by RJ Blain
I hadn’t noticed Ernesto’s son lurking in the corner of the room, standing between the window and one of the machines rolled out of the way. “I was answering a phone call about a reservation.”
While my parents had more problems than they could shake a stick at, they were still cops, and the hunt for the culprit lured them both into the discussion. Dad was tense, a growl slipping out of him every now and then. Mom hopped a few steps towards Quinton and landed in a crouch, her teeth bared. “How long before the detonation?”
“No more than a minute.”
“The conversation. Do you remember it? Are you normally near the door?” Mom sniffed, stretching her head towards Ernesto’s son. “You smell of her blood.”
“She was cut when she fell. I reached her first, and when I saw no sign of Gibby, she became my priority.” Quinton shrugged. “I was outside when the second detonation occurred—the one that broke the grate for the canal. Quick job, not well planned. Had it been planned in advance, they would have gotten the entire grate rather than just a section of it. I believe Gibby was their target, however.”
My mother crept forward, her ears flattening. “Why?”
“They left when he didn’t surface. I could feel them watching.” The vampire hissed, flexing his hands. “I recognized a predator hunting, waiting for his prey to emerge. I know the scent of satisfaction. He thought he’d won.”
“He?”
“I could smell him.”
Dad growled. “Close, but not too close. How sensitive is your nose?”
“Not as sensitive as yours, werewolf,” Quinton replied. “Papa’s nose is better.”
“Is the scent still there?”
“Likely gone now. The cops do as they do, bringing too many people who have no real interest in finding the truth.”
I could guess why, especially with my name on the victim list. My stunt at the shooting range wouldn’t have earned me any friends, and after my resignation and the court trial, it wouldn’t be surprised if they were disappointed I’d survived.
Mom clacked her teeth together, flexing her hands as though restraining herself from taking a swipe at something—or someone. “If you smelled him again, would you know him?”
“Yes. I have a long memory. I won’t forget, not until his blood flows down my throat and his life sustains mine.”
I added a bloodthirsty, infuriated vampire to my list of problems. Marian burst into laughter, and I leveled a glare at the woman. If anything, when she noticed me watching her, her mirth intensified.
Ernesto glanced in my direction, and he chuckled. “What do you find so amusing, dear girl?”
“Two angry werewolves, three pissed-off vampires, the world’s cutest little otter…” Instead of getting to the point and saying what exactly she found so funny about the combination, she dissolved into helpless giggles.
“I may have given her too much medication,” Dr. Yasolovic admitted. “I thought I’d err on the side of caution. Young Quinton informed me the Gibsons were in town and might respond adversely to her being in pain, especially with Mrs. Gibson being so close to her first shift. Close wasn’t an exaggeration, I’ve noticed.”
Young Quinton? I twisted around on Pierina’s shoulder and regarded the ancient vampire with a canted head. While I wanted to ask questions—complete ones, in English—I settled with an inquisitive chirp.
“Gibby knows roughly how old I am.” Quinton laughed. “You are not as sly as you think.”
Dr. Yasolovic scowled. “Vampires,” he spat.
Over Marian’s laughter, Pierina cleared her throat. “We need to hunt. Don’t waste time. First, we need to decide who’ll stay and protect Gibby’s woman—and how to get Gibby to shift back to human.”
“I will guard her,” Dr. Yasolovic said, dismissing Pierina’s concerns with a flippant wave of his hand. “As for Shane, you may wish to leave him as he is for a while, if his health checks out. He shifted for a reason, and forcing another shift may exhaust him more than necessary. With three pissed-off vampires and two angry werewolves guarding him, he should be perfectly safe. I wouldn’t recommend irritating the frothing lycanthropes.”
“Frothing?” Dad asked, his tone mild.
Without any evidence of fear, the doctor pointed at my mother, who had a bit of foam along her jaw, the result of her growling and gnashing her teeth at the same time. “I’m genuinely impressed she hasn’t bitten anyone yet—and trusted your child with a vampire.”
