The Shifters (12 page)

The table was already cleared, the dishes put away, and Fiona and Shauna were in the living room, talking, Shauna as usual prowling the room like a
wild animal. She stopped in her tracks when Caitlin entered from the garden door.

“And where did you just go off to? Or should I say ‘
get
off'? What's going on with you and that shapeshifter, anyway?”

Her younger sister wasn't teasing. Caitlin could feel the sharpness of the question underneath the joke.

“Nothing's going on with him,” Caitlin said coldly. “He has prior knowledge of the walk-ins. We need to know what he knows, whatever he's telling the truth about, which may not be much. That's all.”

Sensing a storm brewing, Fiona stepped in smoothly. “We need a Council meeting. I for one think Mallory is telling the truth, and we need to prepare ourselves, and root out these walk-ins any way we can.” She looked at Caitlin penetratingly as she asked the next question.

“You don't have any reason to doubt that whatever happens will happen on Samhain, do you?”

Caitlin met her eyes, answered reluctantly. “No. I think we need to be ready for a mass possession on Samhain, if we don't act before then.”

Fiona looked at both her sisters. “Then let's move.”

E
ver since restaurateur Armand St. Pierre had assumed the position of head counselor of the shapeshifting community, shifter-called Council meetings had taken on a sumptuous elegance far beyond the usual freewheeling style of the Communities. St. Pierre owned the historic restaurant Viola's, catercornered to Jackson Square. It had been an old Creole mansion, and now the downstairs rooms served as an upscale restaurant—closed to the public tonight—famous for its Sunday jazz breakfasts, and the upper level, with its polished cypress floors and enormous fireplaces in every room, was rented out as a banquet hall for parties. It was a perfect gath
ering place for Council meetings, as the upstairs had several discreet back entrances, and the entire floor was completely private, its own self-contained universe, more than big enough for the dozens of Others who gathered for a meeting of the appointed Council representatives of the various races. And the food St. Pierre provided was so excellent that not even the werewolves complained about the upper-crust surroundings.

Caitlin loved Viola's because of its timelessness. The upstairs was like a tour through history: the stairwell where Gregorian chants played continuously, so softly, subconsciously, that it felt like a dream, like ghost music; the red-wallpapered Victorian bordello rooms with their gilt mirrors and horsehair couches, and even an Egyptian sarcophagus; and the elegant banquet halls, one room flowing into another with twenty-foot-tall doors separating them, and marble fireplaces in each hall.

When St. Pierre hosted, he demanded formal dress at the Council meetings. While there was no way technically to enforce the dress code, New Orleans residents being costume fetishists at heart, a surprising number of the Others complied, even went full-out and got competitive in their period elegance.

Armand particularly expected to see the three Keepers setting the bar in the costume department,
and even Shauna, who favored jeans and tank tops, would not have denied him. If a little lace and perfume kept the shapeshifters' high counsel happy, it was worth an extra hour spent dressing.

And despite the seriousness of the occasion, after phoning, emailing and racing around the city all day to ensure that all the Council members would be present at the impromptu summit, all three Keepers were looking forward to a party.

The MacDonald sisters, particularly Fiona, had a long-term association with the best costumer in the Quarter, Rosalyn Connor, who met the three sisters at Viola's with some of her best vintage Creole finery.

Now Caitlin stood in one of the bordello rooms with her hands propped against the wall as Fiona laced her up into a corset. Rosalyn was handling Shauna, who muttered darkly about this part, but Caitlin loved the pretty clothes and the excuse to wear them. Rosalyn had as usual outdone herself, and the sisters' dresses were beaded confections of silver, lilac and gold.

“Someone could try explaining to me how these instruments of torture are supposed to help us think better,” Shauna grumbled, as Rosalyn yanked her corset strings. “Cutting off the oxygen to our brains…”

“Anything that will make you talk less and listen more,” Fiona said tartly.

“Hah-hah.” Shauna pulled away from Rosalyn and adjusted her bosom, unperturbed. She glanced in the mirror, and Caitlin could see she wasn't displeased with what she saw; the golds and reds of her gown made her exotic coloring shimmer.

“Thanks, Roz. You're a miracle.” Shauna kissed the costumer's cheek quickly, and escaped the room.

Fiona had finally finished Caitlin's stays and tied them off, tucking the strings into the bodice. “That was too easy,” she said to Caitlin, frowning. “You're not eating, are you?”

