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  Shift River

  By: Alisia Compton

  Copyright © 2013 by Alisia Compton

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at [email protected].

  Shift River

  By: Alisia Compton

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at [email protected].

  HALF BLOOD

  ALMOST MY BOYFRIEND

  STRANGE VISION

  THE LAST CHANCE MOON

  THE WOLF HAS RETURNED

  UNINVITED GUEST

  NAKED

  JUST IN TIME

  SHREDDED

  “HAVE A LOOK”

  THE FLIRT

  IMMINENT DANGER

  OLD NIGHTMARES

  FAIR WARNING

  LOVE IS UNTIMELY

  LIKE-BLOOD WITH LIKE-BLOOD

  THE ABUTRE’S

  GOODBYE FRIEND

  THE DANCE

  HALF BLOOD

  “Do you think it will it make a difference that I’m only a half-blood?”

  I’m scared and nervous, even though it’s my nineteenth birthday. Birthdays are supposed to be a happy time, but this one has me uncertain. Standing on the water’s edge, letting my toes be washed over by the flowing stream, I’m languishing in the shadow of my father, which looms over me like a centuries old tulip poplar. The water brought me a moment of peace before he steamrolled my tranquility. The stream is our source of life, a gift from the great Willowemoc River that flows at the bottom of the mountain, and it had served to remind me how insignificant I was, so small on this earth. This notion was not sad, nor did it haunt me. It only served to limit me. It’s the water that nourishes our thirst, and under its gently flowing current our dinner swims, and this water would continue to provide, whether I changed or not. Nature would continue, whether or not I did.

  My father, the great Grayson Ellory, squints up into the sun, letting his pale skin and dark hair bathe in its glow. He’s contemplating my question, more than likely blaming himself for loving a woman who isn’t like him, a woman with different blood. It’s a long time before he finally answers me.

  “Sure. It matters a little bit, but it’s unusual, Hadley. You’ll change.”

  “Even with mom?”

  I knew what he was going to say, but I asked anyway.

  “Even with mom not being a shifter and all. Hadley, we’ been over this. Plenty o’ shifters wait till the last minute, but they always change. Besides, if it weren’ for your mama, you wouldn’ even exist. Now, let that one sink in.”

  He thinks he’s so clever, but he’s spent too much time in the south to sound like anything other than some bizarre mix of bayou crawdads and sweaty Memphis lawyers. His deeply southern accent is betrayed by the look of him, which is all mountain man, right down to the silver hairs in his long beard and the epic amount of flannel spread across his brawny shoulders. Maybe he thought he was Paul Bunyan walking toward me with that heavy axe just resting at his side, or perhaps, he’d simply used chopping firewood as an excuse to find me. Whatever the reason, he swung that axe around as if it weighed nothing, a baton in the hands of an artful conductor of some road-side parade. Into the air it would go, before landing hard into his fists. His meaty arms would wind backward and in one fluid motion he could take down an entire tree – well, one of the younger ones. We are as northern as they come up here on the mountain, even my dad who keeps his accent even when the people in town give him weird looks. To the people in town it was strange that a man so present (my father was presently seven feet tall and handy with an axe) could be born of somewhere else. The mountain gave birth to men like him, reared them up, and yet he betrayed them with his speech, a sound rooted in the entanglements of hybrid fauna capable of existing on shore and off.

  He takes me by the arm, and he is a giant of a man compared to me, and I remember what it was like to look up at him as a child. I have memories of not seeing his face because it was so high up! Back then he would scoop me into the air allow me to ride on his shoulders, and if it weren’t for the trees soaring over my head, I would have rather thought myself a true giantess. Now, I am grown and his height is no longer some enchanting phenomenon, but rather yet another reminder that my parentage is only half-blood. In our culture, we are larger than average, at least by a couple inches. At five feet six inches, I am only regular sized and I’m the smallest girl on our compound. Did I mention I have a younger sister? Yes, I am shorter than her too.

  He leads me by the elbow through a grove of yellow birch. The ground is covered in manicured grass, unlike the land by the stream. It’s amazing how quickly I miss the moss covered roots, tangled up on the stream bed. It’s only the stream that can support the weight of my truth, and I already wish I was back on her edge, her tongue lapping at my bare toes.

  “When this is all over,” I tell myself “I’ll take a trip down the mountain, to where the river rushes and rages. It’s a heck of a lot better than sticking around up here.”

  Most of our neighbors have gathered to celebrate my birthday. Smiles are plastered to their faces, but their eyes are not so deceptive. Various shades of hazel, brown and blue fidget about uncomfortably in their tilted skulls. A half hour ago, I’d stolen away from the picnic table, and it was as if their bodies had remained frozen in time while I was gone, except their eyes, which continued to dance about in their heads.

  “I found her down by the stream,” my father shouted, giving me a hearty slap on the back and sending me careening toward them. I stumbled forward, and slid into my seat, taking my place in front of a big yellow cake with white buttercream frosting with the words, “Happy Birthday, Hadley” written in sugary sweet blue gel.

