Skinwalker

The apartment is empty; Kendal’s bedroom door is ajar letting the afternoon sunshine into the short hallway. Since I got home this morning, she came through and tidied the place up. It’s never messy, neither of us cares for an abundance of clutter, but she’s far pickier about our home remaining Better Homes and Gardens presentable than I am. Then again, almost everything on display is hers.

Kendal wasn’t looking for a roommate when the idea was proposed to her. I was living at an extended stay when I started working at Tails. Noah took it upon himself to make the connection for the two of us.

The apartment was fully furnished, within walking distance of work, and I already knew her from the club. While she had her fears, she was also intrigued by the concept of having a roommate. The ability of having more financial freedom tipped the scales in my favor. We were each other’s very first roommates and, lucky for us, it’s worked out so far. It’s been almost two years and we’ve turned into best friends.

Our tastes and styles aren’t that different, so the place was decorated in a manner I found to be comfortable. The palate is neutral with pops of salmon, yellow, and teal. The furniture is real wood framed with thick cloth cushions and an abundance of throw pillows. At the end of the couch there’s a wicker basket of plush throw blankets for when the air conditioner is just a little too cool and decorating the space are several well taken care of house plants.

The only area that has anything truly personal to either of us is the wall behind the love seat. Kendal has hung floating shelves which display a few important photographs and memorable trinkets. When I first moved in the photos were mostly of strangers, overtime they’ve changed to being filled with us. There are a couple with other pack females, one of Kendal and the packs alpha, Tala Benally, from when they were teenagers growing up together, and a more current one of the just the alpha. That particular photo used to be tucked in the back but recently it’s been brought forward.

There isn’t much I know about the alpha except she’s a hybrid, the first and only female werewolf in history with full abilities. Every other female is a tail. They’re not werewolves, they can’t shift, but they’re just as strong, cunning, and dangerous as the men. For some reason, the mutation just doesn’t translate in full for females. Regardless, daughters are raised in the pack by the other tails, spending their youth learning the importance of their role. Full genetics can still be passed onto sons if they breed with werewolves.

Next to the refrigerator in the kitchen is the door into laundry room where we have a stacked washer and dryer. The bag of things needing to be washed that I brought home from the club last night is on the ground in the corner. A pile of Kendal’s clothes has been added. Sitting on top of the mess is piece of paper with a marker drawn smiley face.

I sort the pieces based on how they’re able to be washed and set aside anything that has white on it. What can be put on a gentle cycle with cold water is tossed into the machine then I take our delicates to the kitchen sink.

When someone is hired at Tails, they’re given strict guidelines to follow regarding the uniform for their roll but retain the ability to choose pieces we like. As a waitress, the uniform I wear is more modest than that of the entertainers. My outfit consist of thick bodices and corsets that tie or clip, with boy shorts or briefs, and the occasional skirt while Kendal prefers pieces that are easy to pull off because they’re held closed with Velcro and leave little to the imagination because the material is thin. The heels she wears are also high enough you’ll be tricked into believing she’s taller than 5’6.

The handwash clothes get hung on a drying rack that’s on the balcony overlooking the parking lot and beyond that is a half-wall lined with tall eucalyptus trees that define the property line of the apartment complex. Beyond that is a rundown alleyway that separates home from work. Since we don’t face into the complex and our patio is private, none of our neighbors can see our patio and the clothes I hang out here. If it was only Kendal’s herb garden, it wouldn’t matter which direction we faced.

The locker-room door is pushed open in a hurry; I extend a bag containing a uniform for this evening without needing to look up to know who it is. It’s three minutes until the start of shift, which means it can only be one person. Kendal’s always pushing the boundaries of being on time, which is the opposite of me; I prefer to arrive a half hour prior to any engagement.

“You know me so well,” she says, snatching the bag and tossing it on the bench in front of her locker before stripping.

“It wasn’t that hard to assume,” I say, recalling the pile of clothes next to the laundry machine this morning. “There’s a container with buffalo chicken mac and cheese in the fridge.” I resume hanging the clean uniforms in my locker.

Unlike my exotic mocha skinned best friend, I don’t like feeling rushed.

“God damn, you’re a life saver. You know that?”

“Sometimes I wonder how you functioned before I came along.”

“It was a real struggle.”