Rosalyn was pulling the silver dress off the form that had held it. “Girls in love don't eat,” the irrepressible costumer quipped, and Caitlin felt herself redden. Luckily Rosalyn had already dropped the dress over her head, so no one could see the tears springing to her eyes.

He doesn't want me. It's just a job.
She swallowed and forced a scoffing tone. “With a shapeshifter? Not in this lifetime,” she retorted, her voice muffled under yards of gossamer fabric.

Beyond the dress, there was a suspicious silence. Caitlin felt hands tugging the gown down over her corset and petticoats, and as her head and shoulders emerged, she caught a glimpse of Fiona giving Rosalyn a significant look.

Rosalyn snatched up a velvet shawl and said
loudly, “That Shauna—she left behind the most important part. You can button the dress for Cait, can't you?” she said to Fiona, and promptly headed for the door, tossing a “You look beautiful, baby,” over her shoulder as she bustled out.

Caitlin's eyes narrowed. “I know you two are up to—” Then Fiona turned Caitlin toward the mirror, and Caitlin fell silent as she saw herself in shimmering silver. It was a stunning dress; she felt as beautiful as she'd ever felt in her whole life.

“It would be a shame to waste all that gorgeousness tonight,” Fiona remarked, as she started to do up the buttons.

“Are you pushing me toward a shifter?” Caitlin demanded in disbelief. “I swear, that vampire has fried your brain.”

“I'm not pushing anyone anywhere,” Fiona demurred.

Liar. But I'm just not like you. No one will ever feel that way about me.

“And don't call him ‘that vampire,'” her sister added, with a coolness that made Caitlin pause. Fiona so rarely lost her temper that Caitlin knew to be very careful if there was even a hint that she might.

“Sorry,” Caitlin muttered, and turned away, tucking her gris-gris bag into the bodice of her dress.

Fiona sighed. “Caitlin, we work with Others. We will always work with Others. But even if we didn't,
are we really serving anyone by thinking of them as Others to begin with? We share the planet with them. We share this city with them. We want the same things—music, good food, good times. Happiness.
Love
.” She paused.

“I know you've been hurt,” she continued carefully, and her hands were gentle as she continued to button the dress up Caitlin's back. “But you could have been hurt just as hard by a mortal. We fall in love, we make mistakes—that's life. We're all doing the best we can.”

Caitlin found her throat aching, tears pushing at her eyes.

Fiona laughed softly. “It's scary, isn't it?”

Caitlin nodded, unable to speak.

“Every day since I met Jagger, I'm scared to death,” Fiona said, but she was laughing as she spoke, her happiness evident.

Choked up though she was, Caitlin was able to laugh with her.

Fiona hugged her from behind.

“This shifter—you may not think so, but he cares about you. He
sees
you.” She paused, glanced in the mirror at their dual reflection, and continued wryly. “And you're not always the easiest person to get.” She stopped again, then continued slowly. “But I think he does. And sometimes love is about someone
who is willing to see you—and love you despite everything.”

Caitlin's emotions were roiling, and she didn't trust herself to speak. Fiona was almost never wrong. Could she possibly be right, now?

Fiona had reached the top button, and now she smoothed down the back of Caitlin's gown with a satisfied look in the mirror.

“All I want is for you to be happy. And you'll never be happy without someone who's your equal—and who loves you. That's all I'm saying, and I'll stop now. It's all about love.”

The sisters were silent, looking at each other in the mirror, through a shimmer of candlelight—and tears.

 

Ryder milled in the throngs of Others crowding the elegant rooms of Viola's, experiencing a heady rush of memories, all the reasons he had always loved New Orleans.

For someone who had lived almost two centuries, the city was an intoxicating mix of the old and the new. Ryder's nostalgia and his hunger for new ideas were equally satisfied and stimulated by the mix of styles, foods, music and attendees at this sumptuous party. Armand St. Pierre was a superlative host. No surprise. Beings who had lived through several generations became adept at culling the most intriguing, lavish, stimulating, daring trends of each era and
combining them to create multilayered extravaganzas of visual, sensual, auditory, olfactory and gastronomic sensations.

Without ever forgetting his purpose there, which was to suss out any signs of possession by a walk-in, Ryder delighted in the pleasures around him: the costuming, the impeccably trained waitstaff, the perfect restoration of a building that had been just as lovely nearly a century ago, when it had been the private residence of an old New Orleans family and Ryder had attended a Christmas ball there. By New Year's he had been run out of town by the male relatives of the young debutante he had met at that party…

But that had been another era.

