Werehunters (Opening)
The man sitting behind the desk looks friendly, with a round face and wispy blond hair. It's actually messy instead of being carefully gelled to look messy. His smile is slight - no teeth - but clearly present. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone since he's not wearing a tie. I hate it when people button their shirt all the way up without a tie. It looks too stuffy. The man is nice, approachable, and I want nothing more than to crawl out of his skin.
"What brings you here today, Darrin?" he asks. Pleasant tone, perhaps a slight increase in the width of the smile. It's a nice voice and he's clearly not a smoker. To be honest, I wish the psychiatrist were more skeevy, so that I'd feel more comfortable coming up with some bullshit. I feel vaguely guilty about needing to lie to a perfectly nice person.
"My sister. She's the one that set this appointment up." Okay, so the first question was easy.
"Your sister?"
"Yeah, we live together - have our entire lives. It makes her a little interfering sometimes." Like making this appointment with a doctor she deemed "totally cute."
"How old are you?"
"I'm 22."
"And you live with your sister?"
Living together is practical since we work together. We can watch each others' backs and coordinate better. "Yeah. Like I said, all our lives. We're twins, so we entered college at the same time, and since we went to the same one," I shrug, seeing a flannel-clad shoulder in my peripheral vision, "it just worked out."
"What college?"
"Several, actually. Transferred a couple of times. We matriculated from NYU." We'd only been at their alma mater for those final required in-residence hours. Our job keeps us on the go, though most of the time we only need to be away for a week or two. But we wanted our degrees. Heck, they help out with the job, so they're worth it. Sometimes it seems like the job is everything.
"Good school. What did you major in?"
"Math. Sam did bio."
"Why math?"
"Liked it. I'm good at statistics, so I thought, 'why not?' I also thought it would be good for job prospects." In reality, I took statistics to help find prey, and Sam took biology for better understanding. The bio just frustrated her, because apparently the preternatural doesn't make sense. I sometimes wonder that it took her a degree to formulate that hypothesis.
"Do you have a job now?"
"Nah, just moved here. Haven't found a new job yet." Well, not a day job. And I might've added a new aspect to the night job just this morning.
"Why did you move here? Did your sister get a new job?"
"No, we moved for me. I recently underwent a lifestyle change." I tap my fingernails on the burgundy leather armrest, dissatisfied with the euphemism. What was something reasonable that it could be a euphemism for? You think I'd be better at lying by now.
"What kind of lifestyle change?" The doctor leans forward a bit, polite interest in his green eyes. It would seem more calculated if a bit of lock of hair hadn't fallen over one of the eyes, obscuring the facial expression. The doctor quickly reached up to brush it out of the way, however. I might welcome a less polite interest though, because I don't want to talk about this nor do I have any clue how to. I don't know why Sam put me up to talking to a human about it. Maybe she's just that divorced from her original species. More likely she got the thought in her head to ship me off to a psychiatrist and didn't bother to follow up that thought with probable consequences. Impulsive as always, just like the rest of her kind. My kind now.
"A little present from a sexual partner." STDs. Lots of people have STDs. Therianthropy - cyanthropy in my case - is somewhat less common. Even moreso since Sam and I began working.
"Ah," the man says, a little embarrassed, shifting in his own chair. I suppose it's a little unprofessional of him to look so uncomfortable, but I like it. It'd be harder to talk to someone jaded. "Er, have you seen your physician?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm not going to ask you about anything like . . . like that." I briefly wonder what sort of stuff people with STDs do ask their doctor. It's probably peppered with denials, like, 'That's completely normal, right?' I know what's happened to me isn't normal. Of course, it is to Sam which is why she's been completely un-understanding.
It's either that or my constant urge to pee on the carpet to mark my territory. Which I've only given into one, two, or twenty-three times. Who kept count? There was no reason for her to threaten to castrate me.
"Have you been in contact with this partner since?"
Since my sister broke his nose and tossed him out our house and through his windshield? Unfortunately, yes. His new office is in the same building as yours. "No. That pretty much ended the relationship. Trust and all that jazz."
"Understandable. But sometimes talking to your partner about why they didn't tell you can be helpful. She might have been unaware of her infection."
