The Shape of Desire by Sharon Shinn
“No, I mean—with your friend. Kathleen. Isn’t she the one whose husband was killed?”
I turn a little in his arms, so I’m sprawling back on the pillows, looking up at him as he lies on his side. “Yeah. She’s doing better. She came to work on Monday and seemed to make it through the day okay. Everyone dropped by her desk every five minutes to check up on her, of course.”
“Have they found out yet who murdered him?”
For a moment my brain is empty; I can’t remember what I told him. “They’re still investigating,” I say cautiously.
“But the cops still think it was drug dealers?”
I’m swept with relief. Of course! My inspiration. Drug deal gone bad. “Last I heard,” I say, nodding. “One of the girls in the office said there was heroin found at the scene, but I think she made that up, since I never heard it on the news.”
Dante strokes my hair, but his eyes are looking back at that Saturday morning when Ritchie made his memorable appearance at my house. “I can’t say he struck me as the type,” he says. “He was pretty fit. Sort of guy who works out every day and treats his body like a fine machine. I wouldn’t think someone like that would use street drugs.”
“Well,” I say, “people will surprise you, even when you know them very well.”
“I suppose,” he says. “Did you ever hear any more from the reporters?”
I widen my eyes. “Yes. One of them came to my house over the weekend and wanted to ask me questions about the murder and didn’t I think there should be better policing in the parks and stuff like that. It’s really kind of spooky to think that a guy with a camera can just walk up to your front door and start filming you and anything you say.”
Dante lifts his brows. “Good thing I wasn’t there, changing shapes and looking suspicious.”
“Yeah, but you know who was there? Which made it almost as bad. William!”
He looks only mildly surprised. “Really? What did he want?”
“To see if I was okay, I think. I’d told Christina I was looking for you, and I guess she told William, and he wanted to know if something was wrong.” Dante doesn’t say anything, so I add, “It was awfully sweet, but a little surprising. I didn’t even know he knew where I lived.”
“Of course he does. He knows it’s a safe place. If anything ever happens to him and he needs help.” The corner of his mouth pulls up in a half-smile. “You know, if he ever gets shot by a farmer and he needs a corner where he can hole up and heal.”
I put my fist very gently under his chin. “Don’t even say things like that,” I tell him sternly. “What happens to you if you get shot by a farmer? And you’re all the way in Kansas or Nebraska or Colorado or Montana or however far you roam? Where’s your safe place?”
He narrows his eyes as if considering whether or not I will react favorably to a piece of information he could share. I sit up straighter in bed and lean my back against the headboard. “You have safe places,” I say accusingly. “All over the state! All over the country?”
He waggles his head back and forth. “Not as many as you might think,” he replies. “But there are a couple in St. Louis—a few in small towns along the major highways. A few in every state.”
Part of me is upset, imagining warmhearted animal-loving beauty queens running boarding homes for alpha males who shift into human shape and once again are subject to all sorts of hungers. But part of me is relieved to think if he’s ever in serious trouble, Dante has someplace to run, no matter where he is. “How do you find out about these havens?” I ask. “Do you have shape-shifter conventions out in Las Vegas every year where you can swap addresses of the new places you’ve discovered?”
He grins. “Not exactly. But there’s a network. There aren’t that many shape-shifters in America, and a lot of us are related. So we know where this aunt lives, or this cousin—or this girlfriend of that nephew. Someone who knows. Who understands.”
Although Dante has mentioned that his mother had siblings with the same shape-shifting tendencies, he has never wanted to talk about them before. I’ve never been able to get a sense of how many there are, where they’re located, how closely they all stay in touch. I don’t want to pry too hard, which might cause him to clam up on the topic, but I can’t help but be fascinated. I’m convinced more than ever that my visiting white husky is a supernatural creature, perhaps sent my way some weary afternoon by William or Dante. You can take shelter with Maria if you ever need to…
“So these other shape-shifters,” I say. “Do you know the whole genealogy? Do you keep track of each other?”
