The Turning Season by Sharon Shinn Page A

really must have been afraid of him.
    In my scrutiny of the alley’s likely hiding places, I must have missed a couple exchanges, because now I hear Joe’s voice raised a little louder in response to something Bobby just said. “I said, we’ll look into it. But I can smell the booze on your breath and—”
    Bobby shoves Joe hard in the chest. “I am
not
drunk, motherfucker! That woman, she—” He is clearly tired of repeating himself, so he makes his point by throwing another punch.
    Joe moves fast, catching Bobby’s arm and twisting it behind Bobby’s back, so the guy howls in pain again. But there’s a lot of fight left in him, drunk and mad as he is, and he lurches around, trying to shake Joe off, trying to kick him. I hear someone in the crowd yell, “Call the cops!” and there’s a general movement of people, some running back inside, some pattering closer, ready to help or interfere.
    I sink deeper in the shadows, waiting for it all to get sorted out. It’s only a few minutes before Bobby is more or less subdued and a small crowd, mostly male, accompanies Joe as he marches his captive to the front of the building and back inside. Seconds later, a police car arrives, complete with sirens and flashing lights, and I see a couple of uniformed men get out of the car and head for the door of Arabesque.
    I slip into the alley and start looking around. By now my eyes have more or less adjusted to the dark, which is only faintly broken by a string of old white Christmas lights hung above Arabesque’s back door. I’m not watching for Celeste anymore; now I’m searching for her clothes. When shape-shifters transition from human to animal form, their accessories don’t transition with them. If they make the transformation before they have time to disrobe, they leave behind little piles of jeans and skirts and underwear. If they change into something much bigger than their human selves, they leave behind
ripped
piles of clothing.
    I’m guessing Bobby was so unnerved by the appearance of the bobcat he didn’t even notice that Celeste’s clothes were littering the ground—a little supporting evidence that his story might be true. It doesn’t take me long to find the items she’s discarded. I pocket the gold necklace and the navel ring, because I know these are among her favorites, but I stuff the tight jeans and the strappy top and the feathered headpiece into the nearest Dumpster. I can’t exactly carry them back into the bar with me but I prefer that they aren’t found by anyone making a casual survey of the alley.
    I look around some more but don’t see anything else I should take care of.
    The next trick will be finding Celeste. In her alternate state, she can make her way back to her apartment easily—well, in the sense that the journey won’t be too taxing
physically
. But a bobcat on the loose in the streets of Quinville might find the trek dangerous. There are a lot of streets to cross and plenty of places where the ground cover is thin. Bobby isn’t the only loud, stubborn drunk she might encounter on the way.
    She could turn human again at will, of course. Celeste is blessed in that regard. But I’m not sure how much safer a beautiful naked woman would be, trying to cross Quinville at night.
    Time to gather my highly questionable reinforcements.
    *   *   *
    I step briskly out of the alley, around the building, and back into the bar, which, after the dimness outside, suddenly seems too bright. It’s also a scene of chaos. The band has stopped playing, though the musicians are clustered together on the stage, looking uncertain. Groups of customers have gathered around tables and in corners, huddled together as if for warmth. Most people are drinking something. Many of them, primarily the women, keep glancing over their shoulders as if they’re afraid something is stalking