Kendal slams her locker shut, slips her heels on, plants a kiss on my cheek, and then grabs me by the waist, turning me away from her. Her quick fingers rush over the corset strings, synching my top closed before tying the strings and tucking them under so no handsy clients can loosen the bow. When she’s finished, she rushes out of the locker room and into the club adjusting her breasts.

I close my locker and follow her lead with less haste.

Tanya is standing at the bar closing out a tab while Tiffany Malone, the bartender, ensures the bar is stocked for the evening. Unlike the male bartenders who dress in black from top to bottom, Tiffany wears the same style uniform the waitresses do. The focus at Tails should always remain on the women, we’re the reason people come to the club which means the men are to remain hidden in the shadows.

“I’m sorry this is the crowd you’re taking over for,” Tanya says.

I glance around the empty club and force a smile. “Trust me, I didn’t have anything better to do.” Then I squeeze her hand; there’s a lot of pressure on her right now.

At the beginning of the year Tanya lost a set of twins in the first trimester. While I am privy to some basic knowledge of what it’s like being a werewolf, I actually know very little about pack life, and that’s the way they like it. What insider information I do know, come straight from Kendal, and we both know she isn’t supposed to tell me anything of the sort.

When she lost that set of pups, I learned that having a pregnancy fail is a big deal to everyone, not just the parents. Ensuring the future of the pack is the highest priority to their kind and that means two things: keeping the pack safe and provide offspring, preferably males.

Kendal explained that when Tanya lost the pups, it put her future with the pack in jeopardy. The werewolf with whom she’d mated had the right to abandon her and choose a different tail. If that had happened, Tanya would try to find another mate but her reputation after the miscarriage would make it difficult. If she couldn’t find another, her value to the pack would be considered by the alpha and, worst-case scenario, she could be traded off or banished.

Fortunately, that wasn’t the case this time. The werewolf who chose her made the decision to try one more time. If this one doesn’t hold, he won’t be given that choice again because werewolves are required to have offspring. There’s no grace for a wolf whose fallen in love with a barren tail because love isn’t the priority, having an heir is, and while they prefer male heirs, females are accepted in the eyes of the alpha, as well. From what I understand, that’s because sons carry a full set of genetics that translate to all offspring, while daughters can only pass on werewolf genetics with one.

Tanya pulls away giving me a glance of appreciation. “I’ll see you over the weekend. Bye, Tiff,” she waves at the bartender and heads off to the locker room.

It’s not unusual for the club to be slow at one in the afternoon. People are heading home from work, picking their kids up from school, or situating their families for the evening. Most people can’t sit in a burlesque themed strip club, fantasizing over women who don’t belong to them while enjoying a few drinks at this time of the day. Sure, there are those who can, and usually one or two of them fill that overlap but today, there’s no one.

“Been like this all day?” I ask.

Tiffany nods.

Fortunately, the thing about Tails is every night we’re open turns into a busy night at some point. People come here for something they can’t get anywhere else in the valley, our girls. It’s true that Gentlemen’s clubs are typically stocked with beautiful women, but the ones who work here are a notch above the rest simply because of what they are.

4PM is the magic hour tonight and by the time it’s 5:30PM, every table in the house has been seated, and Noah is asking if I would mind staying beyond Tanya’s shift. There is a slow trickle of people in and out the door for the remainder of the evening, and the entertainers keep our customers satisfied for more an hour after closing time. By the time I’m working on my closing duties, my heels are abandoned on the floor next to the bar because my feet feel swollen and are throbbing from the hustle of the day.

After cleaning the tables, I wipe down the chairs and put them upside down on top of the tables before I do the floors. When the club is clean, I close out the cash register, drop the deposit in the safe hiding in the kitchenette. I count my tips, and for a shift that started out looking like a waste of my time, I managed to earn $273.34. That’s the glory of working a Friday night.

Before heading to the locker room so I can change into my street clothes, I go to shut off the television. As I reach up to press the power button but stop because I’m caught off guard by the captions on the screen. I’m having a difficult time comprehending, or perhaps believing, the writing as it scrolls by, so instead of shutting it off, I turn the volume on.

The woman on the screen is identified in writing as Kayla Saunders a spokeswoman for some company called Genetics Incorporated. “…project the company has been working on since The Reveal,” she informs the Channel 15 news anchor. “We’re pleased to announce that Genetics Incorporated has already completed trial phase zero of the vaccination ShM17 and will be moving into phase one promptly.”

