The Turning Season Read Online Free

horror and science fiction writers, both of which she regards with deep suspicion, but she’d never renege now. My guess is that he’d rather watch television or surf the Internet, but I get crappy reception out here and my selection of DVDs has never held much interest for him in the past. But he makes do. God knows he wouldn’t complain. And he still seems—if not actually happy—content. Which for Alonzo might be the best that it gets.
    There’s obviously not much for me to do, but I spend part of each day prowling through the various animal shelters, making sure all is well. None of the avian species like it when I pace past their cages; the songbirds flutter and chirrup, and the birds of prey bridle and fidget. The hawk with the broken wing watches me with unnerving intensity, and I’m just as glad there’s a wire crate between us. I’ve never actually
seen
a hawk kill or carry off a cat, but I’ve been assured it’s possible, and this particular one looks like he’s ready to make the attempt, broken wing and all.
    None of the birds react this strongly when the barn cats stalk through the aviary, eyeing them with longing and calculation. Maybe the birds know the cages keep them safe, but I really don’t think that’s it. I think they can tell there’s something different about me—something wrong—I’m a danger that they can’t identify, so they can’t assess it. I’m not quite cat and I’m not quite human. Not quite prey meat, not quite rival. Something to fear and revile.
    It’s even worse in the kennels, where the dogs start barking as soon as I nose through the door. In fact, the three beagle puppies, eight weeks old by now, will not shut up the whole time I’m in the barn. Two of them whine and paw at the gate that holds them in their little enclosure; the third usually stands with his feet on the top of the fencing and barks without ceasing. The short, sharp, indignant sounds are designed to express outrage, raise the alarm, and let me know in no uncertain terms that he is
not
afraid of me. My plan is to give all three of them away, and soon, but I wouldn’t mind if this little guy found a permanent home with me. He’s got tons of personality and boundless energy, and he’s wriggled his way into my heart.
    The only two dogs that never raise a ruckus while I’m visiting the kennels are Scottie, my ancient setter, and Daniel, who’s currently a Doberman but is human about half the time. Daniel spends most of his days lying on his side on a blanket in one of the unlocked enclosures, and he barely looks up whenever I pass. He’s not very social in either of his forms and he’s happiest when everyone leaves him alone. Scottie usually greets me with a faint whuff and comes over to inspect me. He touches my small nose with his big wet one, wagging his tail just enough to show he’s friendly. He was freaked out the first few times he encountered me in an alternate state, but over the past eight years, he’s gotten used to my transformations. Now it seems as if he recognizes me no matter what shape I’ve taken.
    I can’t express how comforting I find that to be.
    Most of the rest of the animals—the rabbits, the raccoon, even the turtle—don’t seem to notice or care when I stroll by. Either they’re less sensitive or more miserable; sometimes it’s hard to guess. In any case, they all appear to be in good shape, and I assume they will be fine under Alonzo’s careful attention.
    I never know how much time I’ll spend in animal shape, but it’s usually not more than four or five days. So surely it won’t be long before I am myself again, before we can all go back to normal.
    *   *   *
    I f I’ve remembered my calendar correctly, it’s Saturday morning when Celeste arrives, taking the turn onto the gravel driveway way too fast