WE STARED AT EACH OTHER for one long moment. I knew what he was seeing because I’d shifted once in front of the bathroom mirror. When my eardrums popped, they’d grown into cupped triangles. A stretching jaw meant I had less of a chin now than a lupine snout.
The shaman’s visage was not so profoundly problematic but it was equally unexpected. Benjie Redhorse turned out to be a tall, lanky redhead, whose skin was milk-pale except for a generous dusting of freckles. Young enough to be one of my students, he looked nothing like the Native American shaman pictured when I cyber-stalked his business while riding in the van.
But his eyes were sharp as he considered my furriness. I half expected him to run screaming. Instead, he raised both eyebrows.
“Explain.”
“It’s a mask. I was at a party an
