Changer (Athanor) (21 page)

Sven knows the complications that being caught in a questionable shape can create.  The Changer, clinging to the back of his blunt head, refuses to let go.

Panicked, Sven shifts into another reptilian form, this one a slim, swift garter snake that eludes the mongoose and slithers under the curtain and out the door.  Staying close to the walls, the garter snake ducks under an equipment cart and waits, its cold heart beating uncomfortably fast.  The chill of the tiles seduces the reptile to torpor.

Although nearly exhausted, Sven becomes a tan spider.  He doesn’t like being an insect.  Even the most venomous are too easily killed, but his repertoire of nonhuman shapes is limited and too many of them are large and menacing.

The Changer has not emerged from the hospital room or, if he has, he has done so in a form that Sven cannot see.  The latter possibility terrifies him until he decides that the Changer would not leave Eddie until he is certain that the other man is safe.

Carefully, Sven spiderwalks down the wall, then leaps to catch a ride on a passing gurney.  When he is clear of the ICU, he locates a locker room and steals a pair of pants, a set of sneakers, and a shirt.  The outfit isn’t the fashion statement he would have preferred, but he is willing to settle—especially since he can tailor his human form to accommodate the clothes.

With the Changer on his trail, he cannot linger.  Eddie can wait.  They all can wait.  The end result will be the same.

In Eddie’s hospital room, the Changer quivers in mouse form beneath the beside table.  He had barely had time to stuff the
faux
nurse’s clothes into the laundry bin and shift before the staff arrived.

Now he listens while nurses and their aides reconnect the equipment, fretting aloud: “I don’t know how he could have knocked anything over!” the floor supervisor says.  “I’m certain he’s been unconscious the entire time.”

“Spasm?” an aide suggests timidly.

“I guess.”  The supervisor frowns.  “Let’s get the restraints on him, then.  We don’t want a repeat.”

The Changer agrees, waiting until they depart.  He longs to find Arthur, to turn the guarding over to another and see if he can find sign of the shapeshifter he has just fought.

But he does not dare leave Eddie alone.  The assassin might return, might invoke a sending of some sort.  He shifts from mouse to raven and flaps to perch on the open bathroom door.  From there, he spots the telephone.

Cocking his head on one side and suppressing a thoughtful “pr-r-uk,” he considers his options.  The Changer flutters down, shapes himself into a man, lifts the receiver.  A dial tone greets him.  Well enough.  The Changer presses the combination for Arthur’s cellphone.

“Hello?” Arthur himself answers.  Oddly, his voice is soft, as if he is whispering.

“This is the Changer.  I want you to come to Eddie’s room.  He’s been attacked.”

“What?”

“He’s been attacked.  Can you come here?”

“They suggested I wait until visiting hours, said that Eddie would be groggy from surgery.”

“He’s more than groggy; he’s out.  Come here anyway.  If someone tries to stop you, tell them you heard someone say there had been a crisis and you won’t rest until you see him.”

“I’ll try.”

“How long until you’re here?”

“Just a few minutes.  I’m down in the lounge now.”

“Good.  I’ll be waiting.”

“Right.  Changer, what are
you
doing here?”

Grinning, the Changer hangs up the phone and shifts into a raven once more.

Arthur arrives within the promised few minutes, escorted by the protesting floor supervisor.  Hearing them approach, the Changer reluctantly returns to mouse form and hides beneath the bedside table.

“I tell you,” the supervisor is saying, “your friend is quite fine.”

“I insist on seeing for myself,” Arthur answers, stubborn and imperious.  The Changer can imagine him sweeping along, his beard jutting forward, his shoulders squared.  “And if you attempt to stop me, I will be forced to report you to the board.”

The supervisor stops talking, trying to decide whether this arrogant man might have the connections to harm her.  Evidently, she decides that challenging him further is not worth the risk.

When they enter, the Changer hears Arthur’s sharp intake of breath when he sees his battered comrade.  To the Changer, who had seen him raw and bleeding, Eddie’s present appearance is an improvement, but he can understand Arthur’s shock.

The bruises that had just been forming at the scene of the accident are purple and swelling.  Eddie’s five-o’clock shadow has lengthened some with the passing of the hours, but it is not enough to hide the abrasions on his chin—and nothing can conceal his split lip.  His forehead has been stitched.  And these are the minor injuries.

Arthur must have been told about the broken ribs, the lung that had to be reinflated, the pints of blood soaked into the upholstery of the sedan.  He must know about the perforated bowel that has been resected, about the looming threat of peritonitis.

