The Shape of Desire

by Sharon Shinn

  Now I collapse next to him, my thoughts in a whirl. To comfort him or myself—I’m not sure—I take his hand in both of mine. “Why would you think that?”

  He hesitates, but I can tell whatever the reason is, it’s a pretty strong one. Finally he says, “I told you he got hurt a while back. Needed a blood transfusion.” I nod. “What I didn’t tell you is that people like us—shape-shifters—we can’t always tolerate other people’s blood. A transfusion can have terrible side effects.”

  “What kind of side effects?” I whisper.

  His shoulders lift in a helpless shrug. “Madness. Violence. Basically, an entire breakdown of someone’s personality.”

  I open my mouth but struggle to frame a question. “And you think—you’ve seen this kind of change come over him? I don’t know him that well, but he didn’t seem out of character when I saw him.”

  Dante rubs his forehead. “Yeah. Mostly he seems normal. No wild mood swings, no crazy talk. But he’s been a little—erratic—lately. I’ve been thinking he was hiding something. I can usually find him hanging around Christina’s when I want him, but lately he’s gone more than he’s there, and he’s vague about where he’s been.” He gives a tired shrug. “Hell, I can’t always account for my whereabouts, and we all might have things we want to hide from our brothers, but—William has never been like that. I asked Christina and she said she’d noticed it, too, but with the baby, she hasn’t had much attention to spare for anyone else.”

  My thoughts are racing, tripping over themselves like runners with their shoes untied, and struggling to rise again. “But—would William have reason to kill Ritchie? I mean—I suppose all the murders could have been completely random, it’s just that—it never even would have occurred to me that you might be involved except that you had a reason to dislike him—”

  He nods slowly. “I’d told him about the fight.” He looks over at me miserably. “We went by Ritchie’s house. It made sense at the time. He said, ‘I ought to know where he lives in case he tries to intimidate Maria while you’re out of town.’ I just didn’t think—” He spreads his hands. “This is terrible,” he breathes.

  I wrap my arms around him and pull him over so that his head rests against my shoulder. “Now you know how I felt when I suspected you,” I whisper. “Awful. So awful. And there’s probably equally little reason to suspect William. You’ll feel wretched when you realize he couldn’t possibly have done anything so dreadful.”

  Not lifting his cheek from my shoulder, he tilts his head back to gaze up at me. “Five people killed by a shape-shifter. Who wasn’t me. William is a prime suspect.”

  “You don’t know they were killed by a shape-shifter,” I argue. “Maybe there really is a rabid wolf loose in the city.”

  “Covering that much ground? Between Rolla and Forest Park?” he asks derisively. “I don’t think so.”

  “So maybe it’s someone else. You said there are a lot of shape-shifters in the state—”

  “I said there are some. Not a lot. And I don’t know any others who might live in the St. Louis area.”

  “But then, if it’s William—” I say, and stop cold. I remember him showing up at my front door, cheerful and smiling, sitting down with me at the breakfast table. I remember him taking a sudden aggressive swipe at the news reporter, exploding into an instant ferocity that had the potential to be so much more brutal. I remember the amber eyes staring at me from the darkness in the middle of the night. If William turns out to be a killer…“Oh, God,” I say. I am lucky to be alive.

  I feel him shake his head against my shoulder. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do,” he says very quietly. “But he’s my brother. I have to take care of this.”

  I don’t know what that means. I am afraid to ask. I scoot my butt closer to the edge of the couch cushion, so my face is down at the same level as Dante’s. “Not just yet,” I say in a small voice. “Give me one more day. In case something happens to you. In case—just in case. One more day. And then we’ll go back to St. Louis and you can do whatever you need to.”

