Stray
Page 20
Shifting is possible during moments of extreme stress, but I wouldn’t recommend it. If your brain hasn’t had a chance to adjust to what’s coming, it responds by sending your body more pain signals than necessary. No one wants to experience avoidable pain. Okay, maybe masochists do, but I harbor no fondness for pain. No fondness for experiencing it, anyway.
Dimly, I heard leaves rustle as Marc and Jace entered the woods, but I made no effort to acknowledge them. I didn’t need to. They dropped to the ground, one on either side of me, and began their own Shifts.
On my knees, with my nose less than two feet from the ground, I breathed in the fragrances of the forest, letting the pine-scented air trigger my Shift. Just as certain notes played on the piano can bring to mind an entire melody, so the smel of last year’s pine needles and leaf mold cal ed forth the cat from inside me. An undulating wave of pain and change, the Shift rolled through me, tensing and relaxing my muscles with no pattern I could discern.
As a teenager, I’d struggled to try to prepare myself for each phase as it came, determined to master the art of Shifting. It didn’t work. In the end, Shifting mastered me. When I gave up trying and relaxed, I realized that while I couldn’t control my discomfort, I could anticipate it, from the first sharp stab of pain to the last nagging bone-ache. With anticipation came acceptance, and that turned out to be enough.
My spine arched and joints popped. I ground my teeth together as my fingernails hardened and grew into claws, remembering to unclench my jaw before the first ripple of pain lapped at my face, announcing the arrival of the tidal wave just behind it. Mouth open, I stretched my chin as far forward as I could, gasping as my jaw buckled and bulged with the ingress of new teeth, pointed, slightly curved, and very sharp. My tongue itched briefly but unbearably, as hundreds of tiny, backward-pointing barbs budded from it in a prickling surge from the base to the rounded tip.
And final y, just as I was starting to catch my breath, my skin began to tingle as fur sprouted across my back, flowing to cover my limbs and stomach, before moving on to my face.
The only good thing about the pain was its brevity, and the worst by far was its intensity. It was like being ripped open and rearranged, without so much as a capsule of Tylenol. Immediately following a Shift, I felt like al my bones had been broken and al owed to heal wrong, like I didn’t quite fit into my new body.
Fortunately, it only took one good stretch to improve the fit. I extended my front paws, claws piercing ground cover to grip the fragrant earth while I presented my rump to the sky, my tail waving slowly in the air.
There was a time when Shifting on a regular basis was a normal part of my life, just something else I did, like I slept, showered, and ate. Along with other, normal physical changes, my initial Shift was brought on by puberty. But unlike other biological processes, it could be repressed or initiated, though I’d pay a severe physical penalty for doing too much of either.
Away at school, I Shifted when I had to, or when an irresistible opportunity presented itself, like my yearly camping trip with Sammi’s family. While slinking undetected through a forest swarming with humans is exciting in a forbidden kind of way, it can’t compare to the sense of belonging I felt each time I hunted with the members of my Pride.
And it’s been so long, I thought, watching Marc and Jace writhe, each in the grip of his own Shift. Far too long.
Six
By the time Marc and Jace stood, their Shifts complete, I was ready to greet them on four legs. I weighed a healthy one-hundred-and-thirty-five pounds, which is slim, with ample al owance for curves on a woman my height. As a human, that’s not very impressive. But a one-hundred-and-thirty-five pound cat always gets a second glance—and usually a panicked scream.
But if I was impressive as a cat, Marc was downright scary. Including his tail, he was just over six and a half feet of sleek black fur, sharp claws and jaws powerful enough to split the back of a deer’s skull with a single bite. He was a two-hundred-and-forty-pound mass of graceful, rippling muscles, just waiting to pounce. And few things pounced on by Marc ever got back up.
My father theorized that in cat form we have occasional y been mistaken for so-cal ed “black panthers,” a term used to refer to melanistic jaguars or leopards. In short, black panthers don’t exist, but we do. All of us, regardless of our coloring as humans, have, as cats, the same short, solid black, glossy fur, completely devoid of stripes or rosettes. Length and weight vary with each individual, of course, but in general we are somewhere between the size of a jaguar and that of a small-to-medium lion.
Finished with his own Shift, Marc circled me slowly, stopping several times to sniff my fur in specific places, and once to give my nose a quick lick. Finally satisfied that all was well with me, he rubbed his cheek against mine and nipped tenderly at my neck. I let him. Social guidelines were different in cat form, when it no longer mattered who’d left whom, and why. As cats, we were part of a whole, like littermates.
Jace stood back, letting Marc have his way, because just as some rules changed, others stayed the same. Marc walked the length of my body, letting his tail drag across my back. Then he sat on the ground in front of me and roared.
My heart leapt to hear it. I hadn’t heard a roar other than my own in years.
Ours is not the distinctive roar of a lion, though it’s nearly as deep and clearly feline.
It sounds like a series of low-pitched bleats, rising and fal ing in volume, each blending into the next.
Deeper in the woods, the playful romping stopped as the others froze in place to listen. Marc had cal ed, and he was their leader in my father’s absence. As the last of Marc’s roar faded from my ears, it was replaced with the sounds signaling their approach: snapping twigs, crunching leaves and deep breathing. Cats could be absolutely silent when they chose, but rarely bothered when there was no need. The guys weren’t stalking; they were responding to a summons.
