Page 43 of Hoofin’ It

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.”