Page 103 of Hoofin’ It

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.