"He," I reply. According to my sister I'm obviously gay, so I don't know if the doctor is fishing for confirmation or what. And Jason definitely knew he was infected. He bit me deliberately. I just don't know why he chose to turn me into a wereyorkie.
SAMANTHA'S DIARY, June 25
So my brother is at the psychiatrist now. I set him up with a guy he'd find tap-able. I feel bad because the last guy I set him up with turned out to be a jerk. (Hitting him pretty much absolved the guilt until D started moping about.) Jeez people are hard, all worrying about crap and such. I mean, look at you. You're paper and inanimate and you totally don't care that I'm writing on you. You're a diary. I suppose you could be animate and care. But wouldn't the paper have risen up by now if it didn't like it?
OH MY GOD. YOU LIKE THIS. YOU ARE ENJOYING ME WRITING IN YOU. TO YOU, I AM SEXING YOU UP BUT GOOD. THAT'S SICK. YOU HEAR ME DIARY? YOU'RE SICK. BUT I'LL KEEP TALKING TO YOU HOWEVER I WANT.
Good thing I'm not sick. Between my brother and my diary we'd need to set up an infirmary in the house. But then we could have cute man-nurses so it wouldn't be all bad. I'd make 'em wear skirts but then D wouldn't let me watch RuPaul anymore. (He thinks it's rotting my brain. And he thinks I don't know he thinks this. Unless that's what he wants me to think. That's reverse psychology, right? I don't even know. As I was saying:
My brother will hit that. And sex is relaxing, which is good, 'cuz us yorkies are kinda high-strung. And then he'll be happy again and I won't have to punch anyone in the nose the morning after.
But that could be fun. I mean, I really enjoyed doing it to Jason. Teach that upstart pup to mess with my older brother.
Oh! And then I could yell, "Who's the bitch now?" I totally missed my opportunity earlier. Why does witty repartee come to mind after the fact? Not that it's all that witty. But it is, because I'm a bitch.
. . . which of us is paying for this therapy? D better not get mad at me if it costs a bunch. Perhaps I should've paid in advance. But I might've. Eh, it'll all work out. Or maybe neither of us will pay! Free money therapy!
The session has stalled. Apparently it's perfectly normal for a gay guy to be upset about getting an STD, even if he does live with his sister. I don't feel like adding, "By the way, all three of us turn into yorkies during the full moon. Or whenever we feel like it, if we have enough energy to power the change."
It feels odd to be lying about myself. I've been lying for Sam ever since she was bitten sixteen years ago. She started begging our parents for a pet as soon as she learned to say "doggie." Together with our mother, she picked out Pearl - a wee girl stranded at the pound amongst a bunch of ugly bruisers. We didn't have the dog two weeks before she bit Sam on the nose. She'd lost her humanity, gone feral. It happens. Not that we knew it then. We wouldn't clue in to the danger of rogue wereyorkies until we were preteens. At that time all we knew was we had to hide that Sam got furry once a month.
Then, as time progressed, we had to hide the physical changes. Sam the biologist gave me an explanation for dummies once.
"It's like a retro-virus that doesn't undergo variation. It injects the same set of genes every time. As it converts the cells in the body, things change. Moreso if the infected is young. Which you know from personal observation!"
"Yep. You're particularly easy to spot, sister mine." She scowled at me in return, cutely. The perfect adverb for all her actions. Those changed pre-puberty all have soft, wispy brown hair, big brown eyes, and a small frame. I've never met a female PP taller than five feet and Sam's not more than four feet nine inches. We look ridiculous standing next to each other; few not in the know believe we're siblings. I'm six feet of blond, blue-eyed Nordic stock. The first crisis of our young lives was explaining how my sister's eyes and hair changed color.
I can remember the tongue lashing even now - "Who said you could dye your hair and get contacts? How did you even afford this? Which of your friends bought this stuff for you?" We bleached her hair and bought blue colored contacts when we turned fourteen, but it looked very fake and just made our parents madder. To be honest, I think they never noticed the brown hair and eyes were real because it was too much to believe. They never noticed that we only stayed in our rooms, locked tight, on the full moon. I remember them being good parents. We were loved, wanted, cared for. But we were a bit off and they were close enough to sense it. Once we moved out they never came to visit. We only return home for Christmas, Thanksgiving, and our birthday. Sam wouldn't even visit that much because she hates how Mom harps on the fact she doesn't have a boyfriend.
