“Istas!”I studied my reflection in the small mirror set into my locker door for a moment more, trying to figure out what I could do differently with my eye makeup, before yawning and turning toward the sound of my name. Looking was a courtesy, nothing more: even if I could not recognize the sound of my employer’s voice, I would have known the smell of her, a mixture of cream foundation, overheated velvet, and the curious pheromone stew of her sweat.
“Yes?” I closed my locker as I turned. It was one in a row of twenty, matching three other free-standing rows, all arranged like this was some sort of gymnasium, and not the changing room of a popular strip club turned burlesque show.
Kitty Smith, owner and operator of the Freakshow—the aforementioned strip club turned burlesque show, which had been founded by her uncle—folded her arms and scowled at me. This took several seconds; bogeymen have very long arms. That, along with their grayish skin and the extra joints in their fingers, is all that visibly distinguishes them from the humans. She even wore her long black hair curled in the human style, framing her pointed, inhuman face. “You’re supposed to be on the floor. What are you doing back here?”
“I am not supposed to be on the floor,” I replied, picking up my parasol. It opened into a pleasing bloom of pink and black lace, which went perfectly with my puff-sleeved, pink and black satin dress. It had taken me weeks to sew the alternating tiers of pink and black petticoats, but the effect was worth the effort, especially once I had dyed pink streaks into my naturally black hair. “If you check the schedule, you will see that I was scheduled to end my labors at nine o’clock. It is now nine-fifteen. I am done for the evening.”
“That schedule was made before Candy went on maternity leave,” protested Kitty.
“My request for time off was not dependent on the status of Candy’s gestation.” I gave my parasol a lazy twirl. “Ryan and I will be having a pleasant evening involving courtship activities, food, and coitus.”
There was a pause before Kitty asked, “You’re going out for dinner and dancing before you go back to his place for sex?”
I frowned. “I believe I just said that.”
“No, honey, you didn’t.” Ryan sounded amused and exasperated at the same time, a combination that I have become intimately familiar with since we began our relationship. I turned, smiling, to see him standing in the doorway of the women’s locker room. He shook his head, smiling back. “Remember what I said about sounding like a dictionary? It confuses people.”
“Refrain from discussion of carnage and how many colors are inside a person, try not to sound like a dictionary … this is why waheela don’t talk to people, you know. It’s far too difficult.”
People might be difficult, but Ryan was easy. Tall, with dark hair, dark eyes, and golden skin, Ryan Yukimura was the first man of any species who had thought to ask me if I was in search of a mate. He was not human— his species, the tanuki, originated in Japan—but as I was not human either, that did not present a significant barrier. Both of us were shapeshifters, and as such looked perfectly human when we saw the need.
“It has its rewards.” Ryan looked past me to Kitty. “My shift’s up. Angel’s got the bar. See you tomorrow night, ma’am?”
Kitty threw her hands in the air. “Oh, sure, you leave, too. My best bartender and my most productive waitress. Why isn’t there a law against employees dating?”
“Because your uncle wanted to hit on the cocktail waitresses,” said Ryan amiably. “Come on, Istas, or we’ll miss our table.”
“Coming.” I picked up my clutch purse, bobbed my head at Kitty, and followed Ryan out of the dressing room. He looped his arm through mine. Normally, he was taller than I was, but I was wearing high heeled boots, and we were almost the same height. Side-by-side, we strolled away.
Iwas born in a place that has no name, so high in the Canadian tundra that the permafrost never melted, no matter the season. There were five pups in my litter. I was third-born, large enough to fight off my siblings, small enough not to seem like an attractive mouthful to my father. The largest of us did not survive the winter. Neither did the smallest, and when the first green of springtime came, only three of us remained. I think of those days often, when I am frustrated with the crush and chaos of Manhattan, or when the stupidity of the humans I have surrounded myself with seems too much to bear. Those were my happiest days, cradled in the love of my siblings, protected by the instincts of my mother. And if those days were the best that my homeland has to offer … is it any wonder that I have no intent to ever, ever go back?
Ryan kept his arm looped through mine as we walked along the sidewalk toward our destination, as much a restraint as a show of ownership for the people around us. He didn’t want me departing from the path that we had charted for our evening. A pity. There were some lovely-smelling rats in the nearby alley, and I had yet to eat.
“We’re almost there, Izzy,” he said, still pulling me along.
“Anyone else who called me by such a diminutive would find them selves searching the gutters for their arms,” I said, amiably enough.
Ryan grinned. “Good thing I’m not anyone else, then, isn’t it.”
“Yes.”
We walked a few blocks more, finally stopping in a pizza parlor that smelled amazing enough to make up for the fact that it was essentially a dark cavern carved from the wall. I frowned. Ryan tapped my shoulder and pointed to a sign in the window.
SUNDAY ONLY—ALL YOU CAN EAT, NINE TO MIDNIGHT.
“I love you,” I breathed.
He grinned. “Yes, you do.”
To be waheela is to be a creature of endless appetite, as hungry as the winter wind which blows from the north. After consuming the better part of three large pizzas with everything and an entire medium pizza with ham and pineapple, I began to wonder if the north wind had been going about things the wrong way for all these years. Maybe it just needed to visit a nice Italian restaurant and eat until it wanted to vomit.
Not that this was technically a “nice” Italian restaurant. It was narrow, and dark, with walls that had once been white, and were now a dingy shade of cream. I would have thrown away any article of clothing as visibly stained as those walls. The furniture was old, full of splinters and scarred by inexpert repairs. None of which mattered; the food was plentiful, and that was the end of my concern.
Ryan reached for one of the last slices of pizza. I growled briefly, reminding him that the food was mine, before leaning back in my seat and allowing him to take it. Ryan grinned.
“I take it you approve?”