The Shape of Desire

by Sharon Shinn

  “It’s not a requirement. It’s just, you know, reasonable to expect.”

  He doesn’t even answer. He just shakes his head again and goes back to work.

  At lunchtime, all twenty-two of us gather in the “major function room” on the ground floor of our building, where decorations have been hung from the ceiling and a luncheon has been laid out. The punch is orange, the sheet cake is covered with chocolate frosting so dark it looks black, but the rest of the food looks like relatively ordinary pasta and salad. Cats and reindeer mingle with dogs and alligators and one impressive dragon. There are tables set up around the edges of the room, and some people are sitting down to eat their meals, but most of us are trying to wield our silverware while simultaneously holding paper plates, plastic cups, and themed napkins. Before the luncheon is ten minutes old, three people have dumped the entire contents of their plates on the floor.

  Ellen has come as a parrot, wearing an astonishing weave of bright fake hair pieces in her own brassy blond curls and a great hooked beak over her nose. She is telling a series of filthy jokes related to her costume to anyone who will pause to listen.

  “An old man is sitting on a park bench, waiting for a bus, and there’s this punk kid sitting next to him. The kid’s cut his hair in a Mohawk and dyed it blue and red and yellow and green, and the old man is giving him this long cold stare. Finally the kid says, ‘Hey, didn’t you ever do anything stupid in your life?’ And the old man says, ‘Yeah, I fucked a parrot once. I was wondering if you were my son.’”

  She invariably gets a laugh, even from Kathleen, who doesn’t much appreciate obscenity. It’s hard not to smile when Ellen is trying to be entertaining.

  I’m getting a second glass of punch when I practically run into Caroline at the food table. She is dressed in a long, sweeping, belted black dress, with sleeves that cover her wrists and a skirt that brushes her ankles. Her feet are hidden by black leather boots and her hands by black lace gloves. A mask of blackbird feathers covers the upper half of her face; beaded black earrings swing just below the severe edge of her black hair. It’s annoying that even in costume she retains an assassin’s cold elegance, while the rest of us look like particularly clownish children.

  “Oh! Caroline!” I say as if she’s startled me, because she always does startle me. “You must be a—a bird. Or, well, a crow.”

  “A raven,” she says.

  “Nevermore,” I say brightly.

  She gives me one long, puzzled inspection. Behind the mask, her eyes glitter with malice. “And you are—?”

  “A cow.”

  She glances down at my stomach. “I think your teats are leaking,” she says. With a swirl of fabric, she spins and strides off.

  I glance down to see that, yes, water is dripping from the imperfect seal at the top of the glove. There’s a little puddle at my feet and a spreading stain across my midsection. “Shit,” I say.

  There’s a laugh behind me, and I turn to see Grant dressed as some kind of feline. A snow leopard, maybe, all in white except for dozens of small black circles. He’s affixed whiskers to his face and rather more successful ears to his head. Like Caroline, he has managed to not appear ridiculous; he looks both attractive and amiable, another combination that none of the rest of us have managed to pull off.

  “When costumes go bad,” he intones in a TV-announcer voice.

  I unfasten the faulty udder, attempt to squirt him with the contents but end up just getting more water on the floor, and toss the half-filled bag into the nearest trash can. “I hate Halloween,” I say.

  “Oh, man, I love it!” he exclaims. “All the cute little kiddies coming to your door and telling you stupid jokes! I won’t give them candy unless they perform.”

  “I have a joke,” I say. “What do cows do on Saturday night?” He raises his eyebrows in inquiry, so I answer the riddle. “They go to the mooooovies.”

  “That’s good. I’m going to tell that to the trick-or-treaters.”

  The Halloween party is only supposed to last over lunch, but once you’ve started chatting with leopards and lemurs, it’s awfully hard to go back to balancing accounts and answering calls from vendors. Ellen hangs out in my office for the last hour of the day, perching on my big worktable and kicking her legs like a girl on a swing. I’m not sure parrots have red feet, but her scarlet shoes seem like the perfect complement to the rest of her garish outfit. She is pleased by the success of the party and looking forward to the weekend.

