Were- Page 2

  “If that’s a kitten, I’m the Queen of Denmark,” he muttered, staring at the cat. The cat stared back with unnervingly pumpkin-colored eyes and licked its lips, like it was considering what a private investigator casserole would taste like.

  “I assure you, that’s a kitten, Your Majesty,” said a friendly voice.

  Michael looked away from the cat to find himself facing a tall, slender man cast in varying shades of brown, from tawny skin to chestnut hair, with eyes that were somewhere in the middle. He swallowed, hoping the action would be enough to keep him from flushing. It wasn’t fair how people were allowed to wander around being so damned attractive all the time.

  “It’s enormous,” said Michael.

  “Yes, she is,” said the man. He cast a fond look at the cage. The kitten, in turn, looked up at him and made an odd chirping noise. “This is Unto the Maine’s Sweet Lady May. She’s on the track to place this show, which would be lovely for both of us. I assume you’re here because you want to see Shelly?”

  It took Michael a moment to remember that “Shelly” was the name of the cat he was supposedly here to spy on. He still didn’t know how a cat could cheat. He also, upon some minor reflection, didn’t know why this man was offering to show her to him.

  “How did you know?” he asked.

  The man grinned. “Because everyone is here to see Unto the Maine’s Lady of Shallot. I could come with just her, and she’d still have admirers dropping by every five minutes to ooh and aah over her. It’s giving her a swelled head, if you ask me, but what do I know? I’m just the human who changes her litterbox. I’m Nathaniel Harrison, by the way. I assume you have a name, apart from your royal title?”

  Michael blinked at him for a moment before he remembered his comment about being the Queen of Denmark. This time, he couldn’t keep his cheeks from turning red. “I mostly try to keep a low profile on the whole ‘royalty’ thing,” he said, as solemnly as he could. “You can call me Michael.”

  “Well, Michael, what’s your interest in the Maine Coon?”

  That wasn’t a question he’d been anticipating. Michael froze before blurting the first thing that came into his head: “They’re huge! I didn’t know domestic cats could be this big. It’s amazing.”

  “Ah. ‘Huge’ and ‘amazing’ are both accurate descriptors for the Maine Coon or, as some more old-school aficionados call it, ‘that Yankee cat.’ Come with me.” Nathaniel stepped back, fading into the stall and leaving Michael with little choice but to follow him.

  Unto the Maine had one of the simpler setups in this area: it was just Nathaniel, a single chair behind a low table, and the cats. Three kittens, three adults. The adults were big enough to make the kittens seem like they were actually to scale. The adults...

  Michael had been more right than he knew when he’d looked at Sweet Lady May and declared Maine Coons to be huge. The adults were at least four times her size, still proportionate to themselves; they looked more like longhaired bobcats with raccoon tails than domestic cats.

  “May I introduce my pride and joy, Unto the Maine’s Lady of Shallot.” Nathaniel gestured grandly toward the largest cat, a smoky gray tabby with hints of orange. “I’m afraid I can’t ask if you’d like to hold her, for health reasons—hers, not yours, although she might scratch you if you’re as bad at holding cats as you look—but I can answer any questions you have, and I’m happy to brush her if you want to see whether her color comes off.”

  Michael blinked. Nathaniel smirked.

  “Oh, come now. I appreciate that the Sanfords have at least gone outside the cat show community for their latest spy, but you couldn’t be more out of place if you were carrying a large sign that read ‘I have been hired to poke my nose into your business, please show me your secrets.’ We have nothing to hide. Shelly is exactly as she appears. I can’t blame you for taking a job—one assumes you need to make a living like everyone else—and you haven’t done anything truly offensive as yet. That doesn’t mean you won’t.”

  Michael’s cheeks flushed red again, this time with mortification. “I’d try to tell you that they have honest concerns, but really, I can’t,” he said. “They just sounded like sore losers to me. Sore losers who’d been referred to me by a good client, which means I have to at least pretend to take them seriously. Like you say, I need to make a living like everyone else.”