“Hardly,” he says. “I can scarcely keep track of William and Christina.”
“Then how do you recognize each other? I mean, if you’re in the wild and you see a bear that looks—different—do you have some secret signal you make to ask if it’s really a human?”
He shrugs, slightly irritable. He’s already tired of this topic. “You just know,” he says.
“But—”
“Seriously, Maria, I can’t explain it.”
I blow out my breath in a very audible sound of resignation. “Fine. Let’s go on to a new topic.” I reach out to tug on the key around his neck. The longer cord seems to be working out just fine; he hasn’t lost it and he hasn’t strangled on it, and I don’t notice any signs of fraying. “How’s your life been?” I ask. “What’s your last week been like?”
He shrugs and pulls the key out of my hand. He hauls himself up to a seated position beside me. “As always. I just keep moving and try to stay out of trouble.”
“You were human a bunch of times during this last stretch of time,” I prompt. “You came to see me on Halloween, you called me, and I know you checked e-mail. It seems like you changed more often, back and forth, these last three weeks. Or am I wrong?”
He’s silent a long moment, regarding me with those unreadable, dark eyes. Finally he nods and rests his head back against the wood. “You’re not wrong,” he says. “A few months ago—after he got hurt—I hung out with William for a few days. He’s always been able to shift more easily than I have, more or less at will, and I wanted to see if I could pick up some of his techniques. Direct the process a little more.”
I feel a kick of excitement. “And could you?”
He shrugs and nods. “A little. A half hour here, an hour there. I think maybe if I keep practicing I can extend those periods.” He glances at me, frowning down my mounting elation. “But it’s really hard. I feel pretty beat up after I’ve been working on it for a while.”
“Still. I know how much you hate being at the mercy of—of the whims of your body,” I say. “If you could get some control over the whole thing—”
“Right. I might feel less like a freak.”
I lean over to kiss him hard on the mouth. “You might be a freak,” I say fiercely, “but you’re my freak. And I will love you forever. Even if you’re only human an hour a month. Even if you’re only human an hour a year.”
Even if you’re a killer.
We spend Wednesday walking hand-in-hand around the Plaza. If you don’t feel like eating or shopping, there’s not too much to do, but all we require is the slightest bit of structure upon which to hang our day, so the eating and the shopping suit us just fine. We pause for coffee, browse for books, try on clothes at a couple of sporting goods stores, where I also buy Dante two sweaters and two pairs of jeans. We try out couches, sniff at candles, and buy chocolates, which we chase down with wine during happy hour. I admire rings in the window of a jewelry store; Dante is intrigued by computer games and software selections. The weather is cold but sunny, perfect for moving in and out of heated showrooms.
We are together, perfect for making me happy.
We return to the hotel and put on nicer clothes—well, Dante’s nicest pair of new jeans—and go out for an expensive dinner. Candlelight, steak, more wine, dessert. We are laughing so much and touching hands so frequently across the table that our waiter asks if we’r
I close my mind to the thought. I do not voice it to Dante. I do not tell him a single one of my most pressing fears. I lie with my smile, I lie with my words, I lie with the touch of my fingers on his. I tell him Nothing has changed, when, in fact, everything might have changed.
Of course, I cannot escape the knowledge that he might be lying to me as well.
When we return to our room, we make love with a surge of passion, and then with a heartbreaking tenderness. We fall asleep face-to-face, our hands linked, our knees touching. Every time I wake in the night to alter positions, I make sure that some part of me is still in contact with Dante. He must do the same. For in the morning, when I open my eyes, we are lying back to front; his arm is across my waist and my fingers are laced with his. I don’t believe we have been parted for a second during one of those dark hours.