Earlier he had seen Shauna dash by in a rush of scarlet and gold, but there had been no sign of the other Keepers. Focused as he was on the task of recognizing any signs of walk-in possession among the other guests, he felt equally tense about seeing Caitlin again.

As he thought it, his eye was drawn up the sweeping staircase—and his heart almost stopped at the sight.

Caitlin was standing at the top of the stairs, poised and still, looking down over the crowd as if taking it in, taking a breath, before her descent.

She was unbelievably beautiful in a gown sparkling with crystals that made her look like starlight. Almost
two hundred years, and Ryder couldn't remember seeing anyone, anything, like her.

She took a breath that he felt in his own chest and started down the stairs, not at a walk, but floating, a queen descending to her destiny.

He stepped forward to claim her.

 

Standing on the stairs, Caitlin felt the warmth of the room flowing up toward her, a wave of mingled sensual delights.

Everything below her was candlelight and lamp light. Armand had the most demanding taste and would never allow anything less than period perfection at his parties.

The smells of seafood and sausage, delicate she-crab soup and set-your-mouth-on-fire gumbo, fresh fruit, burnt sugar, chocolate, fragrant flowers and sensual perfumes drifted in the air, which shimmered with candlelight and anticipation. And for a moment Caitlin understood that the Others
kept
the mysterious history of New Orleans, just as the Keepers kept the balance between the needs of the Others and humankind.

And then she felt a rush of heat beyond the pleasing glow of fires in the massive fireplaces, beyond the wavering of candles and the sparkle of champagne and good food and good music and good times.

She focused below her and saw…Ryder Mallory
standing at the bottom of the stairs and looking straight up at her.

He was dressed in an embroidered waistcoat, probably something Armand had forced on him; St. Pierre was notorious for pulling his guests aside at the door and providing a costume to suit his ideas of proper dress. Caitlin knew he kept a superbly stocked dressing room for just that purpose.

But Ryder wore the finery as if he had been born to it. The man who looked up at her—waiting for her—was no rogue, but royalty. And the intention on his face, in his eyes, was breathtaking. His desire was as clear as if he were speaking aloud, not simple desire for her body, but for her entire being. Caitlin slowed on the stairs, overwhelmed by the power of it—and at the same time acutely aware of her own power over him.

She stopped on the bottom step, and Ryder moved forward and bowed as if he had done it every day of his life—then held out an arm to lead her down the last stair. Caitlin rested her hand lightly on his arm, feeling that electric jolt between them.

His eyes were fixed on hers as if he would never look away. “You are the loveliest thing in this room,” he said, without a trace of irony, and Caitlin felt herself blush from the top of her breasts to her cheeks, a high, erotic flame. “And the loveliest woman I have
ever seen,” he added softly, and she felt her insides dissolve, her head spin.

She had no idea how to respond to him, or even how she was going to remain standing in the intense focus of his wanting. It was a moment stopped in time; there were other bodies, other beings, around them, but they were alone in the room, alone in the universe.

“We have work to do,” she said.

Although she could see from his face that he understood completely that she was deliberately breaking the moment, unable to handle its implications, he remained gravely courteous. There was not a trace of mockery in his voice when he answered, “Yes. I've been walking the room. So far nothing suspicious, no one out of control or acting any more strangely than Others tend to act at a party.”

“That's good,” she answered, aware of how awkward the nuts-and-bolts conversation was, considering their circumstances and attire. She felt as if she were trapped in a movie, playing a role that was layered over the truth of what she wanted to live.

“How do these Council meetings work?” he asked, looking at her mouth as he spoke. She tried to focus…but all she wanted was for him to kiss her.

“We'll be called to dinner, and then the meeting will start over dessert,” she answered him, forcing herself to stay calm.

“We have time, then,” he said, and her chest flushed and her heart began to race.

Time for what?

She had a sudden vision of him sweeping her up, carrying her up the stairs like Scarlett O'Hara, throwing her down on one of the Victorian couches, tearing open her gown and ravishing her over and over and over again….

He smiled slowly, as if he'd seen—and lived—every moment of her brief fantasy along with her. Then he said with maddening casualness, “Time to mingle and check out the guests, I meant.”

“Of course,” she said, her face burning.

“Tell me who I should know here,” he suggested. “One of your Community leaders would be an ideal host to possess, if the walk-in we're after could manage it.”