by RJ Blain
I liked breathing. Breathing meant I was alive and had some chance of making my way back to Lower Chicago. First, I needed to find Marian. She’d been closer to the restaurant’s wall, and I worried she’d landed on the sidewalk instead of in the canal. The water had helped break my fall, and I didn’t want to think about her landing on broken rubble.
After blinking several times and realizing how dark it was in Chicago’s third level, I modified my game plan. First, I would figure out where I was, find a source of light, and then I’d find Marian. If she’d fallen nearby, she might need my help.
Instead of calling her name, I squeaked.
All right. I didn’t need a manual to figure out part of my problem. In lycanthropes, injury or stress could force shifting; the virus took over to give its host the best chance for survival, and I had no reason to believe other shifters were different. It was logical. I could deal with logical.
Falling from a balcony into corpse stew before slamming into a grate and then taking a plummet into the abyss could easily kill someone. Had I not been warned I was some form of shifter, I would’ve panicked when I started squeaking when I tried to call Marian’s name.
Whatever I was, I squeaked, which eliminated a wolf, much to my disappointment. Wolves didn’t usually squeak. Squirrels squeaked. Mice squeaked. Great. Instead of a fierce predator, was I some sort of rodent? I didn’t want to be a rodent.
I sighed.
Grousing over what I couldn’t change wouldn’t help. I needed to escape the net and find my way to the surface before something from Chicago’s third level decided to have a tasty treat of shifter rodent. My curses emerged as short, high-pitched yaps.
What sort of rodent yapped? Until I escaped to where I could see, I’d have to live with the mystery of what I’d become. In a way, I envied my mother; when she shifted, she’d know exactly what she was, and Dad would help her get the hang of her two new forms. Me? I didn’t even know how many legs I had.
I hoped it was four, or I’d classify as a mutant rodent, and the CDC would love a chance to study a mutant rodent. Assuming I was a rodent did simplify things for me; two arms and two legs easily translated to four paws, and it didn’t take long for me to figure out I did, indeed, have four paws of some sort.
The ease with which I grasped the net’s ropes gave credibility to my rodent assumption, although something about the way my toes moved gave me pause. I secured a hold on my precarious perch with my hind feet and fumbled in the dark to rub my forepaws together.
I discovered I had webbing linking my digits. What sort of mutant rodent had webbed paws? My fingers—if I could call the digits fingers—seemed a lot longer than I expected for a rodent, too.
Did the presence of webbing disqualify me as a rodent?
I rubbed my forepaws together, and after several minutes of rubbing, I determined not only were my fingers webbed, I had opposable thumbs. Life seemed a little better with opposable thumbs, although I wondered what sort of critter I had become.
Armed with the knowledge I had thumbs and four paws, I began the tedious process of climbing the net. Maybe I wasn’t human, but my body seemed well equipped to handle the ropes, which were large enough I had to stretch my paws to get a good grip on them. Without any ability to see in the dark, I relied on the net to guide me, following one rope across while the water beat down from above.
Whatever I was, the water didn’t bother me. I kept warm, and even the constant barrage over my face—muzzle?—wasn’t a problem. As a human, I probably would have been flailing and falling without making any progress.
I hated nets, especially ones I was expected to climb.
I could check one mark on the advantage column for being whatever I was; a werewolf in hybrid form would’ve torn right through the net and fallen into the water below. Dad’s claws could do serious damage to steel. Rope didn’t stand a chance. If I could find the spillway’s ledge, I’d be in good shape. I’d never gone into Chicago’s third level, but I’d helped retrieve victims often and knew there was a way up on both sides of the canal, a way blocked with magic to keep people from wandering to places they shouldn’t.
If memory served, the magic was a one-way barrier, allowing people to escape the third level, although I’d heard of one person making it out without help from Chicago’s more questionable denizens.
With a little luck, I’d be person—critter—number two.
I loved solid ground, and to express my love for it, I rolled around and made a complete fool of myself, not caring if anyone saw me. Without the canal’s magic helping, I stank, and the rocks surrounding the spillway smelled of moss, which I preferred over the malodorous water.
