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It felt good to be home again.

For those of us born and bred in New Orleans, the rest of the world is a strange place, lacking the grace and gentility of our city. Only in the Crescent City could her children ever feel truly at home. Had it not been for pressure from my family, I never would have left–even to go to college. But for my family, every eldest male had been packed off to Harvard since the early part of the nineteenth century. I often found myself envying my younger brothers in that they had choices that I, as the oldest son of one of New Orleans’ most prominent families, had never had.

My family had been an important part of Southern tradition and a fixture in Louisiana since Jean Devereaux came to the New World from Marseilles to make his fortune in the last half of the eighteenth century. And what a fortune he made! By the time of the Louisiana Purchase, he was a prosperous planter in what is now St. Charles Parish. By the beginning of the War Between the States, Willow Glen was home not only for the Devereaux clan, but for three hundred slaves and overseers as well.

Even the end of the war meant only a small setback for our family. As Reconstruction ebbed and the traditional powers of Southern aristocracy arose once more, our family took its ‘rightful’ place in polite society, becoming a leading force in politics and commerce. Banks, shipping, and agriculture were the foundations of the family fortune, but the Devereaux family, like the Roman nobility they admired, eschewed active management of their enterprises by the beginning of the twentieth century, choosing public service–or expressed another way–political power as a way of life.

Now, as a new century dawned, a new and unexpected power had stepped onto the stage: magic. When Webster and Kline unwittingly released magic on an unsuspecting world only a few years earlier, it meant an upheaval in our society, which threatened the traditional powers, but once again, the Devereaux family’s luck held, and it appeared as if once more our family was destined to prosper, in spite of rather pedestrian magical talents.

My father now headed the Federal Bureau of Magic for the Southern Region. With any luck at all (and our family abounded in luck), he could eventually lead the entire agency if he so desired–an agency which had eclipsed the fame and power of the FBI in the annals of American law enforcement. But he had other aspirations.

Of course, like most people of my father’s generation, he had little magical ability. In fact, he had no magical ability at all. Only those of us who reached puberty after the unleashing of magic seemed able to do well on the WK test. My own score was high enough that I was near the top of all male scores in the nation, although I would have scarcely been in the top third of women’s scores. Still, that would be high enough eventually to propel me towards the upper echelon of management in the FBM. The Bureau prized magical ability far more than experience, so some of the people in positions equivalent to my father’s were still in their twenties and thirties.

With my abilities, our family influence, and my father’s position, I would be on the fast track at the Bureau from the moment I graduated from Harvard in the spring. In a nutshell, that was my father’s plan. I would work for the Bureau mostly in name only while picking up a law degree at Tulane. Then, after I had served a minimum amount of time with the Bureau, I would be selected as the youngest Regional Director in the FBM–all before I turned thirty.

My father, on the other hand, seemed to have taken an interest in more active politics in the last few years. I had no doubt that he was just biding his time, waiting for the right opportunity to come up. Then he would run for office. Given his name, contacts, and wealth, he had a better-than-even chance of being elected to any office in the state. Once situated in a comfortably powerful position, he would be able to direct my own career, depending upon a loyal follower to run the office until I had all the appropriate tickets punched.

Of course, in many parts of the country, such power and influence from a single family–passing down a powerful position from father to son–would be unheard of. But this was the Crescent City, where such things had happened since the days of French and Spanish rule. Family connections were important everywhere, but in New Orleans, they were essential to success.

My thoughts were interrupted as I heard someone bustling in from the kitchen. I smiled as Lisa our maid, brought me a cup of the strong black coffee we Louisianans favored, along with two of her own beignets–pastries that were far superior to those served at the famous Café du Monde. She gave me a genuine smile, white teeth shining surrounded by an ebony face. “It’s good to have you back, Mr. Robert,” she said sincerely in that Southern drawl favored by most older servants in the city. Lisa had been with the family since I was a little boy, making our townhouse in the French Quarter as charming and genteel as Willow Glen itself. Although no longer a young woman, she was still attractive, as was everything we Devereauxs surrounded ourselves with.

“It’s good to be back,” I told her, returning the smile. As I sipped the coffee, washing down the sugary taste of the first of the beignets, I felt the warm spring breezes on my face. The sweet smell of magnolia blossoms from the garden below our white wrought-iron veranda where I was sitting was pure heaven. I couldn’t help but think about my unfortunate classmates up north, forced to ‘enjoy’ spring break in the chilly northern winds as winter only reluctantly loosened its grip.

I shivered at the thought of northern winters. At least this one had been my last. I had returned to Louisiana every spring break since I had begun my college career at Harvard, but this spring break promised to be special, indeed. Mardi Gras came at times which always seemed to conflict with my class work, but this year, by pure luck, spring break had been scheduled to coincide with the most exciting time of the year in my home state.

Most tourists associate Mardi Gras with the great drunken mob that rules the streets of the French Quarter every spring just before Lent. But for those of us of financial means fortunate enough to grow up in and around the Crescent City, it is a time of exciting balls and important events. More than a few Southern women could proudly boast that their hands were asked for in marriage at an elaborate krewe ball in one of the city’s finest establishments.

For anyone not born and raised in the South–particularly the Mississippi Delta of the South–the concept of a krewe is a little hard to explain. I would usually just tell Northerners that it was a local social club, but in fact, it was something more. Krewes determine social order in New Orleans, membership resembling a combination of an exclusive club, a civic organization, and a badge of honor. They also organize the most exciting parades and events surrounding Mardi Gras. In short, they are the true souls of Mardi Gras, without whom the celebration would be meaningless.

Of all the krewes in the city, none was more prestigious than the Krewe of Pliny the Elder. One of the oldest continuous krewes, it was founded by one of my ancestors and boasted among its membership some of the cream of Southern society. By right of birth, I was of course a member, as were my brothers.

The Grand Ball of the Krewe of Pliny the Elder would be held that very night, and I had come into the city the evening before from Willow Glen to have lunch with my father the next day and prepare for the parade and celebration. There was another event I wanted to prepare for as well. The previous evening, I had picked up a very special ring for a very special lady. That very evening at the ball, I intended to ask Alexandra Pierpont to be my wife.

It would be a marriage that would have all of New Orleans society enraptured. It certainly would not be an unexpected engagement, though. Alex and I had known each other most of our lives. Both of us came from prominent French families, and both were expected to marry well. We would not disappoint. Actually, we had talked about the possibility of wedding when I had been home at Christmas, but we had put off any formal announcement until Mardi Gras. As I said, many young women proudly boasted of their engagement at a krewe ball. Obviously, both sets of parents would be pleased since my father and Alex’s father had encouraged our relationship for some time.

The engagement was a mere formality. We had agreed it was the right thing to do. She would of course, say ‘yes.’

Were we deeply in love? That was something of a question. We certainly enjoyed each other’s company, and unlike prominent couples of an earlier era in the South, we had already enjoyed each other’s bodies before betrothal. I think in many ways, we were going to be married merely because it was expected of us. It had not slowed me down from dalliances back in Cambridge, and I suspected Alex had her own beaus at Tulane. I doubted if either of us would be willing to give up such pleasures entirely, even once we were married.

In this way too, I would be carrying on a family tradition. My family’s comfortable townhouse in the Quarter was often the site of liaisons between my father and a variety of discrete partners. I’m not just speculating: it was widely known and so common among his peers that it scarcely attracted notice.

I made my way from the French Quarter to my father’s office at the New Orleans Federal Building over on Canal. Now there’s another New Orleans oddity for you–Canal Street. It’s so named because at one time a canal was planned for the place where the street divides the business district. The canal was never built, but the street assumed the name. What other city would name its main street for a canal that was never built?

The Federal Bureau of Magic occupied the better part of an entire floor in the building–an indication of the growing importance of magical influence. In fact, it was per capita the largest regional office of the FBM–probably because New Orleans had always had a taste for magic, even before Webster and Kline had unwittingly released true magic on an unsuspecting world.

“Hey, Robert!”

I turned to see Helen Davis get off the elevator next to mine. Helen was one of my father’s top field agents. Like most of the best agents in New Orleans, she was female and black. Females usually had more magical ability than males–something about the Y chromosome inhibiting magical ability–and blacks had more contacts with the predominantly black magical community of the city. No one had ever come up with a good reason for blacks having more magical ability than whites, and only in a few cities like New Orleans did it hold true to begin with. I had always thought it was because the local black community had believed in magic, in the form of Vodun–Voodoo for the tourists–practically since the founding of the city.

Helen was dressed in a tastefully cut business suit of white linen. It contrasted nicely with her mocha-colored skin, and with her athletic build and short hair, she could have been mistaken for Halle Berry.

I gave Helen a warm hug. I had known her for years. I was just barely in high school when she joined dad’s team, and to tell the truth, I had developed more than a little crush on her. As I had grown older, the crush had faded, but a fast friendship had developed. “How have you been, Helen?”

“About the same as always,” she laughed, but I could tell from her tone that something was bothering her. I couldn’t tell what it was, so I let it go. If she wanted to tell me, she would get around to telling me.

Other agents from my father’s staff heard us talking and rushed over to greet me. I didn’t flatter myself by imagining that I was really such a popular person. I had always been friendly to my father’s people, and I suspected most of them did actually like me, but their effusiveness had much to do with the fact that I was the boss’s son. Still, I genuinely liked and respected all of the people on my father’s staff. One in particular–Uncle Avery–was even family, in spirit as well as in fact.

Avery Monaigne was my father’s right hand man in the office. Unlike many of the Regional Directors, father had chosen a man to be his number two based upon his administrative skills rather than magical ability–surprising given my father’s complete lack of magical talent. It had proved to be a cunning move politically. Uncle Avery freed up my father to pursue his other interests, such as politics while Avery did all of the grunt work. And since Uncle Avery was actually shirttail relation to the Devereauxs–a distant cousin to be exact–the blood ties allowed my father to feel certain of his loyalties. My brothers and I had grown up calling him Uncle Avery, which pleased him immensely.

Sarah Carmichael was with Uncle Avery. An attractive young redhead, she was in charge of field operations, so she was number three in the office. Given the lack of magical ability in her superiors, she was the magic expert in the office. Organized and aggressive, I had no doubt that someday she’d be called back to Washington where she would be part of the inner circle of the Bureau, which most field officers derisively called the Wizard’s Council. Both Avery and Sarah greeted me warmly, and I couldn’t help but note that my father couldn’t have chosen two more different people as his chief aides.

Uncle Avery was pushing fifty rather hard, complete with an expanding gut and thinning hair. He might have been reasonably handsome in his younger days, but he was going to be a dumpy old man someday. Of course, living in New Orleans was never good for the waistline. Five star restaurants occupied practically every corner in the city, and Uncle Avery appeared to have enjoyed them all.

“Good to see you, Robert,” he drawled, extending a pudgy hand. I shook it firmly but quickly to avoid the smell of garlic on his breath–remnants of a rich New Orleans breakfast, no doubt. It was amazing that a man so bland could be so flamboyant in his eating habits.

“How’s Harvard, Robert?” Sarah asked, squeezing my hand. Sarah was a Yankee with only a couple of years under her belt in New Orleans, but nearly ten years with the FBM. She was a tall redhead–a couple of inches taller than Uncle Avery, in fact. She was trim and fit and bordered on being beautiful. But dad hadn’t entrusted her with field ops for her looks. Sarah was one of the premier magic talents in the entire agency, scoring the third highest mark ever recorded on the Webster-Kline scale.

“Harvard’s great,” I told her, adding, “But Cambridge is cold.”

She grinned. “Don’t I know it.” Bostonian by birth, she was well aware of how miserable her home climate was for a poor Southern boy like me. Of course I would have my revenge when summer came, and Sarah sweltered in the unaccustomed Delta heat.

“Robert!” a deep, resonate voice boomed from the direction of my father’s office. “Come on in, son.”

I turned to face my father, and I thought–not for the first time–that he certainly looked the part of the successful politician he wanted to be. Patrician with his square jaw and iron gray hair, he had the resolute expression of a natural leader. Although I was certain he had been in the office since seven, as was his habit, his dark suit and white shirt looked so fresh and crisp a casual observer might think he had just donned them. His tie was the sincere red all politicians favored.

He motioned for me to follow him to his office. “I tried to reach you before you came over,” he told me, “but Lisa said you had already left. Make yourself comfortable. Helen, why don’t you get Robert a cup of coffee?”

Helen looked a little embarrassed. I couldn’t say that I blamed her. She was a field agent–not a waitress. “Thanks, Helen,” I said politely, “but I’m fine.” She gave me a smile of relief before I turned to head for my father’s office.

As I sat down in one of his comfortable leather guest chairs, I reflected upon what I had come to believe was my father’s greatest fault. Although raised in the New South where merit and position were becoming more a function of ability than sex or color, he was of the Old School. His treatment of Helen was ample evidence of that. Although she was arguably his best field agent, he treated her about the same as he treated Lisa or any of our other servants. He was polite–even gentlemanly–but convinced that he was superior by virtue of sex, color and breeding.

I often wondered why blacks like Helen put up with the backward attitudes of men like my father. The only conclusion I could come to was that New Orleans was their home as much as it was ours. To their minds, it was better to live where they wanted to live rather than go somewhere that the social climate was more favorable. Helen’s family went back in Louisiana almost as far as ours, although she was not exactly of slave stock. Her first ancestor to come to New Orleans had been a free black, and her family had been free from then on. That’s another thing a lot of Yankees don’t know about, but there were always free blacks, even in the Old South. Of course, the other side of the ledger was that they weren’t treated as equals.

“So how are you and your brothers getting along?” my father asked, rushing back into the office with a thick folder in his hand.

“Fine,” I lied. Paul and Lance were two and four years younger than me respectively. Since I was the eldest of the three boys, there had always been a certain amount of enmity between us since as the eldest, I had been tapped by my father to assume the family mantle. It was I who was sent to Harvard while Paul was packed off to Tulane. Lance would join him in another year. It was I–by virtue of both my majority and my WK scores–who would be brought into the FBM eventually to contend for my father’s job when he decided I was ready for it. It was I who my father had mentored in both my academic and personal life, making certain that I would be successful in all of my endeavors, since it was I who was destined to lead the Devereaux family once my father was gone.

That isn’t to say that Paul and Lance were deprived. As sons of the Devereaux family, they were given opportunities that would have been the envy of even some in our own social circle. Money, cars, ski trips to the family home in Aspen, and other perks of the wealthy were theirs for the asking. I can even say that my mother had always been more partial to both Paul and Lance than she was to me as if to offset my father’s favoritism. What they envied me for was the knowledge that they would always be ‘Robert’s younger brothers’ and their achievements would always be compared and subordinated to my own.

“Good,” my father grunted. I don’t think he necessarily believed me, but it was the answer he expected. In his mind, Devereauxs did not complain to each other about family problems. He knew I didn’t get along with my brothers, but he also knew I wasn’t to speak of it.

He sat down gingerly with a contented sigh, the leather of his chair crinkling to fit his trim body. The chair fit him so well that I was certain it had been spelled to fit him precisely. “I’m going to have to cancel our luncheon, I’m afraid,” he began with a note of sadness.

“Oh?”

He nodded. “I had our table reserved at Antoine’s,” he sighed. “I’m sorry we haven’t had much time together during your break, but we’re in the middle of a very big operation. You’re welcome to use the reservation if you’d like.”

“I will,” I told him. I too, was somewhat saddened. I had seen little of my father during my break, and the luncheon was to have been our opportunity to talk one-on-one in a casual, comfortable environment.

He was silent for a moment. “You are going to propose to Alexandra at the ball tonight.” It wasn’t a question.

I frowned. “How did you know? Do you have a Prognosticator in the office?” I had often suspected my father was using the magical talents of his staff to foretell my future. The suspicion did not please me.

“Don’t worry,” my father laughed. “Yes, I do have one on staff, but I didn’t need her for this. Avery saw you leaving the jeweler’s yesterday and put two and two together. He’s rather good at that, you know.”

I relaxed a little. “Well, now that you know,” I drawled, “what do you think?”

“I think you’ve made an excellent choice,” my father said smiling. “The Pierpont family will make an excellent alliance for us.”

I nodded. My father was right. We were rich, but Alex’s family was filthy rich–and at least as well connected politically as we were. When my father finally decided which office to run for, Alex’s family would be valuable allies. My father didn’t bother to ask me if I loved Alex. While our mutual attraction was obvious, love would remain problematic for now, and given my father’s proclivity for women, I knew it really didn’t matter one whit to him if I loved her or not.

Still smiling, my father reached for his phone. After announcing himself to the party he had called, he continued, “My son will be using my reservation today. I would like him to be served a bottle of champagne. Make it the Krug–the Special Cuvee. And put it on my bill, of course.”

Yes, my father was very pleased, I thought.

We said our good-byes. We would meet that evening at the krewe ball. Until then, my day was free. I would now be off to enjoy lunch at Antoine’s, but it somehow seemed a shame to dine alone.

“I thought you were going to lunch with your father,” Helen called out to me as I was about to leave.

I shrugged. “Apparently duty calls.” I nodded toward my father’s office where Uncle Avery and a couple of other men I didn’t know were entering for what looked to be an important meeting. “Aren’t you going to the meeting?” I asked.

Now it was Helen’s turn to shrug. “I’m not senior enough for that meeting.” She tried to look as if it was a matter of no importance, but I had known her long enough to tell from the look in her eyes that she felt she had been shut out of a major project. Now at least I knew what was bothering her.

On the spur of the moment, I asked, “Then you’re free for lunch?”

She looked a little hesitant, as if accepting would be somehow wrong. “I don’t think your father would like that...” she began.

I shrugged. “My father’s in a meeting. Besides, you’ve got to eat. And I for one, hate to eat alone.”

I could see her struggling with the invitation. I suppose I had spent way too much time up North. I had forgotten that there were still archaic rules Southerners still played by. The days when restaurants were ‘White Only’ were long gone–gone before either of us could remember. But a social caste system had continued, even if pure segregation has ended. She must have known my father would take me to his favorite restaurant, and for his son to be seen dining there with the hired help of any race would be a social gaffe.

“Are you sure?” she ventured.

In reply, I offered my arm which, to my pleasure, she accepted with a nervous but heartfelt smile.

The maá®tre d’ was too cultured to show any alarm at a bi-racial couple. While the décor and superb fixtures spoke of an earlier time in the South, blacks were as welcome as whites in Antoine’s. Perhaps an aging businessman looked a little disturbed as we walked past, but whether that was because Helen was black or just very attractive was subject to question.

Helen seemed a little relieved when we were led into a small, private dining room, but by the time we had been seated and given menus, I could see the wheels turning behind those beautiful brown eyes of hers. I decided to set her mind at ease.

“Don’t worry, Helen. We weren’t seated in here to hide us. This is my father’s favorite table. This is called the Last 1940 Room. It’s the smallest and most intimate of the dining rooms here. I suspect my father often brings young women here.”

Helen looked a little embarrassed. “I had heard that he did.”

I just nodded. “My father’s trysts are well-known, I’m sure.”

“He’s a good boss,” she insisted.

“But he treats you like a servant,” I pointed out indelicately.

She didn’t respond, for the waiter appeared at that moment. After we had ordered, she said, “He doesn’t mean anything by it. He grew up in a time when men–white men–were still mostly in charge. He treats blacks and whites alike in the office.”

I suppose that was somewhat true. He treated everyone at the office as if they were his social inferiors. He wasn’t unkind to them: he just made sure everyone knew their proper place in the pecking order.

“I think he treats me the way he does more because I’m a woman than because I’m black.”

I just nodded. I suspected she was right. His opinion of women was not terribly high, as evidenced by the way he cheated on my mother with apparent regularity. Even Sarah he had not so much accepted as used, as one would use a tool to accomplish a difficult task. Still, I knew that Helen’s career had plateaued as long as my father was in charge. Her magical abilities, her hard work at LSU and her sterling record with the FBM would mean nothing when it came time for promotions. She’d be always be what she already was–a field agent–for the rest of her life. When I joined the Bureau, I’d already be my father’s heir apparent, and competent people like Helen would be denied promotion by virtue of my leapfrogging them. I didn’t like it, but as I said, I was the eldest of the Devereaux sons, and expectations were pressed on me whether I wanted them or not.

“You could always go into private practice,” I suggested as the waiter brought the Krug my father had requested. “I understand a lot of the best magical practitioners are doing that now. I hear the money is much better in private practice.”

“It’s true,” she acknowledged, accepting a glass of the champagne. “Several people have left the Bureau over the last few years to join the private sector. A friend of mine–Brian Wallace–has a new agency over in Algiers.” Algiers was just across the river. “He used to be with the Bureau. He asked me to join him, but I don’t know.”

“Well, give it some thought,” I urged her as I took a sip of the champagne. It was excellent, of course.

“You sound like you’re trying to weaken your father’s team,” she laughed.

“Not really,” I replied honestly. “After all, I plan to be on the team when I graduate. I’m just looking out for you. My father is wasting your talents. I know Brian, and I know he’s a good man.”

She grinned at me, savoring the champagne. “He’s a better man than you’ll ever know.”

I grinned back. I was glad to hear she had someone in her life. I had known Helen long enough to know it would take one hell of a man to attract her interest.

“Well,” she teased, “you know you have to have pretty good magical ability to get on the team...”

Helen knew I had by far the strongest magical ability in a family not known for its magical talents. Actually, I was rather proud of my magical ability. While it wasn’t exceptionally strong, I had an unusually high degree of control over it–something many Pushers lacked. Rather than answer her, I just stared at her champagne glass. She gasped a little as the bubbly liquid rose out of the glass, retaining its shape as it floated a good three inches above the rim.

“That’s great!” she giggled. “I’ve never seen anyone who could keep the shape intact like that.”

“It’s a good parlor trick,” I told her, concentrating carefully to hold the proper shape. “I can do a lot more. I’m a top-rated Pusher.”

“Please, sir,” the waiter said quietly as he brought our gumbos, “we have a rule against any magical displays on the premises.”

I gently lowered the champagne back into the glass. It wouldn’t do to get thrown out of Antoine’s, after all, and I couldn’t maintain the control more than a few seconds anyhow. Besides, it wouldn’t do to waste the excellent champagne by having it splash out of control all over the table.

I decided to change the direction of the conversation and satisfy my curiosity. “So what are all the big meets at my father’s office about?”

“I don’t know if he wants me to say anything about it,” Helen replied coyly. “Besides, I’m not in the meeting, remember?”

“Aw, come on, Helen,” I begged. “You know everything that goes on in that office. You always have. Now what’s my father up to this time–something to further his political ambitions?”

She thought about it for a moment, staring at her glass. At last she sighed and I knew she had decided to share the story with me. “Have you ever heard of Mama Juno?” she asked.

I thought for a moment. “Isn’t she that Voodoo queen over on Magazine?”

“She’s more than that,” Helen told me, taking a sip of a well-seasoned gumbo. And nodding her approval at the savory dish. “She’s into smuggling as well.”

“Drugs?”

“That–and anything else that needs to be smuggled. Her gang got into a turf war with the local mob. The Mafia’s just too old fashioned, Robert. Their guns and threats lost out to her magic and finesse. The FBM got involved when she was suspected of smuggling some heavy-duty magically charged objects out of the country. You know, much of the world has very little magical power, so some of these charged objects are worth a small fortune.”

I nodded. Washington had come to realize that magic involved more than mere parlor tricks and could have military potential. Export of magically enhanced objects was subject to Federal licensing. I imagined the turf war she mentioned wasn’t the only one. I could just see my father using his influence to take the case away from the FBI.

“A raid last month netted us one of her warehouses, so she’s gone underground. We did take out her son, Pierre Dubois, though–or at least wounded and captured him. He was guarding a big coke shipment they were preparing for distribution.”

“You shot him?” I asked, shocked.

“Of course not,” she snorted. “It was a magical wound. You think you could walk if you got hit by a curse from a Freezer?”

“Of course not,” I replied. Freezers could partially paralyze a person in a heartbeat.

“Neither could he,” she remarked.

“So he’s in custody?”

“Sure is.”

“So what’s the meeting all about?” I pressed. When she was reluctant to answer, I guessed, “While they’ve got her son in custody and her organization off-balance, they’re going in for the kill, aren’t they?”

“Maybe,” Helen allowed.

This would be big news in the Crescent City. If Mama Dubois and her son went down, my father would be a local hero and a virtual shoo-in for any political office he wanted.

Just then, the waiter came to collect our bowls and the conversation shifted. I had learned everything Helen would be willing to tell me, so there was no sense in pressing her further.

As we ate our unforgettable servings of crabe mous amandine, we caught up on each other’s lives. She told me about how her brother was doing well at Tulane, and I told her about my family–but not too much. My father wouldn’t have liked it if I had told Helen that my mother was drinking far too much and had fried her brain to the point at which she was living in La-La Land half of the time. I also neglected to mention that my two brothers were jealous little pricks. I didn’t even tell her about Alexandra. I was afraid if I mentioned her, I might give away my plans to propose to her that evening. Mostly, I gave sketchy details and talked about my trials and tribulations at Harvard.

“It sounds like you don’t like it much up North,” she commented just as the waiter delivered her meringue glacee swimming in chocolate.

I shrugged as the waiter placed fraises au kirsch in front of me with Gallic finesse. “It’s all right,” I said with a deadpan expression, adding, “For Yankees.”

We both laughed at that.

“Thanks for lunch,” she said with a grin as we left Antoine’s. “That was the best meal I’ve had in a long time.”

“And healthy, too,” I joked. We both laughed, knowing that every fine restaurant in the city served food rich enough to make a dietician pale. New Orleans must have more cholesterol per capita than any other city in the country. We natives seem to think if it isn’t cooked in pure butter, it isn’t worth eating.

Impulsively, she kissed me lightly on the cheek. “And thanks for the advice. Maybe I will go into the private sector someday.” With that, she waved and headed back to the office.

I returned the wave and started back to our townhouse.

Not everyone in a krewe participates in the parade. Actually, it’s something of an honor to participate. Since I spent most of the year in Cambridge, I was not one of the participants, but my brothers were. I think it gave them satisfaction to know that they had achieved an honor I had not attained.

Instead, I would accompany my mother and father and go directly to the ball. I was just as happy to do so, since changing into a tuxedo after the parade would have been logistically difficult–especially since I carried Alex’s engagement ring in the pocket of my tux coat and I certainly didn’t want to lose it.

The weather was luxuriously pleasant that evening as Jason, my father’s chauffeur, led me out to the waiting car. The air was warm, but the humidity was still low for early spring. Just a few weeks later, the temperature and the humidity would combine to make wearing something as formal as a tux extremely uncomfortable. I often wondered how my ancestors managed to dress so much more formally in the days before air conditioning.

“You look very nice tonight, dear,” my mother said, patting me on the knee as I took my place next to her in the back seat of the Lincoln Town Car. I could smell the alcohol on her breath and wondered–not for the first time–if she was drinking more now. It was the curse of many wealthy but ignored wives, if one were to judge by my mother and her friends.

“So do you, mother,” I replied. Actually, for a woman of fifty-five, she really did look very good–almost regal in the gold gown and formally styled silver hair. She had gained a few pounds since I had left for college, but still managed to look slimmer than most of her contemporaries. However, given my father’s indifference at her appearance, I imagined it was all for naught.

“Do you have the ring?” my father asked me without preamble.

I patted my pocket and he nodded. To him, this was not so much an engagement announcement as a proposed merger. If he had had his way, the engagement announcement would have appeared in the business section of the Times-Picayune: ‘Devereaux-Pierpont Merger Announced!’

“Mister Devereaux,” Jason called from behind the wheel, “there’s quite a crowd on Peters and all through the west side of the Quarter. I recommend we go up to Rampart.”

Actually, we were nowhere near the crowd he was talking about. Jason was a Seer. When he concentrated, he could see things happening for almost half a mile away. It was a handy talent for a chauffeur. Unfortunately, Seers couldn’t focus on details, so their value as observers wasn’t good enough to be admissible in court, or even for more mundane eavesdropping activities. Still, his instincts were good enough that my father grunted his approval and Jason pulled away from the curb.

“We’re so happy for you, Robert,” my mother smiled, giving my knee another pat. “Alexandra is a lovely girl, and her mother and I are such good friends. You’ll do well together.”

I nodded uncomfortably. I had visions of my mother and Alex’s mother conspiring to mold us into their ideal couple. People of my parents’ generation seldom had strong magical abilities: Webster and Kline’s release of magic had its greatest affect on humans at puberty, enhancing latent talents that would serve for the rest of a person’s life. But the key word was ‘latent.’ Even my parents’ generation benefited from the release of magic, and my mother was something of a low-level Whisperer–as was Alex’s mother. That meant both Alex and I would have to remain on the alert when they began to pepper us with suggestions that had at least a subtle flavor of magic.

The ball was already in progress when we arrived. A small but talented jazz orchestra was in full swing, and a few brave couples were on the dance floor, swaying to a hot number. Most of the guests preferred socializing to dancing, though. My brothers were laughing and talking with some of their contemporaries. They both glanced in our direction but made no indication that they were happy to see us–or more specifically, happy to see me.

My mother and father spotted a well-known local politician and made their way to where he was holding court, leaving me on my own. It took me only a minute to locate Alex, her bright red hair shining like a beacon as she laughed with a group of girls I recognized as her best friends, all of whom were classmates of hers at Tulane. I decided not to join them just yet. We’d have time enough together later. I decided instead to get myself a drink and see if any of my old friends and prep school classmates were anywhere to be seen.

I made my way to the bar by myself. Along the way, I saw no one that I could call a friend. It seemed that none of my old friends had made it to the ball, and I found I didn’t want to talk to any of my contemporaries who had managed to attend. It was funny, but maybe Harvard had changed me more than I realized. I found I had no real desire to hobnob with my fellow Southern aristocrats, half of whom were so wrapped up in their social circle that they didn’t realize how much the world around them was changing. Maybe father had been right to send me to Harvard. It had certainly widened my perspective.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I never had been part of the social set. Oh sure, I did all the things a rich young man was supposed to do and was still doing them. The balls, pressing the flesh, and living the lush life were all part of my upbringing and I couldn’t completely deny them. But on the other hand, I had always been very particular about my friends, selecting individuals such as myself who believed brains and talent were more important than money and contacts. Of course I–and many of my wealthy friends–had never truly had to test that hypothesis.

The party actually looked a little better once I had a scotch in my hand. The ice-cooled soda water was soothing to my throat, and the scotch... well, let’s just say that the Krewe of Pliny the Elder did not tolerate bad liquor. The orchestra had switched tempo and was playing a lush number which had most of the couples on the dance floor dancing very close to each other. I thought I should probably ask Alex to dance, but then I saw someone had already asked her. To my discomfort, they were dancing very close to each other as well.

“Mr. Devereaux?”

I turned away from my quiet people watching to see a waiter attired in the formal livery of the krewe. The uniform fit him poorly, and I doubted if the caterer had bothered to do much to them in the way of alterations. It was a shame, really. Sizing was a magic talent common (and cheap) enough that the uniforms should have been a proper fit.

“There’s a call for you, sir,” the waiter told me in a gentle Caribbean accent with undertones of French. He smiled, thick lips together in an ebony face. Looking back on it though, it was his eyes that I should have noticed. They were the eyes of a predator and not those of a servitor. The oversight was to cost me dearly.

I couldn’t imagine who would be calling me. Alex was at the party, as well as my entire immediate family. No one else would know–or care–that I was at the party. “Do you know who’s calling?” I asked.

“I believe it is a Ms. Davis,” he replied smoothly.

Helen? What possible reason would there be for Helen to be calling me? Of course she knew I was at the party but...

“Where did you say the call was?”

“Follow me,” the waiter replied with a small bow as he turned, not bothering to see if I would follow. I shrugged and fell into step with him.

The phones were located in a small alcove just beyond the restroom where a caller could be assured of having some privacy. In keeping with the décor of the establishment, the phones were located on three French provincial desks, separated from each other. The phone on the center one was off the hook while callers were on the other two phones. Again, I should have noticed something wrong. The two other callers wore formal attire, but in retrospect, I should have noticed that their outfits fit them as poorly as that of the waiter. Without thinking, I ignored the other two men and sat down, picking up the receiver. “Helen?”

Strange, there was no one on the phone at all. “Helen?”

That was as far as I got. The men on either side of me jumped up, one pinning my arms to my side while the other shoved a rag over my nose and mouth. “Whaa...?” was all I managed as darkness overtook me at once.

I woke up in total darkness. I was lying on a bed–that much I could tell from the softness and the cool feel of the sheets. It was easy to feel the sheets, because I wasn’t wearing a single stitch of clothing. There was no sound and no light, so I overcame my first impulse to stand since being both naked and sightless would not do me any good. Even in my chloroform-drugged brain, I had determined that my best course of action lay in waiting until I had been able to learn something of my surroundings. However, I wasn’t to be given the opportunity to play possum.

“We know you awake, boy,” a woman’s sultry voice called out calmly from the darkness. She had a soft French accent and a cadence of the islands–just like the waiter who had lured me from the ball.

I’d like to say that I was as unruffled as James Bond, but that would be a lie. In fact, I was scared shitless. Someone had kidnapped me, taken all of my clothing, and left me in stygian darkness. I was no fool. My father was both rich and powerful. I knew he had made many enemies in his tenure at the FBM. Either some of them had me in their clutches or I had been kidnapped for ransom. I actually hoped it was the latter of the two. Kidnappers would probably let me go after a ransom was paid. My father’s enemies on the other hand...

“Do you know why you’re here?” the woman’s voice asked.

“N... No,” I stammered.

Dim light appeared from nowhere in particular and I could see an attractive black woman in a long, flowing orange dress. She looked to be perhaps forty, but a very well preserved forty I had to admit. Her skin was very dark and her hair was short and curled closely along the side of her narrow face. “I’m Marie Dubois,” she said, moving toward me in a sultry gait. “But some folks call me Mama Juno.”

I would have gotten up from the bed and tried to greet her with something resembling dignity–or as much dignity as a naked man can muster–but for some reason, I couldn’t get up from the bed. I could move my arms and legs, but I couldn’t rise. It was as if my torso had been glued to the bed. I was forced to lie there unmoving as she sat beside me, the cotton of her skirt sliding over the smooth sheets.

“Your father has my son, Pierre,” she told me. Her voice was even, but there was hatred in her eyes when she mentioned my father. “He hurt him–hurt him bad. Right now, he can’t even walk.”

“Your son was paralyzed by a Freezer,” I told her, trying to keep my voice calm. “He’ll be all right. The spell will wear off.”

“You don’t know that!” she snorted. “You just know what you be told. My boy, he hurt bad. The Freezer, he no good. He use too much power. He may never be whole again.”

I had no reason to doubt her. Unfortunately, magic was still pretty much new to the world and could get out of control in a tense situation. Freezers had been known to accidentally stop a person’s heart when all they were trying to do was stop them from running. Helen hadn’t told me the details, but I suspected he had tried to resist before his capture. If he had resisted, the Freezer might have overdone it. It was very possible that he might never walk again. “I... I hope he’ll be all right,” I offered, praying that he would.

“Oh he walk again,” she said grimly. “I sure about that, yes... He gonna walk into the court on his own, but down here...” She reached out with long black fingers and caressed my balls. “Down here maybe he don’t work no more. He my only boy, too.”

“I’m sorry,” I managed, really meaning it on many levels.

To my surprise, she shrugged, looking away. “Well, maybe there some hope. Mama know things you white boys don’t know. We be able to fix him up fine.”

Then she turned her attention back to me. “But still your daddy–he hurt my boy. Now, you gonna pay the price for what your daddy do.”

I held my breath. I fully expected her to pull a sharp blade from somewhere inside her orange gown and slice off my manhood as I watched in horror. She was full of surprises, though, rising from my bedside and releasing the clasps that held the dress over her shoulders.

As the dress fell to the floor, I was mesmerized by her body. The top of her black breasts seemed almost to shine in the light that followed her. Her nipples were erect and perfectly sized for her magnificent breasts, which were firm with no hint of sagging–the breasts of a twenty year old. As for the rest of her, she was a perfect picture of womanhood–small waist, rounded hips, and long, slim legs. As precarious as my situation was, I couldn’t stop myself from becoming uncomfortably erect in her presence.

She smiled at my discomfort, her long fingers gently caressing my penis. It took an act of sheer will to keep from going off right then. “You like what you see?” she asked, not waiting for an answer. When she kissed the tip of my penis, I was certain that she was magically keeping me from orgasming since the pressure within me was too intense to hold back without magical help.

There was no romance in what came next, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t pleasurable. She mounted me. It was as simple as that. And since it was hardly consensual, it must be noted that what she did to me can only be called rape. I had enjoyed sex many times in my young life, but I had never felt anything like I felt that night. When I was finally allowed to come, I nearly passed out. I flatter myself in thinking that Mama Juno too, came, but the moan I exhaled was too loud to hear any sounds she might have made.

It was over as quickly as it began. She pulled away from me, leaving me limp all over. “Rest now, lover,” she whispered. And in response to her command, I felt all consciousness slipping away...

“Can you hear me?”

The woman’s voice was familiar. At first my confused mind thought it was Mama Juno, but the voice calling to me was higher and younger with no trace of a Southern accent. I tried to open my eyes, but I felt as if lead weights had been attached to my eyelids.

“Don’t try to open your eyes just yet,” the woman cautioned. “You’ve been spelled into a trance. I need to bring you out of it slowly. Just try to nod your head if you understand.”

With effort, I managed to do so.

“Good. Now just lie still.” I felt her touching the side of my face, then stroking my arms. At last, she withdrew her hands and ordered, “Now concentrate on the sound of my voice. I want you to open your eyes at the count of three. Are you ready?” I managed to nod. “One... Two... Three!”

My eyes literally shot open, and I was suddenly staring into the worried face of Sarah Carmichael. She sighed in relief. “You gave us quite a scare, Robert.”

“Am... I... in... hos... hos...” I managed to croak out.

“The hospital? Not exactly. You’re in the clinic at the FBM. You’re going to be all right.”

At that moment, my father rushed in, followed closely by Uncle Avery. “My God, Robert, are you all right?”

“He shouldn’t talk right now,” Sarah cautioned, tucking a sheet over my chest. “Let him rest for a while first.”

My father squeezed my hand, a serious look of concern on his face. “Yes, you rest, Robert. Your mother is in my office now. I’ll tell her you’re doing better.”

When he and Uncle Avery were gone, Sarah continued to check me out in the manner of a health professional. I wondered if among her many talents, she was also an RN. When she finished checking the monitors, she turned back to me. “We found you on the steps of the building this morning,” she explained. “You were out cold and naked.”

I blushed a little at that. I must have presented a bizarre image even in a town where bizarre can be commonplace.

“I’ve checked you over. I can’t find anything physically wrong with you, so you should be fine.”

Maybe, but the way she said it wasn’t terribly reassuring. The operative word was ‘physically.’ Strictly speaking, I could be a psychological or magical nightmare and still be ‘physically’ fine. Mama Juno was rumored to be one of the most adept magical practitioners in the parish, and everyone knew that sexually transmitted spells were the most powerful–and often the ugliest. Sarah knew it, too. I could see it in her expression. Since I doubted if Mama Juno had bothered to have me cleaned up before unceremoniously dumping me on the front steps of the FBM, Sarah must have suspected something sexual had transpired.

“Just get some rest,” she advised me. “We’ll talk more when you’re rested.”

I dozed off and on for the better part of the day. That wasn’t natural, and I suspected that Sarah had prescribed a light sedative spell for me. At least it would probably not result in the grogginess a chemical sedative would have produced. By nightfall, I was wide-awake–just in time for my mother and two brothers to visit me.

“Oh Robert!” my mother wailed, grabbing my arm as she bent over to kiss me. “We were so worried about you.”

I wasn’t sure who she meant by ‘we.’ Sure, she was worried, and so was my father, I assumed, but Paul and Lance stood back looking more concerned that I might actually recover. It was a good thing I wasn’t on oxygen because either of my brothers would have been more than happy to stand on the tube.

“I’m fine, mother,” I told her, shooting a smug glance at my brothers. Actually, I was feeling pretty good. Sure, I was worried about what Mama Juno might have done to me, but nothing had happened yet as far as I could tell. Sarah’s suspected spell had done wonders for me it seemed.

Mother left after a few minutes of forgettable chatter, my two brothers sullenly in tow. After they were gone, I realized neither of my brothers had bothered to say a word to me. Of course, I also realized I was okay with that.

I had one other visitor that evening. Fortunately, I had enough warning that she was coming that I had a chance to shave and run a comb through my hair. I didn’t seem to need a shave, so I assumed Sarah had gotten one of the attendants to shave me while I was asleep. There was nothing I could do about the oversized FBM sweats I had been given, so Alex would just have to see me not at my fashionable best.

“Robert,” she crooned, falling into my arms as I rose to greet her. “Are you all right?”

“It appears as if I am,” I allowed, hugging her closely. “I didn’t even get a chance to talk to you last night. I had something very important to ask you.”

She pushed back just a little, looking into my eyes. The light dawned at once in her eyes. She obviously didn’t want to hear anything like a proposal just then. “Maybe we’d better wait until you’re feeling a little better before we discuss... that.”

She was right. A patient room in the FBM clinic wasn’t the sort of place to propose to a woman like Alex. “All right,” I agreed. “We can talk about it when I’m out of here.”

“When are they going to let you go?” she asked, releasing me and changing the subject at the same moment.

“Tomorrow, I would imagine,” I replied. “They want to run a few more tests on me and debrief me in the morning. I should be home in time for lunch.”

“What did that awful woman do to you?” she asked, alerting me to the fact that my kidnapping by Mama Juno must have been common knowledge already. I hoped that no one–particularly Alex–had been told that I had obviously had sex during my abduction.

“Just held me for a few hours,” I lied. It wasn’t a good idea to tell her what had really happened. As I’ve mentioned before, Alex and I had been sexually active for some time over school vacations and summer breaks. She knew spells could be sexually transmitted, too. Until I had a clean bill of health from Sarah and her FBM staff, it was best not to mention my sexual encounter with Mama Juno. Come to think of it, it would be best if Alex was never told about that, as long as Sarah could confirm that nothing transmittable had entered my system.

“That’s all?” she asked–a little suspiciously, I thought. I really couldn’t blame her, though.

“I think she just wanted to prove to my father that she could do it,” I said glibly. I’m sure that was actually part of it, so it wasn’t really a lie. Half-truths always spin better than lies.

We then talked for a while about inconsequential things–her school and mine, mutual friends, and how much we were looking forward to being able to spend more time together. The possibility of marriage wasn’t mentioned, but we both knew it would be happening–probably sometime late in the summer. That would give us both time to get home from our respective schools.

Finally, the stress of the day got to me. Alex gave me a warm kiss and said goodnight. Minutes later, I was back in bed asleep, still in my sweats.

The next morning, I felt like my old self again. I awoke, refreshed and hungry. Of course psychologically, I was still a little off. After all, I had been raped when you get right down to it. I began to understand just a little how a woman felt when she was subjected to non-consensual sex. In some ways, I may have felt even worse than a woman would. I don’t mean that insensitively. I knew that women had the additional burden of worrying if a rapist had impregnated them, but on the other hand, most women I knew grew up with the knowledge that it could happen to them. I don’t think I ever worried as a man about being raped by a woman, and I doubt if there is a man alive who ever anticipates it could happen to him. It made me feel powerless in a way I had never imagined before.

My father had brought me some fresh clothes from home in anticipation of my release. It felt good to dress in something besides the utilitarian sweats. Once in a white polo shirt and gray slacks, I felt my self-confidence returning somewhat. Looking at myself in the mirror, my kidnapping and sexual assault seemed like something from a bad dream.

Sarah ushered me into a meeting room and my self-confidence waned again. A buffet of fruit, yogurt, beignets and other assorted pastries greeted us, and the amount of food made me realize this was going to be a large meeting. It seemed that my embarrassment was going to be shared with a dozen or more people. I didn’t want a group of strangers viewing me as some sort of sexual victim.

As the others filtered in, I began to feel a little better. Those who I knew–Helen, Uncle Avery, and a couple of others–all expressed relief that I was all right and assured me that Mama Juno and her gang would soon be behind bars. They were closer to me than most of my own family, I realized.

“Sit up here by me,” my father urged. I sat at his right hand while Uncle Avery sat across from me at his left. The rest of the dozen or so FBM employees took seats at the large conference table. I knew all of them at least by appearance and most of them by name. I relaxed a little, realizing that each of the people at the table were loyal to my father and by implication on my side.

“You all know why we’re here,” my father began. “You’ve had a chance to read the brief. Let’s go through what we know now and come up with a strategy regarding this Mama Juno.”

Uncle Avery took over, handing out a printed briefing and explaining the bare facts of the case as a review. The barest fact was the condition in which I had been delivered to the FBM offices–naked with a note taped to my chest. The note was news to me. No one had mentioned any note. A copy of it was attached to the report. It said simply: Por Pierre.

“Poor Pierre?” I asked, squinting to see the printing on the note in the photo they took of me when I was found.

“P-o-r,” Uncle Avery corrected me. Of course: it was French. It meant ‘for’ in English.

“So who is Pierre?”

My father gave me an ugly look, as if I was not supposed to be the one asking the questions. Still, he answered, “Pierre is Mama Juno’s son. We have him in custody.”

I nodded. I didn’t mention that Helen had already told me that much. I simply hadn’t been told his name. “But if she wanted to trade me for her son, why did she release me? Did you release him in exchange for me?”

It was Sarah’s turn to answer. “Robert, Pierre may never walk again. Even if he does, a Freezer probably destroyed his sex life. She didn’t want to trade for her son. This is Old Testament stuff–an eye for an eye. She cursed you.”

My first thought was that she had done the same thing to me the Freezer had done to her son. But no, I had awakened with hard wood that morning. Everything down south seemed to be working just fine. Maybe Sarah was wrong. “But I feel fine.”

“The curse is dormant,” she explained, “but it’s there. Two Detectors checked you out while you were asleep. There’s a curse on you like no other curse we’ve ever seen.”

That didn’t sound good at all.

“Go ahead,” my father said when Sarah looked at him questioningly. “He’s cleared on my authority.”

Sarah nodded. “Robert, we’re going to tell you something most people don’t know...”

She went on to explain that there was far more to magic than most people realized. Some of it I knew (or at least suspected) from things my father had told me over the years or from courses I had taken in magic. But some of it smacked of rumors I remembered from campfire stories of my childhood, and some of it was completely new to me–and all of it was frightening.

“We are tasked with keeping a lot of this information secret,” Sarah explained. “If the general public had any idea how powerful some of the magic is out there, they’d be very disturbed.”

And they’d probably throw a goodly number of the current politicians out on their collective ears for not doing more to control magic, I thought. Magic might be more commonplace now, but we still weren’t that far psychologically from wanting to burn ‘witches’ at the stake. In a society where most magical talents were weak at best, strong talents were to be feared.

“So you’re telling me,” I began, “that the curse might be anything–impotency, turn me into a werewolf...”

Sarah laughed nervously. “Impotency–maybe. But as for becoming a werewolf, that’s doubtful. Transformation curses are limited to transforming into other humans.”

For now, I thought, but I didn’t speak.

“And transformation curses are rare. They’re very difficult to do. They require a significant understanding of anatomy.”

“Yes,” Helen agreed, “but even those are more common than they used to be. Some spells have been standardized. And there’s that radical feminist group, the Women’s Liberation Army.”

“Aren’t they the ones who made men think they were women a couple of years ago?” I asked.

“That’s right,” Sarah replied slowly. I had a hunch she wasn’t telling the whole truth, though. The supermarket rags claimed the WLA actually turned a few men into women until they were caught and stopped by the FBM. ‘No,’ the FBM said. Men were only made to think they had been turned into women. I had an uncomfortable feeling the rags were right.

My father shot a disapproving look at Helen. I had a hunch she had not helped her career by mentioning the WLA. She wisely said nothing more about them.

“I’d like to keep you on a curse watch, Robert,” Sarah proposed.

“What does that mean?” I asked warily. I suspected I knew. If Sarah had her way, I’d be locked away ‘safely’ until they were sure the curse was stale.

“We’d assign a guard to you,” my father clarified. “You’d have to stay at the townhouse.”

I was pretty sure he meant I would have to stay inside the townhouse–not just ‘at’ it. “But I’m due to go back to Harvard in a few days,” I reminded him.

“I’ll make certain you’re allowed to graduate on time,” he assured me.

“What if I say no?”

Everyone in the room looked uncomfortably away from me except my father. He stared directly into my eyes, making me regret my audacity. “No is not an option,” he replied softly.

So began my virtual captivity. I didn’t consider it as such at first: I thought only that my father was determined to be over-protective. It didn’t take me long, though to discover the truth. Oh, no one spilled the beans. It was just that over the next few days, a word here or there would slip from one of my rotating guards or from one of the Farseers who came to project my Harvard lectures for me. Slowly, I learned the real truth for my seclusion. It was like this...

Pierre Dubois was due to come to trial in the Magic Courts in a few days. Magic, like taxes, rated its own set of courts with its own judges. Judges in Magic Court were powerful magical practitioners in their own rights, often blessed with the rare ability to perform multiple magic functions well. Of course, many people had a smattering of multiple talents. In a quiet room with just one other person, I could sometimes make out a word or two of their thoughts. But most people–like me–had only one truly marketable talent, such as my own telekinesis, and a host of weaker, unreliable powers.

Magic Courts were closed courts. Verdicts were announced, but the government didn’t want public testimony from the proceedings since it might reveal information which could be used by others to do magical mischief. Also, the closed courts kept the general public from realizing just how vulnerable everyone was to malicious magic–and exactly how widespread it was.

I expected that I would be sequestered until after Pierre Dubois’ trial. I had picked that up from my guards. What I had not expected was how serious the charges were against him.

“Kidnapping?” I repeated.

Helen nodded. She had come to visit me, and we were enjoying a cup of morning coffee together in the ornate living room of father’s townhouse.

“Don’t be so surprised,” she said. “After all, his mother kidnapped you. Why shouldn’t he be capable of kidnapping, too?”

I nodded. It made sense.

“And that’s just the start of it,” she continued. “He’s also facing extortion, smuggling, and dangerous practice charges–in addition to the primary charges of possessing cocaine with intent to sell.”

“What are dangerous practices?” I asked.

Helen looked a little uncomfortable. “Dangerous practices are why this is in Magic Court. In Pierre’s case, he practices Voodoo.”

“Voodoo?” I laughed. “You’re joking.”

Her eyes got wide and a serious expression clouded her face. “I never joke about Voodoo. It’s not safe.”

My smile faded. “You really believe in that stuff?”

“Robert, Voodoo has always been powerful–even before magic was released,” she explained. “Forget about everything you’ve heard about it. No offense, but you’re white. Not many white folks really know anything about Voodoo.”

Actually, I was a little offended. Like most natives of the Crescent City, I thought I knew a fair amount about it. I wasn’t one of those ignorant Yankees that thought it was all about love potions and zombies. Oh, that was part of Voodoo, but I understood its dark origins in the worship of primitive African gods. I knew something of its rituals and the concept of creating gris-gris through those arcane rites.

She read the expression on my face. “I don’t mean it that way, Robert. I know you know a lot about Voodoo.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you an Empath now as well as a TK?”

She shook her head. “No, but all white folks think they know more about it than they do. You see, Robert, Voodoo is real magic: it always had been. When Webster and Kline accidentally unleashed magic, Voodoo practitioners like Mama Juno became far more powerful than most people ever imagined. They were open to magic and embraced it. The combination of WK magic and Voodoo meant her spells were stronger than white folks could even start to comprehend. That’s why we’ve been working so hard to break up her gang. She’s managed to displace the Mafia and take control of crime in the area.”

“You make it sound as if she’s so strong that keeping me here isn’t going to prevent this curse of hers from going off.”

Helen didn’t answer, but I could tell from her expression that that was exactly what she believed. That evening, I began to believe it, too.

Looking back on it, maybe I should have realized what was happening to me right away. Perhaps some of my father’s people–or even my father himself–may have suspected at least some of what was about to happen to me, but if so, they were mum on the subject, presumably to foster my own peace of mind. However, the type of curse I was about to experience seemed in the province of tabloid stories and science fiction back then, so I don’t know if I would have believed them even if they had known and told me what to expect. Those of us who had grown up with magic were aware of its limitations as well as its attributes. Our parents’ generation must have felt the same was about space travel–knowing that interplanetary travel was possible but that getting to men to Mars was more than we could accomplish. Magic was great for lifting objects, reading minds, curing illnesses, projecting images over long distances and things like that, but good old fairy tale magic such as transformations and the like was as far out as a manned flight to Mars.

Or so I thought.

It began when I reached for a book on the top shelf of the bookcase in the townhouse study. I was bored–a virtual prisoner for over a week. My father had held me incommunicado. As far as Alex and my friends knew, I had rushed back to Cambridge on a school emergency. I was not even allowed to contact anyone: all calls from the townhouse were now routed through the FBM switchboard.

Anyhow, as I reached for the book–a pictorial history of New Orleans–I realized I wasn’t quite tall enough to pull it from the shelf. Odd, I thought. It had been a long time since I had tried to pull a book down from there, but I couldn’t recall having a problem reaching it. It was a high shelf, so I had always had to stretch just a little to get something from the shelf, but not as much as I now had to stretch. I managed to stretch just a little further, standing on my tiptoes but still the book nearly eluded me. I could touch it but was afraid I’d cause several other books to fall if I tried to pull it down.

More curious than frightened, I found a yardstick and measured my height against a doorframe. I appeared to be about five eleven, but I knew that couldn’t be right. I had been just at six feet since I graduated from high school. I knew people tended to lose height as they aged, but I hardly thought the four years since high school counted as significant aging. I had to have just measured wrong, I thought, dismissing my concerns. Or perhaps the shelf was now higher, replacing one within my reach.

Then as I returned the yardstick to the kitchen closet, I noted something else. In spite of a winter in New England and nearly ten days inside the townhouse, the back of my hand had a very healthy tan–the sort of tan I would normally expect to have only after a long Louisiana summer. I just shook my head. It had to be the lighting in the room. I’d check myself out on the balcony the next day at breakfast in the sunlight. Technically, I wasn’t supposed to go out on the balcony, but no one would know.

I found another book–one on a lower shelf–and chalked up the little oddities as delusions of a stir-crazed mind. Yes, I know I should have suspected something was amiss, but like most men, I tended to ignore potential physical issues, expecting them to take care of themselves if properly ignored. After all, how many men decided that those nagging chest pains were just gas? It couldn’t be a heart attack now, could it? My self-delusion worked for a little while, but I couldn’t quite disregard the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. I just didn’t feel... right. Sighing, I put down the book and turned on the TV, determined to suppress the feeling by immersing myself in some mindless drivel.

Cinemax (or Skin-i-max as my friends and I had come to call it) was showing one of its usual late evening semi-porn flicks, complete with lots on undulating flesh and intense moaning. I had enjoyed a robust sex life in my time at Harvard, and cooped up in the townhouse, I found myself getting just a wee bit horny. I settled down to watch the movie, expecting to get hard as a rock as I usually did. Not this time, though. Mentally, I was into the cheesy film, thinking about how the naked girl looked a lot like a little Vassar chick I had made it with just before Christmas break. Physically though, there was just no response. I began to think my unfortunate sexual encounter with Mama Juno had done more harm than I had thought.

Now I was starting to worry. There was some talk that Mama Juno’s son had been permanently damaged sexually. What if Mama Juno had done the same thing to me? Cautiously, I unzipped my pants and reached in, trying to stimulate myself just to make sure I still could. To my relief, I finally managed to ‘get it up.’ However, it seemed less insistent than usual, going back down quickly once the stimulation had ceased.

Perhaps I was just tired and a little anxious about what had happened to me, I thought. Yes, that had to be it. It was nothing more than performance anxiety. I had heard the expression before but just never suffered from it until now. It was all natural, I assured myself, sinking back onto the couch to try to get interested in the movie.

Finally, I gave up, choosing instead to channel flip for a while. At last, bored, tired, and still maybe just a little bit worried, I shuffled off to bed.

Sleep brought no relief. I was restless all night, waking up from bad dreams I could neither understand nor remember. My sheets were soaked, as if I had awakened in the middle of a New Orleans summer instead of a cool spring. I was so exhausted by sunrise that I fell back into a troubled sleep until nearly noon.

“Mr. Robert?” Lisa’s voice brought me out of the stupor I had fallen into at dawn. I could hear her approaching my bed. She couldn’t see me, though, as I had wrapped the sheet around my head to block out the morning light.

“What is it, Lisa?” I asked, throwing back the sheet.

Instead of a reply, she gasped. Her eyes were wide and full of fear. I had momentarily forgotten the concerns of the previous night. “What’s wrong, Lisa?”

“You... you...” she stammered, pointing a shaking finger at me.

I was getting nowhere with her. I wore boxers to bed, so I was a least minimally decent. I leaped out of bed shaking my head and noticed suddenly that my skin looked odd in the morning light. I walked over to the mirror for a closer look at myself. “Shit!” I muttered when I saw my reflection.

I still looked pretty much as I had looked before, but my skin had become darker–not the dark that comes with a natural tan but the dark of a man who has some black blood in his ancestry. Other than that, I could see no obvious change. No wait–that wasn’t true. My eyes had changed from blue to somewhere between blue and brown. Also, my lips seemed a little puffy and my nose just a bit broader. I turned to Lisa who was now visibly shaking. “Lisa, call my father right away!”

My father, flanked by Uncle Avery and Sarah, was there in fifteen minutes. Both my father and Uncle Avery looked shocked but Sarah showed no surprise as I stood before them in my boxer shorts. “So it’s started,” she muttered.

“You suspected this was going to happen?” I asked nervously.

“I expected something would happen,” she amended. “I wasn’t sure of what–until now.”

“They’re turning me into one of them! They’re turning me into a... a...” I shouted, unable to even say the word. “You’ve got to do something.”

In my own defense, I should point out that I was never a bigot. But the fact that I had no prejudices against black people didn’t mean I was anxious to be one of them, any more than I would have wanted my dark blond hair to suddenly become brown.

Sarah grabbed my hand, examining the back of my wrist. “It’s happening very quickly,” she commented.

“What’s happening?” I demanded nervously. “You mean something else is still happening?”

“This is more than just a simple pigmentation spell,” Sarah said, not so much in answer to my question but to everyone. I knew what a pigmentation spell was. Changing the color of a person’s skin was relatively easy. Such spells had been around for years. Soon after magic became practical, a number of blacks had used the spells to appear white since they felt it was socially and economically rewarding to be so. However, facial features tended to remain the same, so the spells were not truly racial changes–only changes of pigmentation. Besides, many blacks–most, in fact–decided they preferred being black to being white anyway once they actually had the option to change. Very few actually went through with the procedure anymore.

“What is it then?” Uncle Avery wanted to know. He pushed his fingers through his thinning hair as he stared at my darkened skin.

Sarah ignored the question, looking at me more carefully. “You aren’t as tall,” she said at last. She looked down at my feet. “You aren’t wearing shoes, but I’d say you’re at least two inches shorter.”

“Just an inch,” I blurted out.

“You knew you were getting shorter?” my father asked.

I shook my head. “No... I mean, I wondered, but I thought I had made a mistake.”

“Robert,” Sarah cautioned, “we don’t know the full nature of the curse you’ve been infected by. We need to know everything–anything that you think has changed may be important. Do you understand?”

“Why?” I growled impatiently. “There seems to be nothing you can do about it. You just don’t want anyone else to know about this.”

I could see from each of their expressions that I had struck a nerve.

“Robert,” my father began, “we have a difficult situation on our hands. We’ve been trying to break up Mama Juno’s operation for over a year now, but she’s always just a step ahead of us. Catching her son was the first big break we’ve had in the case. At last, we’ve found people willing to testify against her, now that we have her son. If word got out that my own son...” his voice broke, “wasn’t safe from her, we’d have hell to pay getting anyone to testify. It might even destroy our entire case.”

“Maybe so,” I allowed, “but I want you to do something! I want this curse stopped and reversed.”

“I understand,” Sarah nodded. “But Robert, we can’t stop it. We don’t know enough about it. If we tried to stop it, we might only stop part of it, and that could be fatal. The best thing we can do now is let it run its course and try to reverse it afterwards.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Try’ was a very comforting word. “How long until it runs its course?”

“Based on the speed of what has already happened, I’d say three to four days–at the most: maybe less. Of course, I’m only guessing. Sexually transmitted curses tend to work fairly quickly. This one seems to be happening very rapidly.”

So Mama Juno’s curse was just starting. So far, I was a little shorter and a little darker, but I knew in my heart that it was just the beginning. Sarah knew–or at least suspected–what the end result would be. I could see it in her eyes. It was time to make her level with me.

“Okay, Sarah, cut the bullshit. You have a pretty good idea what I’m changing into. Spill it.”

“Well,” she began reluctantly, “I’d have to say from the skin tone and the shrinking that you’re being changed into a black woman.”

My father’s gasp was nearly as loud as my own. Uncle Avery just stood there with a stunned look on his face. It was up to me to break the silence. “What makes you think that?” I asked, my voice quavering.

“The skin tone is obvious. You’re losing height and getting darker for starters,” she pointed out.

“Maybe I’m just turning into a deeply tanned young boy,” I suggested. While that wasn’t the most pleasant of fates, it beat the alternative.

“It’s possible,” she conceded, “but not likely. To my knowledge, there are no youth spells, so I don’t think you’re getting younger. The skin tone is more a racial trait. Look at your palms.”

I looked down. “They look normal.”

She nodded. “Blacks have lighter palms. Notice there’s a slight difference in pigmentation between the front and back of your hand. Look at your chest.”

I complied, embarrassed at my darker chest.

“Did you have more chest hair before?”

I looked down. She was right. About half of my normal chest hair was gone. “Blacks have less chest hair, don’t they?” I asked.

“Generally, yes,” she replied. “But look at this.” She reached out and touched one of my nipples. I jumped back, surprised to find it was oddly sensitive.

“It’s swollen,” she explained. “It’s often the first sign of breast development.”

“But those sex-change curses are just so much bullshit,” I argued. “Everyone knows that.”

I looked over at Uncle Avery and my father for confirmation, but the expressions on their faces told me that what I had always passed off as old wives’ tales about magical sexual transformation spells might be real after all. Could it be possible?

“Robert,” my father said slowly, “there are some things the Bureau has to keep under wraps for... everyone’s protection.”

My stomach was tied in knots. Could it be possible? All those stories about the radical women’s group changing men into women... the stories were true? I had already suspected that I was being changed into a black, but a black woman? Just having my race changed was no big deal. As I’ve already mentioned, changing a person’s race isn’t all that hard, at least superficially. I thought (incorrectly as it turned out) that changing my race again wouldn’t be all that difficult. But how difficult would it be to change me back from a woman to a man? I put the question to Sarah.

There was that look again. Reluctantly, she replied, “If it is a sex change spell, there’s no way to restore your sex.”

I now knew what a person felt like when he was told by his doctor that he was going to die. Oh, I wasn’t about to die exactly, but the person known as Robert Devereaux would no longer exist if she was right. Like a dying man, I clung to a thin thread of hope. “But maybe it isn’t a sex change spell.”

“It’s possible,” she conceded, “but it most likely is. And if it is a sex change spell, your body will duplicate its X chromosomes over time, forcing out the Y’s. The result is a female body. Since there will be no remaining Y’s to copy, it will be impossible to change you back.”

“What about the race change?”

“We may be able to change you back,” she said, “but I don’t think so.”

“May be able?” This was sounding worse and worse.

“If the race change spell is tightly linked to the sex change spell, it may be too tightly interwoven to be changed. The other problem is that there are some potential... side effects to racial spells.”

I didn’t have a chance to ask what she meant by side effects, for at that moment, my father put his hand on my bare shoulder. “Son, we’ll do everything we can to reverse this. I know Professor Morley at the University of Colorado personally. He’s the greatest expert in this area. I know this is difficult for you, but just try to stay calm and don’t give up hope.”

So there was still hope, I reasoned. I nodded, accepting a fatherly hug from him before he motioned for Uncle Avery and Sarah to go with him. Sarah hung around for a moment more.

“Robert, we’ll be doing anything we can,” she assured me. “I know your father. He loves you very much. If he has to make some sort of a deal with Mama Juno to stop this, he will. Maybe she knows how to stop or reverse some or all of the curse.”

Of course there was always the very real possibility that what had been set in motion could not be stopped or reversed. Sarah knew that... and so did I.

When they left, I had Lisa bring me another cup of coffee while I tried to come to grips with what I had been told. As Lisa delivered the coffee, I found myself looking at her as I had never looked at her before. She was considerably older than me but still rather attractive. I tried to remember what she had looked like when I had first met her as a young boy. At that time, she was close to my present age, and I remembered admiring this young woman with her very dark skin, pretty face, and large, firm breasts. I had thought she looked like a movie star–sort of like Pam Grier. What would it like to have her dark skin, her pretty face, her large breasts? Was I soon to know? It didn’t seem possible. It just couldn’t be possible. I was a man and could never conceive of being anything else.

Lisa had a very concerned look on her face. I wondered if she had been told what was happening to me. Eventually she would know–if I really began to change as Sarah had predicted. “What’s wrong, Lisa?” I asked as I sipped my coffee.

She hesitated, as if afraid to tell me. She had always been loyal to my family, but she and I had become friends over the years, and she had often warned me when my father was moody or upset. She had the same conflicted look on her face now as she had shown during those times. At last she blurted out, “Oh Mr. Robert, I heard them talking outside. Mister Avery didn’t know I was listening and said to those other men that they’re going to take you someplace and keep you under guard. They didn’t want you to know just now. They’re acting like there’s nothing they can do to help you so they’re just going to hide you away.”

“Uncle Avery said that?” I gasped.

She nodded, worry written all over her face. “The way Mister Avery talked, it didn’t sound too good for you. I’m concerned for you, Mr. Robert.”

A myriad of possibilities rushed through my head. Maybe they were just taking me to a safe house. It made sense: the fewer people who knew about my changes, the better, and Lisa was a potential security leak in the paranoid rationale of the FBM. Taking me someplace where she wouldn’t observe my transformation made perfect sense.

But there was a chance my transfer could be more sinister as well. What if I found myself in a medical facility somewhere reduced to being an elaborate lab rat? Would my own father do that to me? I didn’t think so, but I’ve always thought if it came down to a choice of protecting the Bureau or protecting his family, the FBM would take precedence. And the fact that Uncle Avery had told my guards but not me was worrisome indeed. If my transfer was a positive move, I would have thought he would want to tell me about it.

The more I thought about that, the more I realized that as much as my father wanted to see me safely restored, he wanted Mama Juno behind bars more. Her prosecution and punishment would be just the thing he needed to vault him into the public spotlight, giving him the high political office he sought. The Bureau under his direction would do nothing to help me. That meant I’d slowly be changed into a black woman while my father and the Bureau prosecuted Mama Juno’s son and, presumably, next his mother. I would be nothing more than an unfortunate civilian casualty, hidden from view so that no one would see the weaknesses of the FBM.

I came to the reluctant conclusion at that moment that my only chance for salvation was to find Mama Juno myself. I couldn’t really depend upon the FBM to do the right things for me if they were more interested in hiding me than curing me. I was becoming certain that the Bureau–and my father–had other objectives–objectives which might leave me as an unfortunate black girl. I could personally care less about the FBM’s objectives in this case. I wanted only to be given my life back, free to graduate from Harvard, marry Alex, and live the life I had been born to. Was I being selfish? Of course I was, but what privileged young man wouldn’t be under the circumstances? It meant I had to slip away before the FBM moved me to a more secure location. Thank God Lisa had overheard Uncle Avery or I would never have had the warning I needed to escape.

But where would I go? I had access to my checking account through any ATM, and my wallet was filled with every credit card imaginable. I still looked pretty much like the pictures on all of my identification, so for the time being, obtaining money was not a problem. And there were dozens and dozens of hotels within a mile of where I stood where I could hole up...

No, a hotel was out. My credit card would leave a trace, and the Bureau would have Sniffers checking them all before the sun rose. I couldn’t go home: even my mother wouldn’t protect me from my father, and as for my brothers, they’d happily buy tickets to observe my transformation, laughing with each change and recording it so they could watch it again and again.

Alex!

If I could get to Alex’s house, I could regroup, maybe borrow a car and begin my search for Mama Juno. I hadn’t changed much yet. Alex wouldn’t know what was happening to me. I had–what–three or four days according to Sarah until I was completely changed. Then I remembered that she had added “maybe less” to her estimate. I had to work quickly. Quickly meant right now. There wasn’t a moment to lose.

I dressed in my darkest pair of jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt, perfect for hiding in the shadows. I checked my wallet–two hundred in cash already there. I stuffed the wallet in my back pocket, disturbed to note it was a little hard to fit it in. Had my butt filled out just a little? Surely not so soon. But the words “maybe less” came back to me yet again.

I packed a gym bag as well, with a couple of changes of clothing. Of course, I didn’t know how long the clothes would fit me, and I didn’t have much of a selection since there were only the few items my family had brought to me since my forced residence in the townhouse. Still, a couple of changes of underwear and an extra sweatshirt, plus my toiletries should be enough, I thought. If I didn’t find Mama Juno in a couple of days, none of the clothing would work anyway. I didn’t even bother to pack a razor. Come to think of it, I had found little stubble the last time I had shaved. And when was that? Yesterday? I wouldn’t need a razor much longer, I thought grimly, and I certainly had no intention of using a razor to shave my legs.

Getting away wasn’t that big a problem. I only had one guard at the moment, and he had taken up station in the living room. With my door shut and the shower running, he wouldn’t suspect anything was wrong until I was out the window and gone. Part of my youth had been spent in the townhouse, and my parents would have had a fit if they had known that my brothers and I had often sneaked away climbing down on a makeshift path of loose bricks. After all, most of the buildings in the Quarter were nearly two hundred years old, and while the interiors and fronts were well maintained, time and weather had taken their toll on the backs of the structures, which often led to alleys or in our case, a small courtyard.

Still, I was nervous as I made my way down the wall. I wished that it were night instead of late morning so I could have blended into the darkness.

I began to relax a little as the cab I was riding in swung into one of the most exclusive streets of the Garden District. Although our own home was not nearby since my father had opted to maintain the family’s original plantation home, I felt as if I was on familiar ground. Stately mansions rose out of grassy lawns, hidden partially by tall oaks that had stood guard over the district for over a century. This was where my contemporaries had grown up, and many of the mansions had been playgrounds for my friends and private school classmates and me.

“You work for these folks?” the driver asked casually, mopping his heavy black brow with a well-used handkerchief.

“No,” I replied. “I’m going to visit friends. What made you think I worked here?”

“Well, not too many of us folks have what you’d call friends in this here neighborhood,” he chuckled.

My heart practically stopped. What did he mean by that? I hadn’t changed that much. But when I looked down at the back of my hand, I could tell it had become darker than when I was examined just a few hours earlier. When I had escaped from the Quarter, I appeared to have nothing more than an unusually robust winter tan. Now, though, I could easily be mistaken for a person of mixed race.

Mistaken? No, I realized, mistaken was not the word. I really was a person of mixed race. Already my genetic structure was changing, moment by moment, transforming me into someone of unmistakable African descent. I leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of myself in the driver’s mirror, but all I could see was that my face had become the same dusky color as the back of my hands.

No, that wasn’t quite right. There was another change as well. My hair was darker, too. It wasn’t yet so dark as to be obviously a Negroid feature, but it was no longer dark blonde. Instead, it was a darker shade of brown, still streaked with blonde.

I was beginning to understand why the driver had assumed that I was black like he was. It was no longer an outlandish assumption. Even my facial features seemed to be confirming his suspicions–my nose seemed a little wider and my lips a little fuller. Did he think I was a black woman? Probably not. My build and my clothing identified me as a male at least for now. But how much longer would my body seem male? Sarah had guessed the entire spell would take three or four days to run its course, but that didn’t mean it would take anywhere near that long for me to look more black than white and more female than male.

I hurriedly paid the cab driver after asking him to let me off in front of Alex’s house rather than pulling into the semi-circular drive and covered entrance. I didn’t want to take a chance on alerting Alex’s mother or any of the staff. All they would see was a young man of indeterminate race skulking about the grounds. They would undoubtedly call the police. Alex was the only one I was sure I could trust. I was betting that Alex would be outside sunning herself by the pool. It was her favorite activity during school breaks, and I was banking on her being there. If she was inside, I’d have to figure a way to sneak into the house, and that might prove difficult.

Of course there was a chance that she wasn’t home at all, and I nearly overrode my better judgment and called her on my cell. The problem was that I figured by now the FBM knew I was gone, and if they chose to monitor my calls, a Homer might be able to locate me before I could explain what was happening to Alex and get away.

To my relief, Alex was just where I expected her to be. She was stretched out on a lounge chair by the pool, a glass of iced tea in one hand and the latest Nora Roberts novel balanced on her flat, bare stomach. God, she looked beautiful lying there, and I couldn’t help but think to myself that her body, which I had enjoyed on numerous occasions, was now something I would probably never hold in my arms again. Unless Sarah and the FBM experts were wrong, I would soon be as female as Alex was.

Would I still like girls, I wondered, once my transformation was completed? Oh that would be just wonderful–to be changed into a black lesbian, I thought sourly. But the other prospect–being attracted to men–seemed somehow even worse. My only hope was in finding Mama Juno and getting her to use her powerful magic to stop this transformation before it got any worse. If she could just stop me from transforming further, I could at least carry on some semblance of my normal life. Then I could worry about finding some way to reverse the mounting damage.

“Alex!” I called out from the corner of the house.

“What?” she gasped, dropping her book. Her eyes fell on me. At first, I thought she was going to scream. She didn’t even recognize me, I realized.

“Alex, it’s me–Robert!” I hurried to explain before she could call for help.

At last recognition–then confusion–crossed her face. I must have still looked substantially like the normal me, but the darkness of my skin and hair must have bewildered her. “Robert? Is that really you? What’s happened to you?”

Nearly breathlessly, I gave her a short but concise version of what had been happening to me since I had last seen her. She listened patiently but cautiously. When I tried to hold her hand, she actually drew back, alarm on her beautiful face.

“You’re telling me,” she said slowly, “that you’re changing into a... a...”

“Woman,” I finished for her. “A black woman to be precise. Don’t look at me like that! This doesn’t have to be permanent. If I can find this Mama Juno, I’ll get her to reverse all of this.” Or at least I hoped that would be the case.

“But isn’t that what your father said he was going to do?” she countered. “What makes you think you can find this Mama Juno? And even if you could find her, what do you have to offer to get her to change you back? Odds are good what she wants is her son’s freedom. You can’t offer her that.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “and that’s the one thing I know my father would never agree to, even if it meant leaving me black and female. He’s worked too hard for a break like this. Besides, even if he would agree to release her son, odds are good the guy will never walk again. That’s why I’ve got to try myself–I need to see if there’s anything else she’ll accept to change me back.”

“Why did you come here?” she wanted to know. “Why not go directly to Mama Juno’s? Everybody knows it’s right down on Magazine.”

“Because it’s the first place the FBM might figure I’d go,” I explained. “They have to know by now that I don’t trust them to deal with her and will expect me to see her myself. If they see someone who looks like me getting out of a cab anywhere near her place, they’ll grab me. I thought perhaps you could help me.”

She shook her head. “No, Robert. Of course I’ll do what I can to help you, but don’t ask me to negotiate with that scary woman for you. Why, she just might kidnap me and hold me for ransom. My father would be forced to pay millions for my release.”

Negotiating with Mama Juno was, unfortunately, exactly what I had wanted her to do. I thought it unlikely that Mama Juno would indulge in a spur of the moment kidnapping, but I could see from the look in Alex’s eyes that she was genuinely frightened of the notorious mamba. I suppose deep down, I really couldn’t blame her. After what had happened to me, I was certainly frightened of her, too.

I thought for a moment. “You’re right. It might be dangerous for you to visit her. I’m going to have to do it myself. Perhaps if I can get there in a car they don’t recognize... disguised... I might get in. Then I can get her to change me back.”

“If it can be done,” she amended. I looked down, unwilling to let her see in my eyes that I was worried about the very same thing.

Alex was silent for a moment, but finally she rose and motioned for me to follow her. “I can loan you my car,” she told me. “Leave it over in front of Casamento’s and I’ll pick it up later. Just lock it and leave the keys on the floor: I have another set.”

I nodded. Casamento’s was just a few blocks from Mama Juno’s place and directly across the street from a police station, so it would be a safe place to leave the car for a few hours. I could walk to Mama Juno’s and walk in the place looking as if I belonged there. Of course, that would depend upon the second part of my plan–a disguise. “Can I borrow some of your father’s clothes–something the agents watching Mama Juno’s place wouldn’t be suspicious of?”

