Chapter 16: Forced Metamorphosis
The silence that followed the radio crackle was absolute, thick enough to chew. Garrity’s leering stare vanished, replaced by a flat, bureaucratic confusion. “Refusing? All three?”
“Yeah. Says here,” Diaz tapped his notepad, “‘Victims state they fell. No assault. Wish to leave.’”
Garrity turned his bull-like neck back toward the cell, his eyes narrowing as he reassessed the shivering figure wrapped in a county-issue blanket. The calculation was almost visible. A weirdo in lingerie was one thing. A weirdo who could make three grown men—men with records—clam up out of apparent fear was another.
Interesting, Amy mused in John’s mind. They’re scared. Not of you, obviously. Of her. Of me. The memory of high heels in tender places is a powerful silencer.
“I didn’t do anything,” John whispered, but it came out as a croak. The statement was simultaneously true and a colossal lie.
Oh, splendid defense. Very compelling. Try widening your eyes a bit. Maybe tremble your lip.
Garrity unclipped a keyring from his belt, the jangling metal echoing in the concrete space. “We’re gonna have a little chat. See if your story matches.”
The door screeched open. John’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird in a bony cage. As Garrity stepped in, the stale coffee-and-sweat smell intensified, mixing with the officer’s cheap cologne. He loomed, a wall of navy-blue polyester.
“On your feet.”
John stood, the blanket slipping from his shoulders. The cold air hit the exposed silk on his chest. Diaz lingered in the doorway, watching.
“So,” Garrity began, his voice a low, practiced rumble designed to vibrate in a suspect’s teeth. “You wanna tell me what really happened in that alley? Before your ‘friends’ decided to take a collective tumble?”
Think of something boring, John! Something neutering! Quadratic equations! The dusty smell of the library! That moldy yogurt in the back of your fridge!
John’s mind, however, was a whiteout of panic. All he could process was the overwhelming, invasive presence of the officer, the threat in his posture, the implicit promise of deeper cells and longer waits. His own vulnerability, clad in ridiculous, torn fabric, was a raw nerve.
And then it happened.
A traitorous, involuntary heat flickered in his gut. It wasn’t arousal, not in any conscious sense. It was a primal, stress-induced short-circuit, a horrifying physiological betrayal. A memory flash—the confident curve of SexiWoman’s smile in the alley mirror, the sheer power of that form—brushed against his panic.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me, Amy sighed, the psychic equivalent of a facepalm.
The sensation unfurled, fast and violent as a lightning strike. It was no gentle morphing. It was a bone-deep eruption.
The scratchy blanket fell away completely. A sound like ripping canvas filled the cell as the already-torn lingerie strained and expanded, seams screaming. John’s frame shuddered, his perspective lurching upward slightly even as his form softened, curved, re-knit itself under the silk. His hair grew, cascading down his back in a wave of impossible auburn. The handcuffs around his male wrists suddenly bit into the finer bones of SexiWoman’s.
It took three seconds.
Where John Abernathy had stood, now stood SexiWoman, handcuffed, her stunning features arranged in an expression of pained annoyance. The torn black silk now clung to a profoundly different topography. The fluorescent light gleamed off her shoulder.
Diaz dropped his notepad. It slapped against the wet linoleum.
Garrity froze, his interrogation tactics vaporizing. His jaw hung slack. He blinked, hard, as if trying to clear a mirage.
The cell door was still open behind Diaz.
Now, Amy’s voice cut through the stunned silence, sharp and clear. Talk, or run. I recommend running.
SexiWoman’s voice, when it came, was a low, smoky purr that seemed to vibrate in the cramped space. “Surprise, officers.” She raised her cuffed hands, a wry, apologetic smile on her lips. “Your prisoner just became a liability.”
Garrity found his voice, a strangled, “What in the hell—” He reached for his hip, but his sidearm was holstered, the strap snapped down. Procedure. He was too close.
SexiWoman moved. It wasn’t superhuman speed, but it was the fluid, decisive motion of someone fully inhabiting a body built for confidence. She drove a silk-clad knee upward into Garrity’s solar plexus.
The air left him in a pained whoosh. He doubled over, choking.
Diaz fumbled for his taser. “Stop! Stop right there!”
She was already turning, whipping her long hair out of her face. The handcuffs chain rattled as she grabbed the still-swinging cell door with both hands and yanked it forward with all her weight.
It slammed into Diaz just as he stepped forward. The metal edge caught him across the bridge of his nose with a sickening crunch.