Still Life with Shape-shifter by Sharon Shinn Page A

urge to reach out and stroke that dense black fur. Slowly, so he could see what I was doing, so he wouldn’t be startled, I extended my hand, palm up, showing no threat, only invitation. He lowered his head to sniff at my palm; I felt the cold black nose against my skin, the faintest exhalation of his breath.
    Then the swift, unexpected flick of his tongue against my wrist.
    I stifled a gasp and held my hand motionless. He lifted his head and met my eyes for so long that gold and black began to reverberate in my head. Then a sound or a movement behind him caught his attention. His whole body tensed and he whipped his head around to stare at the empty property in back. Without another glance in my direction, he whirled around and bounded off.
    I was left kneeling in the dark, my hand outstretched, my face blank with wonder.
    *   *   *
    T he wolf came back every night for the next week.
    I had begun taking long naps in the afternoon since I was getting very little sleep at night; the air-conditioning hadn’t been fixed, but a cold front had moved through, making the house habitable again. I was supposed to have a summer job working at the local McDonald’s, but I conveniently forgot to sign up for any shifts for the week. My father was mad, but my mom just shrugged, and said, “Let her cook and do housework for a while. You’ll see, she’ll
want
to go back to her job.”
    And I did—I was always looking for excuses to get out of the house—but not right now. Not this week.
    Every time the wolf returned, I checked his injury and rewrapped his wound. I could tell he was healing, and by the sixth night he was putting weight on his back leg again. “Pretty soon now, you won’t need me,” I told him as I tied the gauze that night. “Your foot will be fine—you’ll be able to hunt—you can go back to Minnesota or Canada or wherever you came from, and you’ll be able to take care of yourself.”
    He opened his mouth in a slight pant, but I didn’t get the impression he was trying to cool down. Rather, he looked like he was grinning. As if the notion of leaving the state was so impossible that it was actually amusing, if he could only explain it to me.
    “But I’ll be here anyway, if you want to come back,” I said softly. “Even when you’re healed—even when it gets cold—I’ll still come outside two or three times a week, late, like this, and see if you’re around. Feed you if you look hungry. So come back if you need me.”
    He still regarded me, still panting. Now I thought the expression on his face looked considering. What would he ask me for, if he could speak?
Can you offer me a place to sleep when the weather drops below zero?
Or maybe
My mate had a litter, but she can’t keep them fed. Can you bring a few dozen pounds of beef to our den?
    Or maybe nothing.
    “At any rate, you need to come back at least one more night,” I told him. “I think I can take the bandage off for good tomorrow. And then—then you can do what you like.”
    A noise in the house caught his attention. I recognized the thud, the curse, and the clattering sound that meant my father had come downstairs for a late-night snack and bruised himself against a half-open kitchen drawer. I glanced over my shoulder to see if there was any reason I’d need to go inside, and when I looked back at the wolf, he was gone.
    I sighed and came slowly to my feet, switching off the flashlight so I would be invisible from the house. My father had turned on the stove light in the kitchen, and in its eerie glow I could see him bumble from the refrigerator to the sink, eating a piece of leftover chicken without bothering to get out a plate. He also knocked back a shot of whiskey before turning out the light and, I presumed, heading up to bed.
    I stood there a long moment, debating whether or not I should go inside and sleep in my own room. Once the wolf disappeared for the night, he never came back, and the air was cool enough now that I