Alex looked at me carefully and shook her head. “I don’t think that would work. You’re a little smaller now, and you weren’t as large as my father to begin with.”

“Well I can’t go there like this,” I protested. “I’m sure every agent in six parishes has a description of what I’m wearing.”

Suddenly, Alex got a devilish look in her eyes. “I think I know just the disguise.”

“You do?”

“You’re closer to my size than you are my father’s,” she began with an evil little grin.

It didn’t take me long to realize what she was thinking. “You can’t be serious. I can’t wear your clothes!”

“From what you’ve told me,” she countered, “either you get to see Mama Juno quickly or you’ll be wearing clothes like mine on a regular basis.”

I was silent. She had a good point there.

“Now let’s see if we can get you up to my room without the household staff seeing you,” she said, rising from her lounge chair. Shaking my head, I followed her into the house.

I suppose I really didn’t know if I should be pleasantly surprised or disturbed at the results, but in a short time, Alex had me looking like a girl. The way I finally had it figured, the FBM would assume that I would try to look masculine for as long as possible. All things being equal, that would have been a valid assumption, but are things weren’t equal, were they?

A lot of business–both legal and not-so-legal–was conducted from Mama Juno’s office every day. What was one more black girl entering the antique store that fronted on her office? Many people–black and white but mostly black–entered the store every day. My skin had darkened enough that I could easily be mistaken for a light-skinned Afro- American. The cab driver had already made that mistake, and a couple of additional hours of changing would only make my new race more apparent.

As for the ‘girl’ part of the disguise, that was disturbingly easier than I thought it would be. Unfortunately, none of the clothing I had brought with me in my escape would suffice for a proper feminine disguise. In the end, Alex had provided me with a bra into which she stuffed wads of tissues, giving me the illusion of cleavage. A pair of white panties didn’t fit exactly right, but my male equipment had already been somewhat embarrassingly reduced in size, so the panties didn’t have a great deal to hide.

Alex suggested jeans and a loose top. That way no one would notice how my “breasts” didn’t move naturally, and my mostly masculine torso wouldn’t be so obvious. I wore a pair of Alex’s mother’s jeans, since there was no way I could fit into Alex’s trim ones. Her mother, though, had added a few pounds, so I was able to stuff myself uncomfortably in them. The jeans hid my somewhat masculine legs and saved me the problem of shaving them–at least completely. Also, many girls wore their jeans with the legs a little short, and since I was still a few inches taller than Alex’s mother, the illusion of intentionally wearing jeans that showed a little calf made me look all the more feminine. Of course, a little leg hair had to be sacrificed, but I didn’t have to shave my legs completely, for which I was grateful. I know it was silly, but shaving my legs entirely seemed like surrendering to my proposed fate, and I had vowed to avoid that as long as possible.

Unfortunately, although the top she chose for me was loose fitting, covering my very masculine butt and disguising the fact that my body lacked feminine curves, it was painfully obvious to both Alex and me that those unwanted curves were already starting to develop, but I was thankful that I still looked somewhat masculine.

Hair was a problem. It was growing longer and darker and developing a more feminine sheen, but it was still pretty short. Alex solved the problem with a black Saints ball cap tilted at a girlish angle. A couple of clip-on earrings Alex had saved from the time before her ears had been pierced added to the illusion.

As for makeup, it was a make-do job. “Your skin is too dark for most of my cosmetics,” Alex told me. “I’m using the darkest stuff I have, but other than eyeliner and a little lipstick, there’s not much I can do. When you finish changing, you might want to get some cosmetics designed for blacks.”

“I really don’t plan to need them,” I told her, examining her handiwork. “If I can convince Mama Juno to change me back, I plan for this to be the only time I ever have to wear makeup.”

“You don’t really expect to find her at her office, do you?” Alex asked. “With the FBM and who knows who else looking for her, she’s not going to be there.”

“I know that,” I replied, standing up in the heeled sandals Alex had strapped onto my feet. The shoes were a little small but I managed to get them strapped. Fortunately as a man, I had never had particularly large feet, and the curse had made them somewhat smaller already. I tentatively put a little weight on one foot. It felt funny to be elevated like that, but it was no worse than boots I had ridden while horseback riding. “I just want to make contact with her people. When she agrees to meet with me, they can get me to wherever she is. I just need to get into her offices undetected.”

“I still think you should let the FBM handle it,” she muttered as she fussed with my outfit and slipped a wide silver bracelet over my right wrist. “You know your father wants to see you cured of this.”

I knew he wanted to, but I wasn’t sure he wanted to if it meant not breaking up Mama Juno’s operation. He was committed to doing that, even if it meant I could never really be his son again.

I grabbed the car keys she had given me. “Wish me luck,” I said, leaning over to give her a kiss. She pulled back before our lips could touch. I was a little hurt, but I could understand her reluctance. As it was, I looked as much like a girl as she did.

I looked down to avoid looking into her eyes. That was when I noticed the picture on her nightstand. “Who’s this?” I asked, picking up the photo of a very handsome guy.

Alex flushed. “Oh, that. That’s Henry Beauchamp. He’s just a friend from school.”

“Oh,” was all I said as I replaced the picture, but as I walked out to Alex’s car, I began to wonder why she would have the picture of a casual friend–a male friend–on her nightstand and no picture of me in her room. Besides, wasn’t that the same guy I saw her dancing with at the krewe ball? I began to concern myself that my unwanted transformation might be solving an unsuspected problem for Alex. After all, if I became a black woman, someone like Harry Beauchamp just might have an easier time with my would-be fiancée.

On any other occasion, driving Alex’s little 230SLK convertible would have been a treat. I would have put the top down and roared down the streets like a silver meteor, certain that even if I were stopped by the police, the simple mention of my father’s name would be enough to get me out of a speeding ticket. On that particular day, though, I wanted to draw as little attention to myself as possible. For one thing, I barely resembled the picture on my driver’s license, and if I were to convince a policeman that I was, in fact Robert Devereaux, I might find myself hidden away in an FBM safe house with no chance of regaining my diminishing manhood. If I didn’t convince them as to my identity, I might find myself in a police holding cell, the victim of my casual cellmates who might find a young man dressed up like a girl to be an unexpected treat. I drove carefully within the speed limits, the top up to avoid undue attention. Good to my word, I ducked into a parking spot almost exactly in front of Casamento’s and left the key on the floor in front of the passenger seat, locking the doors as Alex had requested. She’d use her other set of keys to retrieve the car later.

Although Alex had done everything I had requested of her, it was more, I suspected, out of old time’s sake rather than support of the man–if I could be really considered a man any longer–who she was going to marry. Well, I couldn’t blame her. At Harvard, I hadn’t exactly remained chaste, so why should she? In spite of the desires of our parents, this wasn’t the nineteenth century, and if the passions generated from teenage hormones had waned as we gained our respective majorities, the certainty of our union became more problematic. While I had still been ready to go through with a marriage, perhaps Alex was not. Besides, if no solution was found to my continuing transformation, marriage between us would be out of the question before the week was out.

I tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible as I walked toward Mama Juno’s headquarters. It wasn’t too hard. Dressed as I was, I hardly looked like a sexy girl, appearing instead to be at least a mannish octoroon, so I attracted little male interest. And I could have easily been mistaken for an effeminate boy, so there was nothing about me to attract female interest either. New Orleans boasts (if that is the right word) a large number of transvestites whom the population at large tends to ignore. I suppose the more androgynous one looks, the more invisible one becomes.

As I got within a couple of blocks of Mama Juno’s store, I began to realize I might not be able to get in after all. Since I knew many of my father’s agents on sight, I was able to spot them easily. There must have been more than half a dozen of them in all. Two of them, a man and a woman, were lingering over a cup of coffee at a sidewalk café. Two more were window shopping, and two more were walking by themselves back and forth down the block just across the street. One of them was trying to look like a tourist, complete with a camera which just happened to swing into action every time someone entered or left Mama Juno’s antique store. There was too great a chance someone would recognize me, as I was certain FBM sketch artists had made a stab at my current appearance. Even if I were able to fool some of them, I doubted if I would be able to fool all of them.

I was about to give up hope when I spotted my brother Paul coming out of the store. What was he doing in Mama Juno’s? Then I spotted his car–a white Mustang–parked just across the street from where I stood. There were closer parking places, but maybe Paul hadn’t wanted the busy photographer to identify him right away. I casually strolled across the street and waited for him to get to his car.

“Paul!” I called out to him from the entrance to a gift store, as if I had just walked out the shop. Before he could react, I grabbed his arm as if I were an old friend.

He looked at me with confusion, but recognition soon followed. “Robert?” he gasped.

“Not so loud,” I said softly, eying a couple of the agents whose attention, fortunately, was focused elsewhere. “Let’s get in the car we need to talk.”

He unlocked the doors and I jumped into the front passenger seat, looking around to make sure we weren’t being watched. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked as if once Paul had left Mama Juno’s, he was no longer of any interest to the FBM team. They had probably already identified him and been told to ignore him–fortunately for me.

“Father’s looking for you, you know,” he told me once he was behind the wheel. “Just what the hell did you expect to accomplish running away like that?”

“I think father has given up on me,” I explained dejectedly, motioning for him to start the engine and drive. “He was going to move me out to a safe house–probably so no one would find out what had happened to me until everything... changed.”

“Bullshit!” Paul snorted. “He probably just wanted to move you someplace where Mama Juno couldn’t do anything else to you, you stupid twit. And sure enough, here I find you two blocks from her offices skulking around like James Bond–or should it be Jane Bond?”

I motioned for Paul to make a left and head for St. Charles. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Damned straight,” he replied. “Lance and I have always been afterthoughts where father was concerned. You were the crown prince. Well, it looks like you’re going to be a princess now, and once he figures out that his cherished heir is going to be a hot little black chick, about the only job he’ll be grooming you for is to take Lisa’s place in the Quarter.”

“You bastard,” I growled, although my voice was changing, too, and it didn’t sound as threatening as I would have liked. “So what were you doing down here–stopping off to thank Mama Juno for taking care of me?”

“That’s a thought,” he said with an evil smile. “Just where is it you wanted me to go?”

“Take me to Willow Glen,” I ordered. At least at home, I would be able to get a change of clothes and some things I might need if I was to stay hidden. I figured my father would be stuck in town for the time being, so I wouldn’t have to face him.

“Too late!” Paul laughed. “He’s already sent a team of agents out there. And even if he hadn’t, what do you think mother would do if she saw you?”

My mother, like many Southerners of her day, paid lip service to racial equality but really never saw blacks as more than servants. “How is she taking this?” I asked him.

He turned right on St. Charles. I thought he was going a little out of his way but decided he was going to catch the freeway before heading west. “She’s under sedation,” he replied grimly. “She talks about you as if you were dead. Father has tried to reassure her, but she knows she’ll never see Robert again.”

My mother and I had never been terribly close: Paul and Lance were her favorites as I was my father’s. I had a feeling that unless something happened to change me back into myself, I would never see my mother again, nor would she want to see me.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” I pressed. “What were you doing at Mama Juno’s?”

Paul’s hands gripped the steering wheel. “Father still hasn’t given up on you. He didn’t want any agents dealing with Mama Juno’s people. It would make him look weak. So he asked me to try to negotiate and get these curses removed from you.”

That was enlightening. Perhaps I had been hasty after all when I ran. I found momentary pleasure realizing that father had put Paul at some risk by sending him to Mama Juno’s. She could easily have been planning on escalating her attack by cursing Paul and Lance as well. Paul must have grimaced at the errand, knowing that while there was significant risk, he had to show our father that he was competent to be the standard-bearer for the family if I was out of the picture. “What if she demands the release of her son?” I asked.

Paul chuckled, “You really are out of the loop, aren’t you? Pierre Dubois was released today. His attorneys managed to get every charge dropped except possession already. Then the possession charge fell apart this morning. He walked out a free man. Even the Freezer’s paralysis cleared up, so he literally walked out of the courtroom. There wasn’t any evidence to hold him.”

“What about the cocaine they found him with?”

“Well, strangely enough, what they found in the evidence room wasn’t cocaine–it was plain old flour.”

“A Swapper?”

“What else?”

Swappers were rare magical talents. They had to work in pairs, and when they did, they could swap similar substances back and forth. A Swapper must have somehow gotten into the evidence room, stood within a few feet of the cocaine, and waited until his counterpart stood the same distance from similar containers of flour. Since cocaine and flour were similar in weight and appearance, it would have been an easy swap.

My mood brightened. “Then if Pierre Dubois is free and healthy again, Mama Dubois should be willing to change me back.”

“You’d think,” Paul replied, but I could tell from his tone that that wasn’t the case.

“What does she want?”

Paul glanced over at me as we were stopped at a light. “Apparently, she wants you to be a sweet little black chick.”

I looked around. I was becoming distraught. Why wouldn’t she change me back? She had everything she claimed to want. I pressed those questions to the back of my mind, realizing that we had not gone onto the freeway and were heading for downtown. “Where are you going?”

“I’m taking you to see father,” Paul told me.

“Why?” Panic welled up inside me. That was the last place I wanted to go. The FBM wasn’t to be trusted. I’d never shake this curse if I was back in their custody.

“You’re not thinking straight,” Paul told me, accelerating as the light changed. “There’s nothing you can accomplish on your own.”

“You want me back in their hands!” I yelled at him. “Then when they hide me away, you’ll be father’s favorite.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Paul scoffed. “Can you hear yourself? You’re completely paranoid. In fact, Sarah thinks you have other curses on you as well. Maybe one of them is making you think everyone is out to get you.” He stopped for another traffic light.

Everyone was out to get me: I was sure of it. But I wasn’t going to argue with him anymore. He was undoubtedly part of the plot against me. Before the light could change again, I impulsively threw the car door open and jumped out. “Robert! Come back!” Ignoring him, I ran as quickly as I could.

Running was nearly my undoing. In the short time I had worn Alex’s sandals, my feet had become a little smaller, but the straps were still tight and pinched my feet. The small heel and the growing changes in the weight distribution of my body made me comically clumsy, and I nearly fell more than once. I was afraid Paul might run after me, but instead, he must have driven on, probably while calling our father on his cell.

That would mean the FBM would have a full description of me in a few minutes. I was only a few blocks from the FBM offices, so in a short time, the entire area would be swarming with agents. I had to get out of the area quickly.

My salvation came in the form of a trolley car. One of New Orleans’ quaint tourist attractions was the aging St. Charles trolley. The ancient railcar trudged back and forth between downtown New Orleans and the Garden District. I rushed to the car stop the moment I heard the car’s bell, losing myself in a small crowd of tourists.

The car was nearly filled with tourists who had remained in the city after Mardi Gras. That was actually good for me since no one would probably remember a rather mannish light-skinned black girl sloppily dressed who hunkered down between two pot-bellied revellers who probably hadn’t been sober in over a week.

I got off a few blocks into the Garden District, walking over the grassy median as I followed a gaggle of tourists. They would all branch off shortly, gawking at the aging mansions that lined both sides of the street. As for me, I’d walk a few blocks back to Magazine Street which paralleled St. Charles.

This time though, I wouldn’t be going to Mama Juno’s. Instead, I would be regrouping. I hadn’t eaten since morning (although I wasn’t terribly hungry: perhaps the transformation into a smaller individual was allowing me to consume my own tissue until a new equilibrium could be established). Also, Paul would give the FBM a complete description of what I was wearing. I needed a new disguise.

Before leaving St. Charles, I pulled as much cash as I could–$300–from an ATM. Eventually, the FBM would get a record of the transaction, but I’d be gone before they could find me. I would use some of the cash to create a new disguise, and I knew already what it would be.

There are lots of funky little used clothing stores on Magazine. I selected one at random and began to assemble my new disguise. It turns out I picked well. The shop specialized in... shall we say sleazy outfits. The FBM would be looking for someone who was androgynous. I could no longer look male, so I decided to look as female as possible. And not just female–I had decided to look as if I worked the streets at night for a living.

To anyone unfamiliar with New Orleans, such a disguise would seem too flamboyant, but in the Crescent City, it would look very conventional. The sad truth was that New Orleans–particularly around Mardi Gras time–attracted a large number of young runaways. Broke and often addicted to drugs or alcohol, the youths–both male and female–often resulted to selling their bodies to the partiers who foraged for fun from the Convention Center to the Quarter.

Properly disguised, I’d take a cab to the Quarter and get a room in one of the less-reputable small hotels there. After a night’s rest, my mind would be clearer and I’d be able to figure out what my next move should be.

“You look fine!” the clerk said while I looked at myself in the mirror. She was a young black woman about my age. She looked as if she’d been around herself as there was recognition in her eyes as to what sort of a look I wanted.

I suppose I did look the part, although I still looked a bit mannish. My hair was now as black as any Afro-American’s, and my blue eyes had become an undeniably deep brown. My complexion had darkened still more, and my nose, while smaller than my male nose, was a little flatter. My lips had puffed up, and I had noticed when I talked with the clerk that my voice had become a little huskier and a little higher all at the same time. There was also a definite inflection to my voice that I seemed unable to control. It was similar to that favored by uneducated blacks in the area. Perhaps Paul had been right about additional curses being laid on me.

As for my body, my arms and legs were slimmer but still more muscular than most girls were. In the dressing room, I had removed some of the tissue from my bra after noticing that my own breasts were becoming noticeably fuller. My hips and waist were not properly proportioned yet, but they were changing in that direction. I still had my male equipment–but not by much. Everything was smaller than it had been when I had reluctantly put on the panties at Alex’s. At the present rate, I wouldn’t be technically male for more than another day–if that.

I was now wearing a dress–dress! It was cut very, very short, showing a lot of thigh. Dark red in a metallic sheen, it was also cut low to show off my growing cleavage. I had bought a pair of dark tights to wear under the dress since my legs had not been shaved yet. The black heels I wore weren’t as difficult to walk in as I had supposed. I guessed that wearing the small heel on the sandals had given me enough practice to be able to handle three-inch heels so long as I didn’t try to walk too fast.

“You really oughta get the thong,” the clerk coaxed. She had tried to sell me a new black bra and matching thong. The shop sold used clothing but (thank God) only new underwear. I bought the bra since the one I had borrowed from Alex would have shown given the neckline of the dress, but I opted for more conservative black panties. She was right: the thong would have looked good with the outfit, but there was no way I could wear a thong with my remaining male appendages. Besides, this was to be just a disguise–not a working outfit.

We dickered a little on the price–it was expected, after all. I even got her to throw in a ratty black bag that I could use to carry my other clothes in. Then, I had her direct me to a nearby beauty shop where I could get in and out quickly. Bracing myself, I entered the beauty shop, determined to complete my disguise in spite of my growing embarrassment. Just a block away from the clothing store, three black men walking together had put the moves on me. I wasn’t sure what bothered me more–the fact that they did it, or the fact that I found it mildly interesting in a perverse sort of way.

I think of all my unnerving experiences as I travelled the road to femininity, the first visit to the beauty shop was one of the worst. As a man, I was used to a simple, straightforward process of sitting in the chair, letting my stylist trim my hair just the way he had the last time I had visited him, paying him and leaving with a few comments about sports or politics sandwiched in between. The beauty shop, though, was a whole different experience.

The smells assaulted me first–pungent solutions designed to curl, straighten, color and condition women’s hair were atomized and mingling in the air. And since the shop appealed primarily to black women, the smell of cosmetics competed for airspace. As I found out later, many black women aren’t very happy with the cosmetics designed by and presumably for white women, so a number of black beauty shops had decided to carry cosmetics more appealing to black women. Add to all of that the smell of fresh nail polish and I nearly passed out. How could anyone stand to work in such an atmosphere?

“I got just the cut for you, honey,” the young, chubby beautician told me once I was seated. I had told her I was letting my hair grow out and wanted something easy to take care of that would look good as it grew. “Take a look at this.”

I looked at the picture she showed me from a magazine called Heart & Soul. I had never heard of the publication, but it was obviously a publication aimed at black women. The picture showed a smiling black woman wearing a shoulder length cut with a slight wave in it. “But my hair isn’t that long,” I protested.

In response, she held a mirror in front of me. “No, but it’s close.”

As quickly as I had been changing, I supposed I shouldn’t have been terribly surprised, but I was. True, my hair wasn’t shoulder length, but it was within an inch or two of being there. I had felt it tickling my ears and neck, but I had no idea it had become so long. At this rate, if it kept growing, it would be down to my ass in a couple of days.

As she worked on my hair, I thought at least once that maybe I should cut it extremely short since I had no experience in taking care of longer hair, but I realized that would defeat my new disguise. If I was to continue to stay away from the FBM, I’d have to look as naturally feminine as possible.

Sitting there in the chair gave me the first peaceful moments I had enjoyed since fleeing the townhouse. I began to think about what I could do to regain my old life, and for the first time since I had begun my flight, I began to wonder if it might be a wiser strategy for me to turn myself in and let the Bureau help solve my problem. After seriously debating that strategy in my own mind, I rejected it. Even though Mama Juno’s son had been freed, my father would never treat with her, in spite of sending Paul to negotiate, and I seriously doubted if the Bureau could unravel a spell as complex as mine on its own.

The problem was: how could I reach Mama Juno now, and with her son free, what could I offer her that would be sufficient to persuade her to change me back? Even in my new disguise, I didn’t dare try to get into Mama Juno’s offices. I finally decided my best course of action would be to continue with my plan to eat, get a hotel room, and then call Mama Juno’s office from a safe location in the morning.

“What do you think?” the beautician asked when she had finished.

I looked critically at what she had done. I had to admit, I looked good–for a girl. My hair was no longer the same black as it had been when I had entered the shop. Lighter highlights had been streaked into it, and order had come out of chaos, giving me a fairly long and obviously feminine style. The hairstyle did a lot to change my face, framing it in such a way to make my face look even more feminine. Or perhaps my face really was becoming more feminine, I realized dejectedly. “It looks good,” I replied, once again reminded of my new husky but girlish voice.

“And these will go with that new ‘do’,” she grinned, holding up a pair of earrings–gold hoops perhaps an inch and a half in diameter.

“But I don’t...” I had started to say that I didn’t have pierced ears, but apparently Mama Juno had thought of everything, because before I could complete my sentence, she had slipped one of the hoops into a hole in my earlobe that I had not realized even existed.

“See?” she said triumphantly, directing my attention to a mirror.

The earrings felt strange, as if something was trying to tug my ears downward ever so slightly. Mama Juno’s magic spells were frighteningly complete. What would be next? A hole for a nose ring or tongue stud? Tattoos? I shuddered to think.

“Now let’s get somebody to work on those nails...” the beautician said.

“Uh, no, the nails are fine,” I said, holding my hands down at my side where she couldn’t see them.

She was not to be denied, though. She gently raised my arm at the wrist, holding up my right hand in front of me. “Honey,” she sighed, “your nails are just too, too long for you to leave them like that. Why, girl, they are going to split on you and cause you all kinds of trouble.”

When had they grown so long? My nails looked as if I had not cut them in months. More magic at work, I realized. “Okay,” I agreed reluctantly, “but I like them short–real short.”

It was nearly dark when I left the shop, and anyone who remembered me as Robert Devereaux would have never believed that the pretty young black woman, sexily dressed, swaying on heels, and sporting professionally done hair, nails and makeup and the scion of one of New Orleans’ oldest and proudest families could possibly be the same person.

Technically, I suppose, I was still male, by virtue of what I could still feel nestled in my new black panties. The proper term for the moment would have been she-male, although unlike the pre-operative individuals who dwelled in the hermaphroditic twilight zone between male and female, I could feel very little of my male equipment between my dark legs. When Sarah had told me my transformation would take three or four days, I had never imagined that the final days of being a male would be nothing more than a mere formality. For all I knew, I might already be genetically a female with just a few remaining male attributes.

To make matters even worse, I could feel my mind changing as well. While I couldn’t remember everything that had happened to me that night in Mama Juno’s clutches, it was becoming obvious to me that my mind was being transformed as well. I was finding it harder and harder to speak with the cultured southern accent I had practiced since childhood. Instead “I” was becoming “Ah” and my grammar was deteriorating into the patois of an uneducated black girl.

Even worse than my speech patterns, I was starting to be attracted to men. It didn’t happen all at once, and I had been so preoccupied, I really hadn’t had much chance to think about it. But if I let my guard down, I found myself looking appreciatively at men. I began to wonder what it must be like to have a man’s arm around my waist or on my breasts or what it felt like to feel his hand slide up my leg toward...

I could still fight the thoughts down–perhaps because between my legs, I was still a man of sorts. But what would happen when the remnants of my sex had fully changed? Would such thoughts cause me to feel warmth in the vacant spot between my legs? Would I become moist, craving to have my new void filled?

I shuddered, hugging myself as if to hide my feminine body from the gaze of passing men–or from my own gaze for that matter. I spotted a cab letting off a fare just a few doors from the beauty shop and ran for it, ignoring the debarking male passenger’s appreciative stare.

The hotel I had the cab take me to was not one frequented by tourists–unless the tourists were guided there by one of the Quarter’s whores. I had been there more than once with just such a woman, back in my more carefree days immediately before college. Many of my friends had been there, too. Since magic had cured virtually all venereal diseases, patronizing a prostitute was more of a lark than it had ever been. Without the dangers of disease, prostitution was becoming more acceptable in some quarters, although still illegal. New Orleans was, after all, a convention town, and the police seldom bothered enforcing the laws against it.

I knew the desk clerk wouldn’t question a black girl all dressed up for a fun evening and ready to pay cash for her room. Probably most of the twenty rooms in the small hotel were being used by whores who would either cull their customers from the drunken men on Bourbon Street or wait for their pimps to lead them back to their rooms. It was the last place anyone would think to look for me.

I ordered some food in–simple fare, really. My body had used up much of my bulk in fuelling the transformation, leaving me smaller and daintier. The major part of my re-sizing completed, I had begun to get hungry for the first time that day. The Chinese food I had delivered hit the spot and made me feel like a new... well a new woman, I suppose.

I also had the first opportunity to really closely examine the changes the day had inflicted upon my body. Standing naked in front of the bathroom mirror, I took an inventory of my new form. I was not exactly beautiful, but I was becoming reasonably attractive, with full, high breasts and a large but not disproportionate ass. My waist was smaller, but not Barbie small. As for my hair, it had grown a couple of inches since I had left the beauty shop, and as promised, it was flowing neatly over the tops of my shoulders.

I could see from my facial features and my skin tone that I was not going to be one of those more-white-than-black girls like Vanessa Williams. My nose was feminine but broad, and my lips were... well, they were big. My eyes were so dark brown that they nearly looked black, and my skin was the color of coffee with just a small dash of cream.

One thing that surprised me was that I still had a fair amount of hair on my legs and under my arms. I suppose I had always thought of blacks as having very little body hair. Of course, the color of my skin hid part of the hair, but I could see I’d have to shave myself if I wanted to continue the illusion indefinitely.

I planned to get a good night’s sleep and start fresh in the morning, trying to get in touch with someone in Mama Juno’s organization who could help me. Her recently-freed son was my target. If I could reach him, perhaps I could get him to encourage his mother to change me back. I knew it was a feeble hope, but what other hope did I have? It was either pursue that avenue or find myself closeted away in an FBM safe house for a long, long time. I didn’t want to wait that long. I wanted my life back and I wanted it now.

In the morning, I would have to call Pierre. I’d do it from a pay phone after I had done some shopping. I needed to buy some basic items since I expected at best to be stuck as a girl for a few more days. I had left the few toiletries I had salvaged from the townhouse in Paul’s car when I made my quick getaway, so I had nothing in that department. I’d need a new toothbrush, a razor, and a change of clothes–especially underwear. Plus I needed something to sleep in. I realized I was going to have to sleep that night in the nude since I needed to keep my underwear as fresh as possible and had nothing but the clothes on my back and the clothes I had gotten from Alex–which probably no longer fit Besides, even if Alex’s clothes did fit, I was afraid my bastard of a brother had already given their description to the FBM. I would have to throw them out.

Add to this another night’s lodging cost and I realized I would also have to get more money. I was surprised my bank account hadn’t been frozen by the Bureau, but I supposed they were hoping I’d slip up and stay near the terminal after I had taken my cash. Growing up as the son of a high-ranking Bureau official had taught me that stupid stunts like that tripped up the vast majority of fugitives. Good, solid detective work alone was not enough.

Still, even if my account remained open, how much money was in it? I realized I had no idea. Funds had always been replenished through a fat family trust fund, and I’d never had to be aware of how much was there since there was always enough for my anticipated needs. Although the account was being left open, I doubted if my father would be so magnanimous as to allow the trust to continue funding it. Eventually–possibly quite soon–I’d be out of money, and then where would I be?

I looked into the mirror again. I looked black, female, and even a bit younger. I appeared no more than eighteen–if that. I had no ID, no history of work or education, and I was developing an accent which would pigeonhole me as essentially unemployable. Without an acknowledged education, I might find work in, say, fast food, but without identification, I couldn’t even qualify for a minimum-wage job. Besides, I noticed for some reason that I was having difficulty reading very well.

If I were still a man, there were plenty of low-paying jobs for cash where no questions were asked–jobs which required a strong back I no longer possessed. But as a young woman, I could think of only one profession that required no identification whatsoever and paid in cash. I shuddered at the thought of that. There was no way I would ever sell my body. Before I did that, I’d turn myself in to the FBM. They might keep me sequestered for the rest of my life, stuck in the body of a black girl, but at least I would keep my honor, such as it was.

Perhaps things would look better in the morning, I told myself, crawling into bed. I didn’t think they could look much worse.

Of course, I was wrong.

I awoke confused and stiff. I had tried to sleep in my underwear, deciding I could always buy more if I had to, but the bra and panties were far more constricting than I wanted for sleeping. I know it was foolish of me to sleep in them, but somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to be completely nude, as if the bra and panties could somehow prevent further development of my feminine attributes.

To make matters worse, I discovered my breasts and hips had grown a bit more during the night, making the snug-fitting underwear even worse. In the middle of the night, I tried rummaging through the stuff Alex had given me during the night, looking for something that might work as sleepwear. However, without the bra and panties, the fabric of the top she had given me seemed entirely too rough for sleeping, as it rubbed uncomfortably against my increasingly-sensitive nipples. Now it turned out that the top could have been a more comfortable choice, in spite of its roughness.

Apparently, the room had been a little cool, attributing to my morning stiffness, and my confusion was understandable since I still wasn’t used to waking up to find my skin chocolate brown, two breasts hanging from my chest, and long hair tangled about my ears.

Instinctively, I reached between my legs, expecting to find a warm slit there. One was beginning: that was for sure, and the urge to pee seemed to be coming from a different part of my crotch. Desperately, I searched for some remnant of my penis, pushing back the concern that my masculinity could somehow be salvaged only if something of my male equipment remained.

Sarah had seriously underestimated the speed of my transformation, I realized grimly. Yesterday, I had tried to look more feminine as a disguise, realizing that at least some of the male me was still there. Today, though, I was with one disturbingly small exception as girlish as I could be. I suspected that one exception would be completely changed by nightfall.

Of course, it was possible that there were still internal changes to be made. My abdomen felt as if I had eaten a pound of baked beans and been fitted with a cork up my ample ass. In other words, things were changing inside me and changing uncomfortably. Was I receiving fallopian tubes, ovaries, and all the internal alteration that would make me completely a girl? Probably. From what I had read about sexual transformations in the supermarket rags, even eggs somehow formed, leaving the transformee able to conceive and bear children. I shuddered at the thought, hoping that at least that part of the sensational stories was false.

I dressed quickly in the same outfit I had worn the night before. It was a little garish for morning, but I had no choice. I didn’t have much of a wardrobe. I brushed my hair as best I could, silently thanking the beautician for giving me a style that fell back into place with a minimum of effort. Bowing to the inevitable, I even added makeup–lipstick and eye shadow mostly. I didn’t want to do it, but it seemed to make me look more... normal. I had watched as the beautician had applied my makeup the day before and vowed to be a bit more conservative in the application of the cosmetics. It was difficult to accomplish, but by being careful, I managed to look at least minimally right.

I didn’t bother to eat. My body must have still been burning up a little of my excess male weight that had previously dampened my appetite. As a result, the Chinese food from the previous night was still enough to keep me going that morning. Besides, I had no time to lose. I needed to call Pierre quickly before anything else happened.

Of course, what else could happen? Well, I was starting to realize that the changes that had been made to me were more than just physical. Nothing other than magic could have explained the way I was thinking. I was becoming more emotional and finding that making plans was getting harder. My speech patterns had already altered, and I was beginning to think that my vocabulary was shrinking. But worst of all, I was starting to become if not attracted to men, at least even more open to the idea of being attracted. I no longer felt shame when I looked at a man’s butt or checked out his walk or his smile. I found myself warming to being looked at with appreciation by men. I also noticed I no longer seemed to be gazing at women as I would have just a few days before. They no longer held any interest for me.

In short, I was starting to think exactly like the girl I was becoming.

It had to be the work of a Whisperer, I realized. I had not always been conscious when I was in Mama Juno’s hands, although I knew consciousness didn’t matter. A Whisperer could have planted girlish thoughts in my head while I was out cold or done it while I was awake, making me forget at a conscious level what he had told me. However it was done, if I didn’t get help quickly, I’d soon be a sexy little black chick mentally as well as physically.

I finally found a pay phone–not an easy thing to do in the Quarter–and punched in Mama Juno’s number, taking care to not damage my longer nails. I made a silent vow to get the damned things cut as soon as I no longer needed my disguise. How did women put up with anything as impractical as long fingernails anyway?

As soon as the receptionist answered, I asked to speak to Pierre. She seemed reluctant to put me through until I urged, “Tell him Rob... tell him my name is Devereaux.”

Her attitude changed at once, and I realized suddenly that my call to Pierre was expected. That gave me hope. Perhaps it meant he was willing to deal with me.

“Hello, Ms. Devereaux,” a deep male voice greeted me.

“Are you Pierre... Pierre Dubois?” I asked breathlessly. It sounded more like “Ah you all Pierre...” which elicited a chuckle.

“Well, well, don’t you sound sweet,” he mused sarcastically.

“Look,” I began, looking around to make sure no one was standing close enough to me to overhear. The phone was, after all, on a busy street. “I need to see you... I need to see what it will take for you and your mother to reverse all of this and give me back my life.”

“What makes you think it can be reversed?”

“There has to be a way,” I replied, my voice a little shaky as I realized that deep down I wasn’t as sure as I sounded. “There must be something I can do to get you to change me back.”

“Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose there is something you can do for me–and something I can do for you. Why don’t I meet you at your hotel at, say, one?”

I was silent for a moment. “How did you know I was staying in a hotel?”

He laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh. “Nothing happens in New Orleans that we don’t know about, cher.” To prove it, he recited not only my hotel but my room number.

“I was planning on checking out,” I told him. “I don’t think I have enough cash for another day.”

“Don’t worry, cher,” he told me in a soothing tone. “It’s all taken care of. Mama owns the hotel. Most of the girls who use the hotel or their pimps have a deal with Mama. You can stay there as long as you like. I’ll see you at one.”

“I’ll be there,” I confirmed, holding onto the receiver until I heard the click at the other end.

As I stood there helplessly, I had the sudden thought that the FBM probably had Mama Juno’s phones tapped. But surely Pierre would have known that. He didn’t seem to concern himself that our conversation was being overheard by my father’s agents. Not that it mattered. I had to take the risk of meeting him, or in another day, I’d be all girl. How long after that would it be until I thought entirely like a girl? Not long, I suspected.

I thought about getting something more appropriate to wear, but my cash was running low. A quick trip to a nearby ATM produced no cash. Either I had tapped out the account or the authorities had decided it was better to cut me off. I didn’t have much cash left, and there were a number of things I’d need if I had to lie low in this new body for a while. I’d just have to meet Pierre as I was.

I went back to the room and tried to compose myself. I wanted to appear confident and calm when I met with Pierre. Just because I couldn’t meet him looking like a businesswoman didn’t mean I had to look like a runaway. I carefully reapplied the cosmetics I had bought and brushed out my hair. It was even longer than it had been that morning, and I was starting to wonder just how long it would eventually be. I began to realize leaving my hair long as part of a feminine disguise had been a big mistake since I wasn’t experienced at taking care of long hair–even though the beautician had assured me that it was a “low-maintenance” cut.

Once I had finished, I turned on the TV to catch the local news and wait. If I was looking for something to calm me down, that was the wrong thing to do. I sat there on the bed, unmindful of the fact that my already-short dress had ridden up my thighs as I stared in disbelief at my on picture on the screen.

“Authorities say Devereaux’s car exploded when it hit the bottom of the ravine near Knoxville. He was returning to college at Harvard at the time of the accident. Mr. Devereaux was twenty-one.”

Not many people get the chance to see their own obituaries. I really don’t recommend it, either. I sat there on the bed shaking, trying to make sense of what I had just seen.

Apparently, I realized, the FBM–my father, to be precise–had come to the conclusion that what had happened to me must never become public knowledge. It was simply too embarrassing for my father and the Bureau. If the tabloids ever got their hands on the story, he’d be held up to public ridicule as the FBM Director who couldn’t even rescue his own son from a magic spell. My father and the Bureau had obviously decided to cut their losses.

The cover-up meant that turning myself in to the Bureau had ceased to be a viable option. If I did so, the best fate I could expect was to be a virtual prisoner for the rest of my life. As for the worst case...

Would my own father order my death? He wouldn’t be the first powerful man to sacrifice his own son on the altar of power, I realized grimly. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life as a black woman, but given the option of doing that or dying, I’d choose life just about every time. That meant I couldn’t let the Bureau find me. It meant I was completely on my own for the rest of my life. With any luck, if I stayed hidden long enough, the Bureau would come to the conclusion that I had in truth met an untimely end and give up their search for me.

So how did all of this change my negotiations with Pierre Dubois? I wondered. Maybe I could convince him that by changing me back into my male self, I would publicly embarrass both my father and the Bureau. That might have some appeal to Pierre and his mother–to cause trouble for the Bureau to pay them back for all the trouble the Bureau had caused them. After all, I owed neither the Bureau or my father any loyalty after the way I had been treated. And given that I would not have any backing from my father now, it was probably the only card I had left to play.

There was a knock on the door precisely at one. Sighing deeply, I rose from the bed to answer the door, realizing that I was playing a very weak hand. My fingers rested on the doorknob, uncertain as to whether or not I should let Pierre in. Could I convince Pierre and his mother to change me back? I wasn’t very hopeful. Maybe there really was no way back. If the FBM lacked the resources to reverse the spells, maybe Mama Juno would be equally powerless when it came to reversing her magic. After all, there were limits to everything–even magic. At last, realizing I had few options, I slowly opened the door.

Pierre Dubois was a handsome man. That wasn’t the new female me talking: even if I had still been male, I would not have said differently. Most men–my former self included–could seldom tell if a man was good looking or not, unless that man was so incredibly handsome that there was no denying it. Pierre Dubois was such a man. He stood an inch or so over six feet, literally towering over my new female form. His hair was dark and naturally kinky, but it was cut by an artist who had left every hair perfectly in place. He wore a white polo shirt and khaki slacks, which accentuated the rich darkness of his skin and the firmness of his chest.

Then he spoiled it all by smiling.

Oh, his teeth were as perfect as the rest of him was–straight and white to the point that they nearly sparkled. But his smile was the smile of a cat about to devour a mouse. Guess what that made me. “Well, Ms. Devereaux, didn’t you come out nicely.”

Two casually dressed bodyguards standing behind him grinned knowingly at his sarcasm.

“I want to make a deal with you,” I said shakily, doing my best to ignore the remark. I was trying to sound confident, but I had a hunch I was failing. It was hard to sound confident when every word came out in a soft feminine purr seasoned with an uncultured backwoods accent.

The smile remained unchanged. “Oh? And just what do you have to deal with?” His voice was smooth and mellow, but I could detect hidden malice in the tone. I nearly shivered as he looked hungrily at my new body.

“I can give you information,” I began. “I know a lot about the FBM. If you’ll change me back, I’ll tell you whatever you need to know.”

“But we already know everything we need to know about the FBM,” he replied with amusement. “What else can you offer me?”

It was time to play my last card. “The Bureau made it look like I died in a car crash. If you change me back, you can embarrass them...” I felt as if I was betraying my father, but why not? Hadn’t he already betrayed me? “You could damage my father’s cred... cred...”

I gasped, realizing I could no longer say “credibility.” It just didn’t fit into the vocabulary of the ignorant girl I appeared to be.

“Credibility?” Pierre finished for me.

I could only nod, embarrassed.

He shrugged. “We have better ways to do that. So what else can you offer me?”

This wasn’t going well at all. “I... I don’t know. There must be something...”

He nodded. “Perhaps there is something you can offer me after all.”

“There is?” For just a moment, I felt a ray of hope. Then, I noticed he wasn’t looking at my face when he said that: he was looking lower. “No, wait a minute. I’m a man.”

“No, you aren’t,” he said simply. “Is your transition complete?”

“No,” I answered nervously, thankful that I still had at least a small semblance of my male equipment left. It was too small and undeveloped to be functional any more, but at least he couldn’t fuck me.

“No matter,” he returned, motioning for his two bodyguards to leave the room. They turned and left, closing the door behind them.

“Now, Ms. Devereaux, let me tell you what I want from you,” he began. “Your vagina may not be complete, but your lips certainly are.”

“No!”

He sighed theatrically. “And here I had thought you were willing to do anything to regain your manhood.”

“I... I am,” I stammered. “But you couldn’t want me to... I mean I don’t know how to... to...”

“Have you ever had a blowjob, Ms. Devereaux?” His voice was suddenly forceful, like the voice of God.

“Well, yes, but...”

He didn’t wait for my response. Instead, he began to pull down his pants, exposing his penis. It was large and already partially hard from anticipation. My mind was swept up in too many thoughts and emotions to organize. My first reaction was, of course, disgust. My body was nearly completely female, but my mind was repulsed by the thought of putting another man’s organ in my mouth. Was Pierre gay?

Of course he wasn’t, the more practical side of my mind reasoned. He couldn’t see inside my mind: all he could see was my body, and I had to admit I was almost completely a very attractive black girl. In fact within probably no more than a few hours, I would be fully female. If I had seen the new me while still in my male body, I might have also decided that oral sex with such an attractive creature could never be called a gay experience.

Another part of me felt vulnerable and frightened. He was expecting me to perform not an act of love, but rather an act of unwanted sex. I had read about girls who had been forced to blow men against their will and had always thought it an act of rape. Just because I lacked sufficient female organs at the moment didn’t make what was about to happen to me any less than rape.

And yes, I knew it was going to happen to me. He wasn’t giving me a choice. If I was to have even the thinnest shred of hope regarding a return to my old self, I would have to cooperate, no matter how repugnant the act would be. With his strong hands, he forced me to my knees, my face directly in front of his rapidly growing penis.

I thought for just a moment about biting it off. If Mama Juno wanted to make me into a girl, I could always make her son one, too. But if I did, I would be throwing away even the slim chance I had of recovering my true life. On the other hand, if I did it, maybe there was a chance I could get Pierre to help me. With my father and the FBM out to hide me away–or worse–with no hope of becoming Robert again, perhaps it was best to accept what was about to happen to me as just one more indignity heaped on top of a huge pile of indignities.

Drawing a deep breath, I let him thread his hands into my long, thick hair and push my lips onto his waiting organ.

I don’t like to think about that experience. At least I soon discovered why most women aren’t really anxious to perform oral sex. Proponents say it stimulates the female, but I was too frightened and confused to be stimulated. Instead, I tried to think about other things–movies I had seen, music I enjoyed–as Pierre prodded me to suck his penis.

I nearly gagged as I coaxed it involuntarily, and when he came, I did gag, cum spraying out of my mouth and running down my chin before dropping onto my breasts. I was crying, too, unable to control my emotions. I was a man, damn it! This wasn’t right. It just wasn’t right.

Pierre was chucking as he wiped himself off on the sheet of my bed and put his pants back on. “You’re good, girl. When you get a little experience, you’ll be damn good.”

“Change me back,” I murmured softly, the sticky cum in my mouth slurring my words. I could feel the hot sting of tears in my eyes, and knew I was only seconds away from sobbing uncontrollably.

“What, darlin’?”

“Change me back!” I managed, louder, my voice trembling.

“There is no way back, honey,” he replied coldly. “No one can change you back–not even Mama.”

“No!”

“Face it, honey,” he continued, holding up my chin until our eyes met. I could see the truth in his eyes, causing me to look away with a sob. “You’re going to be a black girl for the rest of your life. Nothing can change that. Absolutely nothing. You gotta get on with your life, babe.”

Part of my mind screamed at me that he must be lying to me, but deep down I knew he was telling me the truth. No one had really told me anything else. The supermarket rags that reported sexual transformations had said there was no way back. Sarah had told me that the Bureau was doing what it could, but never did she offer me a way back. Now, Pierre Dubois, standing smugly over me as the first sobs wracked my increasingly female body, was telling me the same thing. I was a woman–now and forever. There was no going back.

“I... I...” I managed between sobs. I wanted to tell him that I had no life. I had been betrayed by my family, hunted by the government, and had nowhere to turn. Why had Mama done this to me? Why had my family deserted me? Why? Why? Why?

Pierre pulled a card from his wallet and set it on the nightstand. “Don’t fret, babe. It’s not all bad news. I just left you the name of someone who might be able to help you. He’s waiting for you to come see him. Believe me, babe, this is your only chance. You go see him and pretty soon things won’t be so bad.”

I stared silently at the card, still on my knees.

“Oh! And one other thing.” He pulled a bill from his wallet and set it down on top of the card. “You were worth every dollar, darling.”

As I continued to kneel there on the floor, wracked with sobs, Pierre let himself out, gently closing the door behind him.

It was the most miserable moment of my life. In a matter of a few short days, I had been reduced from the scion of one the New Orleans’ oldest and most prosperous families to a penniless black girl who had just been forced to give her first blowjob. I was disheartened, confused, and frustrated. I had nowhere to turn–no one who could help me. What would become of me now?

Through the tears, I looked at the card on my knees. Pierre had said the card he had left had the name of someone who could help me. But Pierre had just forced me to blow him. I had no illusions regarding his help: I was past that now. Still, raising myself up along the side of the bed, I got up on wobbly legs and looked at what Pierre had given me. I held the card, still covered by the bill.

My hands trembling, I picked up what proved to be a hundred dollar bill Pierre had left. What had he said–that I was worth every dollar? Oh dear God, I had been paid for giving him that blowjob. That made me... made me...

I collapsed onto the bed, the tears flowing once more. Technically, he had made me a whore. I had been paid for what I had been forced to do.

Wait... forced to do it. That meant I had not really become a whore in the strictest sense of the word. He might pay me, but unless I accepted the money, I was nothing more or less than a victim of sexual abuse–of a rape.

My fingers closed around the bill, as if to wad it up and throw it away, but something kept my fingers from doing it. I stared at the bill–it was a crisp new hundred dollar bill. There was old Ben Franklin, smiling his thin smile as if gently coaxing me to remember that I was now without any source of funds. What would a hundred dollars give me? If I was frugal, it meant another night with a roof over my head, albeit in someplace more modest than my present room. It meant food in my belly. The transformation almost complete, my body no longer had any excess weight to draw down, so I was becoming truly hungry for the first time in days. I could find something other than the clothes I now wore–something to cover my body so that no other man could look down at my cleavage or stare at my shapely legs. I needed the hundred dollars desperately.

Even if it did make me a whore.

At last, I picked up the business card Pierre had left. It showed only a name, address and phone number. The name was Jimmy Saxon and the address was just a few blocks from my hotel. I knew who Jimmy Saxon was–he was reputed to run more girls in the Quarter than any other pimp. So that was Pierre’s idea of helping me.

For anyone who has never faced the prospect of life on the streets in an alien body, the thoughts running through my head probably would seem unreal. In fact, they seemed a little unreal to me. Still, there it was. I was a girl–a black girl. My accent was one of an uncultured southern black girl, and even were I able to convince anyone that I had almost enough course hours to graduate from Harvard, I would never be able to perform at that level since whatever had affected my mind was also affecting my ability to read. I had had to expend considerable effort just to read what was written on Jimmy’s card. So there it was–I was doomed to be destitute, without any marketable talents, hunted by the authorities, with only one potential asset to my name: my attractive and very female body.

How many runaways had faced such a decision? Many, I supposed. Unwanted at home, scorned by family and friends, pursued by the authorities, unable to make an ‘honest’ living, many turned to crime or prostitution. I was sure I’d make a very poor thief, so that just left... the other alternative.

And how bad could it be? I had already given a man a blowjob. While I didn’t like it, it hadn’t killed me. As for spreading my legs... well, soon I’d have everything I needed there to call myself a complete girl. With modern magical medicine, I wouldn’t have to worry about pregnancy or disease. Someone like Jimmy Saxon could provide me with such medical spells.

I looked at myself in the mirror. There was no trace now of the man I had once been. I was black, female, and I even looked younger than I had been. A casual observer might think I was no older than a high school girl of eighteen or maybe even a little younger. Had Mama Juno made me younger, too? I had thought that to be impossible, but then again, a few days before I would have thought it impossible that I would be standing there in the body of a girl contemplating selling my body on a regular basis.

Part of me still argued against such a demeaning profession, but it was being drowned out by the hungry rumbling of my stomach. I turned from the mirror, slinging my purse over my shoulder. I would get myself cleaned up–then I had to see Jimmy Saxon before I completely lost my nerve.

It was late afternoon when I finally found the courage to step out into the street. The shops in the Quarter were already starting to close for the evening and the bars and restaurants were shifting into a higher gear to greet the early crowd of tourists and conventioneers. Smells of Cajun cooking permeated the air, making me hungrier than I had been in a long time.

People were noticing me, and I wondered if they saw something about me that I had missed. Then I realized I looked the part of the streetwalker I was about to become, and it was a little early in the evening for a girl to be plying her trade. I decided to walk a little faster before someone took too much notice of me.

I was walking better in heels, but I was still inexperienced. That, coupled with the quick pace I had started and the somewhat uneven sidewalks of the less-travelled parts of the Quarter, spelled disaster. Without warning, my heel caught in a pavement crack, throwing me to the sidewalk.

But I never landed. A strong black arm reached out from behind and held me suspended in the air. Good thing too, because the way I was diving, my face would have smashed into the concrete. “Hey there!” a cheerful, boyish voice called out as someone lifted me back to my feet. “You shouldn’t walk so fast. You’re going to get hurt.”

I found myself staring into the eyes of a young black man a little younger than me. He was dressed in a red tropical shirt and khaki trousers, and his black, curly hair was cut stylishly short in what could best be called a medium crew cut. He looked to be a college student–probably from one of the local schools since most of the out- of-town students had left right after Mardi Gras.

“Thanks,” I managed, wriggling out of his grip.

“All part of the service,” he grinned. “Say, can I buy you something? A drink?”

I shook my head.

“Hey, I was about to get a sandwich. Would you join me for that? If you’re not hungry, I can just buy you a soda...”

I really wasn’t that anxious to see Jimmy Saxon, and I was very, very hungry, as my growling stomach reminded me. It might be better to do something as unpleasant as seeing a pimp with a full stomach. Besides, my would-be Samaritan looked like a safe kid–a nice looking kid... “Okay.”

We ended up at the Crescent City Brewhouse over on Decatur. My escort had a beer, flashing his ID comfortably. I was surprised to see he was twenty-one, as young as he looked. I just ordered a Coke. Since I had no ID as a girl, there was no way I could order a beer, even if I had wanted one. Besides, I realized I looked pretty young myself. If I had seen the female me on the street, I would have thought I was looking at a girl of no more than eighteen.

“I’m A.J.,” the young man said once we had ordered. He stuck out his hand.

“Nice to meet you, A.J.,” I replied, offering him my smaller hand but not volunteering a name. He wouldn’t believe I was a Robert, and there was no way I was going to pass myself off as a Roberta. As for any other female name, I’d put that off as long as I could. I felt a funny little tingle when I touched his hand, and A.J. seemed to space out for just a second.

“Are you from here in New Orleans?” he asked conversationally, suddenly returning to normal. I felt a little relieved: the way he looked when he touched my hand made me suspect he was using some sort of magic talent on me. Ciphers could pick up all sorts of personal information with just a touch. I sure as hell didn’t want a Cipher finding out I was on the lam from the FBM.

We just talked about inconsequential things while we waited for our food. I talked as little as possible, since I really didn’t want him to know anything about me and I was too tired to make anything up. I found out A.J. was a student at Tulane, majoring in Criminal Justice with a minor in magic.

“Planning to work for the FBM?” I asked him.

He laughed and shook his head. “No, nothing like that. The Feds are a little uptight for me. Besides, there’s a lot of opportunity these days in private practice.”

I nodded, thinking back about Helen telling me she had an offer to leave the Bureau and go private. “I’ve got a friend who’s considering that,” I told him. He didn’t ask anything about that because our food arrived.

Never in my life had a burger tasted so good. I practically inhaled the first half of the sandwich, swallowing my worries and fears with each bite of the savory meat. By the time we had finished, there wasn’t so much as a French fry left on my plate.

“Damn, girl, you were hungry!” A.J. remarked. I didn’t bother to answer–the evidence in the form of my empty plate spoke for itself. “You want the rest of my fries?”

Greedily, I grabbed a handful.

Unfortunately, my stomach full at last, it was time for me to part ways with A.J. and see Jimmy Saxon. Part of me regretted that I wasn’t the girl he thought I was, although I suspected that by now I was at least all girl. The panties I was wearing seemed strangely empty at last. Part of me wanted to stay with him–to enjoy the evening strolling around the Quarter. It was certainly preferable to what Jimmy would have in mind for me.

I gathered my purse. “Thanks for the meal, A.J., but I really have to go.”

“That’s cool,” he shrugged. “But hey. Before you do, can I get your opinion on something?”

“What?”

A. J. looked a little sheepish. “There’s this novelty store just down the street. They’ve got some cool shades. Would you go in there with me and help me get a pair?”

“I really don’t have the time...”

“Hey, it’ll just take a minute.”

There was a very big part of me that wanted to stay with A.J. And I reminded myself that I was in no hurry to see Jimmy Saxon... “Okay, but just for a few minutes.”

The novelty store was pretty cheesy–one of those forgettable places that stayed open late to catch the tourists with too little money or too little taste to shop in the more fashionable shops of the Quarter. A.J. led me back to a rack of sunglasses near the back of the store, grabbing a particularly ridiculous pair and slipping them on. “What do you think?”

Before I could answer, I felt a hand on my shoulder and hear a familiar woman’s voice. “Don’t say anything, Robert. I just want to talk to you.”

“Helen?” I breathed. Oh God! Was my father there, too? I thought about running, but A.J. was in my way, and the aisle was too narrow to get around him. Besides, he was about the size I used to be, and I was now far too small and weak to push my way past him.

Before I could protest, Helen and A.J. hustled me back into what should have been nothing but a storeroom. I tried to struggle, but they were too strong for me. One quick look around was enough to convince me that the store was a front for something else, though. A small office burgeoned with electronic equipment arranged haphazardly told me that the store was a temporary FBM command post. That just made me struggle harder. I was determined that the Bureau was never going to recapture me.

“Damn it, Robert!” Helen growled while A.J.’s strong arms kept me from slipping away. “No one is going to hurt you. Stop struggling right now!”

“But you’re FBM!” I squealed, redoubling my efforts to absolutely no avail. A.J. was a lot stronger than me, though. I think he could have manhandled me even without Helen’s help. And I sensed that he wasn’t even gripping me as tightly as he could have. Either I was a whole lot weaker or he was terrifically strong–probably a little of both, I imagined.

“Not right now I’m not FBM,” she countered. “Right now, I’m just Helen–your friend. And this is my brother, A.J.”

I stopped my struggling. “Your brother?” I had thought he was just another FBM agent with a particularly youthful appearance. I suddenly realized that although Helen had often mentioned her brother, I had never met him.

“It’s definitely magically-induced paranoia,” A.J. told Helen. “I can sense it in her.”

So A.J. was an Empath. So what? “I’m not paranoid!” I protested, but his diagnosis started me thinking in spite of my vocal reaction. Since my transformation had begun, I was finding it harder and harder to trust anyone–even my family and long-time friends. I had isolated myself completely from everyone who might have been able to help me. But weren’t they all out to get me? Really? Well, maybe I was being just a teeny tiny bit paranoid...

Once A.J. had me seated in a well-worn office chair, Helen sat in its mate directly across from me. “I understand why you decided to run,” Helen began sympathetically. “I think if I were in your shoes I might have done the same thing. Your father has been getting some very bad advice.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, my fear giving way to curiosity.

“He’s been treating you like the criminal rather than the victim,” she explained. “He should have brought in experts to try to help you. Instead, he tried to sweep this entire thing under the rug and let Sarah try to overcome the spells. The stuff that was done to you is way over Sarah’s head. Then when he staged your death just to keep all of this out of the public eye, it got to be too much for me. You were always a good guy, Robert. You always treated me well. I couldn’t let your father and the Bureau do this to you.”

I slumped into the chair, feeling suddenly more secure than I had felt since my abduction. As much as something inside me insisted that no one was to be trusted, I found myself wanting to trust Helen. “Helen, what’s going on?” I asked shakily.

She looked at me and blinked. Then she looked at A.J. “Is that accent part of the same spell as the paranoia?” I guess I did have something of an accent. What I had actually said was something like, “Wha’s goin awn?” But that wasn’t too bad, was it?

“I imagine they’re related,” A.J. confirmed.

She turned back to me. “To answer your question, I’m not sure. At first all of us thought it was just a reversible spell designed to get your father to release Pierre Dubois. Now Robert, don’t get your hopes up. I’m just saying some spells have a reverse command built into them so that if certain conditions are met, the spell can be turned around. Your spell isn’t one of those, but we discovered it too late. Mama Juno must have decided to do this all the way from the beginning.

“Once we determined the spell was permanent, your father made the decision to move you to a secluded location. According to him, they’d be able to monitor your conditioning and treat some of the peripheral spells–like the paranoia and that terrible accent.”

“What’s wrong with my accent?” I asked, but it came out more like, “Wha’s wrong wit mah assent?”

“It’s starting to sound normal to her,” A.J. explained to his sister. “There are more mind spells in there. My guess is that within a couple more days, she’ll be exactly what she appears to be and won’t think anything of it. Whoever the Whisperer was, he was damned good.”

That was a sobering thought, and I suspected it was true. I had for the moment forgotten how ghastly my accent had become. What else was starting to seem normal to me? Would spreading my legs for strangers seem just as natural to me before long?

“Anyhow, Robert, when your father couldn’t find you, he panicked,” Helen continued. “He’s worried about how all of this will reflect on the Bureau...”

“And on himself,” I finished for her. She reluctantly nodded.

“So how come you and your brother just happened to find me?” I asked suspiciously.

I noticed A.J. looked a little embarrassed at the question, so his sister answered for him. “Some of our agents figured you had skipped town. That diluted the official search and gave me a little more operating room. You see, I figured differently: I figured you had gone to ground somewhere in the city. Since you always liked the Quarter, it just seemed logical you’d be here somewhere. A.J. and I thought you’d be acting like a runaway, and a lot of runaways end up in places like the one where you’re staying.” She gave a wry look to her brother. “Apparently most of the male students at Tulane know which hotels to check.”

I chuckled inwardly as A.J. offered proof that blacks can turn red with embarrassment.

“The break came when we saw Pierre Dubois go into your hotel today,” Helen went on.

“We?”

“A couple of Bureau agents,” Helen clarified, hastening to add, “But don’t worry. Nobody picked up on it but me. I figured you’d try to work out some sort of a deal with Pierre. It seemed to be your only possible course of action.”

“I thought he might have a way of changing me back,” I said forlornly. “I guess I was wrong.”

I think that was the first real moment that I realized that no matter what happened now, I was destined to live the rest of my life as a woman–and a black woman at that. I would have periods, be able to have babies, and sit to pee from now on. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, I supposed. At least I was healthy, attractive and young. And given the multitude of spells Mama Juno had slapped on me, I seemed to have at least a modest attraction to men which was probably designed to increase over time, so I wouldn’t think of myself as being gay for liking men.

“So anyhow, I sent A.J. to keep an eye on the hotel,” Helen went on. “As you’ve probably gathered, A.J. is an Empath–and a strong one, too. All he had to do was touch you to verify your identity.”

I couldn’t help but wonder how many other girls A.J. had touched before I left the hotel. Well, he wasn’t a bad-looking guy, so I doubted if any of them minded too much.

“So what happens now?” I asked. “You aren’t going to turn me in to the Bureau, are you?”

Helen shook her head. “No. That wouldn’t help you, I’m afraid. We need to do something to help you, and turning you into the Bureau won’t help you at all. The first thing we need to do is get some of the more bothersome spells removed or at least lessened,” she said, ticking the points off on her fingers. “We also need to get you some clothes and ID. Once we’ve got all of that done, we can figure out what to do next.

“Now as for the spells, we need to get rid of that horrid accent of yours. You sound as if you were brought up on a tenant farm in Mississippi. Then we’ll try to get rid of that paranoia of yours.”

“I know I’m stuck as a girl,” I broke in, “but do you think there’s something that would make me...” My voice trailed off. I didn’t want to offend either A.J. or Helen.

To my surprise, Helen laughed, having already figured out what I was about to ask for. “Is there something to make you white again? Is that what you were going to ask?”

My face flushed. “I’m sorry, Helen. I don’t mean that the way it sounds.”

“There’s a way,” A.J. told us, but then he shook his head. “The problem is that multiple racial changes can set off a nasty melanoma that even magic can’t stop. A friend of mine had it done last year–black to white and back to black. The doctors have been cutting shit off his skin ever since. It wouldn’t be a very good idea to change back to white. Sorry.”

The way he was looking at my rather attractive body, I didn’t think he was sorry at all.

Helen put her hands on my shoulders. “Look, Robert, it’s not so bad. Being a woman can be a lot of fun. And as for being black, I wouldn’t want to be white even if someone offered to change me for free.”

One of the best things to come out of magic was the ability to change race, even given its drawbacks. Now, any black of reasonable means could change into a white if he or she truly desired it. The interesting thing was that few chose to do it, and there were even a few whites who chose to be black. Race doesn’t mean much when one has the ability to change it.

Unfortunately for me, I had no ability to change my race unless I wanted the almost-certain risk of cancer. It seemed I was to be stuck as a black, and there were still a fair number of people out there–many of them my parents’ age–who still looked down on blacks. But it was just something I’d have to learn to live with.

“Now let’s get a name for you,” Helen suggested. “You can’t be a Robert anymore.”

“I’m not in any mood to pick a girl’s name for myself,” I sighed. “Just pick one for me. Anything but Roberta, that is.”

To my surprise, the name she came up with was Cassandra.

“My mother was fascinated with the Iliad in college,” Helen explained. “That’s why she named me Helen.” She nodded at A.J. who looked embarrassed since he knew what was coming next. “A.J’s real name is Achilles.”

“That’s a cool name,” I said. I didn’t really think it was so hot, but I felt poor A.J. had already been embarrassed enough for one night. He brightened considerably and gave me a relieved smile.

“So I thought we’d carry on a family tradition and name you Cassandra–Cassie for short,” Helen went on. “That way, we can pass you off as our younger sister.”

I nodded. It wasn’t a bad name, and it had a bit more class than anything I might have come up with on the spur of the moment. Besides, since my own family had pretty much thrown me to the wolves, it made me feel almost as if I had been adopted by Helen and her brother.

Helen sent A.J. off to try to run down somebody named Papa Bob while hustling me off to get some new clothes. I was a little apprehensive about a shopping trip. First of all, I was concerned that I might be spotted, but Helen assured me that only the FBM was looking for me, and not everyone in the FBM knew I was really their boss’s son. All they knew was to look for a runaway–a black girl–who had information about a magical crime. The FBM was spread too thin to be scouring the shopping malls for me.

“And as far as anyone will know, you’re my younger sister,” Helen explained as she fussed with my inappropriate clothing to make me look a little more presentable. “You look to be about eighteen or so, so we’ll get you something appropriate.”

“I don’t want to look too feminine,” I cautioned.

She laughed at that. “Oh? And what would you call this tight dress and high heels you’re wearing–butch attire?”

I managed to blush a little at that. “It was the best disguise I could come up with,” I muttered.

“Well, it wouldn’t have worked,” she informed me. “Our agents had been told you might be trying to throw us off by wearing something very girly.”

I mentally kicked myself for not realizing that the Bureau wasn’t that naíve. FBM agents were taught to look beyond the obvious. I certainly wouldn’t need a disguise because they would probably see right through it. But that wasn’t the only reason to change my attire.

The other reason was that I no longer felt I needed to disguise myself by being more feminine in my appearance. A quick trip to the bathroom in the shop had confirmed for me that I no longer had anything which could be called male organs. I was both devastated and relieved. I was devastated because I had lost the last remaining proof that I had once been a white male, but I was also relieved that my transformation was over. I was no longer a sexual freak–externally at least. Maybe a few things were still rearranging themselves inside me, but from all appearances, I was one-hundred percent girl now.

Helen assured me we weren’t out to do any female bonding crap by cruising the local malls and trying on girlish outfits. Instead, out destination was to be a trusty Wal-Mart where I could get some functional clothing designed to fit my new body. “You’re cute enough already that I don’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to you,” she explained. “Besides, I never was much into dressing up Barbie dolls when I was a little girl and I don’t see any reason to start now.”

Her assurances relieved me, and good to her word, our shopping trip was efficient and thoughtful, concentrating on the essentials that would allow me to blend into the crowd as a normal, conventionally dressed teenage girl.

We had no sooner left Wal-Mart with a couple of sacks filled with new underwear and an extra pair of jeans with two matching tops when Helen’s cell phone rang. She spoke for a few seconds and turned to me as she hung up. “A.J.’s found Papa Bob. He lives not too far from here and can see us right now.”

I fidgeted with the new pair of jeans I was wearing. I had never realized that girl’s jeans were so tight, but then again, I had never experienced a pair of them from the inside. I kept feeling as if the denim was a coating of second skin since it clung so tightly to my ass and hips. And as for the feeling between my legs, I felt as if I was about to be sawed in half. If anything had remained of my male equipment, I would have been in excruciating pain by now. Add to that the problems my new breasts created for walking, swaying back and forth in their new bra, and I was sure I must be looking like some sort of drag queen. To my relief, though, no one seemed to take notice. “So exactly who is this Papa Bob?” I asked.

Helen looked thoughtful as we drove down Napoleon past stately but aging homes hidden in the twilight by huge oak trees. “Papa Bob is a houngan,” she said at last.

“A houngan?”

“It’s... sort of like a priest.”

My eyes narrowed. “You mean a Voodoo priest.”

Most of the tourists think Voodoo is something out of the past, but in New Orleans, we all knew it still flourished. Mama Juno wasn’t the only practitioner of the misunderstood religion. Most whites like me–or like I had been until recently–knew little about it, though. Good Catholics that most of us were, we had been taught from early childhood that Voodoo was evil. We all knew that the blacks knew more about it than we did, but it still surprised me that Helen was seeking aid from such a discredited corner. I had always considered Helen too intelligent to be taken in by some hokey pseudo-religion. But the way she seemed to have a great deal of respect for this Papa Bob made me wonder if she was a practitioner of it. I even got up the nerve to ask her about it.

“Me?” she laughed. “No, my family are all born and raised Methodist. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have respect for Papa Bob’s beliefs. I think you’ll understand more when you meet him.”

I had been expecting to find this Papa Bob in one of the squalid little homes in one of the poorer sections of the city, over next to the river near an industrial area. Instead, Helen pulled the car into the driveway of one of the stately homes just off Napoleon. The aging home was immaculately cared for, with fresh white paint on all of the wood trim and a brick exterior which had been cleaned recently. Large oak trees hid the spacious grounds from view, and early spring flowers bloomed in large, weed-less beds. Whoever Papa Bob was, he had money.

A figure hurried down the stairs of the large front porch, and it wasn’t until the lights of Helen’s car struck him that I realized it was A.J. To my amusement, he formally opened my car door and helped me out with an approving look. “Damn, girl, you clean up nice!”

I smiled, pleased in spite of myself. “I thought you’d prefer the slutty outfit you saw me in last night.”

“There’s nothing like a tight pair of jeans to show off a girl’s a... figure,” he recovered. I had to laugh, though. I knew he was about to say “ass,” and I had to admit that as tight as the jeans felt against my butt, he was probably right. I missed the baggy feel of men’s jeans, but I was starting to understand why women had opted for a tight fit over the butt. From the way A.J.’s eyes threatened to pop out of his head, I realized the way I was dressed was as sexy as if I had been wearing a short skirt.

I don’t want to give the impression that I was entirely pleased by his remark. To tell the truth, I was a little embarrassed. I wasn’t used to having a guy tell me I had a nice ass, even if he did clean up the remark a little. However, if I had to be a girl for the rest of my life, it didn’t hurt to be an attractive one. I had always been considered attractive when I was male, and giving up my gender and my race was as much of a sacrifice as I could tolerate. If being attractive meant I would be given appreciative–almost hungry–stares by men like A.J., it was a price I would have to learn to pay.

As we waited for someone to answer the door, I looked down at myself. In addition to the stylish but tight jeans, I wore a white knit sleeveless top. I was thankful that A. J. didn’t say anything about how the top showed off my breasts–because it did. According to my newest bra, I was a 36C, and I made a mental note not to get any more tops that showed them off as well as this one did. If I had been wearing heels instead of the very practical tennis shoes that were on my smaller feet, I would have probably stopped traffic. I would most certainly have stopped poor A.J.’s heart.

The door finally opened, and if I had been expecting an aging black butler or a Voodoo priest wearing a necklace of chicken bones, I would have been disappointed on both counts. The man who answered the door wore khaki Dockers and a dark blue polo shirt. His black skin looked firm and healthy, and if it hadn’t been for his short grey hair, I would have put him closer to thirty than to fifty (which I found out later was his actual age). He wore rimless glasses, and I recognized the frames as an expensive brand. Instead of a necklace of chicken bones, he wore an understated gold chain. He held out his hand to me. “You must be Cassandra. I’m Bob Monroe.”

I took his hand and felt his warm, firm handshake. “This isn’t what I expected,” I blurted out. I didn’t add that I recognized him once I saw him as a board member of a successful bank in the city, noted for financing businesses in the black community. I had actually been introduced to him at a luncheon I had attended with my father at the mayor’s invitation a couple of years earlier. Although I was sure he wouldn’t remember me, even if I looked like my normal self, I certainly remembered him. Bob Monroe was an impressive business leader, civic booster, and known philanthropist. Now, to the impressive list, I would have to add Voodoo priest.

He laughed, “Nobody does–at least nobody who comes here to see Papa Bob.” He uttered the last two words as if they were an ominous expression, his eyes theatrically wide, and laughed again.

“Most of the time, I’m just your typical everyday doctor,” he said as he led us into his study past antiques which would not have been out of place in my parents’ home.

“Don’t let his modesty fool you,” Helen warned me. “Bob is one of the top heart surgeons in the state.”

I couldn’t help it: I had a bizarre vision of Papa Bob pulling out a still-beating heart from a patient in a modern operating room while jungle drums beat out a frantic cadence. In any case, it seemed I would also have to add ‘prominent surgeon’ to that mental list of Papa Bob’s accomplishments.

When we were all seated his comfortable study, Papa Bob took a seat behind his desk, leaned forward with folded hands, and in his best professional demeanor asked, “Now what seems to be the problem?”

I didn’t have to say much as Helen explained at length what had happened to me. Papa Bob’s polite, professional interest turned to rapt attention as she explained the wide variety of spells that had been laid on me over the last few days. She then went on to explain the details of my escape from protective custody and my eventual rescue by A.J. I was thankful she knew nothing of the blowjob I had been forced to give Pierre. With two men in the room, I was embarrassed enough without having to admit I had been forced into oral sex with a bastard like Pierre Dubois–or any other man for that matter.

When Helen had finished, Papa Bob turned his attention to me. “Let’s see if I understand all of this. You were a man before? A man in his twenties?”

I nodded, not wanting to speak with my terrible accent.

“And you were white?”

I nodded again.

Papa Bob leaned back in his chair. “Amazing,” he muttered. “You look to be about sixteen–eighteen at the most. Yet according to Helen here, you are in your early twenties.”

“But rejuvenation isn’t possible,” A.J. pointed out.

Papa Bob smiled slyly at A.J. “You probably don’t remember, but before the Webster-Kline virus spread, most people would have said magic wasn’t possible. I can tell you, there has always been magic in the world. All Webster and Kline did was accidentally make it stronger. Right now, about the only things that aren’t possible with magic are the things we just haven’t figured out how to do yet.”

“Like turning me back into a man,” I commented sourly.

Papa Bob looked at me again with interest, ignoring for the moment my question. “The speech patterns, I assume, are the result of a spell.”

Flushing with embarrassment, I nodded again.

“Any other... changes–a drop in intelligence or sudden interest in men, for example?”

Fortunately, Helen helped out again. “He... she seems to have trouble reading. Also, although she seems as intelligent as before, she exhibits some serious paranoia. She thinks the FBM is out to get her.”

“Maybe they are,” Papa Bob returned. It was obvious from his frown that he had no love for the Bureau. The frown went away as suddenly as it had come as he asked once more in his professional manner, “Do you have any magical talents, Cassandra?”

“Uh... I’m not bad at TK,” I replied. Then I added, “Or at least I used to be pretty good at it.”

He nodded and placed a folded sheet of paper in front of me on his desk. “Demonstrate, please. Push the paper toward me.”

He obviously didn’t have much faith in my powers. I was able to move a piece of paper even before puberty enhanced my abilities. Still, I had to humor him. I pushed with my mind–a simple exercise for anyone who called himself a Pusher. To my consternation, though, the paper didn’t budge–not even a fraction of an inch. I tried again, a little harder, but nothing happened. It was as if I was unable to access the part of my mind which allowed me to think an object into motion. At last, I shook my head in defeat.

“I’m not surprised,” Papa Bob told me gently.

“I... I thought women could do magic better than men,” I said softly. The one hope I had held out for myself in the last few hours was that maybe my change of sex would increase my own powers. Now, even that hope had been dashed.

“That’s true–most of the time,” he answered, “but not all of the time. Some women are better at magic than men. Some older people–like me–have strong magical abilities in spite of the fact that we caught the virus well after puberty. Some people have multiple talents while others have none. There’s really no good generalization.

“Besides, I suspect your talents will return in a few days–maybe even stronger than before. You see, some spells can use a person’s inherent magical powers to enhance a curse–or in your case, multiple curses. Most of what has been done to you consists of ‘canned’ spells. Even the rejuvenation spell has been done before. All it really does is reset your cells to an earlier part of their life cycle. Since human cells regenerate about every seven years, the spell will shave on the average three or four years off a person, as it appears to have done to you.”

“A lot of people would pay a lot of money for that little spell,” A. J. speculated.

“True,” Papa Bob agreed, “if it always worked right. There’s a fifty-fifty chance it will actually accelerate one’s age, making the victim on the average four years older. In your case, Cassandra, you were just a little over twenty-one, so the spell managed to regress you to somewhere between sixteen and eighteen I would guess. The odds favored your becoming younger. If, on the other hand, you had been about twenty-three, the odds are greater you would have gained three or four years. Either way, there’s no guarantee, though. The spell has been around for a long time, but most people wouldn’t want to take a chance on paying anyone to make them older roughly half the time.”

“So what can you do for her?” Helen wanted to know.

Papa Bob walked around the desk and looked closely into my eyes. “I can’t make you into a man again, Cassandra,” he said quietly.

“I know,” I answered, just as quietly. I had already reached that dismal conclusion.

“I can, however, remove some of the ancillary spells–such as the speech pattern, the reading problem, and the paranoia.”

“And you use Voodoo to do this?” I asked warily.

He threw back his head with a hearty laugh. I looked helplessly at A.J. and Helen, but they were smiling as well. “What’s so funny?” I asked.

“Voodoo is something of a misnomer,” Papa Bob said, still chuckling. “Zombies and Voodoo dolls have some basis in fact, but for the most part, they’re Hollywood myths. Why most folks don’t even realize that zombies are really living creatures spelled to do another’s bidding. What I’ll be doing is nothing like Hollywood Voodoo. I will use Vodun discipline coupled with the type of magic you already are aware of.”

I shook my head. “Now I’m even more confused. What is Vodun?”

“Vodun is the true nature of Voodoo,” he explained. “It’s a religion whose roots go back nearly six thousand years and is practiced by over sixty million people around the world. Like you Christians, we believe in a supreme being, sainthood–which we call the Loa–the presence of a soul, and an afterlife.”

“But how does this help me?” I wanted to know. “I’m sorry, but as a good Catholic, I don’t think I’d visit my parish priest to remove any of these curses.”