It's the wereyorkie DNA. She, disturbingly, included that in her explanation as well. "So, we - the females - undergo the estrous cycle as well as the menstrual. And that's why I only want to have sex sometimes, right? But then our menstrual cycle kicks in, ending the estrus prematurely, and badda-bing-badda-boom we don't get preggers. Y'know, I don't think we'd be able to sustain a pregnancy . . ."
"Estrous cycle?"
Lord I hate anything that elicits that grin. "We go into heat."
She knows I hate thinking about her and sex. We have a complicated system of signals to prevent either of us from seeing the other in coitus. Any time we made a mistake we add a new layer of precaution. Seeing your sister give a random guy a bj is enough to scar you for life.
"But we go through the cycle more often than bitches. They only want the sexxors twice a year! And good for them, but I -"
"What part of this conversation is useful to me?"
"Don't interrupt my tangent, boy. What if a wicked female we're hunting down tries to seduce you?"
"I'll uncomfortably explain that I'm gay and therefore uninterested."
"Fine, fine." She bounced off the couch cushions, pacing a little. "It's just . . . it doesn't just affect appearance. It's our - it's my - brain chemistry. I mean, I can deal with the ADD. I like the shiny. And odd-smelling. No big. But I'll sleep with some guy I don't know just because I've got the itch and won't spread 'em for a guy I like because I find the thought so . . . uninteresting. I mean," she ran a hand through her hair, plopping down on the teal carpet, "brain chemistry affects the way everybody acts. But I thought study, the biology, I thought it would help me make sense of everything. And it does. But all it does is hammer in that I'm not human. And then there'll be some upstart POP trying to horn in on my territory and now, as my instincts tell me I'm better than them, I'll also know they're more human."
For all my sister forced me into therapy, she could've used some herself, years ago. That day, I rubbed her back, like Mom did when we were sick, and she relaxed. Three days later she barely remembered her rant. A week and it never happened. Two weeks and she told me something similar. Two months, six months, a year and half, the scene repeated. I hate her fucking insistence that she isn't human. And I hate that it bothers her less and less often because the concept is bothering her less and less. She's isn't human and she's a creature of the present. Only societal conventions make her want to be human.
I look up at the doctor, who is sitting so patiently behind his cherry desk, a cheap pen held loosely in his hand. I'm more like Sam than ever. And she realized I needed another influence in my life, someone more human. I'm a POP - post-pubescent wereyorkie - and thus less changed. My hair and eyes are a shade darker, my sense of smell and hearing a shade sharper, my body a shade stronger. Still pretty human, except for the whole shape-changing thing. If only it weren't so tedious to realize that.
I try to smile casually. I cultivated intimidating expressions and now I need to look reassuring. "You see, my sister worried about me because she got an STD that's a bit," I pause, since timing is everything, "more serious. We've talked about mine, but with her it feels like I'm complaining about something trivial when she's got it so much worse. So she wanted me to talk to a professional."
"Why a psychiatrist, instead of a psychologist or therapist? You don't seem to need a prescription."
"She knew I would think you were attractive." I'm not sure if I said that to flirt or if I just blurted it out. Two months since Jason I've kept out of the dating game. Now I flirt with a guy that thinks I have herpes or similar. I'm just smooth like that.
And I thought I flustered him earlier with my admission of having an STD. That shade of purple does contrast rather nicely with his light green shirt.
SAMANTHA'S DIARY, Later that day
The longer I wait for D to be done with this therapy thing the guiltier I feel. I want to find Jason and beat him up some more. It worked last time. The look on his face! Okay, I couldn't see it that well because he was cradling it in his hands, but I like to imagine the parts I couldn't see.
It's just . . . D had a bad job earlier that day. A PP girl, so of course she looked like me. (But less cute I'm sure. Paper, paper on the page, who's the cutest yorkie girl my age? Does that rhythm work? Who cares? Not me and I'm the only one who reads this. Unless D -
D IF YOU READ THIS I'M GONNA KILL YOU. KILL YOU DEADER THAN A TEA COZY.
I'm not sure where to close the parentheses now. This'll do.)
