21 Shades of Night, page 220
We move through a great room with a worn fireplace, and then under an arch into a dining room where darkness swallows the candlelight. But the other side of the room draws a soft glow from a kitchen. It is larger than the dining room, cheerful with big windows on the south wall and a smaller one on the west side over a double sink.
Everything in the kitchen is dated, but pleasantly worn. The floor is black and white tile with counters that match. Everything else is wood, except for stainless steel appliances. A vase full of daisies drips petals on the center of a rough, wooden farm table with six straight back chairs tucked underneath.
Hope's mother crosses to the sink, fills a clear drinking glass with tap water, and takes a long sip. She turns suddenly, glass still touching her lips, and gazes at an old sepia picture mounted on the wall behind the table. Its oval shaped, wood framed, and displays a woman holding two girls by the hand. They look to be about five or six. The woman is round, wearing a pale cotton shift belted around her ample waistline.
"Nan, I think our little Hope has an admirer," she tells the picture. "Maybe I'll bring my tarot cards to the cabin and read his future."
She stares intently at the picture, laughs, and then raises a hand and firmly says, "And before you say, 'Gracie Jean, girl, you better not be spellin' that boy!' I'm gonna tell you, I have no inclination to do so." Gracie laughs again before saying, "Not yet, anyway."
Shaking her head with a grin on her face, she sighs. "Let's see if Hope comes around before they graduate. And if not, I may be putting a spell on her."
I hug the cabinet-trim on the floor and tuck my smoky shadow underneath appliances as I circle the room and make my way closer to Gracie Jean, my next host.
When I ripple over the tile on the floor and up the back of Gracie's legs, she still stares at the picture of who appears to be her grandmother. I wonder if the girls are Gracie's mother and aunt.
I circle the flesh on Gracie Jean's elegant neck, climb over her sloping chin, and cover her mouth with mine. Smoke creeps into her nostrils. She gasps, chokes, and slowly slides to the floor, me attached. When everything that is Gracie fills me, I push it outward, until her flesh covers my smoky body.
I roil and swell as I spread out inside the deflated form that will soon become a carbon copy of the human I just pushed away from me and onto the tiled floor.
As I rise, I try out her voice. "I'm only borrowing her, Nan," I tell the photograph.
The heavyset woman in the picture sways and tugs the child tethered to her left hand closer.
I spread a grin across Gracie's lips, and sidle toward the door. The picture on the wall looks like a 3D movie screen as the ghost stretches in my direction. She looks harmless, but still...
"I won't tell Gaire about you, Nan, not yet," I tell the apparition bubbling out of wooden frame, "I sure hope you behave yourself!"
When I caper through the living room and out of the house, Gracie's laughter falls from my mouth and rides the night air. "Gaire will find out about the ghost soon enough," I tell the stars.
The day after tomorrow, the real Gracie Jean will be in a cabin in the Ocala forest, forty-seven miles north of here. Gaire and I will be staying in the graceful, two-story home until she returns.
I trot toward the lake behind Gracie's home. There's a storm drain nearby and it leads to a sewer entrance, and Gaire.
Gaire
* * *
"She died. I killed her, and there was no taking that back," I say.
I know the doppelganger stands across from me, but this getting to know each other: who I am, where I've been, and everything personal in between is difficult. Especially with someone I feel like I've just met.
"I understand you killed her, Gaire. You just detailed the incident," Gracie says. She leans against the cement at her back, both arms crisscrossed over her chest. The heel of one bare foot rests on the toes of the other. "I want to know why." Her tone is short, snippy. Gracie Jean is clearly not intimidated by me.
It's irritating. The voice, stance, and demeanor add a parenting blemish to this host's persona. I'm not a child, and I don't like being treated like one.
I lean back, prop one shoe against the wall behind me, and nonchalantly say, "The animal in me took over the minute I got a hard on."
She wants to treat me like an adolescent; I'll give her pubescence at its finest.