Someone really needed to do something about the canal. No one deserved to have to put up with the stench. The smell was bad enough I contemplated beating those in charge of Chicago’s infrastructure to a near-death state for being too cheap and lazy to deal with the disgusting problem.
A faint glimmer of light from above oriented me so I could start the long journey back to where I belonged. I didn’t look forward to the hike, but I fumbled my way over the rocks in search of a ramp, stairwell, or something I could use to reach Lower Chicago.
It took a lot longer than I liked to locate a staircase by feel. The steps were so tall I had to stand on my hind legs and jump to climb them, which supported my theory I was some sort of rodent-sized critter with thumbs, webbing, and a nice fur coat able to keep me warm and dry. I settled into a pattern of hopping up two stairs and stopping to catch my breath, my body aching from my tumble down the spillway.
Maybe I couldn’t take stubborn pride and sell it, but it got me from the bottom of the spillway to the top, although I trembled and longed for a nap by the time I spotted where the canal emptied onto the concrete slide. The water churned, and I suspected magic was responsible for how evenly the water spread out and thinned.
Twisted metal jutted from the water falling from the canal, marking where something had busted the grate. From what I could tell, only a five-foot section of the grate had come loose, offering hope if Marian had ended up in the water, she might’ve been able to escape to the safety of the sidewalk.
In Lower Chicago, a wall surrounded the canal, but from my side of it, the wall had a rather translucent quality. A careful poke with a paw revealed it was insubstantial. I bounced through, squeaking as the brighter lights stabbed at my eyes.
Next time, I’d remember to avoid stepping from dim illumination into a spotlight. I shook my head, blinking to erase the spots dancing in my vision. The culprit—actual spotlights—focused on the blown-out portion of the canal grate and Michietti’s, leaving me in a brightly lit but rather empty spot.
Shaking the water out of my coat, I took in the flashing red and blue lights of patrol cars, the blur of motion around the building, and the black-stained, gaping hole where the balcony had once been. Soot marred the stone veneer still clinging to the wall, and I grimaced at the amount of damage done to Pierina’s beloved restaurant.
Once my eyes stopped aching, I took a good look at my paws, which resembled furry, webbed human hands. I twisted around, discovering I had a long, brown body with a long tail tipped in black.
Whatever I was, I didn’t think I was a rodent. I’d seen enough rats, mice, and squirrels to recognize I wasn’t one of them. Without getting a good look at my head, I wasn’t really sure what I was, but I was satisfied I’d escaped the humiliation of being a rat.
I blamed the CPD’s lawyer for my reaction to the thought of becoming a species Dad would happily eat given an opportunity.
Satisfied with my brief examination, I turned my attention back to the chaos around Michietti’s. I spotted Pierina in the entry, her arms crossed over her chest, every inch of her stiff. She faced off against a member of the CPD, a man I didn’t know, and her elongated fangs peeked out between her lips whenever she spoke.
Maybe Pierina wouldn’t recognize my body, but her heightened senses as a vampire might hel
p her recognize my smell since the canal stench still clung to my fur. After several strides, I figured out how to run without tripping over my own paws, although I bounced more than I ran. When I reached her, I panted to catch my breath, eyeing her legs. I decided to give climbing a shot, and I clawed at her clothes so I could reach her shoulder.
The vampire jumped, squealed, and made it halfway to Upper Chicago before landing in a crouch, which made it easier to reach my goal. Stretched out, I was long enough to span her shoulders, and I clung to her jacket with my paws. Instead of questions, she got an earful of squeaks.
The cops pulled their guns, and I stiffened, watching them while wondering if they’d be bold—or stupid—enough to fire a weapon at Ernesto’s daughter.
“Put those away,” Pierina snapped, lifting her hand to touch my head. “Haven’t there been enough loud bangs at my establishment today?”
I supposed an explosion counted as a loud bang.
