by Sharon Shinn
“That’s Celeste, by the way,” I add. “A friend of mine. Shape-shifter.”
That elicits a laugh from Celeste, who has been lounging in her chair looking the visitor over with frank interest. “Well! I suppose we don’t have any secrets from Brody,” she says.
I bring over sodas and chips and cookies for everybody, then sit down next to Celeste, so we’re both facing him. “Brody used to be a TV reporter,” I tell her. “He and a cameraman filmed a shape-shifter transforming from animal to human—on live television.”
“Holy shit,” she says. “So how come we weren’t all part of some media circus?”
Brody waves this off. “No one believed it. Thought it was some big hoax. But the whole experience got me curious, so I started looking for evidence that such creatures existed.” He glances around the kitchen again. “One thing led to another, and I met Janet and a few of her friends. And a few other shape-shifters.”
One of them had been a laughing blond girl whose body was deteriorating under the stress of constant transformation. Brody was dating the girl’s sister and he’s the one who introduced them to Janet. Janet tried to treat her, but she died when she was in her early twenties.
My age.
“So how was Africa?” I ask. “Isn’t that where you went for a couple of years?”
“It was amazing. Spectacular. Eye-opening. Everywhere you’d go, there’d be these animals—cheetahs sitting on rocks, like they were just posing for you—”
“They probably were,” Celeste says with a laugh. “Probably half of them were shape-shifters just trying to act the way you’d expect.”
“I bet some of them were,” he agrees.
“I saw a review of your book,” I tell him, and then explain to Celeste, “He and his wife worked at a charity school in Tanzania. Brody wrote a book about what they’re doing to help kids born with disabilities—the review was really positive.”
“Yeah, not quite a bestseller, but I did get some attention and we set up a fund for the school with some of my royalties. Which made me feel really good about the whole thing.”
“Wow, an author. I’m impressed,” says Celeste. She leans forward a little, fixing her dark eyes on Brody’s face. I recognize this as her seductive pose; I’ve seen her employ it often enough on men she thinks are cute, and Brody certainly fits the description. “Are you going to write another book?”
He glances at me. “Actually, that’s what I’m here to talk about. I wanted to get Karadel’s opinion.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Really? I’m not much of a literary critic. Actually, I don’t read a lot. I’d rather watch movies.”
“I read all the time,” Celeste says. It’s true, as it happens, but she’d say it even if it wasn’t. She’s flirting.
“When I first met Janet, I wanted to write a book about shape-shifters,” he tells us. “Nonfiction. Describe their lives, their challenges, explore how they live among us in secret and have always lived among humans, even though we didn’t know it.”
Now Celeste frowns and pulls back. “That’s a terrible idea.”
He nods. “I finally realized that. Even if I used pseudonyms for the shape-shifters I interviewed, even if I didn’t give details about where they lived, the book could have put all of them in danger. If people believed it, of course, which they probably wouldn’t have.”
Celeste leans forward once more, liking him again. “So what’s your new idea?”
“Write a novel about shape-shifters. Use what I know, but make it clear the story is fiction. My sisters tell me there’s this whole paranormal craze in the market right now—my book would fit right in.”
“That’s brilliant,” Celeste says.
Hard to believe, but Brody ignores her. “So what do you think?” he asks me. “Would it be okay?”
I’m still a little puzzled. “Sure. I mean—I don’t know why you even think you’d have to get my opinion.”
“I want to tell Janet’s story.”
“Ahhhh . . .”
For a moment there’s silence between us, as I contemplate Brody and he waits for my answer. Well, it’s a compelling tale, that’s for certain, and no one who read it would possibly believe it was true. But that doesn’t mean it’s safe to tell. And then there’s something else to consider. As she lived her life, Janet was a very private person; she was only close to a few people, including Cooper, my father, and a couple of college friends. I don’t know how she’d feel about hundreds—thousands—of people helping themselves to the details of her unconventional life. If Brody even knows those details.
“Are you sure you know the story?” I ask him quietly.
He nods. “She sent us her journal. Right before we left for Africa. The only thing I don’t know is how it ends. If the experiment worked.”
I nod slowly. “It did.”
“How long did she have?”
“Longer than she expected. Fifteen months.”
“But she—she did die, after all?”
“About a week after Cooper. I think she could have survived longer, but she chose not to.”
Brody takes a deep breath. “Then that’s the perfect ending, don’t you think?”
I know Janet thought so. I truly believe that, for that last year and a half, she was as happy as she’d ever been. She was never the jump-up-and-down-with-delight kind of woman; her early life had imbued her with a wary reserve that made it hard for her to be wholeheartedly joyous. But she had been deeply content. She had been exactly where she wanted to be.
“If she sent you her journal,” I say, “I think she probably wanted you to tell her story. So I think you should go ahead and write the book.”
“Thank you.”
“I think you should write it, too,” Celeste says. “I make my living doing freelance editing, so I could look it over for you once you’ve got a rough draft done.”