  “You always do know where to find her,” my mother said, beaming happily, as if there wasn’t a single strange thing about a girl abandoning her own birthday party.

  “She certainly loves the water, my little water bug.”

  Do I love the water? I certainly require the sound of it to drown out the never-ending whispering of my mind. It’s not like you can swim in the Willowemoc’s dangerous currents, so it’s not swimming that draws me to its shores, although from time to time I do bathe where the rocks gather to create a small pool. What’s not to love? It’s the only part of this mountain where I feel alive. Maybe that’s why I chose to lose my virginity to Wyatt on the wild bank, where the waters are sometimes known to rear up and swallow everything on shore. He was scared, but he wasn’t a virgin, and I thought it only fair that he share in my nubile chopped breathing and trembling skin. He was gentle that first time, laying me down on the cold stone and gripping my hand over my head, his hand entwined in mine, his other hand expertly undressing me, touching my skin and causing goose pimples to prickle down my body. He was earnest, but respectful, and it was everything I’d imagined it could be – our bodies becoming one under the moonlight. Afterward, we just laid there until the sun was visible over the horizon in the valley.

  Reality set in af
ter I arrived home that morning. Mama had the cards laid out in front of her and it was obvious she knew. She being a psychic meant I couldn’t keep secrets from her. The look on her tired faced told me she’d been up all night worrying about me, and this frustrated me to no end. There can never be peace on this mountain, and it was peace I needed, especially post-devirginizing, when all I wanted was to lie in my bed and recall every detail. I wondered if her cards told her how many times, and how it had felt breathing in Wyatt’s sweat soaked skin. Daddy had no idea – still doesn’t – and that was one thing to be grateful for. He’d probably shoot Wyatt where he stands if he ever did find out. Instead, he slaps Wyatt on the back, in a self-congratulatory sort of way. He’s beaming with pride, being that he knew just where to find me, and that he was able to coax me back to my birthday party.

  If it was six months ago, Wyatt would have stumbled forward under the weight of my father’s powerful slap on the back. He’s practically immovable, as his body has gained a great deal of sinewy muscle. This is the strength that comes from shifting. Now when we make love, Wyatt takes me like an animal, with a passion only something wild can muster and it is far less labored than our first time on the river’s edge. Some say that regular sex can rush the change for a male. He may not have changed after losing his virginity to that plain Jane from town, but he changed almost immediately after making love to me. Under the light of a full moon, on a path just outside our compound, he shifted. As much as I wanted to be happy for him, I rather wondered if it was a mistake to lose my v-card to him on the cusp of a full moon. I returned home to find my mom about to fall asleep in the midst of a Tarot spread that detailed the loss of my hymen; it wasn’t her business, but she read those cards none-the-less. He returned home to sleep away the day, and the following night he did what shifters do, and he painfully shifted into his first animal, a Siberian husky. Wyatt and I came to be together as non-shifters, so when I learned that he’d shifted it broke my heart, as I knew that until I shifted, we would be worlds away from one another. I can feel it every time he gets that wild, horny look in his eye and comes at me like a tiger.

  If I don’t change, I’m not sure we can last.

  The decorations for my nineteenth birthday cling to tree branches; rice paper lanterns and mason jars filled with colorful gel candles. These effects are tied to the branches by the twine we use to hold together hay bales. They softly sway in a gentle breeze. My father returns to my side and, with his arm draped over my shoulder, he whispers in my ear, “I can smell it on you. You’re going to change.”

  My mother’s eyes are on mine. They are a lovely chestnut brown, enlivened with strange specks of gold which catch the sun reflecting off the mason jars gently bowing and ebbing in the breeze. She’s beautiful, but I’m sickened by her because I’m like her. I look like her, act like her, talk like her. She’s not a shifter, and I’m probably like her in that way too.

  I’m officially nineteen. If I don’t shift under the next full moon, then I’ll never shift. Mama said she’d birthed me naturally, under the light of a full moon. How strange it feels when things come full circle like that.

  “How do you feel,” Nia asks me, creeping up beside me on the wooden bench. In truth, I’m entirely jealous of her.

  “Fine.”

  “It’s going to happen,” she says, taking my hand in her smaller hand.

  “How do you know,” I ask, snatching my hand back and placing both my hands in my lap, under the table, where she can’t reach them.

  “Because, you’ve done everything the right way. You’ve gone to the barn every day and stroked Mimic’s neck, just like daddy taught us. You’ve been drinking Maisha’s potions when she fixes them up. And, you spend a lot of time in the forest, and shifters are drawn to the forest.”

  “She’s right,” my dad offers, nodding approvingly. Of course he would approve of her! Nia, my younger sister, had shifted effortlessly.