“That animal—”
“Does it look like he’s biting me? Does it look like he’s attacking me? Don’t be an idiot. He just came up to say hello. He’s been a very naughty little child.” Pierina flicked me with her finger. “Bad. Ask before you jump up.”
At an utter loss of what game Pierina was playing, I did the first thing to come to mind. I bit the hell out of her hand. The vampire hissed at me.
I squeaked around a mouthful of her dry, leathery skin.
“Yes, it does look like he’s biting you, ma’am,” the cop replied.
Pierina snagged me by the scruff of my neck with her other hand and peeled me off her shoulders. I dangled in her grip. With two firm but gentle shakes, she forced me to release my hold on her hand. “I tire of this. Where are the werewolves?”
The cops flinched but pointed along the canal. Pierina huffed and strode away, leaving them spluttering in her wake. When we were out of earshot, she looked me in the eye. “You’ve scared your mother into her first shift. I hope you’re satisfied with yourself. I’m certain you scared at least a decade off my lifespan. How is it you managed to not only fall into the canal but also slip through the one section that didn’t hold? I was certain I’d be delivering the news of your demise to my father, thus breaking his shriveled heart.”
Since I had one mode of communication open to me, I squeaked.
“Your lady friend wasn’t quite as lucky as you, but she’s tough and emerged with only a broken wrist. She protested, but they carted her away to the hospital. I sent my brother with her as a guard. We thought you’d be rather angry if we left her alone.”
I clapped my paws together to sign my approval.
“For your sake, I’m grateful you seem to be aquatic. Your father has your mother mostly contained, although if she starts howling again, I’ll lose my temper.”
Almost two blocks away beyond a curve effectively blocking their view of Michietti’s, my father in his hybrid form loomed over a smaller red wolf. He held my mother in place with one of his clawed hands on the scruff of her neck while she whined and struggled in his grip.
“I come bearing a gift,” Pierina announced, holding me out in front of her. “It seems this youngling has a lucky horseshoe crammed somewhere. If you can get your lady wolf somewhat restrained—or preferably back to human—I recommend you take him to his lady friend so she might educate him on how to shift back. First shifts are so troublesome.”
Dad reared back, released my mother, and snatched me out of Pierina’s hand so fast I squeaked my alarm and struggled in his grip. He breathed wolf breath all over me and, with a croon, stroked his tongue over my face.
I wasn’t sure which was worse: corpse stew or wolf slobber.
Either unwilling or incapable of speaking English, my father snarled, jumped back to my mother, and dropped me between her front paws. I squeaked and stood, but not in time to prevent Dad from pinning me in place so my mother could have a turn bathing me with her tongue.
Enduring a tongue bath from Dad when I was human was bad enough, but Mom’s head was bigger than I was. I let out a displeased yip, twisting around so I could glare at Dad for daring to hold me hostage. Dad bared his teeth and snarled.
Okay, then. Letting the werewolf win seemed the wisest course of action, since at a fraction of their size, they could gulp me down in one or two bites. They wouldn’t—probably—but I’d already tested my luck enough for one day, so I shut up and suffered through wolf slobber in silence.
Chapter Thirty
Despite a hefty dose of xenophobia when lycanthropes were involved, the CPD didn’t need long to clue in the two raving werewolves had quieted their snarls and gone from infuriated to calm and deceptively docile. Fortunately, Pierina understood my parents’ nature and intervened before any of the cops could get too close to me.
Explaining to idiots why it was stupid to come between a mated pair of lycanthropes and their child took the vampire several minutes, but the cops stayed back, my parents stayed calm, and Mom finally decided she’d had enough of licking me and decided to use me as a pillow.
It hurt. Lacking the ability to speak, I vocalized my discomfort with a whine.
“He’s probably bruised,” Pierina interpreted. “It’s a long way down the slide to the bottom, and since he didn’t have an escort with him when he climbed out, he made the trip alone. You may want to be gentle with him—and call in someone from the CDC to have a look at him.”