Papa Bob grinned. “That’s because most good Christians denied magic to humans while at the same time attributing all miracles to God. We who practice Vodun are much more open to the concept of magic and sorcerers. That’s probably why we have so many strong practitioners of magic–even among those of us who contracted the virus well after puberty.

“Now, I’ll be happy to discuss my religion with you in more detail at another time. Right now, let’s see what we can do about removing some of these curses.”

A few minutes later, I found myself alone in the room with Papa Bob. To my irrational relief, I was happy to find that neither A.J. nor Helen were followers of Vodun, so they were asked to leave the room so that “the spirits were not unduly distressed.” I guess since I was the subject of all of this, the fact that I wasn’t a Vodun practitioner had no significance.

He had me stand in the center of the room while he slowly and carefully circled me, mumbling chants in some tongue I didn’t understand and lighting candles which he carefully placed at regular intervals in his path. I was, of course, stark naked for all of this, as was Papa Bob. I guess Hollywood had some of this Voodoo or Vodun figured out after all. Or maybe it was just that Hollywood never missed the opportunity to show a well-built girl in the nude.

Papa Bob would sometimes stop with all the chanting and reach out to touch me–nothing sexual, mind you, but authoritative touches on my shoulders, my lips, and the top of my head. Each time he did it, I felt an unexpected tingle throughout my body, and my mind became... clearer. He would look deeply into my eyes as my mind seemed to clear until he saw something he was looking for. Then, with a satisfied nod, he would begin his chanting again, moving around me in some purposeful pattern I could only guess at.

I hadn’t realized until his touches, exactly the extent of what had been done to me. I had understood from Papa Bob that my accent, my loss of reading skills, and my paranoia were all part of curses I had been given, but there were more than that. My disgust at what Pierre had made me do compounded tenfold, until the thought of having sex with a man became utterly repugnant. I began to wonder how I could have ever considered appealing to Jimmy Saxon, and how becoming one of his stable could ever have merited serious consideration.

Strangely enough, I was still objectively able to appreciate the male form in a part of my mind. Like it or not, I had the body of a young woman, and that body was producing hormones which saturated my female brain to the point that I had to at least consider the male form pleasing. But Papa Bob had apparently freed up my suppressed male thoughts, making me feel like an alien in my own body to even consider sex with a male–no matter how pleasing he might be. The problem was that I no longer found women sexually attractive–at least from a physical perspective. Was I doomed to be asexual, unable to become aroused by either males or females?

“You’re making me feel very uncomfortable,” I warned him, noting with some relief that my accent was now more cultured. The backwoods slur I had been forced to speak in was nearly gone, although I noted I still had a slight accent associated with even more educated blacks in the South.

“It can’t be helped,” Papa Bob said quietly as he continued to move around me. “I know what you are feeling. You find yourself no longer sexually attracted to women and completely repelled by men. Don’t worry: your male sexual orientation has been suppressed and is now making itself known, but this will pass. Your male prejudices against being attracted to males will lessen over time, but they were unnaturally suppressed by that damnable caplata.”

“Caplata?”

“An evil sorcerer,” he explained. “That is what Mama Juno is. I, by the way, am a houngan, so I practice only white magic. Quiet now: I’m not finished. If you disturb the Loa, you may end up worse off than when you came here.”

I remembered him saying that the Loa were like saints. Well, as a good Catholic, I wouldn’t want to piss off St Peter, no matter what form he took, so I decided it was best to shut up and let Papa Bob finish...

“Awaken!”

My eyes flew open. I felt momentarily confused. Looking down, I noticed as if for the first time my dark, full breasts with their prominent chocolate nipples. My slender hands groped between my legs, as if unconsciously searching for something that was no longer there. But I remembered everything–my transformation, my flight, my humiliation by Pierre, my rescue by Helen and A.J., though it all seemed like a bad dream. It was as if I had been changed from Robert Devereaux to my present state in an instant. The difference was that my mind had become clearer, more focused. My knees nearly gave out, and if Papa Bob hadn’t grabbed me by the arm, I think I would have collapsed on the floor.

“It will pass,” he assured me, guiding me to an overstuffed chair near the door. “The feeling of dislocation is normal once the spells have been removed. You will be able to think more clearly now.”

Yes, I could feel a clarity I had unconsciously been deprived of since my transformation had begun. I was still distressed by my new form, and still uncertain as to how to act, but at least I no longer felt as if I was a helpless pawn in a game I could barely understand. Despite my befuddlement, I now felt new resolve–resolve to end somehow the threats against me and get on with what would be a new life.

He helped me to a chair and left the room. Moments later, Helen returned, helping me get dressed. By the time I had regained my wits completely, we were all seated in the study as we had been before. I found myself wondering just how long A.J. had been in the room.

“I have done what I can for you,” Papa Bob told me. “Of course, you may find you want a small spell later on. Otherwise, it might still be difficult for you to accept your new sex and your new race. I can ease that burden should you wish it.”

I shook my head. “No. I’ll cope. I have to. If I’m going to look like this for the rest of my life, I’ll have to learn how to be a woman without any more magical spells forced on me.”

Papa Bob nodded in approval. “It’s a wise decision. While you will have some difficulties, I think you will succeed in the end.”

I turned to Helen. “So what happens now?”

Helen shrugged. “That’s up to you. You seem to be pretty well convinced your family won’t have anything to do with you.”

“Like this?” I laughed, motioning to myself. “My parents are strictly Old South. Now they don’t call folks who look like me ‘darkies’ anymore, or sell us off when they’re displeased, but there’s no way that they would ever accept me looking like this. After all, what would everyone at the country club say?”

“Ok,” Helen nodded. “You’ve made your point. So what will you do?”

I sighed, “Try to find a way to finish college, I guess. I’ll need to do something to earn a living.” It was a noble goal, I suppose, but I knew it wasn’t going to be that simple. With no support from my family and Mama Juno probably not finished with me, where could I go? Helen had agreed to provide me with identification, so I wouldn’t be a non-person strictly speaking, but I had no history. How could I finish college when Harvard had never even heard of a Cassandra Davis? I was on the verge of tears when Helen stepped in.

“I’ve pretty much agreed to adopt you as my little sister, so if you want, all you need to do is start your new life as if everything was normal,” she said, but I could tell she had more to say. I waited for her to continue. I knew that wasn’t the only course of action–or even the one that she was really recommending.

“Or,” she continued, “you can work with me and A.J. to find out why this was done to you.”

“You don’t think it was just revenge for what happened to Pierre?” A.J. asked.

Helen shook her head. “No, I don’t. I think Cassie here is still in danger. I’m just not sure what Mama Juno has in mind.”

“I agree,” I said, pleased to be able to speak without sounding as if I had just wandered out of the bayou. “If revenge was all Mama Juno wanted, Pierre would never have... visited me. It was too dangerous for him. If the FBM had been watching me, they might have decided to charge him with being an accessory to my transformation. No, he was there for a reason. He was trying to goad me into something else.”

“Like hooking up with Jimmy Saxon,” Helen prompted, looking a little embarrassed at her unfortunate choice of words.

I nodded though. “Precisely. Hooking was exactly what she had in mind for me. Her spells alienated me from the Bureau, forced me into a corner where I had no choices. I was like a runaway with no home to go back to. I had no home, no family, no friends–or so she thought. Out of desperation and with the paranoia spells on me, I’d be left with only one choice. I’d have to sell my body to have enough to eat.”

“Maybe someone paid Mama Juno to do this to you,” A.J. suggested.

The thought had crossed my mind. Alex appeared to have another man she preferred to Robert. If I was transformed into a woman, the engagement our families had wanted for years would be impossible. Alex would be free to marry someone else.

And for that matter, there was no love lost between me and my brothers. With me out of the way, Paul and Lance both stood to gain. Paul would now be the favored son, and Lance would move up in the pecking order as well.

Coming up with the money to hire Mama Juno wouldn’t be a problem for any of them, either. I didn’t know what the going rate would be to have one’s enemy changed into a girl, but in a town where murderers could be hired for less than the price of an economy car, it couldn’t be that much.

When I explained all of this, Helen asked me, “But do any of them really hate you?”

“I don’t think so,” I answered slowly. Maybe Paul did, but I always thought it was more envy of my position than hatred.

“Then why go to the trouble of turning you into a whore?” she asked.

No one seemed to have a good answer for that.

“We may never know,” I mused. “The only way to find out would be to let their plan work.”

Everyone looked at me in surprise. It was Helen who asked, “What do you mean?”

I almost told them to forget what I had said, but I felt in my heart I would have to forge ahead. After all, part of Mama Juno’s plans for me had been foiled, but it might be important enough for her to try again. Unless the mystery of why I had been transformed was solved, I would always be in danger as her target. She could always capture me again and put new spells on me, and the next time, there might be no one around to pull me out of the soup.

“I’ve got to go to Jimmy Saxon–just like Mama Juno wants.”

“No!” A.J. interjected. “Cassie, you can’t do that. Jimmy Saxon is a Whisperer and a pimp. He’s good at what he does–maybe the best. He’ll turn you into one of his street whores before you know what hit you.”

A.J. was so passionate in his argument, I felt a warm glow course through my body. Both A.J. and Helen had treated me more like family than my real family had. I was beginning to feel as if I really was their little sister.

I smiled at A.J. “Thanks for caring, but Jimmy Saxon is the next phase of Mama Juno’s plan.” I looked over at Papa Bob. “Is there anything you can do for me to protect me from a Whisperer?”

Papa Bob nodded. “I can protect you from his power, but only temporarily. If he suspects you aren’t submitting to his suggestions, he can turn up the intensity until he breaks through any protective spell. And you need to remember–Jimmy Saxon has more than just a Whisperer’s power. He’s a cruel man with a citywide reputation. He wouldn’t hesitate to hurt you if it serves his purpose. He might even decide to ‘break you in’ himself.”

“There’s got to be another way,” Helen added. “You’d be on your own with him. Let me work on some other leads.”

I shook my head. “Sorry, Helen, but you don’t have any other leads, do you?”

“Well...”

“This is the only way,” I concluded. “I’d rather see Jimmy Saxon on my schedule and not wait for Mama Juno to try to coerce me again. At least this time, with Papa Bob’s help, I can be ready for him.”

I tried to sound confident, and apparently succeeded. There were no more objections to my plan. I should have been happy, I suppose. My argument had carried the day. But how could I be happy when I was about to face one of the most dangerous men in the city?

Helen and A.J. worked on me the next morning. We all had stayed at Papa Bob’s house that night, and in the morning after breakfast, Papa Bob laid a ward on me that he guaranteed no Whisperer would notice, but it would make me immune for a time from Jimmy Saxon’s magic urgings.

“Just remember,” he cautioned, “the ward won’t last more than a few hours. If you can’t find out what you want to know in that few hours, you’ll have to give up and get away from him.”

“Exactly how long will it last?” I asked as Helen worked on my hair to give it a sufficiently ratty look.

Papa Bob just shook his head. “It varies from person to person. It also depends upon how strong your opponent is. I hear that this Saxon is a very, very strong Whisperer. Don’t depend on the ward lasting more than twelve hours.”

“What if I’m able to get away and have you put a new ward on me?”

“It won’t work,” he replied flatly. “If I try to extend the ward, he’ll see it and be able to overcome it. Just make sure you’re out of his hands in twelve hours to be safe. Do you hear me, girl?”

I nodded, still not used to being called “girl.” I only hoped that twelve hours would be enough time to find out what I needed to know.

Then A.J. retrieved the slutty clothing I had been wearing when he had found me, and he and Helen did their very best to make me look as if I had spent a night on the street in those impractical clothes. When they were satisfied that I looked suitably bedraggled, they drove me back to the Quarter, where I was to be dropped off a few blocks from Saxon’s place.

“It’s about four blocks from here,” A.J. told me, pointing in the general direction.

“Yeah, I know.”

“And don’t forget the accent.” A.J. had coached me on it all morning, making sure I sounded like the poor ignorant girl the spells had made me seem just hours before.

“Ah tink ah done got it,” I replied, sounding intentionally dull.

He smiled. “You could fool me.”

I smiled back. I just hoped I could fool Jimmy Saxon.

Then a serious expression crossed A.J.’s face. “You know, it’s not too late to back out of this. We can figure out another plan.”

I shook my head. “Thanks, A.J., but there’s no time. Saxon won’t be suspicious if it takes me a day to come to see him, but any longer than that would be hard to explain.” I patted him on his arm. “Don’t worry: I’ll be fine.” I smiled, but behind the smile, I was just as worried as he was. Before he could say anything else, I closed the car door and turned away toward Jimmy Saxon’s address.

My courage began to ebb as I made my way to Jimmy Saxon’s place. Although it was broad daylight, the section of town Saxon lived in was not the best in the city. Apologists might kindly call it the undeveloped portion of the Quarter, but realists would point out that the area was outside the designated boundaries of the Quarter in an area that had once housed small warehouses and seedy bars. The smell from rotting garbage and standing water resulting from inadequate storm sewers gave the area a pungent signature all its own. Yes, a few brave souls had begun buying up property on the edges of the area for redevelopment into lofts and trendy shops, but not much had been done yet, and the few pedestrians I saw looked as if they would cheerfully roll anyone for pocket change–even in broad daylight.

The fact that I was now an attractive young woman wearing rather suggestive clothing would have been enough to make any of them molest me if I had slowed down enough for their slow, drug-dulled minds to come after me. However my quick, purposeful walk was enough to keep most of them at bay. And the closer I got to Jimmy Saxon’s, the more reluctant even the burliest of them seemed to be to take a chance that I might be one of Saxon’s stable of whores.

As I listened to the rapid click of my heels, I began to wonder if my plan was flawed after all. It was easy to be brave when Helen, A.J. and Papa Bob were with me, but now, I was on my own.

Well, not quite on my own. Helen had seen to that. A small, magically- enhanced tracking device was wedged behind one of my molars. It would allow Helen to know where I was, but unfortunately, she would have no way of knowing what was happening to me. Listening devices were too vulnerable to both electronic and magical detection. I could be lying dead in the middle of Jimmy Saxon’s living room rug and the device would dutifully report my position as advertised with no hint as to what my condition was.

But I knew that I had to follow through with my plan. If I didn’t I’d never be safe from Mama Juno’s machinations. Whatever she had planned for me had to fail at great personal cost to her before she would decide to leave me alone. From my perspective, she had already done considerable damage to me. Instead of a rich white male, I was a penniless black female, but somehow, she had something even worse in mind for me. It was up to me to discover what that was.

I realized as I carefully walked up the steps to Saxon’s place that he would make me a whore. That was, after all, what he did for a living. I was prepared–or at least I thought I was prepared–to have sex with a man if that was what it took to uncover the rest of Mama Juno’s plan. Of course, I wouldn’t enjoy having sex with a man, and I really hoped I could find out what I needed to know before it came to that.

I also hoped Saxon wouldn’t demand an audition, but I was fairly sure he wouldn’t. After all, some men would pay well to break in a virgin, and Helen’s examination of me had determined that that was exactly what I now was. I just hoped and prayed that I would learn enough about their plans before some slimy john got a chance to plow into me.

The guy who answered the door would have seemed huge to me even if I hadn’t lost a few inches during my transformation. He was about forty, with a graying beard covering up a pock-marked face. He looked at me about the same way a small boy would look at a bug. “What do you want?” His voice was so deep it rumbled.

“J... Jimmy Saxon?”

He gave me a look as if to indicate that I had to be one dumb bitch if I thought an important man like Jimmy Saxon would stoop to answering his own door. “Why do you want to see him?”

“Uh... Pierre Dubois sent me,” I managed to tell him, trying my best to duplicate the accent the original spells had saddled me with. While I had to fake the accent, I didn’t have to fake being nervous. Staring at that mountain in a black shirt and slacks was enough to scare the crap out of me.

“Wait.” He slammed the door in my face. He could use some new people skills, I thought, but I doubted if part of his job assignment was making anybody–other than Jimmy Saxon–happy. In a few minutes, he was back, opening the door and motioning with a nod of his head that I was supposed to come in. His expression hadn’t changed, though. He still looked at me as if I was a dead bug on the bottom of his shoe.

The drawing room was appointed with expensive antiques and large sofas covered in red velvet. In all, the room looked like the drawing room of a wealthy nineteenth century aristocrat. Jimmy Saxon certainly lived well: I’ll give the bastard that. Of course, why shouldn’t he live well? He was one of the top pimps in the state. His client base probably read like a Who’s Who in Louisiana. His girls had a reputation for being top-drawer whores–and now I was to be one of them if Pierre Dubois had his way.

The world’s most intimidating doorman didn’t offer me a seat in Saxon’s well-appointed drawing room. In fact, he looked a little disturbed that my heels might leave marks on the Persian carpet. He indicated with a menacing stare that I should just stand there and wait, so that’s just what I did.

I didn’t have to wait long. Jimmy Saxon bustled into the room with a big friendly grin on his lips. He wasn’t a particularly large man–only about five ten or so–but he was well-muscled as was apparent from the tight fit of his black t-shirt. His hair bore the mark of a hundred dollar cut, and his beard was equally cared for. His skin was fairly light for a black man–the perfect shade to hobnob with both blacks and whites in the city.

I tried to imagine what an impression he’d make on some poor little runaway who had come to him as a last resort. I imagined the smile, the wardrobe, and the furnishings had convinced many a young woman that the profession she was about to enter was the epitome of gentility and taste. Of course once Saxon took them in, they would find themselves in a world where gentlemanly behavior was the exception and not the rule.

“Well look at you!” he said, taking my hands in his. The smile was still on his lips, but I noted a coldness in his deep brown eyes. He thought no more highly of women than the brute who answered the door: he was just better at hiding it. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, trying to sound both embarrassed and flattered at the same time.

“Pierre told me you’d be coming to see me,” he remarked, adding, “but I was rather expecting you yesterday. Why didn’t you come by and see me then? We were all worried about you.”

I was prepared for that one. “I... I just didn’t think I’d have to do anything like this. I just... sort of wandered around, hoping something else would turn up.”

His smile projected a false sympathy. “But nothing did: did it, darlin’?”

I shook my head and lowered my eyes. I even managed to squeeze out a couple of tears, and I suppose in my frustration, they were an honest expression of my new feminine emotions. I had never done any acting before, but it seemed to come easily to me. Maybe women are natural actresses.

“Well, don’t you worry...”

My senses were alert. Thanks to Papa Bob, I was temporarily immune to the Whisperer’s talent. Although that didn’t mean I felt nothing at all. Saxon was a powerful Whisperer. He had undoubtedly used his powers to great effect, convincing many a girl to work the streets for him over the years. When he told me not to worry, I could actually feel the impulse to follow his suggestion. It wasn’t just an assurance: it was a Whisper.

But part of a Whisperer’s power comes from catching his victim unaware. If a Whisperer’s victim recognizes what is happening to her, she can resist subtle suggestions such as the one Saxon had made. The problem was that if a Whisperer knew he was being blocked, he could always turn up the power. To prevent Saxon from seeing he had no influence over me, I had to play along, visibly relaxing myself. I tried to remember the relief I felt when Helen and A.J. explained to me that they were going to help me, or what I felt when Papa Bob removed my ridiculous accent. It was enough to physically relax my shoulders and give the illusion that I was following his Whisper.

It worked. Seeing me appear less tense, he moved on without attempting to reinforce the Whisper. “You’ll be a natural working with me,” he said. “I’m sure of it.” His facial expression became serious. “You know what business I’m in?” he asked softly, as if he was about to confide a family secret to me.

I just nodded, looking down at my feet in feminine embarrassment.

“Then you know how rewarding it can be to make men happy.” It was another Whisper, crashing over me like a wave over a seawall, but the wall held–barely, but it held. If I had not been protected by Papa Bob’s ward, I would by now have been deeply in Saxon’s grasp.

I nodded again, staring this time with unfocussed eyes at the wall beyond him. I didn’t want him reading my true emotions, but I couldn’t suppress a little shudder of pleasure at the thought, and realized at least some of his suggestions were seeping through. Resist, I told myself, resist...

Fortunately, I convinced him. He studied my face carefully until he was sure his subliminal commands had soaked in. “Let’s see what you look like. Take off those dirty clothes.”

I wasn’t anxious to stand naked in front of a weasel like Jimmy Saxon, but I had little choice. I mechanically removed my clothing, trying not to blush. At least given the color of my skin, I hoped he wouldn’t see me redden. The room was cool, and I realized to my dismay that my nipples were hardening just a little. Fortunately, that seemed only to make me seem even more of what he was looking for.

Saxon walked around me as I stood, unmoving. He would occasionally put an inspecting hand on me, gripping my ass and feeling the slimness of my arms as he grunted in approval. I had to just stand there, as if men had touched me hundreds of times before. One unexpected flinch and he might Whisper to me again. I wasn’t sure how much more of his magical talent I would be able to withstand.

Then came the moment I had been dreading. Standing before me, he reached down between my legs and probed gently between the folds of my labia.

Since my complete transformation, I had been reluctant to explore myself too much, as if by not touching my new sex, I could somehow make it go away, replacing it with my proper male organs. Now, someone else was touching me there, and it took all the fortitude I could muster to keep from shrinking away from his touch. To do so, however, might alert him that I was not under his spell, so I forced myself to remain still.

His touch was not exactly unpleasant, but neither was it pleasant. The times I had touched Alex or any other girl there, they were already as aroused as I had been. True, I was sensitive there, but not in a sexual sense. To be sexually aroused would have taken more than he would have been able to muster. I felt a pressure inside me, though, as if he had touched something which yielded only slightly.

“Ah, a virgin!” he remarked happily. “That’s perfect.”

I hadn’t really thought about that before Helen had performed a similar inspection. As a male, I was certainly no virgin, but I had never thought that my change of sex would involve a return to virginity. Saxon’s obvious pleasure did not bode well for me. I knew there were men who delighted in being the first for a girl, and some such men would pay very well for the privilege–particularly given that I had the appearance of a girl who might be no more than sixteen. It seemed somehow sleazier than most other forms of sex for money. It meant a girl would be robbed of her innocence for money rather than surrendering it for love. I felt saddened by the prospect.

But on the other hand, I reminded myself, that same virginity would probably be enough to protect me from a full audition for Jimmy. He would want me in pristine condition for my first customer–a customer both discerning enough to appreciate my virginity and wealthy enough to afford taking it from me.

Saxon beckoned for his gargantuan servant who heeded his master’s call without even a glance at me. “Take our new girl... Hmm. We can’t just keep calling you girl. I’ll have to think of a proper name for you. I think Samantha would be appropriate, don’t you? Anyhow, take Samantha here to see Muriel and have her prepare our girl here while I make a few calls.”

As I was led away, I was becoming quite sure that the first call he would make would be to my first customer. Events were in motion. I just hoped that I could continue to resist Saxon’s seductive commands when the main event started.

“Thank you, Lucien,” an attractive woman who appeared to be an exotic mixture of black and oriental said to my brutish guide. She was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen, and I regretted very deeply the fact that I was no longer a man. I tried to imagine myself getting hard gazing on such loveliness, but my new body lacked the proper hardware to make that happen. Instead, I felt a most unmanly surge of something which might have been envy.

To take my mind off her, I tried to think about my hulking escort as he walked away leaving us alone. Lucien? I thought to myself. What a refined name for such a boorish creature! His mother must have had a strange sense of humor.

“I’m Muriel; please come with me,” the woman told me with a smile, taking my hand in hers. Fortunately, my mental defenses were up instantly. This delectable woman, wrapped in a tight, elegant cocktail dress of sparkling red, was a Whisperer nearly on a par with Saxon. I felt her command washing into my will, looking for cracks in my defenses as it bubbled through my consciousness. It made sense, I supposed. Some girls might be enticed by Saxon but slowly regain their self-control. However, if such girls handed off to Muriel, they would find the joys of prostitution continually reinforced. I began to wonder if my defenses would be enough to ward off both Whisperers at once. If I couldn’t, I just might become the good little whore they wanted me to be. I could only hope that neither of them suspected I was not completely in their control.

I let Muriel lead me through so many feminine beauty rituals that they made my short time in a beauty shop seem like nothing more elaborate than getting a man’s haircut. I was bathed (bubble bath, of course), massaged, styled, combed, painted, and in general pampered as if I were a tycoon’s spoiled daughter at a beauty spa. Then once Muriel was satisfied, I was poured into an iridescent blue dress which fit me like paint. But of course, the dress was just the outer wrapping. Underneath, I wore enough sexy underwear to make a Frederick’s of Hollywood model blush. Smokey black stockings showed off my legs, and the blue strappy shoes with their towering heels accentuated my ankles. A little jewelry, including hoops in my ears with a matching necklace dropping down to my ebony breasts and I was dressed to kill.

Looking at myself in the mirror was unsettling at best. I felt as if I wasn’t a real person, but rather a toy–an elaborate sexually charged black Barbie doll. Like all men–or in my case, former men–I had always enjoyed looking at women dressed and coiffed as elegantly and sexily as I now was, but to actually be such a woman left me feeling... exposed... vulnerable... helpless.

I couldn’t show my feelings, though. All the time that my mind churned, I had to maintain an unruffled exterior as Muriel used her Whisperer talent to keep me calm. I actually even managed to calm myself a bit, by pretending that this was nothing more than another disguise, although certainly one far more elaborate than I could have managed on my own. I could actually start to understand how some women enjoyed such attire. After all, a sexy woman dressed as I was could hold incredible power over most men.

It was that revelation that helped me to regain control of myself. Yes, I was weaker and more vulnerable, but I also had new power as well. I could use my very weakness and vulnerability to make men do my bidding. I might be physically weaker now, but I was stronger in a way that men could never imagine.

Suddenly, I could see Jimmy Saxon’s smiling image behind me in the mirror. He was looking intently at my ass, and I could almost hear him thinking that if it wasn’t for the bigger plans set for me, he would gladly deflower me himself. His gaze made its way up my nearly-bare back to my exposed shoulders.

I turned to face him, and nonchalantly, his eyes travelled up my body once again, this time from the front, lingering at my breasts and finally, reluctantly, reaching my eyes. “You turned out absolutely beautiful,” he said. I managed to give him a wan smile. It was probably the first truthful thing he had said to me that night.

Muriel joined Saxon, taking his arm and smiling. “She’s going to enjoy her new life, aren’t you, Samantha?”

It wasn’t really a question: it was another demand from a Whisperer. It seemed a little stronger than what I had experienced before, and I began to wonder worriedly if Papa Bob’s wards were starting to deteriorate already. In defense, I nodded, smiling, as if the words had soaked into my very being. If I could convince them I was already in their power, I wouldn’t have to fight off more verbal commands.

“We have something special prepared for you,” Saxon told me.

I’ll just bet you do, you slimy bastard, I thought to myself, but I managed to hide my thoughts with another demure if puzzled smile.

“He’s waiting for you now,” Saxon continued. “You’ll enjoy pleasing him. You’ll do everything he asks of you.”

The statements were delivered calmly, but they crashed over me like waves along a breakwater. More power to the shields, I told myself, thinking of all the old Star Trek reruns I had seen in my life. It actually seemed to work. Maybe Captain Kirk knew what he was doing. As Saxon continued to bombard me with Whispered instructions, I found I was able to ward them off. I did, however, remember everything I was being told, and most of it wasn’t exactly pleasant. Saxon certainly had big plans for me. As suspected, I was to be an ignorant little sex toy, virginal and naíve just as the client often requested. I now knew everything except the identity of the lucky man.

He and Muriel accompanied me to a waiting limo where Lucien held the rear door open for us before going around to the driver’s door. I was placed on a rear-facing seat with Saxon and Muriel sitting across from me. I braced myself, knowing still more Whispering attacks were planned. I wasn’t disappointed. Muriel reached out and took my hand as the car started. “Oh, you will enjoy yourself so much tonight.”

I could feel it as another Whispered command. They were going to keep reinforcing me all the way to my client’s location. What they had planned for me must be very, very important, I realized, or they wouldn’t be spending so much effort making sure that absolutely nothing went wrong. In a way, it gave me some relief. Earlier I had been concerned they might want to break me in first, but it appeared I was going to be taken immediately to the person I had been made for all along. Of course, as a virgin, I was undoubtedly worth far more.

I began to wonder who my client was to be. Was he the true mastermind of all of this? Or was he somehow as much a victim as I was? Or was he even a he? Whoever he or she was, the client would be a wealthy individual, willing to pay an obscene amount to deflower what appeared to be a girl well short of the age of consent. We were driving slowly into the heart of the Quarter, so I knew I wouldn’t have to wait long for an answer. There was no reason to drive deeper into the Quarter unless that was our final destination.

The windows of the limo were darkened, and one part of the Quarter looks much like any other part at night, but through the smoked glass, I could see the lit signs of little bars and restaurants I knew so well. From the route, I began to get an uneasy feeling that I knew what our final destination would be. I suppose after all that had happened to me, I shouldn’t have been surprised by it, but I was–just a little.

The limo stopped and Lucien came around to help me out of the car. His grin was nothing short of evil as he watched me struggle to rise from the car in a skin-tight skirt and comically high heels. He was watching my eyes, expecting shock when I noted my destination, and I tried not to disappoint him. Shock was not what I felt, though: I was instead overwhelmed in immense sorrow.

“Just a minute, Samantha,” Muriel called, pulling something from her purse. “This will make you absolutely irresistible,” she told me as she applied a little perfume in my cleavage. Since I suspected the perfume contained something–probably a magical compound–designed to heighten sexual interest, I was sure she was right. The question was: was it designed to heighten my interest, my client’s, or both?

“Come, my dear,” Muriel said, pulling me toward the red enamelled door with the familiar door knocker of a lion’s head in gold gleaming subtly in the dim street light. As Saxon watched from the limo, Muriel knocked on the door. She then turned to me, handed me a small handbag, and said in a Whisper, “Remember, do everything he tells you.”

At last, the door opened, and I was not at all surprised to see the leering face of my father.

“Come in,” he urged. “Come in.” He glanced furtively up and down the street to make certain no one had seen us enter, then closed the door behind us.

“This is Samantha,” Muriel introduced me, not bothering to introduce me to him in return. Of course, I hardly required an introduction to my own father, but he wouldn’t know that. As far as he was concerned, Muriel was simply showing good business manners by maintaining my father’s anonymity. Besides, as a lowly prostitute in the making, I would scarcely be important enough to know who my powerful client was.

My father smiled approvingly but with no sign of recognition. “You may call me Louis,” he said, using what I knew was his middle name. At least by his feeble ruse, it became obvious to me that he had no idea of my true identity. And why should he? I looked nothing like the young man who had been his son. I was a stranger–no, worse than a stranger. I was a tool. Unfortunately for my father, I was not to be the sort of tool he thought I was. I realized my father was about to become a victim of Mama Juno’s as well. That was, of course, the true reason for what had been done to me.

Muriel decided to take one more punch at me before she left. Staring me in the eyes as she held my hands–a trick Whisperers often used to heighten their power–she said, “Now remember what I said, Samantha, enjoy yourself and do everything... absolutely everything Louis asks you to do. Is that very clear?”

I stared vacantly as I nodded, and Muriel relaxed and smiled. “Then good night, Samantha.”

After my father had shown her out, he turned back to me. The look he favored me with was enough to sicken me. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked smoothly.

They gave us half an hour to be in bed together. I suppose they assumed that, being the gentleman he was, my father would not make me immediately strip off all of my clothes. No, I was to be given the illusion of a romantic evening with an older–slightly older, mind you–man. Then slowly, deliberately, he would begin to remove my dress, fondling me with a passion I’m sure he never mustered for my mother.

When they saw the lights go out, they were convinced we had been given enough time. It was then that they put a Pusher to work on the lock, prepared to tell anyone who asked about it later that the door had been standing open when they arrived. The Pusher was a real professional. The opening of the lock would have not disturbed a couple writhing passionately in the bed in the next room.

Then they attacked like a squad of Army Rangers, coordinated to the second as the darkened bedroom burst suddenly into light sufficient to make the images of the two people in bed together stand out in even the smallest television picture. Another high-ranking official was about to be caught in the act, embarrassed publicly and pulled from his high position.

“Director Devereaux!” a voice triumphantly called out the instant the lights were on so that the man rutting away on the young black woman would look up suddenly–right into the camera...

But the bed was empty, and no one answered his triumphant call.

“Over here,” a woman’s voice–my voice–called out in amusement.

The light swung toward me, nearly blinding me in the chair where I sat. “Would you mind turning that light off and turning on the overhead light?” I asked, allowing my irritation to show. “The switch is just there–on the wall.”

I heard a whispered conference go on for a moment, followed by the dowsing of the camera light and a more acceptable light glowing from the small chandelier. I could now see a cameraman holding a professional rig with ‘Fox 8’ emblazoned on the side. I recognized the man next to him as a reporter for that same station. I didn’t know the other man who stood confused, his digital still camera not aimed at anything in particular, but I was sure he was a representative of the New Orleans Times-Picayune.

“Are you aware that you are interrupting an ongoing FBM operations meeting?” I asked coldly as I demurely smoothed down my short skirt–to emphasize, of course, that I was still fully clothed. Of course, I had really been expecting them...

When Saxon and Muriel had dropped me off, it became quickly apparent what their plan really was. I had been transformed into a seemingly ignorant black girl who appeared to still be a minor because that was the look that would most appeal to my father.

My brothers and I had known for some time that my father used the town home for sexual liaisons. Perhaps even my mother suspected her husband was being unfaithful to her. That may have explained some of her drinking problem. But I’m sure none of us had any idea as to the nature of father’s proclivities. I had assumed–and I’m sure my brothers had as well–that father had a mistress, but I had envisioned a woman younger and more attractive than my mother, but from the same social set. Such relationships happened all the time among the elite of the city, and everyone just turned the other way.

But it seemed as if my father had a more unacceptable need that could only be satisfied with black girls not quite of a consenting age. Perhaps he saw himself to be like one of our slaveholding ancestors, privileged to choose a fine young virgin from among his slaves. Or perhaps the randy bastard just liked to dip his pen in black ink. Whatever the reason, Mama Juno had discovered what the rest of us either didn’t know or chose to ignore, and now I was being made to pay the price for my father’s failings.

As I stood before my father, my identity still completely unknown to him, I almost considered letting Mama Juno’s plan go on. Sure, I would lose my virginity–to my own father, no less–and the thought sickened me. And I certainly didn’t want to spread my legs for any man. But on the other hand, it would bring about his ruin, and once he was ruined, my life–such as it now was–would be mine once more. Mama Juno would have no further use for me once my father was ruined.

I had always held my father in high regard, and even after my transformation began, I thought he was hiding me to protect the name of the Bureau and all it stood for. Now, though, I realized for the first time that my father was nothing but a selfish, egotistical pervert for whom everyone was expendable and women were nothing more than toys for his warped amusement. He had faked my death and been willing to hide me away to protect himself.

But Mama Juno and her cohorts had somehow learned of my father’s sexual obsessions and had deliberately turned me into the perfect trap. They had waited for the right moment–for an excuse. When Pierre was arrested, they had the excuse they needed. They knew what my father would do about me: their plan depended upon it. If everything proceeded as planned, my father’s downfall would be on the evening news and headlines in tomorrow’s paper. He would be ruined, and Mama Juno’s biggest nemesis would have to resign in disgrace.

“Would you like something to drink?” my father repeated, completely oblivious to the danger before him.

If he had been any other man, I might have found his attempt to be suave laughable, but this was no laughing matter. This little play was a tragedy of Greek proportions. I quickly looked toward the window. The curtains had been drawn, thank God, so no one was snapping candid pictures of us just yet.

“No, I don’t want anything to drink,” I told him tersely, “and neither do you.”

A puzzled look crossed his face. Before he could speak, I went on, “Look, you’re in serious trouble here. You need to do what I say.”

He frowned, drawing himself up like the pompous ass I realized he was. “Now listen here, young lady...”

“I’m not a young lady, damn it,” I told him angrily. “I’m your son!”

His mouth flew open, and the drink glass he had in his hand fell to the carpeted floor with a thud.

“In a few minutes, someone is going to ‘discover’ us,” I went on, ignoring his shock. “When they do, they’ll want to look at this.” I showed him the handbag Muriel had given me, pretty sure of what I would find in it. I rummaged around in the small bag. Beyond a few feminine items such as a Tampon and a tube of lipstick, there was the one item I was looking for. It was an ID, encased in plastic, which declared me to be Samantha Sue Washington, a fifteen-year-old high school student from Baton Rouge. I handed the ID to my father.

“They told me you were eighteen,” he mumbled incredulously.

Maybe they did and maybe they didn’t, I thought. Frankly, I didn’t look eighteen, and I was sure he knew it. He must have suspected I might be younger than eighteen, but I didn’t think that would have mattered to him. The younger, the better.

“And that’s just the start of it,” I went on. “Pretty soon, they’ll find out there is no Samantha Sue Washington from Baton Rouge. Then they’ll get a tip that I’m really your transformed son.”

“But you’re a girl,” he muttered. “How could they find out you’re not a girl?”

“Didn’t you hear me?” I said. “It’s me–Robert. I’m your son damn it! Mama Juno did this to me herself. Her own son sent me to see Jimmy Saxon. You think they did all of this to me just to catch you with an underage girl? They could have found one out on the streets if that was all they wanted. Boffing a fifteen-year-old girl is bad enough, but if that fifteen-year-old girl is all that’s left of your son, you’ll be completely ruined.”

It was too much for him. He staggered back and fell into an ornate occasional chair. “Robert? But it can’t be...”

“You were going to hide me away,” I pressed proving my assertion. “You didn’t want anyone to know what had happened to me.”

He shook his head. “No, that’s not true. I was told there might be a cure. Then they told me you were dead.”

“I don’t believe you,” I retorted. If he had thought I was dead, I would have known. After all, was this his way of mourning the death of his son–by screwing a high school girl? He was a liar as well as a pervert and deserved to be ruined. But in the end, it wouldn’t matter what I thought of him. If Mama Juno wanted my father disgraced, that meant I wanted him protected. I couldn’t allow her to get away with her plan. She had ruined my life and this was the only way I could return the favor. I had to make my father understand.

“Look,” I said at last, “we can talk about all of that later. Right now, we need to make sure we’re not compromised. Here’s what we’re going to do...”

He was too shaken to argue with me. The first thing I did was hide the high school ID card in one of the books shelved in the living room. Then I threw the bag onto a couch. I ordered my father to move two chairs into the bedroom, far from each other. Then I baited the trap by turning off all of the lights and telling him to sit quietly and wait.

It almost hurt to see my father look so broken in the dim light that managed to spill in where the curtains didn’t quite meet. As we waited in silence in the darkened room, I could imagine the thoughts that were going through his head. He had been tricked and maneuvered into a trap which would have ruined his professional life if I hadn’t foiled the plan. Now, for the first time in our relationship, I was in charge, in spite of the fact that I had been transformed into a young black girl–an entity he would never have considered his equal. If it had not been for me, he would have been ruined. It must have been hard, knowing that the only way out of this ingenious trap was to do exactly what I told him to do.

Maybe he actually was remorseful as well. Our relationship as father and son had always been reasonably good–better than most, I suppose. If this transformation hadn’t happened to me, we might have continued to be reasonably close to each other. He probably missed that as much as I did. The difference was that if our positions had been reversed, I would never have abandoned him as he had me.

The waiting was straining. I was beginning to think I had miscalculated when at last, I heard the lock on the front door rattling under the direction of a Pusher. I smiled to myself, realizing with relief that I had guessed right. The end game was in sight.

Sitting there in the semidarkness, I was nearly blinded by the sudden camera lights, and they weren’t even aimed at me. The cameraman had gone for the bed first, mistaking the large pillows for the shape of a couple in bed...

“I’m waiting for an answer to my question,” I told the little raiding party, but I already had my answer in the eyes of the reporters. Instead of a rutting couple and a seamy story for the late news and morning headlines, they had barged in on two people, fully clothed sitting across the room from each other–and one of those two people was the Regional Director of the FBM. They were in deep shit and they knew it.

Still, I’ll give the reporter from the newspaper credit. He tried to bluff his way out of the situation by challenging me. “And who are you?” he demanded.

“She’s is my sister,” Helen’s voice called from the door. She pushed past the now-thoroughly confused reporters with A.J. trailing along behind her, trying to keep a nasty little smirk off his face.

Helen flipped out her ID with a practiced move and shoved it in the television reporter’s face. “My sister volunteered to act as a messenger for me by delivering some highly confidential information to the Director. Your dumb stunt just compromised the entire operation. Just what were you looking for anyway?”

Of course none of the men wanted to admit to this very aggressive and obviously pissed-off FBM field agent that they had been trying to catch her boss in bed with a minor. The newspaper reporter managed to stumble, “We had some... information about a... a...”

“Assignation?” Helen snapped. “Some sort of a sex orgy? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

A.J. stood beside me as he watched his sister work. I really thought he was going to blow everything by laughing, so I squeezed his hand to distract him. He looked down at me with a most un-brotherly interest, but at least he managed to hold back his laugh.

“We had a tip...” the newspaper reporter began.

“From whom?” Helen demanded.

“Uh... ma’am, you know we can’t give out that information.”

“Then get your butts out of here,” she growled. As they scrambled to leave, she called after them, “And don’t be surprised if your bosses get a call from Washington tomorrow!” If anything, they moved even quicker.

We all just sighed as they shut the door behind them. My father was the first to speak: “What was all that about?” he demanded, a measure of his dignity returning once the danger had presumably passed.

“Someone’s out to ruin you, father,” I told him again. I didn’t have to elaborate. In his position, he had made a number of enemies, but it had to be obvious to him that Mama Juno was the culprit.

“She’s right,” Helen concurred. “They knew what was going on here tonight–and they knew that the girl you’d be with was your son. If I hadn’t been so rough on them, they would have probably demanded to see your identification.”

“Which I have right here,” A.J. called out, displaying a women’s wallet he had been carrying in his pocket. That was why he had moved to my side–to pass me the forged identification if I needed it. He handed it to me with a grin.

“You... you really are Robert though?” my father asked incredulously.

I nodded. “At least I used to be. According to this ID, I’m now Cassandra May Davis.”

“Robert, I...”

“It’s Cassandra now,” I said coldly. It was hard for me to find much sympathy for him, and it was time to tell him that we were no longer family.

“We can work out the family reunion later,” Helen snapped. “Right now, we’ve got to figure out why Mama Juno wanted to ruin you, and we only have a few hours to figure it out.”

“Isn’t that obvious?” my father asked, recovering a little. “After all, I’ve done everything in my power to break up her operation.”

“True,” Helen admitted, “but what good would it do? Another Regional Director would be appointed and go after her operation. It has to be more than just ruining you, and if we don’t figure it out quickly, we may not get a chance to figure all of this out.”

I knew what she meant. The reporters probably wouldn’t go back to their source right away, and it was the source we really wanted. Mama Juno was lying low, so it was unlikely she had personally tipped the media. That meant there was someone in between who stood to gain from my father’s fall. We didn’t have very long to discuss the situation, though. By morning at the latest, our suspect would know that his or her plan went wrong just by looking at the paper. The suspect might choose to flee the city at once.

We left my father at his town home with instructions to remain there in seclusion until he heard from us. He was still so shaken that he offered no argument to our orders. He promised to go right to bed and get a full night’s sleep. We would contact him in the morning when it was safe to surface.

Helen was a little uncomfortable with the discussion as we walked back to her car. In spite of everything my father had done, she still felt some loyalty to him. A.J. didn’t know all the players, so he just listened to Helen and me.

“How about your girlfriend?” Helen asked pointedly.

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. She had a chance to lead me to Saxon when I visited her and didn’t. The same is true of my brothers. I think I know who it might be, though, but I’d like to talk to Papa Bob first. He knows something I need to know.”

Helen looked surprised. “You think he knows something about the source?”

“I don’t think he would have any reason to know who the perpetrator is,” I admitted, “but I do think he can clear up the holes in my theory. If I’m right, I think I will know who the source is.”

“What do you need to ask him?” A.J. asked as we got into the car.

“Something about zombies,” I replied cryptically.

We sat in the darkened office–Helen, A.J. and I–sipping coffee and waiting. Our suspect was always on time, so we had arrived at the office about half an hour earlier. No one questioned us when we entered the New Orleans offices of the FBM. Helen had every right to be there, and relatives, such as her brother and sister, were always welcome.

Although the few morning people who had arrived early were polite and friendly, I found them to be less effusive than they had always been to me back when I was the boss’s son. That was to be expected, I suppose. Of course that didn’t mean I was treated badly: instead I was treated like who I appeared to be–the very attractive sister of one of their fellow agents. For the first time, though, I was glad I looked particularly young since although I was attractive, I also appeared to be jailbait. It probably kept a couple of potential Lotharios off my back.

I was quite nervous as I sat with Helen and A.J. in our suspect’s office. It still didn’t seem possible, but from my latest conversation with Papa Bob, I was pretty sure we knew who the traitor was. Helen and A.J. agreed, so there we were.

At exactly eight in the morning, the office door opened and the lights flicked on. The man who entered had a surprised look on his face, so I decided to break the ice.

“Hello, Uncle Avery.”

He squinted at me. “Robert? Is that you?”

I just nodded.

He smiled, ignoring A.J. and Helen. He had to know why we were there, but he decided to bluff it out. Still, I had known him for so many years, I could tell the smile was false, and I could almost feel the sweat developing behind the collar of his crisply-pressed dress shirt. “You know, we’ve all been really worried about you, boy. Your father and I have had everybody out looking for you.”

“Why?” I asked pointedly. “You knew where I was most of the time. How long have you been working for Mama Juno?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, boy,” he snorted, sitting behind his desk while he sat his briefcase on the floor and his cup of Starbuck’s on a coaster. “I haven’t been working for Mama Juno.”

“Yes, you have,” I countered, half rising from my chair. “You staged the raid on her son just to cover the real reason for changing me into... this. Helen checked. The raid was all your idea, so don’t bother to deny it. Then, you got him off by changing the drugs into flour. And it was you who reinforced my paranoia about my father and the Bureau, both magically and by making sure Lisa overheard you talking about moving me, causing me to run rather than being held captive.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, boy, that all sounds convincing, except for one little detail: I don’t have an iota of magical ability in my body. There’s no way in the world I could have done all those magical things you’re talking about.”

I leaned forward, staring at him with piercing brown eyes. “Uncle Avery, do you know what a zombie is?”

He was unprepared for the question. He looked a little puzzled as he answered, “Sure. It’s one of them dead guys in the Voodoo movies.”

“Most people would agree with that,” I conceded, “but you and I both know zombies are living creatures who are able to do the bidding of others. It would be a simple matter for a Voudon priestess to prepare someone to be a conduit–a zombie, if you will–for others to use their magic through. That’s how you changed the drugs into flour. All you had to do was stand close to them while someone else performed the spell through your body. Presto! The drugs became flour. That wouldn’t even be a very difficult transformation, would it? It was the same with the paranoid spell. All you needed to do was stand next to me while someone else filled me with mistrust of the Bureau, causing me to run. And the plan was designed all along to make me run right to Jimmy Saxon. Tell me, Uncle Avery, did you channel a Whisperer to convince me I could trust Jimmy Saxon?”

“There’s no such thing as zombies,” he challenged me, but I could sense he was uncomfortable with what I had said. He knew what a zombie was–a real zombie, that is. “There’s nothing about them in any of our research.”

“But you know as I do that the research isn’t complete,” I pointed out. “Mystic societies who believe in magic have developed a number of attributes in line with their pre-WK beliefs. The Voudons would never tell the Bureau if they managed to perfect a zombie spell.”

The look on his face told me that I had been right.

“What makes you think you can prove that?” he ventured slowly, a concerned look crossing his face. He knew the answer before it could be given.

Helen answered for me. “It doesn’t matter if we can prove it or not. All that has to happen is for someone in power to believe her and your career in the Bureau is over.”

That really struck home. “No one would believe it,” he responded weakly.

“They just might,” I countered. “Here’s what I figure happened. You’ve been on Mama Juno’s payroll for a long, long time. At first, it was no big deal since the Bureau didn’t have much to do with Mama’s activities. Then, Mama Juno got into some of the businesses organized crime traditionally had, forcing the mob out with magical hardball tactics. When my father decided to focus on her crimes, you were already in her hip pocket, so you continued to help her, becoming even more important to her efforts.

“Lately, my father had her and her gang on the run. You used Pierre’s arrest as an excuse to kidnap and change me. Then, the plan was to make sure I ended up in his bed where the media would find me and ruin him. Just think of the scandal–the director’s son changed into a girl and deflowered by her own lecherous father.”

The man I had once called “Uncle” shook his head sadly, a gun suddenly in his hand. I had been so intent at watching his face that I hadn’t noticed him pulling the weapon from his pocket. “You’re too smart for your own good, Robert,” he said while motioning for Helen to surrender her own gun. She did so without an argument. “It was all pretty innocent at first. Mama Juno just wanted to know if the Bureau was investigating her or her people. For years, the answer was no, so I got paid pretty well just to tell her that we were no danger to her.”

“And then all that changed,” I prompted.

He nodded. “It changed big time as soon as your father decided he could make headlines out of going after Mama Juno. Since I was on her hook, I had to give her more and more information just to keep your father from damaging her operations. Then two things happened. Your father told me he was going to run for Governor next year and wanted me to be his Chief of Staff when he got elected. The second thing was that he started thinking a mole was in the Bureau since Mama Juno always seemed to be a step ahead of him.”

“But your father kept applying more resources to Mama Juno’s case,” Helen filled in. “He knew breaking Mama Juno’s gang would make him a shoo-in for Governor. If things kept on going that direction, it was only a matter of time until Avery was powerless to stop an investigation into his activities. He couldn’t fight the entire office.”

Avery nodded. “That’s right. But if your father could be eased out before any of that happened, there’d be no run for the governorship and most likely I’d be put in charge of this office.”

“Maybe for a little while,” I told him, “but not for long. Don’t you see, Un... err, Avery? You don’t have my father’s political connections or any magic power. You’d just be an interim manager until Director Harrington in Washington could bring in a replacement.”

Avery just shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve got more friends in high places than you give me credit for, boy–or should I say girl? Either way, I’d still be useful to Mama Juno, and she pays me very well these days. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth like you and your father were. Even if I couldn’t hold on to the directorship, I’d still have time to make sure everything I’ve earned was safely hidden offshore and forge a new identity someplace else.”

“So what are you going to do now?” A.J. asked. “Shoot us?”

Damn, I wished he wouldn’t give Avery any ideas.

Avery rose to his feet, the gun still trained on us. “No, I’m not a bad person–no matter what you think. I’m just hungry. I’m even sorry this was done to you, Robert. I even pleaded with Mama Juno to find another way to stop your father...”

He noticed the expression of disgust on my face and stopped his justifications. I suppose many people who find themselves on the wrong side of the law begin their criminal careers fairly innocently. Avery could have been one of them. After all, at first what was the harm? The Bureau wasn’t after Mama Juno, so the information he gave her meant little. But that was at first. Now his greed had left my life in shambles, and if Mama Juno’s plan he had assisted on had succeeded, it would have left even more lives devastated. He had betrayed the trust my father–and my entire family, for that matter–had placed in him in exchange for a bigger paycheck.

He straightened himself up to his full height and said, “However, all that about my being the Director is moot now. You all have spoiled all of that, so I guess it’s me who’s out. I’ll just have to make a run for it. Now I need the three of you to come with me. You won’t be harmed, but I just need to be sure you don’t blow the whistle on me before I have a chance to get away.” He motioned for us to stand.

He pressed a number on his cell phone as we slowly rose to our feet. In a few seconds, he had made arrangements–presumably with Mama Juno’s people–for a helicopter to meet us at the pad at the Superdome for a quick flight to Slidell Airport, a small suburban field where a plane would be waiting to take him to a safe destination.

“You may not want to harm us, Avery,” Helen pointed out, “but I don’t think your friends will be so magnanimous. What do you think is going to happen to us once you get on that helicopter?”

“Don’t worry: you’ll be safe,” he assured us, but there was little conviction in his voice.

Frankly, I wasn’t sure even Avery would be safe. He was of no further use to Mama Juno now, so why bother to protect him? If he was out of the way, he couldn’t be turned and rat out her and her gang. As Avery ordered his car brought around, I realized we were all in more danger the further we were taken from his office.

It was a shame, I thought to myself, that neither A.J. nor Helen had any powers that could be helpful. As an Empath, A.J.’s powers were of no use, and as a Whisperer, Helen’s chance of catching Avery off guard and susceptible to a command were nil. If I had my Pusher powers, I might be...

But wait. Papa Bob had said my powers might return a few days after my full transformation. Had they? It was worth taking a chance. Looking down from the barrel of Avery’s gun, I tried to visualize the other side of his desk. It was a large desk, with full drawers on both pedestals. I tried to visualize what the drawer just by his left leg might look like and pushed with all of my mind.

We had already turned and were heading toward the door when we heard the loud crash and the impotent curse as Avery’s gun went flying from his hand. We all turned back at once to see Avery sprawled on the ground, clutching one leg. Helen jumped for the gun, grabbing it before Avery was even aware it was gone. A.J. jumped Avery, throwing him on the carpeted floor, causing him to cry out in pain. Avery was no match for A.J. and didn’t even try to get up. I just slumped down into a chair, exhausted from the use of my power. That damned drawer had been heavy!

With my father holed up in his town home and Avery in custody, Sarah Carmichael was put in charge of the office for our debriefing. Sarah wanted a full rundown from me on everything that had happened to me once I was out of FBM custody. To be honest, I think she and the two agents assisting her were worried that I had told too many people about what Mama Juno had done to me. I had been around my father long enough to know that their primary concern was that too many people would find out just how powerful her spells really were, thus panicking the city. And, of course, that was just what Mama Juno had planned when she had Avery tip off the media about my father’s anticipated tryst with me. Not only would she remove my father from power, but the entire city would know that she was a force to be reckoned with.

They did look a little grim when I related my Whisperer-induced paranoia and ignorance. I guess the level of power used against me in those areas was greater than normal. Actually, I thought the suggestive power was probably made stronger by my disorientation at being changed into a black girl than by any unusual Whispering strength.

All in all, Helen, A.J. and I spent the better part of the day in debrief sessions. We were grilled separately and as a group, working right through lunch (although food was brought in for us). It was nearly four in the afternoon when Sarah checked her notes one more time and sighed, “Well, I think that about does it.”

“So what happens now?” I asked, concerned.

“What do you mean?” Sarah asked me, leaning back in the chair that had once been my father’s.

“I mean is there anything the Bureau can do for me, or do you just plan to shut me away somewhere so I can’t tell anyone.”

“I thought the Whispering spell that gave you paranoia had been removed,” Sarah pointed out with a faint smile.

I nodded. “It was, but as Henry Kissinger once said, sometimes someone really is out to get you. I don’t imagine the Director in Washington will want the general public to know anything about Mama Juno’s mojo.”

Sarah looked at the three of us. “Helen, you’re covered by law from repeating anything discussed today.”

Helen nodded nonchalantly.

“As for you and A.J.,” Sarah went on, “I think given your connections to the Bureau, the two of you can be trusted. As for you, Cassie, the IDs Helen made for you will stand up–especially once we’ve added a little meat to the bone in the database. We can even get your credits at Harvard put in your new name with no one outside of you and the Bureau being any the wiser. Of course, that assumes you’ll cooperate with us. Will you?”

“Yeah,” I sighed. I had already decided to take a decent offer if they extended it. This one didn’t look too bad. “I guess finishing school will have to be a top priority for me now. I won’t have the Devereaux money to fall back on anymore.”

Sarah grinned, “Don’t be too sure. We’ve been investigating your situation as well. Apparently part of your stipend was willed directly to you from your grandfather. Your father is aware of that and has made arrangements for it to be transferred to you.”

That was certainly welcome and unexpected news. Since I had grown up with money all around me, I had never spent much time thinking about where it came from. Now that I was no longer a Devereaux–partially by magic and partially by choice–I thought I would have to fend for myself entirely. Later, I found out that my grandfather had left me enough that I could expect to finish college without having to take a job waiting tables or taking out student loans.

“Where are you planning to finish school?” A.J. asked. He tried to be nonchalant, but I could tell he was hoping it would be Tulane.

“I haven’t decided yet,” I replied, equally nonchalant. Actually, I had pretty well decided on Tulane. With the Bureau’s influence, I’d have no trouble getting in. I was in my heart a Southern boy–girl now–and the thought of continuing my education in the frigid north held little appeal. I had only gone to Harvard at my father’s insistence, and now his influence over me was finished.

“What’s going to happen to Mama Juno?” I asked Sarah.

She shrugged. “First, we have to catch her. There are rumors she’s somewhere in the Caribbean but nothing has been confirmed.”

I nodded grimly. I wasn’t happy with the fact that the woman who had done all of this to me just to get at my father had walked away without a scratch. True, her criminal empire in New Orleans had been damaged, but it was still a potent force. And as for Pierre–I owed the little monster big time for what he had made me do.

Helen got to her feet. “If you’re finished with us, Sarah, I need to take Cassie here and get her some things. She’s going to be staying with me for a while.”

“Do you think I should stay with you guys, too?” A.J. asked hopefully. Helen had told me A.J. had his own place near the Tulane campus.

To my relief, Helen replied, “I don’t think so, A.J. We’ll be fine.”

A.J. just smiled sheepishly. Even though he wasn’t going to be staying with us, I had a hunch we’d be seeing quite a bit of him since he seemed to be more than a little attracted to me. Unfortunately for him, I just wasn’t ready for anything like a relationship. In my heart, I was still white and, more importantly, male. I wasn’t sure if I was ever going to be able to consider myself anything else. I might never be able to overcome what had been done to me.

But never say never, I reminded myself as we left the FBM offices. I had lost my family but had gained a new one. I had been given a second shot at life and would have to make the best of being black, female, and appearing to be about sixteen (although my ID said I was nineteen). I had been victimized, but I had been able to overcome that, even damaging my tormentors in the process. Come to think about it, I had made more of an impact as a homeless young black girl than I had ever made as the scion of one of the Crescent City’s oldest and proudest families.

As Helen ushered me out of the office, I realized that my life wasn’t over–it was just beginning. I had college to finish, a career to think about, and as for any relationships with either male or female partners, a lot to think about.

Back out on the street, I saw men–white and black–look at me with approval as they smiled. I saw women who smiled and nodded at Helen and me, as if they knew us instead of just being women who shared with us what it meant to be women. I told myself that the only way I could make sure that Mama Juno had really lost was to get on with my life. After all, success is the best revenge.

And one way or the other, I was going to revenge myself upon Mama Juno.

But that’s a story for another day...

The End

---

“Nice ass!”

I sighed. I was in no mood to be hit upon by Rodney Jackson again. It was the third time this week. Somehow, I had missed him on my walk from my car just off the Tulane campus to Dinwiddie Hall where my two o’clock Theory of Magic course met. If I had spotted the beefy linebacker instead of thinking about my readings for my class, I might have been able to dodge him.

“You look fine, Mama!” his deep voice boomed, and I instinctively realized he was close enough that I needed to push my ass forward to avoid an unwanted swat on my butt.

“What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand, Rodney?” I asked, wishing my voice didn’t sound like sweet Southern honey. It was hard to sound pissed with a voice like mine.

“Hey, babe,” he returned, scooting up next to me and flashing me a grin that had, according to current campus rumor, melted the hearts of two cheerleaders, one sociology instructor, and half of the local chapter of Alpha Kappa Alpha sorority, “I just think you need to give me a chance. What did I ever do to piss you off?”

I suppose nothing, really, if I was completely honest with myself. Rodney was just a guy trying his best to get laid. Most guys fit in that category at one time or another. Hell, I had even fit in that category myself once upon a time.

And that was the real problem: I used to be a guy just like Rodney. Well, not just like Rodney...

I had been the scion of an old, well-heeled New Orleans family–white, of course, with dark blond hair, a socially-acceptable fiancée, and a bright, promising future as an attorney and heir-apparent to my father’s position at the Federal Bureau of Magic. That had been before my father’s trusted second-in-command had conspired with Mama Juno’s gang in an attempt to use me as the cat’s paw to bring my father down. It hadn’t worked, and my father was probably going to be the next governor of the State of Louisiana, thanks in part to me, damn it!

As for me? Well, things hadn’t worked out quite so well for me. I was now black, female, and looked more like an incoming college freshman than a twenty-something graduate student. While nothing could be done about my race and sex, the Bureau had taken care of my age at least legally. I still looked like jailbait, but my ID (magically encoded and verified) showed me to be twenty-one. It still caused me more than one embarrassing moment at the bars in the French Quarter though, as diligent bartenders did everything but dissect my ID to prove it was a fake.

“Rodney...” I began slowly, trying to remember that he wasn’t really a bad guy, “I’m just not ready for a relationship right now–even a casual one. I’m trying to get a good start on the school year. You know how it is–new school and all.”

Rodney let up the pressure a little bit, trying instead to use my excuse as a way to chat me up. “Yeah, sure, girl,” he said, running his hand over his freshly-shaved head as if he were straightening non-existent hair, “I understand. You went to Harvard, right?”

“That’s right.” There was another thing the Bureau handled for me. I had been within a couple of months of graduating from Harvard, so the Bureau pulled some strings and I was awarded my degree.

“Then Tulane ought to be a piece of cake for you,” he reasoned. When I didn’t respond, he glanced at my textbook. “You working on a Magic degree?” He looked a little nervous about that. Maybe I should tell him I was and make him think I could turn him into a frog or something.

But I decided on the truth. “No, I’m working on a law degree.”

That surprised him a little. I realized he had me pegged for some impressionable little nineteen-year-old Harvard dropout instead of a graduate student.

“Theory of Magic is required since so many legal defenses include magical excuses now,” I elaborated. That was true: it was a required course, but I had wanted to take it anyway since I wanted to know everything I could about my own problems with magic. I was both a fairly strong Pusher, able to lift good-sized objects magically, and a victim of a designed spell that had made me the woman I now was, so Theory of Magic was quickly becoming my favorite class.

Rodney relaxed a little. I began to think I should have told him I was a real mojo mama who could keep him from getting it up for a few months. All I had to do was to push a blood vessel or two shut in his penis, and he’d be reaching for the Viagra. Fortunately, we had just come to Dinwiddie Hall, so I could brush him off without subterfuge or physical threats.

“Good talking with you, Rodney,” I lied, smiling. “I’ve got to go to class now.”

“Yeah, sure, girl. I’ll catch you later,” he called after me.

Not if I could avoid it, I thought, realizing he had to be watching my ass as I strolled into the old Elizabethan building. Not for the first time that day, I regretted wearing such sexy clothing. I seemed to be drawing a lot of attention. Short denim shorts, a white tank top, and wedge sandals wouldn’t have been my first choice, but October in New Orleans can be pretty hot, and since the latest hot spell wasn’t due to break until the weekend, I couldn’t exactly walk around in a sweatshirt and jeans without baking myself. I looked forward to winter when I could cover myself a bit more comfortably. Who the hell was it who declared that to stay cool in warm weather, women’s clothing had to look so damned sexy?

Sexy was the last thing I wanted to look, I brooded as I found my usual seat in the classroom. Unfortunately, I most certainly did look sexy. Hell, this new body of mine would probably have looked sexy in just about anything. And it wasn’t just the black guys who were looking. I had one of those Gabrielle Union looks that made me attractive to white guys, too.

Okay, so maybe I was just getting back a little of what I had given when I was still male. Most young white guys of good families in New Orleans had an appreciation for black women. It wasn’t the sort of thing we talked about, and most of us never acted on it–at least not in a romantic way. After all, any socially prominent white male who fell in love with a black woman would be ostracized from polite society. It was okay to treat black women as equals in the workplace or in schools or at church, but the bedroom was reserved for girls from our same food group–at least when it came to marriage.

That didn’t mean these same socially prominent white guys had never lusted after black women, though. A good number of black prostitutes in the Quarter had a significant white clientele. One just didn’t bring these working women home to meet the family. This had gone on since the founding of New Orleans, and not even the War Between the States (read ‘Civil War’ for the Yankees) had changed that.

In fact, that was almost what had brought my father’s budding political career to a screeching halt. He liked ’em black and he liked ’em young–too young as it turned out. So Mama Juno had made me both black and young to trap him literally with his pants down. Fortunately, the plot failed, or both my father and I would probably be looking at years of therapy to overcome what we nearly did with each other.

“Is anybody sitting here?” a deep voice asked, bringing me out of my reverie.

I looked up into the face of a young man about my age (my true age, that is). He was black like me, but light skinned–also like me. Even my mostly-male brain told me he was good looking, too. As for the part of my brain already soaked with female hormones, that chunk of gray matter was trying to tell me he looked downright sensational. “Uh... no,” I managed to say, looking away.

“Brett Carson,” he said with a smile, offering a hand. He was dressed in the male equivalent of the outfit I wore–denim shorts (although not nearly as short or clinging), a gray pocket T-shirt, and Tevas. His hair was cut short but not too short, giving it that kinky natural look only African-American men have. And have I mentioned he was good looking? Not that I really noticed, of course.

Instinctively I took his hand. It always felt odd for me to realize how small and dainty my hands were now when enfolded in a strong, masculine hand. “Cassandra Davis,” I managed. Then I sort of blurted out, “I haven’t seen you in this class before.”

Brett shrugged. “I’m one of Professor Winchell’s students. You heard about him?”

I nodded. Professor Winchell had suffered a near-fatal heart attack over the last weekend. In an era before magic, he would have most certainly have died, but Healers had managed to repair his heart. Still, he wouldn’t be coming back for the rest of the semester. Even magical healing sometimes required lengthy rehabilitation.

“How is Professor Sanderson?” Brett asked as he settled into his seat and pulled a notebook computer out of his briefcase.

“Pretty good,” I allowed, trying not to notice how his back muscles had rippled when he was pulling the computer out of the case. ‘Act like a man, Cassandra,’ I told myself, trying not to think about how stupid that statement sounded.

Brett looked ready to say something else, but at that moment, Professor Sanderson stepped into the room and everyone got quiet. Professor Sanderson was sort of old-fashioned. He still wore a suit to class, in spite of the heat of a Louisiana fall. Of course, given the consulting gigs he had, he could easily have just come from a meeting with some local corporation, so the suit might have been necessary. His thinning reddish hair was neatly trimmed and his slim body took on an almost military bearing.

“Today, we are going to discuss faults,” he announced without any preamble.

“Faults?” Brett leaned over to ask me.

“Yeah, just listen and you’ll understand.” Apparently Professor Winchell hadn’t discussed faults. It wasn’t surprising. It was one of Professor Sanderson’s pet theories, but not everyone bought into them.

The subject was pretty interesting, and the professor managed to keep the class riveted for the full lecture. Before I knew it, the class was over and we were all packing up our stuff.

“Can I ask you a question?” Brett asked me as most of the class filed out.

Oh-oh, here it comes, I thought. The guy is going to put the moves on me. Granted, he was a lot smoother than guys like Rodney, but he was still a guy. “Yeah?”

“Do you understand this fault stuff?”

I looked over at him. The poor guy looked genuinely confused. “Yeah, I think I’ve got it down pretty well.”

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee over at Rue and have you explain it to me?”

Okay, so it was a move–sort of. Looking into his eyes, though, I detected that he really was sincere about not understanding faults. And a cup of coffee over at Rue de la Course did sound sort of good. “Uh... sure. When?”

“How about right now?”

Well, I couldn’t think of any good reason to say no...

Rue de la Course is something of a local institution in New Orleans. With locations all over the most cultured parts of the city, it has long been a favorite for college students. When one opened in the Willow Street Residence Hall, most of the Tulane student body thought it had died and gone to heaven.

It wasn’t very crowded when Brett and I got there after a pleasant walk across part of the campus. We were able to order our coffees and stake out a small table away from the rest of the patrons.

On the way over, we had chatted about our personal lives. Of course most of mine was a carefully-crafted lie, but Brett had an impressive background. It turned out he was the son of a prominent doctor in Nashville, and like his father, he was studying Medicine at Tulane. However, like law school, modern medical practice involved a lot of interface with the magical community–hence, Brett’s presence in my Theory of Magic class.

In our short walk, I had been impressed with Brett. He hadn’t called me ‘babe’ or tried to slip his arm around me or put any more subtle moves on me (unless just being himself could be considered a subtle move). I sensed he was genuinely confused about the idea of faults, and I was prepared to help him understand them any way I could.

“So let’s see if I have all of this right,” Brett began once we had each taken a sip of our coffees. “According to Professor Sanderson, there are parallel worlds out there, and the faults are places where some meaningful and probably catastrophic event has occurred.”

“That’s it in a nutshell,” I agreed.

“So the electromagical disturbance they picked up in New York a few years ago was some sort of disaster in an alternate universe?” he asked skeptically.

“Pretty much,” I confirmed. “The disturbance has died off now, but in late 2001, it was one of the strongest electromagical disturbances ever recorded. It seemed to come from somewhere around the World Magic and Trade Center, but nobody has ever been able to figure out a reason for it. The idea of faults was developed by Professor Sanderson, so he refers to them a lot. I guess Professor Winchell never mentioned them?”

“Oh, he mentioned them,” Brett laughed. “He usually referred to them as fantasy, though. I guess he and Professor Sanderson didn’t see eye to eye on that subject.”

“Apparently not,” I laughed with him. “I guess Professor Sanderson has gotten more excited about faults since that one was detected here in New Orleans a couple of years ago. He thinks it may have been some sort of natural disaster.”

“Natural disaster?”

“Yeah, probably a hurricane or tornado.”

“But Weather Control stops storms like that before they get out of control,” he argued.

“Sure,” I agreed, really getting into the discussion, “but Weather Control is a Federal program based on magic. Imagine what might happen in a parallel world that didn’t have magic.”

I sounded so enthusiastic about magic, but given what magic had done to me, I would have gladly given up my powers as a Pusher and lived in one of those non-magical parallel worlds where I might still be male.

“A world without magic sounds pretty far-fetched,” Brett pointed out.

“Not really,” I replied. “Until Webster and Kline released the magical virus, there wasn’t much magic in this world.”

“What do you think of faults?” Brett asked, looking straight into my eyes.

Since I had become a girl, guys didn’t seem to be as interested in what I thought as they had when I had been male. It was a refreshing question. I did my best to give it a meaningful answer.

“According to Professor Sanderson’s theory, faults may someday give us a bridge into parallel worlds, but for right now, I think they’re only interesting as a mental exercise. Even if they exist, what happens in some alternate universe hardly affects us here, does it?”

“I suppose not.” Gee, he was actually listening to me and looking into my eyes instead of down at my breasts. And he had such nice eyes...

“So these faults can’t do any damage?” he asked, filling the lull in our dialogue. Just how long had I been staring at him anyway?

“Not exactly,” I replied, hoping he couldn’t see me flush with embarrassment. I suppose that was one good thing about being black–when I turned red, it wasn’t quite so obvious. “According to Professor Sanderson, a major fault could change the whole world and split it off into two entirely different tracks.

“Take the development of magic, for example. When Webster and Kline isolated the magic virus and accidentally released it on the world, the results were so overwhelming that it may have spun off our world from a non-magical world.”

“So that would mean all these faults are nothing more than events happening in the other world that is drifting away from us,” Brett offered with a sudden look of revelation.

“Exactly. And we’ve just discovered these faults in the last few years. It’s possible they’ve been there since our reality split off. Maybe in that other reality, magic was never isolated and, for example, Bill Clinton became President in 2000 instead of John McCain. The problem is that these faults are going to become harder and harder to detect as this other theoretical world moves away from us.”

“I wonder what our world would have been like if we hadn’t discovered magic,” Brett mused.

Well, for one thing, I thought to myself, we probably wouldn’t be here having coffee together. I’d be white, male and married and any thought of being black and female would have been the stuff of bad dreams.

Brett smiled that winning smile again. “Cassandra...”

“Call me Cassie.”

Whoops! I was getting just a bit too chummy there, wasn’t I?

“Cassie, I really appreciate your help.”

All of a sudden, we were both quiet. Brett knew what he had to do next–and so did I. I had been male for enough years to realize that Brett had done all the right things. The only logical next step was to thank me by asking me out to dinner. It would just be a casual meal, of course–pizza or burgers or something equally simple–but it would be the potential start of a relationship.

So how did I feel about all of that?

Nervous as hell to be honest. I had been female for about six months, which was probably enough time to acclimate to the urges my body had been signalling to me almost continuously, but I still remembered vividly my limited sexual experiences as a female. I had been forced to suck a man’s penis and nearly tricked into having sex with my own father soon after my transformation, so I was naturally suspicious of any relationship, no matter how innocuous, with any man.

But I realized deep down that I was going to have to give in to those urges sooner or later, and Brett seemed to be a nice guy.

“How about letting me buy you dinner Saturday?” he asked hopefully.

I was suddenly disappointed–more disappointed than I thought I could be. “I can’t. I’m visiting my... mom in Lafayette on Saturday.” Then I added, “But I’m free Friday.”

It was Brett’s turn to look disappointed. “Unfortunately, I’m not free Friday. One of my professors has the class lined up to observe at the Medical Center Friday evening.”

“Oh.”

Great minds think alike. Simultaneously, we said, “How about Sunday night?” and then laughed.

“Sure,” I grinned.

“I’ll pick you up at six,” Brett offered. “Where do you live?” I gave him the address of my condo, and he replied, “Nice digs.”

It was nice to be well off. “See you Sunday,” I said.

I drove out to Lafayette Saturday morning. It’s only a little over two hours west on I-90, and the road is pretty straight and boring. Lafayette is in the heart of Cajun Country, known for its unique food and entertainment. It’s also the home of the University of Louisiana where Mama Becky taught Classical Literature.

Of course Mama Becky wasn’t really my mom: she was the mother of Helen Davis, who with her brother, A.J., managed to save me from a horrible fate. Along the way, I had sort of been adopted by the Davis family.

I had been glad to have them. They had helped me get through those terrible weeks after my transformation into a girl, and since my own family, the high-and-mighty Deverauxs, had had my male identity declared officially dead, the Davis family was the only family I had.

I supposed it was for the best. Looking as I did now, I could hardly pass myself off as the eldest son of such a proud old Southern family. And to be honest, I didn’t really want to try. I wasn’t terribly comfortable around white folks for any length of time now. Yes, I know that sounds odd, given that I had spent the first twenty-odd years of my life being white. But being black had made me realize that although racial equality had come a long way in Louisiana, the majority of white folks liked to associate with other whites and the majority of black folks liked to chum around with other blacks. It didn’t mean we couldn’t be friends with each other, but it did make it harder.

Mama Becky greeted me on the porch of her neat little bungalow. She made good money as a college professor, but she insisted that since her husband had died, she didn’t need a big place. And in spite of the fact that she looked like an attractive woman in her forties instead of the sixty years she really had, she had firmly decided against ever marrying again. “Cassie, you look wonderful,” she called out. “A.J., come get Cassie’s bag!”

“I can manage, Mama,” I told her, indicating the little denim duffle bag I had packed for the overnight stay.

“Girl, when are you going to learn to pack like a woman?” she laughed, giving me a hug.

“I brought all the essentials,” I replied.

Mama grinned. “I thought Helen and I had taught you there’s more to the essentials than clean underwear and an extra top.”

“She’s still fighting all this girl stuff,” Helen called out from the doorway. Helen was dressed like me, in a pair of designer jeans and a sleeveless top, but she sported an attractive necklace and a matching bracelet, as well as a nice if inexpensive pair of dangling earrings. I, of course, wore no jewelry, so she had a point.

“How are you ever going to catch a man with no jewelry and no makeup?” Mama asked.

“I’m wearing makeup,” I countered, “just not very much.”

“She looks fine to me,” A.J. offered, looking over his sister’s shoulder. Of course, A.J. always thought I looked fine. “Hi, A.J.,” I called out. A.J. was a good kid, but he was that: just a kid. Of course, I looked to be his age or maybe a little younger, and since I had become, if I do say so myself, one hot mama, he had a bad case of the hots for me. I loved A.J. as a brother, but even though I was slowly warming to the sexual attraction to men, A.J. would never be anything more to me than an adopted sibling.

“What time are you planning on going back tomorrow?” Helen asked me.

I grinned as we went in the house. “I just got here and you want to get rid of me?”

“I drove over with A.J. and he has to go back this evening,” she explained. “And Brian has a new case we need to start tomorrow, so I need to be back fairly early. I need a ride.”

Helen had resigned from the Bureau of Magic shortly after I had been transformed, going into the private investigation business with Brian Wallace, an old colleague. Brian, another former FBM agent, had happily taken her on as a full partner. No one in the family was going to be surprised when they finally got around to announcing their engagement.

“I’ve got to be back fairly early, too,” I admitted, not ready to tell my new family that I had a date Sunday night.

Mama looked a little pained. “What’s this? My whole family is deserting me?”

“The road runs both ways, Mama,” Helen reminded her. “You could always drive into New Orleans and stay the weekend with me.”