“I’ll eat her if she hurts him,” Mom growled.
She meant it, too. What would happen if my parents went up against Ernesto and his brood? I suspected a lot of bloodshed and maiming on both sides. I sighed, twisted around, and did the only thing I could. I hid my head in Pierina’s hair, covered my eyes with my paws, and wished I could disappear.
No such luck. Dad chuckled, and a moment later, he plucked me from Pierina’s shoulders. “And you’re confident you can protect her?”
“The man I called in is an exotic species specialist, and his magic rating is in the upper tiers. The surgeon specializes in breaking people apart and putting them back together again. He has no problem breaking them apart and neglecting to put them back together again. I have a few tricks up my sleeve.” Dr. Yasolovic glanced at Quinton. “Right, young Quinton?”
Vampires could move fast, and in the time it took me to blink, Quinton relocated to a safe spot conveniently behind his father. “Right.”
“I think I’ll be fine, Mr. Gibson. You have bigger fish to fry.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The hospital protested using their precious CT scanner on me, an animal, starting a second battle with the CDC, one Dr. Yasolovic had obviously planned to have happen all along. When his colleagues arrived, they brought a suitcase, one filled with forms—the type of forms I’d seen too many times in the recent past. Although Ernesto was present, I decided the doctor was the most intimidating—and possibly dangerous—sentient in the room.
We would have to wait an hour, but instead of an x-ray, I was scheduled for a full MRI since the hospital’s CT scanner was already booked for use. That pleased Dr. Yasolovic enough he put away his forms, although he kept the briefcase handy and left me in the care of the exotic species specialist, Dr. Valentine. She took no shit from anyone, and only had to snap a single clipboard in half to teach the obstinate hospital staff the meaning of fear.
She wasn’t a werewolf or a shifter, which I deduced from the conversations around me. Whatever she was, she scared the piss out of the staff, who bolted from the room as though the devil himself chased them. The resulting smell offended my sensitive nose so much I yipped curses at them.
Dad sighed, pinched his nostrils closed, and breathed out of his mouth. “It might be more efficient if we flew him to Lincoln, called in Dr. Harting, and asked her to handle this.”
“Patience,” Dr. Valentine murmured, stroking her hand down my back. “An MRI is our best option. Even though he shifted, I’ll be able to evaluate his injuries from the attack, which I can record for a trial, should there be one.”
Mom canted her head to the side, crouched with her hands flat on the floor, a position Dad used when he wanted people to think he wasn’t a threat. In reality, if my mother wanted to attack someone, she was in the best stance for a strong leap. Werewolf legs were strong, and werewolves often pretended they were demented, living springs, jumping distances normal humans could never hope to match.
From my perch on the examination table, I had a good view of Dad keeping a close watch on my mother, his ears pricked forward while his tail twitched. The tail twitching bothered me. It meant one of two things.
He could be struggling to contain his good humor, or he could be fighting his more violent tendencies. With Mom’s posture and tense muscles, I bet on the latter.
Ernesto and his two children waited by the door, tense and on guard. Against whom I wasn’t sure. I thought they liked my parents, but with Mom in the midst of her first shift, b
ut I wouldn’t be surprised if they considered her a threat.
I certainly did.
Dad broke the silent standoff with a huff and shook as though ridding his fur of water. His glare settled on the closed door. “This is the hospital that treated Shane.”
“According to his medical file and our own research into the matter, his eye truly couldn’t be saved. They did a better than average job on the scar mitigation as well, and while the false eye is inferior, the measurements were excellent.”
“They’ll treat his woman well?”
“Dr. Yasolovic will ensure she receives the best care. It would reflect rather poorly on the CPD if an FBI agent received anything other than the best. I expect he’ll insist she be transferred to a different medical facility, one either associated with the FBI or in a different city. I’ll recommend against a different city unless your son goes with her, as he wouldn’t react well to separation.”
Dad huffed again. “Why?”