But yeah, he didn't like that. Tried to be all stoic like a Spartan but I know my physically-bigger brother. But the wereyorkie I'd been sussing out seemed to be on the up and up so I introduced them. And I know my brother needs to relax when he falls into bed that fast. But of course Jason had to turn out to be a jerk-off and bite him. Sheesh, after I'd given him the benefit of a doubt. Should've stabbed him with a spoon instead of just throwing him through a windshield. Wouldn't have to have moved and changed our names to avoid his lawsuit. Not like we ever told him our real names.
Samantha and Darrin . . . what kind of parents name their kids after a husband and wife? Poor D was destined to help me hide something, I guess. Although being a witch would be so much more fun than turning into a little doggie.
We could move up into the big leagues! Those sorts of people ignore us, since we're just after rogue yorks. I'm old enough now that I have the strength the go against some, which I bet would be fun, but that would just attract the attention of bigger bads. Le sigh.
Thirty more minutes to feel guilty.
Or I could play Solitaire! I like when I win and the cards go bouncing all over the screen. And it's so hard to lose! Losing is no fun!
I know, D needs to have more fun! I'll take him to one of my favorite places to run when he gets back. He knows how fast little yorkie legs can go but hasn't given himself much of a chance to experience it yet. Running is even more fun than Solitaire.
. . . Was it good for you diary?
"So your sister knows your taste in men?" His recovery is valiant, I'll give him that.
"Yeah. Told you she can be interfering."
"Does she try to . . . match-make often?"
I lean back, thinking. The doctor, Jason, Paul, James Trent, that guy I went out with briefly in college - what was his name? -, Shyam, Rene . . . "Yes. It's safe to say that."
"Do you know why?"
"She wants me to have a life outside of," hunting with her, "my career. Not sure why she did it now while I'm unemployed." We've never had more jobs. We do a lot for gratis, when we locate a rogue ourselves, but often we're hired. Rogues have a tendency to change people indiscriminately. Some join up with their progenitor. Some call us. Weirdest job was for a werewolf. He disliked the pack of wereyorkies that was building up in his territory but felt it beneath his dignity to get rid of them.
The good thing about wereyorkies is they're mostly good. But some have delusions of grandeur. They use their cuteness to influence people, to open doors better left shut. But everything is easier with people at your back. And turning people is the easiest way to get an army, plus they're pretty much guaranteed to be weaker due to being changed more recently.
I can't believe Sam gave Jason the okay and then he bit me. We've been doing this for nearly a decade now. She's good at telling a rogue from an honest cyanthrope. I suppose with our lifestyle it was inevitable I would be bitten.
"How involved have you been with your career, Darrin?"
"I suppose you could say it started back in school, when I figured out I wanted to be a statistician. While I haven't found a job here yet, I'm dedicated to what I want to do. I enjoy my work. Sam's just worried that I neglect the social sphere." Sam's worried that I haven't realized she's twenty-two years old and not as needy of my protection. She can escape almost anywhere by shifting, throw a man three times her size across the room, and she can use both a knife and gun. She's published a research paper and is choosing between a couple of companies that have offered to pay for her grad school. She could do the job alone if her human sentimentality would allow her to break things off with me.
"Why did you want to be a statistician? I don't know many people who are passionate about statistics."
"Obviously you don't hang out with sports fans," I joke. It's corny, but it does make him laugh. It's possibly the most comfortable either of us have been the entire session.
It was a teacher at our junior high, Mrs. Wallech. She changed kids in her detention, used them to both threaten and cajole the superintendent and school board into increasing the budget for the math department. Not the world's biggest crime, but those were kids who'd never get their old lives back. Aggressive kids, many of them, granted the powers of stealth, cuteness, and super-strength. Like in the stories, silver worked. (Though not much of the rest was like in the stories, unless you've been reading psychological horror novels.) We were twelve or thirteen, Sam and I. Is it sad I can't remember? We found our calling and didn't turn back.
Heck, being turned is useful. The extra speed, strength, healing . . . useful. I wonder what the doctor would do if I told him it was the best STD ever? I've been more comfortable with wereyorkies than humans for years, so it's a small line to cross.
"I think Sam was right. It's is good to talk, some. I mean, I know a lot of people have STDs. One in four or something? I was bound to get one eventually, even using condoms. Just different to know it probably will happen and having it happen." I sigh. That sounded stupid. Why not cross a fun line? "Would you like to go out sometime? Like you said, I don't really need a psychiatrist. There are other people to talk to this about and I'd like to talk to you about other things."
