“Or The Oinking,” Phyllis added.
Furry or not, Weston was starting to like Phyllis.
Irena’s hand moved up Weston’s arm, making him feel a little light-headed.
“Because we can’t remember what we do when we’ve changed, we all first assume we’re werewolves.”
“So how can I find out what I change into?”
“I set up a video camera and recorded myself.” Andy reached into his jacket, took out a CD. “We can pop it in the DVD if you want.”
“Don’t say yes,” Phyllis warned. “The last time he put in a tape of himself and some woman doing the nasty. And it was real nasty.”
“An honest mistake.” Andy leaned closer to Weston and whispered, “She was a college cheerleader, studying massage therapy. I was bow-legged for a week afterward.”
“She was an elderly woman,” Phyllis said. “With a walker.”
“Mind your own business, you furvert. You’re not even a real therianthrope.”
Phyllis stuck out her jaw. “I am in my heart.”
“When there’s a full moon, you don’t turn into a hippo. You turn into an idiot who puts on a hippo outfit and skips around like a retarded children’s show host.”
Phyllis stood up, fists clenched.
“I’m ’bout to stick an apple in your talk-hole and roast you on a spit, Ham Boy.”
“Enough.” Irena raised her hands. “We’re adults. Let’s act like it.”
“Does anyone want the last donut?” It was David, the werecoral, talking. “Weston? You haven’t had one yet.”
Weston patted his stomach. “No thanks. I just ate my neighbor and her dog.”
“I ate a Fuller Brush Salesman once,” Andy said.
“Did not,” Phyllis countered. “You ate your own toilet brush. And a pack of them Ty-D-Bowl tablets. That’s why your poo was blue.”
“So I can have the last donut?” David had already taken a bite out of it.
Weston looked at Irena, felt his heart flutter.
“Other than video, is there another way to find out what I am?”
Irena’s eyes sparkled. “Yes. In fact, there is.”
The group, except for Ryan, gathered in front of the chest sitting in the corner of the room.
“Testing equipment.” Irena twisted an old-fashioned key in the lock and opened the lid.
Weston expected some sort of medical supplies, or maybe a chemistry set. Instead, the trunk was filled with dried plants, broken antiques, and assorted worthless-looking junk.
“Hold out your hand.”
Weston did as told. Irena held his wrist, and then ran a twig lightly across his palm.
“Feel anything?”
Other than getting a little aroused, Weston felt nothing. He shook his head.
“Catnip,” Irena said. “It’s a shame. You would have made a cute kitty.”
She brought the branch to her lips, sniffed it, and a tiny moan escaped her throat. Andy took it away from her and tossed it back in the trunk.
“If we let her, she’ll play with that all day, and the meeting starts in five minutes. Here, touch this.”
Andy handed him a longer, darker twig. Weston touched it, and immediately felt like his entire arm had caught on fire. There was a puff of smoke, and a crackling sound. He recoiled.
“Jesus! What the hell was that, a burning bush?”
Andy cocked his head to the side. “It was wolfsbane. I’ll be damned. You are a lycanthrope.”
Everyone’s expressions changed from surprise to awe, and Weston swore that Irena’s pupils got wider. He shrugged.
“Okay, so I’m a werewolf.”
“We’ve never had a werewolf in the group,” David said. “How did you become a werewolf?”
“I have no idea.”
Weston recalled the masturbation scare tales from his youth, many of which involved hairy palms. He almost asked if that may have caused it, but looked at Irena and decided to keep it to himself.
“Is your mother or father a werewolf?” Scott, the weretortoise, asked. “I inherited a recessive gene from my mother, Shelly. Been a therianthrope since birth.”
“No. This only started three months ago.”
“Were you bitten by a therianthrope?” David asked. “That’s how they got me.”
Weston didn’t think that coral could actually bite, but he didn’t mention it. Instead he shook his head.
“How about a curse?” Irena asked. “Were you cursed by a gypsy recently?”
“No, I . . .” Then Weston remembered his evil next-door neighbor. He’d been wondering about her ethnic background, and now it seemed obvious. Of course she was a gypsy. How could he have missed the signs? His shoulders slumped.
“Oh, boy. I think maybe I was cursed, for brushing my teeth too loudly.”
“You’re lucky.” David smiled. “That’s the easiest type of therianthropy to cure.”
“Who wants to be cured?” Scott’s eyes narrowed. “I like being a weretortoise.”
“That’s because when you change, all you do is eat salad and swim around in your bathtub,” Andy said. “I root through the garbage and eat aluminum cans. You ever try to crap out a six-pack of Budweiser tall boys?”
David put his hands on his hips. “I’m saying that Weston’s a carnivore, like Irena. They eat people. It has to weigh heavy on the conscience.”
“Do you feel guilty about it?” Weston asked Irena.
“Nope.” Irena smiled. “And I have the added benefit of not having to put up with any bad kids in my class for more than a month.”
Weston wondered if it was too soon to propose marriage. He squelched the thought and turned to David.
“So, assuming I want to go back to normal, how do I do it?”
“Just go back to the gypsy that cursed you and pay her to take the curse off.”
Oops.
“That might be a problem, seeing as how I ate her.”
Andy slapped him on the shoulder. “Tough break, man. But you’ll get used to it. Until then, it’s probably a good idea to get yourself a nice, sturdy leash.”
“It’s time to begin the meeting. Let’s get started.” Irena leaned into Weston and softly said, “We can talk more later.”
Weston sincerely hoped so.
“Let’s begin by joining hands and saying the Shapeshifters Anonymous Credo.”
Everyone around the table joined hands, including the silent Ryan. Weston noted that Irena’s hand was soft and warm, and she played her index finger along the top of his as she talked. So did Phyllis.
Irena began.
“I, state your name, agree to abide by the rules of ethics as set forth by Shapeshifters Anonymous.”
Everyone, including Weston, repeated it.
“I promise to do my best to use my abilities for the good of man and therianthrope kind.”
They repeated it.
“I promise to do my best to help any therianthrope who comes to me in need.”
They repeated it. Weston thought it a lot like being in church. Which, technically, they were.
“I promise to do my best not to devour any nice people.”
Weston repeated this verse with extra emphasis.
“I promise to avoid Kris Kringle, the dreaded Santa Claus, and his many evil helpers.”
“Hold on,” Weston interrupted. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Santa Claus is a therianthrope hunter,” David said. “He kills shapeshifters.”
“You’re kidding. Right?”
An uncomfortable silence ensued. Everyone stopped holding hands. Scott cleared his throat, then pushed away from the table and stood up.
“No one is sure how our kind got started. Some say black magic. Some say interspecies breeding, though I don’t buy into that malarkey. Some say therianthropes date back to the very beginning, the Garden of Eden, where man and werebeast lived in harmony. But the Bible doesn’t tell the whole story. Certain religious leaders over the years have edited it as they see fit. Entire books were taken out. Like the Book of Bob.”
Weston looked around to see if anyone was smiling. All faces were serious.
“The Book of Bob?”
“The Book of Bob is a lost chapter of the Old Testament, dating back to the Hellenistic period. It tells the story of God’s prophet, Bob, son of Jakeh, who is the first werewolf mentioned in the Bible.”