  Unto the Maine’s Lady of Shallot made a squeaking noise that wasn’t quite a meow and wasn’t quite a warble. Michael stared at her.

  “I think your cat is malfunctioning.”

  “No, that’s what a Maine Coon is meant to sound like,” said Nathaniel. “Look. I have to get Sweet Lady May to judging, and Shelly is up this afternoon. I don’t mind your spying on us as much as I probably should, but I don’t have time for it right now. How do you feel about coming by the house early next week? We can show you around the property, and you can make up your mind for yourself?”

  Michael thought about it for less than thirty seconds. “Absolutely,” he said. “Just give me the address.”

  Nathaniel smiled.

  * * *

  The Harrisons lived almost an hour’s drive outside of city limits. Michael drove down a series of increasingly rural roads with the windows of his car rolled all the way down, breathing in the scent of green growing things and unprocessed air. People who’d seen his office tended to assume that he didn’t care for sunlight. The reality was that he didn’t like city sunlight. It was too sterile, too…stale after being filtered through windows and crammed into the spaces between buildings. He’d rather sit in the dark than stand in city sun. But this, this was sun the way it was meant to be, clean and unfettered and falling on the grassy fields to either side without anything to slow it down.

  The urge to pull over, climb over a fence, and run was remarkably strong. Michael forced himself to keep on going. Running around in other people’s fields was a good way to get arrested, and not a good way to do his job.

  Maybe later. On the way home.

  The Harrisons lived in a converted farmhouse surrounded by a perfectly cliché white picket fence. There was what looked like a barn out back, and several large dogs playing in the field, which had an equally traditional, if less suburban cattle fence around it. Michael parked behind the single car that was in the driveway, wiping his hands nervously against his jeans, and went to ring the doorbell.

  The door opened. A woman with ashy blonde hair smiled at him through the screen, saying, “You must be Michael. Nathaniel told me you’d be dropping by today. Please, come in.” She opened the screen door. “I hope you don’t mind dogs.”

  “No, ma’am, although sometimes they mind me.” Michael stepped into the front room. It was as traditional as the yard: floral couch, bookshelves, television neatly tucked away in an antique wood cabinet. It looked almost fake, like it had been copied out of a magazine. Only the battered cat tree in one corner made it feel like a real place. There was a cat curled there, massive and orange and fluffy.

  Ms. Harrison’s eyes narrowed. “Dogs don’t like you?”

  “Some do. I guess I’ve just been around a lot of, you know.” He gestured helplessly with his hands. “Small dogs. They get skittish when there are new people around.”

  “Oh.” She smiled, looking relieved. “Small dogs aren’t going to be an issue here. I’m Thea. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Why don’t you come with?” She turned and walked out of the room, heading down a short hall to the kitchen. Michael followed.

  The impression that the front room wasn’t real was just reinforced by the kitchen, which was so real that it could have made anything seem artificial. There was a large dining table, piled high with paperwork and with cats; Michael could see three of them sleeping among the paperwork, including Sweet Lady May, who was sprawled on her back with her belly exposed to the ceiling. A pair of braided rag rugs blunted the hardwood floor, and the appliances, while all reasonably modern, were clearly well-used.

  There was also
a dog, a Great Dane the size of a small pony, with dark brown fur, sleeping in the middle of the larger of the two rugs. Fiona stopped, giving it a fondly exasperated look.

  “May I introduce Unto the Maine’s Sketchy Character—we call him ‘Stretch.’ I’m assuming that when the Sanfords hired you, they mentioned that we also show dogs?”

  Michael nodded.

  “I mostly handle preparing and showing the Great Danes. Stretch here has taken three Grand Championships, and he’s gearing up for a fourth. Great Danes are relatively mellow dogs, which makes them a good match for Maine Coon cats. They just get on with things. Unlike the Sanfords, who essentially embody the concept of the little yappy dog. They’d bite the ankles of the universe if they thought it would get them something.”