SAMANTHA'S DIARY, June 27th
Don't know why I felt so guilty a couple of days ago. Something I ate?
"What brings you here today, Darrin?" he asks. Pleasant tone, perhaps a slight increase in the width of the smile. It's a nice voice and he's clearly not a smoker. To be honest, I wish the psychiatrist were more skeevy, so that I'd feel more comfortable coming up with some bullshit. I feel vaguely guilty about needing to lie to a perfectly nice person.
"My sister. She's the one that set this appointment up." Okay, so the first question was easy.
"Your sister?"
"Yeah, we live together - have our entire lives. It makes her a little interfering sometimes." Like making this appointment with a doctor she deemed "totally cute."
"How old are you?"
"I'm 22."
"And you live with your sister?"
Living together is practical since we work together. We can watch each others' backs and coordinate better. "Yeah. Like I said, all our lives. We're twins, so we entered college at the same time, and since we went to the same one," I shrug, seeing a flannel-clad shoulder in my peripheral vision, "it just worked out."
"What college?"
"Several, actually. Transferred a couple of times. We matriculated from NYU." We'd only been at their alma mater for those final required in-residence hours. Our job keeps us on the go, though most of the time we only need to be away for a week or two. But we wanted our degrees. Heck, they help out with the job, so they're worth it. Sometimes it seems like the job is everything.
"Good school. What did you major in?"
"Math. Sam did bio."
"Why math?"
"Liked it. I'm good at statistics, so I thought, 'why not?' I also thought it would be good for job prospects." In reality, I took statistics to help find prey, and Sam took biology for better understanding. The bio just frustrated her, because apparently the preternatural doesn't make sense. I sometimes wonder that it took her a degree to formulate that hypothesis.
"Do you have a job now?"
"Nah, just moved here. Haven't found a new job yet." Well, not a day job. And I might've added a new aspect to the night job just this morning.
"Why did you move here? Did your sister get a new job?"
"No, we moved for me. I recently underwent a lifestyle change." I tap my fingernails on the burgundy leather armrest, dissatisfied with the euphemism. What was something reasonable that it could be a euphemism for? You think I'd be better at lying by now.
"What kind of lifestyle change?" The doctor leans forward a bit, polite interest in his green eyes. It would seem more calculated if a bit of lock of hair hadn't fallen over one of the eyes, obscuring the facial expression. The doctor quickly reached up to brush it out of the way, however. I might welcome a less polite interest though, because I don't want to talk about this nor do I have any clue how to. I don't know why Sam put me up to talking to a human about it. Maybe she's just that divorced from her original species. More likely she got the thought in her head to ship me off to a psychiatrist and didn't bother to follow up that thought with probable consequences. Impulsive as always, just like the rest of her kind. My kind now.
"A little present from a sexual partner." STDs. Lots of people have STDs. Therianthropy - cyanthropy in my case - is somewhat less common. Even moreso since Sam and I began working.
"Ah," the man says, a little embarrassed, shifting in his own chair. I suppose it's a little unprofessional of him to look so uncomfortable, but I like it. It'd be harder to talk to someone jaded. "Er, have you seen your physician?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm not going to ask you about anything like . . . like that." I briefly wonder what sort of stuff people with STDs do ask their doctor. It's probably peppered with denials, like, 'That's completely normal, right?' I know what's happened to me isn't normal. Of course, it is to Sam which is why she's been completely un-understanding.
It's either that or my constant urge to pee on the carpet to mark my territory. Which I've only given into one, two, or twenty-three times. Who kept count? There was no reason for her to threaten to castrate me.
"Have you been in contact with this partner since?"
Since my sister broke his nose and tossed him out our house and through his windshield? Unfortunately, yes. His new office is in the same building as yours. "No. That pretty much ended the relationship. Trust and all that jazz."
"Understandable. But sometimes talking to your partner about why they didn't tell you can be helpful. She might have been unaware of her infection."
"He," I reply. According to my sister I'm obviously gay, so I don't know if the doctor is fishing for confirmation or what. And Jason definitely knew he was infected. He bit me deliberately. I just don't know why he chose to turn me into a wereyorkie.
