Page 52 of Hoofin’ It

“Uh oh.”

“Do you have anything you’d like to tell me, Dad?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m listening.”

“So maybe your grandpa might not be exactly human.”

“May not be exactly human? You mean not human at all?”

“Basically.”

“Your side or Mom’s?”

“That’s where it gets complicated.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Both sides.”

“Say what?”

“Your mom’s dad is an incubus. My grandfather’s dad is also an incubus. And no, they’re not the same incubus, nor are they related. I didn’t even know until my great-grandfather showed up at one of the family reunions and met my father-in-law. Things got a bit awkward at that point, since your mom had no idea she’s an incubus’s daughter. You turned out all right, so no harm done, right? You’ve never demonstrated any incubus traits, so it’s not a big deal. You’re still human.”

“Fifty-five percent human. That does classify me as a human, barely.”

“You look like a human, you smell like a human, you act like a human. I say if you look, smell, and act like a human, you’re a human. And that’s a majority percentage, so obviously you’re human. Do we get to play ‘identify our son’s species’ over Christmas dinner? That sounds like a fun game. Make it really entertaining for us. I’m looking forward to it.”

While it would’ve been wise to confess I was likely a shapeshifter of some form, I decided to wait. Until I shifted—if I ever shifted—it made no difference. When I thought it through, I realized if I told either of my parents, they’d take matters into their own hands.

Being glitter bombed in my apartment would only be the beginning of their evils. Under no circumstances could I let them find out I was an unidentified shifter. If startling me into shifting for the first time didn’t work, they’d try to scare me. If frightening years off my life didn’t do the trick, they’d move onto something worse, like embarrassing me into shifting. If that didn’t work, I had no idea what they’d do, but I wouldn’t like it.

“Don’t sulk, Shane. We didn’t tell you because we were worried you’d be upset or worried over how having incubus genes might interfere with finding a wife. When you showed no sign of having an incubus heritage, we decided to leave it alone. Have you developed any sudden urges to sleep with every single woman who walks by?”

“The only urge I’m struggling with involves hunting you down and beating you for this glitter.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

How was it I still managed to lose the argument despite being the one side-swiped with surprise incubi relatives? “There’s no problem.”

“Good. You sound tired. Go get some sleep. Your mom’ll call you in the morning, I’m sure. I’ll also tell her there was a good reason you didn’t pick up the phone this morning so she stops sulking.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Anytime. Enjoy your glitter.” Dad hung up.

Instead of flinging my phone across my apartment, I set it on the coffee table, got to my feet, and trailed glitter all the way to my bathroom in the futile hope I could shower the majority off.

Twelve hours of undisturbed sleep did me a world of good, although it didn’t make my glitter problem go away. I doubted my neighbors appreciated me vacuuming at eight in the morning, but the mess had to go. My hair sparkled. Unless I got rid of the shimmering crap, I’d never be able to leave my apartment again.

My pride could handle only so much.

Two minutes after eight, my cell rang. A better son would have stopped vacuuming before answering, but I figured since Mom had joined forces with Dad to inflict the glitter apocalypse on me, she could deal with the noise. “I’m never opening a box from you again.”

Mom laughed. “Did the second box get you, too?”

“You’ve won this round, Mother. Expect retaliation.”