The Turning Season Read online

  Where’s Celeste?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Despite Joe’s command, I step closer to the alley, trying to figure out what’s happened. For a moment, I can hear their voices—Joe’s low, authoritative, and soothing; the other guy’s angry and steadily rising—but I can’t make out their words. Then the handsome stranger makes a wild gesture with one hand, and I see the bloody track marks on his face.

  Holy mother of God.

  At that exact moment, the audio station in my head tunes in to his frequency and I can understand every word he says. “I’m telling you, asshole, she turned into a lion. We were making out, and she—she wasn’t a person anymore, she was a lion, like a mountain lion. She scratched my face! She—crap, how can something like that happen? She, like, she—she wasn’t human! She was this—she was like this animal—”

  Oh my God oh my God oh my God.

  I’m not the only one inching nearer to the confrontation. All around me, smokers and romantic couples are drifting over, trying to get close enough to hear, their faces reflecting fascination and amusement. Joe’s voice sounds again, still untroubled, soothing.

  “I’m sure that was quite a shock. You look like you’ve been injured, maybe we—”

  “Fuck yeah I’m injured! She tried to claw my eyes out!”

  “So maybe we should get those injuries looked at, Bobby. I’m just sayin’.”

  Bobby. So either Joe knew the guy’s name before or he was able to extract it a few seconds into the encounter and is using it now as a way to keep the man calm. Either way, I’m impressed.

  But the tactic isn’t working on Bobby, whose voice gets angrier. “What you should be doing is looking for a crazy woman who turned into a lion right here in the middle of the city!”

  That’s sort of what I’m doing. I’ve gotten to the edge of the alley by now and I’m squinting at the pile of shadows behind Arabesque, behind the nearby buildings, looking for the chatoyant glint of cat’s eyes staring back at me. I don’t really expect Celeste to have stuck around this long, but I’m not sure where she could have gotten to safely in the minute or so that’s passed. I’m as worried about that as I am about what the hell she’s just done.

  She changed shapes? In the arms of a stranger? Okay, sure, I’m not surprised he got fresh and he might even have gotten rough and maybe she panicked, but she changed shapes? It’s axiomatic that shape-shifters don’t tell ordinary people who and what they are unless they have absolutely zero choice or they have absolutely perfect confidence. So much is at stake—not just their own lives, their own secrets, but the lives and secrets of the entire community of shifters who have existed for thousands of years beside their human brethren, unknown and unsuspected. She has jeopardized everyone.

  She really must have been afraid of him.

  In my scrutiny of the alley’s likely hiding places, I must have missed a couple exchanges, because now I hear Joe’s voice raised a little louder in response to something Bobby just said. “I said, we’ll look into it. But I can smell the booze on your breath and—”

  Bobby shoves Joe hard in the chest. “I am not drunk, motherfucker! That woman, she—” He is clearly tired of repeating himself, so he makes his point by throwing another punch.

  Joe moves fast, catching Bobby’s arm and twisting it behind Bobby’s back, so the guy howls in pain again. But there’s a lot of fight left in him, drunk and mad as he is, and he lurches around, trying to shake Joe off, trying to kick him. I hear someone in the crowd yell, “Call the cops!” and there’s a general movement of people, some running back inside, some pattering closer, ready to help or interfere.

  I sink deeper in the shadows, waiting for it all to get sorted out. It’s only a few minutes before Bobby is more or less subdued and a small crowd, mostly male, accompanies Joe as he marches his captive to the front of the building and back inside. Seconds later, a police car arrives, complete with sirens and flashing lights, and I see a couple of uniformed men get out of the car and head for the door of Arabesque.

  I slip into the alley and start looking around. By now my eyes have more or less adjusted to the dark, which is only faintly broken by a string of old white Christmas lights hung above Arabesque’s back door. I’m not watching for Celeste anymore; now I’m searching for her clothes. When shape-shifters transition from human to animal form, their accessories don’t transition with them. If they make the transformation before they have time to disrobe, they leave behind little piles of jeans and skirts and underwear. If they change into something much bigger than their human selves, they leave behind ripped piles of clothing.