“Or me,” I offered, “I’ve got an extra bedroom.” As Brett had pointed out, I had nice digs. Thanks to an inheritance from my grandfather, made more generous by my father who wanted to make sure I stayed quiet so as not to damage the revered Deveraux name, I had purchased a condo not far from campus. It was reasonably spacious and well-appointed. When I graduated from law school and sold it, it should bring a tidy profit.

“And the shopping is better, too,” Helen pressed. “I could take you to Maison Blanc...”

“What’s wrong with Dillard’s and Foley’s?” Mama asked, offended.

“That reminds me,” Helen said, changing the subject, “Brian and I could use your help on this case, Cassie...”

“Me?”

“It’s a case involving the son of a wealthy businessman. He’s in the process of being changed into a girl, and his father wants to know who spelled him and why.”

I shrugged. “I certainly sympathize, but why not go to the Bureau?”

“Publicity,” Helen replied simply. “William Pierre Lagrange III doesn’t want anyone knowing about this.”

I nodded. I knew William Pierre Lagrange III, but I knew his son–William IV–even better. We had prepped together. “So William IV is being changed into a girl?” I asked, not able to disguise my pleasure.

“No, it’s his younger brother, Stephen,” Helen answered, adding, “And if you don’t mind my saying so, you didn’t look too disappointed at the idea of his older brother being transformed.”

“I wasn’t,” I admitted, taking a seat on the living room sofa as the rest of my family found their own seats. “William IV is a Whisperer and an asshole.”

“That’s a bad combination,” Mama commented.

“He got an inordinate amount of sex that way,” I went on. “As you know, it’s hard to pin a rape charge on a Whisperer, but he had the reputation of using his powers to get what he wanted.”

“Now he won’t even have to leave home to get a little,” A.J. said.

“Achilles Jason Davis!” Mama snapped. “You watch that kind of talk!”

“Sorry, Mama.” Since A.J. was an Empath, he had also taken Mama’s chastisement at a mental level as well. He looked as if he wanted to find a place to hide.

“Okay, Helen, so what do you want me to do?” I asked Helen, successfully diverting Mama’s attention away from A.J.–that was one he owed me.

“You’ve been through a transformation similar to his–sexually at least. I want you to try to gain his confidence and see if he has any idea who did this to him. So far, he’s told his father he has no idea who is responsible. That may be true, or he may just be embarrassed to admit what he knows for some reason.”

I nodded. It was probable that he had been changed either by a jilted lover or by one of those feminist groups that were rumored to get their jollies out of changing randy guys into sweet young things. Of course, my own transformation had been neither of those reasons, but my case was rare. For that matter, sexual transformations were such a rarity that the FBM had done its best to downplay them entirely. It had only been in the last couple of months that much had been said about them in the media.

“Now, to how you need to dress tomorrow,” Helen went on with a determined look in her eyes. “You need to look very professional.”

Uh-oh. I knew what was coming next. Since my transformation, I had tended to avoid skirts and heels. There was no doubt that Helen planned to dress me in both. “I have a nice pants suit...” I ventured, but Helen was already shaking her head.

“You need to wear a business suit–with a skirt and heels,” she informed me. “I don’t suppose you’ve gotten around to getting one yet.”

My silence was all the answer she needed.

“Well Mama, it looks as if you’ll get your chance to show us how good Dillard’s and Foley’s really are,” Helen sighed.

I suppose I could have said no to the whole thing. If I didn’t go with Brian and Helen to meet their client, I could put off the whole feminine wardrobe thing for... I don’t know, another few months at least. But I had to admit I was interested in the case. I had never met another person like me, who had to endure an involuntary sex change. I have to admit I was curious to say the least.

And deep down, I knew that there would come a day when I’d have to give in and dress like a professional woman. Once I finished law school, I’d be held to the same dress code as other female attorneys, and it would be odd if I was late to court because I couldn’t figure out how to get my pantyhose on in a timely manner.

I’ll spare all the gory details of the shopping trip. Mama Becky dressed well as did Helen, and I should have realized that their style hadn’t come from picking the first thing off the rack that fit. But I never suspected that a college professor and her tough-as-nails former FBM agent daughter could somehow transform into a couple of super shoppers who apparently planned to use me as their personal Barbie doll.

I had gritted my teeth, determined to survive an experience I had only seen in passing with my former mother and my former fiancée. I planned on grabbing the first thing in my size off the rack and running with it. Silly me.

First of all, I learned that sizes in women’s clothing were just a starting point. The first three outfits Mama and Helen pulled off the rack at Dillard’s were poor fits. An eight was too large and a six was too small. And where were all the sevens anyway? Apparently, a woman’s size in a suit depends upon the three typical measurements (bust, waist, hips), but that’s just the starting point. A six from one manufacturer may be tighter than a six from another and so on. So everything–and I do mean everything–had to be tried on, tugged, pinched, checked, and rechecked. I think I tried on more outfits that afternoon than I had in my previous several months of womanhood.

At last, Mama and Becky agreed on a tasteful dark blue suit. It had a jacket that was loose enough to look right on my substantial (36C) chest, so apparently I was officially an 8. The skirt was of the Goldilocks variety–not too long and not too short, but just right, coming down to the top of my knees.

“We’ll take it,” Helen told the clerk.

“Do you need any shells or camis to go with this?” the clerk asked innocently. I didn’t like the gleam in my mentors’ eyes when they heard that.

“Want to see what we got Cassie?” Helen called out as we hauled the loot into Mama’s living room.

A.J. appeared uninterested in the whole exercise, stretched out on the couch watching Alabama play a closer-than-expected game with Mississippi State. I found myself wishing I had been given the opportunity to veg out and watch the game, too. While a number of women I knew appreciated football, Helen and Mama weren’t among them, and now that I was a woman, I was expected to participate in their activities whenever I came to visit.

“What kept you?” A.J. asked. “I’ve got to go back to New Orleans in about an hour.”

“I’m sure if you take that girl to the party half an hour late, the world will end,” Mama sighed.

“What girl?” I asked A.J. The question sort of spilled out of my mouth. I guess I thought A.J. was still a little smitten with me, but now it turned out there was a girl important enough for him to cut short seeing me in favor of her company. Was I actually a little jealous? Of course not. Not me.

“Samantha Brown,” A.J. told me, sitting up on the couch. “I’ve been dating her for about a month. She’s really hot.”

“Oh.”

“Then let’s have a quick dinner so you can get on your way,” Mama suggested.

I followed Mama and Helen into the kitchen to help make dinner. After all, it was expected in the Davis family that the womenfolk make the meals, allowing the men folk to sit on their butts and watch football.

I suppose that’s unfair, really. I’m sure if I had really wanted to, I could have sat with A.J. and watched the rest of the game. The truth is that I didn’t want to. Don’t ask me why: I’m not completely sure myself, but I think it had something to do with the revelation that A.J. had something going with another girl. It wasn’t that I wanted to see A.J. romantically, but given his infatuation with me right after I had been transformed, I felt almost jilted.

By the time we had dinner ready (or ‘supper’ as Mama called it), I had convinced myself that I was being silly. It had to be the damned hormones. As a man, I would have never felt rejected by A.J.’s perfectly reasonable behavior, but as a woman, it seemed to be a different matter.

I was pretty quiet over dinner, but everyone else made up for it, so my silence wasn’t particularly noticed–or so I thought. Mostly, I was trying to examine what was happening to me. Every passing day seemed to bring about some little thing that indicated I was not thinking like Robert Devereaux anymore. It was nothing terribly overt, but it was obvious that I was becoming more and more Cassandra Davis every day.

Of course it was only to be expected that it would happen this way. After all, sitting to pee, having periods, being addressed as “Miss” or “Cassie,” and slipping on a bra every day would have to take a toll. Physically, I had accepted being a girl. It was either that or go crazy since there was no way that I could pass myself off as male now.

The problem was that I wasn’t sure I was ready to accept being mentally female. In the culture in which I had been raised, women were fascinated with feminine pursuits, such as shopping for clothing, bearing and tending children, and... other things. While I didn’t care much for shopping, really couldn’t see myself bearing or tending children, or... other things, I had perceived some cracks in my façade.

Taken one by one, shopping might not be something I looked forward to, but by the end of the exhausting day with Mama and Helen, I had to admit there was something entertaining about seeing how I looked in a new outfit, and the challenge of finding just the right things to go with a new outfit had not been unpleasant, and it had helped me to bond further with my new family.

As for children, I had noticed that I was much more aware of children now, and much less reluctant to interact with them. As a man, I had often noted the suspicion in a child’s eyes when facing an unfamiliar man. It was a sad fact in our society that there were perverts out there, so practically all children are warned from the time they are old enough to walk that they should look out for “bad men.” Notice I said “men.” Another sad fact: most child molesters are men.

In any case, since my transformation, children had been far less reluctant to speak with me or even to ask for my help. When I spoke with them, nearby mothers would smile at me as if, being a woman, I was somehow all right, because someday I, too would be a mother. While that had bothered me at first, now I just smiled back, often commenting on how lovely their children were.

And as for the... other things, okay I was slowly but surely coming to appreciate the physical attributes of men–the big shoulders, the angular builds, the confident smiles, and the deep voices. It hadn’t happened overnight, but it was happening. That was why I had agreed to see Brett Sunday evening.

Going back to my feelings about A.J., I had to admit that if I hadn’t known him and had met him instead of Brett earlier in the week, it would probably be A.J. that I would be seeing on Sunday evening, in spite of our actual age difference. Brett sort of reminded me of A.J.–or rather, a more mature version of my adopted brother.

“Gotta go!” A.J. said, rising from the table and wiping the last bite of chicken off his mouth.

“Drive carefully,” Mama warned him, accepting a hug.

“Be careful,” Helen warned him when it was her turn for a hug.

“Take care,” I managed, receiving my own hug while trying not to think how good it felt to be held in strong arms.

On Sunday, Helen and I drove back to New Orleans together after a leisurely breakfast with Mama. We had thrown our overnight bags in the trunk of my Focus, but the sacks from our shopping trip were piled into the back seat. I was frankly alarmed at how much Helen and Mama had convinced me to buy supposedly just for one meeting. There was the new suit, two shells and a blouse, several pairs of pantyhose, two pairs of shoes (one with a two and a half inch heel that had me a little worried–I wasn’t accustomed to heels that high), and inexpensive jewelry–earrings, a necklace and a bracelet. Mama and Helen had even talked me into new bras and panties, maintaining that the cotton stuff I wore wasn’t quite feminine enough to go under such a nice suit. So like who was going to see it besides me anyway?

“We can change at my place,” Helen suggested. “Brian is going to pick us up there, so we’ll save some time.”

I suspected the real reason was that she wanted to make sure I didn’t make a hash of getting dressed. I didn’t argue, though. Since the escapade that had included my transformation into a girl, I had done my best to not look overtly feminine–no skirts or heels, other than the one-inch block heels I often wore just to give me a little added height. Also, I didn’t wear jewelry, with the exception of a small lady’s watch and occasionally small earrings (I told myself a lot of men wore earrings, so I wasn’t being overly feminine), and only enough makeup to not appear butch.

Right after I had been transformed, I had been forced to dress like a whore–short skirts, high heels, big earrings, and lots of cleavage. I had vowed after that incident never to be dressed in such a demeaning manner again, and thus far, I had kept that promise. Yeah, I know it was silly to equate a whore’s costume with the professional attire Helen had foisted on me, but it somehow seemed like a slippery slope to me, no matter how I tried to tell myself that thinking that way was unreasonable.

Helen’s apartment was on the other side of the river in Algiers, an area close enough to the city to be convenient and urbanized, but separated from New Orleans by the Mississippi River, allowing it to have an ambiance of its own. Brian had his offices and a condo just a short distance from Helen’s apartment, so she was close to both her job and her boyfriend.

“Let me get ready first and then I’ll help you,” Helen said.

That was fine with me. It gave me a chance to catch up on a little NFL action. I stretched out on the couch and picked up an early New England game. My days at Harvard had made me into something of a Patriots fan (as long as they weren’t playing the Saints), so I was able to lose myself in the game.

It didn’t take Helen long to get ready, though. Unlike the stereotypical woman, Helen could get herself dressed and ready for anything in record time, and she always looked good. “Let’s get you ready,” she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me from the couch where I had plopped down to enjoy the game.

She had already picked out lingerie for me, and it wasn’t exactly the first time I had worn a dress. I got into the clothing quickly while she waited in the living room for me in the living room, brushed my hair and put on a little lipstick. It was all so easy that it only took me a few moments to get ready–or so I thought. I looked at my watch. “Hey, Brian isn’t supposed to pick us up for another forty-five minutes. Why did you get me ready so early?”

“You’re just starting to get ready,” she told me, grabbing a fresh towel and putting it over my white shell. “Who taught you to do makeup anyway?”

“You did.”

“No, I tried to teach you. Obviously none of my teaching stuck or you’d look better than this.”

I looked in the mirror, frowning. Everything looked fine to me. “What’s wrong with my makeup?”

She sighed, “Where do I start? This is a business meeting. Your makeup and hair have to make a statement as much as your clothing. Right now, your makeup says you don’t care how you look and aren’t very professional. Is that the image you want to convey?”

“I suppose not,” I replied, chastened.

“Here, watch what I do.”

She worked on my face for a few minutes, allowing me to see in the mirror how she did it. I didn’t like what she was doing to me, either. I had some unpleasant memories of being made up by Muriel for the abortive rendezvous with my father a few months ago, and I was afraid Helen was overdoing it just as Muriel had done. I asked her, “Do you really want my eyes to look like that? I look like a whore in the French Quarter.”

She frowned and put her hands on her hips. “Cassie, do I look like a whore?”

Uh-oh. “No, you look very nice, Helen.” And she did.

“Well I put the same shade and amount of eye shadow on your eyes. The only thing I did differently is use a little less liner on you. I’ve made you look like a young professional woman instead of a high school tomboy. Does that mean you look like a whore?”

“Well...”

“Now, let’s do something about that hair.”

My hair had been growing longer over the summer. I had planned on more than one occasion to get it cut. Maybe into one of those super-short cuts that left just some tiny naturally curled hair favored by some African American women. Call it vanity if you will, but I just couldn’t bring myself to cut my longish dark hair. It barely touched my shoulders, but it framed my face very nicely. Unfortunately, I have to admit I hadn’t taken the best care of it. It was fairly straight with just a little bit of natural wave to it. While by any reasonable standard, I would be considered African American at a glance, like many members of my new race, I obviously had evidence of significant white ancestry as well, so my hair lacked the natural curliness of many black women.

“I should have taken you in to a salon yesterday,” Helen muttered as she fussed with my hair, alternately brushing and spraying it into shape.

“Be careful with that spray,” I grumbled. “It’ll make my hair sticky.”

“Nonsense, it’s not sticky,” she replied, working on a tangle so hard I thought she was going to pull the hair right out of my scalp.

A few minutes before Brian was due to pick us up, Helen finally finished with me, and as I looked into her full-length mirror, I had to admit she had done wonders. I looked like a young professional woman–a lawyer perhaps. I suddenly realized that since I was going to law school, this was a glimpse of my future. Once I was out of school, I’d be dressed and made up like this every day. I sighed, realizing I might as well get used to it. Besides, I did look pretty damn good, if I did say so myself.

Brian picked us up exactly on time. Even as new as I was to appreciating men’s looks–especially black men–it was easy to see Brian was a handsome man whose short hair, well-trimmed moustache and conservative dark suit accented with a fashionable tie marked him as the successful businessman he was. Ten years as an FBM agent had given him the confidence and polish that had made him a successful private investigator. He grinned when I greeted him at the door. “Well, will you look at this? Little Cassie is all grown up.”

“Stuff it, Brian,” I growled, although I have to admit I was just a little pleased that he obviously liked the way I looked. One thing I had learned since my sex change: women can never get enough compliments. If I had known how much women appreciated compliments before I became one, I would have probably had a much more active sex life as a man.

“Don’t give her a hard time, Brian,” Helen said, coming over to give her boss a warm kiss. “I’m trying to get her to be more feminine.”

Brian nodded. He knew all about my past–my real past. With my permission, she had told Brian who I really was and what had happened to me. “It’s good advice, Cassie,” he told me. “A well-dressed woman can twist men around her little finger. Look what Helen has done to me.”

They both laughed together, and again I wondered when they were going to quit fooling around and get married–or at least move in together.

“Shouldn’t we get going?” I asked, becoming tired of being reminded that I should act more girly.

“In a minute,” Brian replied, all business now. He produced a file folder from his leather case. “I’ve made each of you a short summary of the particulars in this case. Read them on the way over and we’ll discuss the case before we get there.”

I had the back seat of Brian’s BMW all to myself, so I finished the summary before Helen did. That gave me a few minutes to go over the details again. By all rights, the case should have been turned over to the FBM, but as Helen had already told me, the family didn’t want the publicity.

The Lagrange family had made their money in agricultural commodities–foodstuffs, cotton and timber culled from a land empire with resources in four states. The family had been one of those canny clans that had jumped sides back in the Civil War, deserting the Confederacy once New Orleans had fallen and supplying the Union for the remainder of the war, earning themselves the friendship of such notables as General U.S. Grant who would later occupy the White House.

Later generations had managed to smooth over the rift caused by such traitorous behavior (traitorous at least in the minds of good Southerners), leaving them right up there with the Deverauxs and other noble families. Of course, it helped that the Lagrange clan had more money than almost any other family in the state.

I didn’t really know Stephen Lagrange all that well. I had met him at various functions, but he was too young to be considered one of my friends. His brother, William, by contrast was the right age to be my friend but such an insufferable boor that I had never liked him. When we had prepped together, he had wanted very badly to be my friend–but only if I was a sycophantic one. He would have loved to number the scion of the Devereaux family amongst his closest associates, but only on onerous terms. It was a shame it wasn’t William who was being transformed, I thought to myself. Let’s see how haughty he would be with a vagina between his legs. “What do you think of the case, Cassie?” Brian called out from the front seat. I was surprised that he hadn’t asked Helen first, but I realized the two of them had probably already studied and discussed the case in detail.

“I don’t see anything in here to indicate why Stephen has been singled out,” I answered.

Brian laughed, “Yeah, that’s the mystery, isn’t it? Usually in cases like this, there’s a pretty obvious motive. It usually happens either to get back at the man for some sexual reason, such as dumping a girlfriend. Sometimes, it’s done by a rival to get a guy out of the way. Stephen doesn’t seem to have any steady girlfriends or obvious rivals.”

“Neither did I,” I pointed out.

“Yes,” Brian agreed, “and your case is actually very uncommon.”

Yeah, I was changed to get at my father in a rather perverted way. But that was certainly unusual.

“How about his brother?” I ventured. “Could William be trying to get Stephen out of the way?”

“Possibly,” Helen answered, “but not likely. William is apparently his old man’s choice to take over someday, so there’d be no reason to get Stephen out of the way as there would be if things were the other way around.”

“There’s been no ransom note either,” Brian added. Sometimes, a son was changed into a daughter and a ransom demand was made, purporting to have a ‘cure’–a spell which would turn him back into a male. Those were unfortunate hoaxes, though. As I had discovered to my chagrin, it was impossible given the current level of magical science to turn a female back into a male. Magic simply couldn’t recreate the Y chromosome properly.

“Maybe Mrs. Lagrange always wanted a daughter, and this is her doing,” I suggested.

“That’s an interesting idea,” Brian commented. Then to Helen, he said, “We may want to probe on that point a little.”

I flushed with pride. One great thing about Brian was that he took me seriously. Of course, he knew who I had been and was well aware that I wasn’t the teenager I appeared to be, while most people saw me as just another teeny-bopper. Still, it was nice of him to value my opinions.

“What exactly do you want me to do?” I asked him.

“I want you to talk to Stephen and give me your opinion of him,” Brian replied. “See if you can draw him out. You know, find out if there’s a disgruntled girlfriend we don’t know about, or anything he might be willing to tell you that he wouldn’t tell us. You appear to be close to his age and you’ve been through what he’s going through. See if you can’t gain his confidence.”

I shifted uneasily. “You want me to tell him what happened to me?”

“Oh, no!” Brian assured me. “Just tell him you’ve worked on cases before with your sister where a sex change occurred. Don’t let on that it happened to you. I’d never put you in that spot, Cassie.”

I smiled. I knew Brian was serious. He treated me as if I actually were Helen’s sister, and that meant someday, he’d probably be considering me his sister-in-law. I knew he’d never do anything to hurt or embarrass me.

“Here we are,” Helen told Brian.

We followed the long, winding cobblestone driveway and pulled up in front of the stately Lagrange home, but only after we had gone through the high wrought iron gate and had a chance to be impressed with the canopy of tall oaks that peppered the neatly-manicured lawn.

“Shit,” Brian muttered, “I’ve played golf courses that weren’t this nice. Was your old home like this too, Cassie?”

“Sort of,” I admitted, hoping I didn’t sound too wistful. “Our house wasn’t this big, though, and the grounds were smaller.” I could have added ‘but not much smaller,’ but I didn’t want to show off. Besides, none of the Devereaux property was mine now.

Few houses in the South were as large as the one we approached. The Lagrange mansion was large enough to be mistaken for a hotel–three stories of 19th Century brick, accented by a row of stately Corinthian columns that supported a long porch below and an expansive veranda on each of the upper floors. Surrounding the house were neat shrubs and colorful flowers without a hint of a weed in sight.

Waiting for us as we pulled up was a butler in full livery. He was African-American, as was the favored custom among the landed gentry of Louisiana, and looked as if he had just stepped out of the pages of Gone With the Wind. I guessed him to be in his fifties, with his partially bald pate fringed with curly gray hair, but he was fit-looking, with a trim body that made him look much younger.

“Brian Wallace and associates to see Mr. Lagrange,” Brian said formally as the butler smoothly opened the passenger doors for Helen and me, gently helping us out of the car. We each rewarded him with a smile which he returned.

“Yes sir, Mr. Wallace,” the butler replied in a honeyed Southern accent that smacked of more genteel days. “Mr. Lagrange is expecting you. If you’ll all follow me.”

The inside of the mansion was easily as impressive as the outside. We were escorted into what would once have been called the drawing room. Upon looking around, I decided that there wasn’t a stick of furniture in the room that could be purchased outside of a fine antique store. It wasn’t often that a Devereaux–or a former Devereaux–could feel like poor folks, but I suspected if any member of my former family were to enter that room, that’s how they would feel.

“Can I get you something to drink?” the butler asked politely. We all declined, so he just smiled and said, “Mr. Lagrange will be with you shortly.”

When he was gone, Brian turned to Helen and me. Looking at Helen, he said, “I want you to try to get an audience with Mrs. Lagrange. See what you can find out from her while I concentrate on the father and the older son. Cassie, you need to get in to see Stephen. See if he knows of anyone who would want to do this to him.”

I nodded, thinking that if Stephen was anything like his older brother, I would be able to narrow the suspect base down to anyone who had ever met him.

“Mr. Wallace.”

We turned to see who had called out to Brian. I’ll give Mr. Lagrange credit–he could make an impressive entrance. He stood in the doorway flanked by his wife and older son. William Lagrange III was a tall, trim man with graying hair and a gray moustache. He was dressed in a suit, so Brian had been right to have us all dress professionally, although Mr. Lagrange’s suit was probably three times the cost of Brian’s, and Brian’s suit wasn’t cheap.

His wife was equally regal, looking as if she were preparing to attend an afternoon tea. Perhaps she was, in her expensive blue silk dress and matching accessories. William IV was the only one casually dressed, although his hunter green polo shirt and khaki slacks were obviously tailor-made.

While Mr. And Mrs. Lagrange focused on Brian and Helen, William IV was obviously staring at me. He looked me up and down, from my shapely legs to my partially-covered breasts, grinning when he met my eyes. I could feel my face flush. While I had become accustomed to having men stare at me, there was something absolutely predatory in his stare, and I was reminded of what a sleaze he could be.

“I’m William Lagrange,” the elder man began, offering his hand to Brian. I was impressed. There were still some older men in New Orleans society who only reluctantly greeted African-Americans so readily. “And this is my wife, Penelope,” he went on, nodding to his wife. She smiled faintly but did not offer her hand.

“And this is my son, William,” he continued.

“Charmed,” he oozed, taking my hand first. I felt as if I was being touched by a snake. Although he had said only one word, I heard in it the faint echo of a Whisper and reminded myself to stay on my toes. The younger William’s Whispering power wasn’t terribly strong, but it was discernable.

When Brian had made his introductions, we all sat down facing each other over a low antique table which probably cost more than most cars. As for the divans we sat on, I smugly told myself that as expensive as they were, they certainly weren’t as comfortable as the leather couch back in my condo.

“Has Howard offered you anything to drink?” Mr. Lagrange asked smoothly.

“Yes, but we’re fine,” Brian replied, smiling.

“Then let me bring you up to date,” our host sighed.

He spoke to us for almost half an hour, detailing everything that had transpired. Stephen had come home from prep school on Wednesday, feeling a little flushed. At first, the family passed it off as a little virus, but once the changes began, the family doctor was called in (yes, he actually made a house call), and the diagnosis was magical rather than medical. As Brian had told us, there had been no anonymous notes from spurned ex- girlfriends or offers for a ‘cure’ in return for a substantial ransom. In short, there were no clues of significance to build a solution around.

“Mr. Lagrange,” Brian began when the victim’s father had completed his story, “when we spoke on the phone about the case, you indicated that you did have one possible suspect in mind. Could you tell us now who that might be?”

Mr. Lagrange looked uncomfortable for a moment, as if he was about to tell a sordid tale. I suppose, given his attitudes regarding what was sordid and what wasn’t, that was just about the case. “A few weeks ago,” he began, “I was approached by some unsavory types who suggested I could make a considerable profit if I ‘piggybacked’ their shipments on some of my ships...”

Ships? He had his own ships? Now I was really beginning to feel like the poor folk.

“And those unsavory types were...?” Brian prompted.

“They represented a Marie Dubois,” he replied.

“Mama Juno?” I blurted out.

Mr. Lagrange studied me for a moment. “I believe that’s what you people call her,” he sneered, making me feel about a foot tall. And what was with that “you people” crap? I guessed the ready handshake was as far as he was willing to go to foster racial relations. “I have no use for voodoo or any other form of magic,” he went on haughtily. “Magic is un-Christian and the work of the Devil.”

Oh, so he was one of those–the religious nuts. Now I don’t want to make it sound as if I was some sort of heathen. I was raised a good Catholic boy, and I suppose now I was a good Catholic girl, but growing up in a church which recognized miracles on a regular basis, the concept of magic wasn’t all that much to swallow. Some religions had other ideas, though. Some of the more fundamental denominations despised magic, even eschewing magical cures and other benefits.

No wonder Mr. Lagrange wanted what had happened to his son kept quiet. In addition to the obvious embarrassment the transformation would entail, some of the really conservative denominations drummed magical victims out of the church, as if the poor people had somehow brought the work of the Devil down upon themselves.

I had wondered why he had brought Brian in on the case instead of just going to the police or the FBM. I had assumed it was just to avoid notoriety over his son’s transformation. While that may have been part of the reason, his religious concerns had probably been equally important.

“What did you tell Ma... I mean Ms. Dubois?” Helen asked.

“I want to point out that I have never met the woman,” he replied, with enough vehemence to be denying anal sex with a donkey. Somehow, I thought he was lying, though. Call it women’s intuition. “I told her representatives I would have no part in their sordid business.”

“What did they want you to smuggle for them?” Brian asked.

“They never said and I never asked,” was the blunt reply.

Brian shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Is the presence of Ms. Dubois the reason you called us in on this case?”

“Partially,” the elder Lagrange allowed. “I felt you would be much more skilled at getting the truth from that woman than others would.”

I of course immediately understood what he was saying, even though I had only been African-American for a short time. He was indicating that since Brian was of the same race as Mama Juno, he would be more successful than a white detective. There may have been a grain of truth to that, but it somehow seemed insulting. I silently hoped that back in the days when I was white, I hadn’t made similar statements, but I had to admit that I probably had–unintentionally, of course.

“I’d like to spend a little more time with the members of your family individually,” Brian requested, somehow keeping his cool.

Mr. Lagrange looked puzzled. “Whatever for? I’ve told you everything I know. This is obviously a case of revenge since I wouldn’t smuggle something for them. There’s nothing else I or any member of my family can tell you.”

Brian’s response was measured but stern. “Mr. Lagrange, Ms. Dubois will be dealt with in due time. But we want to make sure we do a complete job for you. Now, I’d like to meet individually with your older son while Ms. Davis here...” he indicated Helen, “speaks with your wife. I would like the other Ms. Davis...” indicating me, “to meet with Stephen.”

“Out of the question!”

Brian rose. “Then I’m afraid we can’t help you. Thank you for your time, Mr. Lagrange.”

I thought the poor man was going to have a stroke. I’m sure few white men would dare speak to him in that way, let alone a mere black. I could see him wrestling with something as his eyes darted back and forth as the three of us made ready to leave. At last, he made up his mind.

“Oh, very well. I don’t want to bring anyone else into this mess. Howard!”

The butler seemed to appear from nowhere. I wondered if it was the result of some magical talent or just years of practice. It was probably a little of both, I decided. “Yes, sir?”

“Show the young lady to Stephen’s rooms...”

Rooms? As in the plural of ‘room’?

“I’ll take care of the others,” he finished.

“Yes, sir.”

“Go the fuck away!”

The voice on the other side of the door wasn’t feminine, but it wasn’t masculine either–at least not completely. Stephen was eighteen, but his voice sounded more adolescent–perhaps twelve or so–and I couldn’t help but suspect that he was doing his best to pitch it as low as possible.

“Mr. Stephen, sir,” Howard called out so calmly that such outbursts must have become typical to him, “your father wants you to meet with Ms. Davis.”

“Tell Ms. Davis to fuck herself!”

I must have blushed, for Howard looked at me sympathetically. “Ms. Davis, I think it might be best of you waited in my quarters while I talk to Mr. Lagrange.”

I just nodded. As nasty as Stephen sounded, I wasn’t sure I wanted to meet with him anyway. Besides, my mind was on other things, namely Mama Juno. I was feeling extremely fortunate. Of all the cases for Brian to bring me in on, one involving Mama Juno was an answer to my prayers. It had been Mama Juno and her son Pierre, who had been responsible for my plight in the first place. Mama Juno had seen to my transformation, and Pierre had debased me in an effort to lead me into a life of prostitution. But after their plot had failed, they had avoided the punishments they so richly deserved. They had managed to grease the right palms and stroke the right people in Louisiana’s corrupt political system, and the worst they had suffered was a few weeks out of New Orleans to allow things to cool down.

Howard showed me into his quarters–a cosy but decidedly masculine set of rooms not far from Stephen’s quarters. “You just make yourself comfortable, Ms. Davis,” he said solicitously. “I’ll talk to Mr. Lagrange straightaway.”

I looked around the room and back to the door to thank Howard, but he had already left, silently closing the door behind him.

As I sat on a comfortable couch, I noticed Howard’s small living room was furnished in expensive but well-worn pieces, probably hand-me-downs from the Lagrange family. There were few personal items in the room, limited only to a few framed photos on the small fireplace mantle. They appeared to be mostly family photos, and one in particular which caught my eye showed a smiling Howard with his arm around a pretty little girl of about ten. In the background, I could see the skyline of Chicago, a city I had visited and enjoyed greatly back in my male days.

“That’s my daughter,” Howard said, causing me to jump. I hadn’t heard him come in. “It was taken about five years ago in Chicago.”

“The two of you were on vacation?” I asked politely.

Howard sadly shook his head. “No, just me. My daughter lives in Chicago with her mother.”

“Oh.”

I felt a pang of sympathy for Howard. I, too, had been separated from my family, but unlike Howard, I had been fortunate enough to find a new family. Still, sometimes I found myself missing my old family, in spite of their many faults, and wondered if there weren’t times when they missed me.

“Mr. Lagrange has already spoken to Mr. Stephen,” Howard explained. “Mr. Stephen will see you now.”

Whatever Mr. Lagrange had said to his younger son must have left scorch marks on the wall, for it was a chagrined young man who stood before me. Actually, I use the term ‘young man’ in its broadest sense. A stranger, seeing him standing there in his dark blue tracksuit and longish curly blond hair would have probably debated with himself if this person before him was male or female.

I estimated the transformation must have been about halfway complete, although it was impossible to say how far it had progressed internally. I had expected things to be further along, but spells vary in their timing. While I had become female in a relatively short span of days, I understood from my research that the process could take weeks, depending upon the spell, the resistance of the victim, and the wishes of the spell caster.

I had met Stephen before, but not in the past couple of years, so I couldn’t be entirely certain how much he had changed, but I could tell he was going to be a very beautiful girl when he was done. His features were already delicate, complimented by smooth, fair skin. His blond hair was so curly that it appeared twice its probable length, and while I was sure he had tried to cut it, given a few unruly strands, the magic in the spell had undoubtedly restored it to a more feminine length. Even in the shapeless tracksuit, there appeared to be two small bumps on his chest which would soon blossom into impressive breasts.

He looked at me with soft blue eyes, framed in thick, natural lashes. “All right,” he began calmly but with a superior tone. “My father says I’m to speak with you, so let’s get this over. Howard! Get out of the room.”

“But...”

“I said get out!” The order was meant to sound authoritative, but his voice cracked, causing it to sound shrilly hysterical and decidedly un-masculine.

“Be careful, Ms. Davis,” Howard muttered to me, too softly to be overheard by Stephen. “Call me if you need me.”

I hardly thought I would need Howard’s help. The figure before me was probably no stronger now than I was, and besides, I was a Pusher. If he tried anything, I could use my magic to force him away. Since becoming a woman, my own primary power had increased dramatically, and I would have no trouble keeping Stephen at bay.

In an odd way, forcing him away was the last thing I would want to do, though. Stephen was actually an attractive young man, if somewhat feminized. I could see he would have not needed his brother’s whispering talent to have young women flocking around him...

What the hell was I thinking? I wasn’t attracted to him, was I? Yet strange impulses were rising, and I couldn’t explain them.

“Ms. Davis,” he said more calmly now, “please ask your questions and go. I don’t like being put on display like this.”

“Oh... Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...”

He waved my apology away and sighed, “Just get on with your fucking questions.”

I had never done this before, but since I was something of an unwilling expert when it came to sexual transformations, I had a pretty good idea what I needed to ask.

“Do you know anyone who would want to do this to you?”

“Sure,” he laughed ruefully, “about a hundred girls and their parents.”

“Do any of them have ties to Mama Juno?” He snorted, “You’ve been talking to my father. He’s convinced Mama Juno did this to get even with him.”

“You don’t think so?”

He tried to look intimidating, but since I was in heels, I was actually a little taller than he was. I suspected he was due to be a petite little thing. I wondered how tall he had been before his transformation had begun. “Why should somebody like Mama Juno do this to me?”

“Then why is your father so sure about it?”

He looked away. I had apparently won the battle of intent stares. “Because he turned her agents down just two days before all of this started and a day before I was at Le Chat Noir.”

I nodded. Le Chat Noir was a funky little club on the fringes of the French Quarter. It had a reputation of being a wild place and was said to be owned by Mama Juno. “Did anyone at the club look suspicious?”

“Of course!” he replied, his voice cracking as it slipped up an octave. “Everybody in that damned place looks suspicious. But if you mean did anyone slip anything in my drink or chant out a spell, no.”

“Who were you with?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know... just some girl I picked up. One of your people.”

I bristled at that, but said nothing. A strange little part of me tried to imagine that I was the girl, partying with this handsome young man at some wicked club like Le Chat Noir. I wondered again where such an odd thought was coming from and dismissed it to an unused corner of my mind.

“Could that girl have been the one who cursed you?”

“Possibly,” he allowed. Then he added, “Probably. I guess I’ll never know now. She didn’t tell me her name.”

It appeared Stephen had been in to very casual relationships. “Describe her for me.”

He slammed a decidedly delicate hand on a small table. “Describe her? What the hell is there to describe? She was young and pretty and black. But that describes you, too, along with a significant chunk of the city’s population.

“Look, why don’t you tell my father to forget this obsession with finding out who did this to me and get me the cure!”

“But there is no cure,” I reminded him, more blunt than I had intended.

“Bullshit! There’s a cure for everything.”

“Not this there isn’t,” I shot back. God knows if there were a cure, I would have already discovered it. I tried hard enough to find one until I finally reconciled myself to my fate. Of course I didn’t tell him any of that.

“I haven’t been changed completely yet,” Stephen explained with a note of desperation in his voice. “I’m still a man where it counts, and I can prove it.”

This was getting me nowhere. I suspected I had learned all I could from Stephen. Hopefully, the trail through Le Chat Noir would lead Brian back to Mama Juno and allow him to conclude the case. Now, my interrogation of Stephen had degenerated into a futile argument–and an attempt on his part to somehow prove he was still a man. “You don’t have to prove anything, Stephen...” I began, but he wasn’t listening.

What happened next was completely unexpected. An odd and unnatural desire washed over me, almost as if a strong Whisperer had suddenly assaulted me, but Stephen had not said anything which would indicate that he was a Whisperer. I found myself staring into his face, confused, but somehow drawn to his confident blue eyes. In that moment, I would have done anything for him–anything at all.

Fortunately, the moment passed. I’m not entirely sure why to this day. I think it was because I looked down at his chest and saw the outline of two budding breasts. Since becoming female, I had found that I had no sexual attraction at all to women. While I tried my best to deny my growing attraction to men, I never seriously entertained the idea of being lesbian. Somehow, I had begun to think of Stephen as a woman rather than a man, and that probably saved me from a very embarrassing incident.

“Stephen, no!” I yelled as he lunged forward and gripped my arm.

“Let her go, Stephen!” a deep voice resonated behind me. The Whisper was enough to make Stephen release me and stand back. I turned to see the elder Lagrange son standing in the doorway.

“You can’t make me do...”

“Yes I can,” William interrupted his brother. This time there was no echo of a Whisper–merely the determined voice of a man who I suspected had dominated his brother for years. He then looked at me. “Are you finished here, Ms. Davis?”

“Uh... yes.”

“Then let me escort you back to your associates.”

I dared not turn and face Stephen again. Whatever he had done to me was still affecting me. However, instead of any specific sexual urge for the younger Lagrange brother, it had transformed within me to a general longing. In short, I was very, very horny.

As I let William gently put his arm at my waist and escort me from the room, I felt my body shiver. “What... what happened in there?” I managed to ask, trying to bring my body back under control.

“Stephen can have that affect on attractive women,” was all William would say, and I was far too shaken to ask for any clarification.

“Attractive young women like you must enjoy the company of handsome young men,” William continued, “but my brother is a little young for you.”

“Yes, he is,” I agreed numbly.

“You need the company of a man who’s a little older–a little more experienced.”

“Yes... I do.”

“Mister William?” It was Howard, suddenly behind us. Again, I marvelled at how he seemed to be able to appear out of nowhere. I supposed it was possible it was some magic power I had never heard of, but I thought it was probably just his experience as a butler.

William looked disgusted, and the spell was broken. I had been so shaken, I had forgotten what a powerful Whisperer William could be. A few more moments of listening to his soothing advice and I probably would have been spreading my legs for him in some unused bedroom. Back in prep school, he demonstrated his power on numerous occasions–usually in a manner that made me distrust him all the more. Today, it seemed, would be no exception to the rule. “What is it, Howard?” he snapped.

“Your father is looking for you.”

William seemed unable to decide whether to go to his father or continue working on me. To be honest, Stephen’s efforts had already left me more vulnerable than I could ever imagine, and I knew deep within myself that it wouldn’t take much more effort on William’s part to tip me over the edge. I braced for what would surely come next, only to be saved by the insistent butler once again. As if to tip the balance, Howard added, “He said he needed to see you right away.” The way he emphasized “right away” I could see in William’s eyes that the scion of the Lagrange family realized completely that his father was not a man to be kept waiting. I seemed to be saved.

William composed himself. He addressed me with all the enticing tones of a Whisperer missing from his voice. “Ms. Davis, I’ll leave you with Howard, if you will excuse me?” Without waiting for an answer, he hurried down the hall toward his father’s study.

“Are you all right, Ms. Davis?” Howard asked.

I looked at the older man, suddenly realizing he was handsome in his own way, in spite of being old enough to be my father. I began to feel strangely attracted to him, feeling my nipples tingle and a moistness between my legs.

Howard seemed to recognize the looks I was unconsciously giving him. “Ms. Davis,” he began, “I think I’d better get you back to your friends right away.” Without waiting for a response from me, he ushered me back into the drawing room.

Brian and Helen were standing, talking to the elder Mr. Lagrange, while William IV stood uncomfortably beside his father. It appeared that his father hadn’t really needed him, but instead wanted him near to him where he could be kept out of trouble. I had no doubt that his father knew well what mischief his Whispering son was likely to get into.

I admired the older man’s style, and I couldn’t help but notice that William III was a handsome man. But then my eyes quickly turned to Brian, and I realized what a lucky girl Helen was. Brian was an absolute hunk! If Helen weren’t my adopted sister, I’d... I’d...

“Cassie, are you all right?” Helen asked, looking at me with concern.

“Yeah, sure...” Three handsome men in the room at the same time! How could I not be all right?

“Thank you again, Mr. Lagrange,” Brian was saying in that deep, sexy voice of his, “and we’ll be in touch.”

The two men shook hands, although I could see that Mr. Lagrange had accepted Brian’s hand somewhat reluctantly. Since I knew from their first meeting that Mr. Lagrange did not flinch at the prospect of shaking hands with a person of another race, then Brian must have told him something he had not wanted to hear. I didn’t know what it was and I didn’t care. Why two such handsome men couldn’t get along was a mystery to me. I’m sure Brian noticed the slight, but said nothing.

When we were back in the car, Helen turned to me as Brian drove. “Girl, what’s the matter with you?”

I took my eyes off the back of Brian’s head–he had such nice hair–and slurred, “I’m all right.”

“No you aren’t,” she retorted. “Tell me everything that happened when you went to see Stephen.”

So I did. I admit, I was a little confused, but by the time Brian had driven me home and he and Helen had helped me into my condo, I had apparently been coherent enough for Brian to form an opinion about Stephen.

“He’s an Attractor,” Brian declared.

“Oh no!” Helen exclaimed. “Does his father know?”

Brian nodded. “I tried to impress upon him how dangerous his son’s power was. Now, with his transformation, there’s no telling what the power will do to him–or those around him.”

I was sitting on my living room couch, with Brian and Helen sitting across the coffee table from me in two comfortable chairs. “Stephen’s a what?”

“An Attractor,” Brian repeated. “They’re very rare, thank God.”

Brian was so good looking when he was all concerned like that...

“An Attractor is someone who exerts a magical attraction on the opposite sex,” Helen explained. “And as Brian said, they’re very rare–and very dangerous.”

“So what’s the big deal?” I asked, my head finally clear–except when I looked at Brian. I tried to address my questions to Helen.

“It’s a magical talent sure to get its user in trouble,” Helen said. “It’s one of those talents that pre-dates Webster and Kline–or so we think. It’s possible several pre-magic serial killers had the power, although the power wasn’t as strong before the virus. In men, it manifests itself as an uncanny sexual attraction. Any girl who meets an uninhibited male Attractor will be unable to resist his sexual advances.”

“But I resisted,” I pointed out. Of course, if William hadn’t come into Stephen’s room, I had no idea how much longer I could have resisted, but I was too embarrassed to say that. Since I had told them my story, they had probably deduced that anyway.

“I doubt if he’s a full strength,” Brian mused. “After all, his body is changing. He’s probably well on his way to becoming genetically female. If he’s only about half male, the Attractor power would be at half strength–or so the theory goes. No one is really sure.”

“Will he still be an Attractor when he’s completely female?” I asked.

“Probably,” Helen replied. “Magical talents seem to follow a person even after a sex change.”

I nodded. Come to think of it, my magical talent consisted of the same powers after my transformation.

“Yes,” Brian agreed, “but the talents usually grow stronger once a male becomes female.” Again, that was true for me. “This could be worse than we thought.”

“Why worse?”

Helen responded to my question. “Male Attractors usually learn to control their powers. The ones who do just become unexplainably popular with women. They get what they want when they want, but within the bounds of normal society. The few who don’t become extremely dangerous. Since they have a strong power over women, they tend to lose respect for them. At best, they become spousal abusers. At worst, they become capable of sex crimes.

“Since Stephen doesn’t have a rap sheet, we can assume that he managed to learn how to control the Attractor powers–at least to some degree. It’s hard to say since he’s still young. Dangerous Attractors are normally a little older. Unfortunately, what he did to you seems to indicate that he’s losing that control. Few women can control the power very well. They end up becoming prostitutes, strippers, and downright nymphomaniacs. Some have even had to be institutionalized for their own protection.”

I shuddered. I tried to put myself in Stephen’s shoes. It was bad enough that I had been transformed into a girl unwillingly, but Pierre’s attempts to turn me into a whore had failed, in part because of my own resistance. But Stephen would be pressured to become a slut from within, attracting men like bees to honey, and his own sexual needs would betray him... her.

“Why haven’t I ever heard of Attractors?” I asked.

“It’s Top Secret in the FBM,” Brian explained. “Think about it–this is a power so potentially lethal that society is endangered by them. If male, an uncontrolled Attractor can become a rapist, a serial killer, or just ruin the lives of innocent women by luring them into unintended liaisons. If female, the Attractor can also lure the innocent, breaking up families, spreading diseases or spells. A couple of years ago, a female Attractor spread an impotence spell that claimed over sixty victims before she could be stopped.”

Had whoever was transforming Stephen known he was an Attractor? Maybe–or maybe not. If Mama Juno had, in fact, been behind Stephen’s transformation, his magical ability as an Attractor would just have been a bonus, making it all the harder for the elder William. Mr. Lagrange’s distaste for magic was evident, and being forced to deal with his son’s Attractor power, which would probably become stronger and more unmanageable once his sex was changed, would have been a perfect revenge for his unwillingness to smuggle for them.

Of course, the fact that Stephen was an Attractor opened up a potentially wider explanation as well. It was possible that Stephen had Attracted some innocent girl whose parents learned of her misfortune. Changing Stephen into a girl, probably doomed to be a perfect little slut, would be a fitting punishment.

Before I could bring this up, Brian said much the same thing, adding, “We’ve got to see Mama Juno right away and determine if she’s behind this or not.”

“Let’s hope she is,” Helen pointed out. “Otherwise, we’ve got a potentially long suspect list. I’d imagine Stephen has been leading an active sex life ever since puberty.”

“Mama Juno’s probably behind it,” I said confidently.

“Why do you say that?” Brian asked, curious.

I faltered a little. I really didn’t have any insight into Mama Juno’s guilt or innocence in this case, but I couldn’t help but hope will all my heart that she was the one responsible so that I would have the pleasure of putting the woman who initiated my transformation in jail where she belonged. Brian was waiting for an answer though, so I sought to justify my position. My mind was still a little fogged though, from the one-two punch of an Attractor and a Whisperer.

“Well,” I began, “we know for a fact that she uses sex change spells in her activities. I’m living proof of that. And we know the Lagrange family has been contacted by Mama Juno’s representatives. It just stands to reason that this isn’t a coincidence.”

“Well, we’ll find out tomorrow,” Brian assured me. “I’m going to pay a little visit to Le Chat Noir tomorrow morning.”

“I want to go, too!” I jumped in.

“But you have classes tomorrow,” Helen said.

“Not if you go in the afternoon. Besides, I want to be there if Brian nails her to the wall. If we’re lucky, she won’t get away with things this time.”

Brian and Helen were both sharp enough to realize that I wasn’t about to be dissuaded. Brian finally said, “Okay. Helen, you can hold down the office and I’ll pick up Cassie at one. But Cassie, you’re just there to observe–clear?”

“Crystal.”

Helen came over and put her arms on my shoulders. “Okay, now you need to get some rest. The effects of the Lagrange boys should dissipate by tomorrow morning. Just lie down after we leave and chill out. Got that?”

“Yes, Mom.”

As they left me alone, I fully intended to do exactly what Helen had ordered me to do. Then, as soon as they were gone, I suddenly remembered my date with Brett. I hadn’t wanted to discuss it with Helen earlier, knowing how she would want to give me advice and ask a million questions about the first guy I had agreed to date, so she knew nothing of my date.

Part of me thought it would be a good idea to cancel the date–or at least call Helen and talk about it. Unfortunately, that part of me wasn’t in control at that particular moment. The part that was in control told me that most of the effects would wear off if I just took a little snooze. After all, it would be a crime to cancel a date with a hunk like Brett. I practically tingled at the thought of him. I looked at my watch. I had plenty of time to take a little nap and still get ready for Brett.

I stripped out of my suit, hanging it up carefully and falling onto the unmade bed in nothing but my bra and panties. I was suddenly so tired that I don’t even remember my head hitting the pillow.

Okay, so I should have called Brett and cancelled our date. Getting hit with magic wasn’t, for the most part, like getting drunk. I still had all my mental faculties: they were just... mixed up a little. But what really put the icing on the cake was the dream I had.

I was at a party in the dream, and I was a girl. Yeah, I know–I was a girl in real life too, but my sleeping mind didn’t know that. Most of the time when I dreamed, I was male again, or at least interacted as a male. Many times, it was with extreme disappointment that I awakened to find myself trapped in my female body. Not this time though. I was a girl through and through, and I didn’t seem to be wearing very much, either.

I remember looking down at myself, wondering why I had gone to a party wearing nothing but a bra and panties. Everybody else seemed to be dressed normally, but at least no one seemed concerned about my attire (or lack of it).

“Hey, Cassie!” a voice called out. I turned around and saw Stephen Lagrange standing there, dressed comically like one of those old sideshow performers–the ones who dressed one half of their bodies as a man and the other half as a woman. In spite of his bizarre appearance, I couldn’t help but be attracted to him, sidling up to him, feeling myself smiling.

Just before we were close enough to touch each other, William Lagrange IV stepped in between us. “Why bother with him,” William’s echoing voice boomed, “when you can have me? I’m all man.”

And I wanted him even more than I wanted Stephen. I felt my breasts tingling and an insistent dampness between my legs.

“She’s with me,” another male voice challenged. I swung around to see who it was, and there was Brett, ready to take on the Lagrange brothers if need be, his chest bare and his tight trousers unable to hide an enticing bulge.

I gasped, unable to stand it any longer; I felt something tremble between my legs and... and...

And I woke up.

I was sweaty, but I was even wetter between my legs, and the whiff of female sex told me I had just come in my sleep. Embarrassed, I pulled myself out of bed, looking at my watch to make sure I had plenty of time to get cleaned up so I could be presentable for my date with Brett.

At the thought of Brett, I felt another tingling between my legs. What in hell was wrong with me? I shouldn’t be reacting so strongly to thoughts about a man I barely knew–or any man for that matter.

I don’t want it to sound as if I was completely naíve about my new sex. I had been female–adult and female–for six months, and in that time, I had managed to find out how to get myself off. I had just used my hands: I didn’t want to use a dildo. In the first place, I was still a virgin (as a woman at least). True, I had been forced into oral sex, but that wasn’t really sex, was it? At least I hadn’t been vaginally penetrated and had no plans to allow that to happen any time soon.

As pleasurable as my times fingering myself had been, I had never felt anything as intense as the orgasm I had experienced in my sleep. It was absolutely incredible, and God help me, I wanted to experience it again. I took a shower and tried to bring myself off again. I succeeded, but it was a pale imitation of my dream orgasm. I had to have something more... satisfying. As if in answer to my cravings, an image of Brett as he had appeared in my dream came into the forefront of my mind.

Now I’ll be the first to admit that by the time I stepped out of the shower, I was no longer myself. My body’s urges–specifically my unexpected sexual urges–were now firmly in control of my actions. I searched mindlessly through my closet and drawers for something sexy to wear–something Brett would find irresistible. It took some time, but I found what I was looking for.

Right after I had been effectively adopted into the Davis family, Helen had taken it upon herself to make me dress and act more girlish. To that end, she had bought a few items which would now prove useful. Out of an unused drawer, I found a pink tank top, with little thin straps and a midriff-baring length. It was perfect. I slipped off my bra, opting for a less practical but thinner model that would make my breasts appear to be held in by magic in the tight top. Once I had the top on, I looked forlornly at my belly button, wondering why I had never bothered to have it pierced. A tiny little jewel dangling from my navel would have been a real eye popper for Brett. Oh well, I’d just have to entice him in other ways.

I found some panties to match the bra, ignoring the fact that they snuggled against my sex far more insistently than my usual utilitarian cotton ones, but so much the better. I covered them with a short little white jean skit that emphasized my hips.

I debated about wearing nylons. Nylons always had excited me on a woman when I had been a man (A man? Had I really been a man? That seemed like such a strange thought...). I decided against them, though. My legs looked great without them, so I settled on a pair of sandals with a high enough wedge to give my legs wonderful definition without the help of nylons. I opted instead for a body lotion that made my legs practically shine, rubbing the lotion so near my crotch that I thought I would come again.

I was a little short in the makeup and jewelry department. My ears were pierced, so I could wear earrings: I just didn’t choose to do so very often. Tonight though, I would definitely wear earrings. I selected a pair of small gold hoops and a matching gold bracelet Helen had given me. That and a small gold chain necklace would be the sum total of my jewelry for the evening. My addled brain seem to think it would be enough.

Makeup was another issue. My brain was telling me to pour it on thick, but fortunately for me, I didn’t really know that much about makeup. Helen had convinced me to wear a little lipstick, and I had experimented a little on my eyes, but that was it. Somehow, I managed to convince my unnaturally horny little mind that it was best to go light on the makeup (which I knew how to do) and not go heavy on it (which I did not know how to do) to avoid looking like a clown.

I was still primping in front of the mirror when the doorbell rang. It had to be Brett, but I wasn’t quite satisfied with the way I looked. Oh well. It would have to do. I just couldn’t wait to see him.

“Hi,” I breathed as I answered the door, thrusting my chest forward.

“Hi yourself,” Brett gulped. He looked good enough to eat, standing there in a fresh pair of khaki Chinos and a rust red polo shirt. I honestly thought about blowing off dinner and inviting him in, but like all good hunters, I knew better than to scare off the prey.

“You look great!” he exclaimed, looking me up and down.

“Thanks,” I returned. “So do you.” And yes, I looked him up and down, too. I liked what I saw. I felt all that tingling again, and it felt good.

“Uh... where would you like to go?” he asked a little nervously.

“How about Winnie’s?” I suggested. It was all I could do not to suggest my bedroom instead. But Winnie’s was essentially a deli, so we could eat fast and get back to my place quickly. I needed quickly, because I wasn’t sure how long I’d be able to hold back from ripping all of his clothes off.

“Uh... sure, great,” he agreed.

So within a couple of minutes, we were on our way. We took his car, a nice little BMW Z-3. Apparently he wasn’t just a doctor’s son–he was a very successful doctor’s son. Cars like that didn’t come cheap. We had the top down and I enjoyed the ride, watching all the boys watching us as we drove down Magazine. I smiled as those boys watched us, convinced that I was sitting next to the best boy on Magazine right then.

Winnie’s Artsy Café turned out to be closed Sunday evenings, which I had forgotten, so Brett suggested, “How about Martinique?”

“That’s not exactly casual,” I pointed out. Also, it would mean a longer, more formal meal, and I wanted Brett right then and there.

“I think we’re dressed well enough for it,” Brett assured me.

And we were. We were early enough that we even got seated on the brick patio, amidst the flowers and fountains. The evening looked to be pleasantly warm, so the patio was a comfortable as well as romantic choice. I approved. The food was succulent, the wine superb, and the company was incredible. Somehow, I managed to keep things together during dinner. What I really wanted to do was push all the dinnerware off the table and do him right there.

It was weird. I knew intellectually that my desires were alien, but I just couldn’t stop myself from surrendering to my body’s needs. At least things didn’t get too out of hand at dinner. The most I did was hold his hand a few times, smile seductively a lot, and run my foot up his pants leg as we talked about who we were and what we wanted out of life.

I’m sorry to say I don’t remember much of that first dinner conversation. My mind was on other things, it seemed. I learned that Brett was an only child, that he was a track star in high school, and bits of family trivia, but nothing memorable. Of course since I was concentrating on his handsome face and glorious physique, I wasn’t exactly listening. I managed to add a few items from my own personal life, not mentioning of course, that I had once been every bit as male as he was. I made it sound as if I had been born and raised a girl in the Davis household.

Brett looked at me as we finished our meal, as if trying to glean something important. “What’s wrong?” I asked, stopping in the middle of what I had been saying.

“It’s nothing,” he replied casually, but I could see something was bothering him. I shrugged. I supposed it wasn’t important. What was important was when I decided we should forgo dessert and get back to my place where I could screw him blind all night.

We innocently held hands on the way back to his car, but on the ride back to my place, I let my left hand drift over the console and onto Brett’s crotch. There was nothing innocent about that move, I thought smugly.

“Hey Cassie,” he laughed a little nervously. “That’s kind of distracting.”

“It’s meant to be,” I told him in a sultry tone as we pulled up in front of my condo. “Come on in and I’ll do more than that.”

Brett and I had enjoyed a wonderful dinner together, but I had restrained myself in public. Now, we were at my place, though, and I had become much bolder. There was no reason to hold back now, was there?

Brett came around and opened my car door for me, helping me out of the Z. I used the opportunity to sidle very close to him, my hand poised at the waistband of his pants with obvious intent. He winced and said slowly, “Cassie, hold up. There’s something wrong here.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I assured him, tugging him up the sidewalk. I looked down at his crotch. His pants were about to burst.

“Yes there is, Cassie...”

“Fuck me, Brett,” I pleaded at the front door.

“Cassie...”

“I said fuck me–now!”

I now knew what a drug addict felt like when denied a fix. I had been able to act the perfect date at the restaurant. I had over twenty years of acting properly in nice restaurants, so I had been able to hold things together, but a combination of the wine and the confrontations with both a Whisperer and an Attractor had finally destroyed what few defenses I still had. I threw open the front door, and through gritted teeth demanded, “Come in and fuck me right now!”

“Cassie... I...”

“Now, damn it!” I screamed, unable to hold back any longer. I was feeling light-headed, as if all the blood was rushing from my head. “Now!”

Brett held my wrists as I lunged for him, suddenly dizzy. Then, he released my wrists as I sagged to the floor, trying to hold me before I passed out completely...

“She’s coming out of it,” a familiar voice said from the bottom of the deep, dark canyon I was lying in. I hadn’t felt so out of it since coming home from Harvard for Mardi Gras during my first year of college. No, I didn’t have a headache or a sour stomach, but I just felt... fuzzy.

I opened my eyes slowly, flinching at even the dim light that framed the dark face above me. “Papa Bob?”

Robert ‘Papa Bob’ Monroe was the last person I expected to find with me at the bottom of a canyon, but as my senses returned to me, I realized I was in my own bed, still wearing the clothes I had worn on my date with Brett.

Brett! Oh my God, what had I done with Brett? Where was he? My eyes darted around until I saw him standing behind Papa Bob, concern on his face. “Will she be all right?” Brett asked.

Papa Bob patted my hand and smiled. “She’ll be fine–now. It’s a good thing you called me though.”

“Her sister asked me to call you,” Brett explained. “But I thought you were a doctor.”

Papa Bob shook his head as he put a couple of Voudon props back in his case that was resting at the foot of my bed. “A doctor couldn’t do much good here. This was magic, but you know that.”

I managed to pull myself up into a sitting position. “What happened? What...”

“Time for questions later,” Papa Bob interrupted, handing me a glass of something green. “You just drink this now. It’ll put you back together in no time.”

Obediently, I raised it to my lips and sipped it. “Yuck! This tastes awful.”

“It’s supposed to,” he said gruffly. “Now drink!”

I gulped it down, hoping I could finish it before the taste made me puke it back up. “What is this?” I gasped as I finished.

“Nothing you want to know about,” Papa Bob replied. “But you feel better now, don’t you?”

Actually, I did. My head was clear and I felt like myself again–or as much like myself as a twenty-something white man could feel in the body of an African-American girl who looked like jailbait.

Then I groaned, wondering about what Brett must think of me. “Brett, I don’t know what came over me...”

“I do,” he replied with a relieved grin. “I’m a Detector.”

We hadn’t talked about our magical abilities before. It was something most people didn’t discuss with until they got to know each other well. There was some debate as to whether or not Detectors had magical powers or were just physically sensitive to the presence of magic. Either way, they were prized in modern society. They could Detect the presence of magical spells in people or objects. It was also a handy talent for a doctor to have. It would serve him well when he finished medical school.

“Brett, I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice trembling. I had never been so embarrassed in my life. So okay, magic had caused me to act the way I did, but that didn’t make it any less shameful.

Brett shook his head. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Cassie. Your sister told me what happened. Running into an Attractor and a Whisper in the same day... it’s amazing you could even function without Catataxin.”

“Catataxin?”

“These,” Papa Bob broke in, rattling a little orange bottle of pills.

I smiled at him. “Since when do Voudon priests use pills?” I asked softly.

“Why not?” he retorted. “Medical doctors use magic now. Catataxin has proved pretty reliable in suppressing magic. Oh by the way, I wouldn’t try using your Pusher powers for a couple of days. It also dulls your own magical abilities.”

I looked over at Brett. “Thanks.”

“It was nothing,” he chuckled.

“Nothing?” I repeated. “The condition I was in, I would have... Well, I would have done just about anything you wanted me to do. You didn’t take advantage of me, though.” I had a sudden disturbing thought: he wasn’t gay, was he? If he wasn’t, I had just found the world’s greatest gentleman. I’m not sure if I had been in his shoes if I would have been able to resist a girl as well as he did.

“I have to admit it was very tempting,” he admitted with a guilty grin. “It isn’t every day a girl as hot as you comes on to me that way.”

“Oh, you think I’m hot, do you?” I couldn’t hide the fact that I was rather pleased about that. I was also pleased to find that he wasn’t gay.

“Absolutely.” He took my hand. “Now I just want you to get some rest and let the spell wear off. We should both just forget all about this evening. I’ll see you in class Tuesday and we’ll start all over again. Okay?”

I smiled and nodded.

“I’d try to kiss you,” he added, “but your doctor here seems to think that might trigger the spell again.”

“I’ll give you a rain check.” I hoped that wasn’t the spell talking, but I didn’t think it was. I really did like Brett. I liked him before that night’s fiasco, and now I liked him even more. He was a gentleman in the truest sense of the word. Most guys would have simply said, “Yes, ma’am,” when I asked them to go to bed with me and wouldn’t have been a bit sorry for it. Brett had rescued me from a very embarrassing situation, and I wasn’t likely to forget it.

Papa Bob stayed with me after Brett left. He was waiting for Helen to show up. I tried to get Brett to stay, but I think he wanted to avoid meeting my family on such a mortifying occasion.

Helen and Brian came in together, Helen rushing to my side. “Are you okay, Cassie?” She grabbed my hand and patted it.

“I’ll be fine,” I assured her.

“I should have stayed with you this afternoon,” Helen sighed. “If I’d known you had a date...”

“I didn’t tell you because I... well, I didn’t want to make a big deal of it,” I told her.

“Where is he?” Helen asked, looking around.

“I told him to go on home,” I lied, wishing that Brett had stayed around to meet Brian and Helen. I was sure they would like him. I know I did.

“Most guys wouldn’t have thought twice about taking advantage of you,” Helen smiled. “He must be quite a guy.”

“He is,” I assured her.

Helen gave me an appraising look, as if trying to decide if I really meant what I said or was still under the influence of the Lagrange boys. I have to admit, I wondered a little bit myself. All I knew for certain was that I wanted to see Brett again. And next time, I’d do my best not to jump him. There might come a day when I was ready to jump him, but for now, I wanted to take things slowly.

“Cassie,” Brian began, “under the circumstances, I think Helen and I should go to Le Chat Noir without you tomorrow.”

“No!”

“Look, there’s probably nothing there for us to find. It’s just one more lead we have to follow to be thorough.”

“But it’s our connection with Mama Juno,” I argued. “I want to help bring her down.”

“Whoa, Cassie,” Brian chuckled nervously. “We don’t even know if Mama Juno has anything to do with this case.”

“But it’s her style,” I shot back. “Changing males into females is one of her favorite sports.” I motioned at my own body with my slender hands as if to emphasize the point.

“It’s also the favorite sport of a couple of radical feminist groups and at least one white slavery ring,” Brian countered. “Not only that, but Mama Juno isn’t the only Voudon practitioner in the state of Louisiana, and at least half of them know how to change someone’s sex. Cassie, this isn’t just National Enquirer stuff. So much of it goes on that even the FBM can’t keep a lid on it anymore.”

“Even though there’s something of a connection between the Lagrange family and Mama Juno, I don’t think she’d create a powerful enemy just because Mr. Lagrange chose not to do business with her,” Helen added.

“But you don’t have any other leads, do you?” I asked.

“No,” Brian admitted, “but this isn’t like television. Clue A doesn’t always lead to B and then C. We might get half a dozen Clue A’s before one of them pans out. Remember, Cassie, we’re working on a number of cases right now, so it takes time to check everything out. We may not get a lead that pans out on this case for weeks.”

I could see Brian and Helen weren’t going to give ground on this. From their perspective, I could see their point. They had asked me to help out by achieving a rapport with Stephen Lagrange, given that I had had the misfortune to go through the same sexual transformation he was currently experiencing. It hadn’t worked out, and I had nearly been spelled into having sex with just about anyone who would want me.

“All right,” I sighed. “You win.”

Brian and Helen looked relieved. They wouldn’t have been quite so pleased if they had known what I was thinking, though.

Helen spent the night with me. I guess she was afraid I’d have a relapse and go out for a little midnight trolling for men. Fat chance of that, though. Papa Bob had assured us that the Catataxin would suppress any unwanted sexual desires until the spell had run its course. Without reinforcement, Whisperer spells tended to wear off in no more than two days, and according to Papa Bob, an Attractor spell lasted less than a day.

In fact, I don’t think I would have been ensorcelled even without the Catataxin. Now that I knew what had been done to me, I was sure I could fend off the spells without any help. Just to be sure though, I dutifully took my Catataxin every eight hours.

Brian picked up Helen just before I left for classes. The two lovebirds had a busy case load set up for the week, and they assured me once again that the trip to Le Chat Noir would be short, sweet, and probably unproductive. It was just one more detail that had to be checked out.

I wished them well, but didn’t let on what I was planning. When Brian and Helen had cut me out of the call on Le Chat Noir, I decided to go directly to Mama Juno herself. There’d be no beating around the bush for yours truly: I intended to ask Mama Juno directly about Stephen Lagrange.

Okay, so it wasn’t the brightest thing for me to do. The last time I had tried to contact Marie Dubois, alias Mama Juno, her son Pierre, had tried to set me on the path of prostitution and nearly succeeded. The smartest course of action for me would to have avoided her and her family completely. But I just couldn’t do that. I owed Mama Juno big time, and I wasn’t going to be happy until she and her perverted offspring were cooling their heels in one of Louisiana’s finest penal institutions.

I was certain in my own mind that Mama Juno had spelled Stephen Lagrange. It just made sense to me. Just as my father stood in her way, the elder William Lagrange now had crossed her path. While I doubted that Stephen’s father would have the same sexual proclivities as my father, I had no doubt that changing the younger Lagrange son into a girl was part of one of Mama Juno’s convoluted plans. She may have even known Stephen was an Attractor. If so, he would make an excellent target for Pierre’s little whore-making operation. While there was nothing I could do to keep Stephen Lagrange out of heels and skirts, I could at least see that Mama Juno and her gang were held accountable this time.

My head was filled with visions of what Mr. Lagrange would do to her. He wasn’t running for governor as my father was, so there’d be no cover-up this time. I tried to imagine all of us in a courtroom with me smirking as the jury foreman pronounced a sullen Mama Juno and her miserable offspring to long, long prison sentences. Can you say “payback”?

I thought about taking Brett with me as sort of a bodyguard. I decided against it though, for two reasons. First of all, I didn’t want to put him in danger. I was just starting to like the guy, and exposing him to Mama Juno wasn’t something one did to someone she liked.

Also, I didn’t want Mama Juno spilling the beans about my previous life. If things got serious between Brett and me, I’d have to tell him who I had once been and let him decide if he wanted anything to do with a girl who was a former man. But the time for that was later, not now. At the moment, we didn’t exactly have a relationship, so I didn’t think it was necessary to tell him who I been. I had a funny feeling though, that the day to tell him might be sooner than I expected: it just wasn’t now.

So after classes, I struck out for the innocuous antique store on Magazine that fronted for Mama Juno’s headquarters, determined to get the goods on the woman who had so drastically changed my life.

I wasn’t a complete fool though. As I parked my car about a block away from Mama Juno’s, I called Helen to tell her what I was up to. “Hi, Helen.”

“Cassie? Are you all right?”

“How was Le Chat Noir?” I asked casually.

“Just as we feared,” she replied. “It’s a dead end. Stephen was probably spelled there, but no one seems to remember him. According to the manager, it isn’t the first time somebody has ended up getting his sex changed after a run in with the wrong girl–or guy.”

“And you believe him?”

“Cassie, I know how much you’d like to tie Mama Juno to all of this, but it’s really a reach. Sure, she owns the club. The manager was up front about that. But he said he’s free to run the club as he sees fit just as long as it makes its profit targets. He claims he only sees Mama or her son once a month or so.”

“Well, I’m going to see what Mama Juno has to say for herself.”

“What?”

“I’m there now,” I sang out. “Bye.”

Okay, so it wasn’t fair to be so cavalier with Helen, but I wasn’t about to be cut off from the case. Mama Juno, look out!

I have to admit I wasn’t quite as confident when I tried to stroll casually into the antique store that housed Mama’s offices. The last time I had approached the store, I had been thwarted by the presence of a couple of FBM agents who had staked it out looking for me. At that time, I had been in the throes of my transformation–half male and half female. I had been a frightened girl–or nearly a girl–and those memories surfaced now, causing my confidence to falter.

To the casual shopper, Mama Juno’s store was just one more store selling bits and pieces of Southern memorabilia passed off as valuable antiques. Magazine Street was littered with similar stores, some more impressive and some less. Once inside, the smell of old assaulted the senses, and dim lighting acted to prevent fading and disguise flaws in the musty furniture and accessories displayed haphazardly across the floor.

The salesman smiled when he saw me. I was dressed once again in my suit, so I must have looked like a young, affluent woman, probably looking for just the right piece to compliment the furnishings of my new condo. He was also African-American and not a lot older than me, so even if he couldn’t sell me the right piece, perhaps he could sell me on himself–or so he hoped.

“Can I help you?”

It was now or never. I sighed to compose myself and said, “My name is Cassandra Davis. I’m looking for Marie Dubois.”

He frowned. It was then that I realized his duties probably encompassed far more than the sale of old furniture. “I’m sorry... Marie Dubois?”

“Mama Juno,” I clarified. “I know this is where her office is. I want to see her.” It was hard to sound commanding when the man I was speaking to was obviously capable of physically knocking me into next week. In my favor though, was that if I handled the situation correctly, he might conclude that I actually did have valid business with Mama Juno. I was suddenly happy to be black, for I doubted if many white people ever got in to see her unless they were specifically invited. African-Americans, on the other hand, knew of Mama Juno’s powers and often sought her help for potions and spells.

Whatever criteria the man used to determine who got to see Mama Juno, I apparently passed the test. His frown softened just a bit. “Wait just a moment,” he told me, slipping behind a curtain at the rear of the store.

As I waited, my confidence eroded still further. I was alone in Mama Juno’s showroom, but I was sure I was being watched. I suddenly realized that while Mama Juno had never seen me as a complete female, her son had. If he was back behind that curtain, he might recognize me. I had considered the possibility before, but thought it was very unlikely that he would connect the young professional woman who waited in the showroom with the bedraggled creature he had forced to give him a blowjob in a cheap hotel room several months ago. But what if he did recognize me...?

“Mama Juno will see you now.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin. I hadn’t heard the salesman/guard come back into the room. I caught my breath enough to mutter a nervous thank you.

As I stepped through the curtains, I had been expecting something out of a Gothic thriller, complete with dark shadows, eerie red eyes staring out of the gloom, and maybe a couple of bats and spider webs for good measure. Imagine my disappointment (or possibly relief) as I was ushered down a subtly-lit but modern hallway, festooned with modern art and a deep pile carpet. The door to Mama Juno’s office was made from inlaid wood, but no magical symbols or totems marred its surface.

“Please come in, Ms. Davis,” a warm, husky voice called out.

Mama Juno sat confidently behind a desk which would have made the CEO of a Fortune 500 company envious. While the lighting in the room was soft and a little dark for my comfort, her desk was bathed in the warm glow of an expensive desk lamp with a translucent green shade. It bathed her face in the warm light, causing her dark brown eyes to twinkle and her white teeth to glisten.

I had only met Mama Juno once, and the memories of the meeting had been enough to force me to suppress a shudder. She was the last woman I made love to as a man, if being tied to a table and forcibly ridden by the older woman could be termed ‘making love.’ The act had been the catalyst to set me on the unwanted path to womanhood.

I had remembered her as being attractive though, and nothing I now saw changed that opinion. She wore a bright and obviously expensive green dress which dipped in front to display the beginnings of magnificent breasts. Her short hair exposed a pair of expensive earrings, dangling down from two nearly-perfect ears. Her skin was somewhat darker than mine, but her features were more Caucasian than Negroid.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asked politely as I approached her desk.

“No... no thank you,” I replied. Actually, I would have loved a glass of water, but I was very reluctant to drink or eat anything Mama Juno provided.

“Then please be seated.”

I did so, carefully crossing my legs and smoothing my skirt as Helen had taught me. I felt Mama Juno’s eyes following me as I completed my feminine pose.

Mama Juno folded her hands and stared at me, not unkindly. “Now, what can I do for you today, my dear?”

“My name is Cassie Davis,” I said as crisply as I could, “and I work with Wallace and Associates, a private investigative firm.” Notice I didn’t exactly lie, but I was hoping she’d believe I was a licensed investigator. I suppose that was too much to hope for since I looked age-wise more like a high school cheerleader.

“And what can I do for you, Ms. Davis?” Mama asked smoothly.

“We’re looking into a magical assault on Stephen Lagrange, the son of William Lagrange III,” I told her, watching her face for any reaction, but there was none.

“Aren’t magical assault cases the purview of the FBM?”

“Well, yes,” I admitted, “but Mr. Williams’ client is adverse to publicity.”

“I can well imagine,” Mama commented, leaning back and favoring me with a feline smile. “Old Billy Lagrange never did like publicity.”

Aha! “So you know him?”

“Of course I know him, girl!” she laughed. “Everybody who is anybody in New Orleans knows Billy Lagrange–and those two worthless sons of his, too. They chase after more poontang than their old man did when he was a boy.”

Since a good number of the whores in New Orleans worked either directly or indirectly for Mama Juno, she was certainly in a position to know.

“Mama... Ms. Dubois, do you know anything about the spell placed on Stephen Lagrange?” There. It was out in the open now.

“So that’s why you’re here.”

“We believe the spell was put on him at Le Chat Noir. That is one of your clubs, isn’t it?”

She leaned forward, her eyes drilling into me, and for just a moment, I felt a sudden urge to run from the room. But somehow I held my ground, staring back at her. “Isn’t it?” I managed to repeat.

Mama relaxed, leaning back again. “You know it is, girl. Is that where they placed the spell on him? Hell, somebody gets spelled in one of my clubs just about every night, but usually not by me. What did they do, child–make him so he can’t get it up anymore?”

I shifted my eyes away from her. Yeah, they had done that–and a whole lot more.

Mama laughed again. “Oh my! I can see it in your expression. They changed his sex, didn’t they? Nasty old Stephen Stay-Hard got himself a brand new cunt! Oh, that is just too, too good!”

“You... you’re saying you didn’t have anything to do with it?” I asked, just a little timidly. This wasn’t going the way I expected at all. I expected Mama Juno to deny even knowing the Lagrange family. Instead, she admitted knowing them and from her reaction had no idea until now what had happened to Stephen. Unlike a guilty person, whom I would have thought would feign shock to throw suspicion off herself, Mama was obviously delighted with what had happened to Stephen. “But your agents approached Mr. Lagrange...”

“About shipping something for us?” Mama broke in, throwing me off stride once more. “Is that why the old bastard thought we had something to do with his son? Don’t be silly, girl! Things don’t work like that. Old Billy and I have done business before and we’ll do it again. We have alternate channels of distribution already in place. I just offered Billy a piece of the business as one old friend to another.”

“Mr. Lagrange doesn’t seem like the sort of man who’d number you among his friends,” I snapped.