  I see the words hover on his lips: What if someone else dies while we’re taking the time for some long, selfish good-bye? But he doesn’t say them. His dark eyes are as vulnerable as I have ever seen them, his face is bruised with emotion. Dante has so few people he feels safe enough to love, and he might have just lost one of them in the worst way possible. At this moment, he needs me as much as I need him, and he shows it. I meet his desperate kiss with one of my own; I gladly submit to his crushing embrace. Only love can make up for the defection of love. No other substitutes exist.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  We spend Thursday in Kansas City, but we are no longer the carefree couple so in love that people smile to see us. Our waiter from last night would not mistake us for newlyweds today; he would guess we are in town to bury our only child. We don’t talk much. We catch a couple of movies, holding hands as the films play out. We buy newspapers and cheap novels and sit together in the coffee shops, reading in near-total silence. We sit at adjoining computer terminals in the hotel’s business center. I check e-mail while Dante surfs news sites, looking for more details about the murders. He doesn’t share with me anything he learns.

  Unexciting activities, even a little grim, but I treasure these hours nonetheless. It is impossible not to realize that change is in the air. We might never have such a day again.

  I cannot bear to think about it.

  Friday morning we check out and drive back to St. Louis with Dante behind the wheel. He expects to be human at least three or four more days, but he wants to begin the hunt for William right away. He doesn’t think the search will take very long. I know where he goes to ground. Unless he’s off on one of his mysterious excursions, I ought to find him in a few days.

  And then he will say what—?

  For much of the time, we ride in silence. I rest my left hand on his leg, just to reassure myself that he is near, but I keep my eyes on the view alongside the road. Once we get clear of the city, the landscape is mostly composed of farms and open prairie, with rolling tree-covered hills in the middle distance. Here in mid-November, most of the trees are wholly naked, and their dense, contorted branches appear to have been flung up to protect them from the ill humor of a gunmetal sky. Here and there, against the fawn-colored grasses and the dull brown tree trunks, brilliant spots of color leap out, marking a few stubborn trees just now surrendering to red. I can’t tell what they are, maples maybe, burning with rebellious color. Twice along the highway I spot weeping willows whose long, trailing branches still clutch handfuls of green leaves, though the color has faded like an old woman’s hair, bleached pale by time.

  There isn’t much more to see except billboards advertising Meramec Caverns, factory-made wooden bowls, adult video stores, restaurants, hotels, fireworks, and lawyers. Now and then a sign will simply offer the word JESUS in giant letters. I wonder what I would put on an oversize outdoor ad if I were allowed a single word. Love, I think. Both a noun and a directive. Find it, offer it, and make it the guiding principle of life.

  We are not far from Wentzville when I stir. “Will you tell Christina?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Not if I don’t have to. I want to talk to William first and see what I can find out.”

  I’m not sure how to phrase my next question. “What if he—if he takes exception to what you say.” To you asking him if he’s a murderer. “Will he start a fight? Will you—who would win?”

  He shakes his head again. “I don’t know. In human shape, I’m bigger than he is, and stronger. But—”

  I try to still the acid surge of fear that rises to the back of my throat. “But he can turn to animal shape at will. And you can’t.”

  He glances at me, then stares straight ahead again. “I know William,” he says quietly. “The real William, the one whose mind hasn’t been poisoned by madness. If he really is—If he really has killed people, it’s something that would horrify him.
He would want to be stopped.”

  I turn my eyes his way. “Would you?” I say. “Want to be stopped?”

  He nods without taking his eyes from the road.

  “Even if it meant your death?”

  He risks another quick look at me. “Even then. And I expect it would.”

  After that, we don’t say another word until we arrive at my house.

  In the morning, Dante is gone.

  I thought last weekend was impossible to endure, but this one is even worse. I can’t even distract myself by going out with Beth or leaving for the movies, because I know Dante is still human, and I don’t want to miss any moment he might have to spare for me. He has taken his cell phone with him, and he calls me every few hours, just because he can, even though he has no progress to report. He is in Rolla, but he has not made contact with William. He has dropped in on Christina and questioned her casually, but she hasn’t seen their brother for several days.