  I’m guessing Bobby was so unnerved by the appearance of the bobcat he didn’t even notice that Celeste’s clothes were littering the ground—a little supporting evidence that his story might be true. It doesn’t take me long to find the items she’s discarded. I pocket the gold necklace and the navel ring, because I know these are among her favorites, but I stuff the tight jeans and the strappy top and the feathered headpiece into the nearest Dumpster. I can’t exactly carry them back into the bar with me but I prefer that they aren’t found by anyone making a casual survey of the alley.

  I look around some more but don’t see anything else I should take care of.

  The next trick will be finding Celeste. In her alternate state, she can make her way back to her apartment easily—well, in the sense that the journey won’t be too taxing physically. But a bobcat on the loose in the streets of Quinville might find the trek dangerous. There are a lot of streets to cross and plenty of places where the ground cover is thin. Bobby isn’t the only loud, stubborn drunk she might encounter on the way.

  She could turn human again at will, of course. Celeste is blessed in that regard. But I’m not sure how much safer a beautiful naked woman would be, trying to cross Quinville at night.

  Time to gather my highly questionable reinforcements.

  * * *

  I step briskly out of the alley, around the building, and back into the bar, which, after the dimness outside, suddenly seems too bright. It’s also a scene of chaos. The band has stopped playing, though the musicians are clustered together on the stage, looking uncertain. Groups of customers have gathered around tables and in corners, huddled together as if for warmth. Most people are drinking something. Many of them, primarily the women, keep glancing over their shoulders as if they’re afraid something is stalking up from behind. Joe and the two cops are making dark, burly shapes around the table where Bobby, his brother, and his sister-in-law are seated. Bobby’s still mad; I can see his mouth working fast and his arms gesticulating wildly. In the bar’s smoky light I can also see the four slim lines of blood across his cheek.

  No doubt someone has said something like, “She sure cut you up good, dawg, but those are just the fingernail scratches from an ordinary girl.” Because who could possibly believe anything else? But to me, they look like claw marks, thin and nasty.

  I make my way to the table where Ryan, Rain, and the other blondes are standing, as uncertain and unnerved as everyone else. “There you are,” Rain says in exaggerated relief as she sees me. “What is going on? Do you have any idea?”

  The only person in this whole room who can provide me any assistance is Ryan, so for the first time in months, I actually think I could find shelter by burrowing into his embrace. I don’t do it, of course, but I do meet his eyes and we trade a look. He knows exactly what has happened and, like me, will do everything in his power to help Celeste escape this night unscathed.

  I make my voice puzzled and a little alarmed. “No! I went out for a walk and when I got back the cops were here and people were acting all crazy. What happened? Where’s Celeste?”

  Rain’s eyes are huge. “She started dancing with that cute guy, that Bobby?” She doesn’t quite point, but her vague gesture indicates the table where the cops and the troublemaker are still arguing. “And when the music st
opped, they went outside, you know? To talk? And suddenly he starts screaming and saying she turned into a lion and scratched his face up? I mean, what’s that about?”

  “And now the cops are here and they want people to stick around if they have any information, but I don’t know anything,” says one of the other blondes. “I just want to go home.” Belatedly she adds, “I’m worried about Celeste, though. I mean, of course.”

  “Of course,” I echo. “So what do you think happened?”

  Ryan speaks up. “He probably tried to cop a feel and Celeste didn’t like it and she scratched his face up.” He shakes his head admiringly. “She’s done it before. The girl knows how to take care of herself.”

  Ah. That’s the tack we’re going to take. I say, “Oh man. I remember that one time. Where were we—down on Washington Avenue in St. Louis, right?”

  “That’s right,” Ryan confirms.