“Why?” Mama looked genuinely amused. “Because I deal in shady stuff? Or because I’m black? Let me tell you girl, Billy’s every bit as shady as I am: he just hides it better. As for me being black, well certainly if Billy had his way all of us darkies would be out in da fields a’picken cotton fo’ him and a’singen’ them gospels fo’ all we’s worth. But he doesn’t have his way, girl, and as long as we can make money for each other, we don’t care what color each other’s skin is. That’s just the way it is here in New Orleans, girl!”

“Uh...” I stammered, “do you have any idea who would want to do this to him?”

“Sure,” she giggled, “ask just about half the female population of New Orleans–and their husbands and boyfriends. You’ve got a case here where it might be easier to decide who didn’t have a motive to change Stephen–and his brother for that matter. Now if there’s nothing else, I need to get back to work.”

“No,” I sighed, crestfallen as I rose out of the chair. “Thank you for seeing me.” I turned to go.

“Oh, Ms. Davis?” Mama called after me.

I turned back to her. “Yes?”

She looked me over carefully. “I can see now why our plot to get at your father through you didn’t work. You’ve got a lot more balls than he does.”

I flushed, realizing she had known who I was all along. “Not anymore, thanks to you,” I mumbled, and left without another word.

Brian was on the sales floor when I stepped back through the curtain. He was nose to nose with the salesman/guard, and from the looks each man was giving the other, things were about to turn violent. I got the idea Brian had just been told that Mama Juno did not wish to be disturbed, and Brian was prepared to do a lot of disturbing.

“Cassie!” Helen called out, pulling her empty hand out of her purse. I got the distinct feel she had a gun in there and was prepared to back Brian up with it if need be.

“What’s going on?” I asked innocently.

Brian was still staring at his adversary, but he grumbled, “Let’s get out of here. We got what we came for.”

They hustled me back to the car, Helen climbing in the back seat with me. “Just what were you trying to accomplish, girl?” Helen asked as Brian pulled away from the curb.

“I thought Mama Juno was involved in this case,” I sighed. “In fact, I was sure of it.”

“But now you don’t think so?”

I shook my head. Then I related my entire conversation with Mama.

“You’re just damned lucky her son wasn’t there,” Brian called out. “He owes you for the trouble you caused him.”

“He beat the sexual assault charge, didn’t he?” I shot back bitterly. He had forced me to have oral sex with him and should have been punished for it, but a sharp lawyer and a crooked Assistant DA had gotten the charges reduced to harassment and covered by a modest fine.

“Damn it, Cassie,” Brian returned, “you just won’t rest until Mama Juno and her son are behind bars, will you?”

“No.”

“Honey,” Helen began, wiping away a couple of tears of frustration which had welled up around my eyes, “Mama Juno had nothing to do with Stephen’s transformation. We already were sure of that.”

“Then why did you let Mr. Lagrange practically accuse her of doing this to his son?” I wanted to know.

Brian looked back at Helen for a moment while she looked at him. It was as if they had communicated without speaking. I suppose it was possible that they did. Both Brian and Helen were classified as Nonspecific Omni–magical users of ‘varying’ talents, one of which could easily have been telepathy. At last Brian nodded for Helen to continue.

“William Lagrange was lying when he said he had never met Mama Juno,” Helen told me.

“I thought so before I went to see her, and she confirmed it,” I said.

“Wait, there’s more. When William Lagrange was younger, he had a mistress–a black mistress.”

I sighed, “Why is it that all these middle-aged rich Southern white guys have black mistresses?” White guys like my father, I could have added.

Helen shrugged. “I don’t know, I think it’s something of a yearning for what they see as the ‘good old days’ when African-Americans were called colored folks...”

“Or worse,” Brian broke in.

“Or worse,” Helen agreed. “In any case, it makes them feel like they’re old plantation owners with life and death power over their slaves.”

“That’s sick,” I interjected. “I was never like that.”

“No, you weren’t,” Helen nodded. “But you and your contemporaries are a new generation. You grew up without segregated schools and race riots and people like Lester Maddox and George Wallace. Your father, and a lot of fathers in New Orleans just like him, can remember the tail end of white supremacy as a way of life in the South. They feel they’ve lost the power wielded by their fathers and grandfathers.”

“And having a young black mistress will make them feel better?” I asked angrily, realizing certainly not for the first time that I was now a prime target for such men.

“Let’s just say it gives them the illusion of power,” Helen countered. “In any case, William Lagrange’s black mistress was Marie Dubois.”

“Oh God, no!”

“Why do you think her son is named Pierre?” Helen asked, and then answered her own question, “He was named for his natural father–William Pierre Lagrange III.”

I suddenly realized I had been a fool. Brian and Helen had worked on dozens of cases before and were working on dozens of others right now. They knew what they were doing and had a perfectly good reason for not going to see Mama Juno. I, on the other hand, had been asked to try to relate to Stephen–an assignment at which I had failed miserably. Then, seeking revenge of my own, I had struck out after Mama Juno, convinced that I could somehow get her to confess to transforming Stephen. I was being used as an unwitting pawn once more, but this time by one of Brian’s clients.

“Mr. Lagrange is trying to implicate Mama Juno, isn’t he?” I asked softly.

Helen nodded. “We think so. He may even believe she’s involved. Since his marriage, he’s become a real born-again type, convinced that all magic is evil and that those who practice it are capable of just about anything. But we also think he’s wrong: Mama Juno never does anything strictly out of revenge.”

I thought of my own situation. She had tried to make me believe I was being changed out of revenge, but her actions had just been part of a larger plot to discredit my father and increase her power inside the FBM.

“So why even follow up the lead at Le Chat Noir?”

“Because we believe Stephen was right about the spell being placed on him there,” Brian explained. “In the last two months, there have been seven men transformed into women after a visit to Le Chat Noir. None of the cases have been solved, though.”

“I don’t remember seeing anything about that in the papers,” I pointed out. And believe me, I looked for any articles on sexual transformations. While I had given up any hope of ever being male again, I had a morbid interest in the incidents. I suppose misery loves company after all.

“The FBM hushed them up,” Helen told me. “They can’t hide the fact that magical sexual transformation is possible anymore, but they do like to keep the stories as quiet as possible. They say it’s to protect the victims and their families, but that’s just part of it. They don’t want to start a panic. Now that AIDS has been magically cured, sex changes are the closest thing to sexually-transmitted diseases we have, and the media would have a collective orgasm if they knew how many cases there are every year.”

I suddenly remembered I had parked back on Magazine. “Hey, I need to pick up my car.”

“We’ll drop you after we visit the Lagrange family again,” Brian promised.

“Huh?”

“Brian thought it would be a good idea to let you tag along with us on this case,” Helen explained. “Once you see how things should be handled, maybe next time you help us you won’t go off half-cocked.”

I just nodded my head. I was too drained to protest, and I really wasn’t in a frame of mind to go back to my place and read tort law. Besides, I was curious as to how they would manage to solve this case. Personally, with Mama Juno out of the picture, I didn’t have any idea how they were going to catch Stephen’s assailant. There didn’t seem to be a useable clue in sight.

William Lagrange III was waiting to see us in the same room he had received us in before, and the gentleman did not look happy. I was a little taken aback by his demeanor, but Brian and Helen looked calm and collected in the face of what would likely be a verbal barrage.

“I’d like to know why you haven’t made any progress on this case,” he said bluntly. “You’ve had time to investigate Marie Dubois by now!”

“And we have,” Brian broke in before Mr. Lagrange got any redder in the face. “We interviewed potential witnesses at Le Chat Noir, and Ms. Davis here personally interviewed Marie Dubois.”

I flushed a little. At least something good came out of my foolish adventure. Brian was able to make it sound as if I had acted under his direction.

“And?”

Now it was Brian’s turn to look displeased. “And we ascertained that there was no reasonable connection between Ms. Dubois and what happened to your son. Mr. Lagrange, the fact that you turned down a business deal wasn’t the real reason you thought she was involved, was it?”

“What are you insinuating?”

“Isn’t it true that Marie Dubois was your mistress?” Brian pressed.

I thought Mr. Lagrange was going to have a stroke. “How dare you!”

“And,” Brian continued calmly, “that Pierre Dubois is, in fact, your son?”

I could see the conflict in our client’s mind: it didn’t take any magical power to understand what was going on in there. His first impulse was to deny Brian’s accusations, but I think he realized that Brian could not be bullied. He seemed to wilt, the anger leaving his face, replaced by deep embarrassment.

It was time for Brian to throw him a bone. “We were however, able to determine that in all likelihood, your son was spelled at Le Chat Noir as he suspected. However, there appears to be no connection to Mama–to Marie Dubois.”

“I thought she was angry with me,” Mr. Lagrange muttered, “angry enough to do this to my son.” Then the stern look returned. “But if she didn’t do this, who did?”

“Mr. Lagrange,” Helen began, “are you aware that Stephen has quite a reputation as a... ladies’ man?”

He nodded. “Of course I’m aware. He’s handsome, charming, rich... what girl wouldn’t be interested in him?”

“And you’re aware that he is an Attractor?” she asked.

“Stephen doesn’t need magic to attract girls,” he scoffed. “While I’ll grant that both of my sons do have some magical ability, they have sworn to me that they won’t use those foul powers.”

“I’d like to see Stephen,” Brian interjected.

“That’s not possible.”

As if to emphasize that the moment might be difficult, a very feminine scream emanated from the direction of Stephen’s bedroom. Moments later, a naked girl ran into the room, followed closely by William IV and a small, wiry man carrying a hypodermic needle. “I don’t want a shot!” the naked girl screamed.

“What’s going on here?” Mr. Lagrange demanded.

“Dr. Camden was about to give him a shot to calm him down,” William IV explained, catching his breath. “Then Stephen did something to him–he took off his robe and Dr. Camden just froze.”

He was frozen again, it seemed, staring with his mouth open at what had to be one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen. The naked girl who had been Stephen Lagrange was perfect in every imaginable way. Long blonde curls framed a perfect face accented with the bluest eyes I had ever gazed into. Her breasts were full and perfectly formed, ending in delicate pink nipples that seemed permanently erect. Her waist and hips were magnificent, leading down to two long legs that would leave any man who saw them absolutely awestruck. She was so gorgeous that just for a moment, I remembered what it felt like to be a man. Then that feeling was replaced with something akin to jealousy as my new womanly brain kicked in. Sure, I was good looking, but the young woman who had once been Stephen Lagrange was positively stunning.

She turned her head suddenly, blonde curls brushing over those wonderful nipples. She was staring at Brian, and her mouth turned into a cunning smile as Brian seemed to freeze, his eyes locked on hers.

“Cassie, give me a hand!” Helen called out, suddenly standing between Brian and the new woman.

I too, was frozen, but for a different reason than Brian. The last time I had seen Stephen, his Attractor powers, coupled with William IV’s Whispering, had nearly caused me to sexually assault Brett. I didn’t want to fall under his spell again. But then I realized that there was no chance of that now. Stephen had become a woman, and her Attractor powers were no longer aimed at me. It was probable that whatever triggered the effect was based on pheromones, and Stephen’s pheromones had changed from male to female along with the rest of her. I was immune!

Helen and I dived for Stephen, each taking an arm and pulling her toward the doctor. We had expected him to give the shot to the distraught woman, but like Brian, he was practically frozen in place.

“Give that to me!” William IV commanded, his Whisper requiring an immediate response from the doctor. Then, with a deft move that made me wonder if William IV was a user of injected recreational drugs, he slipped the needle into Stephen’s smooth, feminine arm. Her struggles ceased quickly, starting as a quiver in her arm and ending with a tired sigh as she became limp in our grasp.

“I’ll take her now,” he said, handing the hypodermic back to the sluggish doctor.

It wasn’t a Whisper, so I continued to hold on while Helen relinquished the other arm to William. “I can handle her,” he told me.

“Let me help,” I returned. He looked at me and nodded, and between the two of us, we managed to get Stephen back into his room and lay him on the bed.

“How long has she been like this?” I asked as we looked down on her sleeping form.

“She woke us this morning, all girl,” William said dully. “At first, we didn’t realize what had happened to her power. She was upset of course, finding herself completely female, but with just family and a maid around, she seemed to be holding it together. Then Howard came in to bring her an early lunch and... things changed.”

“Changed? How?”

“Howard froze just like your friend did a few minutes ago,” William explained. “And Stephen started getting worked up.” He shuddered. “It was like watching a woman have an orgasm. She started moaning, and Howard started walking toward her, sort of like a zombie. He was starting to undo his pants when father and I stopped him.”

I felt like shuddering myself. As a male, Stephen’s Attractor power had been strong–I knew that from personal experience–but it was controlled. Growing up male, he had undoubtedly come by the power slowly and naturally. Now, changed into a female, she was no longer completely in tune with her body. Whatever sexual needs Stephen had felt as a young man had been multiplied and unleashed in this feminine form.

“But why didn’t he affect you–or your father, for that matter?” I asked.

William shrugged. “I’m not sure, but I think family members are somehow immune from his–her–power. At least that makes sense. My power doesn’t seem to affect family members.”

I noticed he didn’t admit to being a Whisperer. Few did. Once someone was alerted to a Whisperer’s power, the magical effects seemed to be negligent. It was only when a victim was unaware of a Whisperer’s power–or distracted as I had been by Stephen’s strong Attractor power–that the magical power had much influence.

“Maybe Stephen will learn to control her power,” I suggested.

William shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I’ve done a little research since Stephen became an Attractor. The power is mild right after puberty but builds up over time. By the time an Attractor is eighteen–Stephen’s age–it’s practically autonomic. It can become more intense if the Attractor is really drawn to his or her prey, but it’s always there.”

I looked down at the sleeping girl. “I feel sorry for her.” I did, too. By all indications, Stephen had been as big an ass as his brother, but no one deserved what he, or rather now she, was going through.

“You look tired,” William said soothingly, breaking the mood. “You’d probably be more comfortable in my room.”

This time, I was ready for him. I detected the almost echoing force of his voice and was certain I would not be more comfortable in William’s room. Still I smiled sweetly at him, remembering now what an ass I had always considered him to be. “I’m on Catataxin.”

His face fell. “You are?”

“You know, William,” I went on, “you’re an ass. Here your brother lies after being changed into a girl with seemingly unquenchable urges, and all you can think about is getting me into your room. What would happen after that? Would you try to convince me that I’d be much more comfortable without my clothes on?”

He didn’t answer, but the expression on his face told me that I had hit the mark.

“So Stephen can’t control his power, but you can. I’ve never known a Whisperer yet that couldn’t control his power if he really wanted to. How many girls have you coaxed into bed with your power?”

“A damned sight fewer than Stephen!” he shot back.

“That doesn’t count,” I told him. “I thought you said he couldn’t control his power.”

“He can’t turn it on and off,” William agreed, “but he can direct it. There were plenty of girls who would have gone to bed with Stephen, but he always wanted ones who didn’t want him. He’s always been perverse like that. Ask any girl he knew. They’ll tell you that I’m right.”

“I think I need to get back to my associates now,” I said primly.

Begrudgingly, William nodded and led me out of the room.

William was silent as he escorted me back to the drawing room, for which I was very grateful. I was tired of warding off his Whispering, and his protestations of innocence were wearing thin. It did give me a few moments to think about what he had said regarding Stephen, though.

If Stephen was as William said–that is, perverse enough to only be interested in girls who were not naturally interested in him–then he was for all practical purposes a rapist. Wasn’t that, after all, essentially the definition of a rapist–someone who forces sexual attentions on an unwilling individual?

Now that I was a woman, I was much more sensitive to what constituted rape than I had been as a man. Most men define rape fairly narrowly, requiring that overt and unwilling sexual penetration be evident. As a law student, I was well aware that many judges would have essentially agreed with that narrow definition.

Women though, define rape a little more broadly, asserting that mental coercion rather than physical force could be a legitimate criteria for rape. Using that definition, what Pierre Dubois had done to me a few months earlier, forcing me to have oral sex with him, was just as much rape as the more physically overt variety. I certainly felt that I had been raped, and while I had filed charges against my assailant, many women couldn’t bring themselves to do so.

Getting back to Stephen though, any girl forced by his magical powers to have sex with him would undoubtedly consider that she had been raped once the spell had worn off, wouldn’t she? And a girl who had been raped was bound to want revenge. All we had to do was determine what girls Stephen had Attracted and look for one of them who had the means as well as the motive to change him.

I smiled to myself. I was rather proud of myself. I was thinking like a real detective now. That didn’t mean I had given up on getting my revenge on Mama Juno, but I had to admit to myself that any link she had to this case was probably circumstantial. Mama Juno would have to wait for another time though. Right now, I had a case to help solve.

“Cassie, good, you’re back,” Brian said when he spotted me. “We need your help.”

“Sure!” I chirped happily. I could hardly wait to tell him what I had deduced. I sat down on the sofa next to Helen.

“How is Stephen?” the elder Lagrange asked.

“Asleep,” William answered for me.

His father nodded.

“Cassie,” Brian began, “we’ve come to the conclusion that Stephen has... convinced a number of girls to have sex with him, using his powers.” He was choosing his words carefully so as not to set Mr. Lagrange off. With the older man’s distaste for magic and probable reluctance to admit to any wrongdoing on the part of his son, that was probably wise. “We believe one of these girl may have had the motive and the means to do this to him.”

I was a little crestfallen. Brian and Helen had come to the same conclusion. It seemed I was once more a step behind them.

“We think we may be able to lay a trap for whoever did this to Stephen,” Helen interjected.

Helen and Brian were looking intently at me. Something told me they had a part for me in their little trap. “Okay, what is it you want me to do?”

“Mr. Lagrange is having a big party here at the house Saturday evening,” Brian explained. “A number of young women Stephen knows will be in attendance with their families. It will be announced that Stephen is ill–too ill to see anyone and certainly too ill to attend the party or receive guests.”

“If one of the guests had anything to do with Stephen’s curse,” Helen went on, “he or she will probably want to see how the transformation came out. We’ll have people posted throughout the party to listen and watch for anything suspicious.”

“It’s kind of a long shot, isn’t it?” I blurted out, sorry that I said it once I noticed the pained expressions on everyone’s faces.

“Whoever did this to my son has covered his tracks well,” Mr. Lagrange sighed in resignation. As Brian started to say something, the elder Lagrange cut him off, “I’m not displeased with your work, Mr. Wallace. I doubt if anyone else would have had any better luck, given that Mama Juno doesn’t seem to be involved.”

I was surprised to hear him say that. I had a sneaky hunch he had been in touch with his old mistress, and she had somehow convinced him of her innocence in the affair before we had even showed up. I doubted if anything Brian or Helen had said would have convinced him without confirmation from Mama Juno herself.

As for Brian’s accusations regarding his mistress and possible illegitimate son, it appeared that he and Brian had come to an accommodation over that which would prevent talk of it from ever happening again.

Brian, emboldened by Mr. Lagrange’s words said, “I still think you should get professional help for Stephen.”

Mr. Lagrange cocked an eyebrow. “You mean magical help, don’t you?”

“There’s no disgrace in it,” Helen assured him. “The Morley Magical Research Center at the University of Colorado has helped many people with magical afflictions.”

“Or if you’d rather use a more private facility, the Carson Clinic in Nashville has a fine reputation,” Brian added.

Carson Clinic? Brett told me his father was a doctor in Nashville. Could it be the same Carson? I’d have to ask Brett.

“I’m not going to let some half-baked ‘wizard’ experiment on my son. He’ll get all the medical–and I emphasize ‘medical’–help he needs right here.”

Denial was a sad, sad thing to watch.

“Now,” Mr. Lagrange said gruffly, “let’s get back to Saturday’s party.”

Brian nodded and turned to me. “Cassie, we’d appreciate it if you’d be inside the party.”

“Sure,” I replied, thinking about what a pain it would be to get all dolled up as a young woman for the affair. Silly me. It only took a moment for me to realize I wasn’t going in dressed as a guest.

“The catering company will provide your uniform,” Brian went on. “It’s been arranged that you’ll be picking up empty glasses and plates. It’s the grunt job, but no one will be talking to you much or even paying attention to you and you’ll be able to listen unobserved.”

Suddenly, the idea of getting all dolled up as a woman for the party sounded like a pretty good idea. Of course, the Lagrange family wasn’t likely to have many African-American guests at one of their private parties, unless it happened to be the Mayor of New Orleans or someone of similar stature. Instead, I was supposed to be the hired help, offering a reminder of an era when black servants weren’t exactly hired.

“Thanks a lot,” I grumbled once we were back in the car. “Should I practice saying ‘yassuh, Mistah Lagrange’ as well?”

“Oh don’t take it like that,” Helen chided me. “We had to have someone inside during the party. Brian and I would be too conspicuous. The caterer hires mostly young college students.”

“Students of a certain color,” I amended.

Helen nodded. “Yes. Most if not all of them are African-American. Are you offended?”

Was I? Not exactly. It’s just that every now and then, I longed for my old life–my old male life of privilege and position. With my change of race and change of sex, I had dropped several rungs on the ladder of importance in a city where fine family history was a gateway to power and wealth. I wasn’t so much offended as I was feeling sorry for myself.

“Look, Cassie,” Brian broke into my silence, “we really appreciate all of your help.”

“I haven’t done that much,” I protested.

“Yes you have. You’ve added significant insight on this case. You’re the one I really want to have inside during the party. You’re smart, capable, and if anyone can find the perp at the party, it’s you.”

So I felt a little better as they dropped me off at my place. Although I wasn’t happy with being forced to play the maid, I was at least convinced that I would be one of if not the most important individuals covering the party.

Of course, I was still miffed with the fact that I would have to be a maid rather than one of the guests. I knew from personal experience that there were prominent families in New Orleans who would think nothing of inviting equally-prominent African-Americans to their parties. But families like the Lagranges weren’t among them. Although not as obviously prejudiced as the typical redneck mumbling about how all the black folks were taking all the good jobs and drawing too much in welfare (which had always struck me as something of a contradiction), people like William Lagrange would never be comfortable seeing anyone with dark skin as anything more than a servant or other menial worker. Hiring Brian had been necessary only because he had thought Mama Juno was involved, and in his mind, it took an African-American to catch an African-American.

I found myself wishing that someone like William Lagrange could have the experience I had been given–to be a ‘woman of color.’ It might do him good. Of course, it was difficult enough for someone like me: if someone like William Lagrange were to suddenly find himself ‘reduced’ to my sex and color, the shock would probably be fatal. I, at least, had been pretty tolerant of different racial and cultural groups. Going to Harvard had certainly broadened my perspective on those issues.

I got out of my good clothes and slipped into my pajamas–a comfortable and fairly unisex set with a short-sleeved top and short boxer bottoms. Or at least they would have been unisex if not for the white lace and pastel yellow color. Then, I heated up some soup and selected my Theory of Magic text to read the next day’s assignment. It felt good to get back to my studies, so I was quickly absorbed with the text.

Once I had finished the section and before I got into some of my legal readings for the evening, I sneaked a look at what the text had to say about Attractors. There wasn’t much, but what I did find was unsettling. It seemed being given Attractor power wasn’t so much a gift as it was a curse. The gist of it was that Attractors were almost always dangerous to themselves and others. Male Attractors invariably thought women to be nothing more than sex objects, and female Attractors were sluts at best and downright whores at worst. In other words, the text confirmed what Brian and Helen had told me about Attractors.

The text speculated that prior to the advent of magic, some sexual predators probably had latent Attractor powers. There were well-documented cases prior to measurable magical abilities of men who were inexplicably able to attract, sexually assault, and kill female victims again and again. It may have been due to a weak magical virus predating the work of Webster and Kline. Of course, such predators were usually men. Women with latent Attractor powers were usually remembered as high school sluts and the like. In any case, since the advent of strong magical powers, the text concluded that nearly all Attractors had to be eventually institutionalized, both for their own good and the good of those around them.

I tried to imagine what Stephen’s life must have been like before his transformation. By all accounts, he was a sexual predator. While he didn’t kill his victims, I suspected he used his power to coax unwilling girls–girls who under normal circumstances were not attracted to him–into his bed on a regular basis.

I tried to imagine what it must have been like for those girls. It was easier to do given that I was now a girl myself–a girl who had been forced to perform a sexual act against her will. I remembered the disgust and guilt I felt after Pierre had forced me to give him a blowjob. But Stephen wouldn’t have stopped with just blowjobs. What acts of sexual depravity had he forced young women into, and how many of them would have had ample reason to seek revenge on Stephen? The potential answer was mind-boggling.

Nothing was said in the text about Attractors whose sex had been changed. Of course, the FBM had done its best to keep any references to magical sex changes out of texts. Maybe that was the reason. Or maybe it had never happened before. After all, there were few incidents of magical sex changes, in spite of their growing numbers, and there were even fewer Attractors. Whatever the number, there seemed little doubt that Stephen’s Attractor power would increase dramatically now that she was female. It was the general rule. My own powers had certainly increased when I became a woman.

I closed the book, reluctantly selecting one of my law books for the evening’s case reading. I didn’t have any more time to speculate on Attractors, but I made a mental note to ask Professor Sanderson about them after class the next day.

I awoke the next morning with a very odd feeling in my body. Like most people, I don’t remember many of my dreams, but I did remember at least the more important parts of the one I had experienced just before waking up. The dream was strange in that I generally dreamed I was my old male self. I suppose the world could be fooled by my feminine exterior, but my subconscious remembered my male self very well. Not so in this dream, though.

Once again, I dreamed I was a woman–the woman that I had, in fact, become. I could feel my long hair–even longer in the dream, it seemed. I could see my breasts and even feel them tingle, and I could feel my vaginal area as well, dampening as a tall, handsome man entered my dreams.

It was Brett, I realized, standing before me. He was smiling and wearing only a pair of navy boxers. I could feel myself getting even damper, until...

I woke up.

Damn! I knew men could experience nocturnal emissions, but until that day, I had never realized women could have an equivalent experience. Now I had had an orgasm in my sleep twice in twenty-four hours. My boxers were, indeed, wet from where they had bunched against my crotch, and I smelled of sex. It was the image of Brett that had aroused me, I realized, and wondered if my subconscious was aware of something that had eluded me.

Oh, I liked Brett. I won’t deny that for a moment. But I didn’t think I was that intensely attracted to him. Maybe it was the aftermath of the spells I had suffered on Sunday. Yes, it had to be that.

As I got out of bed, I realized I would have to face Brett in class that afternoon. I wasn’t looking forward to it. He hadn’t called me since he had left me in Papa Bob’s care. I didn’t know if that was good or bad. Maybe he was just giving me some space, or maybe I had scared him out of his wits with my antics. Today, I’d find out.

Although I will admit men were starting to look attractive to me, I had never focused on one before. So by all rights, I shouldn’t have cared what Brett thought of me or if he ever wanted to see me again. But I did care. That didn’t mean I wanted to jump in bed with him: I was still embarrassed that I had tried to jump him while under the influence of the spells and had no desire to go to bed with Brett or any other man.

But in spite of that, I found I did want to see Brett again -and not just in the classroom. He was bright, handsome (okay, yes, I noticed), and charming. I felt safe with him as well. He was the perfect guy for me to date, given that he didn’t demand more from me than I was willing to give. Well, in just a few hours, I’d find out if my perfect guy ever wanted anything to do with me again.

I was worried he might not make it to class. It was nearly time for class to start, and Professor Sanderson was already organizing his notes and checking his PowerPoint presentation. And here I had been particularly careful getting ready for class. My hair was freshly combed, my makeup reapplied after lunch, and I was wearing a white cami and a khaki skirt that dropped demurely to just above the knee. I thought I looked pretty darned good, and I knew I never tried this hard to look good before. If Brett didn’t show up though, it would all be for naught.

I had trouble not showing how relieved I was when Brett rushed into the room, seconds before Professor Sanderson began his lecture. “How are you doing?” he asked, and I could tell from the tone of his voice that he was really concerned.

“Fine,” I whispered back to him, since I didn’t want to attract the professor’s ire by interrupting his lecture.

Brett whispered back, “I need to talk to you after class.”

My heart jumped involuntarily. I was afraid he’d never want to talk to me again. Now he wanted to talk to me after class! ‘Settle down Cassie,’ I told myself.

But I was as preoccupied in Professor Sanderson’s class as I had been in my law classes during the morning. With everything that had happened to me the last few days, I was barely prepared for any of my classes, and being preoccupied just made things worse. I spent my Theory of Magic class wondering what was happening to me. I hadn’t been particularly attracted to men since my transformation, but I found myself sneaking little glances at Brett’s strong hands and well-muscled arms. I also found myself inexplicably proud that he seemed interested in me.

Being a girl had been more bothersome than I would have expected, with the huge amount of attention I had to give with maintaining my appearance and health. From the messy things like periods and wiping after urinating to the more appearance-oriented nuisances like maintaining my hair, applying makeup, and coordinating outfits, being a girl had been a pain in my unconsciously-swivelling ass. And to make matters worse, I had to fend off half the male population of the Tulane campus, it seemed.

But for some strange reason that only my hormone-soaked body could probably understand, I was attracted to Brett. I have to stress again that my attraction wasn’t sufficient to cause me to run giggling into his bedroom and perform acts of sexual wantonness on his bed, but it was enough to make me think doing just that might not be unpleasant. For now, I would be content just talking with Brett and sharing a few non-sexual (or at least not overtly sexual) entertainments with him. Hence, I was pleased he seemed not to hold my outrageous behavior on Sunday against me.

Keep in mind that I had been raised to be an exemplary Southern gentleman. That didn’t mean that I was barred from sexual experiences, but I was expected to keep my liaisons with slutty women in private and pay for them by the hour. What I had exhibited in front of Brett Sunday evening had been sluttiness at its best, and I had been very much afraid that my behavior would have caused Brett to see me as nothing more than an enthusiastic whore. The fact that he had greeted me so casually and wanted to talk to me after class gave me hope that I hadn’t permanently damaged my relationship with him.

Of course, all of that meant that I considered Brett to be very much a gentleman. How could I think otherwise? A man who was not a gentleman would have scooped me up Sunday evening and deposited me on the nearest bed while stripping off his own clothing with reckless abandon. Instead, Brett had done the gentlemanly thing: he had taken me directly home and secured needed help for me.

As soon as the lecture ended, I told Brett, “I’ll be right out after I’ve talked with Professor Sanderson.”

“Great,” Brett agreed, joining the other students in exiting the classroom.

Professor Sanderson smiled warmly at me. I appeared to be one of his favorite students. Of course, being an attractive young woman might have been one of the reasons. “Did you have a question, Cassie?”

“Yes, Professor,” I nodded. “I wondered if you could tell me a little about Attractors?”

His face hardened. “You haven’t met one, have you?”

“Uh, no,” I lied, remembering to keep the case as confidential as possible. “But my sister ran across one in one of her investigations. I promised I ask you about them.”

“Is this Attractor institutionalized?” he asked brusquely.

“Not yet, but it’s being considered.” Or at least I hoped it was being considered. Brian and Helen had done their best to convince Mr. Lagrange that Stephen needed professional help, which would probably include institutionalization.

Professor Sanderson gazed into my eyes, concern written on his craggy face. “Cassie, I don’t think you’re telling me everything. You have come in contact with this Attractor, haven’t you?”

Reluctantly, I nodded. “I’m on Catataxin now.”

“Then the Attractor is male?”

“She used to be.”

“I see...” he said slowly.

“Professor, have you ever come across a case of a sex-changed Attractor?”

He shook his head. “No, and I never want to. I can’t imagine a more dangerous creature.”

“Dangerous?” I asked, my senses tingling. I was afraid he’d say something like that. “How?”

Professor Sanderson leaned back against the podium, as if about to go into lecture mode. “Most of us grow into our powers,” he explained. “They start when we’re very young, but they’re so weak as to be undetectable. Then, with puberty, they become stronger. We learn to manage them as we mature. Even Attractors go through this process, but they recognize very early that if discovered, they will be social pariahs, shunned by the opposite sex as likely predators.

“Even before magic became accessible again, weak Attractors were often sexual predators. Criminal law is rife with examples of men who seemed to easily gain the trust of women, who were then betrayed–raped and usually murdered.”

I nodded. That all backed up what I had heard or deduced before.

“Attractors are driven by deep and generally destructive sexual needs, but like all humans, they learn to sublimate them to some degree. However, if an Attractor’s sex were changed, I don’t believe the Attractor would be able to control her needs since she would be unfamiliar with then sensations her new sex would experience.”

That was just what I was afraid of. Unless Mr. Lagrange swallowed his pride and sought magical help for his new daughter, there would be hell to pay for his entire family. “Is there anyone you can recommend for... this person’s family to talk to about this–someone who might be able to help?”

Professor Sanderson didn’t even have to think about it. “Have her contact the Carson Clinic in Nashville. Jeremiah Carson has dealt with a significant number of sexual curses–including Attractors and sex changes, although I doubt if even he has seen a combination of the two before.”

“I’ll do that,” I assured him. “And thank you, Professor.”

I turned to go, but Professor Sanderson called after me, “Cassie, I can’t tell you how potentially volatile this situation you spoke of is. Tell the family to use extreme caution. They’re dealing with the unknown here.”

“I will,” I promised.

Brett was patiently waiting for me in the hall. The class bell had just rung, so the hall was practically empty. I was pleased, because I wanted a chance to talk to Brett in private and set things right. The only problem was that I didn’t know how to do it, so I just began with a shy “Hi.”

Brett smiled, making me feel a hundred percent better. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” I replied, and I added to myself that it was mostly because of his smile. “The Catataxin fixed me up.”

The smile became a grin. “No more uncontrollable impulses to jump my bones?”

I grinned back. “Not uncontrollable anyway.”

He laughed, slipping an arm around me. “Let’s go get some coffee.”

By the time we made it over to Rue, it was as if Sunday had never happened. We already had a casual dinner date planned for the evening, and this time I made Brett promise it would really be casual–just someplace we could grab a sandwich and enjoy a warm fall evening eating it at a sidewalk table.

“Okay!” he laughed. “Six okay?”

“I’ll be ready,” I replied over my coffee. “Only don’t expect me to be wearing what I wore Sunday.”

“Hmm...” he pretended to mull over, “I don’t seem to recall what you were wearing then...”

It was my turn to laugh. Then, I got serious. “Brett, is your father the Carson in the Carson Clinic?”

“Yeah,” Brett said, surprised. “How did you hear about that?”

I gave Brett the abridged version, leaving out names and a few sordid details. As a Detector, he of course, knew that I had run into both an Attractor and a Whisperer, and the question about his father’s clinic left no doubt about what I wanted to know.

“This client of your sister’s obviously needs care,” Brett began. “I don’t think dad ever ran up against a combination of an Attractor and a sex change, but I know the clinic has helped both.”

“Is it true that Attractors have to be institutionalized for life?” I asked.

Brett shook his head. “No, but the longer she goes without treatment, the more likely that will become. I would imagine dad would treat the psychological influences of the sex change first.”

I shifted uncomfortably, hoping he didn’t notice. “Such as?”

“When a man is magically changed into a woman, more than just his body is changed. According to my father, the spell does a complete job on the mind, too. A heterosexual man will become a heterosexual woman, and a homosexual man will become a lesbian. In fact, the sexual attraction is strangely compatible.”

“Compatible?”

“What I mean,” Brett explained, “is if a man who likes blonde women with big breasts is changed into a woman, she will be attracted to blonde men with big chests.”

I’m sure as far as Brett knew, all of this was new to me. Some of it was. I knew, for example, that when I was changed into a woman, my sexual orientation had gradually changed too, slowed only by my male memories which declared me to be attracted to women–white women in particular. Now, as an African-American woman, my taste in men (yes, men) leaned toward men like Brett.

“What if a heterosexual white man became a black woman?” I asked impulsively.

Brett was thoughtful. “I’m not sure it’s ever happened before.”

I smiled. At least I could claim to be unique. “But what if it happened?”

“I would suspect the new woman would find black men attractive, but that’s just a guess.”

I was tempted to tell him it was more than a guess, but I wasn’t ready to share that with him just yet. If, by some chance of fate, Brett and I became... closer, I supposed I would have to tell him the truth. Of course, it wasn’t like I had experienced a pre-magic sex change, my male organs removed and replaced or reformed into female equivalents while my DNA remained hopelessly male. No, I was a woman inside and out–I had periods, experienced a natural flow of female hormones, and could even get pregnant.

But in spite of all of that, there were still male corners in my mind. Maybe there always would be. More than once since my transformation, I had been told by someone who didn’t know of my changes that I “thought like a man.”

But it was becoming harder for me to think of being a man–or to remember what it felt like to be a man. Feminine routines of personal hygiene, periods, makeup, clothing with matching accessories, and fending off interested men had changed my thought processes in ways even magic couldn’t.

Brett interrupted my thoughts. “How did you manage to get wrapped up in this case with your sister?” he asked. “Have you helped her before?”

“A little,” I thought, thinking about my own transformation. “I don’t do much, though. I don’t really know that much about the private investigation business, except what I’ve seen in the movies. I don’t even read mystery novels.”

“Not even Sherlock Holmes?”

I shook my head and laughed. “Nope. I’ve only seen the old movies.”

“Well I love a good mystery,” Brett replied. “If you need any help, I’d be glad to pitch in just to see what a real mystery looks like.”

Brett and I parted after coffee–Brett to do a required lab session and I to go home and study before we went out for dinner. I threw myself into my law books for the next couple of hours.

Dinner that evening was, as Brett promised, far more casual than our last outing together. Of course, this time I wasn’t under the influence of an Attractor and a Whisperer, so it was much more relaxed as well. We ended up at Café Luna, a funky little place over on Nashville and Magazine where we could eat on the porch and watch the evening strollers go by. By the gourmet standards of the Crescent City, Café Luna is just another little coffee shop where the geeks can sip espresso and play around on the Internet, but the mood is relaxed, the sandwiches tasty, and the homemade soups outstanding.

We talked mostly about school, comparing the relative horrors of law school versus medical school. Strangely, each of us decided we had the easier road. Law school came naturally to me, I suppose because of my background. Likewise, Brett seemed to be sailing through medical school–an apparent product of hanging around his father’s clinic.

Talk of the clinic allowed him to segue into my sister’s case. “Cassie,” he began, “I had a chance to talk with my father about the case. As I thought, he’s never heard of an instance where an Attractor has been sex-changed. He’s very interested in the case and has asked me to look into it.”

I dropped my spoon in my bisque. “Brett, I can’t let you do that. I’ve told you too much already. My sister’s client wants this kept very confidential.”

“I understand,” he nodded. “But, Cassie, this victim is in a lot of danger. Unless she has proper medical care, it’s unlikely she’ll live very long. And her short life will not be a very pleasant one either, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t think her condition is fatal...”

“Not directly,” he admitted, “but she is an Attractor. Attractors are sexual creatures. If male, they prey on women, and if women, they seduce men. It’s in their nature. If his–her–parents weren’t probably prejudiced against magic, they should have sought counselling for their child long ago. I don’t think they have any concept of what they’re dealing with. In a few months without treatment, she’ll be pregnant or subjected to some sort of sexual curse. She might also seduce a man with a family causing untold personal tragedy. Men will mistreat her with impunity. She’s a menace to herself and others, and others are a menace to her.”

He had a good point. From what little I had seen of Stephen Lagrange in a partially male form, he had been a wilful young man, unaccustomed to controlling his malevolent power. Of course, given that his father abhorred magic–in part, I supposed because of his wife’s views, but in part to spite Mama Juno, his former lover, I believed–there was no one to demand that he control it. I also suspected he was very good at hiding the extent of his power and his abuses of it from his family. Even his brother probably thought of him as no worse than he was, but the William IV I knew was far more restrained than his brother probably was. Who could know how many young women succumbed to his power? Even at his young age, the number could be in the hundreds.

Now, as a young woman, he was transforming from incubus to succubus–an Attractor of men. But unlike the vulnerable and defenseless women her former male self had sated himself with, this new female might easily attract men with dangerous attributes–men who would be capable of taking violent action in the course of their sexual adventures.

“Look, I’ll talk to Helen and Brian,” I told him. “It’s up to them to bring it up to Mr. Lagrange. And, of course, it’s Mr.–it’s their client’s decision regarding what to do with the victim.”

“When are you seeing the victim again?”

“Not until Saturday evening. And I may not see her then,” I told him quickly about the plan to uncover the perpetrator at the party.

Brett shook his head. “Saturday is too long to wait. Every day, she’ll become more dangerous to herself and others.”

“All right,” I sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

I stepped off the porch onto the sidewalk and called Helen. As I suspected, Brian was with her. I didn’t know why they hadn’t just set a date and gotten married. For all practical purposes, they lived with each other now, alternating between his condo and hers. I quickly told them what Brett had said, and they agreed to contact Mr. Lagrange. Brian called me back just as Brett and I were enjoying a delicious French pastry.

“He was reluctant, but he agreed to see your boyfriend.”

“He’s not...” I began, but didn’t want to hurt Brett’s feeling by denying that he was my boyfriend. Come to think of it, I suppose he was my boyfriend in a way. Or at least I wouldn’t be too upset if he became my boyfriend. “When can Brett see him?”

“Tomorrow evening,” Brian replied. I cleared it with Brett who agreed to the time.

“I do want to see the victim,” Brett reminded me, “not just her father.”

When I passed that on to Brian, he agreed.

“Well, that’s settled,” I said, putting my cell phone back in my purse.

“What’s happening Saturday?” Brett wanted to know.

“Saturday?”

“You said there was a party. You’ll be a guest?”

I laughed. “An African-American woman at a Lagrange party? The only ones there will be serving the canapés. That’s where I’ll be.”

“Then I want to be there with you,” he insisted.

“But...”

“Look, Cassie, I may have never seen a sexually-changed Attractor, but I’ve seen Attractors. They can cause harm to those around them without even meaning to. I want to make sure you’re safe.”

“I didn’t know you cared,” I joked.

“I do,” he replied, and I could see he wasn’t joking.

A few months earlier, I would have been repulsed by the sight of a man openly declaring he had feelings for me, but that night, my heart melted. I felt all gooey inside as I looked into his big brown eyes, and my hand involuntarily reached over to grasp his. “That’s sweet.”

Now, he looked a little uncomfortable, but he did grab my hand. “Promise me you won’t get anywhere near her without me close by.”

“I promise,” I said meekly. “But wait a minute. How are you going to see her? She can Attract you.”

He smiled. “I’m the son of a doctor, remember? I’ve got Catataxin by the pound back at my place. It only takes twelve hours to reach full potency, so I’ll take some tonight after I drop you off.”

He didn’t exactly “drop me off.” He walked me to my door that night, and we spent the next few minutes in each other’s arms. It wasn’t exactly automatic. I thought a quick peck on the cheek was deserved, but I hadn’t planned anything else. But as we stood there in my doorway, just talking about inconsequential things, we seemed to be drawing closer and closer to each other. Without warning, our lips were suddenly touching.

It was the first time I had ever intentionally kissed a man. It felt odd, the roughness of his face and the tiny prick of a missed whisker on an otherwise clean-shaven face. It also felt odd to be kissed by someone bigger and stronger than me, the strength emphasized as he put his arms around me and drew me into him until I thought my breasts would be crushed. And I could feel him, hard and strong between his legs, pushing against me, wanting me...

It was all I could do to keep from asking him in, but I think we both knew where that would lead, and while I couldn’t speak for Brett, I wasn’t quite ready for that just yet. I’ll admit I was close, but not quite ready. I think he was ready, but just as when I had tried to jump him on our previous date, he seemed to sense that the time was not right.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow evening,” he breathed when we both came up for air.

“Uh-hum,” I replied, unable to look away from his eyes.

“Well, good night.”

Before he could get away, I kissed him again.

Wednesday classes flew by, and at five-thirty, I was ready for Brett to pick me up. I was dressed again in the dark blue suit I had worn to meet Mr. Lagrange. It was the most professional outfit I owned. If this kept up, I would have to get another suit. I was sure Helen would look forward to taking me on another shopping excursion, I thought grimly. Brett was similarly dressed when he picked me up–in dark blue, that is, but his dark blue was an Armani suit that like his car told me his father’s clinic must be doing very well, indeed.

“Brian and Helen are meeting us there,” I told him once I had scooted into the car and given him a quick, impulsive peck on the cheek.

“I want to meet them before we go in,” Brett told me, “but I need to see this Stephen alone.”

I frowned, my hair fluttering in my face as the convertible picked up speed. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? She was only partially male when she Attracted me, and she’s a lot stronger now for Attracting males.” I shuddered, thinking about the glazed looks on Brian and the doctor’s faces last time I had seen her. “Will even Catataxin be enough?”

Brett just smiled. “I’m on sixty milligram tablets of Catataxin. Nothing can get through that.”

I had been given only a twenty milligram dose myself. “Are you sure that’s safe? Doesn’t Catataxin that strong do damage to the liver?”

“Only if you take it for prolonged periods. At the clinic, they monitor usage of the stuff, but I just take it in case of an emergency–like this.”

I nodded, but I hoped Brett wasn’t like others in the medical community who sometimes tended to over-treat themselves. From what I had read on the Internet since I had been given the drug, it had been magically developed, and not all the potential side effects were known since it had been rushed to the market.

“Wow!” Brett exclaimed as the Lagrange mansion came into view.

“A little bigger than your father’s place?” I probed, making it sound like a tease. I really was becoming curious as to how well-off the Carson family was.

“A lot bigger than my father’s place,” he commented, parking behind Brian’s car on the wide, circular driveway.

Brian and Helen had been waiting in the car. They stepped out when they saw us, and Brian quickly strode over to shake Brett’s hand. While that was happening, Helen shot me a wicked smile.

“What?” I asked her softly.

“He’s cute,” Helen announced, thankfully as softly as I had spoken.

“Well, yes, I guess.”

“You guess?”

I sighed. “He’s cute... But we’re just friends.”

I had seen the answering look on Helen’s face before–usually when she was very sceptical of someone’s comments.

“Well, we are,” I insisted.

Helen arched an eyebrow. “Protesting a bit much, aren’t we?”

“Thanks for coming today, Brett,” Brian said while Brett shook hands with Helen. “Hopefully, you’ll be able to convince Mr. Lagrange that he would be smart to get some real help for Stephen, instead of just hiding him in his room.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Brett replied sincerely as Howard stepped out onto the porch to show us in.

“How is Stephen today?” I asked Howard as we were ushered into the drawing room.

“Not good, I’m afraid,” he replied in a low voice. “Of course, I haven’t been able to see... her lately. While the family seems to be immune to her powers, I’m not, but the maids tell me she’s becoming quite a handful.”

“Cabin fever,” I muttered.

“I beg your pardon?” Howard said.

“It’s an expression that goes back to pioneering times,” I explained. “It referred to being cooped up in a cabin, either alone or with a few close associates, for the winter. After awhile, you start to feel like a caged animal. If it goes on long enough, it can drive you mad.”

“Just so,” Howard agreed. He then added conspiratorially in a low voice, “Although I’m afraid Mr. Stephen may have been just a little mad to begin with.”

“Howard!” Mr. Lagrange boomed from the doorway. “Have you offered our guests anything to drink?”

“We’re fine,” Brian assured him, pulling Brett over. “Mr. Lagrange, this is Brett Carson. Mr. Carson needs to make his examination as soon as possible.”

“I was under the impression that it would be ‘Doctor’ Carson,” Mr. Lagrange remarked, clearly displeased as he slowly offered his hand.

“Dr. Carson is my father,” Brett explained quickly and, I must say, smoothly, as he took the offered hand. “I’ve assisted him and his staff in a number of these evaluations. I assure you, I have my father’s full confidence in matters such as this.”

Brett hadn’t told me that before, but the confidence he exuded assured me it was true. Mr. Lagrange felt it too, nodding his head. “Very well. I’ll have Howard take you to his room.”

“I’d like to go too,” I piped up.

“Cassie...” Brett began, but I interrupted him.

“Listen, Brett, you want to be close to me at the party Saturday, right?” He nodded sheepishly, well aware of where I was going with this. “You said every day she’ll become more dangerous to herself and others. By ‘others’, doesn’t that include you? Who knows how strong her powers are now. Your Catataxin may not be enough. However, I’m immune, you know, ’cause I’m a girl.”

I surprised myself by actually sounding proud of that fact.

“Okay, but let me handle things,” Brett reluctantly agreed.

Howard walked us to within a few feet of Stephen’s room. He then removed a pocket handkerchief and mopped his balding forehead. “This is as close as I can get,” he told us, looking very uncomfortable. “Every time she sees me, she tries to latch onto me. I can start to feel her from this far away.”

“That’s okay, Howard,” I assured him. “We can take it from here.”

After we knocked, one of the maids opened the door for us. I didn’t know if Mr. Lagrange was keeping his former son under constant observation, or if the maid had just been in the room to straighten up. I suspected though, that even if there wasn’t a maid constantly watching him, they must have had orders to look in on her frequently.

When we entered, she was just standing there, looking out a window. In the dusky afternoon light, she looked oddly composed, as if she had come to grips with her transformation. I knew though, from personal experience that it would take considerably longer for her to accept what had been done to her–if she ever did.

She turned and faced us. Her blonde hair now curled gracefully over her shoulders, and I wondered why she hadn’t had it cut. Then I remembered many of the sex-change spells floating around the country caused the hair to grow to a more feminine length overnight if the victim cut it. I remembered that my own spell had included that little feature. Although I doubted if my own spell still required long hair, I tended to keep my hair longish anyway.

She wore no makeup. That was no surprise. Most transformees fought makeup from what I had learned. I know I did. The feel of it was still a little alien to me, and I still tended to go a little lighter on the stuff than most girls did. In Stephen’s case–and I suppose my own as well–it wasn’t much of an issue, as she (we) really didn’t need all that much makeup.

She wore no jewelry, and her tattersall shirt of blue and white and her blue jeans were designed to be unisex, although they couldn’t disguise the size of her breasts or the curve of her waist and hips. In her sneakers, she was no more than five four, and her hands and feet appeared to be small and dainty. I couldn’t help but picture her in something feminine and flowery. So attired, she’d drive any male to distraction even without her Attractor powers.

“Oh, it’s you again,” she snorted in a very unladylike fashion as she looked at me. Then her eyes latched onto Brett. “And who’s your friend here?”

“Brett Carson, Ms. Lagrange,” Brett said smoothly, offering his hand.

I nearly cringed when he called her by a feminine appellation. I wasn’t entirely used to being called “Ms. Davis” myself. I was sure Stephen would blow a gasket for the misstep. But to my surprise, although her eyes did seem to flare for just a moment, she smiled and grasped Brett’s offered hand.

I couldn’t help but notice the contrast between the two hands. Brett’s was not huge for a man’s hand, but it was definitely masculine and considerably larger than the dainty hand Stephen offered. I was startled to see that Stephen’s nails were manicured in a feminine fashion–not too long but most certainly feminine.

“Pleased to meet you, Brett,” she said coyly.

“And what is your name?” he asked bluntly, still holding her hand.

“That’s a good question!” she laughed. “My mother wants to call me Stephanie, but I’m not sure I want to be called that. Why don’t you just call me ‘Steve’ for now?”

Brett nodded, and I could tell what he was thinking. By refusing to accept the feminine equivalent of Stephen and insisting upon being called Steve, she was only pretending to accept her new identity. Perhaps her father had told her whom Brett represented, and she wanted to avoid being institutionalized.

At least I hoped Brett picked up on it. Maybe I had been sensitive to it because the same thing happened to me. As a former Robert, I had no desire to be called Roberta, or Bobbie. It was Helen who had come up with my name as part of a necessary disguise. Stephen had no need to disguise herself right now, so she hung onto her old name. I might have done the same in her circumstances and insisted upon being called Robert.

“Do you know why I’m here, Steve?” Brett asked casually. He was going to have a great bedside manner, I decided. He was managing to keep Steve completely calm.

“I know you’re with the Carson Clinic,” she replied, “and I know you want me to become one of your... guests.”

The way she said “guests”, there was no doubt in my mind that she understood exactly what that would entail.

“But I don’t think I need to be one of your guests, do you?” she crooned, still holding his hand and now placing her other hand over it. “I’d be very grateful if you’d just tell my father that I’m doing fine here.”

It wasn’t even a very good act, but she knew very well that her Attractor powers were intact, or possibly even enhanced. The way she was looking at Brett was enough to make a cooked noodle get hard.

I almost said something to break the spell, but then I noticed something which made me believe it wouldn’t be necessary. Brett was smiling–it wasn’t much of a smile, but it was still a smile of amusement. “Steve, I’m very heavily dosed with Catataxin.”

Stephen’s face fell, and the fire that had risen earlier for a moment in her eyes now burned with the force of an exploding sun. “You fucking bastard!” she screamed.

“Does this mean we aren’t friends anymore?” Brett quipped.

“First your incompetent girlfriend here and her friends can’t find who did this to me and now you want to take me somewhere and experiment on me!”

“We’re doing the best we can,” I interjected weakly.

“Well it’s not good enough!” she shot back.

I stood my ground. “Our investigation has shown that you used your Attractor power to lure a number of girls into having sex with you. Any one of them–or their families–could have placed the curse on you. But you don’t seem to remember any of their names. It’s a little difficult to catch someone if we don’t have some names to start with.”

“Then ask my father–or my brother,” she said. “They paid off the families whenever there was a complaint. Besides, I’ve only had sex with six or seven girls in the last three months, and all of them were by consent–in spite of what you think. I don’t remember any of the names. The relationships were very casual. It has to be one of them.”

“Not necessarily,” I replied. Her casual remark about her father and brother paying off any families affected by her indiscretions had caused her to lose sympathy points in my mind. Maybe she really deserved what had happened to her. Maybe the whole family deserved the burden Stephen had put on them with his transformation. “The sex change curse doesn’t always have to be administered by sexual activity. It’s just easier that way, and the spell can be simpler.”

“I’ve been told all that,” she sighed. I could tell she was nearly ready to burst out in tears of frustration.

It was at that moment that Brett took back control of the conversation. “Whether or not Ms. Davis and her associates can find out who did this to you or not is another issue. What concerns me right now is what happens to you now. You realize, don’t you, that there is no magic cure for this–you’re stuck as a female from now on?”

“So I’ve been told.” Her voice quavered as her lower lip trembled, and I thought I saw the glistening formation of tears in her eyes.

I realized that in spite of her earlier insistence that the curse could be reversed, she was now realizing that she would live in a female body for the rest of her life. It was an unnerving thought: I knew that from personal experience.

“We’ve come to understand,” Brett went on, “that an unfortunate side effect of your power is an unnaturally strong sex drive. As a man, promiscuous behavior was more damaging to your partners, since they risked everything from social disapproval to pregnancy and disease. You could just walk away in most instances.”

The clouded look on Stephen’s face gave me hope that Brett was getting through to her. At least she didn’t disagree with Brett’s analysis.

“As a woman though, you face all of those risks yourself. Since men are usually more sexually active with multiple partners, you have a higher risk of disease. Since your partners have been ‘casual’ as you put it, thoughtless lack of protection could lead to pregnancy. As for social disapproval, think back to your male days. A man who has sex often with multiple partners is a stud: a woman who does the same thing is a slut.”

Stephen’s expression was very pained, and her skin had become pale. “I... I can control my... urges.”

“Can you?” Brett challenged. “You didn’t handle them very well as a man–by your own admission.”

“I don’t want to be a... a slut,” she said quietly. It was the most frank statement I had heard her make.

“You don’t have to be,” Brett assured her.

“I’ll... I’ll think about what you said.”

I don’t think either Brett or I really believed that, though. She was just trying to get rid of us.

Brett pulled a brochure out of his coat pocket. “Read this, then. If you have any questions, I wrote my local number on the back–or you can call the toll-free number.”

She didn’t thank him, but she did give him a respectful nod. As we nodded ourselves and left the room, I couldn’t help but admire Brett’s style. He had managed to calm Stephen down, get her attention, and really give her something to think about–if she chose to do so. I hoped she would really read the brochure and talk her father into sending her to, if not the Carson Clinic, someplace equally qualified to get her some help.

“Do you think she’ll agree to go?” I asked Brett once we were away from Stephen’s room.

Brett shrugged. “It’s hard to say, really. She just said she’d think about it to get us out of there, but I think she’s really concerned that the spell might make her a slut.”

“Will it?”

“It can. According to my father, though, this particular combination of factors has never happened before, so we’re just guessing. Her sex drive must have remained strong though, or she wouldn’t be acting like a siren now.”

“There’s irony for you,” I giggled. Brett looked at me as if I had lost my mind, so I went on to explain, “Mama has a thing for Greek mythology–Homer in particular. That’s why my brother A.J. is really Achilles, and my sister is Helen.”

“And you’re Cassandra,” he grinned, “the woman who saw the future. And the Sirens tempted Ulysses after Troy.”

“I see you know your Greek myths, too,” I observed as we entered the drawing room.

When we got back to the drawing room, Brian and Helen were sitting on a couch, going over a document while Mr. Lagrange and his remaining son looked on.

“There are no known magical practitioners of any skill on the list,” Brian was saying.

“Of course not!” Mr. Lagrange huffed. “We don’t associate with such people.” The way he said the word “people,” it was clear he didn’t really consider magical practitioners people at all. “Oh, of course some of them have some magical powers,” he admitted, “or I would imagine they do. They certainly know better than to practice them around here, though.”

Mrs. Lagrange was sitting quietly in the corner, but it was obvious from her expression that she approved of her husband’s statement. Although she had made herself scarce during our investigation, I had formed the opinion that she was no shrinking violet. Considering the fact that Mr. Lagrange had enjoyed a relationship with Mama Juno, it was obvious that Mrs. Lagrange’s prejudice against magic determined domestic policy. She might let her husband speak for her, but I had no doubt that her opinion mattered.

“And Stephen has reviewed this list and found no one... who would have reason to do this to him?”

“That’s what I told you,” Mr. Lagrange confirmed.

“Then I have to tell you, Mr. Lagrange,” Brian said, putting the guest list down on a nearby table, “that finding anything at your party Saturday night is a long shot. If we don’t discover anything new then, I see no further reason for us to continue this investigation. We’d just be taking your money.”

For the first time since we had met him, Mr. Lagrange looked at Brian with something akin to respect. He nodded. “Very well, Mr. Wallace. That’s quite fair.” Then he turned his attention to Brett and me. “What did you learn from your meeting with Stephen, Mr. Carson?”

Brett was silent for a moment, collecting his thoughts and determining how best to break the bad news to the concerned parents. At last, he began, “Your... son is concerned at the idea of being institutionalized. I can understand Stephen’s concern, but my father’s clinic is determined to return as many of our patients as possible to normal, active lives...”

“Spare me the sales brochure,” Mr. Lagrange growled with a disdainful wave of his hand. “Should Stephen be sent to a clinic such as your father’s? Tell me yes or no.”

“Yes,” was Brett’s blunt reply.

Mrs. Lagrange gasped and began to cry softly, but Mr. Lagrange continued to look sternly at Brett. “And what can you do to cure him?”

“He can’t be cured,” Brett replied. “He will, of course, be female for the rest of his life. No magical spell can change that. What the clinic will do is teach him how to live with his... changes. He must learn how to control his Attractor powers...”

“My son has no magical powers!” Mrs. Lagrange broke in, rising to her feet and standing in front of her husband. “How dare you insinuate such nonsense?”

“Mrs. Lagrange,” Brett began, stepping back on the defense, “I...”

“My dear,” Mr. Lagrange said, gently placing his hands on his wife’s shoulders to calm her down, “you know he does have a power, even though he has promised us he would never use it.”

I wondered if he actually believed his son didn’t use his Attractor powers, or if he was just saying it to placate his wife. I suspected the latter was the case, especially given the families he had paid off. Surely he didn’t think his son was such a heartthrob that he could entice so many women without magical help. But his wife’s distaste for magic bordered on hysteria. I wondered if she even knew her older son had a Whispering power–a power which was much easier to hide.

Mrs. Lagrange was not to be thwarted, though. “Stephen can handle his curse.”

I wasn’t sure if she meant the curse of the sex change or the curse of having an Attractor’s powers.

“I don’t want to hear anything more of sending him away,” she said finally, storming out of the room.

“I apologize for my wife,” Mr. Lagrange sighed once she was out of hearing range. “As you can see, her mind is made up. We will just have to depend upon Dr. Camden, our family physician.”

“Forgive me for saying this,” Brett warned, “but general practitioners just aren’t equipped to handle magical problems like this. From what I was told, he was carelessly affected by Stephen’s Attractor power a few days ago.”

“An accident which is not likely to reoccur,” Mr. Lagrange countered. “I’m sorry, Mr. Carson, but we’ll just have to deal with Stephen’s problem ourselves. Thank you all for coming.”

As if by magic, Howard was at the drawing room door, ready to show us out. I could tell by the expression on his face that he disapproved of the decision. To be completely fair, I think Mr. Lagrange could have been convinced of the necessity of sending Stephen to the Carson Clinic, but he was obviously under his wife’s thumb when it came to that–even to the point of refusing to acknowledge his son’s new sex, still referring to the troubled girl as “he.”

“Thanks for coming, Brett,” Brian said once we were left alone by our cars.

“I’m afraid I didn’t accomplish anything,” he sighed.

“You planted some seeds,” Helen assured him. “Eventually he’ll have to see it your way and seek professional help for her.”

“I hope so,” Brett replied, “because Stephen is bound to get herself in trouble before this is done. Her mother’s denial isn’t helping matters.”

“Okay,” Brian began, changing the subject, “we have one last crack at solving this. After the party, if we don’t have any solid leads, we’ll be off the case.”

“That’s Mr. Lagrange’s desire,” Helen added.

“And mine,” Brian added.

“So you get nothing for all your efforts?” I asked.

Brian shook his head, smiling. “No, Cassie. He’s a fair man. He’s agreed to pay us for what we’ve already done. Actually, as I said, I agree with the decision. We’re getting nowhere on this case. Helen and I have interviewed the household staff and checked Stephen’s hangouts, but we’ve come up empty. Stephen was an overbearing young man who was disliked by a lot of people. A great number of them seem to have a strong enough motive to do this to him. But there’s no smoking gun.”

“But aren’t these sex change spells pretty common?” Brett asked.

“Sure,” Brian agreed, “but they’re still expensive. They cost about fifteen thousand on the underground market.”

“Cheap if your daughter was one of his victims,” I pointed out.

“True,” Brian admitted, “but virginity spells are less than ten thousand and a selective memory wipe to remove the memories of Stephen’s actions are only a couple grand. And the victim is restored completely. Which is better–revenge or restoration?”

“I see your point,” I conceded.

“Well, until Saturday,” Brian said at last.

“I’ll be here, too,” Brett suddenly offered.

Brian and Helen looked at Brett and then back to me. I was a little uncomfortable as they quickly realized the reason Brett wanted to come along. I suppose I was a little embarrassed, but I was also a little proud. It was sort of nice to have someone who wanted to keep me safe. I even felt myself getting a little damp just thinking about Brett’s gentlemanly motives. I had a sudden hunch that Brett and I were going to get a lot closer much sooner than I would have ever imagined a few days earlier.

“Your sister’s very nice,” Brett told me as we drove away from the Lagrange mansion. Brett had offered to take me home and I had gladly accepted. Then he added, “Brian seems nice, too. I assume they’re together?”

“Oh yes,” I laughed, feeling the evening breeze cool my face as we rode with the top down. “How could you tell? They usually try to act all professional in front of clients.”

Brett smiled. “I’ve been helping my father since high school. He taught me a long time ago that if you want to know what’s going through a person’s mind, watch their eyes–windows to the soul and all that.”

“Sounds like you’d make a good detective,” I commented.

“Actually, that’s sort of what a doctor does. Patients often don’t have a clue what’s wrong with them. You have to learn to ask the right questions, sure, but you also have to watch the patient–see how he moves and how he acts–to determine what the problem is.”

“And what do you think of Stephen’s situation?” I asked.

“Pretty much what I said back there. She needs help.”

“But does she know that?”

Brett thought for a moment. “Good question. Yes, I think she knows. Or at least I think she realizes the combination of sex change and an Attractor’s power is going to be hard to handle without help. It’s a cinch her mother isn’t going to be any help: she’s in denial–and her husband won’t cross her. Funny, isn’t it? William Lagrange impresses me as a strong man who wouldn’t hesitate to make a decision, but the prejudices his wife has against magic will probably keep him from doing the right thing and sending Stephen to a clinic where she can get help.”

I just grunted. I had come to the same conclusion.

“You want to get dinner?” he asked.

“You’ve been spending too much on my meals,” I told him. Then on a whim, I asked, “Why don’t we go back to my place? I can whip up a salad and we can save you money and me calories.”

“I’d like that.”

Holy shit! I suddenly thought. I’ve just asked a man back to my place. And unlike our first disastrous night out together, this time I had asked him without the influences of either an Attractor or a Whisperer. What was I thinking, anyway?

At least my place was neat. Even as a man, I hadn’t been a slob. I liked things neat and got all itchy when things were in disarray. I suppose that’s how I had always lived my life as well–neat and orderly. Maybe that’s why I had had so much trouble adapting to my new life. It wasn’t... neat. I had had to reconcile a change of sex, race, and even age, since in spite of what my ID said, my biological age was probably eighteen or so. That meant I had the hormones of a teenage girl, with all of the turmoil that entailed.

Turmoil was exactly what I was feeling as I ushered Brett into my condo. While my mind saw him as a friend, my body saw him as a hot guy. I still had the memories of putting the moves on him Sunday night, and although I was intellectually embarrassed at what had happened, a small part of my mind and a substantial part of my body wondered what might have happened if Brett hadn’t said no.

“Can I give you a hand in the kitchen?” Brett asked.

I remembered offering girls some help in the kitchen back in my male days. The girls always appreciated the help, and I think the cooperative effort assured the girls that I wasn’t a dominating male. Often they’d refuse, telling me to just get comfortable while they made dinner. I’d then insist that I be given the opportunity to help, which was always accepted. I saw no reason to go through that dance though, so I just smiled and said, “Sure, you can help me chop up some veggies for the salad.”

It was fun to work together on the salad, and I realized what a talented chef Brett probably was. He cut and diced with the moves of a Japanese sushi master, and while I got out a bowl big enough to toss the salad, he searched the refrigerator for ingredients to make a dressing.

“The way you handle a knife, maybe you should be a surgeon?” I suggested, grinning.

Brett shook his head. “Not me. It’s too messy being a surgeon. Besides, with all the advances in medical science combined with magic, surgery may soon be a thing of the past. I’ll just stick to using a knife to cut up veggies.”

“I’ve got some bottled dressing in the refrigerator,” I told him. “You don’t have to go to all the trouble of making dressing.”

Brett comically turned up his nose. “And you call yourself a resident of New Orleans? Have you no shame, woman? A salad this fine deserves a dressing to match.”

I just laughed at him and pulled a bottle of decent chardonnay from my wine chiller. By the time I had it open (with a little help from my Pusher power since the cork was really tight), Brett had a simple vinaigrette whipped up in a small bowl and was proceeding to pour it into the salad as he tossed it gingerly.

“It’s a shame we don’t have a good bread to go with it,” he sighed.

I gave him a grin as I pulled something from the breadbox. “How about a loaf of fresh bread from La Spiga?”

He grinned back. “I take it back. You are a New Orleans resident after all.”

Most of my meals at home had been solitary, with only Helen and A.J. occasionally joining me. Like most law students, I ate quickly and not always well, followed by a long session with my law books. Having a simple but intimate dinner with a friend–and a male friend at that–was a new experience for me. I was a little nervous since our meals before had been in public, but a glass or two of wine took the edge off.

I had begun to realize I really enjoyed Brett’s company, and the thought even crossed my mind that there was a chance–a slim chance mind you, but still a chance–that I might someday be gazing at Brett across my table on a much more permanent basis.

I had known for some time that eventually, I would have to settle down and get serious about a relationship with a man. As a man, I had been entirely heterosexual, the thought of becoming romantically attracted to a man being too far-fetched even to consider. Even now, I could appreciate an attractive woman, but it was from a far more detached perspective than before: I could admire them, but they simply didn’t turn me on.

Sexual attraction is something the brain and body, swimming in the appropriate hormones, impresses upon our consciousness. Finding my consciousness now ensconced in a female form had meant that men, over time, had become very attractive to me. The only thing stopping me in the past from acting upon that attraction had been my previous male experiences telling me how wrong it would be.

Now don’t misunderstand: I wasn’t ready to drag Brett off to the bedroom and try out all the female equipment I now possessed, but I was at least able to fantasize about it without thinking of it as being perverted. Come to think of it though, what was wrong with wanting to drag him off to the bedroom? I felt strangely stimulated at the thought.

“You look pensive,” Brett commented as he finished his salad and buttered another slice of the wonderful bread.

“I was just thinking about...” I started before realizing I couldn’t tell him exactly what I had been thinking. However, there was a way to discuss it without involving my own situation. “I was just thinking about Stephen. The first time I saw him, he was fixated on me, but today, she seemed to be concentrating on you.”

Brett chuckled. “Jealous?”

I flushed. “Of course not. I was just wondering about sexual attraction. I thought when a man is changed into a woman, his–her–attraction for men would develop more slowly.”

“I noticed that too,” Brett replied. “You’re right. At my father’s clinic, most of the patients slowly develop an attraction for men. Many times, they’re able to deal with it only after intensive counselling. Some adapt more quickly than others, and some never adapt at all, becoming lesbians. I’ll talk to my father about it, but I’ve never heard of a situation where the change in sexual orientation happens so quickly. It may have something to do with the Attractor power.”

“How so?” I asked, forgetting my own situation and focusing on Stephen’s problems.

“Well,” Brett explained, “Attractors usually have a very strong sense of attraction to a certain type of man or woman. Attractors can even be gay, by the way. In short, if an Attractor male prefers girls who are athletic, blonde, and have blue eyes, the theory suggests that after a sex change, she will prefer blonde, blue-eyed men. The power dictates that the reorientation will occur almost immediately.

“Of course, this is the first known case of an Attractor sex change, so other theories abound. One of the most common theories is that an Attractor who experiences a sex change will lose all interest in sex, since the object of their attraction is no longer practical. In fact, that’s the most common theory.”

“The way she was looking at you, I think we can throw that theory out the window,” I said wryly.

Brett shook his head. “Not necessarily. Stephen might have just been using newfound feminine wiles to influence my behavior–to avoid being institutionalized. The only uses of her power against men so far have been to avoid unwanted consequences, such as when she used her Attractor power on her doctor.”

I mulled that over. It was possible, I supposed, that Stephen was faking sexual attraction to Brett, but I doubted it. She had looked at him hungrily, and while it was true that she was trying to use him, I was sure she was interested in him as well.

I know that sounds all clinical, and if I’m to be completely honest, the thought of Stephen getting her mitts onto Brett made me... well, jealous.

I hadn’t intended to get interested in any man for a long, long time. First, there was law school to complete, and then the struggle to get established as a female attorney–and an African-American one at that–so I really didn’t have time to get serious about any man. But the more I was around Brett, the more I wanted to be around him. While I wasn’t ready to set up housekeeping with him, I did enjoy his company.

I looked up from my plate to sneak an appreciative glance at my dinner partner, only to catch him doing the same thing to me. We both were a little embarrassed, I think. I know I was. Brett broke the ice first. “This is a terrific salad.”

I grinned nervously. “It ought to be to your liking. You made most of it.”

That flustered him. He had been searching for a compliment and forgotten his extensive part in making the meal. It made him, I realized suddenly, look as if he were bragging rather than complimenting. It was really sort of funny, but I didn’t want him too flustered. I just giggled and reached over the table to pat his hand, to let him know it was all right.

And our hands touched...

And he looked up at me, grinning sheepishly as he rose slowly from the table, now holding my hand.

I rose, too. I hadn’t expected to, but I did. Then suddenly I was holding both of his hands and we were still drawing closer...

And closer...

We had kissed before, when had dropped me off, but it had been a pale shadow of this kiss. I tasted the wine on his tongue as it reached into my open mouth. My breasts tingled as they pressed against him, and against my abdomen, I could feel something hard pushing outward, making me suddenly very damp.

I could stop what was about to happen. All I had to do was push him away and he would let me go. He had proven himself to be a gentleman, and gentlemen didn’t force their attentions on women. I should do just that, I told myself. I should push him away. After all, I wasn’t really a girl–not in my mind at least. I hadn’t been a girl long enough to think like a girl, had I? Then why wasn’t I pushing him away?

My hands had released his and instinctively wrapped around his body. His body felt nice. Then I pulled my hands away, ready to push him back, but instead, I found myself unbuttoning his shirt. His own hands were at the buttons of my blouse, and within moments, I could feel his wiry chest hair against my exposed skin. I could also feel his hands moving up from the small of my back toward my bra clasps.

“We could stop this now,” he reminded me, speaking low into my ear.

I was thinking back to my episode with him on our first date, and how I had practically raped him. This wasn’t like that though. This was soothing and paced more slowly. I was passive now, but I still had the power to stop him–if I wanted to. I realized at that moment that I didn’t want him to. My answer to his words of caution was to press my lips against his.

We didn’t exactly run to the bedroom, but by the time my skirt and his pants had dropped to the floor, we were there. I had a last minute epiphany, realizing that in a few minutes, it wouldn’t matter that I hadn’t fully resolved thinking of myself as an attractive young woman, for I would have, by my actions, embraced my new sex willingly. If there were to be any regrets, they would have to wait.

Brett had brought protection. I was glad since I was already so far into arousal that I had forgotten about it completely. I even helped him put it on, since his own hands were trembling as he tried. To be honest, mine were too, but I wanted to touch him there before he entered me. I wanted to assure myself that I could really do this willingly for a man. For just a split second, I thought back to the time Pierre had forced me to give him a blowjob, and how horrible the idea of touching another man’s penis had been. This wasn’t terrible at all I thought, reclining onto the bed as Brett loomed over me. This was...

...wonderful.

As we lay there together in the afterglow of some very good sex, two thoughts ran through my head. The first was: ‘What in God’s name have I done?’ After months of resisting the attraction to men that my new femininity had thrust upon me, I had succumbed enthusiastically into sex with a man I had known for only a few days. It was bizarre. What had I been thinking?

The other thought that rushed through my head was far more wanton: ‘Why have I waited so long to do this?’ I had thought since my transformation that I had lost something very valuable when I lost the ability to penetrate a woman and enjoy that supreme moment of male climax. And while it was true that I had indeed, lost something of value, I had gained something even more precious, for sex as a woman was far more enjoyable. The feeling of being penetrated was momentarily troublesome as my hymen was torn, but to be honest, I scarcely noticed it. Instead, I had revelled in the feeling of being filled, and by the time I felt Brett’s penis erupting inside me, I was so far gone in a mind-blowing climax that I could only whimper and hold him tighter.

Now, as we lay together, snuggling in that half-dream state lovers cherish, I realized I had absolutely no regrets–other than the regret that I had waited so long to try this. But trying it with anyone less satisfying than Brett would have been unfortunate. Brett had shown me just what I had been missing.

It made sense I realized, that I should be attracted to Brett. He was after all, the exact complement to the women I had been attracted to as a man. I liked women who were bright, self-assured, and cultured. Brett was all of those things as well. And while I had been strongly heterosexual and preferred white women when I had been a white male, as an African-American woman, I remained heterosexual, preferring men of my own race like Brett.

“You okay, baby?” Brett murmured.

“Never better,” I whispered back. I meant it, too.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t realize you were a...”

“Virgin?” I said softly. I hadn’t given it much thought. I knew I was a virgin–Helen had examined me and found my hymen in place months ago. While I knew using Tampax can sometimes rupture the hymen, in my case, it had remained intact. Brett had broken through it moments before, causing me to give a small cry of pain, but after that brief sting, he had felt fantastic inside my body.

“Yeah... a virgin.”

“It’s okay,” I assured him. “I wanted you to do it.”

“You should have told me.”

I laughed softly. I had been in his position before, but there was no way he could know that. Had I been so concerned about my partner then? I was chagrined to realize I had not been. Brett was more sensitive than I had been as a man, and I found I appreciated him for it. “It’s just a symbol,” I told him. “I can’t think of anyone I’ve ever known who I would rather have given it to.”

Brett hugged me tighter, and I felt something hard against my thigh. “I should probably go,” he offered.

I reached down and gently caressed his growing erection. “Must you?”

He rolled me over on my back, reaching over me to get another rubber from the nightstand. “Well, maybe I can stay for a little while longer...”

Brett didn’t stay the night. We both had classes the next day we needed to prepare for. I know that doesn’t sound very romantic. In a perfect–or at least a perfectly romantic–world, we would have spent the night in each other’s arms. Then, we would awaken to a new day and make love until late in the morning, after which I would make breakfast for him while he showered and shaved. Would that it were so, but he was a medical student and I was a law student, and neither of us could afford to go traipsing off into a romantic interlude at the cost of our chosen professional lives.