  “I don’t have any trouble picturing that, ma’am,” said Michael. He crouched down, looking at the Great Dane. “You don’t do anything by halves, do you? Giant cats, giant dogs. It’s all big around here.”

  “We enjoy sturdy things.”

  Michael looked at the dog for a few more seconds, taking in the shape of its bones, the angles of its long face. Then he whistled softly. The dog opened its eyes.

  “Huh,” said Michael. He stood, turning back to Fiona. “Where’s Mr. Harrison, ma’am?”

  “He couldn’t be here today.”

  “So he’s out?”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

  “No, ma’am, it isn’t, quite. I was just wondering, you see, if he messed up his count when he asked if I wanted to come for a visit. I’m guessing he’s a quarter-moon type of guy, since I assume he’d be on two legs right now if he could.”

  Fiona blinked. There was a low growl from behind him. The dog was up, then. Good: this was always easier if everyone heard it at the same time.

  “I wasn’t sure,” he said apologetically. “I mean, it seemed odd that you would show both cats and dogs, but I don’t know much about the show world. It could have been perfectly normal. So I did a little digging. You came out of nowhere, the pair of you, with the best cat and the best dog anyone had seen in years. No kitten or puppy pictures, though. It was like you’d just found them. No one’s ever seen a picture of the four of you, or of you with Lady of Shallot, or Nathaniel with Sketchy Character. You don’t breed them. You don’t appear with them. You missed a cat show last year when it fell on the quarter-moon. Do you not have a backup handler for when Nathaniel isn’t available?”

  Fiona said nothing. Her eyes blazed hatred. That was answer enough.

  There was a bump as Sketchy Character—Nathaniel’s—nose hit the back of Michael’s knees. Michael smiled a little. “I guess the logical thing here is for one of you to bite me. Can’t give you away if I’m one of you. There’s just one problem.”

  “What’s that?” asked Fiona, through gritted teeth.

  “It won’t work.”

  “I assure you.” She smiled. There was nothing pleasant about it. “It will work just fine.”

  “No, it won’t.” He held up his hand. How he hated this part. Only going partway was like thinking about masturbating: frustrating and ultimately fruitless. But it was what had to happen next. He concentrated.

  The skin of his hand rippled, darkened, and began to spread, first fusing his fingers into a single mass, and then pulling back as his nails became thick and pink, expanding into a hoof. A few wispy strands of fur accompanied the change, but it stopped short of becoming true fur: if he let it go that far, he’d burst his clothes, and pants weren’t cheap.

  “You can’t infect another therianthrope, ma’am,” he said, still apologetic.

  Fiona stared. “You’re a horse,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “They…those fools hired a werehorse to figure out whether we were cheating. A werehorse. What are the odds?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am.” He shrugged. “There are four P.I.s working that beat, so I suppose one in four.” His hoof rippled, melting back into a hand. He grimaced. “Wow, that itches.”

  Fiona’s stare softened. “You poor thing,” she said. “You live in the city, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “When’s the last time you really got to run?”

  Michael blinked at her before slowly, shyly, beginning to smile.

  * * *

  Some people were surprised when Unto the Maine expanded to begin showing Friesian horses alongside the dogs and cats they already had. Others felt it was a good thing: that sort of overreach would inevitably result in their quality slipping and other people being able to snatch up the prizes that were rightfully theirs. No one was quite sure what the relationship was between the Harrisons and their new live-in trainer, Michael Collins, but the three were thick as thieves. Michael took over the cat shows, while Fiona continued to show the dogs, and Nathaniel showed the horses.

  No matter the phase of the moon, they never missed another competition. And if some people swore they’d seen a black Friesian racing around the Harrisons’ farm with a blue tabby Maine Coon clinging to its saddle and a brown Great Dane running at its heels, well, fresh country air can be intoxicating to those who aren’t accustomed to it.