Dimly, I heard leaves rustle as Marc and Jace entered the woods, but I made no effort to acknowledge them. I didn’t need to. They dropped to the ground, one on either side of me, and began their own Shifts.
On my knees, with my nose less than two feet from the ground, I breathed in the fragrances of the forest, letting the pine-scented air trigger my Shift. Just as certain notes played on the piano can bring to mind an entire melody, so the smel of last year’s pine needles and leaf mold cal ed forth the cat from inside me. An undulating wave of pain and change, the Shift rolled through me, tensing and relaxing my muscles with no pattern I could discern.
As a teenager, I’d struggled to try to prepare myself for each phase as it came, determined to master the art of Shifting. It didn’t work. In the end, Shifting mastered me. When I gave up trying and relaxed, I realized that while I couldn’t control my discomfort, I could anticipate it, from the first sharp stab of pain to the last nagging bone-ache. With anticipation came acceptance, and that turned out to be enough.
My spine arched and joints popped. I ground my teeth together as my fingernails hardened and grew into claws, remembering to unclench my jaw before the first ripple of pain lapped at my face, announcing the arrival of the tidal wave just behind it. Mouth open, I stretched my chin as far forward as I could, gasping as my jaw buckled and bulged with the ingress of new teeth, pointed, slightly curved, and very sharp. My tongue itched briefly but unbearably, as hundreds of tiny, backward-pointing barbs budded from it in a prickling surge from the base to the rounded tip.
And final y, just as I was starting to catch my breath, my skin began to tingle as fur sprouted across my back, flowing to cover my limbs and stomach, before moving on to my face.
The only good thing about the pain was its brevity, and the worst by far was its intensity. It was like being ripped open and rearranged, without so much as a capsule of Tylenol. Immediately following a Shift, I felt like al my bones had been broken and al owed to heal wrong, like I didn’t quite fit into my new body.
Fortunately, it only took one good stretch to improve the fit. I extended my front paws, claws piercing ground cover to grip the fragrant earth while I presented my rump to the sky, my tail waving slowly in the air.
There was a time when Shifting on a regular basis was a normal part of my life, just something else I did, like I slept, showered, and ate. Along with other, normal physical changes, my initial Shift was brought on by puberty. But unlike other biological processes, it could be repressed or initiated, though I’d pay a severe physical penalty for doing too much of either.
Away at school, I Shifted when I had to, or when an irresistible opportunity presented itself, like my yearly camping trip with Sammi’s family. While slinking undetected through a forest swarming with humans is exciting in a forbidden kind of way, it can’t compare to the sense of belonging I felt each time I hunted with the members of my Pride.
And it’s been so long, I thought, watching Marc and Jace writhe, each in the grip of his own Shift. Far too long.
Six
By the time Marc and Jace stood, their Shifts complete, I was ready to greet them on four legs. I weighed a healthy one-hundred-and-thirty-five pounds, which is slim, with ample al owance for curves on a woman my height. As a human, that’s not very impressive. But a one-hundred-and-thirty-five pound cat always gets a second glance—and usually a panicked scream.
But if I was impressive as a cat, Marc was downright scary. Including his tail, he was just over six and a half feet of sleek black fur, sharp claws and jaws powerful enough to split the back of a deer’s skull with a single bite. He was a two-hundred-and-forty-pound mass of graceful, rippling muscles, just waiting to pounce. And few things pounced on by Marc ever got back up.
My father theorized that in cat form we have occasional y been mistaken for so-cal ed “black panthers,” a term used to refer to melanistic jaguars or leopards. In short, black panthers don’t exist, but we do. All of us, regardless of our coloring as humans, have, as cats, the same short, solid black, glossy fur, completely devoid of stripes or rosettes. Length and weight vary with each individual, of course, but in general we are somewhere between the size of a jaguar and that of a small-to-medium lion.
Finished with his own Shift, Marc circled me slowly, stopping several times to sniff my fur in specific places, and once to give my nose a quick lick. Finally satisfied that all was well with me, he rubbed his cheek against mine and nipped tenderly at my neck. I let him. Social guidelines were different in cat form, when it no longer mattered who’d left whom, and why. As cats, we were part of a whole, like littermates.
Jace stood back, letting Marc have his way, because just as some rules changed, others stayed the same. Marc walked the length of my body, letting his tail drag across my back. Then he sat on the ground in front of me and roared.
My heart leapt to hear it. I hadn’t heard a roar other than my own in years.
Ours is not the distinctive roar of a lion, though it’s nearly as deep and clearly feline.
It sounds like a series of low-pitched bleats, rising and fal ing in volume, each blending into the next.
Deeper in the woods, the playful romping stopped as the others froze in place to listen. Marc had cal ed, and he was their leader in my father’s absence. As the last of Marc’s roar faded from my ears, it was replaced with the sounds signaling their approach: snapping twigs, crunching leaves and deep breathing. Cats could be absolutely silent when they chose, but rarely bothered when there was no need. The guys weren’t stalking; they were responding to a summons.
