When the meeting is over, and the auditorium empties, I remain in the back. Frey stands to allow his fellow teachers to file past him and out the door. He remains standing. He's dressed in an outfit that looks both designer and expensive - summer-weight wool pinstripe slacks, raspberry-colored sweater with a striped shirt underneath, black leather coat that hits at mid-thigh. He didn't buy that outfit on a teacher's salary.
My mother, the last to leave the stage, joins me. Frey follows her. He has not projected a single thought nor has he made an attempt to read mine.
Mom looks at Frey. "Good morning, Daniel." Then she turns to me. "I'm going back to the office. Are you coming, Anna?"
Frey holds my attention, not with his thoughts, but with his smile. It's inquisitive, guarded.
I shake my head at Mom. "No, you go on. I have a few questions for Mr. Frey. You are one of Trish Delaney's teachers, aren't you?"
Frey's expression changes, his smile now resonating concern. When he speaks, his voice is velvet-edged and smooth as a rose petal. "I'm glad you're here to help your mother. I'll tell you everything I know about Trish, though I'm afraid it isn't much. Do you want to walk with me to my classroom?"
I nod and Mom leaves us with a surreptitious glance. When Frey's back is turned, she mouths, "Be careful."
I mouth back, "I will."
That's not necessary, you know.
Frey's voice. This time it doesn't come as such a shock, though it reminds me that I need to be more careful in projecting my thoughts.
If that's possible with a creature like Frey.
I follow him down a sidewalk that leads from the theater to his classrooms. He has a corner room, by the student parking lot. He opens the door and allows me to precede him inside.
The English classrooms I remember from my high school teaching days were painted institutional gray and decorated with portraits of literary figures scattered among bulletin boards bursting with the colorful trivia of high school life. Frey's classroom is painted pale yellow and there are no bulletin boards, no portraits. Nothing on the walls at all except a small framed sign. A human would have to go close to read it. Since I didn't have to pretend to be human, I read it from the doorway.
"Life may not be the party we hoped for... but while we're here we may as well dance."
I shoot Frey a look with raised eyebrows. Interesting philosophy. Who came up with it?
He shrugs. Don't know. Somebody sent it to me in an email. I liked the way it sounded.
We move to the front, wending our way through student desks lined up eight to a row and stretching from Frey's podium in front of the blackboard to the back. I count forty-eight.
Unusually large class size, isn't it?
He shrugs. Kids seem to want to take my class. And there's a perpetual teacher shortage. Good teachers leave to pursue other things.
He says the last with a pointed look back at me. Has he picked up the fact that I used to be a teacher from my mother or out of my head?
Frey opens a door beside the blackboard and motions me into a tiny office. It's not much bigger than a broom closet and outfitted with a desk, chair, and bookcase. He offers me the chair and slips out of his jacket, tossing it onto the bookcase before perching on a corner of the desk. He can't close the door because his feet are in the way.
For some reason, it's a comfort that he can't close that door.
"You don't have to be afraid of me," he says.
"Maybe if you told me what you are, I wouldn't be."
He tilts his head and looks at me, surprise widening his eyes. You really don't know? How long have you been a vampire?
Not the first time I've been asked that question in that same tone. I didn't like it much the first time either. I blow out a puff of air. Obviously not long enough. Are you going to answer my question? What the hell are you?
He stands up and when he extends a hand toward me, I jump up too. Sudden fear elicits a reflexive growl of warning that comes from deep inside me and curls my hands into fists. It stops him. He holds the hand palm up in a gesture of conciliation. Slowly, he points to the desk and I realize he was reaching for something on it, not aiming a blow at me.
I'm both relieved and embarrassed. Go ahead.
He picks up a small round stone, red as blood, and holds it in his palm. He closes his eyes, mumbling something in a language I don't understand. At first, I'm so busy watching his face that I almost miss it. Then I see. His hand. Nails lengthen into claws, the palm becomes a leathery pad, and fur the color of midnight surrounds the - paw.
I press myself against the wall, unable to take my eyes off what looks for all the world like a panther's paw. What are you?
Daniel Frey moves, drawing my attention back to his face. He opens his eyes, places the stone back on the desk and waits. In a moment the transformation is complete. He flexes the finger on his very human hand before answering.
I'm a shapeshifter.
Shapeshifter? How much of your shape can you shift? Just the hands?