“Because Asian small-clawed otters are a monogamous species. Miss Peterson is in for quite a surprise when she learns his bite packs a great deal more of a punch than hers. Her species is not monogamous, but I’m sure she’ll readily adapt.”
My mother rose, resting her hands on her knees. “What’s her species?”
Laughing, Dr. Valentine shook her head. “That would ruin the fun. You’ll discover it soon enough on your own, I’m sure. Most shifters are, by nature, shy about their second forms. In part, this is due to being mistaken for lycanthropes. When she wants you to know her species, she’ll tell you—and she’ll do so in an amusing fashion.”
I thought about what Dr. Valentine had said, then sucked in a breath at the memory of the stuffed animal Marian had used to hide the Rugers. Chirping, I hopped across the table, snatched up Dr. Valentine’s pen, and struggled to find the best way to hold it in my hand-like paws. With a chuckle, she flipped over a sheet of paper and held it still for me.
Badger?
I tapped the paper to indicate I wanted an answer and hoped she wouldn’t judge me for my wretched scrawl. I should’ve been happy I could write at all since normal otters couldn’t as far as I knew.
“Indeed. Now, keep that to yourself, Mr. Gibson. She’d appreciate having the chance to reveal it—or not—to the others.” Dr. Valentine ripped the paper into tiny pieces, and to ensure no one cheated and taped it back together to learn Marian’s secret, she ate it.
“So our son is an Asian small-clawed otter?” Mom asked.
Dr. Valentine picked me up, holding me with one hand while she gestured at my head with the other. “His species is the smallest of the otter family, although he’s rather small for an adult. Interestingly, his species spends the vast majority of their time on land.”
Mom flattened her ears. “Are otters even compatible with other shifter species?”
“If your motivation behind that question involves grandchildren, I assure you there will be no problems in that department. Genetically, they’re human. Miss Peterson will be advised to exercise caution unless she wants to single-handedly increase the birthrate of their state of residence.”
The glee in my mother’s grin disgusted me. “Excellent.”
“Patsy, you will not hide our future daughter-in-law’s birth control, nor will you interfere in any way with their decision on when—or if—they have children.”
I truly had the best father.
Pierina clucked her tongue. “At least give Gibby a chance to marry the woman first. He was trying so hard to court her, then someone went and ruined his efforts.”
Ernesto leaned against the wall beside the door and crossed his arms over his chest. “How was their mood before the explosion?”
“Gibby and his woman?”
“Yes.”
“High-spirited and playful. He was rather like an eager child hoping to impress his first love with the little things he treasured. Whenever I sent Quinton or one of our brothers to check on them, they were far too occupied with each other to pay attention to much else. I thought it was going well. Gibby?”
I wished Dr. Valentine would put me down. Clapping my paws together seemed like the best way to inform Pierina I was less than impressed with her analysis of my evening with Marian.
“So shy,” she teased.
It turned out otters could, with a little work, flip someone the middle finger.
I thoroughly enjoyed watching Dr. Valentine browbeat the doctors, MRI techs, and nurses at the hospital, as she made it clear she had no tolerance for anything less than their best. She’d made enemies of the staff within a few sentences, but at least they handled her displeasure better than their co-workers.
No one had the piss scared out of them, for which I was grateful.
Since my job during the MRI was to keep still and behave, I made the most of my situation and tried to nap. Unfortunately, the machine made thumping noises, which killed any hope of falling asleep. Fortunately, my small size meant the procedure didn’t take long to finish. When Dr. Valentine came to retrieve me, I yawned and wobbled in her direction.
“You’re a very lucky man, Mr. Gibson. Had you been a vanilla human or an infected lycanthrope pre-shift, you would be rather dead right now.” I gaped at her, stiff with surprise, and she reached out and touched the middle of my spine. “From our limited understanding of shifters, we’ve come to the conclusion that most first shifts are induced by some form of trauma, which can show on medical scans as discolorations or shadows marking where the transformation process healed equivalent organs and tissue. Your spine showed these shadows, as well as most of your organs, with your lungs and kidneys suffering extensive amounts of damage. In humans, these organs are located near the spine, so I suspect the fall was the source of your injuries. Involuntary shifting typically addresses life-threatening injuries, leaving behind those shadows as evidence of trauma.”