Her eyes flare red for a nanosecond, enough to show me the doppelganger is inside.
"Okay—" Gracie pushes away from the wall and tracks small wet footprints along her side of the drain pipe. "—let's start over. Your attitude seems a little defensive. We're supposed to be trying to understand our individual darker sides, and a crass display of words will not endear you to the doppelganger in me."
I don't move. "And the conversation will remain counterproductive if you continue to treat me like a human in elementary school."
Gracie Jean's eyes pop open. Her mouth does too. Then she quickly dips her head and whispers, "Sorry, this one's a mother. She may even be a teacher. I didn't ask. Although I cannot sound or look like myself. I can try to act like myself. Okay?"
It seems appropriate, though uncomfortable, to carry on this conversation leaning against the curvature of the drainpipe. We're facing each other and a shallow stream of muddy water is flowing between us. Just a trickle, but enough to scent the air with tainted water coming from the dark end of the storm drain.
Standing a few feet from the exit we get a small amount of sunlight, and occasionally a breeze of fresh air. It's a pleasant tie to the human world. Well, that and the bodies we both wear.
Empty burger wrappers and half-filled soda cans bob at the edge of a pond basin. The pool of water is nestled into a lush flora: palm fronds, oaks laden with Spanish moss, and tall skinny trees strangled by layers of kudzu.
Two rats the size of small dogs scurry around the kind of debris loitering kids toss on the ground. Sniffing and nosing the damp dirt at the water's edge, the rodents search for sustenance. I feel more a part of their behavior than the one I'm engaging in at the moment.
Kicking a cigarette butt into the burbling watercourse, I follow the butt as it floats all the way to the little pond. One of the rats sits on its haunches and sniffs the air in our direction.
"Will you tell me what happened after you . . . after your parents found out what you'd done?" she asks, followed by, "Please?"
A submissive question, laced with discomfort. My neck muscles relax.
"My mother is the creature that cared for me. There was no S in parents during my upbringing. Unfortunately, Mother was forced to tell the wendigo who fathered me that I tried to have a sexual relationship with a human—he's the go-to monster among his race."
"Damn, that sucks," Gracie says softly.
"No kidding. I found out just how much it sucked the night he arrived," I say, momentarily distracted by an urge to take this indoors. The two-story home looms in the distance. "Good old Dad showed up to destroy me."
Even though I frown at the new face the doppelganger is wearing. Gracie is really lovely, with dark hair, eyes so brown they look black, and a tall, thin frame, but not boney or frail. She glows with natural beauty; the kind of beauty that comes from clean living, healthy food and plenty of exercise. Never before have I desired to look past outer beauty and dig at what lies beneath.
"Mother vehemently opposed my death," I say, as I scan the house we're 'borrowing' while the human and her daughter are somewhere in Ocala.
"And?" Gracie encourages.
Her word, soft and seductive, draws me. Damn, how I hate to call the doppelganger Gracie. I need a name for this creature I find myself falling in love with, not one that changes with every human it wears.
I try to put aside my physical and emotional needs and tend to her, or its, question, but the smell, the rats, and the murky water are more of a distraction than the body the doppelganger is wearing. I fully expect the doppelganger's mother to pop out of the shadows at the end of the storm pipe and drag Gracie into the nearest sewer drain.
"Look, can we take this inside?" I blurt.
"Um, sure, yeah," she says, eyes searching mine, "if that will make you more comfortable."
She bumps off the cement and trots up an embankment into a small field where the pond basin drains into a nature-made lake.
Keeping the pace, I drag my eyes off her ass and try to continue the conversation as we approach the white two-story house.
"While my father paced, mouth in a grimace, all four arms flailing anger, Mother pulled out all of her witchy things."
"Your dad has four arms?" Her voice is playful and laced with amusement. She grins as we climb the wooden stairs.
I grin back and open the front door. "Yes. Mother has only two. I guess I got lucky."
