Page 4 of Hoofin’ It

Werewolves with perfect control over all three of their forms were few and far between. Add in Mom’s skills as a practitioner and hedge witch, and my parents were a force to be reckoned with. Alone, neither were powerful, ranking low on the talent charts, but they were good at their tricks, and their skills were ideal for law enforcement.

I, on the other hand, had been the token low talent freak on the force with a good cop pedigree. Chicago’s police department had ignored my general lack of magic in exchange for my memory for detail, my ability to work with just about anyone, and tolerance for the jobs most didn’t want.

My alpaca pressed her nose to the window and slobbered all over the glass.

“There’s a paddock in the back with your name all over it,” I promised, killing the engine and stretching with a tired groan. Driving hadn’t done me any good, and my left eye ached from the strain of checking my blind spots, which I suspected was more than double the effort it had used to be. Each day, I’d developed a headache within an hour, and my current one would persist for another four or five before easing. I had made it halfway around the van to let my fluffy companion out when a dark shape barreled off the porch.

Great. Dad was running around on all fours, almost as furry as my alpaca. Since I’d lost my right eye, I’d remastered distances and depth perception, allowing me to plant my boot on my father’s chest before he could plow into me. “No. Bad wolf. You will not slobber on me. You will not chew on me, either. You will also not terrify my—”

The alpaca screamed like she was being eaten alive.

I sighed. “Go back in the house and think about what you’ve done.”

For once in his life, my father obeyed with a whine, scurrying to the front door with his tail tucked between his legs.

Apparently, alpacas really didn’t like wolves, and she kept screaming until he disappeared, and even then, she trembled so much I worried her legs wouldn’t hold her up. I stroked her nose and cooed at her, untying her lead line and taking firm hold of her halter. “Dad’s sorry he frightened you. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll change to his human shape and stop being a terror.”

It took me over twenty minutes to convince her she wasn’t going to be eaten, but she refused to get out of the van, forcing me to pick her up and carry her. A hundred and ten pounds of squirming alpaca was a lot to hold, but I managed to haul her all the way to the paddock and let her loose without getting spit on, bitten, or kicked.

It turned out miracles could actually happen.

With wide eyes and ears perked forward, she explored the paddock, sniffing at the grass and taking curious nibbles.

“That’s the damned most skittish critter I’ve ever done seen, boy,” my father growled. “What you doin’ bringin’ a furry chicken to my barn?”

“I’d be skittish, too, if a corpse decided to crash through the windshield of the car I was riding in. While hogtied with duct tape in the back seat. She’s had a rough few days. It doesn’t help you’re a wolf. She’s an alpaca. You know, a prey species?”

“So that’s the thing your mom’s turning into yarn?”

“I’ll find her a new home in twenty business days, I promise.”

“Son.” Dad’s voice dripped scorn. “You brought a furry chicken to my barn.”

“She wants to keep my alpaca, doesn’t she?”

“Little thing’s name’s Sally, and your mom’s done made me build an extra stall in my barn, boy.”

“I already told Mom I was training the alpaca to keep my bed warm.”

“There’ll be no furry chickens sleepin’ in my house.”

In normal families, the werewolf would be the one off his rocker. How was it I had the only sane lycanthrope in the state of Nebraska for my father while my mother was the crazy hedge witch? “Her name’s not Sally.”

“Your mom says otherwise.”

“She’s my alpaca. I get to name her.”

“Better name her Sally, then, else your mom’s gonna be skinning your hide. And you’re damn lucky Sally’s got white fleece because your mom’s already gone and ordered her next batch of dyes. So help me, if she decides she needs more of those furry chickens…”

“I’ve had a long drive, Dad. Can we talk about this later?”

“You got Sally’s food in that van of yours?”

I sighed. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, haul it on out then, boy. Don’t leave poor Sally waitin’ for her supper. Horses are already fed and bedded down for the night, so you can start your work in the mornin’. Now, hurry on up and get your ass in the house so I can have my supper.”

Maybe my father had the strength and endurance of an ox, but I ranked a lot lower on the totem pole, and it served him right to wait. I took twice as long as needed to settle Sally. The alpaca didn’t seem too enthused about her new name, turning her ears back enough I kept a wary eye on her so I wouldn’t get spit on again.