Hoofin’ It: A Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count) Read online

  “I don’t have a spare stall.”

  “They had her hogtied with duct tape on the back seat of their car. And the one cop was going to shoot her for spitting on him.”

  There was a long moment of silence. “You manipulative brat. Fine. You’ll clean up after her without complaint, and you’ll be in charge of my horses for the next twenty business days as payment for your room and board. Her fleece is also mine. You can’t have any of it. I expect you to clean and take care of her so I get the most spectacular fleece. Am I understood?”

  Knitters. I could talk them into just about anything with a bribe of soft yarn. I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed. “Yes, Mom.”

  Chapter Two

  I drove most of the night before I found a roach motel willing to look the other way when I told the desk clerk I needed to bring in an alpaca for a much needed bath. Securing a reservation took a lot of patience and a bribe of a hundred bucks, much to my disgust. It was a good thing I wasn’t a cop anymore because I was pretty sure I was violating health codes in some fashion or another. Mom would turn a blind eye; she liked animals almost as much as she liked yarn, and it hadn’t taken her long to figure out I was bringing home a living supply of yarn fiber.

  One thing would have to change, though: at the rate I was spending money on an animal that didn’t even like me, I’d blow through my disability pay within a month.

  In the best-case scenario, it’d be a year before I could reapply to join the force for any form of field job; in a few months, I could apply for a desk job. Unless I could afford a custom glass eye, one able to grant me clear vision, my days in the field were over. Since I didn’t have a spare two million kicking around, I’d have to put an end to my pity party and hunt down some form of meaningful work.

  According to my insurance company, my right eye had a dollar value of fifteen thousand, paid out by the city of Chicago. I also got paid medical leave for two months; if I passed the rest of my physical, I’d get the lowest paying desk job my chief could find. The only good news was I didn’t have to pay taxes on my income until after my leave ended. I sighed, shook my head, and led my four-legged companion out of the van, keeping a tight hold on her halter so she wouldn’t make a break for freedom.

  Neither one of us liked the next four hours of our lives, which involved her standing in the rust-stained bathtub while I cleaned blood out of her fur, used a flea comb to check her fleece for any unwanted hitchhikers, and otherwise transformed her from a disheveled mess to a silky beauty.

  I took my time cutting away the duct tape, trying to do as little damage to her coat as possible. Ice helped; chilling the adhesive reduced its effectiveness, which let me pick off the fibers bit by bit. If the motel didn’t like me decimating their ice supply, they’d have to deal with it. For the rate I paid for the room, I deserved it delivered in a silver bucket.

  Before I finished grooming her, she fell asleep on the bathroom floor, so I covered her with the spare towel and took a shower. It took me an hour to get the gunk out of my hair and feel clean. I barely had enough life left in me to stagger to the bed and flop onto it.

  Waking up with an alpaca using me as a pillow wasn’t my idea of a good time. Her front legs stretched across my chest while her hind legs flopped across my knees. As though worried I’d escape, she was using my forehead as a chin rest.

  Maybe she was warm, soft, and fluffy, but she was heavy, had a drooling habit, and snored worse than my father.

  When I had told my mother I was going to teach my alpaca to sleep with me in bed, I’d been joking. Groaning, I squirmed from beneath the sleeping animal, who didn’t budge an inch, much to my relief. According to my phone, I had an hour to clean the room and leave. I checked the bathroom and discovered the alpaca had a rather negative opinion of the bathtub. While I agreed with her, I grimaced during the cleanup, grateful for the nearby trash can.

  Hopefully, the roach motel staff would realize cleaning a clogged toilet was worse than emptying a plastic bag full of alpaca crap. Besides, the front desk clerk had gotten an extra hundred to deal with any problems.

  I resolved to ignore my guilt, cleaned the rest of the room, and petted the alpaca to wake her up.

  Sleepy alpacas enjoyed cuddling; I spent ten minutes trying not to laugh while she determined she was too big to fit on my lap. It took work and a bribe of grain to get her moving, but she scrambled into the van readily enough, and since she was behaving, I laid down the back seat to give her some extra space. I secured her lead to the bracket to keep her out of the front, and she seemed happy to stretch out and take another nap.

  Two days later, I pulled into my parents’ driveway in Lincoln, Nebraska. With a population of over two hundred thousand, there was always a need for cops, even crazy ones like my mother and father. But even the police departments of major cities like Chicago wanted someone like Dad on the force.

  Werewolves with perfect control over all three of their forms were few and far between. Add in Mom’s skills as a practitioner and hedge witch, and my parents were a force to be reckoned with. Alone, neither were powerful, ranking low on the talent charts, but they were good at their tricks, and their skills were ideal for law enforcement.

  I, on the other hand, had been the token low talent freak on the force with a good cop pedigree. Chicago’s police department had ignored my general lack of magic in exchange for my memory for detail, my ability to work with just about anyone, and tolerance for the jobs most didn’t want.

  My alpaca pressed her nose to the window and slobbered all over the glass.

  “There’s a paddock in the back with your name all over it,” I promised, killing the engine and stretching with a tired groan. Driving hadn’t done me any good, and my left eye ached from the strain of checking my blind spots, which I suspected was more than double the effort it had used to be. Each day, I’d developed a headache within an hour, and my current one would persist for another four or five before easing. I had made it halfway around the van to let my fluffy companion out when a dark shape barreled off the porch.

