Page 37 of Hoofin’ It

I shrugged. “They’re probably entertaining.”

Dr. Harting cracked a smile, retrieved the scanner, and tapped at the screen. “According to this, you’re a male lycanthrope, undetermined species, which means you aren’t a common canine or feline. You’re twenty-seven, AB positive, blue eyes. Your heritage is so mixed it gave up after twenty-five entries and decided to list human and lycanthrope as a heritage rather than a species. You’re American Caucasian with enough Native American ancestry you might want to do a check to find out which tribe; one of your grandparents was a full Native American according to the scanner.”

I frowned. “I’m pretty sure one of my grandparents isn’t Native American. I’ve met all of them.”

“If the meter is correct, one of your grandmothers wasn’t honest about the father of her baby. That leads me to the second part of the test, which could support why one of your grandmothers might not have been honest about the father of her baby.”

I thought about my parents, neither of whom struck me as Native American. “That would make for an awkward Christmas dinner.”

“If the Native American part bothers you, wait until you hear the next part.”

“What?”

“The results make a certain amount of sense. The unidentified Native American grandparent is also an incubus. That could explain your unusually high fertility rating and why your grandmother may not have wanted anyone to know her child was half incubus. And this is exactly why people don’t opt for this test often. If it is correct, you’re an anomaly.”

“Because how can someone be a lycanthrope without the lycanthropy virus?”

“Exactly.”

I was glad I was already sitting down, as I doubted my legs would have kept me upright. Was it possible one of my parents was half incubus? A knock at the door prevented me from asking any of my questions. Dr. Harting opened the door and let in a man armed with a black bag stuffed with wires and devices. She handed over the main scanner. “Can you run the diagnostic tool first while I use the other scanners?”

They traded machines, and armed with a pair of new devices, my surgeon resumed scanning me. The meters remained quiet, and she narrowed her eyes. “These are reporting clean on the lycanthropy virus, too.”

The technician fiddled with the primary scanner, and after about ten minutes, he unplugged it, reset it, and held it out to Dr. Harting. “Try again. If the results are the same, it’s an accurate reading. There’s nothing in the diagnostics indicating an issue with the machine.”

“But that result isn’t even possible,” she muttered.

“I’ll make some phone calls about the device and find out what might give a false positive lycanthropy result,” he promised before taking the devices and leaving the room. “I’ll call you as soon as I have answers.”

“And we’re right back to square one. Well, at least I can find out if your white blood count has dropped any since the first scan.”

I held out my hand so she could jab my thumb with the needle.

The second scan reported similar results to the first, although there was evidence my white blood count was dropping. Without any fanfare, Dr. Harting proceeded to the second test, and within five minutes, she was shaking her head. “Same results, Mr. Gibson. You’re a lycanthrope without the lycanthropy virus. It’s reporting the same heritage results, too.”

“Once could be a fluke, but twice is a strong probability,” I muttered.

“Exactly. I have to report these results to the CDC. They will want to do further tests to identify whether you can infect others—or figure out why their meter is reporting you’re a lycanthrope despite the lack of the virus. I hope you didn’t have any plans, because they were just cancelled. The other results aren’t that uncommon. Lots of people have incubus genes. A quarter of the population is actually part incubus. I’m sure you can ask someone at the CDC for more information.”

“I’m having a difficult enough time wrapping my head around the idea one of my parents is half incubus.”

“It shouldn’t influence your daily life. Your father or mother likely doesn’t know they’re half incubus. I’ll leave it to your discretion whether you want to inform them so they can come in for testing.”

“Christmas dinner is going to be awkward this year.”

“It could be worse.”

“Pray tell.”

“You could be explaining to a satyr father his faery wife just gave birth to a human child.”

Dr. Harting was right. Things could be worse—a lot worse.

Chapter Twelve

While Dr. Harting was out of the examination room, I bit the bullet and called Dad.

“Where are you?” he snarled the instant the call connected.