The Shapeshifter Chronicles Read online

  I didn’t look down.

  * * *

  Bobby Whey was, by all reports, a true company man who relished enforcing its policies more than most. In his off hours, he liked to strut through mid-level strip clubs, dive bars, and local eateries to throw his weight around. The bluster did nothing for his popularity, and it didn’t take much to get people to talk. Word had it he kept a room in one of the seedier no-tells for recreational purposes.

  All I had to do was sneak in and wait for him to arrive. When his key hit the lock, I slipped into a dark corner of the room. Before I confronted him I wanted to get a good look at the man.

  Bobby possessed bland good looks and had stuffed his thick gym muscle into a decent knock-off of the bespoke suits sported by the corporate elite. He plunked down a bottle of cheap vodka and two containers of takeout noodles on the dresser by the TV. A rivulet of orange grease flowed out from a small split in the white paperboard.

  I took one last moment to consider my options. It wasn’t too late to turn away. I remembered watching him on the video as he wielded his blade with zeal. He clearly enjoyed his work. It made my shift easy.

  Though I knew Glen’s body almost as well as Ma-too’s, I’d never worn his shape before. It felt right, having him there with me at that moment. “Hey, Bobby,” I said as I stepped out into the light.

  Bobby’s reflexes were good, and he didn’t hesitate to come at me.

  I reinforced my arm with steel and rapped it across the front of his neck, right at the top of his windpipe. He fell backwards and slammed to the floor. His breathing was labored and all he could manage were a few hoarse croaks. I was okay with that.

  I stepped on his chest, adding enough weight to pin him, and bent down to give him a good look at Glen’s face. “Recognize me?”

  All I got was a blank look chased by a touch of anger, so I opened up a few show wounds. It got his attention and drove the point home.

  Bobby’s eyes went wide. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t speak.

  I closed up my wounds. “Don’t bother trying to talk. Even if I hadn’t smashed your voice box, you’ve got nothing I want to hear.” I showed him my closed fist and shook it once. “The minute you entered my house your chances for survival were almost zero.”

  He struggled, and I pressed my foot down in answer. I leaned in until I heard a tiny snap. I shook my fist again. “The second you used your blade on my family, the game was on.” I held out my fist a third time.

  “Rock crushes scissors. You lose.”

  He whimpered.

  There are approximately two hundred and six bones in an adult human body. My work took a long time.

  * * *

  It took one text from Bobby’s phone to summon the second man on my list. The same phone revealed their usual meeting place—a parking garage on the edge of downtown. Using their technology against them put me in a good mood. The self-satisfaction didn’t last long.

  Juan Lawson wasn’t quite what I expected. Though it was clear he was a follower, the video had made him look powerful. He moved like a boxer, and he’d landed blows with confidence and elegant precision. I’d recognized his skill even as I hated him for it. I’d thought he was invested in the job.

  In person, he looked older and softer. His eyes held a weary sorrow and were framed by a fine net of wrinkles. His posture was bad and his gaze kept falling to his feet. The man’s body language radiated discomfort.

  I took a fortifying breath and shifted. Leo was shorter than his father, with finer bones and softer muscles. It took a moment to adjust to the distribution of his weight and the way his bones hung together. I cleared my throat and spoke. “We have business to settle, you and I.” Leo’s tenor came out of my throat and the sound was almost enough to break my heart once more.

  The blood drained out of Juan’s face and he staggered backward, shaking his head in denial. “It can’t be. Bobby killed you.”

  “True. But that’s just one part of the story.” I crossed my arms and widened my stance. “Don’t you worry about Bobby. Right now I’m more concerned with your part in our little play.”

  I knew Juan hadn’t done the killing. I also knew he wasn’t innocent. I figured that had earned him a quick death. I’d been prepared to grant that much mercy, but nothing more.

  The longer the man talked, the less certain I became.

  His confession flooded out, and I learned his tale wasn’t so far off from my own—except he hadn’t had any lawyers to protect him. He’d had to choose fast. Becoming a company man seemed a better option than either death or hard labor in prison.

  I began to soften.

  “Please,” he said, “let me show you something.” Juan tilted his chin toward his jacket. “It’s in my pocket.” He snuffled and blinked away tears.

  Against my better judgment I approached, fished out a wallet, and handed it over.

  The Velcro closure made a loud ripping sound as Juan tore it open. His blunt fingers were clumsy, and it took him three tries before he managed to pull out a worn photograph from the inner sleeve. He waved it at me. “Please.”

  A younger version of Juan stood by the side of a woman. His hand rested on her shoulder. Three girls stood in front of the couple, all gathered in close. The five of them were smiling. The littlest one was missing one of her front teeth. I sagged under a sudden wave of fatigue. “This is your family, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Maria, Susana, Gloria, and Kim. My girls. My heart.” He hung his head. “If someone had done what Bobby did to your family…” —he looked up and met my eyes— “What we both did to you. I expect I’d be where you are now. I’d be looking for justice.” He pointed to the photo. “Will you leave a sign to let them know? So they won’t have to keep wondering if I’ll ever come home?”