Besides, neither of us had planned on making love that evening anyway. Maybe Brett had high hopes, since he had remembered to bring along protection, but I remembered from my own male days that it was a good idea for a man to carry a package around just in case. More than once as a man, I had ended up in bed with a woman unexpectedly. Things sometimes just happened that way, even when it wasn’t planned.

Although neither of us had exactly planned it, I think it’s fair to say both of us had wanted it. Yes, I admitted to myself, I had most certainly wanted it. And to think, I realized as I opened one of my law books, a few short months ago, right after my transformation, I would never have dreamed I could be sexually attracted enough to bed a man just a few days after meeting him.

Of course I hadn’t bedded just a man: I had bedded Brett. I think I could have said no to every other man on the Tulane campus–black, white, or other–but I couldn’t say no to Brett. I had never been so attracted to anyone in my life–not even my near-fiancée in my previously male life.

It was funny, but I hadn’t thought of Alexandra Pierpont, the woman I had nearly been betrothed to, in some time. Alex and I had planned to announce our engagement, and then my transformation had occurred, ruining any chance of that union. At first after I had changed, I felt robbed of an imagined ideal life with Alex, but over the summer, I had come to realize I had never really loved her. Our families had expected us to wed, and we had succumbed to family pressure. Sure, we had made love, but we hadn’t really been in love. Come to think of it, I had never really been in love with a woman in my life.

So now I was a woman. Was I just attracted to Brett–or did I love him? Would we go to bed with each other as Alex and I had done, only to discover later that it was merely infatuation instead of love? To be completely honest, I wasn’t sure. Besides, I still had a lot of law school to go through, and Brett had a lot of medical school to complete. It was probably far too early for either of us to sanctify this evening’s tryst as anything more than an impulsive fling–or so I tried to tell myself.

But a true romance with Brett certainly had some interesting possibilities...

Brett and I didn’t see much of each other for the next couple of days, limiting our contacts to class and a few phone calls. To be honest, between the Lagrange case and our rapidly-developing romantic relationship, both of us had neglected our studies, and it was starting to show in our class work.

Brett had done poorly on an Anatomy quiz–or so he said. I later learned that he considered anything less than being in the top ten percent of any class ‘poor.’ Still, it was enough to scare him into hitting the books with a vengeance.

I had a similar experience, getting a rather nasty admonishment from my Torts professor for not being entirely prepared for class. Since like Brett, I was used to being near the top in my classes, I was forced to bear down on some extensive case readings to get back in stride.

It was a tough couple of days for both of us. I could tell from Brett’s calls that he wanted more than anything else to have an encore of our last evening together. I had been a guy long enough to know what he was going through–it probably consisted of a few cold showers and an occasional date with his hand just to relieve the pressure.

As I said though, it was rough for both of us. While I no longer had to worry about unwanted stiffies, I found to my chagrin that a woman’s need for sexual gratification was no less demanding–just different. Every little thing that rubbed against my slit or my breasts seemed to stimulate me–showers, twisted panties, the material of my bra, everything! Even my dreams were filled with sex, visions of Brett and a few hunky African-American TV and movie stars populating them. I would wake up wet enough that I would have to change my panties.

I have to admit that I resorted to a little self-stimulation in the shower too. While I had experimented with masturbation a few times before, I had been driven mostly by curiosity. Now though, I was driven by need. My night with Brett had shown me how wonderful sex as a woman could be, and now I longed to repeat the experience. Unfortunately, my hands were no adequate replacement for Brett’s equipment.

I remembered something Helen had once told me shortly after my transformation. She had informed me that most women feel an increasing need for sex as their period approaches. Mine was due in about a week. If that was what was causing me to be so damned horny, I had a few miserable days to look forward to–unless Brett and I did it again.

All in all, my first sexual experience with a man had done more than just make me want another go-around with Brett. It had made me truly feel like a woman for the first time. Before, I had felt just a little like a man pretending to be a woman. Oh sure, I knew I was completely female: I could hardly deny that. But inside, in my heart and mind, I was still a man pretending to be a woman. That was no longer true. Now, I really felt like a woman and was starting to think of myself as one.

The best example of this was the sensations I felt when I walked across campus. Before, when I unwillingly caught some man’s eye, I almost wanted to run and hide in embarrassment. Now, I actually grinned to myself and gave my admirers a little extra swing of the hips to accentuate my ass and legs. I even indulged in harmless little fantasies about what it might be like to be on the arm of one of them–or in the bedroom with them.

Before, I had dressed femininely to blend in. I didn’t want to be seen as a nonconformist, subjecting myself to negative notice. Now though, I found myself taking even more care in my mode of dress to appear as attractive as possible. I wanted to be noticed now, but in a good way. I wanted to be seen as a normal, healthy, happy woman–which was exactly what I was.

In the past, I had entertained fantasies of some advancement in magical science which would allow me to change back into the white man I had been. As a white man of good family, I had been given respect I no longer enjoyed as an African-American woman, and on numerous occasions, I had been forced to reflect upon what I had lost. Now, though, I realized that there were things that I had gained which would somewhat balance out what I no longer possessed. Before finding Brett, I would have jumped at the chance to become a white male once again. Now, I wasn’t quite so sure. It was confusing, but it felt good.

On Saturday, Brian had all of us involved in the surveillance of the Lagrange party show up at the mansion early. A couple of his employees set up tiny spy cameras in the hallway outside Stephanie’s room. No, her family hadn’t started calling Stephen that, but one of our team said it and the name sort of stuck. Helen and Brian set up a command post in the carriage house. As for Brett and me, since we were to be on the floor as employees of the caterer, we were inside the house where we were issued our uniforms and given instruction on our duties for the party.

Brett, it turned out, had done a little bartending back in his senior year of college, so he was stationed as an assistant to one of the more experienced bartenders near the door so he could see anyone who might be heading upstairs to catch a glimpse of the transformed Stephen. As for me, I would be bussing the main rooms, collecting used glasses and dirty plates and hustling them back to the kitchen.

We all knew this was a long shot. Whoever had engineered Stephen’s transformation would probably be too smart to sneak into her room just to gloat. That stuff about criminals returning to the scene of the crime (or at least to where the victim was) was just so much bunk according to Brian. The sentences for things like causing an unwanted transformation were long–starting at fifteen years and escalating to thirty years. No one was going to risk such a sentence just to get in a little gloating.

In spite of that, Helen had pointed out that criminals were not, as a general rule, the smartest breed of humans. While common sense dictated that whoever had changed Stephen remain as far away as possible, human emotions sometimes caused people to do things that didn’t make sense. Dropping in on Stephen to gloat over his seemingly well-deserved transformation might be worth a stiff prison sentence to the perpetrator.

Stephanie actually left her rooms to watch the preparations for the party. She was even dressed in feminine fashion, including a rather short green skirt and white tank top. I noticed she was even wearing a little makeup and a silver necklace that dropped down low enough to draw attention to her large breasts. She seemed to have her Attractor power under control now, or at least no men were staring at her with glazed eyes. Instead, the men in the room were watching her with typical male appreciation, and she seemed to be revelling in their attention. She was even flirting with a couple of the caterers but avoided Brett, saving a scowl for him from across the room.

She did however, decide to grace me with her presence. “My, don’t you look nice today,” she remarked snidely.

I was dressed in my uniform–a maid’s outfit really, consisting of a black dress and a white apron as well as a pair of practical black shoes and stockings smoky enough to darken my already dark legs. “I thought it might blend in better than a business suit,” I replied blandly.

“Oh, it does!” she laughed. “Although if I were still male, I think I’d prefer you in a French maid’s uniform–without panties of course.”

I hoped my blush didn’t show. Yes, I was sure if she had been her old self that was exactly how he would like to see me. And my original introduction to Stephanie when she was still mostly male had provided unpleasant evidence of how the old Stephen had treated African-American women. “You’re a real shit, Stephanie,” I growled, intentionally emphasizing the name we had all dubbed her with.

Her blue eyes narrowed. “I’ll be glad when we’re finally rid of all of you.”

“Why?” I asked, genuinely curious. “It would seem to me that you would want us to find out who did this to you.”

To my surprise, she laughed. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? I’ve been fucking girls since I was fourteen. As you know, I really was irresistible. There must be hundreds of girls and their families who would have loved to do this to me. But the joke’s on them. An irresistible man can have all the sex he wants, but an irresistible woman can have it all–sex, power, money.”

“But you’ll probably have to spread your legs to do it.”

“You talk as if you were the one whose sex was changed,” she shot back. “Yeah, I was upset about that at first, but not now. Maybe it’s my power, but as far as I’m concerned, sex is sex, no matter if you’re on the top or the bottom. And I figure since I’ve got it, I’m going to flaunt it.” She gave me a fake smile and sashayed off, purposefully brushing a little too close to a young African-American waiter who was struggling with the bowtie of his tuxedo. I thought the poor guy was going to come in his pants.

Brett was watching her go too, as he came up to me. “She seems to be handling her transformation pretty well,” he commented with a hint of understatement.

“I’m not so sure,” I replied, telling him what had just transpired between us.

Brett nodded. “Yeah. I see what you mean. Do you think her attitude is part of the spell?”

“Maybe,” I allowed, “but I don’t think so. According to Helen, female Attractors don’t have a lot of control.”

“That’s true,” Brett confirmed. “I guess the problem is we’ve never had a former male Attractor at the clinic, so I assumed Stephen’s male control had migrated with her sex change.”

“I don’t think she is controlling the power,” I said. “I think the power is controlling her. She seems to be accepting her new sex more to accommodate her Attractor power than out of any rational thought.”

“If you’re right, she’s potentially the most dangerous person in the house.”

I couldn’t disagree with that statement.

While Brett was stocking the bar, I tried to keep an eye on Stephanie, but it wasn’t easy to do. The caterers had been told to treat us like the rest of their employees, and that’s just what they did. They kept me busy setting up the rooms for the party. In short, I lost track of her a few times. In my own defense, I suppose I should point out that my job wasn’t to nursemaid Stephanie, but rather to learn my job well enough to blend in at the party where we would be on the lookout for whoever had done this to her. I don’t think anyone really realized how closely we should have been watching her. After all, she was the victim in all of this.

By the time the party started at seven, Stephanie had returned to her rooms, and I was sent back to the kitchen to help there until the guests arrived. In typical New Orleans fashion, the first guests didn’t arrive until nearly seven thirty.

I was a little shocked when I realized that the first guests were old friends of my parents. I suppose I should have realized that my parents and the Lagrange family moved in similar enough social circles that there would be mutual friends. It slowly dawned on me that my own parents might be among the guests. My worst fears were confirmed half an hour later when my estranged parents entered the front hall, accompanied by my two younger brothers.

A little angry that I hadn’t been warned, I hissed at Helen in the hidden microphone buried inside the top of my dress, “You saw the guest list. Why didn’t you tell me my family was going to be here?”

Helen’s voice came back in my ear, “I thought I was your family now.” When I said nothing, she continued, “To be honest, I didn’t really notice them. When Brian and I went over the guest list, we were looking for people who might have sufficient magical powers to transform Stephen. I guess it just didn’t register when we reached the Devereauxs, since none of your family seems to have much power except you. Can you handle it?”

“I think so,” I sighed. ‘I hope so,’ I thought to myself.

Helen was right about who my family now was. My parents certainly wanted nothing to do with an African-American girl who claimed to be the rightful heir to the Devereaux name and fortune. And frankly, my brothers were happy I was gone, since they had moved up a notch in the family pecking order. Helen, her mother and brother, had indeed become my family. I would just have to steel myself to treat my former family as the strangers they wanted to be. I only hoped they didn’t blow my cover.

I needn’t have worried. My mother (or should I say former mother?) paid no more attention to me than she would have one of her own maids. I might as well have been invisible. She certainly didn’t pay enough attention to me to recognize me. As for my former father and his predilection for young girls of color, he did give me an admiring glance, but with my hair up and far less makeup than I had worn the last time I saw him, he didn’t seem to recognize me. Maybe to him, we all look the same.

As for my two former brothers, Paul, the elder of the two, barely noticed me at all, but then again, he had always preferred white girls with blonde hair–the only trait we had seemed to share as brothers. Also, neither of my brothers had seen me since my transformation had been completed. Lance, my younger former sibling, did take a long, lecherous look at me, leading me to believe he was developing the same sexual tastes as our father.

Both of them were quickly drawn into the growing crowd by two young girls who seemed to know them and have an interest in them. Given their body language, I would say the two young men were not equally smitten, but they allowed themselves to be wooed, probably forgetting all about me in that instant. I breathed a sigh of relief loud enough to be picked up on the mike.

“Are you okay, Cassie?” Helen asked with concern.

“Yeah,” I whispered back. “They didn’t recognize me.”

By nine, the party was in full swing. I was quickly developing a new appreciation for the men and women who worked for the caterers. They were hustling, and I was hustling right along with them. As a man, I had been a guest at countless parties just like this one, and I had never noticed or appreciated the hard work of the serving staff. It seemed no matter how hard we tried to keep food and drink fully stocked, or how efficiently we swooped down on the dirty plates and glasses, we were always just a little bit behind where we needed to be. And of course, it didn’t exactly help our work flow when a careless guest spilled a glass or a plate on the carpet, causing someone from the staff to rush into the kitchen and get something to clean up the mess with.

“Anything going on?” Helen’s voice asked in my ear.

“Everything is going on,” I grumbled, “but nobody has headed for her room yet.”

“Has anybody said anything about Stephen’s absence?”

“I overheard a couple of people talking about it,” I told her. “Nothing suspicious, though–just idle curiosity.” The official story was that Stephen was up north touring college campuses in preparation for the fall term. Yes, he had been ill, the official story went, but he was being tutored at home and would graduate with his class.

I managed to swing by Brett’s bar during a momentary lull. “Anything suspicious happening?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “Not a thing. The other bartender said somebody delivered some food for her about half an hour ago, but that was it.”

“Okay,” I said. I would have liked to have stayed and chatted with Brett, but one of the guests was ambling over for another drink, and I noticed three empty glasses resting on a lamp table and to keep in character rushed over to retrieve them.

When I got back to the kitchen with a full tray of empties, the glasses were quickly taken from me and whisked into the dishwasher. I noticed the man loading the dishwasher was one of the owners of the catering firm. “Is it always so chaotic?” I asked him as I wiped off my empty tray.

“This is pretty normal,” he responded. Then over his shoulder, he yelled, “Has anyone seen that worthless Cullen?”

“I think he took something up to one of the bedrooms,” one of the waiters yelled back.

“I didn’t contract for room service,” the caterer growled. “When was this?”

“About twenty minutes ago,” came the reply.

Uh-oh, I thought, realizing just where this Cullen must have gone. Brett would have known to raise the alarm if he had seen any male delivering food, but he had the information second hand. It was the other bartender who told him someone had delivered food to one of the upstairs rooms. Hadn’t anyone warned the caterer to avoid sending a man into her room? Yes, I distinctly remembered Brian telling the catering staff, but it had apparently not registered with the bartender. Unless this Cullen had just sneaked out of the house for a smoke, he might very well have spent the last twenty minutes in the presence of a dangerous Attractor. I had to check this out.

“Hey, don’t forget your tray!” the caterer called to me, but I was already flying out of the kitchen.

“Helen, we may have a problem,” I called into the mike as I rushed toward Stephanie’s room. I quickly explained what had happened.

“Yeah,” Helen replied, “the camera covering her door didn’t pick him up.”

“No wonder,” I told her as I approached Stephanie’s room. I peered carefully at the tiny camera attached to a picture frame down the hall. “The camera has been shifted to cover the next door down the hall instead of hers.”

“Damn!”

Stephanie must have moved the camera while she was wandering around watching us set up. The little slut had something planned all along. This Cullen must have been the guy I had seen her talking to earlier. Damn! I should have realized something wasn’t right.

I didn’t wait for Brian or Helen to come into the house. I threw the door open and found the suite of rooms dark, but from the bedroom, I heard what I first thought to be a struggle. Without thinking, I shot into the bedroom with Brett right behind me and saw...

In the darkness, lit only by pale moonlight, I could see Stephanie’s newly-feminized legs, slender and supple legs wrapped around a broad black back as two figures moved together on top of a tangle of sheets. “Oh God!” she moaned, completely oblivious to our presence. Just then, her partner moaned in the unmistakable throes of a male climax.

“What is going on in here?” Mr. Lagrange roared from behind us. I hadn’t even realized he was there. He must have seen me rushing up the stairs.

I was standing too close to the entwined couple. The man, whom I assumed to be the missing Cullen leaped off Stephanie so quickly, he actually ran into me, knocking me to the ground. On the way down, I bumped my head on a nearby table, making a ‘thunk’ sound which must have been louder than I realized, because the next thing I knew, Brett was holding on to me calling, “She’s hurt! Get a doctor.”

“Let me see,” a voice called out. It was Howard, who must have come into the room with Mr. Lagrange. His gentle hands examined my throbbing forehead in the moonlight. “I don’t see any blood. Let me take her to my room.” With that, Howard showed himself to be stronger than I had imagined, picking me up and carrying me off.

“You bitch!” Stephanie was screaming. “What the hell do you think you’re doing barging in here?” I was too dazed to care, though.

Brett was set to follow me, but Mr. Lagrange pulled him back. “I need to speak with you,” he said grimly.

As I was carried from the room, Brian rushed past us, followed by Helen. “Cassie!” she cried. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” I assured her. And I would be if the jackhammer in my head ever let up. “Stay with Brian. I’ll be fine.”

Howard whisked me back to his rooms with an occasional glance over his shoulder to make sure no one from the party was watching. As nearly as I could tell, we had gotten lucky about that. The party, although consisting of well-mannered folk, had gotten loud enough on its own to mask the chaos going on upstairs in the back of the house. I imagined Brian would be able to keep any gawkers away.

“Are you feeling all right, Ms. Davis?” Howard asked, concerned.

“I’ll live,” I sighed, shifting in his arms as he managed to open his apartment door. “I don’t think it’s a concussion.”

“I’ll put a cold compress on it,” Howard told me, laying me on the comfortable couch I had seated myself on several days earlier. While Howard went into the kitchen, I stared up at the photos on the mantle in an attempt to force my eyes back into focus.

I thought about Stephen–or Stephanie as I preferred to think of her now. She must have latched on to Cullen earlier in the day. I hadn’t realized her Attractor power had lingering effects sufficient to bring Cullen to her rooms that evening. Maybe it didn’t. Stephanie was now a very attractive girl, and Attractors usually had high sex drives. Put the two together and she wouldn’t have had to use her power to Attract him. She could have lured him in without any magical effort at all.

It stood to reason that she would be attracted to someone like Cullen. The change of sex nearly always produced an equal but opposite attraction for the transformee. Who had told me that? Brett? Yeah, I thought so. Anyhow, I had been attracted to white women as a white man and now found myself attracted to black men as a black woman. Stephen had apparently been attracted to black women as a white man and now he was attracted to...

...black men?

Equal and opposite.

“Here we go,” Howard said softly as he gently laid the compress on my forehead. It did feel good, but my headache was already subsiding as I gazed again at the photos on the mantle. There was something about one of the pictures, I suddenly realized, that was bothersome.

Stephen was a white man attracted to black women...

“Howard,” I began, “didn’t you tell me that picture of your daughter was taken about five years ago.”

He looked at the picture and smiled. “Yes. She was eleven then.”

I had guessed ten. “So she’s–what–sixteen now?”

“Just,” he said proudly.

My mind was racing now, putting the pieces together. “It must be hard for you with her living in Chicago. Does she ever get to come down here for a visit?”

“Not since...” Howard began, but stopped suddenly.

The look on his face told me I had guessed right. “Not since she was old enough to catch Stephen’s interest?”

I suspect butlers learn early in their careers to hide their emotions. Howard was a master at it, but his sudden change from proud father to wary suspect was too much to hide completely. He said nothing.

“Did she come down here–when–last year? She would have been fifteen then. I’ll bet she’s very pretty.”

Howard didn’t say anything, but he knew where I was going. He rose from my side and stood in a formal pose over me. I decided to press on. “Stephen would have been attracted to her, wouldn’t he?” This time, I decided I had to have an answer. Howard must have seen it in my eyes, because he sighed and began to speak, not willing to look directly at me when he did.

“She came down a year ago in June–right after school was out,” he started out, his voice soft but punctuated with emotion. “She was supposed to stay the whole summer, but she only stayed three days.”

I nodded for him to continue.

“You’re right, Stephen has always liked black women–and girls. Or I guess I should say African-American now to be politically correct,” he said, obviously no more enamored by the latest euphemism than I was. “He started sniffing around her the moment she arrived. I guess I hadn’t realized that my little girl was growing up, or I would have tried to do something to keep him at bay before she arrived. But Master Stephen was always...”

“A sneaky little weasel?” I prompted.

Howard didn’t respond to that, but I could see he was near tears now. I had to ask him the obvious question before he broke down completely. “Did he use his power on her to have sex?”

“Oh, he tried,” Howard laughed, but it was a grim laugh. “Lord knows he tried. But Mr. Lagrange stopped him... just in time. He had my little girl in his rooms–on the bed when Mr. Lagrange and I went in. I think Mr. Lagrange knew what was going on when I had asked if he had seen Samantha–that’s my daughter’s name–Samantha.”

“It’s a pretty name,” I assured him, rising from the couch and patting his trembling hand.

“She was just looking up at him from the bed,” Howard went on, his eyes expressing pain, as if he was actually seeing the scene as he spoke. “She was looking at him like a little puppy dog would look at its master. I think if Mr. Lagrange hadn’t held me back, I would have killed Stephen right then and there.”

“What happened then?” I prompted.

“Not much to tell, really. Mr. Lagrange made Stephen apologize and swear he’d never do it again, but I could see from the look in his eyes that he wasn’t finished with her yet. The next day, I put her on a plane back to her mother in Chicago.”

“Does her mother know what happened?” I asked.

Howard shook his head. “Not all of it. She knows I sent her home because Stephen couldn’t be trusted, but she has no idea how far things nearly went.”

“So now she wants assurances her daughter will be safe before she allow her to visit again,” I added, pretty sure I was right.

“Her lawyer sent me a certified letter to that effect. A judge in Chicago issued an ...”

He was at a loss for words, so I decided to help him. “An injunction?”

He nodded. “Yes, that’s it. I can’t receive visits from my daughter until the... threat from an Attractor is abated to the judge’s satisfaction.”

“In other words,” I sighed, “Stephen has to be out of the way–or changed so as to no longer be a threat. How did you do it, Howard?”

Howard’s expression turned to one of pride. “Mama Juno isn’t the only Voudon woman in New Orleans. I know a couple of others. It wasn’t hard to find one, and when I told her what Mister Stephen was doing to our girls, she was happy to do it. She still charged me a hefty price, but it was worth it if it means I can have my daughter back with me again.”

“What I don’t understand,” I mused, “is why Mr. Lagrange hasn’t figured any of this out.”

“I don’t exactly know,” Howard admitted. “I think maybe it’s because there have been so many girls involved–more than he’s let on to you or your friends. Most of the families of the girls got bought off, and a few got threatened if they didn’t take what he offered them. He didn’t know about the injunction, so he offered me the same settlement as he’d offered all the other families to keep quiet. I took the money from him. He was very generous too, and the money helped me pay for the curse on him.”

I smiled a little at that. It was fitting irony that Mr. Lagrange’s hush money had gone to help pay for the curse laid on Stephen.

There was silence between us for a few moments. Then, at last, Howard looked me in the eye and asked, “Are you going to turn me in?”

It was something I had been wondering myself. Howard had broken the law, and that law carried a serious penalty for unwanted transformation. If I turned him in, his daughter would be nearing middle age before he got out of jail.

I couldn’t help but compare Howard to my own father. Howard had risked everything to protect his daughter–and in the process, he had probably saved the virtue of a large number of women–mostly African-American from the way it sounded. Of course, he had kept quiet about Stephen’s activities until his own daughter was affected, out of loyalty to the Lagrange family I supposed.

My own father, on the other hand, had done nothing to help me. His only thoughts were on how to salvage his reputation and his political career at the lowest possible cost. In his own way, his taste for young African-American girls was worse than Stephen’s. Stephen was at least young and had the excuse of a power that was essentially a curse in its own right. I found myself wishing my father had been even half as interested in my welfare as Howard was in his daughter’s well-being.

Of course, Howard’s motives were selfish. His daughter would have remained safe in Chicago, so Stephen was no further threat. Howard did what he did so he could continue to see more of his daughter than an occasional trip to Chicago would have offered. I couldn’t say that I blamed him for doing what he did.

Maybe it was a rationalization, but I couldn’t help but think even Stephen was better off as Stephanie–or whatever she chose to call herself. As a man, he would have eventually stepped too far over the line. Maybe he would never be a serial killer or rapist, but eventually, someone would either drag him into a criminal court or–more likely–simply kill him in revenge. As a girl, she might stumble into something as seamy as prostitution, but I doubted it. Her family had too much money to allow that to happen. The question was whether or not she would get the help she needed to control her affliction.

Howard was still waiting for an answer from me, and I owed him one. I wondered if the old me would have been as sympathetic. Probably not, but the new me knew what I had to do–or rather, not do.

“No, Howard, I’m not going to turn you in. This is just between you and me for now. But I can’t swear that Helen or Brian won’t come up with this on their own.”

He nodded slowly. “I understand.” He helped me to my feet. “Will you be all right now, Miss Cassie?”

I smiled. It was meaningful that he had not called me “ma’am” or “Ms. Davis.” Instead, he had used a form of address normally reserved for someone close to him. “I’ll be fine now, Howard.” I even gave him a little peck on the cheek for good measure. “Thank you.”

Howard smiled back at me. “No Miss Cassie, thank you.”

Brett, Helen and I piled into Brian’s car. I expected it to be a long ride home with Brian pissed about being removed from the case, in spite of the fact that Brian had agreed to be off the case if no suspect was identified at the party. Brett told me that Mr. Lagrange had ushered Brian and Helen into a private room and formally dismissed them. So it was with surprise that I saw both Helen and Brian looked rather happy.

As for me, I was happy to be sitting in the back seat, holding Brett’s hand, but I was feeling a little guilty about holding out on my sister and Brian since I held the answer they had been hired to find. Brian and Helen were chatting happily, so at last I had to ask, “Why are you two so upbeat? I thought you just got sacked.”

“Not exactly,” Helen laughed. “Actually, Mr. Lagrange decided we had done everything possible and paid our fees in full.”

“I don’t understand...”

“It’s like this, Cassie,” Brian began. “When he hired us, he was sure he knew what had happened. He knew his son was an Attractor, but never dreamed the extent of Stephen’s use of the power. For every girl whose family he paid off, Stephen had lured several others to his bed. They were just too distraught or too frightened to come forward.”

“He was a bastard all right,” Helen agreed. “Even his father knew it, but he thought he had the situation under control. That’s why he thought the transformation had to be related to something else–something Mama Juno had her hands in.”

“You put that suspicion to rest,” Brian told me. “And after that, it was just a matter of time until we all realized what a sexual predator Stephen had become. It slowly became obvious to his father that the list of suspects could fill the phone directory of a small town. We were able to determine that without turning the whole affair into a public circus. If you’ll remember, that was one of the reasons he hired us in the first place instead of going to the FBM.”

“Then you brought Brett into the picture,” Helen went on. “Mr. Lagrange’s primary interest slowly turned from finding out who had done this to his son to figuring out what to do to get his new daughter cured.”

Brett broke in, “According to my father, it’s likely that if Stephen isn’t treated, she’ll become just as much of a sexual predator as she was as a male. I tried to convince her father of this, but he still held out hope that he could control the situation–especially with his wife in denial about Stephen’s powers. Tonight, after Stephen lured that boy into her room, Mr. Lagrange finally agreed professional help was needed. Stephen leaves Monday–under guard–for my father’s clinic.”

“That’s why Mr. Lagrange paid us off in full,” Brian explained. “We may not have found out who did this to Stephen, but we did focus a spotlight on the real problem, and through an introduction to Brett, we provided him with a solution.”

“It’s funny,” Helen mused, “but this transformation might turn out to be a good thing for Stephen. As a man, it’s likely that he would have become even more of a sexual predator–or even getting his thrills raping and killing his victims. He was a strong Attractor, and Attractors that strong often turn to violence.”

“So you’re saying whoever did this may have done Stephen a favor?” I asked, pleased that what Helen was saying completely confirmed my own analysis.

“Maybe,” Brian allowed, “but whoever did this still committed a crime. Only I don’t think we’ll ever know who did it, even though we probably know why they did it.”

I decided it would be best to say nothing to Brian or Helen about what I knew. As private investigators and former law officers, they would be forced by their own ethics to turn Howard over to the police. Howard’s motives were selfish, but Brian and Helen had just reinforced my belief that what he had done had unwittingly saved the world–and his family–an incredible amount of pain and suffering.

Brett’s car was at my house, and when Helen offered to stay with me for the night to make sure I didn’t have a concussion, Brett quickly volunteered to watch me instead. The amused look on Helen’s face as she turned to give me a goodnight hug told me that she knew Brett intended to watch quite a bit of me very closely. “He’s a keeper, honey,” she whispered in my ear.

“I know,” I whispered back.

Once inside, Brett grabbed me and kissed me. “God, I was worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” I assured him, hugging him tightly. I could feel a need rising within me as I looked up at him.

“Maybe so, but that’s quite a knot on your forehead.”

I let go of him and rushed over to a mirror. “What knot?”

Brett laughed, “Don’t worry. You look beautiful even with it.”

I was glad he thought so. I certainly didn’t. It was a pretty noticeable knot, and even though my skin was dark, it wasn’t dark enough to hide the bruise. “Maybe I can put some makeup on it,” I murmured.

“Just like a woman,” Brett said. “You’re more worried about how it looks than how it feels.”

“Well, it really doesn’t hurt much,” I assured him as I turned back to him with what I hoped was a coy smile.

Brett made no move toward me, and I suddenly realized I really wanted him to. I decided to be a little less subtle, reaching around to unbutton my dress. “I can hardly wait to get out of this maid outfit,” I sighed.

Brett looked nervous. “Do you want me to leave the room?”

I smiled at him. “You’ve seen me naked before, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” he managed, “but your injury...”

“Damn it, Brett!” I exclaimed in frustration, pointing at my forehead. “My injury is up here...” as I shifted my finger to my crotch, “...not down here.”

Brett was a fast learner. He smiled back. “Here, let me help you with that dress...”

I couldn’t have imagined it a few days earlier, I thought to myself as Brett and I lay there in post-coital bliss, but sex as a woman really was great. Once again (or rather twice again to be accurate), Brett had proven himself to be a capable lover. I was even thinking that when he was up to it, a third demonstration for the evening might be in order.

“Are you awake?” he asked, kissing the top of my head. He couldn’t see my eyes since I was resting my head on his strong chest.

“I’m awake,” I told him, raising my head to give him a kiss.

“I was just thinking about Stephen...” he began.

“Don’t you mean Stephanie?” I teased as I ran my fingers through the wiry hair on his chest.

“Okay... Stephanie. I was just thinking about what your sister said about her–about how she was probably better off as a woman than a man. I wonder if her assailant–or whoever hired her assailant–realized the same thing. Maybe that’s why no one came forward to torment her regarding her change.”

“Do you think what happened to her was a good thing?” I asked. I really wanted to think that this was so, to further assure me that I had done the right thing. Also, I was practically ready to burst with the secret. I might not be able to tell Brian and Helen, but I desperately wanted to tell Brett what I had discovered.

Brett looked into my eyes, and I could see his, all serious in the moonlight. “Yes I do,” he said confidently. “My father’s clinic is just what Stephen–or Stephanie needs. She needed it even before her transformation, but as nearly as I can tell, the Lagrange family was too proud to accept that. It took the catalyst of the transformation and tonight’s little... incident to make them all see reason. She has a tough road ahead of her, trying to bring that dangerous Attractor power under control. In another year or two, probably nothing would have helped, but at least now, she has a chance. I wish I could meet whoever did this to her and thank her for saving her life.”

Brett said that with such passion, I felt I had to share what I had learned with him. I knew in my heart he would never repeat it to anyone, and although I had told Howard I wouldn’t tell anyone else, telling Brett was almost like telling another part of myself. “Brett honey,” I began, “you’ve already met him.”

“What?”

As we lay there together, gently touching each other, I told Brett everything. From his silence and the look in his eyes, I could see he believed every word of it. When I finished, he asked, “And you figured this out by yourself?”

“Yes.”

He began to chuckle as he brought his lips close to mine, ready to start another round of sex, I hoped. “You know, for someone who doesn’t read mysteries, you managed to invoke the ultimate mystery cliché.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, perplexed. Then I realized what he meant. We grinned at each other just before kissing and said together, “The butler did it!”

The End

---

“More wine, Cassie?”

I nervously swallowed the bite of pecan-encrusted fish I had been slowly working on and managed to reply, “No thanks... Oliver.”

As a young man, I had considered myself a competent wine drinker, able to sip champagne with hors d’oeuvres, ample quantities of fine wines with my food, and still have the ability to finish off a meal with a glass of 20 year-old tawny port. But I wasn’t a young man anymore: I was a young woman–a woman who looked so young that the waiter at Commander’s Palace had actually had the audacity to check my ID. And as a young woman, I was already beginning to feel the effects of the wine, although it was only my second glass.

Of course, it didn’t help that I was as nervous as the proverbial cat in a room filled with rocking chairs. There I was, sitting across the table from Brett’s father, the esteemed Doctor Oliver Carson. Oliver and his wife Estelle, had been visiting New Orleans for Mardi Gras, and had stayed for a few days to be with their son and, to quote Oliver, “Meet this fine young lady, who seems to have stolen our son’s heart.”

To be fair, Oliver and Estelle had done everything in their power to put me at ease. They were a wonderful couple. They had treated me as a daughter for the last three days, and they seemed genuinely pleased that Brett and I were together. I wondered what they would have said if they had known that just a little over a year ago, I hadn’t been the sweet young African-American girl who graced their table. Instead, I had been a white man, scion of an old Louisiana family that had proudly supported the Confederacy (until it was in their best interests to cooperate with the Union) and, in the finest tradition of wealthy families throughout the South, had owned scores of black slaves.

But of course they didn’t know. Not even Brett knew. As far as they all knew, I, like their family, had grown up as an African-American with middle-class roots. They knew I had a mother and two siblings–a brother and a sister–and that my mother was a professor at the University of Louisiana, and that she was currently dating a New Orleans physician. Of course, what had remained unsaid was that my mother and siblings were not my original family, and that my new mother was dating Papa Bob. True, he was a physician, but he was also one of the foremost practicing Voodooines in the area.

I had certainly done everything in my power to appear as the girl they expected though. I had suffered through a lengthy session at the beauty shop right after classes, during which I had allowed them to do their damnedest to make me into the lovely young woman they thought me to be. Not that I was so bad to start with, but they had done such wonders with making me look my best that I wondered if they didn’t use just a little bit of magic to enhance me. In my little black dress and three-inch heels I had turned the heads of nearly every man in the dining room, and I could feel Brett’s pride as he sat next to me.

Although I had dressed up for Brett before, this time it was different. I had grown accustomed to being a girl for Brett, and he accepted me for who I was (or at least who he thought I was). In the months we had been a couple, I had allowed my feminine side to dominate me, and I knew that I was absolutely in love with him. An eventual marriage wasn’t out of the question. Unless...

I hadn’t worked up the courage to tell Brett who I had been–that I had been transformed against my will, to destroy the budding political career of my ambitious father. The plot had failed though, and my father–or perhaps I should say my former father–now sat in the Governor’s office in Baton Rouge, while I had been forced into a very different life.

I didn’t regret my new life–in fact, I had come to enjoy it. But Brett was a big part of that new life, and I didn’t want anything to happen to spoil that. Yet there I was, sitting across the table from the handsome older man, who just happened to be one of the foremost authorities in the country regarding magical sex changes. I felt as if he would see me for the man I used to be and I would be toast any moment now. Call me paranoid, but there it was.

“Brett tells me you’ve lived your entire life here in Louisiana,” Estelle said suddenly, and I realized I had been woolgathering again.

“Uh... yes,” I managed. At least that was the truth. The questions she had asked me about my supposed girlhood had kept me on edge all evening, since of course I had never had a girlhood.

“All of that time here in New Orleans?”

Except for my time at Harvard, I had lived my entire life in the Crescent City, but my new family had not, so I responded vaguely, “Mom teaches at Louisiana University in Lafayette, Louisiana, a little west of here.” That wasn’t a lie, was it?

“But you would never guess that,” Brett chuckled. “She knows the New Orleans area like a native. I still get lost the way the streets circle around here, but she always knows how to get around.”

I hoped they didn’t notice my grimace. I tried to recover with, “I just have a good sense of direction.”

Estelle put her hand on mine and added, “And unlike our men, I’m sure you aren’t above stopping and asking for directions.” She chuckled then, and I smiled back at her.

“If you’re that familiar with the area, you might be just the person to talk to about Voodoo,” Oliver suggested.

Estelle laughed, “Good lord Ollie, just because she’s from New Orleans doesn’t mean she knows anything about that nonsense.”

“It isn’t really nonsense,” Ollie countered. “Experts in the field of magic have suspected practitioners of Voodoo might very well have naturally tapped into the hidden magical forces that Webster and Kline eventually released. If any of the old Voodoo priests were still around today, they might be some of the most powerful magical practitioners on the planet, since they seemed to have some talents even then.”

“But they are still around,” I blurted out without thinking. The surprised looks on everyone’s faces–even Brett’s–warned me I shouldn’t have butted in. Mama Juno, the infamous Voodoo priestess, had been responsible for my transformation. And whether by magic or just some well-placed bribes, she had managed to avoid prosecution for that and a number of other crimes. That was all pretty powerful magic when you got right down to it. Of course they didn’t know that, but their looks told me they suspected I just might believe in the mysterious old faith myself. Many persons of our color still did–secretly, of course. I had to explain my outburst.

“What I mean,” I backpedalled, “is that it’s common knowledge around here that some folks still believe. There are still shops on South Rampart Street that sell magic powders and Voodoo candles, just as they did a century ago. Graves of some of the famous past practitioners get decorated with Voodoo symbols, and every now and then, some hapless resident ends up with a dead chicken wearing doll clothes on his front doorstep.”

“Ugh!” Estelle interjected, but Oliver just laughed.

“Maybe I should open up a branch of my clinic down here. No telling what some Voodoo priestess might figure out to do with some poor guys.”

Everybody chuckled at that, and the conversation stayed light through the rest of the main course. I was contemplating dessert, debating about what those empty but so delicious calories might do to me when I heard a buzzing noise.

Oliver looked a little embarrassed and reached in his suit coat pocket, extracting his cell phone. “Excuse me,” he murmured, turning his head to one side. The rest of us got very quiet. When a doctor is disturbed while on vacation, the news can never be good. After a few quiet questions he pulled out a notebook and jotted something down. Then he closed the call with, “Yes, I understand. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” With a sigh, he placed the phone back in his pocket, a look of disappointment on his face.

“Don’t tell me you have to go back to Nashville,” Estelle guessed, obviously disappointed to have their vacation cut short.

“Oh, no!” Oliver assured her. “This is a local situation, right here in town. There seems to be a young... well, lady now, at the LSU Medical Center. The FBM has asked me to consult with them on the case. Brett, if you would take the ladies home and I’ll catch a cab?”

It didn’t take a detective to figure out what was going on. Oliver’s experience with victims of involuntary magical sex change, and the way he stumbled on the “lady” reference, spelled yet another case of the sort I was all too familiar with due to personal experience. Add to it the fact that nearly all victims of magical spells were taken to the LSU Med Center and the problem was obvious. Since I had a very personal interest in such cases, I wanted to go too. I know, I shouldn’t have gotten involved, but my heart went out to the poor souls who had their genders stolen from them, and I wanted to help.

I put my hand on Oliver’s sleeve as he was preparing to rise. “Maybe I should go too,” I suggested. “As Brett says, I know my way around town pretty well, and the LSU Med Center can be a pretty easy place to get lost in. If Brett doesn’t mind, I can drive you there while he takes Estelle back to your hotel in a cab.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Oliver acknowledged, “but I might be there for some time. I wouldn’t want to keep you out.”

“Don’t worry, Dad,” Brett interrupted while handing me the keys to his Z-3. “Cassie has had some experience with this sort of thing.”

I must have looked a little shocked for a moment before I realized what he meant.

“Oh yes!” Oliver replied brightly. “Ms. Lagrange’s case. Yes, perhaps I can use your assistance... if you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.” I smiled at him as I collected the car keys. “Let’s go.”

My own phone went off right after we scooted out of the parking lot on our way downtown. Fortunately the top was up (I didn’t want my hair messed up after an afternoon getting it done), so I was able to hear my sister on the other end.

“Cassie?”

“Yeah, Helen.”

“Where are you right now?”

I gave her a quick rundown of what was going on and where we now were. To my surprise she laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“I was just calling to ask you if you could meet us at the Med Center. The FBM brought Brian and me in to consult on that same case.”

“No kidding?”

“See you in a few,” she said brightly.

“A problem?” Oliver asked.

“No, just my sister,” I told him. “She’s working on your case too, it seems.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. She and her husband are private investigators. They’ve worked on cases like this before.” ‘Including in Helen’s case,’ I added silently, ‘my own sex change.’

I could sense Oliver had other questions to ask me, but fortunately the shape of the LSU Med Center was just ahead. I slowed down and wheeled the car into the doctor’s parking lot, figuring after all Oliver was a doctor. If they ticketed me, I’d sort it out later.

I wondered as I led him through the sterile hallways, why the FBM was letting out all the stops. Both Oliver and Helen were going to be temporarily on the FBM payroll–an odd situation for the semi-secretive agency which almost always kept its investigations private and internal. From past experience, it usually meant the FBM had something it needed handled quickly–something it couldn’t handle by itself. That sounded ominous.

Since my former father had been the local director of the agency until a year ago, I was very aware of the reasons for that. Ever since magic had exploded (almost literally) on the American scene a few years ago, the government had sought to keep a lid on the scope of the problem of magic. Fortunately for them, most magic was minor and rather benign. Magical abilities were nonexistent in most people, and still others never discovered their latent talents, meager as they might be. Even most of those who did discover their own magic talents found them to be virtually useless. My own power as a Pusher meant I could move things with my mind, but not accurately or strongly enough to be of much use. Other than being able to move things into reach from high shelves, it hadn’t exactly made me popular at parties.

But others ended up with considerable magic power, and some had even managed to ‘package’ their abilities, through spells and potions which could be handled by even those with no magical abilities. In other words, a lot more people were at risk from magic users than was generally perceived.

Take sex change spells, for example. No one knew who had developed the first ones. For years, everyone thought changing a person into one of the opposite sex was too complex to pull off. It would take considerable knowledge of biology, anatomy, and three or four other basic scientific disciplines. But then, somewhere, sometime, someone managed to do it.

Then came contact spells, where someone with magical ability could ‘hold’ the spell inside them. If that someone was a woman, she could have sex with a guy and change him into a girl. And unlike other ‘transformation’ spells, like a simple nose job or magical liposuction, a guy once changed into a girl was stuck as that girl for the rest of her life. It had something to do with magic’s inability to synthesize the Y chromosome. Sure, small changes could be done to them–all cosmetic in nature–but they were stuck on the distaff side for their rest of their lives. Just like me. A couple of feminist underground groups had a lot of fun with that for a time until the FBM broke them up.

And now sex changes could be packaged in a simple potion. Just slip it into a guy’s drink and poof! Instant girl. Well, not exactly instant. The changes took several days, but once finished, they were absolutely permanent. One little sip and it was heels and skirts for life.

So it was the sex change spells that were really driving the Federal Bureau of Magic up a wall. Lurid movies, books, and TV shows had guys staying out of the bars so much that it was almost like the old times before magic cured AIDS. Whenever the Bureau got a sex change case, they let out all the stops, but not typically to the extent of going outside for help.

‘This one must be a really sticky case,’ I thought to myself.

When we entered the Magic Ward, Sarah Carmichael was waiting for us, along with Helen. It had been a while since I had seen the lovely redhead who had replaced my father as Director of the local FBM office. She and I had always gotten along, but we sort of ran in different circles now. Besides, since she had been offered the post of Director, I think she had become a little uncomfortable around me, since I had once been my father’s heir apparent before my transformation.

The job had been great for Sarah’s career, but I could see it was wearing on her. I had been female just long enough to tell that her shoulder-length red hair had benefited from a little touch-up to hide the gray. Also, her eyes showed significant signs of lack of sleep. I had heard from Helen and others that New Orleans was going through one of its not-infrequent crime waves, and more and more crimes were being perpetrated by magic–hence, the FBM’s involvement.

She nodded to me but spoke to Oliver first. “Dr. Carson?” She offered her hand. “I’m Sarah Carmichael. Thank you for coming.”

Oliver took her hand and smiled. “No problem, Ms. Carmichael. I’ll be happy to do anything I can.”

Sarah then turned to me and nodded again, a little coolly, I thought. “Cassie? Did Helen call you?”

“Yes,” I answered, adding, “but I was already on my way over. Oliver and I were at dinner together. Oliver is Brett’s father, you know.”

“Of course.” Sarah nodded, as if she had only just remembered that I was dating Oliver’s son. She knew, of course. I was sure my file was still active at the Bureau. Thankfully she said nothing about my transformation, or let on to Oliver how or why I knew the Director of the local FBM office. She tactfully added, “Since you’ve helped your sister and her husband on a similar case, I’m sure you can help us on this one too.”

I reminded myself to thank Sarah later for that setup. I realized suddenly that she wasn’t really being cool to me: rather, she was just downplaying the links between me and the Bureau for Oliver’s benefit.

Once I had introduced Helen to Oliver, he got down to business. “Ms. Carmichael, I know you have a number of sex change cases here in New Orleans. In fact, I understand the Bureau has been swamped with them all over the country for some time. May I ask what made this one so special that you called me in?”

Sarah nodded, equally ready to get down to business. She even seemed just a little relieved, pleased that Oliver was every bit as perceptive as she had hoped he would be. “Dr. Carson, I know you’ve done some work with victims of Slavers.” She said the word very softly so as not to be heard by anyone who might suddenly come upon us.

Oliver grimaced. “Yes. I have two patients who were victims of... those monsters.”

Monsters was exactly what they were, I thought. Of all the magical talents the accidental release of magic had foisted on the world, the Slaver was one of, if not the worst imaginable. It was fortunate their numbers were few, since they had only begun to turn up in the last two or three years and had already caused immeasurable damage.

No one knew why they had turned up only recently. Some of the experts believed that other talents–such as Whispering–had mutated to cause Slavers. They deemed them simply extremely powerful Whisperers, but others weren’t so certain. They pointed out that a Whisperer could modify behavior, but not on as grand a scale as a Slaver. Whisperers couldn’t alter a person’s memories like a Slaver could. Under the influence of a Slaver, an individual could be made to believe he or she was an entirely different person with a changed set of memories, resulting in the worst cases in complete erasure of an individual’s mental existence.

And to make matters worse, the few Slavers who had been profiled often exhibited other talents as well, not unlike an Omni. To make matters still worse, Transformation and Slaver talents often went hand in hand. Slavers were mean mother... well, you get the idea.

Thankfully the media hadn’t caught wind of the presence of Slaver talents, since Slavers generally covered their own tracks remorselessly. Only the FBM and a few other individuals with close ties to either the Bureau or the medical community even knew they existed. None had ever been taken alive. Of course, although the general public had no real knowledge of Slavers, rumors were already beginning...

Slavers had the unique ability to bend others to their will. Sure, Whisperers could do that too, but Whisperers had to be subtle. Slavers had only to demand, and their victims would obediently do anything–even killing themselves, if required. To make matters worse, Slavers were always corrupted by their power. Once they began wielding it, they became malevolent and sadistic. Their sparse numbers gravitated to the S&M community, where their talents were often written off by unsuspecting individuals as just highly-effective doms, but the FBM knew better.

“Who is the victim?” I asked, trying to ignore the sick feeling in my stomach at the mere mention of Slavers.

“She’s a Jane Doe,” Sarah explained, ushering us into a nearby conference room. “We think the Slaver robbed her of her memories and was getting ready to sell her.”

So this Slaver was well-labelled–a true dealer in human flesh.

“And that’s why you called me in,” Oliver surmised, as we all took seats around a small conference table. “I have to warn you that unless you can learn something about her life before her transformation, you have very little chance of finding the perpetrator. Odds are good that the Slaver’s identity is buried in the memories that were stolen from her.”

Sarah nodded. “You were able to restore the memories of such a girl at your clinic in Nashville. As nearly as we can tell, you’re the only one who has been able to do that.”

“Yes,” Oliver acknowledged, “but I was very fortunate. The patient was retrieved before the transformation was complete. We were able to drive a wedge between her programming and her physical nature. Your Jane Doe–how far along is her physical transformation?”

Sarah’s shoulders sagged. “It’s complete. Then you aren’t able to help if the physical transformation is complete?”

“Not necessarily,” Oliver clarified. “Although frankly, the best help I can give her is to help her cope with her new life. I doubt if there’s anything that can be done to discern her original identity, unless we can find some way of getting her to connect with her former life, such as the encouragement of friends or family, or reintroducing her to familiar surroundings. And that will have to be done before any mental programming is completed. Is she still changing mentally?”

“We think so,” Sarah confirmed. “One of the doctors here at the hospital has examined her and done an MMRI. Her brain seems to be going through some changes.”

Sarah turned to Helen. “How about you and Brian? You’ve done some investigation of Slavers. Could the ones who changed our victim be the same ones?”

I looked over in shock at Helen. I had no idea she and Brian had been working on any Slaver cases. If I’d known, I would have warned her against taking the case. From what little I knew of Slavers, they were about the most dangerous practitioners of magic around. The people who had changed me into a girl had been pussycats compared to Slavers, and I had nearly ended up a teen prostitute from their machinations.

Helen took the question in stride. Obviously, she and Sarah had spoken about the Slavers before. “It’s possible,” she allowed. “Since the Slaver talent is very rare, I doubt if there are more than a couple of them in the entire region, let alone right here in the city. This fits the pattern, since the only men reported missing in the last few days are men who wouldn’t be missed. Slavers favor them.”

“Wait a minute,” I broke in. “Why does it have to be men? Why couldn’t Slavers use women and just change them mentally? Wouldn’t it be a lot easier than changing their sex?”

Helen looked at Sarah, and I realized suddenly that there were some things known about Slavers which were top secret. Sarah gave a slight nod, to allow Helen to proceed.

“Cassie, Slavers can change a victim’s appearance and turn them into willing sex slaves,” she began. “I assume you knew that?”

“Sure.” I nodded. “Go on.”

“The problem is,” she continued, “the victim has to be male to begin with for a Slaver’s power to work right. Naturally born women have a higher resistance to Slaver powers: nobody knows just why. That’s just the way it is. The physical transformation is usually the first step. Then, after about five days, the body is settled enough for the mental conversion to begin. That takes another week or so, and is usually delivered in small, measured spells, until the victim is what they intend him or her to be.”

“Him?” I asked.

“I know most people who’ve at least heard of Slavers believe they always turn their victims into women, but that’s not so. They can also turn them into she-males, sissies, delicate little gay males, permanent children–if the victim is a young teen to begin with–or anything else a client’s perverted little mind can imagine.”

I involuntarily shuddered. I had had no idea they could so many perverted things. It was bad enough that they could do to others what had been done to me–changing the victim from male to female–but as for those other things... At least what had been done to me had allowed me to go on and lead a normal life–if not the life I had been born to. But what about some poor teen boy who was, say, turned into a ten-year-old girl for the rest of his life? What kind of monster would do that? Or worse yet, what kind of monster would pay someone to do that to another human being?

“Cassie, are you all right?” Oliver asked me, gently squeezing my arm.

I suddenly realized I must have looked pale–or as pale as my dark skin would allow. There, just for a moment, all of the horror of my transformation had come back to me. “Yes, I’m fine,” I lied.

“No, you’re not all right,” Helen contradicted me. “Cassie, I don’t think you ought to get involved in this.”

Of course, the unspoken reason was that Helen knew exactly what I was thinking about. She and her family had been my mental salvation as I made the forced transition from white man to African-American woman. They had taken me in as one of their family, and I’d always be grateful to them.

And she was right. The last thing I should get involved in was a Slaver case, but I couldn’t help it. After what had been done to me, I wanted to do everything I could to help that poor Jane Doe. I met my sister’s gaze. “I’ll be fine, Helen.”

‘Please don’t slip up and say anything about my transformation,’ I mentally pleaded with her. I didn’t want Oliver to know–or at least not now, not like this.

To my relief Helen backed down. “Okay, girl, but if you feel like backing out, don’t hesitate to do so.”

“I won’t,” I promised. “But what’s this about you and Brian being involved in a Slaver case?”

Helen shrugged. “It was a couple of months ago. We uncovered a couple of young women who were being smuggled out of the country to be sex slaves in the Middle East. Unfortunately their minds were pretty well set in sex-toy mode, so we weren’t able to learn who they had been before, but from the stories they gave the FBM about their transformations, it sounded like a Slaver. We followed up for the Bureau, at least as far as our own client’s case took us, but we never learned anything about the Slaver’s identity.”

“Cassie–last chance. Do you want to bow out of this?” Sarah asked.

“No way,” I replied.

“Okay then,” Sarah replied, visibly relieved that no one had backed away from the case. I think she needed every resource she could lay her hands on with this case. A Slaver ring loose in her city would eat up a lot of time and resources, and if the media got hold of it, it would be a disaster. She needed to crack this case quickly and quietly, or every family in the city who learned about this would feel threatened. “I’ve got a Holo to go through the girl’s statement for us.”

A small mousy woman with nondescript brown hair stepped into the room and sat at the far end of the table. She wore an FBM badge on her gray suit jacket. I hadn’t been aware that the FBM had a Holo on the team. They were even more rare than Slavers, but they were supposed to be invaluable in criminal cases.

“What is a Holo?” Oliver asked me.

I wasn’t surprised that he didn’t know. Even though he obviously got involved in criminal investigations, there couldn’t be more than a dozen Holos in the country. I only knew of them from my former father, and even when he told me about them, there hadn’t been one within a thousand miles of New Orleans.

“They have the power to make a story–or in this case, a transcript–come alive,” I explained. “She had to be present when the girl gave her statement, or it wouldn’t work. Now, as she reads the girl’s statement, we’ll be able to see things as they happen from her perspective–even hearing her voice and inflections. It allows investigators to catch details the victim may have seen, but not really noticed.”

Oliver was obviously impressed. “I hope we figure out a way to enhance that talent in others. I could use one of them on my staff.”

“So could a lot of people,” I told him as the Holo arranged the statement in front of her. “For the foreseeable future though, I doubt if you or anybody outside the Federal government could afford one.”

The Holo looked up at us, as if noticing us for the first time. “I’d like to begin with the statement of Jane Doe...”

As she read the preamble to the statement, her voice was dull and lifeless, and I began to feel as if I were about to nod off. It was part of the Holo’s talent, I realized. As soon as she reached Jane Doe’s actual statement, her inflection would change and we would be thrust into the story. Sure enough, the Holo’s voice seemed to change into that of an entirely different person as everything around me seemed to fade...

Statement of Jane Doe

I don’t remember much from... before.

I mean, I remember being a guy, as strange as that must seem, looking at me now. But I do remember. I remember walking across campus–I’m not sure which campus, though. I remember I was finished with classes for the day and was heading back to... back to... well, back where I lived.

How do I know I was a guy? Well, I was wearing jeans, and they were a little tight in the crotch, and I could feel my dick and balls sort of twisted up there in my shorts, if you know what I mean. And I know I didn’t have these... these... breasts. My chest was flat and masculine.

“Hey, pal,” a voice called out to me. I looked over my shoulder and saw a guy in a black Mercedes. It’s funny, but I think I knew the guy, but it didn’t seem strange that he would be asking me a question like that. It was sort of like things are in a dream, where what’s happening doesn’t make a lot of sense, but you go with the flow. Anyhow, the guy had a map unfolded in front of him. “Can you tell me how to get to the Superdome on this map?”

“Yeah, sure.” I was in an agreeable mood. Everybody usually is around Mardi Gras time. I had a party to get to, that much I seem to remember, but it would just take a minute to show him on his map. But as I leaned over to point the stadium out on his map, I heard the back door of the car unlatch, and the next thing I knew, somebody was pulling me back and covering my nose and mouth with a damp cloth. Then just like that, I was out cold.

I know that doesn’t give you much to go on, and if I understand how all this works, you’re seeing what I saw right now. As for the driver, he was pretty average–dark brown hair, cut close, decent tan, and dark glasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes. Or maybe that’s not right. He may have had longish blond hair and a moustache. I can’t be sure, as the memory of him just keeps shifting, but like I said, I think I knew him. I just can’t settle in on what he looked like or who he was.

As for the guy who gassed me? I guess I didn’t see him at all, but he was damned strong–he jerked me back with no effort at all. I think he may have been a jock, but I’m not sure. Whoever he was, he was a lot stronger than I am–or I guess that should be than I was.

Then there was the car. It was just your standard Mercedes sedan–black but I don’t know Mercedes models well enough to tell you anything more than just that it was a sedan and that it was big and plush inside. Come to think of it, it may not have even been a Mercedes, but it was some sort of luxury car: that much I know. And it was black–definitely black. I didn’t get to look around much, because whatever they gassed me with put me out damned fast.

I don’t know exactly how long I was out cold. It might have been minutes or it might have been days. I didn’t dream and there was no sense of time. When I woke up, I was in this room–the one you’re probably seeing now. Notice though, that there were no windows–just a curtain with light behind it to simulate day and, when they turned the lights down, I suspected it would simulate night. There wasn’t a lot of furniture in the room–just a bed and a straight-backed chair. I was just lying there on the bed. It was a little cool, and then I realized they had taken all of my clothes. God, I hoped nobody was watching me.

“Where am I?” I yelled out. Well, it wasn’t really a yell: it was more of a croak. I figured whatever they had used to knock me out had made my throat a little rough. “What do you want with me?”

It’s funny, but waking up like that, all helpless and confused, it took me a few moments to realize that I had no idea who I was. I was just... me–a guy who had been walking after classes. I couldn’t even tell you for sure where I went to school or what I was majoring in.

I looked down at myself. I looked to be about twenty or so, judging from my body’s appearance, and a typical white male. I yanked out a hair from my head, and it turned out to be brown. That’s about all I could tell, since there wasn’t a mirror in the room. If I had to guess, I imagined I was just an average guy–not real big, but not real small either. You know–average.

I couldn’t see what my face looked like though, and I silently wished for a mirror. Maybe if I could see my own face, I might have some idea who I was, but there was no mirror or anything else reflective for that matter. I felt my face–average nose, average mouth, no whiskers on average cheeks. Again, I was just average.

“Where am I?” I repeated. If the floor hadn’t been carpeted and the walls covered with curtains or nondescript still-life paintings, my voice might have even echoed a little, but it didn’t.

Why was this being done to me anyhow? Since I couldn’t remember who I was, I speculated that maybe I was the son of some wealthy family, and that these people, whoever they were, had kidnapped me and were holding me for ransom. Or maybe I was older than I looked and had been a spy who was about to be interrogated. If I had been a betting man (and I had no idea if I was or not), I would have laid odds on the ransom scenario. For some reason, I didn’t feel like a young James Bond type. Besides, didn’t all spies know how to use magic? At least that’s the way it always was in the movies. I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t think I had much talent for magic.

I sat back down on the bed. It was the only piece of furniture in the room, except for the uncomfortable-looking chair, and I didn’t want to entertain any possible secret watchers by pacing up and down like a tiger in a cage. I figured there was nothing to do but wait.

And I didn’t have to wait long.

As it opened, I could see the door to the room was very thick and probably soundproof. That explained why I hadn’t heard any noises yet. The lock, I noticed, was electronic, as I heard it buzz when the door opened.

I looked into the eyes of my captor, but that’s all I could see of him. He was dressed in a black jumpsuit with a black ski mask over his head. But he was pretty good-sized. Maybe he was the same guy who pulled me into the back seat of the car. Or maybe not. In any case, I was no match for him, especially lying there naked. “Stand up!” he barked in a deep voice.

Not knowing what else to do, I did as he commanded. Then he walked over to me and started examining my arm, while two other similarly dressed men, both armed with what looked like tasers, stood at the door.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked. “Look, I don’t remember if I have any money or not, but I’ll give you whatever I can if you just let me go.”

I could see the man’s face twist up into a smile under the mask, but from his eyes, I could see that it was irony and not satisfaction that made him smile. Then he nodded, as if everything was as he expected, and he told one of the men at the door, “Go ahead and bring him his meal.”

In a few moments a meal was brought to me on a tray table, which was positioned in front of the straight-backed chair. “Eat!” my examiner told me.

I was hungry. I had no idea how long I had been out cold, but it was long enough that I had worked up an appetite. It’s funny: maybe I should have been too upset to eat, but I wasn’t. Maybe they had messed with my mind before they plopped me in the room, I reasoned. That was probably why I couldn’t remember who I was. One of them must have been a Whisperer or something. He probably calmed my mind down, too, so I wouldn’t get all hysterical and cause any trouble.

I sat down as they watched and polished off a plate of what tasted sort of like chicken in a mild sauce. It had already been cut up for me: that way they didn’t have to give me a knife, I guess. In fact, I had to eat with a spoon. Whoever these guys were, they were taking no chances.

Looking back on it, I’m sure there was something in the food to make me sleep. Right after I washed down the last of my meal with a glass of water, I began to feel sort of woozy and had to be helped back to bed. That’s the last thing I remembered–until I woke up again. If I thought I had been given a shock the last time I had awakened, it was nothing compared to the shock I had when I next woke up.

When I next came to, I felt funny–sort of as if everything was out of kilter. I was lying there on my stomach, with my face to one side. Something was tickling me on the side of my face, and my chest felt odd pushed down against the bed. I groaned and rolled over. I sat up and my chest seemed to shift downward a little as I did.

I looked down at myself, trying to figure out what was wrong. Things were different, but not as different as they are now. It took me a moment to realize that all of my chest hair was gone and that my nipples seemed larger. Also, there was a puffiness around them as if I had...

Okay, sure, I’ve read a few porn stories about sex changes. Who hasn’t? And sure, I saw that movie they made last year–what was the name of it?–oh yeah, Jack to Jackie. You know the one–it’s where the guy lets himself be changed into a girl by magic and... uh... okay, maybe you didn’t see it. It wasn’t very good, and a girlfriend of mine–what was her name?–she said she knew a guy who got changed by magic into a girl and it didn’t really work like that.

Anyhow, it became pretty obvious as to what was happening to me. I had been kidnapped for some reason and was being changed into a girl. At least that told me who I probably was, I realized grimly. It’s pretty well known that winos and druggies are scooped up and changed into girls to be used as sex slaves. All the rags have stories on it. I must have been a junkie or a drunk who got picked up and changed. That probably explained why I couldn’t remember who I was. Some of the drugs out there now can cause all kinds of nasty stuff–including amnesia. So maybe I wasn’t a college student after all. Or maybe I was a college student with a drug problem. I had no way of knowing.

I looked down past the developing breasts, fearful that I would find my manhood completely gone. It wasn’t, but that was only a small comfort–‘small’ being the operative word. Everything down there was smaller, like it had been when I was twelve.

Funny, but I could remember being twelve. I could remember being a young boy, riding my bike, playing baseball... But when I tried to remember who I was, or who my parents were, or the names and faces of any of my friends, I drew a complete blank.

As I was mulling that over, the door opened again. I couldn’t tell for sure, but the man who entered looked like the same man who had checked me out the day before.

“Stand up!”

I did as he demanded. It wasn’t as if I had a choice, what with the two other guys standing by the door. Besides, if I was right and they were turning me into a girl, I had probably already lost a significant amount of my physical strength. I was no match for any of them–certainly not now anyway.

Somehow, knowing that my body was now at least partially female made the physical examination even more embarrassing than the one the previous day. He grabbed my ass, apparently pleased that it had grown some. He was less pleased when he looked at my genitals. I didn’t know why, since they were certainly smaller. Maybe he had been expecting some more dramatic changes.

He looked over my face, grunting as if the changes there were about what he expected. Did I have baby blue eyes now with long lashes, I wondered? For that matter, I wasn’t sure what color my eyes had been before, so I suppose it didn’t matter. He rubbed some of my longer hair through his fingers, nodding in approval.

Then he looked at my chest. He gently pressed the tissue beneath my nipples, and I flushed in embarrassment when it became obvious to me that there was actually some development there. Then, with a thumb and forefinger, he rubbed one of my nipples. The feeling was strangely pleasant. Like most men, my nipples had always been only slightly sensitive, but now...

Before I could stop myself, I gave out a little groan.

He smiled. “Liked that, did you? Just wait. When you’re done, you’ll have a lot more to like.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” I asked, more breathily than I had intended.

He ignored my question, turning to the other men. “Bring in her meal.”

The “her” wasn’t lost on me. I resented it, actually. After all, I was still male where it counted. If I remembered rightly, most sex change spells took from three to five days to complete themselves. I assumed that my sexual organs would be among the last to change, so as far as I was concerned, I was still male and I planned to think of myself in just that way for as long as I could. But I didn’t challenge him on that point. I certainly wasn’t in any position to do so.

The meal was set up the same way as the day before. Once again, I found myself very hungry, so I sat down and dug in. It wasn’t until I was about halfway through the meal that I had a sudden epiphany: The food, I realized. I was being drugged. There was something in it to make me calmer and more cooperative. Maybe the food also contained whatever was changing me into a girl. That had to be it. I wasn’t taking any chances. I scooted the chair back from the table.

“Finish your meal,” my chief captor demanded.

“I’m not hungry,” I protested.

I could feel him step closer behind me. “Finish your meal,” he repeated.

What could they do to me? I had already come to the conclusion that I was just a hapless derelict who was to be changed into a compliant little slave girl. Because of that, they would want me in prime condition–no cuts, bruises, broken bones, at least not until they had turned me over to my master. I ignored the command.

The next thing I knew, my chief captor had grabbed my head and forced open my jaws while one of the other men force-fed me. I tried my best to resist, but they were too strong for me. I suddenly realized I was crying, tears rolling down my cheeks like... like... a woman. Frustrated and helpless, my resistance waned, and in short order, they forced the rest of my meal into me.

You know, I really think they could have magically commanded me to eat and I would have done so, but I think they physically forced me to eat just to prove a point–that they were in control of me, and if I didn’t cooperate, the punishments would be unpleasant. The lesson wasn’t lost on me.

I lay there alone after they had left, sobbing softly to myself. Before, I had been confused and disoriented, but now add to that, I had become frightened. Was it the manhandling they had given me, or were the drugs in the food having a greater effect–or both? I couldn’t be certain, but as I drifted off to sleep, I realized grimly that I was well on my way to becoming a frightened, helpless little girl–exactly what they probably wanted me to be.

Now when I said “little girl,” I didn’t mean that literally. I had assumed that they were changing me into someone about my own age...

How old was that, you ask? Well, I’m not sure, but it seemed to me, judging on my appearance when I had first awakened that I must have been somewhere between late teens and early twenties. I can’t be sure, of course, but that age band just seems about right. If I had to make a guess, I would say I was probably eighteen or nineteen–certainly no more than twenty. But I admit, that’s just a guess.

To continue, when I awakened the next day, I sat up and began the daily ritual of seeing what had changed. I now had definite breasts–not big ones exactly, but they felt big since I had never had them before. My butt was also larger, but only relative to the rest of my body. I felt... I don’t know–smaller, I guess.

To test my feelings, I lay back down on the bed, feeling longish hair tickling my ears and my shoulders. I lay my head on the pillow and stretched out, noting where my now smaller feet were positioned. Yes, I was certainly shorter.

But upon rising again, I felt as if I was smaller than I should be–perhaps no more than five feet or so. If I was to be sold as a sex slave (a likely probability, I told myself), I would be awfully short, since I was certain to shrink still more before the process was finished. The doctor told me I’m really five-two, so I guess I wasn’t as short as I thought, but I sure felt short.

Standing, I examined the rest of my body, finding pretty much what I expected: My figure was becoming more feminine. In addition to the small but growing breasts, my hips had widened somewhat and my waist was indenting. My legs and arms were slimmer and hairless. I wondered if they had been magically shorn of hair, or if my captors had come in during the night and shaved me.

Of course I couldn’t see my face, but that didn’t mean I knew nothing about it. With a hand which was becoming daintier, I felt my hairless cheeks, my smaller nose and ears, and pulled a strand of silky brown hair. Had I always had brown hair? I wasn’t sure. Something told me I had, but I couldn’t swear to it. At least I knew it had been brown when I had first awakened in the room.

“Shit,” I muttered, unsettled by how melodic my voice was becoming. I knew that one’s voice always seems higher and less resonant to someone else, but as high as mine sounded already, I was going to sound like Shirley Temple before much longer.

Closer inspection showed me I still had my male equipment, but it was certainly nothing to brag about. If I had gotten into a “who’s longer” contest with a six-year-old, I would have probably lost. I dropped my hand from my crotch as I heard the buzz of the electronic lock once again.

“Like what you see?” my captor taunted me as he caught me with my hand still on my shrinking genitals.

“No.” My reply sounded like a pouting little girl. I reddened in embarrassment.

He stood there admiring me, a twinkle in his eyes. “Well, tomorrow will be the big day. You’ll be all finished then, most likely. At least we’ll be able to start your training then.”

I’m sure the look on my face was one of terror and apprehension.

“Don’t worry,” he laughed. “No one here is going to deflower you or make you do anything disgusting. That’s for your buyer to do. Ah! I can see by the look on your face that you know you’re to be sold.”

“Slavery is illegal,” I said weakly, as if he didn’t know it.

“Oh yes,” he agreed. “That’s what makes buying a girl like you so delicious. Customers tell us it’s a real rush, to buy and train a girl–especially an American girl. They’re all so naíve and pampered. You’ll fetch a good price after we’ve trained you.”

“Why go to all the expense of this?” I demanded. “Why not use real girls?”

“For some men, taming a real girl is too easy. But a girl with the mind of a man is much more fun to train. We’ll teach you the fundamentals–feminine hygiene, how to do your hair and makeup, that sort of thing. It will only take us a couple of days. Then the Boss will sell you to someone–probably from Africa or the Middle East, since some of the men there have a real yen for sweet young American girls–and you’ll be on your way to a whole new life.”

In spite of whatever they were putting in my food to make me docile, I wanted very badly to attack my captor, but I knew it would accomplish nothing if I did. I was too small now, and far too weak to do any damage. After all, what could I do? Scratch him with my growing nails?

As usual, after he had inspected me, my meal was set out. And once again, I was out cold a few minutes after they took the tray away. It should have been the same routine as before, but this time, something happened–something no one expected.

When I awoke, my room was dark–very dark. What woke me was the sound of gunshots.

“Don’t shoot, you idiot!” someone yelled.

“But she’s getting away!” another voice called out.

“You might hit one of us,” the first voice called back.

I sat up, groggy, but getting more alert. I suppose there’s something about gunfire that will do that to a person even under the influence of a mild sedative. As I said, it was dark. I literally wasn’t able to see my hand in front of my face. In fact, the only light I could see was a faint yellow strip in the direction of the door.

The door!

It was open, and there were no lights except what I suddenly realized must be emergency lighting. The power must have failed, I realized, and that meant the doors, held by magnetic locks, had failed.

Okay, I was naked, still a little out of it from the sedatives, and in a body which had become increasingly foreign to me each time I awakened. But I wasn’t so out of it that I didn’t realize that my captors were not at their best either. It must have really been night, I reasoned, and they had been in full light until perhaps only a few minutes earlier. Their eyes were not accustomed to the darkness, and the emergency lights wouldn’t have been sufficient to offset that.

Also, from the banter in the hallway, it sounded as if I wasn’t the only captive in the building. How many others were there–one, five, even more? If all of the locks had failed at the same time, they might lack sufficient manpower to contain all of us. And finally, with their lack of desire to use their weapons, potentially damaging valuable property (in other words, us), the guns would be more of a hindrance than a help. They would be carrying the weapons and thus unable to use their hands effectively.

Without thinking, I dashed for the door.

Sometimes a near-disaster becomes a golden opportunity. In my case I threw open the door at the exact moment one of the guards pushed against it to open it. In the darkness, his weapon precluding the use of his hands to prop himself up, he tumbled to the floor, his gun sliding across the floor and right into my foot. Without thinking, I grabbed it, cradling the unfamiliar weapon in my hands.

I don’t know much about guns, and I suspect I never did, but I thought maybe I could bluff my way out with the weapon. Then a hand clasped my ankle. “I’ve got one of them!” a voice on the floor called out.

Then I did something I don’t know if I could ever do again in a million years, but I was so panicked and desperate that my fumbling hands somehow found a small tab which had to be the safety. I don’t even remember pulling the trigger, but suddenly, only a moment after the guard had grabbed my ankle, there was a loud pop and a brilliant flash, followed almost at once by a surprised yelp at my feet. I don’t think I hit him, but I surprised him enough that he let me go.

“I said no shooting!” a voice yelled from down the hall.

Obviously I didn’t answer, and I knew that once my assailant had overcome his shock, he’d be calling for help. The gun still in my hand, I bolted down the hallway in the direction away from the voice.

It isn’t easy running stark naked through a darkened building–especially in an unfamiliar body. I could feel my new breasts flopping up and down as I ran aimlessly through the darkness. My widened hips caused me to move awkwardly, and even the smallest object on the floor stung when my bare feet stepped on it.

Once, whatever I stepped on was enough to cause me to lose my balance. I lost my grip on the gun and could hear it skittering across the floor into the darkness. There was no time to look for it, though. All I could think of was getting away.

Looking back on it, I think I must have gotten further than any of the guards had expected me to go. And given that there may have been more prisoners than guards–a normal situation I would have imagined–I guessed that my kidnappers had other problems to contend with. In any case, as the confused voices of the guards and the shrill screams of the other captives faded in the distance, I managed in the dim emergency lighting to find another door, only this one looked to be an exit.

I would imagine the main door was also magnetically sealed, for it opened effortlessly, and I soon found myself on the loading dock of a warehouse. There were no lights nearby, so the power failure must have affected everything for several blocks. Beyond the string of other warehouses, I could see the lights of the New Orleans skyline, and I knew at once I was in one of the many storage buildings down on the river.

Parked below the loading dock were three cars. Did that mean there were only three guards? Not necessarily, I cautioned myself. Only one of the cars was a two-seater, so there could be ten or twelve carpooling guards for all I knew. I sure didn’t want to stick around to find out.

Still I didn’t want to be seen running naked down the streets, either. As panicked as I was, I had had little to think about in my brief waking hours for the last couple of days, except my reduced size and strength. I might not remember who I was–or maybe had been–but I had plenty of other memories of rough, dark districts of the city, where even in my male body, I would have feared to walk day or night. I’d be a tempting target for the first lowlife who spotted me. This was a part of the city which could prove dangerous even when the lights were working properly.

Now the warehouse district isn’t what it used to be. What with containerized shipping and all, the old warehouses along the river had been in decline for years. Recently a number of them had been converted into lofts, galleries, restaurants and the like, but I estimated I was a good three blocks from those gentrified areas. That meant three blocks walking down dark streets strewn with debris and where the only pedestrians might easily be predators. If one of them didn’t get me, the tetanus I contracted from stepping on something sharp and dirty would.

Still, what choice did I have? The lights could come on again any moment, and my guards could get the upper hand immediately. Or what if one of them decided to look outside on the offhand chance that one of their prisoners had made it that far? Running was my only option–unless I wanted to contemplate a lifetime of slavery.

I knew I didn’t have much time to make good my escape, but I wouldn’t make it far without shoes or clothing. In desperation, I looked in each of the cars for something I could use. In the second car I checked, a t-shirt, running shorts, and a pair of Nikes lay in the back seat where they had been carelessly tossed. Holding my breath, I tried the door, and to my surprise and relief, found it unlocked.

I slipped on the shoes at once. Of course they were much too big for me, since as a girl, my feet were far smaller than they had been. Still, if I was careful and sort of shuffled as I walked, I managed to keep them on. I was able to find cover in the shadows between two buildings where I could slip on the shorts and t-shirt.

I barely made it in time. As I ducked behind a dumpster, two men rushed out of the warehouse where I had been held prisoner. They were still dressed in black, but their facemasks had been removed. They were too far away for me to see their faces clearly, but from their motions, I could tell they were after someone, and that ‘someone’ had to be me.

As quickly as I could, I put on the t-shirt, wishing that it were any color but white. Once I got away from the darkened area, the sodium vapor street lights were few and far between, but couple them with private security lighting, including a couple of magical halos, and I would be spotted if I ran out into the street. Even in the darkness, they might spy the white t-shirt. The t-shirt was so large on me, it could be used as a dress, and since I soon found the shorts, even with their elastic waist band, fit too loosely over my hips, I decided to forego them and just wear the shirt. After all, in the oversized shoes, I wouldn’t be running fast enough for the shirt to whip up too far and expose my nearly-female genitals.

