Shifty

Contents

Copyright Page

Original Story Info

Dedication

Wolf From the Door

Worse Than the Curse

Jean-Pierre and the Gator-Maid

The Fatal Wager

Gold at the End of the Rainbow

The Elephant-In-Law

The Filial Fiddler

The Invisible Woman’s Clever Disguise

Feeding the Wolf

About the Author

Shifty

9 Tales of Shape-shifting and Transformation

by

Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

All rights reserved

Copyright © April 20, 2013, Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

Cover Art Copyright © 2013, Karen Gillmore

Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

Lockhart, TX

www.gypsyshadow.com

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from the author.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN: 978-1-61950-163-8

Published in the United States of America

First eBook Edition: May 4, 2013

Original Copyright and Previous Publication List:

Wolf From the Door © 1988 Elizabeth Scarborough for Werewolves, edited by Jane Yolen and Martin H. Greenberg, Harper and Row

Worse Than the Curse © 2000 Elizabeth Ann Scarborough for Such a Pretty Face, edited by Lee Martindale, Meisha Merlin Publishing

Jean-Pierre and the Gator-Maid Original Version © 1994 Elizabeth Ann Scarborough for South From Midnight edited by Richard Gilliam, Martin H. Greenberg and Thomas R. Hanlon, Southern Fried Press. Revised in 2013, new version © 2013 Elizabeth Ann Scarborough, first appearing in Shifty (Tales of Shape-Shifting and Transformation)

The Fatal Wager ©1998 Elizabeth Ann Scarborough for Battle Magic edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Larry Segriff, Teknobooks, DAW

Gold at the End of the Rainbow © 2009 Elizabeth Ann Scarborough for Ages of Wonder edited by Julie E. Czerneda and Rob St. Martin, DAW

The Elephant-In-Law ©1988 Elizabeth Scarborough for Arabesques, More Tales of the Arabian Nights edited by Susan Shwartz, Avon

The Filial Fiddler © 2004 Elizabeth Ann Scarborough for Faerie Tales edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Russell Davis

The Invisible Woman’s Clever Disguise © 2000 Elizabeth Ann Scarborough for Mardi Gras Madness, Tales of Terror and Mayhem in New Orleans, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Russell Davis, Cumberland House

Wolf at the Door (original title) © 1999 by Lupita Shepherd for Twice Upon a Time, edited by Denise Little, DAW. Reprinted and retitled Feeding the Wolf ©2013 Elizabeth Ann Scarborough (writing as Lupita Shepherd) for Shifty, 9 Tales of Shape-Shifting and Transformation.

Dedication

Dedicated to Charlotte Holley and Denise Bartlett for helping me reincarnate my stories, old and new, and for Karen Gillmore, who has painted beautiful and appropriate covers for so many of my new publications. Also especially dedicated to Kerry Greenwood, author of the wonderful Phryne Fisher books, for being Shifty’s first reader and staunch cheerleader.

Wolf From the Door

I wrote this story for Werewolves, an anthology edited by Jane Yolen. I was attending the University of Alaska Fairbanks at the time, as you can probably tell from the content. Later in the book is another story that was published under a very similar title so I kept the title for this one and changed the title of the other one.

Come in, Ms.—um—Garou, Professor Forrest said, checking the name on his appointment calendar. Have a seat. I could have left your paper with the secretary, but she said something about you wanting to talk about your future.

Right! the girl said as she bounded in and pounced on an unsuspecting chair. I’ve wanted desperately to talk to you about it for just the longest time. And, oh yeah, of course, I want to talk to you about my paper, too. She shot him a sly look. Her brown eyes looked like dark holes in her fair-skinned face. Her eyelashes and brows were both almost white, lending her an expression of bald astonishment.

He was somewhat taken aback. She seemed insufficiently nervous about her term paper, which was the one and only basis for her grade. And he didn’t remember her as being one of his brighter students, the sort who had nothing to worry about. In fact, he barely remembered her at all. But then, his classes were large and full and his memory for two-footed vertebrates was not as keen as it was for the four-footed variety. Still, those startling white braids should have caught his eye at some point.

Ms. Garou, perhaps you’ll refresh my memory. Which of my classes did you attend?