  “And this guy had been bugging her all night. And finally she agreed to dance with him, and then she kneed him right in the balls. On the dance floor. I mean, hard. He fell down and was writhing around like a baby.”

  “They called the cops then, too,” Ryan says in a reminiscing tone.

  “Bobby’s face looks pretty bad,” one of the blondes says in a nervous voice.

  “Well, I guess he was pretty violent with her,” I respond. “Celeste doesn’t take much shit.”

  “So are you going to stay and talk to the police?” Rain asks me. “I mean, I want to do the right thing, but I didn’t see anything. I don’t know anything. I don’t even know if she’s ever met Bobby before in her life.”

  “Sure, we’ll stay,” Ryan says. “You guys go home. We’ll take care of this.”

  Rain turns to her fellow beauty queens. “Or, you know, we could head on over to Black Market. I think they’re still open for another couple of hours.”

  “Oh, hey, yeah,” one of them answers. “My car’s right over there, too.”

  “Great!” Rain answers. She gathers up her purse, then says to me, “Tell Celeste we’re worried about her and she should let us know as soon as she’s home.” Then she flashes a white smile at Ryan. “Call me,” she tells him.

  She follows the other girls out the door. The place has largely emptied out in the past five minutes, and now it’s maybe one-quarter full. I see the musicians on stage packing up their instruments. Nothing like a little mayhem to kill the mood.

  I smirk over at Ryan. “Call me,” I simper.

  He grins. “Women love me.”

  “She’s so not your type.”

  “I don’t have a type. I like everyone.”

  It’s not worth trying to find an answer to that, and anyway, Joe and one of the cops are headed our way. Someone must have pointed us out as the people who were hanging out with Celeste before the evening deteriorated.

  I recognize the cop, and I want to start swearing. He’s actually the sheriff of Quinville, a transplanted Southerner with a soft voice and sharp mind. Every time I’ve had a conversation with him I’ve felt guilty and nervous, like a schoolgirl trying to hide a misdeed from the principal. He and Janet were friends, sort of—she would come into town specifically to make house calls on his three German shepherds. She always said it was a good idea to do favors for powerful people, but I’ve found it impossible to take over that responsibility. I keep expecting him to ask to see my vet’s license or my school diploma; I keep expecting him to expose me as a fraud.

  Though that is not my primary concern right now.

  “Good evening, Miss Karadel,” he greets me in a pecan-pie drawl that from anyone else I would find seductive. He’s good-looking in a beefy sort of way—maybe six feet tall, solidly built, with deep blue eyes looking out from a tanned and strongly molded face. His closely cropped black hair is starting to gray at the temples, and he looks like he’s about forty, but Janet always said he was younger than he seemed. It’s the kind of job that ages you, she had observed.

  “Hey, there, Sheriff,” I reply.

  He pulls over one of the empty stools and half sits on it—like Joe, I think, attempting to seem less intimidating. Joe ranges behind him, but I keep my focus on the man right in front of me. “Kind of got a weird thing going on tonight,” he observes, squinching his face up to indicate it’s all just a little outside his normal purview.

  “I’m not even sure exactly what’s happened,” I say.

  But he’s looking over at Ryan. “Don’t think I know you, son. I’m Malcolm Wilkerson.”

  “Ryan Barnes. Sir.”

  Wilkerson spreads his hands. “So here’s the situation. That young man over there—Bobby Foucault—he apparently met a young lady here tonight. Woman named Celeste Saint-Simon. People here say she’s a friend of yours?”

  “That’s right,” I reply. “I came with her tonight. Ryan joined us later.”

  “Ahuh. Well, Bobby took Celeste out to the back alley to get friendly, only he got too friendly and she didn’t like it. She scratched his face and ran off.”

  “Sounds like Celeste,” Ryan says.

  “Here’s the weird part. He says she turned into some kind of wild cat before she scratched him. She was a woman—and then she was a mountain lion. Or something.” He looks between us with his blue eyes at their widest. His voice is dripping with Southern honey when he says, “You ever hear of such a thing before?”