SAMANTHA'S DIARY, June 25
So my brother is at the psychiatrist now. I set him up with a guy he'd find tap-able. I feel bad because the last guy I set him up with turned out to be a jerk. (Hitting him pretty much absolved the guilt until D started moping about.) Jeez people are hard, all worrying about crap and such. I mean, look at you. You're paper and inanimate and you totally don't care that I'm writing on you. You're a diary. I suppose you could be animate and care. But wouldn't the paper have risen up by now if it didn't like it?
OH MY GOD. YOU LIKE THIS. YOU ARE ENJOYING ME WRITING IN YOU. TO YOU, I AM SEXING YOU UP BUT GOOD. THAT'S SICK. YOU HEAR ME DIARY? YOU'RE SICK. BUT I'LL KEEP TALKING TO YOU HOWEVER I WANT.
Good thing I'm not sick. Between my brother and my diary we'd need to set up an infirmary in the house. But then we could have cute man-nurses so it wouldn't be all bad. I'd make 'em wear skirts but then D wouldn't let me watch RuPaul anymore. (He thinks it's rotting my brain. And he thinks I don't know he thinks this. Unless that's what he wants me to think. That's reverse psychology, right? I don't even know. As I was saying:
My brother will hit that. And sex is relaxing, which is good, 'cuz us yorkies are kinda high-strung. And then he'll be happy again and I won't have to punch anyone in the nose the morning after.
But that could be fun. I mean, I really enjoyed doing it to Jason. Teach that upstart pup to mess with my older brother.
Oh! And then I could yell, "Who's the bitch now?" I totally missed my opportunity earlier. Why does witty repartee come to mind after the fact? Not that it's all that witty. But it is, because I'm a bitch.
. . . which of us is paying for this therapy? D better not get mad at me if it costs a bunch. Perhaps I should've paid in advance. But I might've. Eh, it'll all work out. Or maybe neither of us will pay! Free money therapy!
The session has stalled. Apparently it's perfectly normal for a gay guy to be upset about getting an STD, even if he does live with his sister. I don't feel like adding, "By the way, all three of us turn into yorkies during the full moon. Or whenever we feel like it, if we have enough energy to power the change."
It feels odd to be lying about myself. I've been lying for Sam ever since she was bitten sixteen years ago. She started begging our parents for a pet as soon as she learned to say "doggie." Together with our mother, she picked out Pearl - a wee girl stranded at the pound amongst a bunch of ugly bruisers. We didn't have the dog two weeks before she bit Sam on the nose. She'd lost her humanity, gone feral. It happens. Not that we knew it then. We wouldn't clue in to the danger of rogue wereyorkies until we were preteens. At that time all we knew was we had to hide that Sam got furry once a month.
Then, as time progressed, we had to hide the physical changes. Sam the biologist gave me an explanation for dummies once.
"It's like a retro-virus that doesn't undergo variation. It injects the same set of genes every time. As it converts the cells in the body, things change. Moreso if the infected is young. Which you know from personal observation!"
"Yep. You're particularly easy to spot, sister mine." She scowled at me in return, cutely. The perfect adverb for all her actions. Those changed pre-puberty all have soft, wispy brown hair, big brown eyes, and a small frame. I've never met a female PP taller than five feet and Sam's not more than four feet nine inches. We look ridiculous standing next to each other; few not in the know believe we're siblings. I'm six feet of blond, blue-eyed Nordic stock. The first crisis of our young lives was explaining how my sister's eyes and hair changed color.
I can remember the tongue lashing even now - "Who said you could dye your hair and get contacts? How did you even afford this? Which of your friends bought this stuff for you?" We bleached her hair and bought blue colored contacts when we turned fourteen, but it looked very fake and just made our parents madder. To be honest, I think they never noticed the brown hair and eyes were real because it was too much to believe. They never noticed that we only stayed in our rooms, locked tight, on the full moon. I remember them being good parents. We were loved, wanted, cared for. But we were a bit off and they were close enough to sense it. Once we moved out they never came to visit. We only return home for Christmas, Thanksgiving, and our birthday. Sam wouldn't even visit that much because she hates how Mom harps on the fact she doesn't have a boyfriend.