Life Cycle of the Wolf, she said. I was there the first two classes and got the assignment and when I saw it, I rushed right out and started my research. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Professor Forrest. You’re supposed to be the best furbearer biologist in the state of Alaska. And I just have to be the very best wolf biologist there ever was.

This last announcement was accompanied by a rise in the pitch of her voice that elevated it to an irritating whine. I sort of figure you could be, like, my sponsor.

That’s what you figure, is it? Forrest really had no time for this, not now. He had already put in a long day and was ready for his Christmas vacation. He was not spending this one in the field as he had found necessary to do early in his career. No, this Christmas he would be studying on the beaches of Hawaii, where he would forget the cold (25 below zero!), the darkness (it was scarcely four p.m. but already the full moon was the only illumination in a pitch-dark sky and he would have a long, cold, dark walk to his car on lower campus), the University of Alaska, and students like this girl.

The biology department was full of earnest young persons who lived in wood-heated, waterless cabins on the outskirts of town. Like this one, they all dressed like lumberjacks and smelled like forest fires.

As he shuffled through his stack of unclaimed papers, the girl pulled off her ratty, duct-tape-patched parka with the matted fake fur ruff. Sparks of static electricity jumped between it and the chair. Underneath, she wore overalls over a multi-colored wool sweater that spoke less of good taste than Goodwill. Her blue and white stocking cap remained pulled tightly over the tops of her ears, covering her brow and making her long, plain face look even longer. A blonde, yes, but hardly a glamorous one, he thought. A bit of a dog, really.

He wasn’t finding the paper. What—uh—what makes you so interested in our department and in wolves particularly, Ms.—? he asked, stalling while he continued to hunt.

Just call me Lucy, sir. I guess you could say my whole family has always been into wolves. Why, I remember even when I was little, Mama couldn’t bear to read me fairy tales without changing the endings. The other youngsters used to think I was strange when I’d do book reports about ‘Little Red Riding Hood and the Big, Beautiful Wolf.’

Oh, Forrest said, suddenly remembering, You’re that Lucy Garou. Just a moment. I think I know where your paper is.

Earlier in the day, he had started reading some particularly preposterous passage to Professor Beresgard, the fisheries biologist. Beresgard had had to take the paper back to his office to read it where his loud guffaws would not disturb his colleagues. The paper was indeed on Beresgard’s desk, its pages fanning from the paperclip in one corner across a full-color centerfold of a Dolly Varden trout in the latest edition of Fish and Game magazine. The large red F was ignominiously buried on the last page, along with the few scathing comments he’d wasted on it. Now that he had met the girl, he wished he hadn’t been quite so harsh. She didn’t seem bright enough to know better.

He gave her the paper.

She pawed through it, obviously expecting to find compliments. When she reached the final page, her long jaw dropped and her eyes widened. There must be some mistake!

That is your paper?

Oh, yes.

No mistake.

But, what’s wrong with it? I mean, it’s all true—

He gave her a withering look and plunged in. The title, for one thing. I don’t know whether ‘Never Cry Fish and Game’ is plagiarism or a slur against dedicated state officials; but it does not, Ms. Garou, display the proper attitude.

It doesn’t? But—

And then there’s the format.

Professor, I’ll have you know I’ve spent the last semester freezing my tail off spending all my spare time with the wolf pack across the river doing my research and—

He interrupted her smoothly. As I was saying, Ms. Garou, your format is wrong. Had you bothered to attend class or had you even come to me before you committed such an error, you would have realized I assigned a study of the indigenous fur-bearer of your choice, not an interview with the species.

Oh, she said, looking puzzled.

I don’t understand you, Ms. Garou. You ask me to sponsor you. Yet you think I’m so stupid that you can get me to accept this kind of anthropomorphic drivel. An honest catalogue of wolf utterances perhaps would have been acceptable but—

But it was, she practically howled. It was honest. Everything my subject said is true. She’s the mother of a whole den of new cubs and half of the rest of the pack. She knew how important this paper was to me. I’m sure she wouldn’t have lied.