  “You doing anything interesting?” she asks as quitting time finally rolls around and we step out with everyone else.

  “No,” I say with a sigh. “It will probably be the most boring weekend of my life.”

  “Sometimes those are the best ones,” she says.

  I laugh. “I agree.”

  The husky is gone when I get home and I worry about her. The rain has cleared up, but the heavy air is so damp and chilly that the slightest breeze sends ice skittering across bare flesh. It will be a cold night to sleep outside unprotected. And it could be a dangerous night, if tough kids roaming the neighborhoods decide to torture black cats and stray dogs. Will she be safe? Does she know she can come back to me if she feels threatened? I leave the blanket, water bowl, and food outside, just in case.

  I’ve done nothing more than remove my headband and cowbell before the doorbell rings and a voice calls, “Trick or treat!” I grab the candy bowl on my way to the door, but it’s no small ghost or vampire awaiting me on the porch.

  “Christina!” I exclaim, holding the door wide enough for her to come in out of the miserable weather. “Oh, and Lizzie! Look at you, you’re a little jack-o’-lantern!”

  Christina smiles brightly as she carries Lizzie across the threshold. The baby is, indeed, dressed like a carved pumpkin, with a yellow face stitched onto the belly of her orange jumper and a green-stemmed hat on her little head. She waves her hands and chortles when I bend down to give her a kiss.

  Christina is wearing tight blue jeans, a gold-sequined top, and flat gold shoes with big buckles. Clearly she’s heading to a party, though it must not require costumes. She says, “I know, isn’t she adorable?”

  “Are you going somewhere? Do you want to leave the baby with me?” I ask. Though I am a little taken aback by her bold assumption that I would be available, I’m more than delighted at the prospect of spending an evening with Lizzie.

  Christina laughs. “How rude would that be to just show up at your door and demand that you babysit! No, I’m heading into town and I thought I’d swing by and show you her outfit. I just bought it yesterday.”

  I hold out my arms and Christina willingly gives me the baby. I fancy I can tell that she’s gained a pound or two since I held her last. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t mind. I’m not doing anything except handing out candy.”

  “I’m sure. There’s a whole group of us getting together, and everyone has children, and we’ve hired three girls to babysit for the night. It ought to be a lot of fun.”

  I jostle Lizzie in my arms. She reaches out curious fingers and pokes at my nose, my chin. “Does Mama let you have candy yet, little girl?” I ask. “Would you like some nice, juicy Baby Ruth candy bars? Or how about a Snickers? No? Just wait a couple of years. Right now you think formula is pretty awesome, but chocolate is going to rock your world.”

  “It will, if she’s anything like her mother,” Christina agrees.

  I turn toward the cluttered console table that sits just inside the door and holds everything from my car keys to my phone books to a week’s worth of mail. “I think my camera is here somewhere. Can you take a picture of me with the baby?”

  “Sure. Actually, can you take a picture of me with her? I don’t have any recent photos of the two of us.”

  So we pass Lizzie back and forth while we snap a few shots, and I promise to e-mail them to Christina.

  After they’ve been here about twenty minutes, I offer food and drinks, but Christina shakes her head and says, “Gotta
run. It seems like years since I’ve gone out with my friends and I’m dying to get to the party.”

  I hold the door open and a battalion of cold marches in. “Have fun.”

  She steps outside, but then turns back. “Have you talked to my brother lately?”

  “Not since he was here last. About ten days ago. Do you want me to give him a message?” Do you know where he is? Is he nearby, pretending to be far away? Is he human, pretending to be an animal? God, it’s been so long since I’ve had these doubts about Dante, and now they’re crowding back. I brush my hair from my face, trying to brush away the thoughts.

  Christina answers, “No, I just wanted to thank him. He sent Lizzie a present. I think that means he might not be so angry about her anymore.”

  I shrug, wrapping my arms around myself to stay warm. I keep my voice neutral as I say, “You can’t worry about Dante being mad. He has his own rules and his own secrets. And they’re not always easy for other people to live with.”