For the first time since he’s been here, really, Brody gives Celeste his full attention. I’m surprised it hasn’t happened sooner; guys are usually caught by Celeste’s exotic face and soulful expression within the first thirty seconds of meeting her. But Brody was a reporter for years. My guess is that his bullshit detector is calibrated pretty high.
Now he’s grinning. He holds up his left hand to show off a wedding band. “Married,” he says. “But thanks.”
Celeste’s face dimples into a naughty smile. “How married?”
“Very married.”
“I could still help you with the editing. If you wanted.”
I give her a light punch on the arm. “Behave yourself.”
She shoves me back. “I never behave myself.”
“Which is why I think I’ll ask one of my friends to be my beta reader,” Brody says. He’s still grinning.
“Wise man,” I say. “But feel free to call me anytime you have a question. Or come visit the property if you want to get some detail right.”
“I’ll do that,” he says. “I thought I might get some photographs today.”
“Sure,” I say, coming to my feet. Both of them follow suit. “But you have to promise you won’t be specific enough about this place that anyone would recognize it. Or could find it.”
“Promise.” He hesitates a moment before turning to the door. “It was good to see you, Karadel. You look like you’re doing well.”
“I am,” I say, smiling back. “Thanks for noticing.”
* * *
It’s another three days before Celeste actually meets Joe, and it’s perilously close to a disaster. Though it’s not her fault. It’s mine.
It’s Thursday night and I’ve come to town because I won’t have a chance to see Joe again for a couple of days. He keeps apologizing that his Fridays and Saturdays are taken up by other commitments—coaching the basketball team and working at Arabesque—but it doesn’t bother m
e at all. Living as I do, I don’t care much about weekends. I’m more focused on a different kind of calendar: my internal clock that decides when it’s a good time to shift. I’m closing in on two weeks again, and I might not have much longer before the change occurs. So I want to see Joe while I still can.
We’ve gone back to the little pub that he has started to call “our place.” Tonight Paddy-Mac’s is about half full and we get the goth waitress who seems to have no other life, since she’s there every time we are. We sip our drinks until the food arrives, talking with the ease of old friends and the excitement of almost-lovers. We laugh so much the air around us seems charged with hilarity, a not quite perceptible glittery shine.
I don’t know about Joe, but I haven’t been paying attention to anyone else who might be in the restaurant, so I don’t realize Celeste is there until she slides into the booth next to me.
“Hey,” she greets us cheerfully. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Hey,” Joe replies, surprised but cautiously amiable.
I’m the one who’s frowning. “Go away,” I tell her.
“Well, that’s rude,” she says, turning toward Joe. “Don’t you think so?”
“It is.”
“Seriously. Go away.”
She picks a French fry off my plate. “I just want a few minutes. Want to get to know Joe a little.” She smiles at him. She is, as she says, charming. “It is Joe, right?”
“Yep. You must be Celeste.”
She laughs. “Kara must have described me. What did she say?”
“That you were worse than Aurelia. I find that hard to imagine.”
She turns sideways to give me an indignant look. “I am not! No one is!”
“When you want to be, you’re worse than anybody,” I inform her.
“You’re also a bobcat,” he adds.
Celeste rolls her eyes at me. “Jeez, are you spilling secrets to everybody these days?”
“I was at the bar when it happened,” he reminds her. “I just didn’t believe it then.”
“So you can blame yourself if he already thinks you have a hot temper and you lack judgment,” I say.
“I hope you also mentioned that I’m loyal and funny and I’ve saved your ass more times than I can count.”
“I don’t think I got that far.”
Joe leans back in the booth like a man preparing to be entertained. “So how do you two know each other?”
Celeste eats another French fry. The goth waitress comes over to see if Celeste wants any food of her own. “I’ll have some of that cider.”
“And her own order of fries,” I add.
She folds her hands on the table and returns her attention to Joe. “We met out at Janet’s place. Karadel had sort of taken up residence there one summer because she was—” She waves her hands. “Changing like a maniac. Never knew what she’d become or when it would happen. So she had to hide away so no one could see her.”
“How’d you know Janet?”
Celeste wrinkles her nose, like she’s trying to remember. “Through my mom. I don’t know how they first met. But there was this whole network of—of people,” she says, glancing around to see how close anyone else is sitting. She doesn’t want to say shape-shifters out in public. “They all knew about Janet. If one of us got sick or hurt or whatever, we’d go to her for treatment.”
“So your mom was the one who—” Joe lets his voice delicately trail off.
Celeste nods. “She was like me. Had complete control. Could choose when to change from one to the next.”
“The easiest possible life,” I grumble.
She grins. “I am the golden girl.”
He studies her a moment, and I get the feeling he’s doing the math. Celeste looks to be about Karadel’s age, so her parents would probably be in their fifties. And he sure hasn’t forgotten what I’ve said about the life span of shape-shifters. “Is she still in Quinville?” he asks. Nicely phrased, I think.
Celeste shakes her head. “Nah, she’s been gone for years. I don’t even know if she’s still alive.”
That widens his eyes; not the answer he expected. I fill in a little. “Celeste’s mom wasn’t really the maternal type. Not too interested in raising her kids. Always trying to find somewhere to stash them so she could go off and do what she wanted.”