  Daddy had rescued – some would say stole – Mimic from a traveling circus. A big red train with six cars had the words “Samtine and Buckley” painted in large yellow letters on its side. A fallen tree had marooned the train at the bottom of the mountain, and for the better part of a week, we brought meals to six cars worth of circus performers, and our parents had learned the DNA structures of the various animals, and by summer’s end our compound had zebras, lions, and giraffes, and had become a zoo-like menagerie of wild animals. My father had called that a fair trade for the help we’d provided the performers, who’d not been invited to our compound, as it’s against the rules for any non-shifter to know the location of the compound. To non-shifters they appeared every bit as human, until our parents left the presence of the ridiculously clad circus folk to return to our compound and shift into the animals they’d learned using “touch.” Touch is the shifter’s way of collecting an animal’s form. When a shifter touches the skin of an animal, with the pads of his fingers, the DNA of that animal is stored forever, and that shifter can rearrange his own DNA structure and morph into the animal at will.

  Mimic belonged to a gothic clown named Isabella. She wore red and white color blocked tights, under black leather miniskirts and tube tops. She smoked and drank, and sometimes in her drunken stupor, she’d spit at Mimic, hocking loogies into his coarse fur. At ten years old, this behavior was a threat to everything I’d been taught about respecting the culture of animals, as their very being was proof of some higher power that had blessed our people with the gift to share in their forms. Isabella did not respect her animal. I’d been taught that to exist in the company of an animal isn’t to own him, but rather to appreciate him and provide for him. She’d not appreciated Mimic, especially when she’d use violence to train him, and she certainly did not provide him, as his descended stomach was proof of long-term hunger. And so, after the tree had been fully liberated from the railway tracks, my father snuck into the last train car, where Isabella was passed out and rescued her chimp. Shifters are kindred with animals, and Mimic took to my father’s arms. Outside the train car, Mimic was passed to me and I carried him all the way home, where he’s lived in my barn ever since.

  Over the years, Mimic has become a good friend to me. In his eyes, there is humanity and I do feel connected to him – I really do – which is why I’m certain I won’t shift. Any shifter with a solid connection to an animal should shift – plain and simple. Before me, he hadn’t had any name. Isabella had called him, “monkey” because she’d not had the sense to realize a chimp is cleverer than a monkey. She’d treated Mimic like an emotionless animal, but from the moment he’d climbed into my arms, I’d recognized him as a kindred spirit. He didn’t belong in that circus about as much as I didn’t belong on my compound. We were two peas in a pod, and he’d follow my gestures, pulling an ear when I did or sticking out his tongue and blowing raspberries right back at me. We took to calling him Mimic because, for a while, that’s all he did. I was able to teach him sign language and that whole “not belonging” thing faded away like the end of a French film because now he could communicate, and he did belong – he belonged with me. And he really is the smartest animal I’ve ever encountered.

  No matter how close we are, there hasn’t been a single full moon under which I’d taken his form. My body won’t shift and now it’s almost too late. As much as I love Mimic, love doesn’t make a person shift – blood does. Having half-blood means I may never shift. I may end up an outsider, like my mama. But, unlike my mama, I can’t reconcile myself with my inability to shift.

  The full moon is less than a week away.

  I’m struggling to keep my hopes up, but each passing second pummels me with reality.

  I don’t want to let anyone down; least of all, my daddy.

  Looking around our table, I’m greeted with knowing faces. Nearly everyone on our compound had gathered to watch me blow out my candles and tear into my gifts. Their faces were an affront to my sanity, as each one of them had changed in the prime of their puberty – except my ma
ma, of course. Nia had changed on the last full moon. She was only twelve at the time. We celebrated with a huge party, wherein every family had pooled their resources to delight in wine, food, and dancing. It was a momentous occasion, and instead of celebrating my sister’s good fortune, I sunk into the shadows to dip my toes in the cool water’s edge and stare angrily at the fat moon which mocked me from his place in the sky. Nia had been accepted into the compound’s warm embrace, as if our home were some sort of cult, wherein you must succumb to your shifter’s blood before you’re fully acknowledged.

  My father’s eventual disappointment is only a small matter, compared to knowing how the others will react. Not shifting will make me an outcast. I’ll lose Wyatt first, and then everyone else will follow suit. They’ll treat me like a foreigner, just like they do my mama.

  The cool waters will offer a painless release to an otherwise disappointing existence.

  Everyone knew Nia would shift – everyone. It was obvious from a very young age that the majority of her blood came from our Ellory side. She has our father’s long sloped nose, and she shares in his brawn and stature. Our neighbors will sometimes stop to admire how tall she’s grown, and comment that she’s outgrown her older sister. They approve of the look of her, understanding that a resemblance to my father is a sure sign that shifter blood courses through her veins. My father would bring her along on hunts, and on journeys to learn about the forest, while I stayed indoors with mama, watching her lose herself in the cards. Or, we’d focus on cooking or cleaning – woman’s work. Rather, a woman who can’t shift’s work.

  I can’t really imagine my life in a kitchen, or with a broom stuck in my hands at all times, but that’s the life I’ll lead if I don’t shift. I’ll wind up a spinster, whose sole duty is to cook meals and wash the dishes after. No one spoke these truths out loud, but they didn’t have to. Years of looking into their scrutinizing eyes, seeing them wonder “will she” or “won’t she,” has taught me truth enough.