  WE DIG

  Ashley McConnell

  They felt the rumble first, a rise and fall like an ocean wave carrying them up and then down again, as if earth had momentarily become sea. Men’s eyes looked up from their breakfast eggs and met their wives’, and then went back to their plates. Forks scraped up the last bits just a little more quickly, and the women went out for water without saying anything. It might, after all, have been a planned detonation.

  The church bells started tolling as the men were coming out of their homes, carrying their lunch boxes, kissing their wives goodbye. The sound froze them all in their tracks, as one and all they turned to look up at the hills around the town of Silverfield, seeking the column of smoke that had to be there.

  The bells did not stop. The men shook themselves, started for the square between the church and the town hall, while their women and children clung to the doorways or windowsills, staring at the smoke, brown and gray against the blue sky.

  A horseman came down the hill in a lathered gallop, shoving through the men, and the bells kept on tolling, tolling as they gathered, watching him spin the horse around, stand in his stirrups and wave frantically at the bell tower. It was not until all the men had gathered that the bells stopped.

  “Half a dozen, I think,” he gasped. “In the Tolliver. We need…diggers.”

  “What happened?” came a voice from the back of the crowd.

  The man shook his head and licked his lips, trying to find enough moisture and air to answer. “Bad blast,” was all he said.

  A mutter ran through the crowd: “Third time in six months!” Still, several men shouldered their way to the front, yelled for horses. Others did not wait, but started up the road, up the hill, toward the column of black smoke smeared against the blue sky.

  By the time they made it to the mine head, at least twenty Flickers had joined the group and gathered in the open space before it. A frame office building stood perpendicular to the abrupt slope of the hill; across from it a sorting warehouse was open to the winds, and in front of it a set of railroad tracks ran into the mine. The entrance to the Tolliver mine shaft itself was a large hole, a black, forbidding square perhaps twice the height of a tall man framed by rough, squared-off timbers. Dust still hung in the air before the opening.

  Next to the shaft was a tumble of huge rocks, waste from the excavation. On one of them, five men stood, arguing among themselves. Finally one of the foremen stood forth from the rest, his forehead creased, his face pale. “All right,” he said, raising his voice over the general mutters. “What do we have here? Diggers?”

  “Macaque!” one man said indignantly.

  “Pangolin,” Smetse—Smitty to his friends—Katangazu said, raising one hand.

  “Moles,” chorused half a dozen others, squinting against
the light.

  “Armadillo,” another called from the back of the crowd.

  “Fox!” someone yelped.

  “Where the hell did we find a pangolin?” the foreman muttered to himself. “Never mind. Where’s Tom Mitchell?”

  “Here.” Tom came up from the back of the crowd and elbowed his way through to the front. “What have you got, MacDougal? What happened here?” He was a relatively short man, grizzled hair at his temples, even though he was a young man, not yet twenty-five, with dark hair and dark, dark eyes, wide shoulders, powerful arms. He walked with his chin thrust forward, as if daring anyone to take a swing at him. His clothes were the same as the rest of the diggers’: worn jeans and short boots, stained cotton shirt. The crowd of diggers made way for him as if it was his right.

  MacDougal tugged on his suspenders—a nervous habit that had long since resulted in suspenders stretched out beyond any use for holding up his trousers, leaving them sagging on one side. “Blest if I know. Far as I can tell, some charges went off when they weren’t supposed to, and we had half a shift down there. We got six out, but there are six more, near as we can tell, behind the collapse. We need to dig them out, boys.”

  Another man, standing behind him, stepped forward. He was tall, red-haired, dressed noticeably better than the men he looked down on, in a clean, if dusty, coat with good trousers, and diamond links for his sleeves.

  “We’ve got to clear that tunnel,” he said. “I’m paying you men good money to get in there and get it done.”

  They stared at him. Gillings was a Still, one of those who didn’t change, had no second soul. He made no secret of the fact that he thought that made him superior to those who Flickered between one phase and the other. He was not well liked. He also owned the mine.