I added ‘falling onto my back from a second-story balcony’ to my list of experiences never to repeat.
“Here’s the bad news. When you shift back to human, those life-threatening injuries will have been addressed, but you’re going to be rather miserable. We’ll want to handle your shift in a controlled environment, with one or more surgeons on hand in case anything goes wrong. I’m going to recommend we take advantage of your unusual response to the lycanthropy virus and do a transfusion upon your reversal and monitor your health from there. Do not misunderstand me; shifting is not a cure-all. Your first shift is the only one with any guarantee of fixing otherwise fatal injuries. There are theories on why. My favorite is that the first shift comes with a rather intense magical burst. Future shifts don’t have the same potency. Shifters aren’t invulnerable. Do try to keep that in mind.”
I bobbed my head to acknowledge I’d received her message. Assuming I could stop getting into trouble, I might survive long enough to enjoy my lengthened lifespan.
Dr. Valentine picked me up and carried me out of the room, pausing in the hallway to dump me in my mother’s arms—my mother’s human arms. Someone had found her a pair of sweats, and she cuddled me while Dad hovered, still in his hybrid form.
Of the three vampires, I saw no sign.
“You can take him out. I’ll handle all the paperwork. Remember what I told you. Don’t try to get him to shift, let him get a lot of rest, and feed him. While otters favor seafood, he’ll eat almost anything. Shifters have rather adaptable digestive systems.” Dr. Valentine pulled a card from her wallet and handed it to my father. “Call me if there are any issues. And Mr. Gibson?”
“Yes?” my father replied.
“If I hear that you tossed your child across a room again, I will do a very close examination of your ass with my foot. Am I understood?”
Dad ducked his head and mumbled something.
Dr. Valentine cleared her throat.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Enjoy your hunt. If you have to leave any of them alive, try to keep them in tolerable condition. Nothing leaves a ba
d taste in my mouth like being forced to give medical care to would-be cop killers. It’s illegal to make their treatment as painful as possible.” Dr. Valentine heaved a sigh, shook her head, and marched down the hall, her chin lifted just high enough she could peer down her nose at anyone stupid enough to get in her way.
“Now that’s one hell of a woman,” Mom muttered.
“No kidding. Let’s get out of here before she finds out we’ve been tossing our brat around since he was old enough to bounce.”
Ernesto and his children waited outside the hospital in an SUV with windows dark enough to protect even young vampires from the sun. Fitting into the vehicle was a tight squeeze, as Dad refused to shift out of his hybrid form and insisted on sitting as close to Mom as possible. I’d had enough of my clingy parents and took the first opportunity to escape, picking Quinton as least likely to bite me, continue the cuddling trend, or otherwise do anything but serve as a seat.
Next time, I’d remember Quinton was his father’s son. Since I couldn’t kneecap the bloodsucker, he took advantage and treated me like a pet for his amusement. Sighing over my lot in life, I turned my glare in Ernesto’s direction.
I’d have to have a long talk with the vampire about teaching his children I wasn’t a toy for their amusement.
“What’s the first item on our list?” I hadn’t pegged Ernesto as the type to drive, but he approached Upper Chicago as though it were a challenge to overcome, viewing traffic laws as basic guidelines. I suspected he mostly avoided breaking the law to keep the peace in the vehicle. If my parents noticed his minor misdeeds, they made no mention of them, so I followed their lead.
I’d enjoy yanking Ernesto’s chain about it later.
“Back to the restaurant for a better look at the crime scene. Quinton, I want you to try to pick up that scent trail again.” Dad growled softly between breaths. “Until his woman’s off the painkillers, we won’t be able to get more info from her. I suspect she’ll want to help, so we should probably keep her in the dark as much as possible.”