“How did Mother die?” I asked.
His answer would no doubt have involved teeth and claws and a rather unpleasant death, both for me, and for my dress, which was not designed to deal with that much blood. Instead, he was hit from the side by a beast almost his size, differentiated only by paler fur and a long striped tail. Father roared. Ryan roared back.
I frowned. “This is very inconvenient.” I turned my head in the direction Ryan had arrived from. The younger of my brothers was standing where a door had not been previously, his shirt torn and stained with blood. “You. Release me. I am the eldest female now, and I command it.”
Instinct is weak where tradition is strong. My brother knew that I was to be chained, and that Father would be unhappy if I were free. But as Father was in the process of having his head slammed into the wall by an angry tanuki, I was the only eldest in our family currently in a position to give orders. He grabbed Father’s overcoat from the floor; as I expected, the key was in the pocket. What other reason would someone so dismissive of human culture have for being careful of his clothes?
My brother moved to kneel behind me, fumbling with the chains. When they fell away I stood, not thanking him, and began undoing the buttons on my dress as quickly as I could without damaging anything. It was time for this to end, and I was going to be the one to end it.
Waheela have two forms: man-form and great-form. Neither is superior to the other. Both have strengths and weaknesses, and if I miss the animal grace of my great-form when I am in man-form, I miss the thumbs and fashion opportunities of my man-form when I am in great-form. Still. Great-form is well-suited to anger, and as I stepped out of my stockings, I allowed my anger to run free.
Ryan looked up as I raced on all four paws toward the tangled mass of fur and teeth that was his clench with Father. He let go, rolling out of the way just before I slammed into my father’s chest, teeth seeking and finding his throat. He roared, claws scrabbling to find purchase on my back, but all he found was fur, thicker and more luxurious than any waheela who does not have regular access to quality hair care products could hope to grow.
I bit harder, slamming my father into the floor, and held him there, putting as much pressure as I could against his throat. Eventually, his thrashing stilled, and he lay limp.
Instinct told me to bite down, to end him. Tradition said the same. But I am stronger than both. I have learned to wear high-heeled shoes, and to walk among men without eating them. I released my hold, straightening and shrinking at the same time, until I was in my man-form once more.
“Izzy?”
“Did you kill my other brother?” I asked curiously, turning toward Ryan. He was naked, and had no doubt shredded his clothing when he transformed. No matter. We would take my father’s overcoat, and the taxi drivers of New York had seen stranger things.
Ryan shook his head. “I didn’t think you’d like that. He’s passed out in the basement.”
“Good.” I turned to my brother. He took a step backward. “I will not harm you, but I will not be so merciful a second time. Tell Father this is my territory. No waheela are welcome here; none save me. Come again, and I will kill you. Do you understand?”
“I do,” he said, and tilted his head back, showing me his throat.
I walked forward, resting my hand against the exposed skin. “Find a name, brother,” I murmured. “Find something stronger than tradition. And for the love of the north wind, find better trousers. Those are very unattractive.”
Then I gathered my clothing and my boyfriend, and left.
Ryan put Father’s overcoat on, shoving his hands into the pockets, and hung back while I flagged down a cab. By the time the driver realized he had picked up a half-naked man to go with the half-naked woman, it was already too late to drive past.
I snuggled against Ryan in the backseat, trying to finger-comb my hair back into a semblance of order.
“So,” he said finally. “That was your family.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Let’s meet your family next. I am sure it will be equally enlightening.” My stomach growled. I frowned. “But perhaps we should have more pizza first. I have burned a great many calories this evening.”
Ryan’s laughter had a hysterical edge to it. He kissed the top of my head, and said, “Let’s do that, honey.”
As he gave the address to the driver, I smiled. It had been a good night. I was stronger than tradition, stronger than the call of the cold.
So long as that is true, I can stay.
Fairy tales come true in New York, but one should always remember fairy tale justice is sure, if not always swift, and the punishment is appropriate.
A HUNTSMAN PASSING BY
RICHARD BOWES
Good evening! Here I am back working the door at an exclusive event. Like old times. It’s been a while since we met. I’m not sure anyone else can see you in your coat of moonlight. Or what any of them would understand if they did.
The secret behind my being able to recognize you is dyslexia. It’s how I found my identity and my job, how I got married and had kids. If I’d been able to read, God knows where I’d be now.
My not being able to write things down is why my memory got good. It’s why, even though I haven’t done doors for a few years, I can still remember every face and name on the Lower Manhattan art circuit.
Tonight they’re celebrating the memory of the late seventies. And back then no Downtown event was complete without me. So when they organized the party for the release of Victor Sparger’s Raphael! I was asked to provide security for old time’s sake.
The idea of this event bothered me and I wasn’t going to do it. Then something I read to my kids recently made me change my mind. That and something my wife told me. (My wife, when we were wondering if you’d be here, told me to say hello.)
Raphael! is one painter directing a film about another. People say that’s kind of a culmination of that whole scene. The movie’s set downtown thirty years ago when the art world was the buzz in New York’sear. Big money changed hands. Large reputations got made. Victor Sparger was “in” right from the start. Painter and sculptor, very smart and pretty talented, he knew all the right names: Picasso and Braque, Warhol and Geldzahler. He was and is a prudent man. He invested his earnings, cultivated his image, bought real estate. Then out of nowhere came Louis Raphael. And in magazine articles about the scene Victor Sparger suddenly looked like a footnote.