Hoofin’ It: A Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count)

by RJ Blain

  “I said the wrong thing to a woman. I learned my lesson.”

  “Maybe I should test you for rabies.” The surgeon fiddled with the meter and did another pass. The device remained silent. “Your assailant doesn’t appear to have been rabid.”

  “Riddle me this. Why do you have to switch the settings on your meter when you test for something? Couldn’t you check for everything at once?”

  “I could, but it loses sensitivity doing bulk scans. By testing for one thing at a time, I can detect trace amounts. If I did bulk scans, you’d be giving me a semen sample to send to the lab to check for the lycanthropy virus. This meter cost the hospital over fifty thousand, but saves us a great deal of time and money since we don’t have to use lab testing.”

  “So quality versus quantity.”

  “Correct. And since I have the damned thing out, let’s do a full scan. I may as well earn my overtime pay, and I can make your insurance company weep since they can’t refuse to pay for the testing.” Dr. Harting chuckled, changing the settings on the device. “This beauty is also a magic rating scanner, and it can detect benchmark magic levels for all sorts of things. We’ll be at this for two to three hours, but considering you’ve had several hard hits to the head, substantial trauma, and an infusion of highly magical blood, it’s entirely possible something happened as a result. And frankly, burning out the lycanthropy virus as fast as you have is odd enough to warrant a second check. So far, I’ve tested you for lycanthropy, rabies, and a full complement of sexually transmitted diseases. I’ve also done a fertility scan and will be passing a recommendation to your lady friend to have a pregnancy test done.”

  Marian was not going to be happy, and I had no idea what I’d do if I were to become a father in nine months. “She said she was on birth control and that the incubus and succubus had an agreement with the nightclub to prevent the workers from becoming pregnant.”

  “You already asked?”

  “Well, I mentioned the lycanthropy virus first…”

  “I may have to change my opinion of you, Mr. Gibson. Good. Should there be a pregnancy, you’ll have the option to transfer responsibility to the state.”

  I clenched my teeth and took several slow breaths to calm my nerves. “No. I’ll discuss the situation with Miss Peterson should it become an issue. I’m not going to dodge responsibility.”

  “Well, it’s my responsibility to let you know your options. With your fertility rating, you may want to consider a birth control treatment should you be anticipating any casual relationships.”

  “I don’t do relationships, period.”

  “At least intentionally,” my surgeon muttered.

  “Point.” After three lectures on sex in one day, celibacy was sounding pretty good. “One day I do want to settle down and have a family, but I don’t want to engage in one-night stands or short-term relationships.”

  “Well, you won’t have any difficulties on your end when you wish to start a family.” Dr. Harting changed the setting of her scanner, pulled off a small panel from the back, and revealed a tiny needle, which she sterilized with an alcohol pad. “This specific meter can handle blood testing, which is far more sensitive than the proximity scan. This first test takes about thirty minutes and requires several blood samples.”

  I held out my hand. “Stab away.”

  “A mere prick will do, Mr. Gibson. This test is designed to scan for any diseases detectable in the blood. You should be clean, as the results of our tests in Lincoln showed nothing obvious, but this will give me a comprehensive result.”

  “Please tell me this test will cost my insurance company a small fortune.”

  Dr. Harting grinned and jabbed my thumb with the needle. “This session will cost them about five thousand dollars. Due to the nature of this examination and their approval of your exposure to the lycanthropy virus, they can’t penalize you in any form. They already agreed to any treatments required. Better yet, they won’t even be able to cancel your insurance on any pre-existing conditions clauses, as you’ve tested negative for the lycanthropy virus.”

  “I don’t suppose I need any other fiendishly expensive tests, do I?”

  “I sense a desire for some fiscal revenge.”

  “Well, they were cheap bastards about the eye replacement. It’s the cheapest one my policy allowed.”

  “Typical.” Dr. Harting made a thoughtful noise in her throat while she watched the meter. “Your white blood count is through the roof. Not surprising, as the lycanthropy virus classifies as a parasitic infection. Your body’s response to the virus hasn’t stabilized yet. Considering you were technically infected within the past twenty-four hours, it’s not a cause for concern yet.”

  “Only if it stays elevated?”

  “Correct. Your body has developed an antibody to the lycanthropy virus.”

  While science hadn’t been my major in college, I remembered some of what I’d learned in biology. “The lycanthropy virus doesn’t have a vaccine or cure, though. Couldn’t antibodies be used to treat lycanthropy?”

  “No, for the same reason that neutralizer and other magical treatments can’t purge the virus. It’s been tried—and it’s still being studied. In reality, the lycanthropy virus is a pretty potent form of magic. No one knows why some people form defenses against the virus while others don’t. With the high amount of exposure you’ve received, I’ll be submitting the results to the CDC for immunity classification. That might ease your path in certain career choices in certain locations, such as Chicago.”

  Had I still had two eyes, the news would have left me giddy; I’d still face prejudice due to my low magic rating, but an immunity classification would erase much of the prejudice about exposure to lycanthropy. I wouldn’t be a contagion risk. “What level of immunity rating?”

  “Well, I can confirm it took around forty-eight hours for the virus to be eradicated by your immune system. Considering the nature of your operation and your virus levels prior to your release from the hospital, you’ll rank fairly high. You’ll need to go to the CDC for some basic training, but you have some good options open to you, options that don’t require visual acuity minimums.”

  “Isn’t three days the average, though?”

  “Three days is the duration of the virus’s survival outside the host body. Instead of waiting out the virus’s lifespan, your body is actively killing the virus. In standard patients, the lycanthropy virus will attempt to replicate and take root. Even resistant patients may become infected with sufficient exposure to the virus. You have antibodies. There are no known cases of infection of people who produce antibodies.”