Since the street was chancy, I fled further back in the alley, hoping there would be nothing to block its exit. My luck held, but as I turned the corner, I could hear voices yelling from near the dumpster. I cursed myself for leaving the shorts behind. They had obviously found them and assumed that I had stolen them.

Still, they hadn’t spotted me. That meant they would have to look up and down the street as well, and with the lack of illumination, that would take time. I paced myself, trying not to panic. If I did so, I would probably run right out of the Nikes, or trip and fall in them. Shuffling as fast as I dared, I covered nearly half the distance to the well-lighted upscale neighborhood ahead before I ran into trouble.

“What have we got here, man?” a creepy voice called out from just across the street.

Coming out of the darkened area and into an intersection where the streetlights still worked had seemed like travelling from peril to safety. It seemed I had been wrong, though. Fearful that my captors had found me, I turned to face them and gasped. Fortunately they weren’t dressed as my captors were, favoring instead wife-beater shirts and jeans. They were white–one with stringy blond hair and the other with a shaved head and a Pancho Villa mustache. But I wasn’t going to run to them. I knew what I looked like, and those guys didn’t exactly look like knights in shining armor.

“Forget it, man,” the blond guy growled. “She’s jail bait.”

“Old enough to bleed,” the other one returned ominously, “old enough to butcher.” He started toward me.

Shit! I thought. There was no way I could outrun them. And from the bald one’s statement, I knew what he had in mind. I had no choice: I had to run again. The street gave way to a sidewalk about half a block away, so I took my chances and ran in the overly-large shoes, figuring the sidewalk would be clean enough to allow me to run barefoot.

It took me only a few seconds though, to realize that I wasn’t going to make it. They were nearly on me when I heard a shot from some distance away and something whizzed over my shoulder. I don’t think it was a bullet: I suspect it was a tranquillizer dart, since my captors wouldn’t want to kill me, but the two toughs pursuing me didn’t know that. It seemed my captors had spotted me and were trying to take me down.

“What the fuck!” one of them screamed–I think it was the blond. His voice was so close I’m sure they would have caught me in a few more steps, but the shot caused them to change their plans.

“It’s the Sultans!” the bald one yelled, identifying my captors as members of a local gang. Of course I was sure they weren’t Sultans, but my pursuers probably wouldn’t have lasted long on the night streets of the city without being just a little bit paranoid. Whoever they were, the Sultans were obviously their rivals.

I head two guns blasting away just behind me as I ran, and I was sure they weren’t firing tranquillizer darts. It was ironic, but my would-be rapists had just become my saviors. I don’t know if they hit anything or not, but I heard a lot of yelling down the street. I let up my pace a little bit, knowing that all of my enemies were now busy with each other. After what seemed like a lifetime, I was on a smooth sidewalk, bathed in light from a nearby street light.

The girl I had been turned into wasn’t very strong, and I was winded. I took a chance that my enemies would be tied up for several minutes and slackened my pace. My body was covered in perspiration, from running and from fear. It was plastered to my body so transparently that I could have easily won a wet t-shirt contest. Also, it had ridden up along my hips, exposing what I suddenly saw in the streetlight my new vagina.

Maybe the fear and the exercise had accelerated my transformation–or maybe I still had something male there that looked female. I didn’t have time to examine myself closely. As far as I knew I was all woman now–or at least all woman for all practical purposes. I tugged the t-shirt back down and pulled it away from my nipples, a little ashamed at how good the material felt sliding over my breasts. It figured that when they changed me, they made my body sensitive. Their plans for me obviously included lots of steamy sex.

My luck held. Within a block, there were the lights of a small convenience store. A few people were milling around out in front of it, but none appeared to be a threat. Nonetheless, I got some pointed stares as I walked past them–the men staring with approval and the women with disgust. I didn’t care. I was safe at last.

The clerk at the little convenience store I rushed into must have been half-asleep, because he jumped up in alarm as I approached the counter. What–did he think a little slip of a girl dressed only in a t-shirt was going to rob him?

“Call the police!” I demanded, trying to make my sweet little voice sound authoritative. He stood frozen, looking at me as if I had just landed from Mars. “Didn’t you hear me? They’re after me. They could be here any minute. Now call the police!”

At last he fumbled with the phone, and stammered the situation to the 911 operator. “Are you okay?” he finally asked, the phone still hanging loosely in his hand. I just wished he had been looking me in the eyes when he asked me. It was disconcerting to have a conversation with someone who wouldn’t look above my chest.

“Yeah,” I managed. “I think so.” There was no sense in telling him that given what had been done to me, it was very unlikely that I’d ever be okay again...

“Cassie, wake up!”

I opened my eyes and looked around the table. Everyone looked a little disturbed, so I hoped they didn’t notice how shaken I was. The girl’s story brought back a number of unpleasant memories, and through her memories, I relived the worst days of my life–days in which I was nearly made into a would-be teen whore by unscrupulous plotters intent on ruining my father.

In the year since my own transformation, I had gotten used to being a girl. The feeling of awakening in the morning with long hair in my face and breasts weighting down my chest had become normal. Applying my makeup and picking out a matching outfit were now second nature to me. And as for what was (or wasn’t) between my legs, well, Brett had given me a new appreciation for female orgasms. If given the chance to return to my privileged life as a white male, I would have respectfully declined. As a young African-American woman, I was content with my new life.

All that being said, I could still empathize with our Jane Doe’s sense of loss and disorientation. I had been there myself. Would she eventually become happy with her female existence? That was hard to say, and perhaps Oliver would be able to help her get there.

“That was... unsettling,” Helen murmured. She looked over at me with concern, probably realizing the feelings I must be having.

“I know,” Sarah agreed as the Holo wordlessly slipped out of the room. “That’s actually the fifth time I’ve experienced a statement under Holo like this–and the second time I’ve experienced our Jane Doe’s. The statements are always disconcerting.”

“But we saw things the Jane Doe just talked about,” I pointed out. “Were they real? I mean, were we actually seeing through her eyes?”

Sarah smiled grimly. “That is something of a legal bone of contention. The answer seems to be mostly, yes. But mostly isn’t good enough for a courtroom. The mind sort of fills in the details even when our Holoed witness can’t remember clearly. That’s why Holoed testimony isn’t admissible in court.”

“Still, it may help you catch the perpetrators,” Oliver pointed out. Of all of us, he seemed the least disturbed by what he had just witnessed, in spite of experiencing his first Holo. Of course, I realized, in his profession, he had probably been involved in a number of similar cases, hearing the sordid details directly from the victims, so he wasn’t quite as shocked as the rest of us. “Have you been able to identify the warehouse from the images?”

“We have the location narrowed down,” Sarah replied. “We hope to have it nailed down by morning.”

“How about the location of the kidnapping?” Helen asked. “Isn’t McAllister Auditorium over on the Tulane campus?”

“Yes,” Sarah replied. “But as you noticed, our Jane Doe’s memories have been scrambled by the Slaver. She could just as easily have been a student on another campus, or it’s possible she wasn’t a student at all.”

“Then I suppose I should go see your victim,” Oliver sighed, rising from his chair. “Cassie, I could always take a cab back to the hotel if you want to go now–unless Ms. Carmichael needs you to see this Jane Doe as well...”

I guess he could see how badly shaken I was after all. He was obviously trying to get me off the hook, fearful that I would be even worse off after seeing the victim. He was probably right, but I couldn’t drop this situation now. Helen had asked for my help, knowing I would want to help her and the FBM find out who was doing this to innocent people. She was right, of course. The victim’s situation had struck too close to home for me to avoid getting involved.

“I’ll be fine,” I assured him. “I’d like to see her.”

In spite of that, I felt my legs wobbling just a little as we made our way through the hallways of the Magical Victims Unit.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Oliver muttered to me.

“I’m fine,” I lied again.

“Here we are,” Sarah informed us, as we came to a room door guarded by two FBM agents. Apparently the Bureau was afraid the Slaver and his gang wouldn’t give up their prey without making an attempt to kidnap her from her hospital room.

Many of the rooms in the MVU were more like hotel rooms rather than hospital rooms. Our victim was curled up on a comfortable-looking couch, reading a book designed for girls going through puberty. When she saw us, she stuffed the book behind her on the couch, as if she had just been caught reading pornographic literature.

She was dressed in a light gray unisex tracksuit that did little to disguise her sex. She had the face and body of a young girl just emerging from adolescence, and her long brown hair, drawn back into cute little pigtails draped innocently over her youthful bosom. She could have passed for fourteen or so. My God, the girl even had freckles! Put her in a gingham dress and she could be Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz.

“Oh, hi,” she said to us in a sweet little voice. She was obviously self-conscious, but she was at least making the effort to be sociable. She blinked her bright blue eyes, long lashes unfettered by makeup fluttering nervously.

“Samantha,” Sarah began, “I have some people I’d like you to meet.” She introduced Helen, Oliver and me, and we each in turn, shook her small hand. I could see why she had imagined she was only five feet tall. The doctor was being generous when he told her she was five-two.

“Samantha?” Oliver asked, smiling at the girl.

“Yeah,” she sighed. “I know that’s not really my name, but I thought it was better than Jane. They called me a Jane Doe, you know? I didn’t really like the meaning of that.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Oliver agreed, sitting in an easy chair across from the couch. He leaned forward. “Sarah here tells me you don’t remember who you were before.”

The girl shook her head, pigtails swaying. “Yeah, that’s right. They... they took all my memories. Well, not exactly all, I guess–just the ones relating to who I was... before.”

“Then what makes you so certain that you were male before?” he asked.

She shifted, embarrassed. “I... I’m not sure how to explain it. I remember changing, though. I know I didn’t look like this. Have you seen the–what do they call it–the Holo?”

“Yes, I’ve seen it,” he replied smoothly, as if it wasn’t a big thing. “And I know you remember being male, but is it possible that your transformation was an implanted illusion, given to you when they replaced your memories of who you were?”

The girl considered that for a moment before answering, “No, I’m sure I was male before. I remember having a...” She looked around the room, as if comprehending for the first time that the rest of us were women. “A... you know.” She blushed. It served only to make her cuter.

Oliver just smiled again. “Would you rather be male?”

“Of course!” There was no hesitation in her answer. The Slaver had been very cruel to her, leaving her not only with memories of being male, but with a yearning to regain that sexual state, leaving her frustrated and off balance–and susceptible to his commands as well, I imagined.

Then Oliver switched the course of the questioning. “Is there anything you can remember about your captors that might not have been in the Holo?”

She shook her head. “No... nothing. Believe me, I’ve tried. Are you a doctor?”

“Yes,” Oliver replied.

“Can... can you change me back into a man?”

Oliver’s smile disappeared. “I’m sorry, Samantha. No one can do that.”

“Not even surgery?”

“I’m not that kind of a doctor,” he told her. It was an evasive answer. Odds were good the magic would override any attempt at sex-change surgery to make her male again. I suspected the spell would keep her from cutting her hair in any but a feminine fashion as well. That’s how it had been for me, anyhow.

“So you’re a shrink,” she surmised, making me remember that although she might look to be only fourteen or so, her mind was a few years older and more mature. “You’re here to help me adjust to all of... this.”

“That’s right,” Oliver admitted. “How do you feel about that?”

She shrugged. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

In that moment, I took an immediate liking to Samantha. Having gone through my own transformation, I had learned after a few days that there was nothing to be done to change me back, and I would have to learn how to be female for the rest of my life. Samantha had come to the same conclusion–maybe even quicker than I had.

“No Samantha,” Oliver agreed, “you don’t have much of a choice.”

“Will I... remember who I was?” she asked timidly.

“We’ll do whatever we can to restore your memories,” he told her. “But in that, we may not be very successful.”

“Maybe it’s just as well,” she murmured. “If I can remember my male life, it might make it harder to accept all of this. I might have been better off if they had erased all of my memories.”

“You’ll work on the case then?” Sarah asked hopefully when we had reconvened in the small conference room.

Oliver nodded. “Yes, I’ll take the case. But I want to warn you up front that my primary concern is for the mental well-being of that girl in there. I’ll do what I can to restore some of her previous memories, but I must tell you I don’t think I’ll be very successful in that endeavor. Unless we find out who she was originally and use that knowledge to retard the Slaver’s commands, there’s no telling what her end result will be.”

Sarah sighed, “Please, just do the best you can. If word gets out that there’s a Slaver loose in the city, there’ll be hell to pay. Anything she can remember may be of help to us.”

“Then let’s hope you can get some clues from the warehouse, assuming you find the right one,” Oliver said.

“We’re doing our best, Doctor,” Sarah replied tersely. “And we’ve started a search of suspected Slaver activity all over the region.”

“Brian’s working on that now,” Helen reported.

“I could help you with that,” I volunteered. I know: Helen had given me the opportunity to withdraw from this case, but after seeing that poor girl, I felt I had to do something.

“Cassie...” Helen began, but I was saved by Oliver’s intervention.

“Actually, I could use Cassie’s help,” he said, surprising me. “I don’t know the city very well, and if I’m able to retrieve any memories of locations or such, she could be very helpful to me. I’d like her to work by my side, if possible.”

Helen was quiet for a moment, but at last, her eyes narrowed as she addressed me. “Okay Cassie, but promise me right now that you won’t be doing any fieldwork on this one.”

I bristled. She was treating me as if I were... were... Okay, she was treating me as if I were her little sister–which was exactly what I was supposed to be. And I had to admit to myself that she was only doing this because she loved me, but I was a big... girl now, and I could look out for myself.

With that, our meeting broke up, but Sarah decided to brief Oliver further in the conference room. Sensing a chance to talk to me alone, Helen motioned for me to join her in the hallway out of earshot.

“Cassie, I mean it,” she emphasized when we were alone. “I shouldn’t have even called you about this one.”

I shrugged. “I would have had to bring Oliver anyway, so either way, I’d still be involved.” She still looked concerned. “Besides, I’ve been in the line of fire before,” I reminded her.

“This isn’t like the Lagrange case,” she shot back. “Slavers are very dangerous, and you could be a tempting target for them.”

“Me? But I’m already a girl.”

“Yes, but if they found out who you were before, you’d be perfect for them. Don’t you see what’s happening here? This Slaver and his cronies are turning males into females for a very special clientele–men and women who get their jollies from dominating former men in women’s bodies. And if the former men were rich and famous–or the sons of the rich and famous–it’s an even bigger rush for them. What if under duress you were to tell them who you were before? You’re the daughter of the Governor of the State of Louisiana. You’d be shipped off to God knows where to be the personal play toy of some rich pervert, maybe with a political axe to grind!”

“Well...” She had a point, I realized. It didn’t really matter that my natural father had disowned me. I was still his son... well, daughter in the eyes of the wrong people.

“So promise me,” she pressed. “You’ll help out the doctor, but you’ll stay by his side and you won’t go traipsing off after the bad guys.”

“Okay, okay,” I grumbled. “You’ve made your point.”

“Good.” Then she gave me a softer look. “How are things going with Brett’s parents?”

“Oh Helen,” I beamed, “they’re wonderful people.”

“I’m glad for you.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Now take care.”

“I will,” I promised. “Give my best to Brian.”

A few minutes later Oliver and I were back in the car. I decided to leave the top up this time though, since it had cooled off a bit and looked as if it might rain. Before I could put the car in gear, Oliver asked me a question that made my heart practically stop.

“Cassie, does Brett know you used to be a man?”

My hand slipped off the gearshift and the engine died. In the silence that ensued, I thought for a moment about lying–denying that I had ever been a man. But I couldn’t do that–not to the father of the man I loved. Besides, if he’d figured out that I used to be a man, nothing I could say would convince him otherwise, would it?

“How did you know?” My voice was trembling. It was as if my worst nightmare had just come true. I had reconciled myself to my new sex, and I had done my best to look and act as if I had always been female. Now, thought, I had been outed–by my boyfriend’s father no less.

Oliver seemed to be reading my thoughts. “Don’t worry, Cassie: it was nothing overt. Most people would never notice, as you appear to be a natural woman in almost all respects. It was just a few little things–gestures and movements that I’ve seen in some of my transformed patients. But the biggest clue was your presence here tonight. Even given that your sister is a private investigator, it seemed odd to me that she would ask you to help on this case unless you had some personal experience to draw from.”

I just nodded slowly, unable to meet his eyes. I should have known better than to try to fool him. After all, he saw patients like me, transformed against their will into women, every day. What made me think I could fool him into thinking I had always been a girl?

“Does Brett know?” he asked again.

Oh why hadn’t I told Brett already? I had meant to innumerable times, but the moment never seemed to be right. Lately, I had even been deluding myself into thinking I could get by with never telling him at all.

I shook my head, unable to speak.

“Why not?” he asked gently.

I felt hot tears forming in my eyes. I owed Oliver an answer. I had fallen in love with his son, and he with me. I gulped, slowly finding my voice again. “I... I wanted to. I know I should have...”

“Did you think he’d love you any less?” Oliver pressed softly.

“Yes... no... I don’t know!” I practically yelled, just before the dam burst and I collapsed into sobs.

Oliver reached over and gently put his arm around me. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “Everything will be all right.”

“You must hate me now,” I sobbed. “I’m not what you thought I was at all.”

“Yes you are,” he assured me. “You’re everything I thought you would be. You are an intelligent, beautiful girl who has stolen my son’s heart. He’s told us a lot about you over the course of the school year, and Estelle and I were pleased to find out he hadn’t exaggerated one bit.”

“I’m awful!” I moaned.

“You’re human,” he countered. “You just didn’t want to disappoint Brett by telling him. Why don’t you let me drive and we’ll find someplace private–someplace where we can talk and have a cup of coffee? I know I could use one.”

“Me... me, too,” I managed to stammer.

We found an open PJ’s, and an isolated table in the corner where we could talk privately. By the time we were seated and I had a sip of coffee, I had pretty much gotten myself back together. I suspected my eyes were still red, though, and I was still having a problem looking Oliver in the eye, though. He remedied that by gently lifting my chin.

When I saw him, he was smiling that gentle smile that Brett often had. I couldn’t help but smile back–just a little.

“Want to tell me about it?” he asked.

I didn’t have to ask what “it” was. He was referring to my transformation. And yes, I found myself anxious to tell him about it. It was a story others knew but that I had never had to tell someone else about.

I told him everything–who I had been and what had happened to make me who I was now. I held nothing back, in spite of the fact that I was violating the agreements made with my former father, which prohibited me from ever mentioning his part in my transformation. I suppose legally I could have contended in court that Oliver and I had a doctor-patient relationship, but I don’t know that I would have won that argument. Still, I felt I needed to tell him.

Oliver remained professional through my entire story, interrupting only to give an encouraging word or to ask a clarifying question. I was beginning to develop considerable respect for his skills as a doctor and counselor. While I had re-centered myself through the love and attention of my new family, I could easily see how those poor unfortunates who had been transformed against their will and cast out by their families (as my original family had done) could gain solace and strength from him.

When I had finished my story, Oliver gave me a fatherly smile. “Cassie, you have done a wonderful job of adapting to your new life–one of the best I’ve ever seen. You are a strong, wonderful woman. If you ever want a job as a counselor with my clinic, let me know. A number of my patients could learn from your example.”

“Thanks,” I smiled back, grateful for his encouragement.

“Now that we’ve settled that,” Oliver continued, “can you think of any reason why you couldn’t tell Brett?”

I saw where he was going with that. “In other words, since I’m a strong, wonderful woman, why not tell him?”

“Exactly.”

But Oliver knew the reason why. I might look, sound, and feel like a woman, but I was worried Brett wouldn’t see me as one if he knew–especially if he learned who I had been before my transformation. I had been born white, wealthy, and male. Now, I was none of those things, but what if Brett suddenly saw me as being a former man–a former white man at that?

“Ask yourself a question, Cassie,” Oliver urged after I had explained all of this to him. “Think if it were the other way around. Think if you were a man who met a beautiful girl and fell in love with her, only to find out that once upon a time, she had been a man.”

I had done some reading on that subject since my transformation. “It could be a problem,” I argued. “It used to happen all the time–and probably still does.”

Oliver nodded. “Yes, I’m sure it still happens. I’ve seen it happen. But if you’re referring to the days when we had to depend upon surgery to make a man into a woman, it certainly happened more often. Although think about this: who is more of a woman, the person who submits to the surgeon’s knife to change the male body into something the feminine mind might prefer, or the man who is changed by magic into a woman, but remains a man mentally?”

“I’ve come to grips with who I am,” I stated just a little more defiantly than I had planned to. “I’m a woman now.”

“Do you like being a woman?”

Did I? No, not at first, but a year in the body of a woman had seriously altered the way I thought. I was too pragmatic to hate my own body, and the estrogen that soaked my system, coupled with my own practical nature, had caused to accept who I had become. Acceptance had given way to enjoyment, especially after I had met Brett. I had indeed come to enjoy being a woman as much as I had enjoyed being a man. Strangely enough though, it was the first time in a long while since I had been asked that question, so I was somewhat surprised by my own conclusion when I replied, “Now, yes, I suppose I do.”

Oliver leaned forward. “Scientists are working on spells which may allow women to become men. Don’t look so surprised: you knew it was bound to be a priority with the spate of involuntary sex changes. The problem has almost become epidemic, and as you probably know, ending epidemics can be very profitable for the magical medical community. If they’re successful, would you ever change back into a man?”

“No.”

He seemed pleasantly surprised at how quickly I had answered. “Why not?” he pressed.

I sighed. “Because I’ve come to appreciate this life more than my old one. I’ve got a better family, a sense of accomplishment that I’m doing what I want to do and not just what is expected of me, and I’ve got B...” My voice trailed off.

“Brett?”

“Yes. But don’t you see? That’s why I haven’t been able to tell him. I don’t... I don’t want to lose him. I just can’t take the chance that if I tell him, he’ll never speak to me again.”

“You have the mind of a woman to match your body,” he assured me. “Use it. Think like a woman for a minute. If you were to tell Brett and he dropped you, he wouldn’t be worth having, would he?”

“I... I suppose not.”

“I know Brett loves you very much,” he told me. “Cassie, he loves the woman you are. As for what you used to be, well, Brett is a bright boy. He’s smart enough to know that what is past is past. What’s important is who and what you are now.”

After I dropped Oliver off, I had a lot to think about. He had made a lot of good points. What was important was not who I had been but who I was now.

But exactly who was I? Even though I had reconciled myself to being female for the rest of my life, I was very afraid that under the surface of my very feminine exterior lay the psyche of a man just biding his time to come to the surface and destroy the life I had created for myself. Foolish? Perhaps, but I had over two decades of male experience lurking in the background. Brett deserved a woman–someone who was all woman. Could I be all woman for him all of the time?

These thoughts were still churning through my mind as I crept into my townhouse. I could hear Brett gently snoring, and wondered what Oliver would have to say if he knew that Brett spent nearly every night with me instead of going back to his own place. We had even talked about getting a place together next school year, and he had never indicated that such an arrangement would be a problem with his family, so I supposed his parents would be all right with that sort of thing. Still, we hadn’t told them of our typical sleeping arrangements yet.

I tiptoed into the bedroom and changed into a nightshirt. Brett always liked me in a nightshirt: he said it was easy to rip off me. My breasts tingled a little at the thought of that. I loved him so much. That’s why I hadn’t told him about my former life. I was so afraid I’d lose him. Even if it was one chance in a hundred... or a thousand... or a hundred thousand, I just didn’t want to take the chance.

“Wazzup?” Brett muttered sleepily as I slipped into bed next to him.

“I just got home,” I told him, kissing him gently on his exposed cheek. It was rough from his whiskers. Who would have ever thought that I’d enjoy kissing a whiskered cheek like that? But I did.

“Whatimeisit?”

“Three,” I lied. It was closer to four. Not a problem though, since it was Saturday morning. Oliver and I had agreed we could sleep in. We had a noon meeting with Sarah, so we’d both be able to get a reasonable night’s sleep.

Brett struggled to wake up. “I waited up for you until two.”

I stroked his cheek, feeling the rising stubble. “Poor baby.”

He rose up and squinted at the clock. “It’s four.”

“Not quite.”

He slipped his arm under me. It felt so good to be held by him. “You need to get some sleep,” he told me.

I rolled over so I was facing him and leaned up to kiss him on the lips. “Not just yet.” I realized suddenly I needed reaffirmation that I was really a woman. “There’s something else I need first.”

I rolled him over on his back. His hands shot up–in protest, I thought, until he tore the nightshirt off my body. He was completely awake as I straddled him. “I need this first,” I murmured.

Overnight progress was made on the case. Concentrating on the area of Friday night’s power failure, New Orleans police officers had found evidence of habitation in a supposedly abandoned warehouse. So the place of our meeting with Sarah was changed to the warehouse where the authorities believed our Jane Doe–now Samantha–had been kept.

“Looks like they cleaned it pretty thoroughly,” Brian commented, looking around at the bare wooden rafters overhead. He had come to the meeting with Helen and had already made his own inspection of the warehouse. “Have they figured out who owns this place?” he asked.

“That’s a dead end,” Sarah told him. “It’s owned by a developer out of Dallas. They have plans to tear this block down and build high-rise condos overlooking the river. They had no idea anyone was using this place–except for the usual derelicts, of course.”

“So they were squatters and they took everything with them last night after your girl escaped,” Brian surmised.

“Pretty much,” Sarah agreed. She nodded at a small number of rooms built to one side of the warehouse. There was a single door leading to them, but from what we had heard, there was nothing beyond the door, except six rooms pretty much the way Samantha had described them, even down to the electronic locks. The warehouse itself was completely clean as well, with only a few recent scuffmarks near the entrance to the rooms, as if a table and chairs had been moved away. That was probably where the guards were posted.

“We did find the remains of some wiring in the walls,” one of Sarah’s men explained. “It was probably for security cameras in the rooms. From the way the dust was stirred around, they must have monitored their prisoners from out here.”

“Do you think it would do any good to bring Samantha out here to see this place?” Sarah asked Oliver.

He shook his head. “Not really. There’s nothing here to connect her with her former life. In fact, visiting this place might even make her worse.”

“Was this place magically cleaned?” I asked.

“No,” Helen answered. “There’s no talent I can think of that would work this efficiently. From the time Samantha escaped, until the New Orleans police found this place, was only about eight hours, and the police were crawling all over this general area three hours before that. They wouldn’t have had much time to clean this place up.”

“How about outside where their cars were parked?” I followed up.

Helen nodded at a plastic tub near the entrance. “The officers cleaned up everything for fifty yards in every direction. Mostly it’s just trash. There were a few cigarette butts, though, but without a suspect, any DNA on them isn’t worth much. Of course we took samples, just in case.”

“We also took tire impressions,” Sarah added. “Unfortunately they weren’t clear enough to be conclusive. We’ve got the magic lab working on them now, but it looks as if they were just run-of-the-mill tires that could be on too many vehicles to count.”

“Shame it’s not like CSMI on TV,” Brian muttered. “Their magic labs always seem to be able to do things the FBM can’t.”

“Yeah,” Sarah snorted. “That CSMI stuff gives us fits. Juries seem to think we ought to be able to do all of that fantasy crap.”

As the conversation continued, I went over to the plastic tub to sift through the junk they had collected outside. It was mostly that–junk. There were scraps of newspapers, a few beat-up soda and beer cans, all too torn up to yield fingerprints, and a few coins. I almost missed something interesting among the quarters and nickels that had been swept up along the street. If it hadn’t been gold, I think I would have missed it. It was about the size of a quarter, but smooth along the front and edges, sort of like a slug. I turned it over and found it had, in fact, been stamped, but it wasn’t a coin.

“Find anything interesting?”

I was staring so intently at the object that I hadn’t heard Oliver approach, and I jumped, nearly dropping it on the ground.

“Sorry to startle you,” he apologized.

“See this?” I said, showing him the object.

“It looks like... yes, the Greek letter omega,” he replied, examining it carefully.

“It is,” I confirmed.

I had Sara and Helen’s interest now as well. “Does it mean anything?” Helen asked me, looking at the coin.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s a membership token for the Omegans.”

“Who?” they all asked at once.

“It’s a dining club at Tulane,” I explained. Then I noticed their blank faces. Obviously they didn’t know about dining clubs. Had I not gone to an Ivy League school before my transformation, I might not have known either, I realized.

“Dining clubs are sort of like fraternities,” I clarified, “only you don’t live in them as a rule. I suppose they’re a little like the old English gentlemen’s clubs, where you go to dine and relax. They’re not too popular outside the Ivy League, and even there, they’ve been declining in the last few years. There’s only one at Tulane, though, as far as I know, and that’s the Omegans.

“It’s a rich white boys’ club. Every year, ten incoming freshman men–all white, of course–are invited to join. The invitation is a silver coin with an omega printed on one side. If they choose to join, they show up at the dining club and exchange their coin for a gold one. They carry it with them even after graduation to identify themselves to other Omegans.”

“What happens if they decide not to join?” Sarah asked.

I shrugged. “I suppose they just throw the coin away, and the club invites someone else to make it an even ten. However, from what I’ve heard, no one ever declines. It’s considered quite an honor. Not only that, but many powerful men in this region were once Omegans. It can be a real door-opener to get your post-college career in overdrive.”

“How do you know so much about them?” one of the other FBM agents who had gathered around asked.

“I just know what I’ve heard on campus,” I lied. Actually I knew quite a bit about the Omegans. Although like all secret and exclusive societies, they had their little mysteries, but my brother–or I should say my former brother–had told me quite a bit about them–since he was an active member of the Omegans and had been for three years.

Helen knew me too well to let that vague statement go by, though. “Cassie, you know someone who’s an Omegan, don’t you?”

“Let me handle that,” Sarah interrupted, stopping Helen from asking anything further.

Helen looked a little stricken, as she put two and two together. Of course both women, Oliver and Brian knew who I had been in my former life, but the other FBM agents didn’t.

To his credit, Oliver realized the situation at once. To change the subject he suggested, “Ms. Carmichael, I’d like to drop by the hospital and see Samantha. It sounds as if Cassie might be tied up here for a while longer. Could you get someone to drive me over?”

Sarah nodded and turned to one of the other agents. “Dobbs, take Dr. Carson over to the hospital, please. The rest of you get back to the office and get me everything you can on this Omega House.” All three of the agents nodded and dispersed. Brian saw them out. When everyone was gone except Helen, Sarah and me, the director turned back to me. “Okay, Cassie. Everybody’s out of range now. Who do you know in the Omegans?”

“Paul,” I admitted. I didn’t have to say who Paul was. She had known him since he was ten. So had Helen, for that matter.

“So he was tapped as a freshman,” Sarah surmised. “That means he’s been a full member for two years if I understand how pledging works.”

“It’s not exactly pledging, like the fraternities,” I clarified. “As Paul explained it to me, you’re a provisional member for most of your first year, where one of the second year members mentors you. As long as you make your grades and keep your nose clean, you then have full membership for the rest of your time in school. There’s no hell week like in the fraternities, though.”

Sarah turned the gold coin in her hand. “It could be that someone from this Omega club is involved in this. He might have dropped this coin–or maybe Samantha accidentally pulled it out of the car when she was looking for something to wear. You don’t think Paul has anything to do with this, do you, Cassie?”

I had to think about that for a minute. Paul and I had never really gotten along, since as Robert, I had been the eldest son and the heir apparent to the Devereaux clan. He had always envied me. It got even worse when I went away to college, since I was sent to Harvard and he was shuffled off to less-prestigious Tulane. Since then, he and I had barely spoken to each other, even when we were home for the holidays or school breaks.

When I had been transformed, all contact between us had been severed. The last time I had even spoken to him was during my transformation, when he had told me to my face that he was glad this was happening to me. He had even tried to turn me over to our father after I had gotten away from protective custody. I had only seen him a few times since then–once at the Lagrange’s party and a couple of times on campus–but we hadn’t spoken to each other on those occasions, or even acknowledged each other. I wasn’t even certain that he actually knew what I looked like after my transformation had been completed.

But as much as we disliked each other, I couldn’t see him involved in anything as tawdry as magical slavery. He had no motive–with me out of the way, he was now my original family’s chosen heir, over Lance who was three years his junior. He stood to gain too much to be involved in anything like that.

I explained all of this to Sarah and Helen, and they agreed, Sarah adding, “That token may have had nothing to do with the men who kept Samantha here. After all we found it outside and not anywhere in the building.”

“Is it possible that Samantha was an Omegan?” Helen asked. “She did say she remembered walking on campus when she was nabbed.”

“We’ll check that out,” Sarah assured her. “Damn! I wish we could get more help from the local police.”

“They’re not helping?” I asked.

Sarah shrugged. “Yeah, but not much. It seems as if nobody’s been reported missing–at least no one who might have been turned into our girl, Samantha. And with all of the usual crap around Mardi Gras–robberies, fights, rapes, and general disorderly conduct, they’ve got their hands full as usual. To them this is just another magical case where they get asked to do the grunt work and the Feds like me take all the credit.”

“I’ll bet they’d be more help if they knew there might be a Slaver in their midst,” I said.

“Not really, honey,” Helen chuckled. “If they knew anything about a Slaver being in town, they’d probably all put in for leave and get out of town. Nobody in their right minds wants to face a Slaver.”

Well, I supposed she was right, but what did that say about us?

The FBM agent guarding Samantha’s room told me not to go in: he would fetch Oliver, who wanted a chance to talk to me first. That seemed ominous, and the concerned look on Oliver’s face when he came out didn’t help much.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

Oliver guided me over to a quiet corner and warned, “Cassie, some of Samantha’s Slaver commands are starting to surface.”

“Slaver commands?”

“You know the basic different between a Whisperer and a Slaver?” he began. When I nodded, he continued, “It’s possible for a Slaver to plant dozens of post-contact commands in a victim. That is, when the victim is confronted with a given situation, or a pre-determined amount of time has gone by, the commands will kick in. In Samantha’s case those commands are probably highly sexual–even deviant–in nature to please a client.”

Shit. This didn’t sound good at all. “So... what’s happening to her–and can you stop it?”

“I don’t think so,” he said carefully. “It appears she was closer to being delivered to a client than we realized. She’s completely female now, so her new owner probably expected to take receipt of her by now. A mood of helplessness is setting in. That’s a common Slaver trick–that is if anything a Slaver does could be called common. It’s designed to make her feel isolated and vulnerable. That way, even though she remembers being male, she’ll be susceptible to her master’s commands as soon as she’s delivered to him.”

I could see where that was going. The same thing had been tried on me to make me vulnerable to a future as a teen whore. Fortunately a Slaver hadn’t been around, and I had been able to overcome the Whispering techniques with help from AJ and Helen. I shuddered at the thought of waking up changed and isolated in my own body, so bereft of hope that I would do anything I was told to do out of fear of what might happen if I did not.

That gave me a thought. While Oliver had the experience of a skilled analyst in such cases, he had never exactly been in Samantha’s situation. I had–or at least I had been in a similar situation.

“What if I talked to her–told her about what was done to me?” I ventured. “Maybe once she sees I overcame my commands, she might muster the strength to resist a little longer.”

Oliver didn’t have to think about it long. Looking back, he may even have been hoping I’d bring it up. “Yes, it might help. If you told her about your own experiences, you might be able to override the feelings of isolation. But that’s not going to be easy for you to talk about, is it?”

He knew the answer to that, and his question obviously had a second meaning. He was also saying that he realized it would not be easy for me to talk to Brett about my transformation. Was he suggesting that talking to Samantha about it might be a good warm-up for talking with Brett? I supposed he might be right.

“No, it won’t be easy,” I admitted, “but it might be the only chance we have to break the programming.”

“I agree,” he said, motioning toward Samantha’s door.

“Tell me though,” I asked before going in, “is there anything else we can do to keep her from following the Slaver’s will?”

“Maybe,” he allowed. “There’s another technique we could try, but it would be limited in its effect. But let’s try this first. If nothing else, we’ll be able to tell how deeply embedded the programming is.”

So I entered Samantha’s room alone. It would just be us girls–or rather, just us girls who used to be guys. “Hi,” I started out.

She smiled. Nothing seemed unnatural yet. “Hi. You’re... Cassie, right?”

“That’s right.”

She was reclining on the couch, as if she had just awakened from a little nap. As she sat up part way, I began to see subtle signs of what Oliver had been talking about. She was dressed in a light blue sweat suit, but she was doing her best to look coquettish. Her feet were bare and unconsciously in line with her legs, so that her tiny toes posed gracefully. The top of her sweat suit was partially unzipped, and since she wore no bra, the swell of her young breasts was evident. Her hair was no longer in pigtails: it was brushed out instead and draped seductively over her shoulder in a brown wave. In short, she was unconsciously looking like a sweet little tart ripe for the taking. Given how nervous she had been the previous evening, this had to be the work of the Slaver.

I sat down in the chair next to her. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” she sighed. Even her voice was sort of sex kitten. The Slaver had really done a number on her. I don’t think she even realized what she was becoming. “But I’m sort of bored...” What it would take to bring her out of her boredom would have seemed obvious to anyone who had ever possessed a penis. The tone of her voice had become downright seductive.

“Samantha,” I began, “I know how you feel.”

She gave a little girl pout. Again, I don’t think she even realized what she was doing. “How could you know how I feel?” she asked petulantly.

“I know you feel alone,” I ventured.

A confused look crossed her face. “Alone?”

The girlish seduction was gone, replaced by uncertainty. I appeared to have struck a nerve. “Yes,” I barged on. “I felt the same way when it happened to me.”

“When what happened?” Things weren’t going the way she expected. I could see I had her interest. More importantly, her programming was giving way to natural curiosity. After all, I wasn’t her new master, there to train her in sexual techniques. I had suddenly become a curiosity.

“When I was changed into a girl.”

“You... you were a man?”

“Oh yes,” I confirmed. “Would you like to hear about it?”

She didn’t say anything, but her pretty head slowly nodded.

I didn’t tell her everything. I left out the names, since my previous identity was supposed to be kept secret–it was part of the legal settlement with my old family. But I did tell her all about my feelings of alienation and disorientation, and how I had nearly fallen into the neat little trap set for me and become the young whore my tormentors had wanted me to be.

I also didn’t bother to tell her that I had been worked on by Whisperers rather than a Slaver. If I had, she would have argued that I had an easier time of overcoming my programming–and she would have been right. It was more important that she believes she could fight off the Slaver’s commands. It would be difficult for her, I knew, but not impossible–not unless the Slaver had been extremely thorough. I doubted if he had been, though. He could never have anticipated what had happened to his victim. By now he would have expected her to be under the power of her master and never being encouraged to overcome the Slaver commands.

By the time I had finished my story, Samantha had regained a more demure pose. Her body language had become less alluring. She still carried herself like a young teenaged girl, but the tart in her had retreated.

It wouldn’t last, though. I knew that. I had to find something to keep her mind off her boredom, or her sexual urges might rise again. So I spent the next hour or so just teaching her things she’d have to know as a young woman–things that Helen had been teaching me over the past year. I was actually surprised to see how much I had learned and was able to teach. Neither of us were bored, as Samantha was an adept pupil.

I was showing her how to re-braid her hair when Oliver came in. I could tell from his expression that he was well pleased with the progress I had made. He gave me a knowing look, as if to make me realize that telling someone about my transformation wasn’t all that hard after all. However, to me, there was a big difference between telling a fellow victim like Samantha and telling my boyfriend. Samantha was a kindred spirit. Brett was... well, Brett.

“I explained the situation to Ms. Carmichael,” Oliver told me. I knew what he meant by the “situation.” He was referring to the suppressed Slaver commands. It meant he had cooked up something with Sarah to keep Samantha’s thoughts away from sex.

“She’s sending Helen over with a car,” he went on. “She thinks since Samantha feels she might have been kidnapped from a college campus, it would be a good idea to drive her over to the area campuses to see if anything looks familiar.”

Now I knew what he meant by “another technique.” That seemed like a long shot to me. It confirmed my suspicion that Oliver and Sarah were just coming up with something to keep Samantha’s mind occupied. Frankly, given her suppressed sexual nature, I was more afraid she’d see some big hunk on one of the campuses and get all hot and bothered. Still, there might be some merit to the suggestion. Oliver had already pointed out that memories of her past life might dull the commands of the Slaver. Anything was worth a shot at this point. I nodded and turned to Samantha. “Maybe you’d better change before we go.”

She motioned to herself. “This is all I have.”

I was afraid she’d look too sexy in the little blue sweat suit. All she had to do was pull the zipper down a little further and she’d be exposing her breasts to every guy on campus. “I’ll scare something up,” I told her.

I managed to scrounge up a med school sweatshirt and some loose-fitting jeans, as well as a pair of sneakers. She was so small, I had actually had to get the shoes from the children’s ward. Once I had her dressed, though, she looked like a typical average young teen and not quite as sexy as before. Even the baggy clothes couldn’t hide all of her attributes though. The Slaver had made her into a prime cut of sexy teenybopper, but the baggy clothes would have to do.

Helen showed up with the car just as I managed to style Samantha’s makeup and hair to make her look more like obvious jail bait. With her hair back in braids and a minimum of makeup, she could have passed for thirteen–a well developed thirteen, but thirteen nonetheless. With any luck at all, any guy who spotted her would think she was just a young kid and not do anything to get her motor running.

“Good job,” Helen complimented me in a whispered tone. “She looks like she’s about twelve.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. That was even better than thirteen. Now I just hoped we didn’t run into any horny twelve-year-old boys.

I volunteered to drive, and regretted it almost immediately. A few months earlier, I had gotten myself a little Mazda Miata. I liked Brett’s Z so much that I had decided to get a little convertible of my own. Brett laughingly called it a “girly car” since it was so small, but I liked it fine, since I could maneuver through places like the French Quarter, where the streets were a little narrow at times. Unfortunately it had been a long time since I had driven anything the size of the FBM’s oversized Ford sedans. I felt as if I were driving a semi.

But there was a method to my madness. Rather than waste time, I planned to head straight for the Tulane campus. That was where the Omega House was. The Omega coin the authorities had found had me shaken badly. If the Omegans were involved in Samantha’s transformation, my brother could be in danger. Just because there was no love lost between Paul and me, I didn’t want to see him hurt, if for my natural mother’s sake if nothing else. My transformation had been a serious blow to her, and if anything like that happened to Paul, it might kill her. If a Slaver was somehow associated with some of the Omegans, Paul could get hurt–or worse.

I know it was something of a leap of logic, but I had already convinced myself that one or more of the Omegans were involved. There was no other reasonable explanation for the gold coin being so near the site of Samantha’s captivity. And Samantha’s insistence that she had been abducted near a campus just added credence to my theory.

We drove slowly around the campus. There wasn’t much traffic since it was a Saturday, so I was able to crawl along. We did get a few strange looks from the few students we saw. The car had official plates on it, and yet neither Samantha or I sitting in the front seat appeared to be out of our teens. If they noticed Helen and Oliver in the back seat and missed the plates, they would probably assume that my father and his young-looking wife were taking their daughter (me) and a friend out to teach them to drive.

None of us spoke as we drove, and Samantha gazed out the window, as if trying to remember something.

“Anything look familiar?” I asked her after we had driven around for several minutes.

“No... yes... I don’t know!” she sighed in exasperation. “It looks... sort of familiar, but not quite–like something I remember out of a dream.”

“Take your time,” Oliver urged. “We just need to be patient.”

And finally our patience paid off.

“Wait! There!” she pointed excitedly.

I braked at once, stopping just beyond a six story brick building with which I had become very familiar over the past year. It was Weinmann Hall–the Law School. “You went to school there? You were a law student?” I prompted.

She shook her head. “No. At least I don’t think I was. I think... I think I was coming back from the library when they...” Her voice cracked and I thought for a moment she was going to burst into girlish tears. To her credit, she held them back.

“Where’s the library?” Oliver asked.

I pointed in that direction, then back behind me. “That means she was heading in that direction.” I was now pointing up Freret Street as it approached Napoleon. It was an old neighborhood, where small businesses shared a tree-lined street with old rambling houses. It wasn’t exactly as cool as the Garden District further down, but it had an ambiance of its own.

And nestled on a large lot just a few steps from Freret Street was the Omega House.

I pulled a u-turn and headed in that direction. “Where are you going?” Helen called out.

“I’m playing a hunch,” I told her.

The Omega House was a reminder of days gone by in New Orleans. While many of the old sprawling brick homes of the district had signs of wear and tear, the Omega House looked like the prospective home of an Antebellum cotton merchant or banker. The mortar was clean and white, the flower beds neatly kept, and the lawn manicured to perfection. A cobblestone drive curved beyond the iron entrance gate, ending at a columned front entrance. Obviously the Omegans were doing very well, thank you very much.

Of course if my brother was a typical example of the Omegans (and I believed he was), the dining club’s members were among the oldest and wealthiest families in the state. In fact it was said that no man ever offered membership in the exclusive organization had ever declined the offer. I was pretty sure the club was extremely well endowed. The alumni probably had a combined wealth of a medium-sized country.

I supposed if I had done my undergraduate work at Tulane instead of being packed off to Harvard, I too, would have been offered a membership in the Omega House. In fact, I would have probably been offered the membership instead of my brother, since rumor had it that only the eldest son attending Tulane was ever given the offer of membership. That would have really pissed Paul off, since he was convinced that when I was his brother, I got all the breaks anyway.

“Anything look familiar?” Oliver prompted from the back seat as we sat in the idling car just across the street from the Omega House.

“Yeah, it does,” Samantha said slowly, causing my stomach to churn. If she had said no, I would have almost breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that my brother was probably not involved. What if all the guards had been Omegans? That would mean–what–three or four members of a club that composed probably no more than two hundred members in the New Orleans area, including alums. I once again forced myself to realize the coin the authorities had found didn’t mean any of the Omegans were involved at all.

“But no one from Tulane is missing,” Helen reminded us.

“Shall we go in and let Samantha look around?” Oliver suggested. “That could trigger additional memories.”

“No,” I cautioned. “That wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“Why not?” he asked.

This was going to be difficult to explain tactfully, I realized. But I had to try. I turned around to face him. “I don’t think we’d be welcome in there.”

Maybe it was my tone of voice, but suddenly his look of puzzlement became one of understanding. “Oh, it’s that sort of club.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s not officially a campus organization, so the rules get stretched a little bit. I’d be willing to bet there’s nothing in their records that excludes non-whites from being members, but my guess is the only African-Americans that ever go in there are the hired help–waiters, cooks, cleaners...”

Oliver nodded. “I get the idea. I’ve seen it all my life. It seems some of the rich white folks like the idea of us black folks serving their meals and such, but they don’t want us as houseguests. I think it gives them a feel of the past when their ancestors were served by the house slaves.”

I said nothing, but I realized shamefully that he had just described my original family. In fact, my real father had even disapproved of my friendship with Helen, and she had been one of his best agents. I had grown up in such an atmosphere, although I liked to think I had been considerably less prejudiced than many of my peers and their families. It was a good thing too, considering the color of the skin I would be wearing for the rest of my life.

“Not all rich white people are that way,” Samantha broke in indignantly. “I...”

Her voice trailed off, and Oliver leaned forward, looking her in the eye. “Go on, Samantha. What do you know about rich white people?”

“I... I don’t know,” she replied, confused. “I had a thought there for just a moment. I think it was a memory.”

“Were you rich?” I prompted.

“I... I’m not sure. I think I might have been, though. I seem to remember sitting at a dinner table.” She frowned at Oliver. “It’s as if I can remember sitting down to dinner with a lot of people in a nice dining room. Most of the people are white, but some of the people are African-American...” She shuddered. “It’s gone. It was just there for a moment. Doctor, does this mean my memory is coming back?”

I could see from his expression that he didn’t want to disappoint Samantha, but as I would have expected, he slowly answered, “Not really, Samantha. Sometimes familiar places or situations can overcome a Slaver’s memory wipe–especially since the Slaver was careful to leave you some memories–the memories associated with once being male. Also, strong emotions can sometimes trigger a past memory. In your case my comment regarding white people’s–some white people’s–foibles regarding racial equality may have caused you to remember something in you upbringing. It’s likely you were taught from an early age that racial inequality is wrong. Perhaps your parents even had friends from other racial backgrounds.”

“So my parents were rich, white and liberal,” Samantha surmised.

“Well, in Louisiana that should narrow it down quite a bit,” Helen wisecracked.

“I wasn’t prejudiced,” I pointed out to my sister.

“No honey, you weren’t,” she agreed. “But how often did folks like us ever dine in your home?”

She had me there. Okay, I had never considered myself to be racially prejudiced when I was white, but I knew my parents would have had a fit if I had brought any of my non-white friends into the house–especially for dinner. And I never crossed them on that point, either. “Is there any way we can use that profile?” I asked.

“Well,” Helen sighed, “I don’t think there’s any database for correlating racially tolerant people with folks who walk around the Tulane campus but probably aren’t students.”

Still it made me feel closer to Samantha. In her previous life she was probably much like I had been–male, rich, white, and a little on the liberal side (although we would have probably not been seen as liberals in the North). I was even more determined than ever to see this case through and get Samantha’s life back together.

We got Samantha back to her room and let Helen take the car back to the FBM. Then Oliver and I headed out to join Brett and his mother for dinner. Brett had actually fixed dinner at my place, with some help from his mother. New Orleans seemed to have grown on him, and like many men in the city, he had found a new hobby in cooking. New Orleans had a well-deserved reputation of being one of the finest food cities in the country, and maybe even in the world. French style and Cajun spicing made local food a form of entertainment, and Brett enjoyed learning to cook it.

Fortunately, since he was a medical student, he managed to cook a bit healthier than most of our local chefs, going easy on the butter and cream sauces and opting for more olive oil and spiced broths. It was a good thing too, or I’d lose the girlish figure I had been given with my transformation and start looking more like the big mamas who waddled down on the lower end of Magazine.

When his parents had left for the evening to go back to their hotel, I updated Brett on the case. And no, I didn’t tell him about my own transformation, nor could I likewise tell him about my former brother and my concerns for him. I knew Oliver was right, and that I needed to tell Brett, but it just didn’t seem like the right time.

“I don’t get it,” he said when I had finished. “If these Omega guys are all as wealthy as you say, why is one of them risking everything by helping a Slaver make new slaves?”

“It’s a good question,” I admitted. I had been wondering about exactly that. Maybe the coin was just outside the warehouse by chance. Or maybe one of the wealthy Omega alums had visited the warehouse to pick up a new play toy. Wealthy men were the obvious patrons of the Slavers, since they could afford to buy a private slave girl and hide her away from view. I could certainly visualize the Omegans being clients of the Slaver rather than henchmen.

“One thing, though,” I pointed out as Brett brought me a snifter filled with a fine brandy. I sipped at it as he sat next to me on the couch and continued. “There seems to be a definite connection with the Omegans. Samantha seemed to remember the Omega House.”

“And some of the buildings on campus,” Brett added. “That doesn’t mean anything. You said nobody was missing from Tulane, so maybe he’s just some poor guy who lived nearby and walked around campus for exercise. It doesn’t sound to me as if the FBM has anything to go on.”

“They don’t,” I agreed, leaning up against him. He felt good. “That’s the problem. Oh, they’ll check on the Omegans, but it won’t get them anywhere. And that’s about the only lead they have since Samantha’s memory of her previous life is gone.”

“Most likely irretrievably gone from what Dad says,” Brett commented. “Let’s just hope he’ll be able to unravel some of the psychological programming so she’ll be able to lead a normal life. Otherwise, it won’t be good for her.”

He was right about that. Normal was good. A year earlier I had been a man forcibly turned into a younger girl of a different race. It had been a horrifying experience, but now it felt so normal, cuddling up against a man, looking forward to the lovemaking we were bound to start just as soon as we finished our drinks. I hoped it would be as good for Samantha someday.

But what about the Slaver’s other victims? Samantha hadn’t been the only victim in that warehouse the night she escaped. How many others had been there? For that matter, how long had the operation been going on? There had to be something I could do–not just to protect my former brother from any potential danger, but also to stop the Slaver before he ruined any more lives.

My thoughts were interrupted by a wandering hand, which slipped up under my rib cage to fondle the bottom of one of my breasts. “You finished with your drink?”

We were both mellow: maybe now was the time to tell him of my own transformation...

No, that could wait. There’d be another time.

I put my hand on his. “All finished.”

But I wasn’t really finished–we were just getting started...

“Samantha, can you hear me?”

I sat completely still on the couch in Samantha’s room as Oliver leaned over the girl, who was staring forward without seeing, her eyes glazed over. I was impressed: with the advent of magic, hypnosis had become passé, but Oliver was obviously well-experienced in its use. In his hands it was probably better than magic.

“Yes...” Samantha’s sweet high voice replied in a dreamy cadence. “I hear you...”

By Sunday afternoon the frustrations with her case continued to build. The FBM had made no progress at all. An interview with Robert Laveau, the Executive Director of the Omega House, had turned up nothing. No members were missing: all within the right age group who could have been changed into Samantha had been located. To make matters worse, there had been an informal party at the Omega House Friday night, and all the present members had been in attendance. The Omega House looked like nothing more than another dead end. If the coin was a clue, it was probably an Omega alumnus buying a new slave from the Slaver. As for the local police, they were no help at all, pleading too heavy a caseload to work on a missing person case when nobody seemed to be missing (or at least nobody of any importance).

When Oliver and I had arrived at the hospital right after brunch, we found that Samantha had taken another turn for the worse again. Although she still retained memories of being male, she was acting more and more like a teeny-bopper trollop. While her actions on Saturday had been sexually charged, they had been somewhat subtle. On Sunday though, she was absolutely blatant. To make matters worse, there was the smell of sex in her room, indicating she had been stimulating herself quite a bit. Oliver had put her into a hypnotic trance almost immediately in an attempt to find some way of blunting what appeared to be strong Slaver commands to be a little tease.

“Samantha,” Oliver commanded, “you will hear nothing more that anyone says until I say the word ‘artichoke,’ do you understand?”

“Yes...”

He turned to me. “She responded to you yesterday when you told her your story. I need for you to tell her to ignore the Slaver commands.”

“Me? I don’t know anything about hypnosis.”

“No, but she listens to you. You’ve established something of a link with her. All you have to do is tell her she can ignore the commands to be a sexy little slut. Can you do that?”

I nodded and leaned forward as Oliver gave the key word. “Can you hear me, Samantha?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“It’s me, Cassie,” I said. “I want you to do something for me.”

“Cassie?”

“Yes. Can you do something for me, Samantha?”

“Yes.”

I sighed. I only hoped this worked. “I want you to forget about acting sexy. I want you to act like a more mature person. Can you do that?”

“I... I don’t know... It feels so good...”

Oliver broke in, “Samantha, what were you commanded to do by the Slaver?”

Her budding resistance died back down. “I was supposed to act... all girly.” She giggled at that. “You know... real girly.”

“But you were still supposed to remember being male,” he countered. “Why weren’t you told to act male?”

“I... I’m not male, silly.” She giggled again.

“No, you’re not,” he agreed. “But you used to be male, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you know Cassie used to be male too, don’t you?”

“Yes...”

“Then why don’t you act like Cassie does?”

“I... I... he doesn’t want me to,” she stammered, as if she was fighting to say something she wasn’t supposed to say.

“Who is ‘he’ Samantha?”

She was silent. We weren’t going to learn anything from her that way. Well, it had been worth a try.

Oliver returned to the original subject. “There’s really no reason why you can’t act like Cassie, is there Samantha?”

“I... No... I guess not.”

I sighed in relief. The conflict in her seemed to have abated–at least for the moment. There was no telling how long it would last, but she seemed more calm and collected.

“Then you’ll try to act like Cassie?” Oliver pressed.

“All... all right.”

Then a thought struck me. “Do you think she might remember anything else about her previous life while she’s in a trance?” I whispered to Oliver.

“I should have thought of that,” he replied in a whisper of his own. “I was so anxious to get her stabilized though. The staff here said she was starting to come on to the orderlies overnight. You seem to have something in mind. Go ahead and ask, but try not to ask anything too directly. She’s resistant to the direct approach, as you saw when I asked about the Slaver.”

Okay, so that meant asking her directly who she had been or who had done this to her was probably out. There was one thing I had been wondering though, that had nothing directly to do with her kidnapping and transformation. It might provide a clue if we used it right.

“Samantha,” I began, “why did you choose that particular name?”

“My sister...” she replied in the hypnotically-induced monotone.

“It’s your sister’s name?”

“It was,” she corrected. “She’s dead now...”

My heart leapt. It wasn’t much of a lead, but it was the first break we had been given to re-establish her true identity. “What was her whole name?” I prompted.

“Samantha Jean...”

I could see her struggling to come up with a last name, but obviously that was part of something that had been blocked in her mind. I quickly asked another question to stop the turmoil the previous one was causing. “What does... what did she look like?”

“Like me...” she replied.

I looked at Oliver, who seemed about as puzzled by that answer as I had been.

After that we let Samantha rest for a while, meeting up with Helen and Sarah in the conference room.

“Maybe we were wrong,” Helen ventured after we had debriefed them. “Maybe she was female all along and just made to think she used to be male. Maybe that’s what she meant when she said Samantha looked like her.”

“It’s a thought,” Sarah said.

But I didn’t think so. “Why would you think that?” I asked.

“Well,” Helen explained, “we’ve been looking for a missing man, young enough to be turned into a girl of thirteen or fourteen. What if she was a girl all along, and just given the false memory of being male? Then the Slaver could peddle her to some pervert who was into young girls who used to be boys, and we’d be looking for a young man instead of a young woman.”

“But we wouldn’t be looking for anyone at all,” I pointed out. “Whoever did this to her didn’t expect her to get loose. Besides, I can tell. I see her going through the same adjustment problems I went through. She used to be a man: I can feel it.”

“I agree,” Oliver backed me up. “Samantha used to be male. There are telltale gestures and phrases she uses which tend to be more male than female. I’ve seen a number of cases very similar to hers.” Fortunately he didn’t mention that he had detected just such gestures in me.

“So who was she?” Sarah asked in exasperation. “If we knew who she was, we might be able to trace her male identity back to the Slaver. Without that, though, all we’ve got is a ward of the state and a bunch of dead ends. We need to find that Slaver, or he’ll just start this all over again.”

“I still think it may have something to do with somebody at the Omega House,” I said. “We have that coin, and Samantha remembers the place.”

“We’ve already checked the Omega House,” Helen reminded me. “No one is missing, all the members were accounted for Friday night when Samantha was still in captivity, and there’s no reason anybody with as much money as the average member of that club has that they would be involved with a Slaver.”

“Besides, Robert Laveau is a powerful man in this state,” Sarah cautioned. “He’s well connected throughout the business community and up in Baton Rouge. He even knows the governor–plays golf with him from what I’ve heard. Unless we had substantial proof, rather than just a hunch and a gold coin, we’d have every official in the state and half the ones in Washington down on us before we could even say Slaver.”

I was just thankful Sarah hadn’t called the governor my father. I had no use for my father, and if Robert Laveau was his friend, well... Now that she mentioned it though, I could remember the man vaguely. He was tall, with dark hair and beard and a Mediterranean complexion–denoting a Moorish ancestor or two I imagined. Like many of us (or in my case, formerly “us”), he boasted of French ancestry which had settled in the area a good century before the coming of the Americans. Yes, I remembered him, but of course, he wouldn’t remember me–or at least not the current “me.”

And that gave me a thought.

“I think I know a way to learn more about the Omegans without ruffling Mr. Laveau’s feathers,” I began.

All eyes were on me. Then Helen got one of those protective looks on her face. “Oh no, Cassie. I know what you’re thinking...”

Unfortunately my adopted sister really did know me too well. “I can take care of myself,” I promised her. “There’s no danger, really. I’d just be another one of their staff.”

“Staff?” Oliver repeated.

“I see where she’s going with this,” Sarah sighed. “You want to get hired on at the Omega House.”

“I’d just be part of the cleaning crew,” I explained. “I’m sure they’re always hiring: there’s a lot of turnover in menial jobs like that. Usually it’s college students like me who fill them, just to make a little extra money for school. And even if I didn’t get hired, I’d get a chance to look around.”

“But if someone in the Omega House is working with the Slaver and knows your connection with us, you could be in danger,” Helen pointed out.

“Who would know?” I shot back. “There’s only one person in the group who might know me, and last time he saw me, he didn’t even recognize me.”

“You’re referring to Paul. Maybe he recognized you and thought it best to ignore you,” Helen argued.

“Wait a minute!”

We all quieted down at Oliver’s command. We did it so quickly, I wondered for a minute if he was actually a Whisperer. He looked at me. “Cassie, who is this person who might recognize you?”

“Oh,” I said with a start. “I guess I didn’t tell you everything about my old family. One of the members is–was–my brother before I changed.”

In spite of the fact that I had told Oliver everything about my former life, I don’t think he really realized until that moment just how wealthy my old family had been. But we had all told him the Omega House was made up of representatives of the wealthiest families in the region. Now he knew I had been a part of one of them.

“Cassie’s right,” he confirmed without commenting on my revelation. “People tend to overlook menial help, like cleaning crews and wait staffs.”

“Not someone as cute as Cassie,” Helen countered.

I blushed.

“But at least it won’t be her face they’re looking at,” Sarah grinned, nodding toward my breasts.

I blushed again.

Oliver tapped his fingers together in thought. At last he said, “It’s not a bad idea–assuming she can be protected in case something goes wrong. After all, we really don’t know if any of these Omegans have anything to do with Samantha’s transformation. In fact, I rather doubt that they do.”

That surprised me. “Why is that?”

“Well,” he explained, “if what you tell me is true about these people, they’re the cream of New Orleans society. They’re wealthy–or at least in line to inherit significant wealth–and they would seem to have the world on a string. Why would any of them be involved with a Slaver?”

“Maybe it’s an alumnus who’s fallen on hard times,” Helen suggested.

“Or maybe the coin that was found outside the warehouse has nothing to do with this case,” Oliver countered. “If Cassie can get in there and eliminate any of these Omegans as suspects, we can move on to other leads.”

“That’s the problem, Doctor,” Sarah informed him. “There are no other leads. This whole case is a dead end. Slavers can usually cover their tracks pretty well. So all we’ve got is a victim who doesn’t know who she was and no missing person to help us find the right identity for her.”

“And that is a big problem,” Oliver concluded. “Unless we find something for Samantha to anchor herself onto from her former identity, she’ll slip further and further into her programmed identity. We can only stave that off for a short time. Eventually her programming will win out. In a few days she’ll remember being male once, but she’ll be reduced to acting the part she was given–that of a young teen girl with a very large sexual appetite. Unless that appetite is satisfied, she’ll be mentally unstable within a few days.”

“Mentally unstable?” Sarah asked.

Oliver nodded. “That’s right. She’ll literally go insane from the inability to execute her program.”

“Doctor,” Sarah asked warily, “you aren’t suggesting we allow a–what–fourteen year old girl to have sex, are you?”

Oliver looked a little uncomfortable. “I’d certainly rather entertain other options first.”

No one else said anything for a moment, but I’m pretty sure what we were all thinking. Oliver hadn’t exactly said that letting Samantha have sex–maybe even pretty kinky sex if the Slaver’s programming demanded it–was out of the question.

I’m the one who finally broke the silence. “Well, it looks like I’ve got a job to apply for tomorrow...”

I worked up a quick resume on the computer while Brett whipped up a light dinner. It was a simple dinner–some raw oysters, crackers, and a bottle of wine, but since Brett insisted on shelling his own oysters, it was a chore.

“Want a glass of wine before dinner?” he called out.

“Sure!” I continued typing.

“Uh... you’ll have to come get it. I’ve got gunk from the oyster shells all over my hands.”

“No I don’t,” I said with a grin. I turned around facing the kitchen concentrated on the filled wine glass on the kitchen island and watched with satisfaction as it floated across the room to me. It was a little bit chancy, since it required very fine control of my Pusher power, but I managed. Fortunately the wine was a white. I wouldn’t have dared try it with a red wine. If I had lost control, I would have had serious wine stains all over my rug.

“You’ve been practicing,” he noted with admiration. “You didn’t spill a drop.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, sipping the wine. It was Conundrum–one of my favorites. It was just what I needed to relax me after spending over an hour whipping up a phony resume. “I’ve fine-tuned my control.”

“So how heavy an object can you pick up now?”

“Pick up or just move? I can move about a hundred pounds–maybe more if I really tried–but I can levitate only about thirty or so.” Actually, I could probably move several hundred pounds, but that would only be a couple of feet and with no control whatsoever.

“That’s still pretty good,” he said.

I flushed with pride. My Pusher powers had grown steadily since my sex change, as could be expected since women usually had more magical ability than men. Of course Brett was impressed, since he had no magical power. Or maybe he did. He was a Detector–someone capable of Detecting magic spells. There was significant debate among magical scientists as to whether Detecting was the result of magical ability or the total lack of magical ability. Either way, it was impressive to me.

“Wait until later,” I promised seductively. “I’ll show you what else I can levitate.”

He grinned in anticipation. “Then I’d better eat lots of oysters.”

“Can you come in and read my resume?” I asked, changing the subject before we both decided to forgo dinner entirely. But I loved fresh raw oysters almost as much as I enjoyed sex, and I knew I had both to look forward to that evening.

“Sure. Just a minute.”

I could hear the water running as he cleaned his hands. Then he looked over my shoulder and read what was on the screen.

Most of it was the truth, insofar as my life as Cassie went–Harvard undergrad, Tulane law student, as well as personal information on my new family. The work history though, was completely fabricated. I was sorry to say that except for playing gopher when my father headed up the local FBM office, I had never really worked a day in my life. Even if I had gotten a job in my former life, it wouldn’t have been janitorial. Sarah had given me a couple of names to use as former employers. They’d vouch for me if references were checked, but in truth, they were FBM employees.

I was fortunate that the Omega House hired its own cleaning crew instead of using an outside service. If an outside service came into play, more people would have to be in the loop on this. The fewer people who knew about who I really was, the better. If any members of the Omega House were involved in a Slaver operation, the stakes would be high, and while I had already had my sex changed, that didn’t mean I had nothing to fear from these people. Odds were good they’d kill me in a heartbeat if they thought I was threatening their operation.

“Sounds good,” Brett said after he perused the resume. “Cassie, are you sure you don’t want me to apply, too? You could get in serious trouble if one of the Omegans really is involved in all of this and figures out you’re doing this for the FBM.”

“Who’s going to find out?” I asked as lightly as I could. “The only person who could blow the whistle on me...” I stopped. I had almost told him about my former brother. Damn! I was going to have to tell Brett about my former life soon. It was getting too dicey to try to hide it much longer, especially now that his father knew.

“Who could blow the whistle?” Brett prompted.

“Oh, just an Omega in my law school classes,” I lied. “But don’t worry. Even if he recognizes me, it wouldn’t be out of character for me to be working there. Lots of students work part time. And I’m not going to put myself at any great risk,” I assured him. “I’m just going to be a fly on the wall and listen. I won’t put myself in any danger.” I hoped I wasn’t lying about that, too.

“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “But I worry about you, Cassie.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet.”

He smiled, then headed back to the kitchen. In a few moments he had put out two plates of oysters on the half shell and some of his special sauce on the side. He was sweet. And I could hardly wait to get dinner over with and prove to him just how much I appreciated it.

I’ve heard that all that stuff about oysters being good for sex is hogwash, but Brett must have believed it, because he was really at the top of his game when he playfully dragged me off to bed. I lost track of how many times I came, but I think it was three–no four.

Brett was a sensitive lover, too. As a man I had never really had an appreciation for why women liked to be cuddled after sex. Now of course I knew. Physical contact after sex prolonged the female orgasm, allowing women to bask in a warm glow. That’s what Brett did for me.

As I drifted off in his embrace, I thought about how fortunate I had been. Although I had been made into a woman against my will, I had managed to find a sensitive, accomplished lover, who had made me appreciate my new sex in ways I would never have imagined a year earlier.

Then I thought about Samantha and her fellow victims, and what a different experience a sex change had been for them. Maybe a few of the Slaver’s victims found gentle, caring owners, but it was probably very few. After all, any man who would stoop so low as to buy a woman to have as a sex toy was hardly the sort of man who would have any concern for a woman’s feelings. And if what was happening to Samantha mentally was any indication–and I was certain it was–of the future the Slaver’s victims could look forward to, the victims would probably have miserable lives.

I felt so helpless observing Samantha’s plight. I guess that’s why I pushed to become a spy at the Omega House. I only hoped my service would pan out. It was something of a long shot, though, and I knew it. I just had to do something to help.

“Mr. Laveau will see you in just a moment,” his secretary told me in her breathy voice as she wiggled back to her desk in her tight skirt and three inch heels. She was quite the beauty, I had to admit, with her long red hair, fair skin and absolutely perfect body. Apparently Mr. Laveau had an appreciation for the finer things in life, and I had the uncharitable suspicion that she did more for him than secretarial duties. Not that I could blame him. If I were still male, I’d be downright envious.

But I wasn’t male, I reminded myself. I had the same equipment she did, and I only hoped I was attractive enough to draw his eye as well–at least enough so that he would hire me. I had been a woman long enough to know that when it came to getting any job–even a janitorial job–being an attractive woman was a definite advantage.

Keeping that in mind, I looked down at myself one more time. I hoped I hadn’t overdressed for the interview. I was wearing a powder blouse and navy blue skirt, with black heels and a matching purse. I wasn’t wearing a jacket, though. I thought it looked dressy without looking too dressy. After all I wasn’t applying for the job of business manager.

The secretary’s phone buzzed softly, and she picked up the receiver. After a moment she said, “Yes, sir. I’ll send her right in.”

When I was ushered into Robert Laveau’s office, I recognized him immediately. Although I had only been introduced to him in passing by my former father, he looked exactly as I remembered him. He was tall, for he stood up when I entered the room, with a dark beard, neatly-trimmed hair, and a bronze complexion, which denoted not only a probable Mediterranean ancestry, but an active outdoor life as well. He didn’t offer to shake hands: for many Southern men shaking hands with a woman was ungentlemanly. Instead, he motioned me to a comfortable chair at a small conference table.

“Ms. Davis, please sit down,” he said, walking over to take a seat at the small table. He had my resume in his hand, but seemed familiar enough with it that he didn’t have to look down at it. “I understand you’re a law student.”

“That’s right. I’m just finishing my first year,” I replied as I sat down and arranged my skirt before crossing my legs. The skirt was maybe just a tad too short for the interview, but its navy blue color seemed right for the conservative Omegans. Besides, it gave me the opportunity to show off those new three-inch black pumps. Oh God, I was becoming such a girl.

The interview was fairly short and concise. Mr. Laveau was a good interviewer. He urged me to do most of the talking, with his open-ended questions, only occasionally commenting just to show that he was listening carefully to what I said. I was able to paint the picture of a competent young woman who was working her way through college. Nothing came out that would have clued Mr. Laveau that I was actually well off and had no real need for a menial job.

But as it turned out, I had done too good a job. As the questions ended, he leaned back and shook his head. “Ms. Davis, I really don’t think a young woman of your abilities would find a job with our cleaning crew particularly rewarding...”

My heart sank. I should have just worn jeans and a sweatshirt to the interview. I had made the mistake of appearing overqualified.

Then, to my relief, he went on, “However, I do have a position I think might be more in keeping with your talents. I need a new hostess.”

“Hostess?”

“Yes, for the dining room. Our hostess seats our members and takes care of their needs.”

“Needs?”

“You know, a clean fork or a fresh napkin, or refreshing their drinks. The work isn’t particularly difficult, but it does take a young woman skilled in gracious social interaction.”

The Omega House actually had a hostess for the dining room? How much did it cost to eat there? This was more elaborate than any of the dining clubs I knew of in any of the Ivy League schools. My club certainly hadn’t had a hostess, anyway.

It wasn’t the job I was looking for, and it would make me too visible. There was a much greater chance that my former brother would recognize me. Still, if I wanted to check out the membership, it was probably a more efficient way to do it than to try to eavesdrop while polishing the silver. After all, I’d get the opportunity to meet and speak with each of the members and try to determine if any of them could be involved with the Slaver.

The job didn’t pay much as it turned out, but that wasn’t important. I wasn’t taking the job for the money. Besides, if everything went all right, I wouldn’t even be there a full week.

“I’d like the job very much, Mr. Laveau,” I said with as sweet a smile as I could muster.

He smiled back. “Excellent. You can start tomorrow at lunch. You did say the schedule wouldn’t interfere with your classes, didn’t you?”

Actually I would have to cut out of a class ten minutes early, but I didn’t expect to be working the job for more than a week, so that didn’t really matter either. “The schedule is fine. What should I wear?”

“Without your coat, what you’re wearing right now would be almost perfect,” he told me. “Although we like for our hostess to wear a white blouse instead of a colored one, and dark skirt and heels.”

“Fine,” I replied, rising. I’d have to buy a couple more white blouses if I kept the job for more than a couple of days. Maybe I could get the FBM to buy them for me?

“Then I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Ms. Davis,” he said, once more not offering to take my hand but nodding slightly.

“Please call me Cassie,” I offered.

“Fine, Cassie.”

He didn’t ask me to call him Robert, though.

Sarah and Helen were both uncomfortable with my taking the job, much to my surprise.

“But I thought you were both okay with it,” I told them, puzzled.

“A cleaning job, yes,” Helen clarified. “But this is different. Everybody in the Omega House will see you and even talk to you. What if your brother sees you?”

I looked around, suddenly panicked, afraid that Brett had overheard, but he was still in Samantha’s room with his father, well out of hearing range from our gathering point at the end of the hall. The FBM guard outside her room may have heard, but that didn’t matter. Most of Sarah’s agents knew who I had previously been, so no biggie.

“I agree with Helen,” Sarah chimed in. “Paul probably wouldn’t see you or notice you if you were on the cleaning crew. He can’t miss you if you’re the hostess in the dining room. He’ll see you every day. There’s a pretty good chance he’ll recognize you.”

“But he didn’t recognize me at the Lagrange party,” I pointed out.

“Cassie, have you ever thought that maybe he did recognize you, but just didn’t want to admit he knew you?” Helen asked.

“Then this would be the same situation,” I returned. I tried to sound confident, but Helen’s question had shaken me. Actually I hadn’t considered that at all. But I went on, “As far as he will know, I’m just earning some extra money for college. I doubt if he knows how much of an inheritance I was given as part of the settlement, so maybe he’ll just think I need the money.”

“Cassie,” Sarah said softly, motioning for both Helen and me to keep our voices down, “I know you don’t want to consider this, but if someone in the Omega House is working with the Slaver, it could be your brother.”

“Paul?” I laughed. “No way. He may be an asshole, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with a Slaver. Why should he? He’s rich–or he will be. My grandfather’s will provided for my brothers as well as me. And he’s still in line to inherit from my original father as well. Besides, if there’s one thing I’ve learned as a girl, it’s that with the right makeup and hairstyle I can look like a different person. I’ll put my hair up and do the makeup a little different. He’ll never recognize me.”

“I thought you said everybody at that Omega House was rich,” Helen countered. “You know, it’s possible somebody over there isn’t just working for the Slaver. One of them could be the Slaver.”

“I know.” I had considered that. It was a pretty good possibility, actually. “But I know for certain it isn’t Paul. His Webster-Kline scores are pitiful. He has very little magical talent. Look Helen, I’ll be careful. If there’s any chance of something going wrong, I’ll call Sarah, okay?”

The argument had died down by the time Oliver and Brett joined us, and the net of it was that I’d take the job as I had planned, but call Helen immediately after my shift ended every day. Sarah went to check a few things with her agents, so she wasn’t there to see how tired and discouraged Brett and Oliver looked.

In fact Brett looked downright stricken. “What’s wrong?” I asked him.

“She... she propositioned me,” he muttered.

“I wanted Brett to see her,” Oliver explained, “since he’s helped me with some cases back in Nashville. He has a lot of empathy for victims of these sex change spells...”

Was it my imagination, or did he look right at me when he said that?

“...and sometimes he notices things I don’t. Unfortunately, bringing him in this time was probably a mistake. Samantha got quite excited...”

Brett could do that to a girl: I knew that from first-hand experience. Of course I knew that wasn’t natural this time. Samantha’s programming was what was getting her all hot and bothered.

Brett looked at his watch. “I’m afraid I have to go. I have a study session with one of my professors.” He gave me a quick hug and kiss and headed off for his meeting.

By that time, Sarah had rejoined us. “How is Samantha?” she asked.

Oliver shook his head. “I’m having problems keeping the Slaver’s commands at bay. I’ve been able to suppress some of the commands with a couple of potions and an old-fashioned non-magical compound called Valium. But I can’t keep her medicated forever.

“If we could learn something of her previous life, I might be able to anchor her to a lost memory. That’s still our only good solution. Then, with therapy and some milder magical medications, I can wean her away from the Slaver commands. It will take time even at that. But without anything on her identity...” He shrugged helplessly, adding, “Have you had any luck tracking down this dead sister?”

