture.”

  “Yeah, I love it. No matter how broke I am, I’m never going to sell that piece.”

  Joe has come to his feet and leaned over the desk to get a better look, but now he pulls back and studies me. “Would it sell for a lot of money? Are you broke?”

  I offer a lopsided grin. “Not really broke. But this place doesn’t bring in a whole lot of cash, and things are always breaking down and needing repair, and there’s taxes every year and a new car every so often and—” I shrug. “So I think about money a lot.”

  He gestures at the painting. “I don’t think you should sell it, but how much would it be worth?”

  “Mmm, the last Cooper Blair original went for fifty thousand dollars, and that was smaller, so—maybe seventy-five thousand? Enough to buy me a few years, don’t you think?”

  “Man, I changed my mind! Sell it now!”

  I laugh. “Well, I have almost fifty other paintings I could put on the market first, so I’m not destitute yet.”

  He looks puzzled. “I don’t understand. Is he dead? Are you the executor of his estate? Why wouldn’t Janet be handling all this?”

  Because Janet is dead, too. I curse myself for being careless, but I think I sound unruffled as I respond. “Yeah, he died a few years ago. That’s the real reason Janet retired—she just wanted to get away from this place and all the memories. I think I mentioned that my dad repped Cooper when they were both alive, and I know all his gallery contacts, so Janet just turned the artwork over to me. Anytime I sell something, I put the money into a fund she set up to support the property—but it’s really all her money.” Or it would be, if she were alive.

  “What’d he die of?” Joe wants to know. “How old was he?”

  Again, two very complicated questions, if I were to answer with the truth. He was in his late thirties, but he died of old age, because shape-shifters beat up and batter their bodies so much that none of them live past fifty. “Cancer,” I say. “Right before he turned forty.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “But he left his mark on the world. He left something behind. People will remember him. That’s something most of us can’t say, even if we live to be a hundred.”

  “I’d like to see some of his other paintings.”

  “Sure. We’ll take the whole tour. You can meet the puppies and the bunnies and the turtle.” Joe laughs, and I go on. “And then we’ll look at the paintings.”

  “Any chance of getting something to drink first? I forgot to bring water with me on the drive.”

  “Of course! Here, this door takes us into the house. There’s soda and tea and everything else in the kitchen.”

  I can tell he’s doing a quick study of the house as we trek down the hall, through the living room, and into the kitchen, Jezebel at our heels. Maybe he’s more curious than thirsty and he just w
anted a better look at the place I call home. But it doesn’t bother me to show it to him. He’s a comfortable sort of guy and I kind of like having him here.

  The message light is blinking on the answering machine in the kitchen, so I wave at the fridge and say, “Help yourself,” then hit play. The message is characteristically brief. It’s Celeste. What are you doing this weekend? Call me.

  I turn back to face Joe and find him sipping a Snapple, watching me. His face is alight with interest. “Celeste? Your friend from Arabesque the other night?”

  “That’s her,” I say.

  “So everything turned out all right? You found her and she was okay?”

  “Well, she was a little shook up. That guy—Bobby?”

  He nods. “Bobby Foucault. Kind of a troublemaker.”

  “She says he practically raped her. So she scratched him and then ran off.”

  “Did you tell her what he said? About her turning into a mountain lion?”

  I laugh. “Yeah. She said—and I quote—‘The guy’s a fucking moron.’” I can’t remember if she actually said that, but she certainly called him a lot of other names.

  He takes another sip, his expression meditative. “That’d be something, though, wouldn’t it? If people could turn into animals?”

  I’m not sure how to answer that, so to buy time, I motion him away from the refrigerator and pull out my own drink at random. Turns out to be a Diet Dr Pepper, which I don’t even like. I open it anyway and take a couple of swallows. “Well, it would be pretty cool, I guess. I mean, it’s impossible, of course, but it would be an extraordinary thing to be able to do. See the world from a wholly different perspective.”

  “I mean, say, if you could turn into a bird. What would that be like?”

  It’s amazing and exhilarating and terrifying all at once. The world is so enormous, the winds are so capricious, and you’re so small. So small. And yet you know precisely how to settle onto a vagrant breeze, exactly how to position your wings to make an elegant landing. Nothing is out of reach; no place seems too far. “It would be great,” I say.