Shapeshifter Prt 1

Shapeshifter Pt 1

Before I even read past the first paragraph, I knew that I was going to hate the story. It was the same tale I’d read dozens of times: the ultra-feminine male vampire was going to have sex with guys his own species, then turn his attention to a female human, have hot sex with her, turn her/turn back into a human, and live happily ever after. It made me sick.

I couldn’t give my real opinion to the woman seated across from me. She wrote it, after all, and probably believed that the only good vampire was one dressed in black lace and had a Poppy Z. Brite complex. Not that Ms. Brite wasn’t a good author; I thought her stories were great for the morbidly possessed mass, but she was always imitated poorly. It wasn’t her style of writing or even her “humans aren’t the strong ones here” attitude—it was all the androgynous malarkey she packed into her stories.

Now, before you criticize me for my own thoughts, let me first explain that I have met vampires before. They aren’t the literary types you find in popular stories. They aren’t all bisexual, dress in black lace, and fuck anything they can get their hands on. Even if their dead bodies allowed them to have sex, they have all the libido of a rock. The “living vampires” who aren’t dead (read: have a heartbeat) lead ordinary lives. They have to—they have mortgages, families, jobs, bills…

I hated editing vampire fiction. Maybe I’m biased because I’m a female shapeshifter, but on the list of “Things I Don’t Want to Read”, vampire fiction is at the top. If you constantly read about ‘suckers in a slanted, sickly romantic view, you’d hate it, too. Shapeshifter fiction is nearly bad in romance novels, but novels in other genres tend to just label us monsters. Who were the monsters: the creatures who simply tried to survive, or the humans who slaughtered others simply because they exist?

Working as help in an editor’s office wasn’t my idea. My father’s old friend, Bethany North, owned fifty percent of the office building and was a little behind with some short stories she’d been editing for a book. She heard that my mother was ill and I’d wanted to be an editor in high school, so she offered me a part-time job with full-time pay. It sounded perfect.

Only it wasn’t perfect, because I had to work on the mediocre stories that I hated so much. At first, I assumed that the book she was working on was supposed to be a book on crappy vampire fiction, but I soon learned that what I looked over were the stories Bethany herself couldn’t stomach.

“Something wrong?” the authoress asked, leaning forward in her cushy chair.

“No,” I answered, laying the stack of papers on my desk. “I just don’t think I could edit properly right now.”

I gave the woman my brightest smile, the kind I reserved to out shadow the fact that it didn’t reach my eyes. I looked her over quickly again, surprised that I hadn’t recognized her as Brite fan before. She was fairly reserved, dressed in a chunky-cut short dress with a red scarf tied around her waist like a pirate; her hair (I finally noticed) was dyed black with dark brown highlights, her nails lacquered in a red that matched her scarf. The writer stared at me with brown eyes so dark, they appeared black.

“Oh,” she said, and I didn’t have to see her eyes to know she didn’t believe me.

“I can read it over the weekend and give you my thoughts on Monday,” I responded quickly. “I do my best editing at home, and I really want to devote…proper attention to your work.”

“Oh,” she said again, eyes brightening and her mouth drawing into a shy grin. “That would be lovely.”

My stomach gurgled in hunger, but I ignored it—business first. “I have your number, Ms. Stone,” I said, standing up and reaching out to shake her hand. “I’ll call you to let you know when you can pick up your story.”

She gripped my hand softly. It was like shaking hands with a rag. “Good day, Ms. Stone,” I said, releasing her hand and nodding.

“Thank you,” she responded and left, shutting the door behind her.

I dropped my friendly smile and grunted. One down, I thought, one to go.

I thought about locking my door, hoisting up my chair, smashing into the window, and escaping to the outside world, but I had bills. My mother’s failing health kept her in and out of hospitals. She hated me for being born, but hey, she was my mother. It wasn’t her fault she married a man with a secret.

I could, however, blame her for dropping me off at school one day and not coming back. It had been the day after my mother discovered that my father wasn’t human. At first, Dad thought Mother was all right, since she seemed to take the discovery in stride. It was only after my fourth grade teacher called and told him Mother was supposed to pick me up two hours before that he knew something was wrong.

Dad found her a few days later at her sister’s house. Mother swore he was a demon and I was his evil progeny. Dad tried to calm her down and explain, but Mother had never been an open-minded person. They divorced soon after, and Mother disappeared for many years. I hadn’t had contact with her until recently, when she told me she was flat broke and ready to croak. She tried to hide the fact that she hated me, but I could hear it creep into her voice, even over the phone.