“None,” Sarah sighed. “We’ve gone back thirty years looking for a dead girl named Samantha Jean who had a living brother who is missing.”

“And you’ve found nothing?” I asked, incredulous.

“Oh we’ve found plenty,” Sarah explained. “Or at least we’ve found a number of Samantha Jeans who died as infants or toddlers. Some of them have living brothers–or at least did at the time. The problem is that all of those brothers so far have been accounted for. Of course we concentrated on the ones from Louisiana and surrounding states. A national search will take a bit longer.”

“Can I see her?” I asked Oliver. When he nodded, I hurried to her room, tapping lightly on the door.

“Come in.”

“How are you doing?” I asked her when I entered.

She looked up from the magazine she had been reading. I was surprised to see it was a woman’s magazine. I had the same issue at home, but I had been female for a year now. She flushed when she saw that I recognized the magazine, although it wasn’t as if she had been caught reading a Playgirl. Stretched out on the couch in a pink t-shirt and jeans that molded tightly to her body, there was nothing incongruent about her choice of reading material.

In spite of that, she felt obligated to explain, “I figured as long as I was going to be stuck like this, I’d better figure out what to do with... you know... my hair and stuff.”

I nodded, but didn’t comment on the fact that I could see the page she was reading, and it had nothing to do with hairstyles. Instead, it was an article on how to be sexier for your boyfriend. I had gotten a couple of good tips from the article myself.

“Sure,” I said, sitting down in a chair near the couch. “So how are you doing?”

“Okay... I guess.” The way she said it–like a bored little teenybopper–emphasized Oliver’s concern. There was nothing apparently left of the young man she had once been. If it wasn’t for the extreme sexual urges Oliver anticipated with her programming, it might have been just as well. She wouldn’t have nearly the trouble I had had fitting into her new sex. Or at least not at first. I had a hunch the Slaver hadn’t given her this mindset to make the transition easier for her. God only knew what he had programmed into her over the long run. Whatever it was, I was sure it wasn’t going to be in Samantha’s best interests.

“Dr. Carson says you’re taking a job at the Omega House,” she began. When I confirmed that, she said softly, “You should be very careful, Cassie.”

“I will be,” I replied glibly, but there was something in her warning that gave me pause. It was as if she was speaking from personal experience rather than expressing a general admonition. “Do you... remember something–something about the Omega House?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “It’s just... call it a feeling.”

I waited for her to elaborate. It didn’t take long. “Cassie, I think there’s somebody bad at that house.”

“Do you know who?” I prompted.

I could almost see her straining to remember. But whoever she was referring to had done too good a job on her. No name was forthcoming. “I... just please promise me you’ll be careful?”

“I will,” I promised her.

I shuddered, remembering her words the next day as I reported to the Omega House for the midday shift. The stately house reeked of money and power, and it was going to be just little old me going up against it.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this, Cassie?” Brett had asked me as he dropped me off.

This wasn’t the time for an honest answer. In fact I didn’t want to go through with it at all. Sure, it had sounded like a good idea earlier. After all I had gone undercover at the Lagrange party and that had gone fine. But this was different. I wasn’t dealing with a single individual who had transformed a deserving asshole into a girl. Instead, I was dealing with a vicious Slaver and his minions who had transformed an innocent and unwilling victim into a sexual play toy, undoubtedly to sell her to a perverted client who would use her thoughtlessly until she was of no further value to him. The stakes were much, much bigger this time, and the penalty for failure was unimaginable.

Then there was my former brother. Sure, he hadn’t recognized me at the Lagrange party, but there had been lots of servants and even more guests there. Helen and Sarah had been right about that. Would he still not realize who I really was? Of course he had never seen me again after my transformation was complete, except at the Lagrange party, and I had learned how to dress like a girl and apply makeup since the time he had seen me when my transformation was still in progress. And he didn’t know my new name–or at least I was pretty sure he didn’t...

“Cassie?” Brett prompted.

“Yeah, Brett, I’m sure,” I replied as confidently as I could. Then I kissed him before he could say anything else and popped out of the car.

Mr. Laveau met me at the entrance to the dining room. “Five minutes early,” he commented with a small smile. “I like that. Now let’s get you ready for lunch.”

He gave me a quick once-over, approving of my black skirt and white blouse. “I’m glad you decided to wear your hair up,” he commented. “It’s more appropriate if you have to visit the kitchen.”

I nodded. Of course I had really worn it that way to be less recognizable to my former brother, since I normally wore it down about my shoulders. It had made my face look leaner–something I had emphasized with my makeup. I didn’t think Paul would be able to recognize me.

He introduced me to the rest of the food service staff. Like me, all of the kitchen staff were Afro-American. They were all friendly and welcomed me aboard. I noted that a couple of the male staffers were looking at me with open approval, and I was pretty sure I’d have to turn them down for dates before my stint at the Omega House was over.

Mr. Laveau then took a few minutes to instruct me in my duties as hostess. They were really quite simple. All I had to do was seat the members as they came in for lunch and look in on them to make sure they had their drinks and make sure the wait staff promptly served the food and took away the dirty dishes. Since there were only forty members–and not all of them would attend each meal–it wasn’t too hard. I did realize that I would be doing enough walking about the ten four-man tables in the dining room to make my feet sore in the heels, but since I had been a girl for a year, it wasn’t unanticipated.

The first day I had determined to play the part of a good little employee. I wouldn’t be doing any spying, as I was certain Mr. Laveau would be monitoring my performance. Besides, as the new girl on the staff, I expected the membership to be looking me over as well. They might all be lily white, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t appreciate women like me as well.

Naturally I still listened as much as I could, hoping to glean something from the table conversations. Since four members could sit at each table though, if I had been expecting to hear something incriminating, I was likely to be disappointed. To my chagrin, the dining room was far too public for any of the membership to talk about illegal activities. I was beginning to realize that the dining room wasn’t going to be a likely place to gain incriminating evidence, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t try.

My former brother showed up about ten minutes after we had started serving. If he recognized me, it would be a problem if he managed to figure out that I didn’t need the money the job provided. In that case he would certainly wonder what I was doing there, and I didn’t want to make anyone suspicious. I nearly held my breath, but managed to smile in preparation for showing him to a table.

He looked me in the eye. “You’re new here,” he commented.

“Yes,” I replied as calmly as I could. “I’m Cassie.”

Rather than continue to look me in the eye, his eyes wandered down to my breasts and never came back up. “Pleased to meet you, Cassie.”

And that was all there was to it. I had worried about him for nothing, I thought. I showed him to a table which was already half full and went back to greet the next diner.

“So he didn’t recognize you at all?” Helen pressed when she, Sarah and I met at the hospital that evening.

“I think he was too busy looking at my breasts,” I said smugly. I had tried to put on an “I knew it all the time” front with the two of them, but the relief I felt in not being recognized by Paul was even greater than the incredulity in Helen’s eyes.

“Well that’s one thing that went right today,” Sarah sighed.

I frowned, sitting back in my chair at the conference table. That remark hadn’t sounded very promising. “Why? What went wrong today?”

“Just about everything,” she replied. She was silent for a moment, gathering her composure to give me the bad news. At last it came. “In fact I’m going to have to pull you out of the Omega House.”

“What? Why? I haven’t even had any time to look around there yet. And I haven’t even met some of the members This was just my first day. I thought we agreed I’d be there for at least a week–maybe longer.”

Sarah shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. We don’t have anything on them except that stupid coin, and from the inquiries we already made about it, you’d think we’d accused the entire organization of being in partnership with the Slaver. I think half of the alumni members of the Omega House have called me or–worse yet–called my boss in Washington to lay off the organization.”

At my confused look she continued, “Look, Cassie, do you have any idea how many powerful men were members of the Omega House?”

I shook my head. “I went to school out of state, remember?” That wasn’t really an answer. Sure, I knew the Omega House had a number of powerful members, but apparently I didn’t comprehend just how many.

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “Well let me enlighten you. Five members of the state legislature and one U.S. Congressman, two Federal judges, and more corporate executives than you can shake a stick at were Omegans. In addition, there are men like your father–I’m sorry: your former father–who have sons in the Omega House now. They’re all saying the same thing: investigating the Omega House casts a shadow on them as well. You see where I’m going with this?”

“But what other leads do we have?” I asked pointedly. I wasn’t about to give up on the only one we had without a fight.

“None,” Helen replied for Sarah. “That’s why we’re all so frustrated. This Slaver has the tightest organization any of us have ever seen. If it hadn’t been for that power failure and Samantha’s escape, we wouldn’t even know about him–or her–except for a few rumors.”

I had just one more shot to try. “But look, none of these powerful men know you’ve got a plant in the Omega House, right? So I can continue to work there unless they find out.”

“But if they find out,” Sarah countered, “we’ll all find out what happens when we disobey an order from Washington. I can tell you what will happen to Helen and me. I’ll be fired and Helen will never consult for the FBM again. As for you, I’m sure my superiors will find some equally unsavory punishment as well.”

“But...”

“No buts, Cassie. You quit tomorrow. Understood?”

“All right,” I agreed reluctantly. I took a couple of deep breaths and decided I had better do what she said. It wasn’t as if I had much of a choice.

“How’s Samantha doing today?” I asked, chagrined that I had been so worked up about being pulled off the Omega House mission that I hadn’t thought to ask about her.

“Not good,” Sarah replied. “Oliver has her over in the lab for a few tests right now. But even without the tests, she’s continuing to change mentally–even with the medication. She’s acting more and more like a little teen slut every time we see her. She’s... losing herself in the role. I think this was the Slaver’s plan for her–to have her start out acting like a man who got turned into a young girl, and then to act more and more in the character of a teen slut as time went on. That would make her owner feel like a big man. Unfortunately Oliver suspects that inside, she is disgusted with herself. That’s probably why they allowed her to remember being male.”

I nodded in agreement. I could imagine how the client who bought her might react. At first, he would have a reluctantly transformed girl on his hands, but under his tutelage, she would change into a suitably submissive sexual toy, making him feel more powerful. So what if she would have become submissive without any effort on the part of her owner? The objective was to make a happy customer–one who would probably eventually tire of his little slave and be in the market for a new one. It was enough to make me sick.

I wanted to do something to help. I couldn’t stand the thought of the bad guys winning on this. I decided to try my luck one more time. “Look, just let me keep working at the Omega House until the end of the week,” I proposed. “If I haven’t overheard something by then, I’ll quit.”

“Absolutely not,” Sarah replied, shaking her head. “You’re out of there as of now. Call them in the morning and quit. End of conversation.”

I kept silent. I realized Sarah had made up her mind–or rather the powers above her had laid down the law to her. I suppose it was the same thing, really. Maybe she was right, I realized. The coin was a pretty weak clue, and even if one or more diners from the Omega House were involved with the Slaver, he or they could hardly be expected to blab about it to his fellow members. The only real chance had been if I were to find a couple of the members acting suspiciously. It had been a plan born out of desperation with almost no chance of success.

So that was it. The Slaver would continue to operate, the only change to his operation being a battery backup for his electric locks in a new location. Sam’s real identity would remain unknown, and she would slowly but surely sink into the role the Slaver had chosen for her, beyond Oliver’s help.

That point was brought home to me when I ran into Oliver as he escorted Sam back to her room.

“Hi Cassie!” she greeted me with a vacuous little giggle.

“Hi Samantha. How did your tests go?”

She rolled her eyes and sighed with mock exaggeration, “Bor-ring. He made me, like, take all these math and English tests. Like, who cares?”

I tried to ignore the Valley Girl cadence. “So how did you do?”

She shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Wanna come in?”

“In a few minutes,” I promised her. “I want to talk to your doctor first.”

“Yeah, okay,” she said with a little disappointment, as if wondering what Oliver might have to say that would be more interesting than doing girl things together.

When she had closed her door, I asked Oliver, “She’s getting worse, isn’t she?”

He nodded. “Yes. We’re running out of time, Cassie. The personality the Slaver was overlaying just before she escaped is finally taking hold in full. She has some moments of lucidity, but they’re getting rarer and rarer. In a week, there won’t be anything I can do for her, even if we were to find her true identity.”

“Can’t you lay a new personality on top of this one?” I asked.

“No. It’s just not that simple. Cassie, you know how when a man is changed into a woman, her new body is set–unchangeable by any spell we are aware of?”

“Yeah, I know,” I replied, maybe just a little bitterly. It had something to do with the chromosome change. You could change a man into another man, or a woman into another woman, and then change them over and over again. But when you changed a person’s sex (and that could only be from male to female, of course), nothing major could be changed ever again. Even minor changes, such as personality or minor changes in skin tone or physical features, took someone with the power of a Slaver.

“Well Samantha is locked in mentally as well,” he explained.

“Wait a minute,” I stopped him. “When I was changed, all sorts of mental curses were placed on me–paranoia, ignorance, an accent... I was able to overcome all of those things. Aren’t we talking about the same thing with Samantha?”

“No,” Oliver replied. “That’s a common misconception. Most of the changes are ancillary–like yours. The body is changed with a separate spell. Then, in your case, a Whisperer makes some minor changes in how you see things, but the changes are temporary. What was done to Samantha was much... deeper–her personality changes are tied directly to the transformation spell. Only Slavers can be that thorough with their spells. It’s what makes them different from any other practitioners.

“Frankly, even if we’re successful–and that’s becoming increasingly unlikely–the most we will be able to do is anchor her to her former life sufficiently that she can fend off some of the stronger aspects of the spell. She’ll need the support of her family–if we can find them. Otherwise she’ll become exactly what the Slaver wants her to be–a man locked in the body of a young girl, unable to act in any way except as the teen slut she’s been programmed to be.”

I was too upset after Oliver’s explanation to see Samantha for long. I was afraid I’d be unable to hide my emotions and she’d see how upset I was, so instead, I just popped in her room and said, “Samantha, I’m sorry, but I really can’t stay.”

She seemed disappointed, and I almost changed my mind and stayed. But then she said, “It’s okay. All that test stuff made me kind of–you know–tired.”

She wasn’t acting tired, though. Instead she was slipping her hand into her panties underneath the hospital gown she had been wearing for her tests. I could smell her sex from the doorway. I was pretty sure she wanted me out of there so she could play with herself. The Slaver’s commands must have been overwhelming. If she had been delivered to the Slaver’s client, there was no telling what she’d be doing for him by now.

I warned Oliver, but he just shrugged in defeat. “What can we do, Cassie? She’s been commanded to be this way. If we don’t let her relieve the sexual pressure, no male in the hospital will be safe from her. Just do what you can to help the FBM find out who she is. Right now, the only chance she has is to get a piece of her old life back to anchor onto.”

I drove home, taking surface streets since I was afraid the mist of tears in my eyes would cause me trouble on the freeway. I hadn’t felt this powerless since the days of my own transformation. Samantha was a nice girl, and I suspected she had been a nice guy before her transformation. Now we were watching her slowly transform mentally into a bubble-headed little sexpot and there seemed to be nothing we could do to stop it, or even to find the perpetrators.

Naturally I felt empathetic as well as sympathetic. Her transformation had occurred almost exactly a year after my own. Of course unlike me, she had no idea who she had been before, but remembering that she had been a man was terrible by itself. Maybe it was even worse. After all, her entire sense of identity had been stolen from her–except for knowledge of her former sex, which was hardly a good thing. And like me, she had no family to help her. Of course my family had deserted me, but Samantha’s family was of no help, due to circumstances beyond their control, of course since they didn’t know what had happened to their son. Somewhere out there, there was a family missing a son, and it must be hurting them deeply.

Or did they care?

Since no one had reported a suitable candidate as missing, it was possible that Samantha had led a previous life whose erasure would cause no undue concern. Had her male self been a drifter–someone who would not be missed? It was puzzling–and frustrating. Why couldn’t we find out who Samantha had been?

If Sarah and Helen had only come up with some new leads...

If they had, I could quit my job at the Omega House with no misgivings. However, it was still the only lead we had, tenuous as it might be.

As I pulled into my parking space, I came to a conclusion: no matter what Sarah and Helen had said, I would not quit my job–not yet, at least. I mentally gave myself a deadline: if I hadn’t discovered anything by the end of the week, I’d quit anyway. If I hadn’t learned anything by then, it would probably be too late for Samantha anyhow. It was only four more days. I wouldn’t tell Helen or Sarah. They’d never find out, unless I came up with something to help with the case.

It depressed me a little to realize that I couldn’t tell Brett either. If I told him everything, he’d side with Helen and Sarah and tell me to quit. Poor baby, he’d just be looking out for me. And if I didn’t tell him anything about the order to quit, he might innocently say something to someone–most likely Oliver–which would get back to Sarah and Helen. I didn’t want that to happen either. So my only recourse was to keep silent on the matter of continuing my job. I’d just tell him that Sarah had demanded I quit and I would do so.

The problem with that was that I would have no backup. If anything went wrong and my real purpose was discovered by the party or parties in the Omega House who could be involved, I would be in real trouble. I was risking my life for a boy-turned-girl I scarcely knew. But it had to be done. Otherwise, the next Jane Doe I met I wouldn’t even be able to look in the eye.

Brett met me at the door with a glass of red wine. Thankfully I took it from his hand, sipped it, and kissed him, letting the flavor of the wine waft on his lips. “Merlot,” he smiled. “I believe it’s one of your favorites.”

“Plebian!” I laughed. “I’m not worth a decent cabernet?”

“I’ll open one of those too,” he suggested with a leer.

“No, one glass of this is all I can handle. I have classes tomorrow.”

“And work?”

“No,” I sighed. “Sarah and Helen want me to quit. They think the Omega House thing is a dead lead.” Damn, I was getting good at lying. If Brett had listened more carefully, he might have noted that I never said I would actually quit–just that Sarah and Helen wanted me to quit.

“Good!” he exclaimed, hugging me so closely I nearly spilled my wine. “I was worried about you.”

“Worried?”

He managed a small smile. “Sure. All those rich white boys might start looking pretty good to you.”

“I thought you were rich, too. Why do you think I’m with you?”

“I’ll show you why,” he replied, guiding me to the bedroom.

I remembered an old racist joke from my own rich white boy days: ‘Once you go black, you’ll never go back.’ Well, I didn’t know about that, but it was hard to imagine any man–black or white–pleasing me as much as Brett did. I was already tingling in all the right places as I turned out the bedroom light behind us.

It was harder being sneaky than I thought it would be. Since my schedule at the Omega House called for me to be there for both lunch and dinner, I had to give Brett some pretty thin excuses for not meeting him for either lunchtime or dinnertime. I made up something about special study sessions for moot court. Actually, I wouldn’t have to worry about moot court until my second year of law school, but Brett didn’t know that. Or at least I hoped he didn’t. Besides, I reminded myself, it would only be until the end of the week. I had promised myself that if I discovered nothing by then, I’d quit for real.

And it was starting to look more and more as if I wouldn’t discover a thing. I would have liked to have had a little time to wander around the house, maybe even a quick look through the offices, but the closest I came to learning anything was from the bulletin board that hung on a wall just outside the dining room.

Unfortunately there was nothing on the bulletin board such as ‘Needed: Volunteers to help Slaver watch Kidnap Victims’, or ‘Has anyone seen my missing Omega token? I lost it somewhere in the Warehouse District.’ It was just the usual stuff posted around campus.

Also, no one said anything suspicious. In fact, no one said much of anything–just a few mumbled greetings among the members, but nothing like I would have suspected from the membership of an exclusive organization. Even my former brother, who I remembered as being normally quite loquacious (if obnoxious), seemed quiet and withdrawn during the meals. But while everyone’s behavior was a little taciturn, it was hardly criminal.

It wasn’t until Thursday evening at dinner that I got the uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching me. Oh sure, I was cute and well-dressed, so all of the guys took a peek at my bust line or legs whenever they could. I had been a girl long enough that I was used to that.

But what I felt was that someone–or more than one someone–was watching my every move. I would turn my head suddenly and sense that a door open just a crack was suddenly shut. Or that the conversations, as sparse as they were, would suddenly cease whenever I was close. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, I thought.

Classes were almost a relief that week. The rest of my time seemed to float between paranoid feelings as work or emotional despair as I visited Samantha.

Samantha was getting worse, if such a thing was possible, losing herself more every hour into the bimbo part the Slaver had assigned her to play. Oh, she could still hold herself together, but barely. I was pretty sure Oliver was right: if we didn’t find out something which led to her former identity, she was doomed to be a sexual plaything for the rest of her life. But with no leads on who had done this to her, it was becoming less likely we’d be able to save her. And time was running out. If I didn’t come up with something to save her by Friday, there’d be no one left to save.

Unfortunately, by Friday, Samantha wasn’t the only one who needed to be saved.

I went in early on Friday to turn in my resignation. I almost didn’t do it, because although a week of eavesdropping and spying on the membership of Omega House had produced no clues whatsoever, I still held out irrational hope. But every logical cell in my body told me I was beating a dead horse.

But that isn’t to say I wasn’t still suspicious. I was beginning to wonder if there wasn’t something to feminine intuition. Since the first day I had reported to work at the Omega House, something just hadn’t seemed right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I was still convinced someone in the Omega House had something to do with Samantha’s kidnapping and transformation, but who? And how would I prove it?

At the risk of sounding like Inspector Clouseau, I was beginning to suspect everyone and I was beginning to suspect no one. By rights, there wasn’t a single member of the Omega House who would have aided a Slaver. That wasn’t because of their high moral standards, but rather that every one of the members I was able to identify was wealthy without being on a Slaver’s payroll. After all, I knew many of them from my previous life–or at least knew their families.

It was possible that one of the members was a Slaver, but even then, why risk it, given that he would have been wealthy already?

On the other hand, every one of the Omegans seemed a little... odd. They were all more taciturn than I would have expected, almost as if they had something to hide. Compared to my dining club at Harvard, I considered them a bunch of duds. Or maybe it was just that they didn’t like to talk when the hired help was around. They all seemed quieter when I was nearby, and I didn’t flatter myself by assuming that my great beauty had struck them all speechless.

Either way, what I wouldn’t have given for a look through the membership files, I thought to myself as I sat primly in Mr. Laveau’s office as he carefully read my letter of resignation. I suppose I didn’t have to write one for the menial job I had taken, but it just seemed like the right thing to do.

Mr. Laveau looked up from my letter. “We’ll be sorry to lose you, Cassie,” he said sincerely. “I hope one of the members didn’t do anything that would cause you to leave us.”

I had been a woman long enough to understand the real question. He was making sure no one had harassed me, leading to an eventual sexual or racial discrimination suit.

“No,” I assured him. “I just found... I needed more time to devote to my studies.”

He nodded. “I understand. But if you’d ever like to return and we have an opening, I’d be happy to have you back. Will you at least be staying the remainder of the day?”

“Yes,” I told him. I wasn’t about to miss one more chance at looking around the Omega House. Maybe I’d get lucky and get a crack at those membership files. After all, it was my last day. So what if they caught me snooping? They’d just think I was trying to steal something on my way out the door.

So there I was–down to my last day at the Omega House. Brett was already getting suspicious of my activities, and I hadn’t made any progress at all. One of my afternoon classes had been cancelled, and I decided to cut the other one. With that extra time I planned to make myself scarce after my lunch shift and snoop around. If I got caught, I’d just say I was saying my goodbyes before leaving for good.

I shouldn’t have been concerned about being noticed. It wasn’t all that difficult be unobtrusive. The Omega House was virtually deserted on Friday afternoons as it turned out, and few of the members even bothered to show up for dinner. Mr. Laveau was out of his office, and his secretary was MIA as well. I strongly suspected they had a little afternoon tryst going on–and not for the first time. Since the two of them were the only staff, the offices were empty. I would never have a better opportunity to see those membership files.

I said goodbye to the kitchen crew, promising I would see them at dinner. Then, I pretended to head out the front door and on my way to classes, but when I was certain no one was watching, I tiptoed across the foyer and tried the door to Mr. Laveau’s office. As I expected, it was locked, but standard locks are of little consequence to a Pusher like me. Mentally I moved the metal parts until the lock clicked open. I entered quickly, re-locking the door behind me.

My target was those membership files. I needed to find something in them that might indicate who the likely members were who might be involved with the Slaver. Since the members all came from well-off families, I was looking for something which might indicate they had financial problems at home–or perhaps a drug habit they were hiding from their families, requiring them to have cash. Maybe I’d find something to indicate one of the members lost his token and had to have it replaced. Sure, it was a long shot, but I was desperate, and time was running out.

Fortunately I was in no particular hurry. I was sure Mr. Laveau and his secretary were gone for the day, and most of the members were either in class or away from campus. I knew the cleaning crew came Mondays and Thursdays, so there was no chance of being discovered by them. In short, I had the office to myself. Since I had relocked the door, no one would suspect I was there.

I found the files with little problem. They were in a locked filing cabinet, but again, the simple tumblers proved no problem for a Pusher of my refined skills. What I found surprised me. The files for active members were divided into two sorts. The first sort–the smaller one–showed only the names of four of the new members. Each file had a date written in pen on it. Two of the dates had been crossed out with later dates appended.

The remaining files contained information on the rest of the membership. My former brother’s file was among them. I pulled it first.

The first few pages were standard stuff–name, social security number, address, and so on. It was the papers in the back of the folder that caught my eye. They contained information about an entirely different individual–one far different from my former brother. The information was on a Maxwell Dawson, a man with a very lengthy criminal record from the looks of it. According to the sheet, he was wanted in connection with a number of armed robberies and at least one murder. Although only in his mid-twenties, he had apparently cut a swath across the Midwest, robbing banks, armored vehicles, and a couple of jewelry stores. It was in one of the latter that he had met resistance and killed a store manager.

So what was his information doing in Paul Devereaux’s file?

The final sheet in the file answered that question. As I read it and absorbed the information, a chill ran up my spine. The sheet contained the name and address of a resident of New York’s ritzy upper west side. A dollar amount–well into seven figures–was typed neatly below the information, as well as a picture of what I first assumed to be a nude woman standing as if in a trance before the camera. Blonde, leggy, and curvaceous, only one thing kept the subject from being Playmate of the Month, and that was an obvious male appendage.

“Your brother turned out quite nicely, didn’t he?” a mocking voice called out from behind me. It was the deep baritone voice of Robert Laveau.

Then, before I could turn, another voice said smugly, “I told you she’d go right for my file.”

As I turned I saw my former brother standing beside Mr. Laveau. He was grinning maliciously. “Paul?” I managed.

“Not really,” he replied nonchalantly.

“You and your friends have been very troublesome,” Mr. Laveau spoke up. “I had a feeling they would try to insert someone into the house even before you came here. Our Paul here confirmed that when he identified you the first day. Oh yes, he knew what you looked like now. He was given a picture of you when he took over your brother’s life–and he recognized you when you were playing the part of a maid at that party. He just found it prudent to not say anything.”

I flushed. I felt like a complete fool. Paul–or whoever he was–had recognized me from the first. But that meant the real Paul had been replaced–months ago it seemed.

“Where is Paul–the real Paul?” I demanded.

“I believe you already know,” Laveau told me. “But I’ll answer you anyway. He’s in New York now–the young pet of one of our clients who has... interesting tastes. As you can see from the picture, he’s still male, after a fashion. Our client prefers him that way. Our client knew your father, by the way. When your father became governor, he cost our client a considerable amount of money, so having your brother as a little playmate was sort of icing on the cake, don’t you agree?”

“You’re sick,” I growled.

“No,” he corrected with a faint smile on his lips. “Perhaps our clients are a little... unusual, but I’m just a businessman providing the market with what it wants and needs, just as my family and others have done for generations.”

I snorted. It was an old argument I had heard before from every sort of seedy dealer of drugs and flesh. I was beginning to understand what was going on now, but as I soon learned, I had had no idea of the scope of the depravity.

“So you and some of the Omegans are in a slavery ring. What? You catch unsuspecting guys on campus and turn them into sex toys?”

“Yes, but we’re highly selective,” he informed me. “We take only the finest to transform–after they’ve been replaced by our own people, of course. It wouldn’t do to kidnap and change someone unless their absence could be covered up. And it would certainly be difficult to cover things up without a replacement.”

“I’m like that guy in the baldness ads,” the Paul look-alike added with an evil chuckle. “I’m not just an employee–I’m a customer.”

“Yes,” Laveau smiled. “Some of our clients are looking for a new life. For a price–a significant price, I might add–we provide it. Just think–one of our clients can have the life of a wealthy young man, heir to fortunes. All we ask in return is a deposit, help while they are in school, and a substantial donation once they’ve come into their inheritances.”

I gasped as I understood the magnitude of the enterprise. There weren’t just a few Omegans involved in the Slaver ring: all of them were involved. “So you take in the ten most promising young men every year...”

“And replace them,” Laveau finished for me. “That’s right. It’s not all that hard, you know. We gather knowledge on them from a variety of sources–other members, alumni, and a little subtle interrogation of our victims which we can easily make them forget. People change somewhat when they go away to school, so even if the replacements make a few errors, they’re usually minor and explained away by friends and relatives as changes brought about by the college experience. We spread the transformations out through the year, by the way. We still have four more to go this year. I’m afraid your interference has caused us to delay two of our replacements.”

“Forgive me if I don’t apologize for that,” I sneered.

It was a slick operation: I had to admit that. Wealthy perverts have always been willing to pay high prices for custom toys. Young men were changed into sexual fantasies, probably remembering as Samantha did that they had once been men, but stripped of the details of their lives. Then, replacements–men who wanted to disappear–paid their way into the organization. That way, there were no missing persons–except for wanted criminals who were expected to be ‘missing.’ Once they graduated and assumed the full lives of those they had replaced, they were wealthy and powerful enough to endow the Omega House and protect its leader. Maybe some of them even purchased new slaves for themselves in the process.

“How long have you been doing this?” I asked, trying to look around a little for a possible exit.

“Exactly twenty years,” he replied. “And never a problem–until now.”

Twenty years...

That meant two hundred of the Tulane’s wealthiest young men were counterfeits. Some would be in their early forties now, probably in positions of power–businessmen, politicians, and community leaders. I probably knew a number of them through my original family and had never suspected. For that matter, since the phony Paul knew who I was on sight, he might have even been in place last year when I had been transformed and I hadn’t even suspected it. No wonder some powerful people had demanded the FBM investigation be dropped. If anything were discovered, hundreds of lives would be affected. If the Slaver’s records were confiscated by the authorities, some of the most powerful men in the region could be disgraced and imprisoned.

Laveau smiled. “I see you comprehend the beauty of our plan–as well as the danger you present. But once you’re out of the way, I don’t anticipate any additional trouble. In fact I suspect we’ll even be able to get Ms. Solomon back.”

“Solomon?”

“I believe she’s calling herself Samantha now.”

Then I recalled he had said something about me being out of the way. That sounded ominous, indeed. “But if you do anything to me,” I pointed out nervously, “you’ll be under suspicion again.”

He laughed, “Oh, I don’t think so. From what my sources tell me, you were ordered to give up this charade. I doubt if you told anyone you hadn’t done so. Besides, nothing will seem to have happened to you. We’ll simply replace you. Don’t look so shocked, Ms. Davis. We have women clients as well, but it’s not always easy to work a woman’s life into our system. Your duplicate paid very well for the opportunity to be you. She was particularly intrigued with your FBM contacts. Since she’s presently wanted for several magically-related crimes, that was a big plus.”

“My friends will know she’s not me in a heartbeat,” I told him haughtily, but I think he could tell it was all bravado.

He shrugged. “We’ll know by tomorrow. Then, if everything goes well and we don’t need any additional information from you, we’ll get you changed and off to your new home.”

I had expected him to kill me, but I suppose he just couldn’t stand to let potential merchandise go begging. I knew, though, that he couldn’t change me physically. When my DNA had been changed into the African- American woman I now appeared to be, it became impossible to change me any more–sort of.

He grinned. “I see in your eyes once again that you realize there are a number of things we can do to you that don’t involve changing you physically,” he commented. “I think I’ll give you a little preview of what will be done to you. I have a very good client in Port-Au-Prince. He likes lighter skinned black girls like you. I’ll give you a French- Caribbean accent and a nice high sex drive. He may even hook you on heroin: he’s been known to do that to his little pets before. That’s why he wears them out so quickly.”

I nearly wet myself at the thought of it. He was talking about ancillary spells–spells which could work just fine on me, since they didn’t change my DNA. By the time he got finished with me, it would probably take a geneticist to determine my true identity.

“I’ve already called him and he’s very excited about you,” Laveau went on, obviously enjoying every moment of my growing fear. “He asked me if I could do a little more work–make you illiterate so you’ll fit in better. So few girls like you’ll be can even read, you know. I suggested that we dull your wits a bit, too, so you won’t be quite so feisty. He liked the idea, I’m happy to say.”

So that was his plan. As soon as he was confident that my replacement wouldn’t be detected, he would start work on me. In a matter of days–perhaps hours–I’d be on my way to Haiti, a stupid little sex toy about to spend the rest of her short life in virtual slavery. Tears of frustration welled up in my eyes, but that only caused Laveau and the false Paul to chuckle more.

“Take her to the safe house,” Laveau ordered. “Take Hendricks and Kimmel. Watch her closely: I suspect she can be creative when it comes to getting out of jams.”

“Then why not dull her down right now?” the Paul clone suggested.

“I may need to tap her mind for information,” Laveau told him. “Don’t worry. I’m sure we can get started on her by tomorrow.”

The Paul imposter drove while I was uncomfortably wedged in the back seat between two of the Omega House’s biggest guys. Hendricks actually played tackle on the football team and Kimmel was nearly his equal in size and presumed strength. Laveau was taking no chances on me surprising anyone and bolting out of the car. Yet I had to do something, for once I had reached their safe house, I’d probably find myself securely confined until Laveau was ready to change me into a little Caribbean bimbo. The key was if they got me to the safe house.

“Shame Laveau can’t make her tits bigger,” Kimmel muttered, looking down my blouse. He had ‘accidentally’ ripped off the top two buttons when he threw me in the back seat. At least he hadn’t copped a feel–but Hendricks did. I silently fumed–not just because of Hendricks’ big, meaty paws on my body, but because I thought I had pretty nice breasts.

“I thought Laveau could do anything,” Hendricks replied. “After all he’s got all that old Voodoo gris-gris from his great grandmother.”

“It’s great, great grandmother,” Paul called out from the front seat. “And I don’t even think Marie Laveau could have physically changed a girl who used to be a guy.”

Hendricks gave me a funny look. “You used to be a guy?”

Was it my imagination, or had Hendricks moved away from me just a tad?

“Yeah,” the driver confirmed. “She used to be ‘my’ brother.”

Hendricks began chuckling as he looked down my blouse. “Well damn! That’s pretty funny, you know? I’ve never screwed a girl who used to be a guy before.”

“No screwing until Laveau says it’s okay,” the Paul clone cautioned. If I had anything to say about it, that wasn’t going to happen.

They kept talking, but I wasn’t really listening. I was absorbing what Paul had told us about Laveau’s ancestor. I knew all about Marie Laveau, though. Marie Laveau was without a doubt the most famous practitioner of Voodoo in the history of New Orleans. For that matter, she was one of the most powerful figures of nineteenth century Louisiana, and numbered among her clients many civic leaders and dignitaries who would have, if questioned, publicly disavowed any connection with her or the dark arts she practiced.

So the theories must be true, I thought. I remembered our dinner conversation at Commander’s Palace just a few nights ago as we discussed that exact issue. No one had ever offered definitive proof that those who practiced Voodoo were actually tapping into magical forces long before Webster and Kline had unwittingly tapped into them and released them on the unsuspecting world. But if what Paul said was true, and Robert Laveau was a direct descendant of Marie Laveau, he might have genetically inherited incredible power–the power, I reminded myself, of a Slaver.

The last name had been a clue, but not a decisive one, I thought to myself. Sure, Marie Laveau had been black instead of white like her descendant, although some had described her as having significant white ancestry as well as a large number of white lovers. The elite young gentlemen of nineteenth century New Orleans often had mistresses who were quadroons–people who were three-quarters white and only a quarter black. Say, for the sake of argument, that Marie Laveau had just one black parent and got pregnant by a white man. If Marie Laveau gave birth to a quadroon baby, and the baby grew up to marry a white, by the time Robert Laveau was born, black ancestry could be down to one-thirty-second–entirely indistinguishable from a completely white man.

But Robert Laveau must have known all about his ancestry. While in present day New Orleans, it was hardly a topic of polite discussion, his father and grandfather might have been a different matter. I could imagine him growing up in the shadow of the discriminatory social climate of the Deep South and growing to hate it. What better way to seek his revenge on all slights–real and perceived–than to debase the scions of some of the region’s finest old families? Of course, it didn’t hurt that he was getting rich while he did it.

I nearly shuddered just thinking about what that meant. Privileged sons of many fine old white families had been kidnapped and transformed for the last two decades and then replaced by criminals. I hadn’t even known that sexual transformation by magic was possible that many years earlier. In all likelihood, neither had anyone else, except someone with the power of a Slaver. No wonder Laveau had been able to build up such a powerful organization in that time. No one could even conceive of the possibility.

But musing about that would have to wait. We had already bypassed downtown and had entered the infamous Ninth Ward. Probably nestled in its conglomeration of industrial buildings and poor residential neighborhoods consisting of monotonous files of shotgun houses was my prison–where I would be mentally transformed into an ignorant little Caribbean whore. When I left the Ninth Ward, probably within the next day or so, I’d be unable–or maybe even unwilling–to ever free myself. Time was running out.

“Why are we slowing down?” Kimmel asked as the car’s speed decreased considerably.

“There’s a cop car ahead,” Paul explained.

“So?”

“So I want to stay behind him. Don’t you think he might kind of wonder if he sees me pull up playing chauffeur to the three of you in the back seat?”

At that I felt both of my seatmates tense up a little, pushing against me to make sure I couldn’t wave frantically at the police to get their attention. As if that would work anyhow.

But there was something else that just might work...

I didn’t know if Laveau’s information on me included the fact that my own magical talent was Pushing. Probably not, I reasoned, since my Pusher powers were limited. They had been much more limited though, when I was male, so even the false Paul probably had no idea how much my Pusher power had grown. I had once managed to move a loaded filing cabinet, but not very far. Even I wasn’t really sure of how much Pushing power I had. Of course, desperation might just increase my abilities just a little...

Actually, ever since I had been discovered, I had been looking about for some way to use my power to get away. Unfortunately I had limited options. Sure, I might be able to find something heavy enough to clunk one of my captors with, but so what? There would still be two more of them left, and pushing something big enough to take out one of them would probably leave me too tired and depleted to do anything else to the other two.

I had pretty much given up, deciding to wait until we got to their safe house and try my luck at Pushing open a door or window to escape. The problem with that is they would have to leave me alone long enough to accomplish the Push–something which I strongly suspected was not in the cards. But what else could I do?

We pulled up behind the police car at a stop light. Over the car’s front bench seat I could see our driver cautiously pull up just behind the police car, leaving plenty of space between the cars with his foot loosely on the brake.

That’s when I had an idea, but I’d have to work fast.

I knew I’d get one shot at this, so I concentrated with all my ability on the accelerator pedal. The engine revved a little at first, but not enough to move the car. Our driver, though, looked down at the accelerator to see what was wrong, and in doing so, accidentally let up a little more on the brake pedal. I had a pretty good idea now of how much pressure I needed to apply, so I mentally slammed the accelerator pedal to the floor, feeling the lurch of the car as it shot forward.

The car didn’t have far to go. Just a few feet in front of it was the waiting police car. With a sudden crunch our car rammed right into the rear of the police car, pushing the white and blue cruiser forward about five feet as the trunk lid sprung from the pressure of the impact.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Hendricks yelled out, but our driver didn’t answer. The imitation Paul had been looking down at the floor when the two vehicles collided. In an instant, his head had been slammed against the dashboard and then thrown back when the airbag exploded into action. Airbags weren’t designed to accommodate drivers who were bent over looking at the floorboards at the time of impact. He lay half-propped up in the front seat with his head lolling at a macabre angle, indicating that his neck was probably broken.

“Shit!” Kimmel yelled out as he saw two police officers–two very angry police officers at that–sauntering out of their cruiser and heading our way. I suppose flight was his only option, and he must have realized it, too. He threw open the door, and before Hendricks could even plead with him to stop, he bolted from the car and took off running.

“Stop!” one of the police officers called out, but Kimmel was already half a block away. The big guy could certainly run, I thought. The officer immediately gave chase.

Meanwhile the other officer, the driver of the cruiser and a large dangerous looking African American, had his eyes set on Hendricks. He unstrapped his holster and pulled out his pistol since Kimmel’s attempted escape had made him justifiably wary. My captor had the good sense to realize this wasn’t looking good for him. Still I could see him prepare to bluff it out.

Hendricks got out of the car slowly. “Officer,” he began, “I’m glad you’re here. I need your help. I’m Walter Hendricks, Junior...” ‘Walter Hendricks? Senator Walter Hendricks of Mississippi’s son?’ I wondered. I hadn’t heard my captor’s first name before. “These three people have kidnapped me.”

The police officer looked a little uncertain for just a moment, and that was the moment Hendricks jumped at him.

To be frank, I hadn’t expected that. When someone points a gun at me (and believe me, I speak from experience here!), I don’t plan on taking them down. Of course I had forgotten that Hendricks was a tackle on the football team, and that in his previous life before becoming Hendricks, he had probably been less respectful of authority than would be expected of a US Senator’s son.

I wanted to stop them, but what could I do? Either of the men rolling around in the road could have snapped me like a toothpick. I suppose it didn’t matter anyway. Before I could have thrown myself into the fray, there was a muffled explosion from the police revolver and Hendricks yelled out in pain, a deep red blot staining his white shirt.

The police officer pushed my captor away and quickly radioed for an ambulance. While he did so, I rolled Hendricks over and pressed my hand on the growing bloody wound. From the position of the wound, it appeared to have entered his side away from any vital organs, but I was certain it hurt like hell.

Good.

“How bad is it?” he groaned.

“You’ll live,” I predicted, hoping I was right. He might have been a son of a bitch, but I didn’t want him to die. “Where’s the safe house?”

“Huh?”

“The safe house–where is it?” I repeated. I knew Laveau would head for there as soon as he could–unless Kimmel had called him to warn him off. I doubted that, though. Kimmel seemed to be too worried about saving his own skin to bother calling his boss.

“Either tell me or I’ll pull my hands off this wound and let you bleed to death,” I bluffed. Before he could reply, though, the police officer was standing next to me.

“The driver’s dead,” the officer told me, confirming what I had already thought. Well, no matter how this all came out, at least an imposter would no longer be part of my old family. Still, I felt badly for my original parents. They had lost two sons now, although they had lost me more by choice than anything else.

“This one will be okay,” the officer said, confirming my diagnosis. “It looks like the bullet went in and out without hitting any major organs.”

Just after he told me that, I could hear the insistent sound of an ambulance siren growing steadily closer.

“You mind telling me what happened here, miss?” he prodded.

I shook my head. I had decided that the fewer people who knew about this for the moment, the better. Instead I said, “Call the FBM right now. Ask to be put through to Sarah Carmichael.”

“What...”

“Please, Officer, just do it. Tell her that Cassandra Davis has made a break in the Slaver case.”

I chanced a quick look at the officer’s face. The way I had said it, it sounded as if I was an FBM officer on the case. The problem was I looked a little young to be an FBM agent. But after I used the word “Slaver” the officer looked as if he couldn’t wait to get this situation into someone else’s hands. “Yeah, sure,” he said, hurrying back to the cruiser.

“Shit!” Hendricks said. “You’re FBM?”

I knew what he was thinking. Kidnapping anyone was a serious crime, but the FBM frowned upon anyone molesting one of their agents. I saw no reason to relieve his anxiety. So I just graced him with a feral grin and enjoyed myself as the rest of the color drained out of his face and he fainted.

Great, just great, I thought. Now we’d have to wait until he woke up to find the location of the safe house.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” Sarah screamed.

I got the idea she wasn’t pleased. Neither were Helen and her husband, Brian. They had already unloaded on me, but only because they got there before Sarah did. They had been following up a lead on another case and were only a mile or so away when Sarah called them.

“But we were getting nowhere,” I argued motioning over to where the paramedics were stabilizing Hendricks before taking him to the hospital. “And I got us a lead–a solid lead.”

“Nearly at the cost of your own life,” Sarah pointed out. I didn’t reply, since she was absolutely right. I had come within hours of become a sex slave in Haiti. Even if the authorities had managed to rescue me–a remote possibility at best–I would have been damaged psychologically for the rest of my life. Maybe physically, too.

“And now you want to go face this Laveau again?” she yelled. “Are you crazy?”

“Look,” I argued, “you’ve got Hendricks and Kimmel both in custody. As I understand it, Kimmel didn’t call anybody and Hendricks sure as hell didn’t. He was too busy getting shot. Laveau told them he’d join them at the safe house as soon as he could. If we can get them to tell us where the safe house is, we might get lucky and catch Laveau before he knows anything is wrong.”

“Listen, Cassie,” Brian broke in. “I chased a Slaver once when I was still with the Bureau. She managed to kill two of my team and nearly killed me before we got her.”

“But that Slaver was a woman,” I argued, well aware of the whole story since Helen had once told me about it. “Women almost always have greater magical abilities than men. Look at me. If I had still been male, I probably couldn’t have jammed down the gas pedal like that. Sure, Laveau’s strong, but not as strong as your woman Slaver.”

“The answer is still no,” Helen insisted.

I thought about reminding her that she was my sister and not my mother, but that sounded petulant and childish, so I just said, “Sis, this Slaver has wrecked hundreds of lives and been responsible for the escape of more felons than you can imagine. If we don’t find him and stop him, he’ll just set up shop someplace else. This may be our only chance to nail him.”

Helen started to reply, but Sarah stopped her. “Wait a minute, Helen. She may be right.”

“Right?” Helen scoffed. “She was almost shipped off to be a Caribbean love slave today. She would have been replaced by that imposter who tried to kill one of your agents before she got taken out.”

Helen had already told me that my would-be replacement had been found at my condo, after the info I had given Sarah. She apparently panicked and tried to shoot her way out, with fatal results. My condo was now an official crime scene, which probably had the neighbors in a tizzy. It looked as if I’d be sleeping at Brett’s place tonight–if he’d still have me.

“Look, we don’t have much time,” I pressed. “At least find out where the safe house is and stake it out. It would be better if I were there for bait, but...”

“Bait?” Helen and Brian exclaimed at the same time.

Before anyone else could put in their two-cents’ worth, Sarah’s phone beeped. She motioned for us all to be quiet and carried on the conversation with short yes-no answers. When she was finished, she told us, “That was Oliver. Samantha is just about over the edge, acting like a mindless bimbo. Nothing he’s tried has worked. He thinks maybe Cassie can keep her from falling completely under the spell. If not...”

“Me?”

“Oliver’s pretty impressed with you,” Sarah explained. “According to him, Samantha seems to feel you’re sort of a role model for her. Look, Cassie, he’s about at the end of his tether over this case. He’s holding out hope we’ll find something in Laveau’s files that tells us who Samantha really is. That way, he can anchor her with information about her family. But that may take a little more time. For now he thinks you’re her only hope. We’ll check out the safe house–if we can pry the location out of one of the boys. In the mean time you’re needed back at the hospital.”

“Wait a minute!” I interjected. I had been so shaken up by the kidnapping and rescue, I had forgotten to relay to Sarah the information Laveau had told me about Samantha’s family. I quickly gave her what I knew.

“Solomon, huh?” she said. “We’ll check it out. But right now Samantha needs you. Do you feel up to going to the hospital?”

I nodded reluctantly. As much as I wanted to be there if they nabbed Laveau, Samantha’s well-being was a more immediate requirement. It had been my sympathy with her situation that had dragged me this far into the case, so there was nothing to do but go to the hospital. “I’ll need a ride to the hospital,” I said at last.

Sarah got an agent to drive me. We hit rush hour traffic on the way back to the hospital, but that was fine with me. It gave me a little time to call Brett and tell him I was okay, in case he had tried to reach me earlier. I found out that he had and was also aware that I had pulled the wool over his eyes regarding keeping my job at Omega House. He obviously wasn’t too pleased about that, but he was so happy to know I was safe that he didn’t chew me out. I was beginning to think he was the only one who wouldn’t be lecturing me that day.

“So where are you now?” he asked.

“On my way back to the hospital,” I told him. “Your father is waiting for me and wants my help with Samantha. I guess she’s just about over the brink. I’m afraid the Slaver may win that case, Brett.”

“Well, if anybody can help her, it’s you and Dad,” he told me.

“I hope so,” I replied softly.

After I hung up, I tried to reach Helen to see what was happening at the safe house.

“Absolutely nothing,” she told me, dashing my hopes that Laveau might be caught unawares. “The place is completely clean. It doesn’t look as if it was ever occupied.”

Laveau was certainly a slippery one, I thought as I hung up. But then again, he came from a long line of slippery characters, I realized. His ancestor Marie, had been followed by her daughter in the practice of Voodoo. And while the daughter had not achieved the notoriety of her mother, she must have passed on her knowledge to her own descendants up to this very day. Coupling the Voodoo legacy with the powers of modern magic, Robert Laveau was probably the most dangerous practitioner of magic in the region–if not in the entire country. And since most magic was centered in North America, that meant the entire world.

I imagined he was still in the city. His power base was in New Orleans, and he could probably hide out as long as he wanted. Perhaps he was even at expert at glamours or shape changing. No one really knew the extent of his powers. If so, he could be back in business in no time under a new name. Sure, we had broken up his tidy little Slaving business, but unless the FBM had been able to act quickly and retrieve his files from the Omega House, no one would ever know for certain who many of Laveau’s clients were.

At least I had seen enough of my brother’s file that a good Holo could probably pull the details out of my memory. He–or was it she now?–could be rescued from captivity, although given how my father had treated me, I doubted whether Paul would have much to look forward to from my former family. But as for the others...

Of course, even if the FBM found Laveau’s files, there was going to be hell to pay. I knew through my former father that the FBM preferred to keep a lid on particularly disturbing magical crimes. The average American had few magical talents and a justified fear of what a really good magical practitioner could do. That was why they suppressed data on magical sex changes for as long as they could, but eventually, there were so many that they couldn’t keep it secret anymore.

Slavers were the latest secret the FBM sought to keep. It was bad enough that a few spelled drugs or words could change a man into a woman, but to know that there were Slavers out there who could change memories and mentally control their victims as well with little more effort than it took most people to chew gum was enough to scare the collective socks off the American public. It was certainly enough to scare me.

But if Laveau got away and the story of his little empire hit the media, it would be Panic City. No one would feel safe–and perhaps rightfully so. Laveau was as powerful as the fictional wizards of high fantasy fiction, and a danger to everyone.

I tried once more to call Sarah as I entered the hospital, just to see if there was any word from Laveau’s office, but there was no reply. I cursed myself silently for forgetting that cell phones didn’t work in hospitals, except for a few designated areas. Apparently not only did they interfere with some of the medical equipment, but they also played havoc with a few magical treatments. As a result, every hospital magically repressed cell signals. I should have called her from the car, but I was so worried about Samantha that I had forgotten to do so. I put the phone away, hoping that Oliver would have heard something.

He was waiting for me, a concerned, nervous look on his face. “How is she?” I asked Oliver as soon as I saw him outside Samantha’s room.

He shook his head. This case was obviously taking its toll on him. He even looked a little shorter, apparently slumping under the weight of Samantha’s inevitable decline. “Not good. But I think seeing you may help her. You seem to be the only one she responds to very well. When she sees a man–even one as old as me, she...” his voice trailed off.

“Of course,” I agreed, fully aware of how Samantha had begun to act around men. If Oliver hadn’t kept her on a short leash, she would have propositioned half the men in the hospital by now. “But first, have you heard anything from Sarah? Did her people get there in time to get Laveau’s records?”

Oliver shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid not. When they got there, the files had all turned to dust with no chance of recovery. This Slaver is one of the most versatile practitioners of magic I’ve ever seen.”

“Damn.”

Oliver nodded sympathetically. “You had a chance to see the files, though. Do you remember which ones you looked at? There may be a chance the FBM can recover those memories and save a few of Laveau’s victims.”

“I saw my brother’s file,” I told him. “They made him into a...” I couldn’t even say “she-male.” That just sounded so tawdry. “He looks like a girl, but he’s still...”

“I get the idea,” Oliver broke in to help me. “You know, that may be for the best.”

“Huh?”

“I just mean,” he explained, “that if your brother is still genetically male, there may be some hope of restoring him.”

That raised my spirits just a little. Then I thought about the scores of other victims of Robert Laveau and felt frustrated that I could do nothing to help them. If we could find any more she-males, they might have a chance to be restored, but those who had been made completely female were that way to stay.

“Do you remember any of the other files?” Oliver prompted.

“Sort of,” I replied. “I sorted through several of them, but I guess I just zeroed in on my brother’s file.”

“The FBM may be able to pull some latent memories from you,” he suggested. “We should call Sarah and tell her.”

“Shouldn’t we go in and see Samantha first?” I asked.

Oliver nodded. “You’re right, of course.”

Samantha was lounging in front of the TV, watching some vacuous quiz show when we entered. She looked up at me and gave me a sexy little smile. “Hi Cassie. Did you come to take me to party?” She looked at Oliver. “My mean old doctor won’t let me out of the room,” she pouted, “even to see that big hunk of a guard outside the door.”

“We’ll talk about that later,” I promised, trying to keep my composure. Samantha had changed into a textbook definition of a bimbo in just a few days. There seemed to be nothing left of the brave, intelligent girl I had met such a short time ago. “How are you feeling now?”

“Great!” she exclaimed, jumping up and smoothing her dress as sexily as she could. Her smile was sparkling, but the look in her eyes was vacuous. “I’m just soooo bored.”

“We’ll see that you aren’t bored much longer,” Oliver said suddenly, surprising me. I turned and looked at him. He looked... different. There was a gleam in his eyes that I had never seen before.

“What...” I started, but with a wave of his hand, I found I couldn’t move, let alone speak. It was a strange sensation: mentally, I was still myself. I was alert and aware of my predicament. I kept sending signals out from my mind to my body as usual, but nothing seemed to happen. I was physically calm in spite of the fact that my mind was in turmoil. ‘This must be what it’s like to be completely paralyzed,’ I told myself.

“What’s wrong, Cass...” Samantha started, until she too was frozen with a puzzled expression on her face.

Oliver smiled. “There. That will take care of any interruptions from either of you. You know, Cassie, I should have done this to you back in my office. I should never have depended on those three oafs to get you to the safe house. But I suppose I just wanted to have you squirm in captivity, never dreaming you could actually get away. You are far more resourceful than I could have ever imagined, but we’ll change all of that very soon.”

‘Oh crap!’ I thought. This wasn’t Oliver at all: it was Robert Laveau. Well, I had theorized that a magical talent like his probably included glamours. Unfortunately I never thought I would become a victim of one of them. Laveau had fooled me and everyone else it seemed. I only hoped the real Oliver hadn’t been harmed.

Oliver–or rather Laveau–grinned. “I see you’ve figured out who I am.”

The fact that I couldn’t answer him only seemed to delight him more. “This time there’ll be no escape for you. In an hour, we’ll be on a plane headed out of the country, and then I can take my time introducing you to a whole new life. I had wanted to do this differently, but perhaps this way is best. I’ll have the opportunity to change your disposition more slowly. It will be more entertaining that way–don’t you think?”

I couldn’t move, but he had to have sensed the fear in my eyes as he continued to taunt, “You’ve cost me a literal fortune, Cassie, and I plan on getting it back in trade. Oh don’t worry: I still plan to sell you to my client in Haiti, but I’ve informed him that there will be a few days delay. During that time I’ll put you through your paces–maybe even using your friend Samantha here for some of the fun.” His grin turned absolutely vicious. “By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll be looking forward to your life in Haiti.”

He didn’t give me any of the details, but then again, he didn’t have to. I had been a woman long enough to know that a determined man–particularly one with magical talents–could make life for a woman a living hell. I was certain over the next week, my body would be used in every depraved fashion Laveau’s evil mind could imagine. He couldn’t alter my body in any meaningful way, but my mind was a fertile playground for his perverted imagination. And once we were on a plane headed out of the country, there would be no chance of rescue.

He shrugged then, his expression turning neutral. “All of that must wait until later, though. Right now we need to get out of here before the real Dr. Carson shows up.”

That actually relieved me just a little. I had had visions of Laveau coming upon Oliver and disabling or even killing him to take his place. Apparently, he must have waited until he saw Oliver leave the hospital and simply used a glamour to change his appearance. I doubted if he was being altruistic though. Chance must have protected Oliver, for I had no doubt that Laveau would have mercilessly killed him to further his own plans. Oliver probably had left his patient just long enough to go have dinner with Estelle.

I wondered how much of what he had told me outside Samantha’s room was true. I was pretty sure he had really destroyed all of the records. Otherwise, he would not have been so curious as he was about what I remembered. In essence, I had told him that I only remembered my brother’s file. I cursed myself, realizing that as soon as Laveau got the opportunity, he would call his client who had purchased my brother and see to it that the evidence–my brother–was destroyed. I suddenly realized that I had probably signed my own brother’s death warrant.

We were directed to move to the door and wait until Laveau had the FBM guard under his power. To my dismay, that didn’t take very long at all. He simply told the guard that he was taking us out to see if Samantha’s memory could be jogged by taking her back on campus. The excuse alone might have been enough for the guard to pass us through, but the glazed look in the guard’s eyes meant that he, like Samantha and I, was under Laveau’s spell.

I wondered for a moment just how many people Laveau could keep under his control at any given moment. I had known some powerful practitioners of magic, and very few could handle more than one person at a time–especially when projecting a glamour on everyone at the same time. Laveau was without a doubt the strongest magical practitioner I had ever seen, but even he must have some limits, I assured myself.

No one questioned us as we walked to the elevator and then got out on the ground level, heading for the main entrance. Why should they? The staff around the hospital had gotten to know all of us pretty well. Besides, Samantha had been in FBM custody, and few if any staffers were likely to question people like Oliver and me, who obviously had the confidence of the FBM.

Then everything changed in an instant as four men wearing FMB magical flak jackets barged through the entranceway. They were also wearing silver eye shields to ward off any hypnotic commands–a wise decision given how easily Laveau seemed to be controlling Samantha and me. “Halt!” their leader ordered as four pistols were trained on Laveau.

The next thing I knew, I was being pulled closer to Laveau, and suddenly I felt cold metal which I was pretty sure was the barrel of a gun, pressed against my carotid artery.

“Keep back!” Laveau ordered, holding me loosely while somehow commanding my legs to move slowly forward. Samantha was left behind, as he concentrated on using me as his shield.

My would-be rescuers stepped back, their automatic weapons lowered slightly. They had lost the advantage of surprise and now looked uncertain as to what to do. I could understand that. Surprise was the best weapon against a Slaver as powerful as Laveau.

I looked around as Laveau forced my body forward. I had no freedom of movement of course, but as I was moved, or forced to move, I was looking for anything which would allow me to use my own power. Laveau didn’t seem to be aware of what I could do magically, or maybe he was just so powerful he thought any magical talent I might have wasn’t worth worrying about. So maybe there was a chance to catch him off guard.

No such luck, though. Even if I could find an object to hit him with, he would be able to shoot me first–an action I was sure he would not hesitate to take. As for moving the gun itself, I might be able to nudge it, but there was a chance I’d move it in a direction which caused him to put pressure on the trigger.

In those few moments, my mind seemed to be working overtime, assessing possibilities in the time between heartbeats. I suddenly reached the conclusion that there was only one object I could move that might get me out of the line of fire:

Myself.

I remembered a time when I was a boy, and along with my brothers tried to move a car just to see if we could do it. We were too young then to realize that with the car securely held by the parking brake, there was no way we could move it. We tried, though, putting our backs into it, but the car didn’t move. Instead we moved, our feet sliding down the driveway away from the car, as our own force was turned against us.

‘Why wouldn’t that work with magic?’ I thought. My body had become an object no different in mass from the filing cabinet I had once moved with my mind. No, that wasn’t true: I was considerably lighter than that filing cabinet. So what if I tried to move a wall? What would happen then?

A Pusher’s magical ability is completely under the control of the mind, as is nearly all magic. Laveau had, to my knowledge, done nothing to control my mind–only my body–so I should have full control of my power.

In moments we would be outside, and I’d be too far away from any stationary object to have the backlash effect I needed to move myself. Without further deliberation, I sent the command from my mind, concentrating all of my force on moving the entryway wall I could see.

The effect was all I could ask for–and more. My body lurched, completely out of control. I was pushed away from Laveau’s grasp before he realized what had happened. Just for a fraction of a second, I was rewarded with the shocked look on his face as he tried to swing the gun to cover me once again.

He never got the chance, though.

The FBM agents saw him raise his weapon, and they raised theirs, but as trained professionals they were both more efficient and accurate. Laveau’s body jerked as half a dozen slugs cut through him. I had heard the expression “he died in a hail of bullets” before, but never appreciated the meaning of it until that moment.

Samantha fell to the ground as Laveau dropped, and I was afraid for a moment that she had been hit too, in spite of the fact that she was several feet away from him. I realized abruptly that she was okay–just no longer under the Slaver’s control. This was brought home to me as I realized that I too, could move.

I rushed to Samantha’s side as the FBM agents surrounded Laveau’s body. I prayed that she wasn’t hit by a stray bullet, and to my relief, it seemed she had only passed out when Laveau’s control was released.

“Where’s Oliver?” she murmured, and I realized in her confused state she had no idea what had just transpired over the last half hour or so. Maybe that was for the best. Laveau’s body shimmered as he died, ending the illusion he had created and restoring his original appearance. My own body was shielding her view of Laveau’s body, so at least she wouldn’t be traumatized further.

She closed her eyes. “I’m sooo horny.” Then she passed out again.

A nurse took charge of Samantha while I got to my feet, a familiar voice calling out my name.

“Cassie! Are you all right?” Brett was rushing into the hospital with a worried look on his face.

I squeezed back some happy tears and threw myself into his open arms. “I’m okay–just a little shaken up,” I told him. Then I looked up at him. “How did you know I was in trouble?”

“Dad called right after I got off the phone with you. He told me he and mom were going over to the Quarter for dinner, so I realized there was no way he could have asked you to come to the hospital. It had to be a trap. I tried to call you back, but I guess you were already in the lobby and I couldn’t get through to your phone. So I called Sarah and she dispatched a TT at once.”

A TT–a Teleport Team. Thank God for Sarah. A TT could build up enough power to Teleport up to thirty miles, but once they had done so, they had to recharge. They wouldn’t be able to Teleport again for a couple of weeks. I really owed Sarah one. If she hadn’t sent the TT, I’d be on my way to Haiti before a regular team showed up at the hospital.

“How’s Samantha?” Brett asked, and my relief was replaced by a feeling of helplessness.

“Not good,” I told him. “I think she’s just about gone. With Laveau’s records gone, we may never know who she was, and that means we can’t find anything of her past life to anchor her.”

Looking back at that scene, I’m happy to say I was wrong.

“Stop right there!” Samantha called out, her voice suddenly excited.

“Woman driver!” the guy in the car behind me yelled out as I slammed on the brakes of my Miata. But I was too happy to let him bother me. Samantha had identified the first house that we had driven by. Hendricks and Kimmel had told us the truth.

Because the Omega House was not a campus organization, there had been no records of its membership in the administration’s database, and no trace could be found of Laveau’s records. He had managed to destroy them all and take the details of his crimes to the grave. But that didn’t mean it was impossible to trace some of the membership.

My two would-be kidnappers, Hendricks and Kimmel, were singing like divas at the Met. And while their knowledge was very limited, they managed to identify several of the current members of the Omega House. Of course, we already knew Samantha’s last name was Solomon. Laveau had mentioned that, so finding her family by combining her known last name with what our two songbirds told us had been easier than we had thought.

Four of the new members hadn’t been changed yet, and when they were contacted, they were more than happy to identify a few more members, past and present. Adding them to our prisoners’ list, we came up with over forty names in addition to the current student members. Of course, most of the student members had fled the minute they found out Laveau was dead.

Word was certainly getting around quickly. Prominent men from as far away as Washington (where an aide to the President had skipped town suddenly) were hurriedly arranging extended trips to countries without extradition treaties with the United States. Since many of those countries were relatively unpleasant places, at least they were getting some punishment just by fleeing to them.

Some of the imposters decided to stick it out though, and bluff their way through. As much as I hate to say it, the odds were quite honestly in their favor. This was especially true of some of the Omegans who had graduated several years before. The recollections of our prisoners and the unchanged new members netted mostly recent graduates and current members. Even at that, many of them escaped the FBM net. To date only three had been caught, and thirty of the forty imposters Sarah’s people had managed to identify were known to be out of the country.

Even more depressing, the number of victims identified was woefully small. The FBM Holo managed to delve in my memories and get the information on where my former brother had been sold. Interestingly, he was located at the New York Upper West Side residence of one of my former father’s political foes. And since he had been transformed to a she-male, his male genetic code remained in place, so he would be able to be transformed into a fully functioning male again. Laveau hadn’t been lying when he told me that while disguised as Oliver. And, as a ‘bonus,’ his owner was one of the ones caught trying to leave the country.

The news about Paul wasn’t all good, though. His body could be repaired, but his mind was a mess, thanks to Laveau’s conditioning and the treatment he had received while condemned to slavery. He was currently at Oliver’s Nashville clinic, where it was estimated he might be looking at six months to a year of intensive magical and psychotherapeutic treatment. After that, he’d probably need therapy for several years.

But at least he would recover eventually. Only three other victims were found, and they would remain female for the rest of their lives. All had been transformed within the last year or so, so Oliver felt they would have a fair chance at leading normal female lives, once their therapy had been completed. None would be returning to their old homes, however. Apparently my former father wasn’t the only asshole in the state of Louisiana.

So even though I was happy Samantha might find fragments of her old life in the stately home we had driven up to in Ascension Parish, I was sorry that she was one of only a few victims who might find peace. We were about an hour out of New Orleans in an area of rich farmland dotted with old mansion houses, some dating back before the Civil War. Arboles Verdes had been owned by the Solomon family since the early nineteenth century. A little research had shown that Samuel Solomon, the only child of Isaac and Rachel Solomon, was a freshman, attending Tulane University. Further research showed that the Solomons had filed a Missing Persons report with the local police just a few hours earlier.

“I want to go in!” Samantha said with all the glee of a little girl out on her first excursion. She was practically a different person from the frightened but intelligent individual I had first seen right after her escape. By now she had become what Laveau had expected her to become–a vacuous little bimbo who, if left to her own devices, would quickly be the naíve little sex toy of the first man who wanted one. But when she saw the house, a little bit of the old Samantha came back into being. Oliver had been right about that–familiar surroundings might be the only way to cure her.

Hendricks and Kimmel had remembered Samuel’s case well though, and had told the FBM that he (now she) was supposed to be sold to a business rival of Isaac Solomon. The rival had planned ‘train’ his new toy himself, although Laveau had set a timed spell on the new girl which would make her become a bimbo over a few days of supposed training by her new master. So in fact, as we had suspected, what we had witnessed with Samantha was just part of the service. She was designed to become compliant, while underneath remembering that she had once been a young man. In other words, every day would be a new hell for her.

Of course that meant that underneath the bimbo personality she now exhibited, the old Samuel was seething inside. Oliver had said that that was actually good, because once she was returned to her family, the Samuel inside of her would help her to reconcile the Samantha outside without being a bimbo.

Of course, all of this depended upon whether or not the Solomons would accept their changed son as their new daughter, and based upon past experiences–including my own–that was not a foregone conclusion.

“We need to wait until Sarah and Oliver are finished,” I told her, nodding at Sarah’s FBM sedan parked in the carriageway.

“Are they really my parents?” Samantha asked tentatively.

“Yes,” I confirmed. Sarah had called the Solomons that morning and made an appointment to see them. I really didn’t envy her the task of telling the worried parents that their ‘son’ was not missing, as they assumed when he had disappeared the evening before. They had suspected foul play, but the FBM now knew that he had fled to Brazil on a late night flight, barely evading the dragnet that might have seen his capture. Then they had to explain what had happened to their real son–that he had been kidnapped and changed against his will into a young woman who would be a virtual slave to her father’s rival.

Oliver emerged from the house, spying my car down the street just before the entrance to the carriageway. He nodded his head. Samantha didn’t see the nod. She was too busy taking in her surroundings, and I could see from her eyes that memories of the place were starting to seep into her mind. I saw the nod though, and drove up to park behind Sarah’s car.

Leaving Samantha in the car for a moment, I joined Oliver. “How did it go?”

“As well as we could have hoped,” he sighed. “Apparently the Solomons have been worried about their son for the last few days. They said he didn’t seem to be himself, which of course is ironically true. They’re upset, naturally, but they want to see Samantha.”

“That’s a step in the right direction,” I sighed. My own parents had wanted no further relations with their son-turned-daughter–something which would always be painful to me.

Oliver nodded. “Yes, it is. I assume your own parents were not so understanding.”

It was certainly hard to put anything past Oliver. “Yeah.”

“Don’t worry about it, Cassie,” he told me, with a gentle touch to my bare arm. “You have a wonderful family now, if Helen is any indication, and Brett loves you. Many families just can’t face what has happened to their sons. It’s really their loss though, you know.”

I sniffed a little, but managed to nod and smile. He was right, I realized. But still I couldn’t help but be a little envious of Samantha.

“Why don’t we bring her in?” Oliver suggested.

So together, we guided Samantha into the house she had grown up in. She looked around as we slowly walked in, taking in every vista and every object, her mind slowly associating each item with her past life.

“Oh, Sam!” an attractive, middle-aged woman with hair nearly the color of Sam’s cried out when she saw her.

Sam looked startled for a moment, before murmuring, “Mother?”

Her mother gave a worried glance at a very fit middle-aged man who had to be Sam’s father. Sarah stood when the Solomons did, gentling squeezing Mr. Solomon’s hand. He nodded to both Sarah and his wife, saying, “Welcome home, Sam.”

Sam’s mother rushed to her new daughter and hugged her, sobbing gently as she embraced the startled girl. “I... I live here?” Sam asked incredulously.

“Oh yes!” her mother assured her, holding her out where she could take in the new girl’s appearance. We had dressed Sam in a casual feminine style, with a sleeveless white top and a short blue corduroy skirt. She wore heels, but low ones, and no hose, displaying her slim, smooth legs. It had been Oliver’s suggestion. He wanted Samantha’s parents to understand in no compromising terms that they now had a daughter instead of a son. “You look lovely,” her mother added with a maternal smile.

Her father hugged her next, and again I was hit with several emotions. I was of course, happy for Samantha. She had found her home and her family ready and waiting to take her back. Then there was a pang of envy for the family I had lost. While my rational mind knew I now had a better, more loving family than I had ever had before in my life, there was still residual pain. My real family had deserted me. If I had been white, perhaps they would have accepted me, but they hadn’t been strong enough to embrace an African-American daughter.

And the other emotion was more pragmatic. Oliver had made certain in the hospital that no men touched Samantha, for if they did, the sexual urges implanted by the Slaver would come to the surface, turning Samantha into the vacuous little sex machine that she nearly became anyway. To my relief her father’s touch was accepted in the spirit in which it was given, and for the first time since I had met her, I felt Samantha was really on the road to recovery.

“Thank you for all of your help,” Samantha’s father said graciously to all of us. His face showed considerable strain, but his words were from the heart and carried with them the relief of a father who had found his missing child safe at last.

“Yes, thank you for bringing our daughter home to us,” her mother echoed. There was no hesitation in her voice when she called Samantha her “daughter.”

We stayed a bit longer, just to make sure Samantha would be comfortable when we left. She sat between her parents on a large expensive couch and seemed quite at home, and as we continued to chat, she looked more and more relaxed. It seemed also that her native intelligence was resurfacing, and I suspected that someday she would be a well-adjusted, intelligent young woman. But at last, it was time to leave.

“Will I ever see you again?” Samantha asked me as we hugged goodbye.

“Of course” I promised her. “I’ll visit you as much as I can.” It was a promise I meant to keep. Witnessing Samantha’s recovery would remind me that what I had done to help her had all been worthwhile.

Oliver shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat of my Miata. He was also getting a little wind with the top down, so I drove slowly back into the city. Sarah had stayed behind to finish up some of the details of the case with Samantha and her parents, so Oliver had hitched a ride back with me. Unfortunately, he wasn’t used to riding in a car as snug as the Miata. For my size, it was the perfect car, but it was a little small for most men. Brett had complained about it, too.

“Are you going to keep on seeing Samantha?” I asked him once we were back on the highway.

“Oh yes,” he assured me. Then he grinned. “It gives me the perfect excuse to visit you and my son.”

I grinned back. In many ways, Oliver was an older version of Brett. If I had been into older men and Elaine weren’t married to him, I might have found Oliver to be my cup of tea. “We’d love to have you stay with...”

“You were about to say ‘with us’, weren’t you?” he asked seriously. Then, when he saw the stricken look on my face, he laughed, “Don’t worry, Cassie. Elaine and I figured the two of you had moved in together.”

“Well, not exactly,” I stammered, flushing. “I mean, he does spend a lot of time at my place, but he still has a place of his own.”

“Don’t worry, Cassie,” he soothed, “Elaine and I lived together for two years before we were married. We won’t be bothered if Brett actually does move in with you.”

“I just can’t lie to you, can I?” I teased.

This time, he actually was serious. “Most of the time, no. For example, I know you’ll make good on your promise to see Samantha often.”

“Yes, I will.”

“She’ll need your support,” he added. “At least she has a ready-made role to step into.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh!” Oliver exclaimed. “I thought you knew. Sam’s sister, Samantha, was his twin sister.”

I understood what he meant. Samuel would be able to step right into his sister’s role. It would be as if it were an alternate reality, where Samuel had died as an infant and Samantha had lived. That would actually make it easier for her parents to accept as well. They had probably always wondered what might have happened if Samantha had lived instead of Samuel, and now they would have the opportunity to find out.

“That’s right,” he said, smiling, as if I were an apt pupil. “She’s got a long ways to go, but I’m pretty sure she’ll make it. Victims like her do well when surrounded by a loving family.”

I think he knew where my thoughts led me after that statement. My family had been anything but loving after my transformation–including my brother Paul. I wondered how he felt about me now, or if he even knew about me. I wasn’t entirely sure whether he had been changed into a she-male before or after my own transformation. If he did know about me, I suspected he would be much more sympathetic about my transformation.

“How are the other victims that have been located doing?” I asked.

“The ones we’ve been able to find should all recover,” Oliver assured me, then adding, “especially Paul Devereaux–your former brother. The doctors have already started the spells to return him to a fully male appearance.”

“That’s good,” I said noncommittally, but I think Oliver knew a lot more than he was saying. I suspected he was shielding me from the psychological problems Paul would face.

So my part in the Laveau slavery case was over–or at least I hoped it was. Laveau was dead, several victims of Omega House had been rescued, and my brother was safe if not yet entirely sound. All in all, everything had turned out as well as possible. Now it was all in the hands of the FBM, which would do its best to find the remaining victims, punish the imposters, and somehow try to keep the entire affair as quiet as possible, so as not to alarm the general public with the sordid details of such a spectacular magical crime.

I should have felt great, but I didn’t. After I dropped Oliver off and headed home, I realized that I needed to mend some fences with Brett. I had lied to him, about quitting my job at Omega House, and more importantly, about who I really was. How could he ever trust me again? Of course come to think of it, I had been lying to him about more than my job at Omega House. I had lied to him about who I really was–or had been.

Oliver was right, I thought to myself as I pulled up to my condo. I owed Brett the truth. Like the transformed clients of Omega House, I was an imposter, and while I had not replaced someone else and stolen their wealth, I had certainly stolen Brett’s love.

The door to my condo opened, and Brett stood there in just a pair of running shorts. To my relief he smiled and took me into his arms and kissed me long and hard. The resolve I had mustered to tell him the truth melted in the warmth of his body, and I could feel my nipples tingling and my vagina moistening.

“I missed you,” he said.

“Brett, I’m so sorry I lied to you... about the job, I mean.”

“It’s okay,” he soothed. “Dad told me how things worked out. You’re a hero.”

He forgave me! Or at least, he forgave me for one lie. I wanted him so damned badly: how could I possibly tell him the rest? But the floodgates had opened. I had addressed one lie, and now I had to address the other, before I lost all of my will again. One more kiss would destroy my will completely.

He looked at me with concern as I was still wrapped in his arms. “Is everything all right? You look like you’re crying.”

My eyes were tearing up: he was right about that. He wouldn’t let me go until I told him what was wrong. I had to do it, or there could be nothing further between us. I only regretted I hadn’t told him sooner.

“Brett,” I began solemnly, “I have something I need to tell you...”

The End