He mutters something softly and the Changer is among the handful of those living who can understand the tongue of ancient Babylon:
“Oh, my liege man!  Oh, my friend!  If you die, I will have the blood and heart of the one who has caused this!”

The King sits heavily upon the room’s one chair, his gaze still fixed on his Eddie’s pale face.  Accepting the inevitable, the floor supervisor departs.  Arthur rises after she is gone and closes the room’s door.

“Changer?” he queries the air.

The Changer scampers out from under the bedside table, crosses beneath the bed, and takes human form on the other side.

“Here, Arthur,” he says.

Arthur looks across, gestures to the curtain.  “Pull that closed,” he says, “so you will have a moment to shift if the nurse returns.  Did they see you before?”

“No, I came in as a mouse, remained as such until…”  The Changer frowns.  “Until Eddie’s attacker arrived.  She was dressed as a nurse or technician—I can’t read their heraldry—and was going to kill him by introducing air into his blood.”

“She?”

“Female form at least.  When I tried to stop her, I had ample evidence that she was a shapeshifter.”

Concisely, he recounts the skirmish, not omitting any of the forms he had seen his opponent assume.

“The komodo dragon was an interesting choice,” Arthur says, when the Changer is done, “though not a terribly easy one to pass off if she was discovered.  Did she remain female throughout?”

The Changer frowns as he tries to remember.  “I can’t be sure.  I was too busy fighting to sex reptiles.”

“All reptiles, though,” Arthur says.  “Interesting.  If Satan was real, we’d have a match.”

“Sadly, that one is fancy,” the Changer says.  “The trail is cold by now, but if you will remain with Eddie, I will scout.”

“Go!” Arthur says.  “I am not stirring from his side.  If that devoted nurse tries to make me, I shall gently request that she check my name against the hospital benefactors’ list.  Do you need help making an exit?”

The Changer shake his head.  “No, I’ll run mouse-form until I get outside, then shift raven.  I should manage.”

“Be careful,” Arthur says, his gaze already returning to his friend’s face.

“Are you armed?” the Changer asks.

Arthur smiles, lifts his jacket to reveal the gun holster concealed by his immaculate tailoring.  “I also have a blade in my boot.  However, I will keep the nurse’s call button under my thumb and be prepared to make a ruckus if anything happens.”

“Modern tools”—the Changer nods—“will serve you better here than steel.”

“I know.”  Arthur’s expression turns sorrowful.  “And so I try to tell our people, but at times like this even I long for the direct solutions of sword or fist.”

“Today is not the day to alter policy,” the Changer reminds him.  “I will let you know if I find something.”

“Call in every hour or ninety minutes, if you would,” Arthur says, his sorrow masked by kingly concern.  “We do not want you to be taken without our being alerted.  To be honest, we have been worried since you departed and sent us no further word.”

The Changer looks rueful.  “I forgot about the telephone.  I tend to, after a long time away from such things.”

Arthur smiles slightly, watches as the man becomes a mouse.

“Good luck,” he whispers.

There is no answer, not even a squeak.  The mouse skitters beneath the nearest cover and runs.

9

The long habit of living indisposeth us for dying.

—Thomas Browne

R
ebecca
>> So what are you?

Monk
>> Is telling a requirement for being on this site?  How would you know if I was telling the truth, anyhow?

Demetrios
>> Don’t be so rude to a lady!  She didn’t ask anything offensive.

Monk
>> Sorry.  I guess we have all become so accustomed to protecting our identities that I jumped at the question.

Rebecca
>> You don’t need to tell.

Monk
>> That’s all right.  I’m a
tengu
.

Demetrios
>> Pardon my ignorance, but what’s a
tengu
?

Monk
>> I’m island-born, originally from the mountains of Nippon—Japan.  A
tengu
is a shapeshifter.  Some have called us tricksters.  I don’t think that’s precisely fair.

Rebecca
>> A shapeshifter??  What kind of shapes??

Monk
>> Something like a bird-ogre, birds of prey, humans.

Demetrios
>>  You can shape humans?  Then why are you interested in our cause?

Rebecca
>> You can be human?  Wow!

Monk
>> Fair question, Demetrios.  Like I said, some people call us tricksters.  I prefer to think of us as social commentators.  For centuries we have been the enemies of those who would use religion against the masses.  Corrupt monks—especially wandering ones who begged for food and shelter and didn’t have to answer to anyone—were our particular targets.

Rebecca
>>  What’s to keep you from going after them now?