the food to nag me about whether I'd made progress on his spell. But if not, I'd tell him what I'd done. Maybe enlist him to go over with me to Phil's neighborhood later, to see if the spell worked.
But Tom was strangely distracted. Twitchy. He kept shifting in his chair and scratching his arms and legs. He wasn't even eating much.
"What's wrong with you anyway?" I finally asked.
He shrugged.
"Don't feel so great," he said.
"Do you want a beer?" I asked. "Or a Coke?"
"Maybe some water?"
If Tom turned down both hops and cola, he really must be ill. I went out to the kitchen and filled a glass with ice and water.
When I came back, Tom was writhing on the floor.
And howling. The pieces fell into place.
"You've been visiting Phil, haven't you?" I said. "You went over there and ate some of the brownies."
He must have felt really awful. He didn't try to lie - just nodded, and clutched his stomach.
"It serves you right," I said. "I was going to test your stupid spell on Phil, to see if it worked before letting you try it."
Even through his pain, I could see his face brighten.
"Is that what this is?" he gasped. "I'm turning into a wolf?"
"Not exactly."
He convulsed one more time, then screamed as his body contracted and flowed in strange ways. I winced and closed my eyes for a second.
When I opened them again, I saw a rather bedraggled Lhasa Apso quivering on the floor, with Tom's abandoned clothes scattered around him.
"I couldn't really scare up wolf hair on such short notice," I said. "I figured dog hair would work for the test."
Tom opened one eye to glare at me. Then he curled his lip and growled feebly. Even in dog form, he was pretty easy to read.
"Don't give me that," I said. "This wouldn't have happened if you'd stayed away from Phil."
He whimpered. He got up, a little shaky on his feet, and turned around in a half circle as if trying to get a better look at his tail. Then he looked up at me and whined.
"Oh, don't worry," I said. "I can fix it."
He wagged his tail slightly, and cocked his head to one side as if asking how.
"I found a recipe for a potion that makes whatever state you're in permanent. So all we have to do is wait till the moon sets. About seven tomorrow morning. You'll be human again, you can drink the potion, and you won't have to worry about changing into a furball next month."
He wagged his tail with enthusiasm.
"So you stay here for a while," I said. "Finish your dinner and get some sleep."
I threw a couple of pillows on the floor, and put a plate of turkey beside them.
"I'll be back as soon as I can," I added.
He yelped slightly, and tried to grab the leg of my jeans.
"Sorry," I said, pushing him away as gently as I could. "You'll be fine here. Just don't bark, or Mrs. Grogan will call Animal Control. Keep quiet, lie low, and we'll fix you up tomorrow morning."
He whined and cocked his head to the side again.
"Me?" I said. "I'm going over to Phil's house. He'll be getting his dose of the permanence potion a little earlier than you will."
On my way out, I stepped into the garage and snagged an old dog lead. Mrs. Grogan was going to love her Christmas present.
Chapter Four
Lucy, at Christmastime
Simon R. Green
Simon R. Green has just hit middle age, and is feeling very bitter about it. He has published over thirty novels, all of them different. His series include the Forest Kingdom books, the Deathstalker books, the Nightside books, and his new series, the Secret Histories, featuring Shaman Bond, the very secret agent. He has lived most of his life in a small country town, Bradford-on-Avon. This was the last Celtic town to fall to the invading Saxons in A.D. 504. He has also worked as a shop assistant, bicycle-repair mechanic, journalist, actor, eccentric dancer, and mail-order bride. He has never worked for MI5. Don't believe anyone who tells you otherwise. He is, however, secretly Superman.
You never forget your first; and mine was Lucy.
It was Christmas Eve in the Nightside, and I was drinking wormwood brandy in Strangefellows, the oldest bar in the world. The place was crowded, the air was thick with good cheer, the ceiling trailed long streamers of the cheapest paper decorations money could buy; and as midnight approached, the revellers grew so