She looks runway-model perfect, carries herself like an athlete, and has a very expressive face that says everything but tells me nothing. This is impossible! I can't read the being inside, and have no idea what my doppelganger is actually thinking or feeling.
"Damn," Gracie teases. "I bet we could've got all kinds of creative with that many hands."
What the hell? Now she sounds like CeCe. She's taunting me?
We enter the house. It reeks romance—the last thing I need to add to the physical desire burbling in the animal deep inside me.
Her brown eyes sparkle with laughter as she glances toward a kitchen door to the left while we cross a small entrance way and step into another era. I'm immediately put off by the antique furniture, candles, incense, bookshelves, and tapestry carpets. It reminds me of the home I grew up in.
Gracie yelps excitement and whispers a greeting at the kitchen, catches my quizzical expression, and without hesitation, continues with the greetings. "Hello, prissy living room! Hey there, amazing kitchen. Hi, warm brick fireplace, old and graceful sofa, and beautiful smelling candles." She scans the area and finally finds me. "Hello, you."
I look around for something to break.
Color climbs her cheeks. "Sorry," she trills. "I just love this house. So what did your mother do with the witch things?"
My nostrils flare as I rein in my frustration and answer her question calmly. "She summoned the demon council, and applied for an opportunity to meet with them and plead for my life. It was within her rights to do so."
"Bet Daddy was pissed." Gracie plops down on a high-back, velveteen sofa with dark wood trim. The monstrosity doesn't look comfortable. Her head jerks toward the kitchen and back to me.
"Do you want to explain your unnatural attraction to the rooms in this house?" I ask.
Chapter 18
Gaire
"SORRY AGAIN,” GRACIE says. "It's just that I've always wanted a home like this. It's so romantic. Don't you think? And here I am in this awesome place . . . with you."
What the hell do I say to that? This cannot be the doppelganger swooning and pining over a bunch of old and worn fluff. Will every human the doppelganger wears be part of the entity I am so attracted to? Do I have to sort real feelings from each host the creature wears?
"So did your father go all wendigo on you?" she says before I can denounce my abhorrence with this place. I'm almost relieved.
"Sure did," I quickly answer, "but not on me. He couldn't, because until Mother was turned down by the wendigo elders there was nothing Father could do. Like it or not, he had to wait to kill me."
"Stop!" she shouts, facing the kitchen, and then jerks her head in my direction and smiles. "Mommy's meeting didn't go over as planned, right? Your father is still trying to kill you."
Her smile lights the room better than the overabundance of candles melting on dishes, scattered on furniture everywhere. Damn it all to hell, I want a name to address her with!
"How did Mom handle it?" she asks coyly.
I clear my throat and try to swallow a fair share of desire. My body trembles with need. The question of how Mother handled my Father cools my desires some, and with a deep intake of breath, I can move on. "My mother didn't have to handle anything, because I did. My sire made a big mistake."
"I'm thinkin'," she says and frowns at one of the bookshelves beside the couch.
I follow her eyes for a heartbeat before I say, "He said he would be back with the verdict, and left. The next morning, I did too. His mistake was to think I'd wait for the outcome."
Gracie lowers her head and whispers, "So began your life as a rogue, which you settled into quite nicely, until I came along."
I try to accept Gracie's reactions to my life story, but are they the doppelganger's true feelings? Trust, blind-faith, they are powerful words in the human race. I never trust anyone.
"I should've walked right out of your diner that morning," she says.
I want to say something, comfort her, and tell her how much she means to me. But with the growing hunger Gracie stirs in me, that would be unwise.
"I'm sorry," she says, but Gracie Jean's eyes hold hope.
Would I scare the shit out of her if I shift and take her now? Would there be compassion in the doppelganger's fiery red eyes afterward? How do we deal with the knowledge that every time we become intimate, she drops a host?
I am so tempted to find out. At the very least, it will allow us to start from the beginning, creature to creature. But to purge myself of my history is enough for one day.
"We can make this work," she says, looking at me from somewhere behind her host's human eyes.