It's the wereyorkie DNA. She, disturbingly, included that in her explanation as well. "So, we - the females - undergo the estrous cycle as well as the menstrual. And that's why I only want to have sex sometimes, right? But then our menstrual cycle kicks in, ending the estrus prematurely, and badda-bing-badda-boom we don't get preggers. Y'know, I don't think we'd be able to sustain a pregnancy . . ."
"Estrous cycle?"
Lord I hate anything that elicits that grin. "We go into heat."
She knows I hate thinking about her and sex. We have a complicated system of signals to prevent either of us from seeing the other in coitus. Any time we made a mistake we add a new layer of precaution. Seeing your sister give a random guy a bj is enough to scar you for life.
"But we go through the cycle more often than bitches. They only want the sexxors twice a year! And good for them, but I -"
"What part of this conversation is useful to me?"
"Don't interrupt my tangent, boy. What if a wicked female we're hunting down tries to seduce you?"
"I'll uncomfortably explain that I'm gay and therefore uninterested."
"Fine, fine." She bounced off the couch cushions, pacing a little. "It's just . . . it doesn't just affect appearance. It's our - it's my - brain chemistry. I mean, I can deal with the ADD. I like the shiny. And odd-smelling. No big. But I'll sleep with some guy I don't know just because I've got the itch and won't spread 'em for a guy I like because I find the thought so . . . uninteresting. I mean," she ran a hand through her hair, plopping down on the teal carpet, "brain chemistry affects the way everybody acts. But I thought study, the biology, I thought it would help me make sense of everything. And it does. But all it does is hammer in that I'm not human. And then there'll be some upstart POP trying to horn in on my territory and now, as my instincts tell me I'm better than them, I'll also know they're more human."
For all my sister forced me into therapy, she could've used some herself, years ago. That day, I rubbed her back, like Mom did when we were sick, and she relaxed. Three days later she barely remembered her rant. A week and it never happened. Two weeks and she told me something similar. Two months, six months, a year and half, the scene repeated. I hate her fucking insistence that she isn't human. And I hate that it bothers her less and less often because the concept is bothering her less and less. She's isn't human and she's a creature of the present. Only societal conventions make her want to be human.
I look up at the doctor, who is sitting so patiently behind his cherry desk, a cheap pen held loosely in his hand. I'm more like Sam than ever. And she realized I needed another influence in my life, someone more human. I'm a POP - post-pubescent wereyorkie - and thus less changed. My hair and eyes are a shade darker, my sense of smell and hearing a shade sharper, my body a shade stronger. Still pretty human, except for the whole shape-changing thing. If only it weren't so tedious to realize that.
I try to smile casually. I cultivated intimidating expressions and now I need to look reassuring. "You see, my sister worried about me because she got an STD that's a bit," I pause, since timing is everything, "more serious. We've talked about mine, but with her it feels like I'm complaining about something trivial when she's got it so much worse. So she wanted me to talk to a professional."
"Why a psychiatrist, instead of a psychologist or therapist? You don't seem to need a prescription."
"She knew I would think you were attractive." I'm not sure if I said that to flirt or if I just blurted it out. Two months since Jason I've kept out of the dating game. Now I flirt with a guy that thinks I have herpes or similar. I'm just smooth like that.
And I thought I flustered him earlier with my admission of having an STD. That shade of purple does contrast rather nicely with his light green shirt.
SAMANTHA'S DIARY, Later that day
The longer I wait for D to be done with this therapy thing the guiltier I feel. I want to find Jason and beat him up some more. It worked last time. The look on his face! Okay, I couldn't see it that well because he was cradling it in his hands, but I like to imagine the parts I couldn't see.
It's just . . . D had a bad job earlier that day. A PP girl, so of course she looked like me. (But less cute I'm sure. Paper, paper on the page, who's the cutest yorkie girl my age? Does that rhythm work? Who cares? Not me and I'm the only one who reads this. Unless D -
D IF YOU READ THIS I'M GONNA KILL YOU. KILL YOU DEADER THAN A TEA COZY.
I'm not sure where to close the parentheses now. This'll do.)
But yeah, he didn't like that. Tried to be all stoic like a Spartan but I know my physically-bigger brother. But the wereyorkie I'd been sussing out seemed to be on the up and up so I introduced them. And I know my brother needs to relax when he falls into bed that fast. But of course Jason had to turn out to be a jerk-off and bite him. Sheesh, after I'd given him the benefit of a doubt. Should've stabbed him with a spoon instead of just throwing him through a windshield. Wouldn't have to have moved and changed our names to avoid his lawsuit. Not like we ever told him our real names.
