A bored-looking man whose gray hair and loose skin put him somewhere in the sixties, peered at Weston through thick glasses. He wore jeans and a faded turtleneck sweater. From his stance, and his severe haircut, Weston guessed he was ex-military. He stood guard over the doorway, preventing Weston from seeing inside.
“Sorry, sir. This is a private meeting.”
The conversation in the room stopped.
“This is SA, right?”
“Yeah. But it’s invitation only.”
Weston was momentarily confused, until he remembered the hotline conversation.
“Talbot,” he said.
“Tall what?”
“Talbot. Isn’t that the password?”
“No.”
“It’s last week’s password,” someone from in the room said.
“Sorry, buddy.” Old Guy folded his arms. “That was last week’s password.”
“That’s the one I was told to use.”
“By whom?”
“The SA hotline woman. Tina or Lena or someone.”
“Sorry. Can’t let you in.”
“I brought you donuts.” He meekly held up the box.
Old Guy took them.
“Thanks.”
“So I can come in?”
“No.”
Weston didn’t know what to do. He could call the hotline back, but he didn’t have the number handy. He’d have to find Internet access, find the website, and by then the meeting could be over.
“Listen.” Weston lowered his voice. “You have to let me in. I’m a thespianthrope.”
Several snickers from inside the room.
“Does that mean when the moon rises you start doing Shakespeare?” someone asked.
More laughs. Weston realized what he said.
“A therianthrope,” he corrected. “I’m the Naperville Ripper.”
“I don’t care if you’re Mother Theresa. You don’t get in without the correct password.”
Weston snapped his fingers. “Zela. Her name was Zela. She liked to grab people’s nuts.”
Old Guy remained impassive.
“I mean, she said she was a weresquirrel. She hoarded nuts.”
“I’ll call Zela.” It was a woman’s voice. Weston waited, wondering what he would do if they turned him away. For all of his Googling, he’d found precious little information about his condition. He needed to talk to these people, to understand what was going on. And to learn how to deal with it.
“He’s okay,” the woman said. “Zela gave him the wrong password. Said he’s kind of a schmuck, though.”
Old Guy stared hard at Weston. “We don’t allow for schmuckiness at SA meetings. Got it?”
Weston nodded.
“Oh, lighten up, Scott.” The woman again. “Let the poor guy in.” Scott stepped to the side. Weston took his donuts back and entered the room. A standard church basement. Low ceiling. Damp smell. Fluorescent lights. Old-fashioned coffee percolator bubbling on a stand in the corner, next to a trunk. A long, cafeteria-style table dominated the center, surrounded by orange plastic chairs. In the chairs were five people, three men and two women. One of the women, a striking blonde, stood up and extended her hand. She had apple cheeks, a tiny upturned nose, and Angelina Jolie lips.
“Welcome to Shapeshifters Anonymous. I’m Irena Reed, chapter president.”
The one who called Zela. Weston reached his hand out to shake hers, but she bypassed it, grabbing the donuts. She brought them to the table, and everyone gathered round, picking and choosing. Irena selected a jelly filled and bit into it, soft and slow. Weston found it incredibly erotic.
“So what’s your name?” she purred, mouth dusted with powdered sugar.
“I thought this was anonymous.”
Irena motioned for him to come closer, and they walked over to the coffee stand while everyone else ate.
“The founders thought Shapeshifters Anonymous had gravitas.”
“Gravitas?”
“You know. Depth. Sorry, I’m a schoolteacher. That’s one of our current vocab words. When this group was created, they thought Shapeshifters Anonymous sounded better than the other potential names. We were this close to calling ourselves Shapeshifters ‘R’ Us.”
“Oh. Okay then.” He looked at the group and waved. “My name is Weston.”
Weston waited for them all to reply in unison, “Hi, Weston.” They didn’t.
“You’re welcome,” Weston tried.
Still no greeting.
“They aren’t very social when there’s food in front of them,” Irena said.
“I guess not. So . . . you’re a therianthrope?”
“A werecheetah. Which is kind of ironic, being a teacher.”
He stared blankly, not getting it.
“We expel cheetahs.” Irena put a hand to her mouth and giggled.
Weston realized he was already in love with her. “So who is everyone here?”
“The ex-marine, Scott Howard, he’s a weretortoise.”
Weston appraised the man anew. Long wrinkled neck. Bowed back. “It suits him.”
“The small guy with the big head, that’s David Kessler. He’s a werecoral.”
Weston blinked. “He turns into coral?”
“Yeah.”
“Like a coral reef?”
“Shh. He’s sensitive about it.”
“How about that older woman?” Weston indicated a portly figure with a huge mess of curly black hair.
“Phyllis Allenby. She’s a furry.”
“What’s that?”
“Furries dress up in animal costumes. Like baseball team mascots.”
Weston was confused. “Why?”
“I’m not sure. Might be some sort of weird sex thing.”
“So she’s not a therianthrope?”
“No. She likes to wear a hippo outfit and dance around. Personally, I don’t get it.”
“Why is she allowed into meetings?”
“We all kind of feel sorry for her.”
A tall man with his mouth around something covered in sprinkles called over to them.
“You two talking about us?”
Irena shot him with her thumb and index finger. “Got it in one, Andy.”
Andy strutted over, his grin smeared with chocolate. He shook Weston’s hand, pumping enthusiastically.
“Andy McDerrmott, wereboar.”
“You . . . become a pig?” Weston guessed.
“Actually, when the full moon rises, I change into someone vastly self-interested, and I talk incessantly about worthless minutiae going on in my life.”
Weston wasn’t sure how to answer. Andy slapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to rock him.
“A bore! Get it? Were-bore!” Andy laughed, flecking Weston with sprinkles. “Actually, kidding, I turn into a pig.”
“You mean a bigger pig, right, Andy?”
Andy shot Irena a look that was pure letch.
“God, you’re so hot, Irena. When are we going to get together, have ourselves a litter of little kiggens?”
“On the first of never, Andy. And they wouldn’t be kiggens. They’d be pities.”
“Snap,” Phyllis said. “Shoot that pig down, girl.”
“So who’s the last guy?” Weston asked. “The big one?”
The trio glanced at the heavily muscled man sitting at the end of the table, staring off into space.
“That’s Ryan.”
“Just Ryan?”
Andy wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his sports jacket. “That’s all he’s ever told us. Never talks. Never says a word. Comes to every meeting, but just sits there, looking like the Terminator.”
“What does he change into?”
“No one knows. Has to be something, though, or Zela wouldn’t have sent him here.” Andy faced Weston. “So you’re the Naperville Ripper, huh? What kind of therianthrope are you? Wererat?”
Andy frowned. “I’m not sure. I think I’m a werewolf.”
This provoked laughter from the group.
“What’s funny?”
“Everyone thinks they’re a werewolf at first,” Irena explained, patting him on the arm. “It’s because werewolves are the most popular therianthropes.”
“They get all the good press,” Andy said. “All the books. All the movies. Never gonna see a flick called An American Wereboar in London.”