“Phase one mean’s the vaccination has been successful on a small number of trial participants, and you’re prepared to move onto a larger group, is that correct?” the news anchor inquires.

“That’s correct.”

“So, there are subhumans volunteering to participate in this?”

“There are many subhumans who no longer wish to be what they are; they want to be human and Genetics Incorporated has been fortunate in receiving their cooperation.”

“How many subhumans have you successfully cured?”

“Ten.”

“Is it effective across all subhuman mutations?”

Twenty-six months ago, there wasn’t a human in the world who would have taken the word subhuman seriously. Back then, humans still existed under the false pretense that all people shared the same defining attributes of mankind. When they learned they were wrong, everything changed. Because of the actions of radical subhuman groups living outside our law, vampires, werewolves, and many other species suddenly became more than old myths and Hollywood magic, and our way of life came to an end.

The Reveal happened, and as soon as it did, humans began finding ways to protect themselves from us, as if we were suddenly more dangerous than we had been the day before. It shouldn’t be a surprise to me that this is where we are, yet somehow it is. How could they make a cure for us so quickly?

“In our research we’ve discovered that the subhuman mutation is different for every species. What makes a vampire a vampire is different than what makes a werewolf a werewolf. Therefore, ShM17 does not encompass a broad spectrum of subhumans.

“What species are you trialing ShM17 on?”

“Currently, Genetics Incorporated is keeping that information classified.”

“Are we able to have any clues?”

“It’s a species classified as nonthreatening.”

The television is shut off and I feel my body jerk with surprise. I hadn’t heard Noah join me. Too delicately, he sets the remote control on the table behind me, and we share a long pause of silence, processing what we’ve just learned.

We both know Kayla is talking about mutes. Why would Genetics Incorporated waste resources curing subhumans that have no species related abilities what-so-ever?

Mutes are basically a natural born cure. With their fractured metallic silver aura, they tell the subhuman world what they are; they’re broken. Except for having an incomplete aura and the ability of recognizing other subhumans, there is nothing exceptional about them. They have no superhuman abilities or strengths, their life expectancy is the same as a human instead of extended, and they can’t pass on or support any subhuman genetics. Unfortunately, no one knows exactly why mutes are born, but they are, so why is this company wasting billions of dollars researching curing on them when they have no ability to bring another of us into the world?

“Are you finished for the night?” Noah interrupts my thoughts.

“Yeah.”

“Let me walk you home.”

“I’ll be fine.”

His focus is drifting away from the here and now. “I’ll walk you, go change and get your things.”

Should I bother reminding him that my apartment is just behind the club? That he can see my stairs from the employee entrance?

“Alright.”

As much as I don’t need an escort home, I also don’t need the back-and-forth. Inevitably, he will win because that’s what werewolves do. They’re stubborn, hard-headed, and persistent, and in the last two years I’ve learned that when something isn’t really all that important, it’s easiest to just be submissive. The world won’t come to an end if he walks me home.

Leaving him in the kitchenette, I go back to the locker room and begin changing back into the clothes I wore to work. It’s one of the few rules that Noah has for the girls, never come to, or leave from work in any part of your uniform. Failure to follow that policy is the easiest way to draw unwanted attention.

I slide into my lightly colored floral maxi dress, tie the bow at the waist, and pull my hair into a top knot. Usually, I clean my face of the heavy stage makeup, but I skip it today since I have an escort waiting for me. I hang the outfit in my locker with the rest, grab my tote bag, and shut the locker door before clicking the lock in place.

In the hallway, once he sees me emerge from the locker room, Noah sets the code on the alarm. Once the machine starts beeping, he flicks off the lights, and the two of us walk to the employee entrance at the end of the narrow hall. I push the heavy metal door open and a gust of cool air rushes into the club sending a chill through my body. It’s early November and the desert has finally been graced with fall weather. The tall eucalyptus trees which line the apartment complex wall bustle in the breeze, knocking leaves to the ground. The earth is damp from the rainfall over the last two days; puddles collect in the unmaintained alleyway behind the club, and the dumpsters at the end of it reflect the yellow parking lot lights.

