by RJ Blain
“This is punishment for sending you into the nightclub, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Go away, and take Lewis with you. Tell Mom I love her, please.”
“What about me? Don’t I get any love?”
“You tried to sell me into slavery.”
Dad laughed. “You know I wouldn’t actually sell you into slavery.”
“Fine. I love you, too. Go home and text me when you get in.” Before he could start asking questions I couldn’t answer honestly, I hung up.
A soft chuckle from the doorway warned me Dr. Harting had returned and had heard at least part of my conversation with my father. “The CDC wants you in Chicago on the next flight out. A representative will escort you to the headquarters there.”
“Chicago?” I groaned. “Well, close to home, I guess.”
“That factored into their selection of cities, as you have your primary residence there. The FBI has also agreed to handle your questioning there between tests.”
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.”
How many times would I have to explain how I’d lost my eye before people stopped asking—or doubt I could have been a cop? I pointed at the blue sphere provided by my cheap-ass insurer. “I was the first to arrive at a traffic accident involving a family of three and a burning car. Since police officers need to pass visual acuity tests in both eyes, I’m no longer a police officer. The insurance company evaluated my ranking in the police department and determined it wasn’t worth the investment to give me a false eye capable of passing the vision tests.”
“It’s non-functional?” Billings frowned, his gaze fixed on my false eye. “They weren’t required to give you a replacement sufficient to let you keep your job?”
“I’m technically on vacation in the form of a two-month medical leave to adapt to only having one eye. Chicago’s police department isn’t required to keep their employees in the field, so the best I can hope for is a lower paying desk job. That met the insurance company’s requirements for securement of work. The department signed off saying they could transfer me to a non-field capacity. The department keeps their quota filled, the insurance company saves money. Worked for everyone but me.” I realized I was whining about it but couldn’t force myself to care. “Active field duty paid a living wage. The desk job work pays minimum wage.”
I let them do the math. Daryl figured it out first and spat a few curses. “So they can force yo
u to quit by lowering your income.”
“Welcome to Chicago.”
Chicago’s branch of the CDC was located several blocks from my old station in one of the nicer parts of town. If I hadn’t been so tired and grouchy, I might’ve helped Lowry figure out the complex puzzle that was Upper and Lower Chicago during construction season, but watching the FBI agent lose his shit when the roads split and he descended into the pits of hell when he should have risen to street level amused me.
Beneath the streets of Chicago lurked a second city, a tangled maze of underground parking, shops, and homes. Nocturnals made Lower Chicago their haven, safe from the sunlight they hated—or couldn’t face without their skin burning off their bones. There was even a third level, one no one wanted to acknowledge.
Some things were best left in the dark, and we had a working arrangement with the third level dwellers. The denizens of Upper and Lower Chicago didn’t bother them, so they didn’t bother us. Considering I wasn’t even sure what lurked down there, I rather liked the arrangement.
It took three hours for Lowry to find his way out of Lower Chicago, ending up halfway across the city before he realized he needed to take one of the up ramps to relocate civilization. Once he figured that out, he made certain to stay away from any exit ramps with a downward slope.
I managed to catch some sleep while the trio of government employees attempted to navigate through the city without asking for help. When Lowry learned he had to descend into Lower Chicago to park, his wordless cry of frustration drowned out the groans of the other two men.
“Go around the building, take the first exit into Lower Chicago, and go around the block. The entrance to the headquarters parking garage should be labeled,” I said, pointing at an alley alongside the CDC’s skyscraper. To alleviate some of their frustration, I added, “Buildings like this don’t have connecting streets to Lower Chicago.”
“Who designed this fucking city?” Lowry grumbled, following my directions to reach the parking lot beneath the streets.
“A sadist with masochistic tendencies.”
“I believe it.”
When Lowry discovered he had to pay thirty dollars to park for the day, he looked ready to reach out the window and throttle the security guard manning the entry gate. To add insult to injury, he had to circle the lot’s five levels for thirty minutes to find a spot. “I am never coming to this hell hole ever again.”
I bit my lip so I wouldn’t laugh and unbuckled my seatbelt. The few minutes of sleep had helped; I could walk a straight line without assistance. Daryl scratched his head and turned in a slow circle. “How do we get into the building?”
I pointed at a small arrow mounted on one of the pylons. “Follow those.”
“Next time, you get to drive,” Lowry grumbled.
“No driving for me for a few days. Doctor’s orders.” I strolled through the maze of parked cars, careful to watch for anyone hunting for a spot. While the lot was packed, there were few people in the garage. Even following the signs, it took us ten minutes to find the elevators.
Fortunately for my sanity, we didn’t have to wait long for the elevator, and Daryl tapped the sole button, which would take us to the first floor. I approved of the bottleneck; by forcing those in the garage to go through security on the first floor, the CDC could monitor anyone entering and leaving. I’d seen too many places, including hotels, which used a single elevator system, granting easy access to people who didn’t belong in the building, making it simple for crooks to make a clean getaway.
Daryl endured a ten minute scolding from the receptionist on the first floor, which I spent swallowing yawns. The two FBI agents fidgeted but kept quiet during the wait. The CDC representative sighed and pointed across the lobby. “We’re expected on the fifth floor, and since we’re late bringing him, we’re expected to help with the testing.”