  Leo would have patted the man on the back to offer comfort. He might have bought him a coffee or a beer and offered a sympathetic ear.

  “Damn it.” I swiped away an angry tear. I held out my fist and shook it two times. I brought it up for a third and spread out my hand on the way down. “Paper covers rock.”

  Juan stared at me, mouth open.

  I handed him the photo. “It means you win.” I pointed to the city. “It means I’m going to let you go back to your family.”

  I held up a hand to hold off his reaction. I didn’t want his thanks. “I need to know a few things about who sent you.”

  * * *

  The Collections Department was headed by a Mr. Trent Sarbeth. He was two years older than Leo and had graduated from what would have been my son’s alma mater. Like Leo, he’d been a scholarship student. Unlike my boy, he’d transformed into a real go-getter, a perfect corporate shark. He’d risen through the ranks of the company with dizzying speed, and for good reason. Chicago’s EnviroSteak branch had shown a continuous rise in profits and performance percentages since he’d moved into the corner office last year. Rumor had it he’d be tapped for L.A. or New York in another two, tops.

  I’d read his work history with growing disgust. Every spreadsheet, memo, email, and file fed my rage and solidified my conviction. The man had paved his way to the top by tightening the screws on people like me—and like Juan. His résumé was bathed in blood.

  His final statement on our case sealed his fate. It read: “Given the family history and known association with creatives, coupled with the scholarship student’s demonstrated lack of concern for practical applications, it is my recommendation to immediately downgrade their status to Fully Expendable.”

  The phrase played in my head on a continuous loop as I waited for him to return to his luxury high-rise condominium. Fully Expendable. I wondered if Trent appreciated the view of Lake Michigan or if it was merely another status symbol—something for others to take in and envy.

  By the time the manager strutted in alone, a little after midnight, I no longer cared. His brogues tapped on the hardwood floors and my heartbeat synced up with his rhythm. I shifted when he got within ten feet of
where I stood.

  This time I welcomed the pain of fitting into Ma-too’s shape.

  “Who the fuck are you?” He glared at me without fear. His voice was rich with disdain. “I’m calling security.” Trent whipped out his phone.

  I uncoiled my arm, shooting it out fast as a cobra’s strike, and slapped the device away. “I’m the woman who lost a husband, a son, and a whole world because of you.”

  He stared at me and raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow. Shrugged.

  “Account 57869032-ZN.”

  Recognition lit up his face and he nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss.” The words were rote and free of even the barest hint of sincerity.

  My lip curled with disgust.

  “It was only business, you understand.” A sly smirk unfurled and his voice turned solicitous—sticky and sweet like high-fructose corn syrup. “I’m sure we can come to some kind of settlement. Maybe money?” He gestured at the room. “Or maybe, given your presence here, a job offer would be best. We could use your kind of skill. EnviroSteak is always looking for new talent.”

  I held out a fist and shook it.

  His smile faltered. “Look. We crunched the numbers. The earning potential of the scholarship recipient was so far below our initial prediction there was only one way to profit. We needed both the real estate and the emotional leverage.”

  I shook again and he paled.

  “Productivity in this region increased and we saw a drop in high-risk applicants as a result of the initiative.” He straightened his tie and his voice steadied. “You would have done the same thing if you were me.”

  On the third fall of my hand I revealed my choice. I spread out my middle and index fingers and snipped them back together.

  “Scissors cuts paper. You lose.”

  I sprung on him before he could cry out. All the hurt and rage and weight of loss drove me to obey my instinct and abandon rational thought. I latched on, held him, and squeezed.

  He struggled in my embrace, but I was too strong. I crushed him tighter and tighter, and when I bristled with needles they punctured his skin. From there I found the tiniest strands of his being. I read his unique chemical sequences and got to work, cutting and splicing and altering. I changed him.

  And then I left him there to rot.

  I was sure nobody would ever figure out where the nearly two hundred pounds of beef had come from, how it got there, or why it looked exactly like Mr. Sarbeth. They’d probably administer tests that would match it to EnviroSteak’s latest formula. They might wonder if it was part of some elaborate bit of corporate espionage. And if anyone would think to check, they might discover the meat was pure Grade-A Prime.

  * * *

  From space, the Earth is beautiful—all white and green and shining blue against the deepest black. It earns every gushing tribute. On the surface, its charms will seduce you if given half a chance. I know I fell hard.

  I thought I could manage the challenge and ended up losing most of my heart. I expect the warm memories will eventually return to find a place among the regrets, and because they’re mine to tend to, I’ll keep them all close. Until then, I’ll live with the pain. And I maintain that despite everything, I would take the risk again. I’d make most of the same choices too.

  The years I spent on Earth had yielded a wealth of data. I’d transmitted plenty of details about terrain, energy, defense, tech, and power structures. I learned about how humans think, act, and feel. I’d seen their best and worst. The -ologists would all get more than enough to satisfy their initial inquiries, so I wouldn’t say the mission was a failure on most fronts.

  I looked back at the planet that had been my resting place for so long and shifted into a good-bye. I moved from rock to paper to scissors and back again. It felt right.