It wasn’t that long ago that the nights were shorter than the days and the temperatures didn’t relax enough to relieve the sweltering heat of the desert. Now the darkness stays longer and it’s almost cool enough to need a sweater. Somehow this dreary weather seems appropriate for the news of a vaccine. Of a cure. It’s chilling to know anyone will have that much power over our right to continue being what we were born.

Noah locks the door as I take the two rickety wooden steps to the ground. Once the club is secure, we walk toward the proper entrance of my apartment complex instead of jumping the nonthreatening fence the trees line, like I normally would. Noah isn’t one to draw attention to himself which is exactly what that would do.

If I weren’t so aware of him walking next to me, I might forget he’s there. The man moves better than the wind; his silence isn’t subject to the objects around him because unlike the wind, he ensures his silence with precise movements and steps, instead of slamming into everything in his path. This makes me acutely aware of my own footfalls as the gravel and dirt crunch and shift under my weight.

Despite the rain, the sprinklers are still misting the grassy areas at the front of the complex and in the common areas as we walk. I feel very aware of the fact that there’s absolutely no one around. Even the neighborhood cat who usually follows me home seems to be hiding tonight. We’re all alone out here, as if the entire world has gone into hiding.

I wrap my arms around my front, suddenly feeling very cold.

Neither of us speaks until we are at the base of the staircase that leads up to my apartment door. The door Kendal lives behind, blissfully unaware of the change in the world. Do I tell her? If she’s asleep, should I wake her up from a peaceful night’s sleep just to alter her reality? If she’s got company, do I ask them to leave? Can all of this wait until later? While this is something to be afraid of, is it also something to celebrate? There has never been a cure before. There’s never been a choice. Until today, we have been forced to accept what we are even if that means spending our lives as dangerous breeds or dangerous people with exceptional abelites. Subhumans finally have a choice that isn’t giving in to what we are or killing ourselves.

A soft meow pulls my attention up the stairs and toward the black neighborhood cat I was missing earlier. Typically, it joins me at the back of the club and follows me home. Tonight, it sits on the staircase, staring down at the two of us, waiting for me to join it. I’m certain the animal knows what Noah is and believes it’s safest to maintain distance.

“Flip the lights when you’re inside, so I know you’re safe.”

I climb the stairs, unlock the door, and call the cat in after me. The noises of the outside world are cut off when I shut the door and the sounds of the apartment take over. Kendal is in her room and her giggles tell me she’s entertaining someone. The refrigerator hums. The ceiling fan moves the air. I lock the deadbolt before I flip the lights as Noah requested. When I peek through the blinds, he’s gone.

I pile my things onto one of the barstools at the breakfast bar and wonder again if I should interrupt Kendal. It isn’t unusual for her to be behind a bedroom door with a client from the club. In fact, it happens once or twice a month. It’s against pack law, against club regulations, and, most importantly, it’s none of my business. I let her do what she wants and in return, she respects my privacy. If I were to interrupt her, what would come of it? Is this so important that I need to tell her right now? I don’t even know how I feel.

I open the refrigerator and pull out a package of lunch meat. I open it, pull a slice out for me, and tear a piece off for the cat. I drop it on the counter in front of the feline and the animal begins eating it without hesitation.

“What’s your name?” I wonder, as I scratch its head.

It doesn’t mind the affection as it snacks on the treat.

“If I keep letting you follow me home, I’m going to have to name you.”

I think about a dozen rather unimaginative black cat names like onyx, midnight, and pepper. Pepper is too close to Piper. I’m not that conceited. As I continue flipping through potential names I notice the cat’s fur has flecks of grey in its undercoat and white hairs on its chin. It’s starting to show its age.

“What do you think about Dusty?”

There’s no response from the cat. It’s not even the slightest bit interested in what I’m saying. It wants attention and food, that’s the only thing that matters.

“Until I come up with something cleverer, Dusty will do.”

Kendal’s muted laugh comes from behind her bedroom door, and I decide that what I’ve learned isn’t important enough to interrupt her night. I can tell her about it tomorrow when her company is gone. The problem is, I don’t want to sit here alone with my thoughts, so I decide to compromise and order a ride share. It may be 3AM but Levi gave me a key to his apartment and told me to use it however I wanted.

“I’m going to have to kick you out,” I tell Dusty, picking the cat up and holding it against my chest. The animals purr box springs into life. “Sorry, bud. You can’t stay if I’m not.” Kendal would lose her mind if I left a random cat in the apartment, simply because it’s a cat.