It takes me a moment to realize that what has nudged me out of slumber is the sound of my cell phone alerting me that I have a text message. Glancing at the clock, I see that it’s scarcely seven in the morning. Way too early for social calls. I don’t want to get out of the warm bed—I don’t want to leave Dante’s side—but I have a feeling I’d better see if there’s a crisis brewing before it becomes a full-blown catastrophe. I had told both my mom and Beth that I would be heading to Kansas City this week (“It’s a business trip, I’ll be there a few days”), but I haven’t talked to them since I arrived. Neither of them is above calling me this early in the morning just to make sure I’m alive.
I roll over, kiss Dante on the cheek, then slip out of bed and pull on a robe. I take my cell phone to the bathroom and close the door so I don’t disturb Dante if I have to call someone. First I use the toilet, then I put the lid down so I can sit on it like a chair.
The text message is from Ellen, simple and to the point. MURDER IN FOREST PARK THIS A.M. SAME ANIMAL. TIME SET @ 3.
It takes me a moment to absorb this. My first thought is actually for Kathleen, who buried her husband yesterday after the funeral that I missed. This will just remind her of Ritchie’s death. Belatedly I think I should feel sorry for the victim, and the victim’s family, whoever they might be.
And then I realize.
A murder in St. Louis. Four hours ago. While Dante lay sleeping beside me, his hand always grazing my body, his breath sometimes mixed with mine.
He could not possibly have been the killer.
A single harsh sob is punched out of my body. I cover my mouth, which is gaping with so many emotions that I cannot contain them. Horror and grief and shame, that I could ever have allowed myself to distrust him. And over them unutterable relief, that Dante is not, could not have been, would never be a killer.
One-handed, I type out a reply. R U SURE?
The answer comes almost immediately; she must be sitting somewhere with her iPhone in her hand. YES. U IN KC?
YES. YES. YES. OMG OMG OMG.
I KNOW. TERRIBLE NEWS BUT MAKES ME HAPPY 4 U.
THANK U, I type and then I can’t think of anything else to say. I hold the phone a moment, balancing it on my knee, and then I finally add, I HAVE TO GO. I LOVE HIM.
CALL ME LATER, she writes.
I shut the phone and lay it very, very carefully on the marble counter surrounding the sink. And then I lower my face into my hands and begin crying. I am biting my lips, I am pressing my palms against my cheeks, I am doing everything I can to muffle the sound, but the tears pour out, unstoppable, inexhaustible. They must be laced with acid; they burn against my face, against my hands. But they are sweet as well as bitter. I taste one against my tongue and I swear there is sugar mixed with the salt.
There is a knock on the bathroom door and Dante’s voice outside. “Maria? Are you all right? Maria?”
“Yes,” I choke out. That’s one lie he recognizes because he comes in to see for himself. His face, already concerned, creases in real alarm, and he drops to a crouch beside me. He is naked, his dark hair loose around his shoulders and tousled from sleep, and he is utterly beautiful.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice fearful. Balancing himself on his toes, he wraps an arm around my shoulder and insinuates his face under the fall of my own heavy hair. “Maria? Did I hear the phone? Did something happen to your mom or your cousin or somebody?”
“I can’t—” I start to say, but the sobs obstruct my throat. I try again. “They’re fine. Everyone is fine.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“It’s too terrible,” I say around a hiccup.
“Is someone dead?”
Yes, but not the way you mean. Not someone I know, not someone I love. “No, no, nothing like that,” I choke out.
“Then what is it? Tell me.”
I don’t even want to answer that, but the words come out in a rush. “You’ll hate me,” I say. “You’ll never forgive me.”
His eyebrows shoot up, and then he frowns. Before I quite know what he’s planning, he straightens, scoops me up, and carries me out to the couch. Then he pulls a blanket off the bed, bundles me up in it, and fetches me a glass of water. Finally he sits beside me, puts one arm around my shoulders, and takes hold of my hand.
“Whatever it is, I won’t hate you,” he says. “I swear. Now tell me what’s wrong.”