  I wished I could predict what would happen upon my return to my homeworld, though I knew it was impossible to do so with any degree of confidence. There were too many variables, factions, and opinions to factor in.

  Maybe the Earth would benefit from some outside assistance—a guiding hand. Maybe it needed a hard reset. Or maybe it should be left alone for another hundred years or so.

  Perhaps it would never be able to handle change and should be counted as a loss.

  In any case, I knew the decision wouldn’t be left to a simple soldier like me. The big thinkers would always have the final say. But despite it all, I’d do my best for Earth. I owed Glen and Leo that much and more. I’d give my report, and if I’d earned the privilege, I’d offer my recommendation.

  I wasn’t going to count on it, however. I wasn’t even sure my people would still accept me as one of them, changed as I was. Even shifters have limits. Earth was most likely going to be on its own.

  I shrugged and set my course out to the stars.

  Sometimes the best anyone can do is take a chance and hope for a fair game.

  A Word from Wendy Hammer

  American Werewolf in London was one of those movies that made a big impression on me when I was a kid. Its famous transformation scene still gets to me. The agony of it reaches out from the screen, grabs you, and doesn’t let go.

  “Rock, Paper, Scissors” isn’t about werewolves, but it did start from thinking about pain. I got interested in flipping my preconceptions. What if change itself was the natural state for shapeshifters? And what would happen if staying in one form for too long caused pain?

  I wondered what would motivate a shifter to endure it. Love—as it so often is—seemed the best answer.

  The rest of the story ideas came together through all those weird little connections and serendipitous moments that make research and writing so much fun.

  I hope you enjoyed this story. If you want to read more of my writing, I have short pieces in various online publications. The first in a trilogy of urban fantasy novellas is also available. The rest are coming soon.

  More information is posted on my website (http://wendyhammer.com), Amazon, or Facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/wendyhammerwriter/). I can be found on Twitter as @Wendyhammer13.

  Thanks for reading!

  Waterborne

  by Anthea Sharp

  Connacht, Eire, 9th century

  BREA CAIRGEAD BENT over her father’s second-best fishing net, her fingers crusted with salt as she mended the coarse weave. A warm wind blew in from the sea, ruffling her long, dark hair and the thatched roofs of the cottages, and making her neighbor’s bright flowers sway.

  The sky overhead was a pale summer blue, the weather fair for a good catch. Heat reflected from the whitewashed wall behind Brea, and before her lay the harbor and an endless view of the broad back of the sea.

  Brea glanced at the waters, searching for a sign of her father’s boat, but there was nothing to see but the white tips of the waves. He would not return home until deep into the twilight hours.

  “The long days cannot be wasted,” he’d told her once, when she had complained of his absence. “Come winter there will be time enough to sit by the fire and tell tales—but if I do not work now, what will we have to eat when the darkness descends?”

  And so Brea had learned to bite her tongue and accept loneliness as her constant companion. The other children had always treated her warily, and as they grew into young men and women, paired off. No one came courting for Brea.

  Finally, two summers ago, she had discovered why.

  Brea shook her head, trying to dispel her melancholy mood. Sometimes she thought she should visit the sacred spring, located some distance from the village, and fasten a fluttering thread of a wish upon the hawthorn tree growing there—but she had no wishes to leave for the Fair Folk. All her hopes were kept imprisoned deep in her heart. Speaking them aloud, even tying a wish upon the tree’s branches, would only increase her sorrow sevenfold.

  I wish for a true love of my own. I wish I had sisters and brothers. And the biggest, most painful of them all: I wish I could remember my mother.

  Her father would not speak of B
rea’s mother. If Brea pressed him too closely, he would storm out of the small cottage and down the road to Biddy’s Pub, and not return until he was reeling drunk, the fumes of uisce beatha filling the room until Brea barely could draw breath.

  So, she had stopped asking.

  But two years ago, on a summer afternoon much like this one, something had possessed her to go over to her father’s bed and pull the mattress up. It was heavy, stuffed with straw and a thin top layer of goose feathers. She’d grunted as she heaved it up, bracing it against her shoulder.

  And found, lying against the thin slats of the bed frame, something altogether mysterious.

  It shimmered, opalescent, roughly the size of her hand. Brea snatched it up and let the mattress fall back onto the frame, then went to the window to examine her find.

  She might have thought it was a fish scale, but no fish she had ever seen would have a scale so large. It was flat and thin and roughly triangular. She held it up to her nose and sniffed, but it carried no odor. A quick taste yielded a faint salt flavor, but that might have been the sweat from her own hands.

  Brea turned the scale back and forth in the light, so caught up in its rainbow shimmer that she did not see her father arrive. One moment she was admiring the scale’s glimmer, the next it was yanked from her hand. She looked up in surprise to see a storm gathering in her father’s eyes.

  “Da,” she said, hoping for an answer before the squall broke. “What is it?”

  “Something best left alone,” he said.

  He stalked to the bed, paused a moment, then thrust the scale beneath his mattress once more. Brea caught the tender flash in his eyes, like the flicker of the winter lights that streamed across the sky, if one looked for them.