  Christina rests Lizzie against her shoulder and absently pats the back of the orange jumper. “Well. Next time he’s around, if he wants to get to know his niece a little better, tell him I’d be happy to see him.” She smiles at me. “To see both of you.”

  “I will. Talk to you later.”

  She leaves, and I take a few moments to strip away the rest of my cow costume and put on normal clothes before anyone else comes to the door. During the next couple of hours, I’m visited by two pirates, a cater-pillar, and a girl in some catchall costume that probably started out as princess but ended up as gypsy, and then I lose track. I give everyone handfuls of miniature candy bars in an effort to get rid of as much as possible.

  By nine o’clock, I figure all the traffic is past, so I turn out the porch light, eat a Snickers bar, finish a Sudoku puzzle, and go to bed. It’s Friday and since I have nothing planned for the weekend, I don’t have to set the alarm clock. That seems like the biggest luxury I’ve indulged in for the entire month.

  I’m deeply asleep a couple of hours later when the shrill ring of the phone jerks me awake. My first reaction is panic—Someone’s dead—and my heart pounds as I fumble for the lamp and check Caller ID on the bedside phone. It’s one of those times when the erratic service isn’t working and the LED readout flashes NO DATA. The clock on the side table shows a few minutes past midnight.

  “Hello?” I say fearfully.

  “Happy Halloween,” Dante answers.

  Instantly, joy routs uneasiness; it overpowers the uncertainties that have dogged me all week. I sit up in bed, practically bouncing. “Dante! How are you? It’s so nice to hear your voice!”

  “Yours, too,” he says. “Hey, are you all dressed up in some sexy costume?”

  I giggle. “I went to a Halloween party today at work, but I didn’t look too sexy. I was dressed as a cow.”

  “Do you think maybe you could find something a little more enticing than that? A French maid outfit, maybe?”

  For a moment, hope squeezes the air out of my lungs. “Why?” I manage. “Are you likely to see me wearing it?”

  “Yeah. I’m at the gas station down the street, actually. I thought I’d call instead of just coming over, you know, in case—”

  “What, in case my boyfriend was spending the night for Halloween?”

  I hear the grin in his voice. “Something like that.”

  I’m already on my feet, throwing on a robe, stuffing my feet into slippers. “He left before midnight, so no need to worry. I have to hang up to get to the front door.”

  “See you in a few minutes,” he says, and cuts the connection.

  I’m at the door before he is, and I stand there, shivering in the nasty night air and not even caring how cold it is. Soon I see him loping up the street from the direction of the crossroads where the gas station and the Quik Mart rule opposite corners. As soon as he gets close enough for me to make out details, I see that he is barefoot and wearing nothing but the slick running pants that he keeps in his pack. He has not been human long enough to buy better clothing; he doesn’t expect to stay human long enough to require any additions to his wardrobe.

  He plunges through the door and throws his arms around me. I squeal at the iciness of his bare skin. He burrows his face under the fall of my hair and shivers elaborately. “It’s freezing out there,” he mumbles. “I didn’t realize it until I changed shapes, and then I thought I’d die.”

  “Well, come in, come in, let’s get you warmed up,” I say, pulling him inside, shutting the door, and rubbing my hands briskly up and down his back. All this time he still has his arms around me and his face pressed against my skin, greatly impeding my movements. “Do you want a blanket? Do you want me to make you some hot tea?”

  “I want to climb under the covers,” he whispers against my throat. “With you.”

  I pull back enough to force him to raise his head, and then I kiss him. “Gladly,” I say. “How much time do you have?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe an hour. Maybe an hour and a half.”

  “How long have you been human?”

  “About fifteen minutes.”

  I kiss him again. “We better hurry.”

  We race each other to the bedroom and burrow under the blankets. At first we do little more than cling together, while he warms his body against mine, and I continue to chafe his shoulders and his arms. He is not quite new Dante; perhaps he has not been an animal long enough, or he won’t be human long enough, for the transformation to wreak its usual havoc. He seems more like dazed Dante, someone woken unexpectedly from a hard sleep and still not certain how to function outside of dreamland.

