Page 39 of Hoofin’ It

I stared at my phone and checked the call time. “You found all that out in less than five minutes?”

“It’s not hard when there’s a CDC representative in the building. He wants to ask you some questions about the incubus and succubus. All I had to do was show him the meter and ask where they wanted you. Two minutes later, he had an answer. That leaves the FBI, and since they already have a pair of agents here to question you, it was trivial to ask them if they could relocate the session to Chicago.”

“How long is this going to take?”

“It shouldn’t take longer than a week. The representative indicated they’ve seen something like this before.”

“All right. When do I leave?”

My surgeon checked her watch. “Five minutes. Have a safe trip, Mr. Gibson. Do try to avoid hitting your head on anything else. I’ll be forwarding your file to a colleague in Chicago for any followups you need.”

All I wanted in life was some sleep, but I had just enough time to gather my things before two FBI agents and a CDC representative hauled me out of the hospital, dragged me to the airport in a black, unmarked car, and herded me into a small six-seater plane. I wasn’t a fan of flying in the first place, and the twin-prop bucked worse than any horse I’d ever ridden.

By the time we landed in Chicago, my entire body throbbed, my head felt ready to split open, and it was a miracle I hadn’t vomited.

The CDC representative narrowed his eyes and looked me over. “You’ve turned green.”

“The last time I got any sleep, I was recovering from reconstructive surgery to my shoulder.” I should have known better than to shoot venomous looks at two law enforcement officers just trying to do their job, but if anyone manhandled me one more time, I’d go ballistic. I pointed at my shoulder. “Two rounds to the shoulder.”

“We’re aware, Mr. Gibson,” the oldest of the two FBI agents replied.

“I literally can’t remember your name right now, Agent. Sorry. If you want anything useful out of me, I need sleep first. I barely know my own name at this point.”

“Allowances will be made for your current state, Mr. Gibson. Bear with this as much as you can for now.”

The FBI agent didn’t bother giving me his name, which fueled my annoyance.

His partner snagged my right arm to direct me to an SUV waiting nearby. The motion pulled my shoulder, which agitated the healing gunshot wounds and Marian’s bite, making me yelp. The pain stunned me, and I forgot how to walk, stumbling several steps before catching my balance and preventing a one-way trip to the ground.

“Sorry,” the agent muttered, and while he didn’t release my arm, he did adjust his hold.

I made it to the SUV without falling on my face. Sweat chilled my face, and my hands shook. I masked the tremors by flattening my palms on my legs. Others might have viewed the agent’s behavior as rough handling, but I knew better. He had a job to do, which was delivering me to the CDC to confirm what sort of freak I was.

It wouldn’t surprise me if the FBI agents came from a place like Chicago, a city with a healthy dislike of lycanthropes.

“Hey, Terry?” The second FBI agent, who had claimed the driver’s seat, twisted around to regard his partner. “I’m pretty sure Marian said if you hurt a hair on his head she’d eat you for breakfast.”

The CDC representative chuckled. “I already texted the office to make sure there was a surgeon on hand to check your shoulder, Mr. Gibson. If you have any additional problems, do let us know.”

I had a lot of problems with being carted across the country, which gave me a much better understanding of Marian’s reactions. Unlike her, however, resisting could land me in a lot of hot water. The government took species identification seriously, and those who could classify as public health hazards were monitored. Freedom was an illusion, a reality I understood from my work on the police force and being the son of a lycanthrope.

Even if I ended up with an immunity rating to the lycanthropy virus, I’d be tested every few years and monitored to make sure I didn’t become a contagion risk.

“Sure,” I replied, shrugging with my left shoulder. “Can you at least give me an idea of what to expect?”

“Ah, we haven’t properly introduced ourselves, have we? I’m Daryl, and I’m an evaluator with the CDC. I live in Des Moines but volunteered to come to Chicago, as I’m specialized in the various species of lycanthropes and their mutations. Agent Lowry is our driver today, and Agent Billings is the gentleman sitting with you. They’re both stationed in Des Moines, and I have the misfortune of getting stuck with them more often than I care to think about.”

“If you’ve never been to Chicago, they hate lycanthropes here,” I warned.

“They must not hate them too much. You’re on file as having worked with the police here.”

“They’re required to hire people of certain magic ratings, and they needed a few cops with low ratings to make quota, so that’s where I came in. Add in my known exposure to lycanthropy without being infected, and they got to knock two check marks off their list without having to hire two people.” I shrugged. “When they figured out most lycanthropes wouldn’t attack me unless seriously provoked, they used me to handle most of the lycanthrope calls.”

Billings scowled, pulled out a cell phone, and tapped away at the screen. “Our file on you shows you worked with the police, not that you were an actual cop.”

“If you need my former badge number, district, and supervisor, I can provide them. I also have copies of my enrollment, scores from the academy, and work history on the force.”

“So you’re a legitimate ex-cop.”