Cassie Alexander: Shapeshifted

But if I’d known I’d be condemning my mom— I waved my badge across the reader again, angrily. “Let me in!”

“Why?” Darkness coalesced over my head like a tiny storm, bringing back bad memories.

“I want in. I want my old job back.” I took a step back so they couldn’t rain on me. I didn’t want them to touch me—if they washed over me, they’d know my heart in an instant. And it was still in their power to erase parts of my mind.

“You have nothing we want anymore, human, and we’re shunning you, besides.” The darkness began to drift away, like blowing smoke.

“Come on—” I pleaded with the ceiling tiles. If I hadn’t just come straight over after seeing my mom, I never would have said it, but— “Isn’t there anything I can trade you?”

The remnants of the cloud stilled, looking like a thin membrane overhead. “You know who we were looking for?” The thing that embodied their presence thrummed in time with their speech, looking like gray lung tissue shuddering back and forth with unholy breath.

“No. Who?”

“Santa Muerte. She is still missing. Should you find her, then we may talk.”

Done with talking, and done with me, the wisp of gray evaporated.

I didn’t know how the hell I was going to be able to find something—or someone—that the Shadows couldn’t even find. Them sending me off on some goose chase was not a feasible answer. Dammit to hell—

A crew of three people, none of whom I recognized as a former co-worker, were returning in scrubs from the taco truck. They were surprised to see me there, and one of them waved a badge in front of the door.

If I could just get downstairs—I might know someone who was on P.M. shift right now. If I explained what was going on with me, what had happened to my mom—everyone down there who was on staff was human. They all still had beating hearts.

As the elevator doors opened for them, I tried to step in alongside them. One of them blocked me. “I just want to go down—” I said by way of explanation, trying to sound innocent and kind.

The man who blocked me shook his head. “No you don’t. Trust me.”

“No, really, I do. You don’t know me but—” I held the door open as his smile got tighter. “Please, it’s just—”

“You’re not authorized.” The one nearest me gently pried my hand off the door. I let him because I didn’t know what else to do—fighting with them was not going to help my case.

Without my hand, the elevator doors closed, taking them away.

I looked up to the ceiling, where the Shadows had been. “This isn’t the last of me,” I told them.

But if I didn’t think of things, fast, and make some miracles happen, it might be the end of my mom.

What was I even talking about? Or thinking of?

I pulled my little Chevy into the parking lot of my new apartment “home.” How could I explain things to her if my plan actually worked? Yeah, Mom, just stay still while I inject you with this strange red stuff. And if you feel a little like eating raw meat afterward, I won’t blame you.

I’d met daytimers before, the servants of the vampires who had only gotten a drop of blood. They were mostly miserable people, scrabbling for their owner’s favor to survive. I couldn’t condemn my mother to that existence, even if I could get my hands on vampire blood.

This evening had been a fool’s errand, just an excuse to keep the denial rolling, doing something, keeping up pretense, instead of giving up again.

I walked up the stairs to my place on the second floor and opened the door. Minnie, my Siamese, still loved me. She wound around my ankles as I stumbled to my couch.

Moving had been a top priority once I’d gotten a new job, so as to avoid any unwanted visitors in the middle of a full moon night. My new place was the upper right half of an older fourplex near the south side of the city.

The only decoration I had on the wall was a giant silver cross. The couch I sat on had most likely fallen off a werewolf’s truck, and the mattress in my bedroom had been recently turned upside down to hide the stab wounds—stab wounds that had probably been meant for me, but I hadn’t gotten to ask the stabber about them at the time. The world I’d been in had been a dangerous place. I’d barely gotten out alive. It was no place to send my mom, even if I could figure out how.

I pulled out my phone and called a few numbers, though—the denial train continued. I went through my address book and dialed old friends. Asher the shapeshifter had helped me out more than I deserved, and I called him first. I left a message on his voice mail. “Hey. I know I’m shunned. But I’ve got a problem—and, as usual, a stupid plan. Call me back.”

Then I called Anna, the vampire who was partially alive, and the one who’d initiated my shunning for my own good. I got a high-pitched beeping, like a fax machine calling, from her old line. I dialed it again, hoping against hope that I’d misdialed and this time she’d pick up.

Nothing. Just more faxing beeps. I stared at the useless phone line. I guessed vampires didn’t have to worry about early termination fees.

Lastly, I called Sike, the only daytimer I’d ever been fond of. I got the three rising beeps saying that her phone was disconnected—dead—which made sense because so was she.

I didn’t know how to get ahold of anyone else without stalking Y4 directly, which I figured the Shadows would put an end to as soon as they realized I was camped outside. And I didn’t want to tempt them to wipe my memory.

I reluctantly pulled out my laptop. If the Shadows were going to offer me a needle-in-a-haystack’s chance of help, well, I was stupid enough to try to take it. For now. But I knew that in my current state the Internet could be dangerous for me—I was only one bad search away from staying up all night going from WebMD to crank sites, and winding up at dawn trying to convince myself that my mom’d get better if only she drank her own pee.

I carefully typed in Santa Muerte and swore to myself I would have the strength to leave the rest of the Internet alone. I was surprised to be rewarded with a few hundred pages of hits.

Santa Muerte—the literal translation “Saint Death”—did exist. At least as much as the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. She looked a lot like the Virgin Mary, except for the fact that she was a skeleton inside of her voluminous robes, with a skull-head and bone-hands. Anyone could pray to her—and there were tons of people who felt neglected by the Catholic Church who did. She was the patron saint of the downtrodden. Prisoners, gunrunners, drug dealers, assassins, kidnappers—a saint for people who had to assume God was going to disapprove of their life choices, but who still felt a need to pray.

If disenfranchised people prayed to her for aid, she was my kind of deity. “If you’re not too busy helping murderers, maybe you could get off your lazy Saint-ass and heal my mom,” I told my computer screen while I clicked through to the next page.

While Santa Muerte was interesting conceptually, she didn’t seem to be of any current help to me. I doubted the Shadows were chasing a nebulous concept. They’d been holding someone physically imprisoned who had then escaped, which implied an actual person, someone who probably liked the name. Being the Saint of Death sounded majestic and grim, no matter what language it was in.

Once I got away from abstractions, there were a thousand other things she could be. If she was even a she. I snorted. She could be anything. A person whom they’d trapped, an ancient vampire, or some unknown werecreature. A cryptid. I knew there were weird things in the world now, things I hadn’t even imagined existing a year ago. Santa Muerte was just the final piece of strange straw on the were-camel’s back.