  “Keep your doors locked,” Dante cautions me. “And if he comes to the house, don’t let him in.”

  “Oh, great. What do I say to him when I answer the door? ‘Uh, sorry, I’m suddenly afraid of you. Go away’?”

  “I don’t know. Pretend you have the flu or something. And then call me the minute he leaves.”

  “Come back to me,” I whisper. “Before you change out of human shape this time. Come back for one more night.”

  Silence on the phone for a moment, then the promise. “I will.”

  Monday arrives like an immigrant, bedraggled and apprehensive. I haven’t been in my office more than three minutes before Ellen strides in. I’ve already turned on my computer, knowing my in-box will be stuffed with e-mails that require immediate attention, but I spin around to meet her keen, inquiring gaze.

  “So did you tell him?” she asks.

  It is the strangest thing in my life—of all the strange things—to think I can actually discuss Dante with someone else in cold, literal terms. “Yes,” I say. “Right after I got your text.”

  “Was he furious? What did he say?”

  “He said—Oh, God, this could only be worse if Dante really was the killer. He said maybe it was his brother.”

  Ellen snaps her fingers. “That’s right! I forgot he had a brother. And a sister, too, right?”

  “And a niece.”

  “And they’re all—” She glances over her shoulder toward the hallway, though so far we appear to be the only two people on our floor. “You know.”

  “Yes. Well, we don’t know yet about the baby.”

  She leans against my bookcase. “Well, that must have been a bad morning,” she remarks. “First he finds out his girlfriend thinks he’s a killer, and then he starts thinking maybe his brother is.”

  “Right. Pretty much set the tone.”

  “When did you get back?”

  “Friday night.”

  She appraises me. “So you stayed a few days. Managed to make a little vacation out of it. Despite everything.” She nods. “Good for you.”

  I smile weakly. “I didn’t know if we’d ever have another chance.”

  “What happens next?”

  “He’s looking for William. His brother. But I don’t have any idea how that—that conversation might go.”

  She mulls that over for a minute and then sighs. “I can’t think of a single thing to say about any of this,” she offers before straightening up and heading for the door. But just as she steps into the hall, she turns back and says softly, “I’m glad it wasn’t him.” She leaves before I can reply.

  Dante is at my house when I get home Monday night. “William?” I ask breathlessly as I hurry through the door and hang up my coat.

  He shakes his head. “I haven’t been able to track him down yet. I’ll keep looking.”

  “How much time do you have?” How much longer before you’re back in animal shape?

  “Not long. But I can keep hunting for him after I’ve changed. Once I find him, I’ll just stick with him until we’re both human again.” He shrugs. “I told you, I’ve been practicing. Maybe I’ll be able to shift right away and have the conversation as soon as I find him.”

  “Well, if you find yourself back in human shape, with no brother to beat up and time heavy on your hands, give me a call. Or hey, drop by.”

  His smile is fleeting. “I’ll definitely call. Not sure I’ll have time to visit.”

  I nod. I am trying to seem calm, not overly concerned, not listening to the wailing voices crying that I may never see him again, this man I love so much. “So you’ll be leaving again tonight?”

  “In a couple of hours. I just came by to—” He pauses. He doesn’t want to utter the words. To say good-bye. Now his mouth twists in a smile that is far more sad than mirthful. “To see you.”

  I don’t even bother trying to stumble through a maze of words. I just plunge across the room and throw myself into his arms. They close around me and we kiss as if we are stealing breath from each other to stay alive. I think, This must be how people feel when they’re in a submarine or a spaceship that’s running out of air. They can see the dial winding down; they can see that their time is almost up. They are alive now, they are perfectly fine, and yet they know that in a matter of hours they will be dead. And there is nothing they can do, no miracle they can perform, that will change the outcome by so much as a second.

  I kiss him, I make love to him, and then I let him go.