  “So there is zero chance of me becoming a werewolf?”

  “Correct.”

  I wasn’t sure what I thought about that. The possibility of contracting my father’s virus, which allowed for the prized hybrid form, had never bothered me. In some ways, living beyond a standard human’s lifespan intrigued me. The immunity verdict ensured I’d be old and gray while my parents remained young and healthy. “That’s actually a bit disappointing,” I confessed.

  “Lycanthropy does have its benefits.”

  “As long as you’re infected by someone who has all three forms.”

  “That is a factor.” For several minutes, Dr. Harting observed the meter, which beeped whenever it finished processing one of its tests. With the exception of my elevated white blood count, my blood test revealed I was in good health for a guy with only one eye and a concussion. “These tests aren’t the be-all-end-all to testing. The meter covers a lot, but only lab tests are as thorough as required for some conditions. That said, you probably don’t have cancer, your organs are functioning like they’re supposed to, and your immune system is doing its job.”

  “So no bad news?”

  “No bad news. Now, the next test is where things get ugly, takes up the most time, and is the primary reason these damned things aren’t the first tool of choice for examinations.” Dr. Harting cleaned and sterilized
the needle before stabbing my thumb again. It took all of a few seconds for the device to squeal. “Oh, look. You’re a male.”

  A laugh burst out of me. “Are you serious?”

  Turning the display to me, she pointed at the notation on the screen identifying me as a male. “I’m a male with no species?”

  “It takes about an hour for the device to completely chew through your DNA and make full sense of it. All humanoid species share a high number of DNA markers, which is why these species are compatible—it’s also why a satyr and a faery usually have a human child.”

  I blinked. “That was not discussed in biology class.”

  “Of course not. I’m a doctor, and I still haven’t figured out the mechanics of a faery and a satyr having intercourse. Also, do not ask how a faery mother gives birth to a human.”

  “You have no idea how uncomfortable I am with how this conversation has turned.”

  “You have no idea how uncomfortable it was in that delivery room.”

  “Why did today turn into a sex education class?”

  “You’re the one who decided it was a good idea to go to a shady nightclub.”

  “I’m pretty sure my parents were trying to sell me into slavery but forgot they had to participate in the transaction to get paid.” I shook my head and sighed. “Will that test prove if I’m adopted or not? I’m starting to think maybe I’m adopted and they want to get rid of me and get back some of their investment.”

  The machine beeped. Dr. Harting frowned at the display and slapped the side of the device with her hand.

  “I’m pretty sure that reaction is a cause for concern.”

  “Hold that thought.” Dr. Harting crossed the room, picked up the phone mounted on the wall, and pressed a button. “I need a general scanner and an infectious diseases meter brought to room 3406. I also need a diagnostic scan run on our comprehensive meter.”

  She hung up, glared at the meter in her hand, and set it on the counter.

  “I broke the meter?”

  “The meter is trying to tell me you’re a full lycanthrope. It is also claiming there’s no evidence of the lycanthropy virus present in your body.”

  I scratched my head. “Okay, it’s obviously confused.”

  “It’s great for mundane biologicals. It starts working with DNA and it loses its mind.”

  “What else is it trying to tell you?”

  “It’s a conflicted test, so it will be discarded. I’m unwilling to trust any of the results.”

  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.

  “I’m at the hospital being tested for rabies.” It wasn’t a lie. Dr. Harting had tested me for rabies. “I’m pretty sure after they determine if I’m rabid, the FBI and local police will be questioning me. Dr. Harting wanted to do a full checkup, and she’s prescribing some medications to help with the concussion. No big deal. I was just busy and couldn’t give you a call until now.”

  “Lewis told us you’d texted him. It would have been nice if my son had texted me, too. Does my son like his godfather more than his father?”

  “Dad, you’re whining.”

  “It’s six in the morning, and I’ve been waiting for you to call me all night long.”

  “Go to bed before you bite someone.”

  “No. I’m not going
to bed until you’re safe in my custody.”

  “I’m a grown man. I don’t need to be in your custody.”

  While wolves couldn’t roar, Dad’s infuriated howl came close enough my head throbbed. “I took my eyes off you for two hours, Shane Abraham Gibson! Two hours. You were supposed to go into the nightclub, have a look around, and come back out. Within two hours. Did you forget that part? Then, not only do you stay in the nightclub, the FBI raids it, setting up a cordon too far away for us to see who was coming and going. The local cops couldn’t get us past the cordon, and they couldn’t tell us who was or wasn’t in the building. What the hell happened in there?”

  “Long story. It involved a fifteen hundred dollar bottle of Scotch.”

  “Of course it did. How old are you again? Because that’s the sort of shit a teen would pull.”

  I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I shared it with a pretty girl named Sally, but if you call her that, she’ll kill you. Good news is, she doesn’t have rabies.”

  “You were actually tested for rabies?”

  “Long story. Anyway, she used my phone to contact someone outside of the nightclub, thus my inability to leave.”

  “And the concussion issue?”

  “It’s not a big deal. Just got a bit dizzy, so it’s precautionary.”

  “So nothing happened?”

  While a lot had happened, if Dad wanted a confession of my evening’s sins, he’d have to try a lot harder to get it. “I’m fine. If anything changes, I’ll let you know. After Dr. Harting is done with me, I have to be questioned, so I’m going to be really busy for a while. Don’t be surprised if I don’t call for at least a few hours, okay?”

  “You’re sure you’re fine? You don’t need us to come to the hospital?”

  “If I need you to come, I’ll call you. In fact, you can go home, and when I need you, I’ll call you for a pickup.”

  “So you want me to drive three hours home just to turn around and come back.”

  “I’m going to be here longer than six hours, Dad. When I have a better idea of how long it’ll be, I’ll call you.”