“The CDC?” Dad snarled the question and dug his claws into the sidewalk. The cops flinched at the sound of stone breaking due to the abuse of an angry werewolf. “Why the CDC?”
“They’ll treat him better.” Pierina leveled a glare at the nearby cops. “These fools wouldn’t care if he lost his other eye due to their negligence. Nor would they care about you, despite your record as cops of good standing within your department. Racist, elitist wastes of good blood and air.”
I lifted my head and gaped at the vampire, stunned she’d said what I’d thought on more than one occasion.
Dad snarled and stood over me and Mom, growling with every breath. “We have a word for cops like those where we’re from.”
If Dad lost his temper and went for the cops, the cops might survive—maybe. I wiggled free of Mom’s hold on me, climbed onto her back, and jumped on my father’s chest, digging my paws into his fur and clinging to him, squeaking rebukes at him for a crime he hadn’t committed—yet. He straightened, plucking me off him and holding me at eye level. “Don’t you lecture me, you scrawny pipsqueak!”
I yipped at him to make it clear he wasn’t my boss and paddled my paws trying to swat his nose. When that didn’t do the trick, I sucked in a deep breath and made the loudest, shrillest noise I could.
Flattening his ears, Dad glared at me. “What’s your problem, pup?”
“He probably doesn’t want you ripping his former co-workers to shreds, no matter how much they might deserve it for their lack of loyalty,” Ernesto’s daughter contributed.
I really needed to have a long talk with her about fanning the flames because she thought it was fun watching people lose their tempers. Since she was turning two sets of cops against each other, she was probably having the time of her life. Sighing, I hung my head and groaned.
“He’s probably eager to check on his lady friend. He’s very fond of her—fond enough to wear a suit for her.” Pierina pouted. “He never wears suits for me.”
“We need to ask him questions,” one of the cops blurted.
Dad turned me around and held me out, keeping a firm grip on me from behind, the tips of his claws pressing against my belly. “Ask.”
“As a human.”
“Well, start talking, then. Do you know how to get him to shift back? I do not. I am a lycanthrope. He is not.”
When Dad started talking at his most formal in his hybrid shape, it meant one of two things: he really liked the person he was talking to, or he was holding onto his temper by the barest of threads. Were the cops trying to provoke him into leaving a tra
il of cop bodies? If so, they were close to succeeding.
“I thought—”
“You thought what? That he should somehow magically know how to shift back? Your ignorance is showing. Did you come out of the womb knowing how to fire a gun? No. Were you born capable of walking? No. The only shifter I know of around here you ordered off to the hospital, which is where I will be taking my son. I do not recommend getting in my way. You will not enjoy the consequences.” Dad tucked me close to his chest and growled. “Read up on your species exemption laws. They’re in the Federal code, in case you haven’t done your reading. You touch my puppy while he is hurt, and I will rip you into tiny little shreds—legally. And when I am done, I will gather your blood and offer it to the vampire you have been menacing with your pitiable excuse of an investigation. You do not care who tried to kill my pup and his mate. You are only here because you have to be.”
“You’re most considerate, Mr. Gibson,” Pierina murmured.
“Where’s my pup’s woman? If you want to ask questions, send someone there—after I make sure they’re both all right.”
In what I deemed a miracle, the cops cooperated and informed my father where they’d sent Marian.
While Dad didn’t manage to coax Mom into assuming a human form, he did convince her to take the hybrid form by using the simple and effective argument she would be better equipped to slaughter anyone who touched me if she had nice, big, lethal claws and several hundred extra pounds to work with.
Like her wolf form, my mother’s hybrid coat was red, tipped black with a splash of white across her nose. Pierina insisted on she retrieving her SUV from the nearby parking garage and driving us to the hospital—the same one I’d gone to when I’d lost my eye. The vampire had the presence of mind to warn me, and I appreciated the courtesy.
Had the news been sprung on me, I doubted I would keep my cool. I found it odd the worst of my anxiety over losing my eye manifested at the hospital. The post-operation appointments me me clammy and shaky before and after.