Really, Ms. Garou! This is ridiculous. If you wish to stay home during class time and transpose soap opera episodes and disguise the characters as wolves with pack scratching at pack to gain control of the available mates and food resources, that’s fine with me. But don’t try to pass it off as science. This is no more an objective study of wolf behavior than—

But that’s the point! It’s not meant to be an objective study. It’s the first subjective study. Don’t scientists care about the feelings of wolves, too—about why they do things? I mean, it isn’t all scratch and growl, scratch and growl, you know. Just because it isn’t what you’re used to, not the same old thing, doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Listen. And she pulled forth a miniature cassette tape recorder and pressed a button. The machine emitted a series of whines, short howls, and snarls followed by and intertwined with another series of the same by another wolf.

I beg your pardon, he said, when she clicked it off and grinned smugly at him. I didn’t understand that you were claiming to be a wolf linguist. Are you going to tell me you attempted to interpret those sounds just as some legitimate scientists have been attempting to interpret the utterances of whales and dolphins?

I didn’t attempt to do anything, she said, her voice dropping to a positively hostile snarl. He saw she had finally gotten the point that he simply was not going to buy this nonsense, and now she looked both angry and wounded. And he saw something else in her expression that was a mixture of both, plus an element of fear. She was cornered, that was it. She had finally realized he’d caught her in her lies.

He turned toward the window and plucked his parka from its hook, shaking it out. The room suddenly filled with the aroma of wet dog and he thought it must be from his still-damp wolfskin ruff. Which reminded him of a graceful way to end the interview. Ms. Garou, while I deplore your methods, I find your ambition laudable, though misplaced, he said softly, still watching the globular moon glide over the mountains. You are mistaken in your direction. You would not truly like being a wolf biologist, my dear. Your only avenue of employment, other than an academic career, would be with Fish and Game, or some other state or federal wildlife control agency. Do you realize that as an employee of such agencies, your duties, at times, might include forcible control of the wolf population? He stroked his ruff gently to release the dampness and continued to watch the moon.

You mean—you mean genocide, sir? she whimpered.

She sounded as if she was about to cry. He kept his eyes on the window and his back firmly toward her. He could not stand it when female students cried. He would give her time to get a grip on herself. Meanwhile, she needed to understand a few hard facts.

I mean animal control, Ms. Garou. Now, can you hear how upset you’re becoming? How would you be able to sacrifice wolves, for instance, given your rather childish anthropomorphic view of them? I don’t wish to discourage a young person of your imagination, Ms. Garou, but wildlife biology is not your field.

Did you get your r-r-r-r-ruff! from animal control, sir-r-r-r-r? she asked, the r’s roughening and lengthening, her tone threatening, when he had been trying so hard to help her. No doubt she still expected him to change her grade.

Really, Ms. Garou. Emotionalism will get you nowhere with me, I assure you. You wished me to discuss your future with you and I am trying to do so, rationally, and intelligently, but you are making it difficult. With your, shall we say, protective attitude toward wolves, which you no doubt see as big puppy dogs, perhaps you’d be better advised to try veterinary medicine? Better yet, given your fanciful writing style, you’d do well to abandon the sciences altogether, Ms. Garou. Abandon the university system altogether, for that matter.

As he bent to pull on his boots he noted a ripple in the faint reflection of the room shining in the window. A blur of white and then a condensation, like snow melting and running and solidifying again into ice. He straightened. Her paper lay quietly on the center of his desk. He picked it up as he turned and snapped it back toward her—or where she had been—again saying, with a certain appropriately academic sense of drama, Take up—oh, science fiction/fantasy writing instead. That’s what this is, pure fantasy.

But though he was the same, the paper was the same, and the room was the same, something had definitely changed.

Why Ms. Garou, Professor Forrest said, staring at the white arctic wolf still wearing its blue and white Nordic stocking cap over one flattened ear, what big eyes you have!

Worse Than the Curse

The transformation in this story is one almost as familiar to almost as many women as the one we encounter at puberty. I borrowed the heroine from The Princess on the Glass Mountain and the hero from 12 Dancing Princesses. The people who blame this transformation on junk food and couch surfing don’t know about evil wizards. This first appeared in Such a Pretty Face, an anthology edited by Lee Martindale.

In the old days, the crowd of suitors at the palace gate had been downright unmanageable. Knights and princes and even a king or two, each trying to pull rank on the other, had clamored for a glimpse of, a word from, a moment with the beautiful Princess Babette. Princess Babette was, as was de rigeur for one of her station, the fairest of the fair. The gold of her hair put that in the royal treasury to shame