He laughs. Of course not. I didn't think it prudent to give you a full demonstration when I have students due in a few minutes. A panther on campus would be hard to explain. I'm surprised you didn't know right away.
So many questions form in my head that I don't know what to ask first. Can you change into anything else? Once you've changed, how do you hold that stone to change back? Don't you need the moon to change?
He picks up the last question first. The moon? You're thinking of a were. An entirely different species altogether. And no, I can't change into anything else. I don't really need the stone either. It merely speeds up the process.
I know I shouldn't be surprised at this. Shapeshifters. Werewolves. Vampires. What other creatures are there that I've yet to discover?
Frey answers, though the question is rhetorical.
Let's see. I can name several right off the top of my head. Ghosts, for instance. Angels. Demons. Dragons.
Dragons?
Not many left. But there are a few. In remote jungles, mostly. And lost islands.
I sink back down in the chair. Why do I feel as if we should be having this conversation on a moving staircase at Hogwarts not here in a California classroom?
Frey is smiling at me. Now that's fiction. The school, that is, not the existence of witches and warlocks. They exist -
I hold up a hand to stop the flow. I'm quickly reaching information overload. Let's get back to you. How many shapeshifters do you know? Around here, I mean. Do you travel in prides?
He resumes his perch on the corner of the desk. No. We're pretty much solitary creatures. It's hard enough for one big cat to prowl the city undetected. It would be impossible for a pride. Besides, we're not all cats.
Oh?
There are all kinds of shapeshifters. Some change into dogs. Birds. Snakes.
That's when it clicks, like tumblers in a rusty old lock that yield when you're given the right combination.
Culebra. Rattlesnake.
It's so clear.
Culebra? Frey snatches the name out of the air. Who's that?
I shake my head. I'll think about Culebra later. I need to get back to the reason I'm here. I don't waste time forming the words, just let Frey pick an edited version of the story out of my head.
His face betrays nothing as he "hears" about Barbara and Trish and why Carolyn suspects he is involved with her daughter's disappearance. I'm not specific, especially about Carolyn's accusations. I frame it in terms of rumor and innuendo. His mind is not closed to me and what he projects is hurt and puzzlement and a growing anger.
Exchanging drugs for sex? Why would she think that? Why would anyone think that?
My mother tells me those rumors have been around for awhile, just never been substantiated. In my experience, a story like that usually has some basis in fact.
Frey draws himself up, fury hardening the lines around his eyes and mouth. I help students. I don't feed them drugs and I certainly don't sleep with them. I can't believe your mother thinks that I might. Finding women to have sex with has never been a problem for me. And I do prefer women to girls.
I didn't say my mother believes it. I'm just saying she's heard it. I raise my eyebrows. And I've seen some of today's high school "girls." They're pretty mature for their age.
Nonetheless, I wouldn't do that. There have never been "sleepovers" or "weekend seminars." God. Why would she say that?
I shrug. Who knows? I pause briefly before asking, And what about Barbara Franco? Did she come to see you?
No. And if she had, I would have told her what I just told you.
He answers directly and without any prevarication that I can detect. However, my experience with shapeshifters has been limited. I don't really know what they are capable of.
We can lie. Just like humans. Just like vampires. You have had some experience with that, I understand.
I hate this. I want you to stop getting into my head uninvited. I can prevent it with vampires. Is there a way to stop you?
Why should I answer that?
A show of good faith. You expect me to believe you, and this would go a long way toward establishing credibility.
He leans toward me, his eyes cold. That would require a great leap of faith on my part. I don't know you. I don't trust you any more than you trust me. I think you should go. I have students coming.
Do you know where Trish is?
The question seems to catch him off guard. Something flickers in the depths of his eyes, ripples the calm, dark waters of his thoughts. But he recovers quickly and the hesitation is like the flutter of a hummingbird's wing - so fast you think it might be an illusion.
Would you believe me if I said I don't? I hope she is safe. Now, I want you to go. Students are arriving. They will need my full attention.
I glance past him to the open classroom door. I don't see anyone.
He taps the side of his nose. I don't have to "see" to know they are coming.
And as if on cue, a car door slams in the parking lot. Then another and another. It's thirty minutes until class time. I guess Daniel Frey can smell a human's approach as easily as a panther in the jungle can smell a tethered goat.