Dad and my stepmother, Trisha, told me to drop her like a hot potato, but a small voice of conscience wouldn’t let me. I thought I could convince my mother that I wasn’t evil, but only too late did I realize she would never be mother and child ever again: we’d only be two people who could only barely tolerate each other. I was paying doctors to keep her alive—a woman who would always hate me, no matter what our connection to each other.

I glanced down at my nails. I used to get my nails done every month. They’d ruin after I shapeshifted and I’d have to go get them done again, but it was a symbol of my financial freedom. It was the first time in my life that I could afford to splurge on something like my nails and I reveled in it. I couldn’t afford them now, what with gas prices, mother’s bills, and my caffeine and cigarette habits. “It’s for the best,” I told myself, promising to get my nails done once a week once mother died.

Someone knocked and I quickly dropped my hands down and stared at the offending door. I knew who it was even before he came in. “I’m here, Jon,” I called. “Just come in.”

Jon Rutgers, co-owner of the entire office building, was already halfway in by the time I finished talking.

When I first met Jon, the first thought that popped into my head wasused car salesman. His clothes consisted mainly of cheap suits with expensive leather shoes that appeared to vomit strong, cheap cologne daily. He slathered his hair into submission with “wet-look” hair gel that made his hair look greasy but couldn’t cover up the dandruff he accumulated like furniture that grabs dust. Jon was thin to the point of emaciation, which only made his hawk-like nose stick out further. He could have been a handsome man if only took care of himself.

His repugnant appearance wasn’t the only reason I loathed him with a passion. Before I had started work at the office, I loved to go to bars and drink. Jon happened to be at one of the bars one night and we had a one-night stand…only now I had to see him every day and he was more than happy to remind me of “our” night. Unfortunately, my business outfits (skirts, blouses and pumps) happened to be his biggest turn-ons. Actually, I didn’t know of anything that didn’t turn him on.

As he stepped in and closed the door behind him, he looked me over with an approving eye. I sighed and tried not to flop down as I lowered myself back into the seat. I crossed my arms and rested my feet on the desk, my legs crossed, hoping if I flashed leg he’d leave sooner.

“What’s up?” I asked, tired of the conversion before it even began.

Jon’s gaze lingered on my feet before slithering to my face. “Your next client canceled.”

I grinned in true happiness. It was the best news I’d had all day--I could leave early. Jon cleared his throat and my smile slid off my face as he admired my dark blue pumps. “Someone scheduled an appointment with you just now,” he said, putting his hands on my desk and leaning closer to my feet. “Said it was urgent.”

“Tell them it will have to wait until Monday,” I countered. “Tell them I just left.”

Jon shook his head, his right hand reaching out to stroke the top of my feet that met my shoes. I suddenly regretted propping my feet up. Jon had a foot fetish. “I can’t do that,” he mumbled, casting a quick glance my way. “Maybe…if I had some incentive…”

“You’re a creepy pervert,” I said, moving my feet off the desk. “Send him in.”

Jon stood up, spine straight, and shrugged. “Your loss,” he said. “Maybe if you worked under me…” The lecher grinned.

“I’d still tell you to get bent,” I replied, resisting the urge to grab a tissue and wipe off my feet. “I wouldn’t do anything with you ever again, even if you’d hand the entire office building over to me.”

He shrugged again and walked to my door. He opened it and gestured to someone just outside. Jon himself left, shouldering past a small woman with large eyes. At first glance, she seemed like a small girl, but her face was far too wrinkled and her eyes too wise to belong to a child. She was dressed in a violet business suit, which I knew had to have been tailor made to fit her small frame. The miniature woman shut the door behind her and then stood behind the chair before my desk.

“I’m Shauna Brooks,” she said, standing like a guard at the door. “Are you Nora?”

I straightened a bit and gestured her forward. “Please take a seat, Ms. Brooks.”

The small, almost dainty woman come over and sat down in the only other chair available in the entire office. She tucked her skirt in behind her as she sat down, and I was suddenly overwhelmed by how much she resembled a small doll. She pursed her lips together, and it surprised me when I realized her violet lips were real and not lipstick. She wore no makeup, I noticed, and I was willing to bet that the glitter-like substance that covered her face was part of her natural glamour. When a pixie came to a shapeshifter, there was trouble.

“It’s my son,” she began without preamble. “I think the vampires took him.”