  Impossibly, the rest of the week is even worse. I bury myself in work—which, fortunately, there is plenty of—and distract myself with friends. Every day, Ellen organizes some kind of luncheon outing, gathering me and Kathleen and any other wounded soul she can round up. Well, neither Grant nor Marquez seems to be particularly injured at the moment, but I am not fooled. They have secrets; they have scars. It’s just that their infirmities are not visible at this moment.

  On Thursday, Ellen announces that she’s having us all over on Sunday afternoon to watch the football game. “What football game?” Marquez asks.

  “The one where the Cardinals play the Rams. The true team plays the usurpers.”

  Grant laughs. Besides Ellen, I’d guess he’s the only one of the five of us who might be a sports fan. “Dude, the Big Red moved out of this city more than twenty years ago. Get over it.”

  “I can’t get over it,” Ellen says. “My heart belongs to the Cardinals.”

  “I think I’m busy Sunday,” Marquez says. “I have to do laundry. Or, wait. I have to iron my underwear.”

  “Bring your ironing over to my place and do it while you watch the game,” Ellen invites him. “I’ve got a board you can borrow.”

  “I think it sounds like fun,” I say. I’ve been dreading the weekend, actually. How will I fill up all those deserted and endless hours? Mindless television watching in the presence of people I like seems to be the perfect answer. I’ll have my cell phone with me, of course, in case Dante finds time to call.

  “I do, too,” Kathleen says in her soft voice. “Kelly and Tim left yesterday and it’s been so quiet at the house.”

  Ellen glances at Marquez with hooded triumph. Kathleen was her trump card, and that card just played itself. Marquez’s grin is a silent acknowledgment of the fact, but he goes down fighting. “Yes, but football,” he says to Kathleen in a pleading voice. “It’s so boring. And those outfits they wear. At least when it’s basketball you can appreciate their fine bodies.”

  Grant makes a loud groaning sound and covers his ears. “I do not want to hear you saying that crap.” I think the straight-male response is just posturing; Grant seems perfectly comfortable with Marquez’s sexuality.

  Ellen ignores Grant and addresses Marquez. “So bring a Scrabble board. I’ll tell you when to cheer and when to boo. You don’t even have to pay attention to the game.”

  “I hate Scrabble,” Marquez says.

  “We can play Monopoly,” Kathleen says, but all of us cry out in horror at that.

  Marquez tells her
, “I’d play Clue before I’d play Monopoly. I’d play charades.”

  “Great, so I’ll expect everyone around eleven thirty. Game starts at noon,” Ellen says. “I’ll grill some burgers, you all can bring whatever you like.” She glances around the table and adds casually, “I might invite some of my neighbors, too, or folks from church.”

  No one else seems to notice this comment but I feel certain it’s significant somehow. Kathleen is already volunteering to make deviled eggs and Marquez says he’ll bring baked beans.

  “Beer,” Grant says. When Marquez makes a rude noise, Grant says, “Hey, it’s a football game. You gotta have beer.”

  “I’ll make a salad,” I say.

  “Of course you will,” Marquez replies in a polite voice.

  “It will be a really creative salad,” I promise him. “With cranberries and pears and gorgonzola cheese. Even you will like it.”

  Ellen’s hand has frozen halfway to her mouth and I see her working her mind around a new thought. Maria’s a vegetarian except for a few times a month. She’s in love with a guy who sometimes turns into an animal. Hey—could those two facts be related? Then she gives me a brilliant smile. “Great,” she says again. “It’ll be fun.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I spend what seems like most of Saturday on the phone with various family members, trying to decide who is bringing what to Thanksgiving dinner at Aunt Andrea’s on Thursday. This process would be much simpler, Beth and I moan to each other, if either of our mothers would bother to get computers and learn how to send e-mails. But eventually we’ve all agreed not only on a menu but also on which food items we’re willing to bring. I am looking forward to spending the holiday with my family, though I know part of my attention will be straining back toward St. Louis, hoping for news from Dante.