by RJ Blain
“Often. That’s a bit cheaper than going out every day. I usually just grab something from the freezer and let it thaw for the first half of my shift. Why?”
“Diet can give us a lot of insights on your personality, temperament, and general approach to life. How do you feel about bringing people to your home? Do you enjoy visiting others for parties? Do you rate yourself as an extrovert or an introvert?”
“I don’t have company over often, no. Not a lot of people around here want to get too close to someone who has been exposed to lycanthropy. It doesn’t bother me, so I suppose I’m an introvert.”
“And your relationship with your family?”
“Pretty close,” I admitted.
Daryl made a few thoughtful noises and jotted down some notes. He began a rapid-fire questioning session about every aspect of my life, including my depressingly dull dating life, my work with the police, and friendships. An hour later, I felt like I’d undergone an interrogation without knowing what crime I was suspected of committing. A knock at the door ended the session, and I exchanged Daryl for a pair of grumpy FBI agents determined to get their fair cut of my time.
They would be easier to handle, as all they wanted was a detailed accounting of every minute from my arrival in New York to my evening in the nightclub with Marian. I dodged some of the details, mostly because they were almost as uncomfortable discussing my intimacy with their fellow agent as I was.
I got the feeling they both wouldn’t have minded being in my shoes for the evening, which only added to my discomfort. Three hours later, the CDC evicted the two FBI agents, who confessed they had everything they needed. Their dismissal indicated they found it unlikely anyone else from the FBI would contact me about the situation.
At most, I was an accidental participant, and as long as I steered clear of the area, my involvement with Marian and the sex trafficking operations was officially over.
Daryl returned to Des Moines, leaving me alone with a tired old man who regarded me with milky white eyes. “I’m Dr. Yasolovic, and I’m specialized in lycanthropes.”
“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Yasolovic.”
“You’re interesting.”
Whenever a doctor claimed I was interesting, it meant trouble. ‘Interesting’ was another word for ‘I want to experiment on you to figure out how you tick.’ “That doesn’t sound promising.”
He chuckled. “As you are aware, your immune system is capable of fighting off the lycanthropy virus. This occurs in approximately three percent of the population. There are several causes of this particular talent.”
“Talent? You mean it’s magic?”
“Yes. The ability to fight off a magical infection like lycanthropy classifies as a talent. We will need to do some additional testing to find out the nature of your talent, however.”
“What sort of testing?”
“In short, we will inflict minor injuries on you, inject you with active cultures of the lycanthropy virus, and monitor your regeneration rate. The rapid healing of your gunshot wound indicates your body doesn’t have a reflexive response to the lycanthropy virus. You have an adaptable immune system. As far as talents go, it’s a useful one. Our initial theory is that your talent uses the virus for your benefit before eliminating it, effectively granting you temporary regeneration equal to a full lycanthrope.”
“I don’t suppose you could repeat that in English, could you?”
“Your immune system is an opportunist capable of identifying when foreign bodies, like the lycanthropy virus, have beneficial qualities. Once you regenerated with the virus’s help, your immune system eliminated it as it would a regular infection. To confirm this, we need to inject you with the lycanthropy virus.”
“So you’re going to give me a transfusion from someone with the infection?”
“Essentially. Now, due to the risks associated with lycanthropy infections, we’re going to use samples most likely to benefit you should you become infected. We have four samples from tri-form lycanthropes of different species: wolf, cougar, leopard, and wolverine.”
While I’d heard of wolf and cat lycanthropes before, wolverines were new. “There are wolverine lycanthropes?”
“Below ten percent of all lycanthropes are wolverines. Wolves are the most common, representing over seventy percent of the lycanthrope population. I rate your chances of contracting the lycanthropy virus at less than one percent. At the same time we do these tests, we’ll be able to confirm if you have probable immunity.”
I pointed at Marian’s bite. “Does this count as an injury?”
“We’ll be monitoring that injury at the same time we watch your regeneration of a more controlled wound. For the purpose of this experiment, we’ll make a six inch incision in your arm. Should the lycanthropy virus not act as expected, a surgeon will be ready to repair the damage and minimize any scarring. There will be two tests done on identical incisions.”
“Is there a reason you couldn’t have done this while I was sedated?”
“Yes.”
When the doctor refused to elaborate, I surrendered with a sigh. It would happen whether I consented to it or not; all fighting would do was draw out the issue and make things worse. When it came to public health, the CDC viewed personal freedoms as optional. Often, their policies benefited the country—and world—as a whole, but being the focus of their attention, I began to understand a little better why those who underwent extensive evaluations protested.
I also understood the necessity. Rules were in place for a reason, and the precautions the CDC took with public awareness, treatment, and study of diseases magical and mundane saved more lives than they hurt. I didn’t have to like it. I just had to go along with it.
My grudging acceptance didn’t stop me from growling, “If I lose my arm because of this, I’m beating you to death with it.”
I was dead serious, too. Dr. Yasolovic chuckled at my threat. “Your arm is perfectly safe, Mr. Gibson, but I will take your warning under advisement.”