“Kids?” Joe repeats.
Celeste nods. “Yeah, apparently I have a half sister somewhere up near Chicago. And, who knows, maybe a couple other brothers and sisters scattered across the Midwest. I’ve never met any of them.”
“That would make me curious,” he says. “I’d be tempted to track them down.”
“Would you?” she says. The waitress arrives just then with her order, and she thanks the girl with a smile. As soon as she leaves Celeste says, “I’ve never seriously considered it. I figure they’re all probably as unstable as I am, and hardly worth the trouble of getting to know.”
“You’re not unstable,” I say. “You’re just annoying.”
“So the two of you hung out at Janet’s and started arguing with each other,” Joe says, “and that led you to realize you were meant to be best friends?”
Celeste laughs. “We’re so different,” she admits. “But we got along from the beginning. Kara seems so meek and quiet, but there’s a lot of fury under that calm exterior.”
“Fury,” Joe repeats, looking at me. “I would have said longing.”
“Ooooooh, that’s good,” Celeste says. “But she’s way more discontented than she seems.”
“Let’s go back to talking about you,” I say.
“No, we’re supposed to be talking about him,” she exclaims. “I got distracted!”
“What do you want to know?” he asks. “No secrets.”
I rattle off the basics. “Divorced, no kids. Lots of brothers. Good family relationships. Ex-cop. Now will you go away?”
She ignores me. “So what do you like about Karadel? What attracted you to her?”
“Initially?” he says. “I thought she was cute.”
“Smokin’ hot bod, right? She does not take advantage of it.”
He’s grinning. “That’s part of what made her cute.”
“So then? After that?”
“I liked the way she talked to me. Like she thought I was interesting. I thought she was interesting. She seemed very authentic.”
“Yeah, she was lying to you the whole time, you know that, right? Because unless she was telling you all about her other life, she was just making up stories.”
“Well, everybody holds back at the beginning, don’t you think?” he says. “You show part of yourself, and if someone likes it, you show a little bit more.”
I can tell she likes that answer, but what she says is, “What have you been holding back?”
He narrows his eyes and seems to consider. Then he smiles. “Stuff I’d probably tell Karadel before I’d tell you.”
She makes a little disgruntled noise, but she doesn’t seem displeased. “Well, I hope it’s nothing too terrible.”
“I think I’m basically a decent guy,” he says. “Whether or not you like me.”
She laughs. “You want to know something amazing? Aurelia told me she liked you, even though she didn’t want to. And Aurelia likes maybe two percent of the population.”
“That is amazing,” he agrees. “I feel like ordering champagne or something to celebrate.”
“No, let’s go over to Black Market instead,” Celeste says.
“You can go,” I say. “We’ll stay right here.”
“It’ll be fun,” she says. “There’s a DJ. People might dance.”
“I like to dance,” Joe says.
“Nobody dances on Thursday night.”
Celeste jumps to her feet and tugs on my arm. “It’s not like i
t’s a rule,” she says. “People dance all the time. Come on.”
Joe’s already throwing money on the table. “I got yours,” he says as Celeste reaches for her wallet.
“I’ll buy the first round at Black Market,” she says. “Let’s go.”
* * *
In fact, there’s a rehearsal dinner or family reunion or something at the bar, because people are dancing at Black Market, but most of them bear a vague resemblance to each other and they’re taking up one whole section of the seating area. I’ve never particularly liked this place, because it’s got low ceilings and sticky floors and a sort of depressing ambiance, but at least there’s no cover charge and you don’t have to worry about looking good enough for the rest of the clientele. Celeste tows us to an empty table against one wall and says, “A pitcher okay?” When we nod, she heads up to the bar.
Joe smiles at me. “I like her. She’s fun.”
I nod gloomily. “Everybody loves Celeste.”
“Hey, I didn’t say that.”
“Well, don’t like her better than you like me or I’ll probably never get over it.”
He reaches across the table to take my hand and give it a squeeze. He doesn’t bother to release it. “You’re the one with the smokin’ hot bod,” he reminds me.
That makes me laugh. “And the authentic personality.”
“That’s right. It’s no contest.”
Celeste is back at our table a minute later, followed by a waiter with the requisite pitcher and glasses. None of us have taken more than a few sips before a Maroon 5 song comes over the speakers, and Celeste gives Joe an I-dare-you look.
“Dance with me?” she invites him.
He glances at me, but I wave them toward the floor. “Go on. Have fun. I’ll people-watch.”
“Come on,” Celeste says, pulling him out of his chair. “Don’t waste the music.”
I sit at the table by myself and try not to feel like a wallflower. Just to have something to do, I observe the cluster of tables holding all the family members and try to guess the reason for the gathering. Are they celebrating the old woman’s eightieth birthday? The young couple’s engagement? The middle-aged couple’s silver anniversary? It’s easy to pick out the spouses, the ones who look bored or irritable or long-suffering. One of them, a good-looking power-suit type who’s probably in his mid-fifties, catches my eye and gives me a wink.
