Spirit Dances. C.E. Murphy
my hand up, putting it in my line of vision.
Putting a clearly defined coyote’s paw in my line of vision.
CHAPTER FIVE
My yelp was drowned beneath the cheering and applause from those around us. Just as well: it sounded suspiciously like a coyote’s cry. I yanked my hand from Morrison’s grip to press it against my throat.
It felt like my hand. It felt perfectly normal, aside from the residual power of the dance still playing my skin. Morrison, wearing the most stricken expression I’d ever seen, shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket and draped it around my shoulders, hiding my entire torso. Hiding my paws. I thrust a foot out to stare at it, but my legs were unaltered. Just ordinary human feet in expensive sandals.
I wasn’t one who typically cared for being manhandled, but I was just as glad when Morrison caught my elbow and levered me to my feet and down the aisle, muttering apologies to the still-applauding patrons upon whose toes we trod.
My shoes, the cause of so much caution earlier, didn’t stymie me at all now that I needed to run for the doors. Here I’d always thought women in the movies who ran in their heels were just managing a lucky take. Turned out it could be done, if necessary.
To my dismay, the ushers held the theater doors open behind us. In terms of fire code that was no doubt the right thing to do, but in terms of getting me away from the roiling energy the dancers had called up, it was no good at all. I whispered, “Out, out, out, get me out of the building, just get me out,” like it was a mantra to keep me safe, and Morrison did so, hustling me ahead of the breaking-up crowd.
The crisp March night air knocked away the sensation of power crawling over my skin. I sagged, willing to stop right there, but Morrison tugged me farther down the street, well away from the smokers who filed out after us. Half a block from the theater he sat me down on a short wall and crouched in front of me, working hard to watch my eyes instead of my hands. “You all right, Walker?”
I shivered my hands out from inside his jacket. They still felt normal, but they were tawny gold and fur-ruffed, pads where my palms belonged and black claws where I was meant to have fingernails. All the times I’d changed shape when scrambling to my garden—into the private center part of me that reflected my soul—I’d known my psychic shape had changed, but it had always felt the same. I’d also known it was only my psychic self changing, not my physical form.
This was definitely physical. And of all the people in the world to lose control in front of, I’d chosen my boss. I had half a dozen friends who would take it in stride, but no, I had to go all magic-freaky on the one guy who was about as enthusiastic about my esoteric skills as I’d once been.
The paws were wavering, my fingers starting to show through as fur faded. It wasn’t me undoing the magic; in fact, given how hard I was focusing on the horrible fact that I was turning into a dog, it was a miracle the magic was letting loose at all. But I was outside the dancers’ sphere of influence, away from the power of their dance and reverting back to normal. There was no pain or discomfort, just a gradual slip back to normality, though when my fingers had returned, I still had the distinct, uncomfortable feeling that it would only take a moment’s concentration to bring the paws back.
My skin didn’t tingle with the dancers’ energy anymore, but the core of magic inside me felt replenished. Or, if not replenished, at least a whole lot more willing to play ball than it had been since that morning. It felt like my reserves had been topped up and were bursting the dam, ready for use and impatient for me to do so.
Morrison’s shoulders dropped about four inches when my ordinary hands peeked out from his jacket. He closed his eyes for a full five seconds, breathing carefully through his nostrils, then looked at me again. “What the hell was that?”
I laughed, a high trill of unhappy sound, and pulled the jacket up around my head to hide in it. It smelled good, like Morrison. Just a hint of old-fashioned cologne, nothing trendy or high-priced. I breathed it in for a few moments, trying to regain my equilibrium and trying not to think about Morrison or his cologne being aspects which could allow me to regain it. After what seemed like forever, but probably wasn’t, I whispered, “Coyote’s been telling me all along that shapeshifting was something I could do in the real world.”
“Sha…” Something about the way Morrison said half a syllable tidily filled in everything that might have followed it. It went something like this: “Shapeshifting? Are you insane, Walker? People don’t shapeshift!” followed hard by except she was just shifting shape in front of me, and I’m not stupid enough to disbelieve that after everything I’ve seen her do the last year, all of which I heard clearly enough that I actually said, “You’re not stupid at all,” in response, and made myself meet his gaze.
For a man who’d just hauled his date out of the theater because she was changing form, he looked remarkably calm. Slightly amused, even, though he said, “Thanks,” with perfect solemnity. “What happened in there?”
“Couldn’t you feel it? The energy they were putting out?”
He shook his head, though his mouth said, “Sure, performers do that. I’ve never seen anybody…”
“Get hairy?” I volunteered weakly. His lips twitched and a tremulous smile of my own shook some of my nerves loose. “It was more than just a performance, boss. They were channeling real power. They were…making magic.” I’d never thought about where the magic came from, not clearly, but I’d experienced similar rushes of power on much smaller scales. My drum could fill me up that way, but never until I overflowed so strongly that it started manifesting in physical changes. The dancers had created something new and strong that hadn’t been there before, something powerful enough to affect me. “You really didn’t feel anything? Nothing like…like your skin was going to come flying apart? You must have. Everybody did. The way the audience came to its feet…”
“I saw a hell of a performance, Walker. The kind that makes you want to cheer, sure, but something bigger happened to you, or we’d all be running around howling by now.”
I blinked at him, then laughed. “You’d make a pretty werewolf, boss. With your silver hair and blue eyes? The girl wolves would be, I don’t know, whatever girl wolves do. Panting after you.” Morrison snorted, and I didn’t want to tell him “panting after you” was a damned sight better than suggesting they’d be sniffing around his hindquarters, which had been the first thing that came to mind.
Somehow, though, his pragmatism made me feel better. I got to my feet and he straightened out of his crouch, looking like he wasn’t sure if he should offer support again. “I’m okay. Boss, somebody in there, the choreographer, one of the dancers, maybe a bunch of them, but somebody in there is like me. That dance, the last one, the shapeshifter’s dance… that had intent in it. I don’t know if it was just the storytelling or if they’ve got something else going on in there, but they were working so much power with so much discipline that it affected me. I’ve got to talk to them.” I’d started walking back to the theater without noticing. Morrison caught up and touched my arm, slowing me enough to notice his expression of concern.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Not even slightly.” I wrapped my arms around myself, hugging Morrison’s jacket to me, and stopped where I was, still a good distance from the theater. I watched it, not my boss, while I spoke. “But I can’t stand not knowing what happened, or how or why, and at least when I go back in there I’ll be a little more prepared. And if I go right now, without thinking about any of this too hard, I don’t have to admit that I’m completely horrified and embarrassed that I lost control of my stupid magic and started changing into a dog in front of you.”
Morrison, unexpectedly, said, “Coyotes aren’t dogs,” and I laughed out loud. He said, “What? They’re not!” and I laughed again.
“I know, but Coyote says that all the time. I never expected to hear you say it. I’ll have to tell him you said it.” Coyote was my mentor, another shaman whom I’d thought for years was actually