I sip the water to force my throat to open, and I will myself into a state of semi-calm. But I cannot look at him as I begin to speak. “When Ritchie died—when he was killed,” I stammer. “Before we knew how he died. My first thought was, ‘Good thing we didn’t have to call the police when he had that fight with Dante, or they’d be here asking questions now. And maybe they’d find out that he and I go to Babler State Park all the time, and that wouldn’t look good.’”
I feel him nod. “Yes, that makes sense. But since it was drug dealers—”
I shake my head. “It wasn’t. I lied about that. There was no heroin at the scene.”
“Then—hold on—are you saying they don’t know who killed him?”
“They have a theory,” I whisper. “But it’s not who. It’s what.” I risk a quick glance at his face. He looks puzzled, a little alarmed, but not angry. “They think it was a wolf. Or some kind of wild animal.”
He gets it immediately. His whole body stiffens; his arm turns to iron across my back. But he doesn’t pull away from me. “And you wondered—”
Now I can’t speak fast enough. “At first they didn’t seem sure what kind of animal. Wolf? Dog? Mountain lion? And I couldn’t help thinking, ‘What if it was more than one kind of animal? What if it was something that shifted back and forth between shapes?’”
“It doesn’t work that way,” he says in a muffled voice.
I can’t read his tone, but I stumble on. “And then. At the crime scene. They found human footprints, right there, like someone was watching or someone arrived practically the minute Ritchie was killed—”
“Or a shape-shifter committed the murder,” he says in an even voice.
“And I didn’t think it could be you. Not you, not human you. But I thought maybe—when you’re in animal form—you see the world differently, wilder instincts kick in and I—Dante, I’m so sorry, I never wanted to tell you this. I never wanted you to believe that for one moment I doubted you—”
He lifts the hand that was holding mine and places it against my cheek, his fingers hooking behind my ear. He pulls me close enough that our foreheads touch. “And even thinking I might be a murderer, you wanted to be with me? You wanted to meet me here? You wanted me to stay out of St. Louis so that I would be safe?”
My eyes are filling with tears again, the big quiet kind that just keep forming and spilling over. “Yes,” I whisper. “I will protect you with my life, no matter what you do.”
He kisses me softly on the mouth. “I don’t think much of your moral
I free my hands from the blanket so I can wrap my arms around him. His skin is smooth against my palms. “I love you,” I say. “That changes the shape of everything else.”
“You love me more than I deserve,” he whispers back, “and I can’t even tell you how much that means to me.”
He closes his eyes and we rest that way for a moment. I feel hollowed out, riven, as if I have just survived a brush with death or surfaced after too long under water. My breath makes a thready sound when I inhale.
“So what changed?” he asks, and opens his eyes again. “This morning. What upset you?”
I probably shouldn’t be lying to him quite so soon after this gut-wrenching confession, but I don’t want him to know that I have told Ellen his secret. So I offer a partial truth. “Ellen texted to say there had been another murder this morning in Forest Park. Someone else killed by the same kind of animal. We’ve all been so obsessed with this case that we can’t talk about anything else, and she knew I was out of town and probably wouldn’t see the news. And I realized—you couldn’t have been in Forest Park this morning. You couldn’t have done it. And that means you didn’t do any of the killings.”
He pulls away so suddenly my head snaps back. “Any of them?” he asks sharply. “How many have there been?”
Suddenly I feel nervous. I don’t think he’s mad at me, but something has clearly upset him. “With this murder, there have been four. Well, five, because two people died at one scene.”
“And they were all at Babler? Or Forest Park?”
“No,” I say uneasily. “One was out near Rolla.”
Now he looks thunderous, and then sick. “Dear God,” he says, and drops his head in his palms.
My hands flutter around his ears, pick at his shoulders, his covered face, like little birds seeking a way past a closed door. “What? Dante, what? Do you think—who do you think—”
He lifts his head and then sags back against the couch. His face looks lined, weary, limned with darkness. He endured with equanimity the news that his lover believed him capable of murder; what thought could turn him so grim, so miserable? “William,” he says.