Twenty-two hours after the first incision, done without benefit of painkillers or numbing agents, the CDC ran their final test for the lycanthropy virus.
I scanned clean.
A faint pale line marked where the surgeon had inflicted a quarter-inch deep gash along the length of my forearm. According to him, it would disappear on its own within a few months. The incisions had hurt like hell, and instead of the two threatened, I’d gotten sliced six times.
“As I said, Mr. Gibson. Your arm was in no danger,” Dr. Yasolovic said, leaning over me to check my shoulder. “As an additional benefit, you should notice a distinct improvement in your shoulder as well. The scars are already smaller.”
Marian’s bite still hurt, and I grimaced at the reminder of the woman taking a chunk out of me. I deserved it for running my mouth, but did she have to make me bleed? “I don’t suppose you can explain the deal with that bite, can you? Why didn’t it heal?”
If anything, my shoulder felt worse than it had before I’d been injected with various forms of the lycanthropy virus.
“I sent a swab to the lab, but it might be several days for the results to come back. I suspect there is a bacterial infection involved. For now, allow it to heal naturally. If it doesn’t show improvement in a few days, I’ll look into treatments for it.”
“I’m surprised those meters of yours can’t tell what type of infection it is.”
“A single human body can contain over a hundred trillion bacteria cells. Your digestive system alone contains a thousand or more different species of bacteria. To add to the complexity, not every human has the same collection of bacteria. There are so many unique bacteria it’s impossible to categorize them. For every one we learn how to scan, we discover twenty or thirty new ones, and each one has a different function in the body. Some of these bacteria are good—in limited quantity.”
“So what should I do about it?”
“Keep an eye on it. If you develop a fever, give me a call.”
Dr. Yasolovic pulled away, took hold of my chin, and turned my head so he could get a better look at my fake eye and my scar. “I want to take a closer look at your medical file regarding the loss of your eye. Despite extensive exposure to the lycanthropy virus, there was no change to your scar. What sort of surgical work was done? Was the eye preserved?”
“Dr. Pasadena at Northwest Memorial did the operation, and yes, it was preserved.”
Dr. Yasolovic dug his phone out of his pocket and dialed a number. “Get in touch with Dr. Pasadena at Northwest Memorial. I need Mr. Gibson’s full medical file. His right eye should have been preserved, so put in a request to have it checked out of the vault and put into the CDC’s care until further notice. Forward the necessary information to his insurance company and make certain they understand they don’t have the leeway to deny coverage.”
“I paid for the preservation out of pocket. It wasn’t covered by my insurance company.”
“Be prepared for some pushback from the insurance company,” the doctor warned before hanging up. “Pop your eye out. I’d like to have a closer look at it, please.”
I obeyed. I hated touching the hard, cold orb, although I’d gotten accustomed to its presence. “I didn’t qualify for an enhanced replacement.”
Dr. Yasolovic held the sphere up to the light, squinting as he examined it. “Glass, and not even good glass. There are bubbles. I’m going to review your file, and I’ll need a copy of your employment contract and performance records.”
“My employment contract and performance records? Why?”
“There’s this little thing called the Species Anti-Discrimination Act, Mr. Gibson. I and three other doctors have spent a significant amount of time evaluating your health. Chicago has a serious discrimination issue, as I’m sure you’re well aware. I’m willing to bet that you have a pristine performance record and you were hired to meet station quotas.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time a law enforcement officer with an unwanted condition was targeted to remove them from field duty. Unfortunately, a previous mistreatment resulted in the loss of a leg. While I don’t doubt your eye itself couldn’t be saved, this so-called replacement is unacceptable. Consider this my thanks for your exceptional patience during a trying and exhausting test cycle. I’m going to have someone photograph and measure this for documentation. It’ll take no more than half an hour. After, I’ll have someone take you home.”
While I doubted it would do any good, I appreciated the gesture. “Thank you, doctor.”
Within five minutes, Dr. Yasolovic handed my eye to a technician with instructions. Once the woman left, the doctor opened my file and pulled out several sheets. “While we wait, we’ll go over some of the results of your testing. First, you’re not a lycanthrope. It’s impossible for you to become one. While genetically you classify as a human, you’re not. The DNA analysis is pretty clear on that front; you barely qualify as human.”
“I barely qualify as human? What the hell does that mean? My parents are humans, although Dad’s a lycanthrope and Mom’s infected.”
“It’s an issue of genetics, Mr. Gibson. Your parents have non-human parentage, and there is overlap between both sides of your family. When two humans with non-human parentage have a child, if there is sufficient overlap, the child might not be fully human. This is the case with you. Certain genes are more dominant but can skip several generations before becoming active. Sometimes, specific combinations of genes can have surprising results. Magic can play a role, too. For example, as the son of a lycanthrope, if you were conceived beneath a full moon, you may have experienced alterations to your DNA.”
“So if I’m only partially human, what am I?”
“How much do you know about lycanthropes?”
“Enough, I guess. Dad’s one, and he has all three forms. He passed the virus to Mom, so she’ll be able to access all three forms, too.”