  Ryan opens and shuts his mouth, then looks at me. His expression says, How can I tell the sheriff he’s talking like a lunatic? “No, sir,” he says cautiously.

  “This Celeste Saint-Simon never—never went through any kind of permutations like that when you could see her?”

  Ryan looks at me again, so this time I answer. “No. Does he really think—do you really think—I mean—what? She changed into an animal? That’s what he’s saying?”

  “Ahuh,” the sheriff drawls again. “I have to admit, those scratches on his face look a little—different—than what I’ve seen in domestic disputes in the past. She clawed him in the chest, too. Got him real good. And those wounds don’t look like your average fingernail marks, either.”

  For a moment I cast around for explanations that might sound logical. Maybe Celeste has been filing her nails to super sharp points. She thinks it’s fashionable. Or maybe She’s been carrying a can of mace and this knuckle bar that looks like cat’s claws. She says you can never be too careful when you meet people at a bar. But I don’t have the energy to maintain the lies. Let Celeste figure out what to tell the cops if they decide to follow up.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, sir,” is all I come up with.

  He nods and devises his own plausible alternative. “Maybe she had car keys or something in her hand, and she used those as a weapon. Because—mountain lion? Unless I can get a witness or some corroborating testimony, it’s just not credible. I think I’m going to have to write him off as a drunk.”

  Ryan and I both nod, but prudently remain silent.

  “So now the question is, where is this Celeste Saint-Simon?” the sheriff asks. “She hasn’t come back inside, and the manager tells me there’s no one out in the alley. I’m a little worried about the young woman’s safety.”

  Oh, crap. I hadn’t expected that. “Maybe she just went home,” I say.

  He nods. “Could be, and we want to send a squad car out there to check on her. But if she’s not there we might need to start looking a little harder.” He jerks his head back to indicate where the other officer is still standing guard over Bobby Foucault. “Don’t want to let him go home until we’re sure no one’s been seriously hurt.”

  Worse and worse. Now we not only have to find Celeste, we have to get her back to her apartment in human shape, clearly safe and unharmed. “That makes sense,” Ryan says, sounding deeply appreciative though I’m sure he’s just as alarmed as I am. “Thank you.”

  “You
happen to know her address offhand?” Sheriff Wilkerson asks.

  It seems pointless to stall, so I reel it off. He doesn’t write it down, so either he has an excellent memory or he already knew it and was just testing me to see if I’d tell him the truth. Why would he do that? I have no idea. But that’s how Wilkerson always makes me feel.

  “All right. We’ll go look for her.” He reaches into a breast pocket of his khaki uniform, pulls out a couple of business cards, and hands one to each of us. “Meanwhile, if you happen to find her before we do, tell her to give us a call or come down to the station, in case she wants to give us a statement.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll do that,” Ryan says.

  We all stand up, we all shake hands, and I settle my purse on my shoulder. Is this it? Can we go? Ryan nudges me with his foot and nods down at the floor, where I see Celeste’s shiny silver handbag nestled against the base of the table. I think quickly but see no reason I can’t admit it’s Celeste’s and take it with me, telling anyone who asks that I’ll return it as soon as I see her. The sheriff turns away to say something to Joe, and I bend over to retrieve the purse. When I straighten up, I find Wilkerson has turned back to me with a smile.

  “I forgot to ask you,” he says. “You heard from Miss Janet lately? I sure do miss her.”

  I smile brightly in return. As part of maintaining the fiction that Janet is still alive, I frequently field such questions from her former clients. I’m constantly inventing news about her travels, phone calls, and occasional visits. “I got an e-mail from her this morning. She’s doing great.”

  “She going to be back in town anytime soon?”

  “Maybe. I didn’t ask.”

  “Well, you tell her to come on by my place and say hi next time she’s here. My dogs miss her even more than I do.”

  “I’ll tell her you said that! How are they doing—I know she’ll ask me.”