Agent Billings shook his head. “We’re not certified with the CDC.”
“You don’t need to be certified. You just need to be a gopher and do what you’re told. You’ll still get your turn with him, but we’re two hours behind schedule, and they have some specialists here who need to look at him. The looking goes faster with extra hands. I get to be a gopher, too, and I’m certified. Just deal with it. If you complain and whine, we’ll be at this even longer.”
“I’m not looking forward to this, either. Be happy you’re not the one about to be diagnosed as a freak,” I confided, strolling across the lobby. Delaying the evaluation would only draw out the misery. My goal would be to escape as quickly as possible, head home, and find out what sort of disaster waited for me at my apartment.
I’d already taken care of the majority of my bills, including paying the month’s rent in advance, so I could go to New York without an eviction notice waiting my return.
“On the general freak scale, you’re a minor freak at worst, Mr. Gibson.”
I glanced at the FBI agents. “See? I’m not even a good freak. I’d rather be a gopher. Want to trade?”
“No,” they chorused.
Chapter Thirteen
The one person the CDC didn’t need in attendance for the initial testing was me. I expected them to draw blood and do a physical exam. That phase was completed without a hitch. I tested above average in most categories, and except for my missing eye and injured shoulder, I classified as healthy.
Marian’s bite drew a lot of unwanted attention, and since the wound wasn’t healing like the CDC wanted, they decided to give me an injection of antibiotics. To my disgust, I discovered the antibiotic was coupled with a sedative, one that knocked me flat within five minutes.
While I needed the sleep, I would have preferred to rest on my own terms. Sedatives always left me groggy upon waking up.
Daryl was the only one in the examination room with me, and most of his attention was focused on the meter in his hand. “In my defense, they didn’t tell me they were going to sedate you.”
“It keeps the prisoners from staging an escape,” I slurred. “How long have I been out?”
“Six hours. The doctors are going over your x-rays now. While you were under, you were tested with transformative substances, you were petrified twice, and you’ve been subjected to every single scanning machine in the building, including the MRI. You woke up following both petrifications, but they knocked you out again immediately after, so I doubt you remember that. We’ve pinpointed the general cause of the meter readings, but we haven’t been able to refine the results.”
“I was petrified?”
“Twice. Your benchmarks are below average, so a flag will be added to your medical record in case you’re exposed to gorgons outside of testing.”
“Below average? What do you mean by that?”
“I mean you petrify three times faster than average, and it takes twice as long for the neutralizer to do its job, even the highest grade stuff. They’ll want to do a third petrification test to see if you’re as susceptible to a gorgon’s gaze.” Daryl set aside the meter, picked up a clipboard, and grabbed a pen. “While the doctors are trying to make sense of the first batch of tests, I get to handle your initial interview.”
I lurched upright, wincing at the throb in my shoulder. Marian’s bite hurt even more than before, and I poked at the bandage. “Did they tell you why the hell this hurts so much?”
“We have some theories, but until we have a confirmation of the cause, I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Isn’t that just grand? All right. What are your questions?”
“What are your dietary habits?”
“I see food, I eat it.” I shrugged. “I’m not picky.”
“Any known allergies?”
“None.”
“Any foods you find particularly offensive?”
“Tripe.”
“Tripe?”
“Stomach lining of a cow. I’m also not a fan of haggis.”
“I don’t know anyone who is.” Daryl chuckled. “Do you consider yourself an adventurous
eater?”
“I’d say so. I know from experience I don’t like tripe or haggis.”
“Are there any foods you won’t try?”
The questions puzzled me, and I shrugged. “I haven’t thought about it.”
“Have you ever had food poisoning?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“Do you cook at home or eat out?”
“I’d say an equal mix.”
“Do you like seafood?”
“I tried pufferfish once. Obviously, I didn’t die.”
“Shellfish?”
“Sometimes.”
“Lobster?”
“Too expensive.”
“Shrimp?”
“They’re like mini lobster tails with extra legs. Also too expensive.”
Daryl glanced up from his clipboard. “Would you classify yourself as a scavenger?”
“Excuse me?”
“An opportunistic eater. In short, you buy the cheapest foods with no actual preference about what you eat as long as you eat.”
I would remember the question later for use on my parents if they insisted on leaving half-cooked pancakes on their kitchen ceiling. If that didn’t put an end to it, nothing would. “No.”
“Please try not to take offense, Mr. Gibson. It’s a valid question relating to your situation.”
“The answer is still no.”
“So if I were to go to your house, I wouldn’t find cupboards full of instant noodles, pasta, and cans of tuna fish?”
Both my eyebrows took a hike towards my hairline. “At least you didn’t ask if my diet consists mostly of donuts.”
“So is that a yes or a no?”
“No.”
“So what would I find in your cupboards?”
“Some dust keeping my limited spice collection company. I don’t keep a lot of extras on hand. I prefer to buy for a few days and freeze my leftovers.”
“So you’re thrifty but prefer higher quality foods?”
“I guess? If I want fast food, I either order in or go get something.”
“Take lunches to work?”