Samantha and Darrin . . . what kind of parents name their kids after a husband and wife? Poor D was destined to help me hide something, I guess. Although being a witch would be so much more fun than turning into a little doggie.
We could move up into the big leagues! Those sorts of people ignore us, since we're just after rogue yorks. I'm old enough now that I have the strength the go against some, which I bet would be fun, but that would just attract the attention of bigger bads. Le sigh.
Thirty more minutes to feel guilty.
Or I could play Solitaire! I like when I win and the cards go bouncing all over the screen. And it's so hard to lose! Losing is no fun!
I know, D needs to have more fun! I'll take him to one of my favorite places to run when he gets back. He knows how fast little yorkie legs can go but hasn't given himself much of a chance to experience it yet. Running is even more fun than Solitaire.
. . . Was it good for you diary?
"So your sister knows your taste in men?" His recovery is valiant, I'll give him that.
"Yeah. Told you she can be interfering."
"Does she try to . . . match-make often?"
I lean back, thinking. The doctor, Jason, Paul, James Trent, that guy I went out with briefly in college - what was his name? -, Shyam, Rene . . . "Yes. It's safe to say that."
"Do you know why?"
"She wants me to have a life outside of," hunting with her, "my career. Not sure why she did it now while I'm unemployed." We've never had more jobs. We do a lot for gratis, when we locate a rogue ourselves, but often we're hired. Rogues have a tendency to change people indiscriminately. Some join up with their progenitor. Some call us. Weirdest job was for a werewolf. He disliked the pack of wereyorkies that was building up in his territory but felt it beneath his dignity to get rid of them.
The good thing about wereyorkies is they're mostly good. But some have delusions of grandeur. They use their cuteness to influence people, to open doors better left shut. But everything is easier with people at your back. And turning people is the easiest way to get an army, plus they're pretty much guaranteed to be weaker due to being changed more recently.
I can't believe Sam gave Jason the okay and then he bit me. We've been doing this for nearly a decade now. She's good at telling a rogue from an honest cyanthrope. I suppose with our lifestyle it was inevitable I would be bitten.
"How involved have you been with your career, Darrin?"
"I suppose you could say it started back in school, when I figured out I wanted to be a statistician. While I haven't found a job here yet, I'm dedicated to what I want to do. I enjoy my work. Sam's just worried that I neglect the social sphere." Sam's worried that I haven't realized she's twenty-two years old and not as needy of my protection. She can escape almost anywhere by shifting, throw a man three times her size across the room, and she can use both a knife and gun. She's published a research paper and is choosing between a couple of companies that have offered to pay for her grad school. She could do the job alone if her human sentimentality would allow her to break things off with me.
"Why did you want to be a statistician? I don't know many people who are passionate about statistics."
"Obviously you don't hang out with sports fans," I joke. It's corny, but it does make him laugh. It's possibly the most comfortable either of us have been the entire session.
It was a teacher at our junior high, Mrs. Wallech. She changed kids in her detention, used them to both threaten and cajole the superintendent and school board into increasing the budget for the math department. Not the world's biggest crime, but those were kids who'd never get their old lives back. Aggressive kids, many of them, granted the powers of stealth, cuteness, and super-strength. Like in the stories, silver worked. (Though not much of the rest was like in the stories, unless you've been reading psychological horror novels.) We were twelve or thirteen, Sam and I. Is it sad I can't remember? We found our calling and didn't turn back.
Heck, being turned is useful. The extra speed, strength, healing . . . useful. I wonder what the doctor would do if I told him it was the best STD ever? I've been more comfortable with wereyorkies than humans for years, so it's a small line to cross.
"I think Sam was right. It's is good to talk, some. I mean, I know a lot of people have STDs. One in four or something? I was bound to get one eventually, even using condoms. Just different to know it probably will happen and having it happen." I sigh. That sounded stupid. Why not cross a fun line? "Would you like to go out sometime? Like you said, I don't really need a psychiatrist. There are other people to talk to this about and I'd like to talk to you about other things."
SAMANTHA'S DIARY, June 27th
Don't know why I felt so guilty a couple of days ago. Something I ate?