As quickly as the notion to phase into the wendigo makes sense, it's replaced with reality. When she was CeCe she saw me unfavorably, twice: up close and personal during our only sexual encounter, and she ran. And that was before she knew I was the monster who killed Vicen at Purgatory. CeCe ran that time too, right into the beast's arms she was fleeing from. And I destroyed her host.
"This is impossible," I say, and mentally wish I'd had time to get to know the being before it suited up, with or without me shifting into the wendigo.
A doppelganger may be someone else's nightmare, but it's not mine. She, it, is my first real chance at something I've only allowed myself to dream about. I know I can't hold the being under the skin its smoky form, kiss it, feel it touch me, but we both need to get comfortable with each other while in our natural form. Love shouldn't be based purely on physical fulfillment.
"Gaire," she says. "Since I've known you, you've escaped being destroyed by a berserker in a bar full of his friends, a paid assassin who turned into a dragon and burned a house down, a serial murdering doppelganger, and your father—the worst of them all. Surely, learning how to talk to the woman you plan on forming a relationship with can't be as hard as all that."
Right? The woman I once knew? The one I only got a glimpse of, or the one it is wearing at the moment? It might be a hell of a lot easier if I can address it in a more endearing way, with a real name, not a generic title or a name attached to clothes it wears.
"I'm trying," I say for lack of anything better.
Gracie fidgets uncomfortably on the couch and I can't help but think how damn adorable this host is. That angers me.
Gracie
* * *
GAIRE’S EYES SHIFT with his moods. Fear, sorrow, hurt, frustration, and finally exasperated anger—none of which indicate love, romance, or relationship.
"So you ran," I say, trying to at least regain the conversation.
Gaire snorts and turns away.
I want to cry. This is not working. He's clearly having second thoughts about us.
With a small voice, I ask, "And in all that time you've never tried another relationship?"
"No. Once was enough." He tries a smile. A flush of color springs up on his cheeks. He shakes his head and adds, "Until you." Stoic, fabricated words for what seems to be an uncomfortable moment.
"Gaire, I am not a human. I just wear one, a copy. You did not hurt the host I was wearing that night. I didn't either." I look into his eyes. "I double up, remember? No one was hurt."
He says nothing.
What is he thinking under all that blond, blue-eyed handsomeness? I turn to stare at Gracie's grandmother, mother, and the two children floating under the doorframe between the kitchen and dining room.
My granddaughter does not need you to find her a man, Nan telepathically tells me. Get out of her body, demon! I abjure you!
Hold on with all that repudiating stuff, and don't drag out a rosary, I'm not a demon, I belligerently push back. I'm a doppelganger, and your granddaughter is fine. She's with Hope in Ocala. I'm just borrowing her image to work out something with Gaire.
I squirm anxiously, feet winging out sideways in front of the sofa, knees pointing in, and place both hands between my thighs. My nails dig into the fabric.
Gaire is watching me intently.
I lean forward.
The man is not sure you're feeling what Gracie expresses verbally and emotionally, Nan offers.
Evidently she's happy with my explanation.
Are they gonna kiss? the older child tethered to Nan asks.
Her words are loud and clear. I shoot a glance at Gaire.
Hush now, Chastity, this creature has a problem, Nan says and gives the child at the end of her right arm a shake.
Lips unmoving, Nan says, Your man's a Down Under creature like yourself. What is he?
I know shock flashes across Gracie's face. I cover it with a smile.
"This is weird, isn't it?" I say.
Gaire rewards me with an undisturbed smile and sparkling eyes before the quizzical look he gives the kitchen. "Yes, unnerving."
Yes, he's a wendigo, I mentally push.
Oh, my goodness, Nan says. Yes. Well, you sure found yourself someone special, now didn't you? Her hand passes through her face as she tries to wipe her brow.
There are too many yeses flying around. I momentarily lose track of who I'm carrying on a conversation with. Gaire evidently can't see or hear the ghosts; he's still smiling at me.