  “What have you been this time?” I whisper, putting my face so close to his that our noses touch.

  “Some kind of cat. Mountain lion, maybe.”

  “And did you have any adventures? The kind where other creatures tried to kill you?”

  He grins; his face is so near that I can see every crease that the expression folds into in his cheeks. “Not that I remember. It’s been a most boring transformation.”

  “Good. Those are the kinds I like.”

  “How about you? Any adventures?”

  “Mmm, I went to Chicago with Beth. That was fun. Oh, and we had a Halloween party today at work.”

  “That’s what you said. You were a cow.” He squeezes in closer to kiss me. “I hardly think that was the costume that best illustrates your real personality.”

  The quality of our intimacy has instantly changed. He’s no longer huddling close to me to steal my body warmth; he’s suddenly eager for a different kind of contact. I wriggle a little closer.

  “Oh yeah?” I whisper back. “What kind of costume do you think I should have worn? We all had to dress like some kind of animal.” I kiss him. “Would have been easy for you.”

  That makes him snort in amusement. He’s tugging at my nightgown, trying to get it over my head without actually letting go of me. “Let’s see. I’d have dressed you as a peacock. Something beautiful. Or, no, maybe a koala bear. Something cute.”

  I am choking back laughter. Both suggestions seem ridiculous and ill-suited for me. “No, no, I would be a beagle or a collie,” I say. “Faithful. Reliable. Willing to do anything for someone I loved.”

  He pushes me away, yanks off the nightgown, and then pulls me close again. I can feel the urgent shape of his erection through the thin material of his pants. “Maybe a sheepdog,” he suggests, “all your hair always falling in your face—”

  I swat him on the shoulder, then grab his ears and pull him close. “I don’t know how many girls you have lined up across Missouri, just waiting for the one night a month you come to their bedrooms in some kind of reasonable human shape,” I mutter against his mouth. “But assuming I’m the only one, you better say something awfully nice to me right now, or you might find yourself going back to your feral state without having your animal appetites satisfied.”

  I am trying to deliver it in a low, sexy growl, but I c
an’t help giggling toward the end, and Dante is laughing outright. I am giddy with the euphoria of seeing him so unexpectedly; I don’t know what his excuse is. Perhaps the same as mine. He pulls me with him as he rolls to his back and wraps his arms around me, tightening his embrace so dramatically that all the air whuffs out of me in one noisy exhalation. “Oh, I do love you, Maria Devane,” he exclaims, covering my face with sloppy kisses. “I don’t know how I ever got so lucky as to find you.”

  “God, I love you, Dante,” I say, my voice suddenly choked up, my heart suddenly seized up. “I wish I never had to spend a day apart from you.”

  Those are the last words either of us speaks for the next twenty minutes. We have gone from playful to poignant in the space of a pulse, and our foreplay has turned purposeful. He slides himself free of the thin pants, slides himself into me; I press my body against his with utter abandon. I can’t explain the chaotic images that form in my head as I strain against him, as I clutch his hair, as I drop manic kisses on his face, his cheeks, his throat. It is like I am beating on the outside of a huge, metal-strapped door, trying to break through to whatever is inside. I am pounding on the timbers, flinging the full weight of my body against the wood, gouging out splinters with my fingertips, and still I cannot get inside. What do I think is on the other side? How do I think the act of sex will crack the seal?

  Why do I think there is anything hidden from me when Dante’s passion, Dante’s desperation, match my own?

  We are scarcely finished, still lying against each other, still taking in great ragged breaths, when he says in a hoarse voice, “I have to go.”

  I tighten my hands; my fingernails bite into the rounded muscles of his arms. “Not yet,” I beg.

  “I have to. I can’t—I barely had time for this,” he says.

  He shakes himself free of me, not cruelly but without negotiation, and swings out of the bed. In the room’s faint light, I can see the sheen of sweat on his chest. As he pulls on the running pants, I think idiotically, He’ll really be cold now. I suppose the condition won’t last for long. It’s been close to an hour since he called; there must be very little time left.