“That’s because the virus is replicating itself, and the virus is the source of the magic. Because its magic is potent enough for all three forms, it’s passed on. Now, it’s not guaranteed. Exposure matters. As your parents are constantly in close proximity, your father is strengthening the virus in your mother’s bloodstream. That is what will ensure your mother will have all three forms. Let’s assume your father got a paper cut and someone came into contact with him, becoming infected with the virus. First, the virus is going to take a long time to incubate; there’s no additional source helping the virus take root. As a result, when it has finally replicated enough for the magic to take hold and allow for shapeshifting, it’s not going to be as robust. There will be a high chance the new lycanthrope will only have access to two forms.”
“The full wolf and the human forms.”
“Correct. Now, lycanthropes are the result of a disease—a very strong, magical disease. It has a lot of benefits for its host, but it’s essentially an incurable illness. There’s a second class of shapeshifter, but they’re often incorrectly categorized with lycanthropes. These individuals are born capable of shapeshifting. They can’t contract the lycanthropy virus. Incubi and succubi are actually capable of transforming into other shapes. Their shapeshifting, however, is unique in becase they become human.”
“So anyone on the street could be an incubus or a succubus?”
“Exactly. Looking at the basic results of your initial DNA testing, you have a higher than normal contribution of genes from an incubus. In most humans with an incubus ancestor, the incubus genes are dormant—they’re turned off. You carry the genes, but they don’t do anything. This is only speculation, but I think you have active incubus genes, but only certain markers—the ones responsible for shapeshifting.”
If Dr. Yasolovic’s goal was to give me a headache, he was succeeding. “Can I get that in English, please?”
“Because you have an incubus ancestor, you’re probably a shapeshifter of some sort. With human DNA accounting for fifty-five percent of your genetic makeup, you’ll retain your status as a human. Your magic rating may be reevaluated following additional review of the test results, but if you can demonstrate the ability to shift shapes, you’ll be bumped up several categories.”
“This is going to make Christmas dinner really interesting,” I predicted.
“Be glad you weren’t below fifty percent human, Mr. Gibson.”
“Why?”
“If you think these tests are bad, they’re far worse if you don’t classify as human. You’d be spending the next month as a guest of the CDC while you were evaluated, classified, studied, properly identified, and otherwise turned into a test subject until we determined if you were a risk to public health.”
I grimaced. “Will I have to come back in for more testing?”
“I’d recommend it, but you’ll find they’re not nearly as invasive. Most of it them would involve a talent instructor attempting to find out if you have any latent abilities. These can be scheduled later, after your shoulder finishes healing. For all intents and purposes, as soon as your artificial eye is returned, you’re free to leave, Mr. Gibson.”
Chapter Fourteen
A cruiser was parked outside my apartment building, and I recognized the pair of cops from looking at the back of their heads. In the afternoon light, Michelle Warner’s red hair stood out in sharp contrast to her partner’s brown, which was streaked with enough white it earned him the nickname of Stripes. I called Kayne by his real name, but only because he had a phobia of lycanthropy so intense my presence often sent him into a panic.
“Thanks for the lift,” I murmured, making my escape from the SUV before the CDC thought of any other reasons to detain me. Armed with my new license, which had been shoved into my hand on my way out the door, I’d be able to wipe a lot of smirks from smug racists’ faces. The license bore several new notations on it, and the lycanthropy contagion risk flag had been removed. I headed for the parked car, circled to Kayne’s side, and tapped on the
glass.
Kanye landed on his partner’s lap on the other side of the vehicle, his scream audible through the window.
Michelle laughed her ass off, waved at me, and opened her door, wiggling from beneath her hyperventilating partner. “Shane, you look like hell.”
In Michelle-speak, she was happy to see me, almost concerned about my appearance, and in a good enough mood I could likely survive the conversation without her demonstrating her martial art skills.
Of my fellow cops, I liked Michelle the most; unlike her partner, she had nothing against lycanthropes. I whipped out my brand-new license and showed it to her. “My birthday came early this year.”
Michelle squinted, peered at the card, and sucked in a breath, snatching it. “No fucking way!”
“Fucking way.”
“How the hell did you convince them to remove the flag? I know damn well you’ve been exposed at least ten times since you joined the force. There’s no way this is legal, Shane.”
“The CDC did it, so I hope it’s legal.”
“Wait, the CDC reissued your driver’s license? What were you doing at the CDC?”
“Tit-for-tat. What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you. We’ve been trying to track you down for days, actually.”
“What? Why?”
“The captain has some questions for you about some old case, and he wanted to ask them before your medical leave expired and you got transferred.” Michelle wrinkled her nose. “You have time to swing by the station for a bit?”
I groaned. “The only sleep I’ve had in two days has been under sedation, Michelle. Does it have to be right now?”
“We’ve been staking out your apartment for two days.”
Something wasn’t adding up, as I knew my godfather had spoken to someone in Chicago about my shooting. “The FBI or Lincoln police didn’t talk to the captain?”
Who had they spoken to?
“What? About what? The FBI? Lincoln? What are you talking about?”
“I was at my parents’ place and was gunned down not far from their house. Two rounds to the shoulder.”