  Great. Dad was running around on all fours, almost as furry as my alpaca. Since I’d lost my right eye, I’d remastered distances and depth perception, allowing me to plant my boot on my father’s chest before he could plow into me. “No. Bad wolf. You will not slobber on me. You will not chew on me, either. You will also not terrify my—”

  The alpaca screamed like she was being eaten alive.

  I sighed. “Go back in the house and think about what you’ve done.”

  For once in his life, my father obeyed with a whine, scurrying to the front door with his tail tucked between his legs.

  Apparently, alpacas really didn’t like wolves, and she kept screaming until he disappeared, and even then, she trembled so much I worried her legs wouldn’t hold her up. I stroked her nose and cooed at her, untying her lead line and taking firm hold of her halter. “Dad’s sorry he frightened you. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll change to his human shape and stop being a terror.”

  It took me over twenty minutes to convince her she wasn’t going to be eaten, but she refused to get out of the van, forcing me to pick her up and carry her. A hundred and ten pounds of squirming alpaca was a lot to hold, but I managed to haul her all the way to the paddock and let her loose without getting spit on, bitten, or kicked.

  It turned out miracles could actually happen.

  With wide eyes and ears perked forward, she explored the paddock, sniffing at the grass and taking curious nibbles.

  “That’s the damned most skittish critter I’ve ever done seen, boy,” my father growled. “What you doin’ bringin’ a furry chicken to my barn?”

  “I’d be skittish, too, if a corpse decided to crash through the windshield of the car I was riding in. While hogtied with duct tape in the back seat. She’s had a rough few days. It doesn’t help you’re a wolf. She’s an alpaca. You know, a prey species?”

  “So that’s the thing your mom’s turni
ng into yarn?”

  “I’ll find her a new home in twenty business days, I promise.”

  “Son.” Dad’s voice dripped scorn. “You brought a furry chicken to my barn.”

  “She wants to keep my alpaca, doesn’t she?”

  “Little thing’s name’s Sally, and your mom’s done made me build an extra stall in my barn, boy.”

  “I already told Mom I was training the alpaca to keep my bed warm.”

  “There’ll be no furry chickens sleepin’ in my house.”

  In normal families, the werewolf would be the one off his rocker. How was it I had the only sane lycanthrope in the state of Nebraska for my father while my mother was the crazy hedge witch? “Her name’s not Sally.”

  “Your mom says otherwise.”

  “She’s my alpaca. I get to name her.”

  “Better name her Sally, then, else your mom’s gonna be skinning your hide. And you’re damn lucky Sally’s got white fleece because your mom’s already gone and ordered her next batch of dyes. So help me, if she decides she needs more of those furry chickens…”

  “I’ve had a long drive, Dad. Can we talk about this later?”

  “You got Sally’s food in that van of yours?”

  I sighed. “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, haul it on out then, boy. Don’t leave poor Sally waitin’ for her supper. Horses are already fed and bedded down for the night, so you can start your work in the mornin’. Now, hurry on up and get your ass in the house so I can have my supper.”

  Maybe my father had the strength and endurance of an ox, but I ranked a lot lower on the totem pole, and it served him right to wait. I took twice as long as needed to settle Sally. The alpaca didn’t seem too enthused about her new name, turning her ears back enough I kept a wary eye on her so I wouldn’t get spit on again.

  Hopper and Skunk seemed happy to see me, whinnying and bobbing their heads when I led Sally to her new stall. Either Dad had no idea how large an alpaca was or Mom had demanded a palace, because the new addition offered plenty of space for a Clydesdale.

  “What’s the holdup?” Dad bellowed from the house.

  “Revenge tastes a lot like dinner,” I informed the old horses, who bobbed their heads and lipped at me in bids for attention. Spending five more minutes stroking them resulted in my father prowling into the barn in his hybrid form, towering over seven feet tall.

  While my father’s head was shaped like a massive wolf’s and he had a long, fluffy tail, his resemblance to his canine form ended there. Thick fur covered his body, his oversized legs and feet supporting a muscular torso with long, thick arms, and hands equipped with long claws sharp enough to easily decapitate someone.

  I’d heard of fainting sheep but never a fainting alpaca. Then again, the first time I’d seen my father in his hybrid form, I’d learned how potent smelling salts were and why they were used to restore someone to consciousness. I’d been four or five at the time, and it was one my first memories. Sally thumped over, and I sighed, opening the door to check on the poor animal.

  Her heart raced a mile a minute, and I realized the clever little beast was playing dead. “Dad, so help me, if you keep scaring my poor alpaca, I’m going to find out if you regenerate nearly as fast as you think you do. Don’t make me remind you that Mom wants an eyeball in a jar for her desk.”

  “I’m hungry,” my father growled.

  “And you just added an extra ten or twenty minutes to my work by trying to terrify the life out of my alpaca. I’ll come in as soon as I’m sure she’s not going to have a heart attack. Go in the house, and for fuck’s sake, at least be human for supper. You know Mom hates when you drool on her tablecloth.”

  “Furry chicken.”

  When my father was in his hybrid form, there was only one way to deal with him: with violence. Rising to my feet, I stepped out of Sally’s stall, closed the door, and cracked my knuckles. “I’m going to count to ten, Dad. If you aren’t in the house by the time I’m done, I’m going to use you as a punching bag for a while. I haven’t been to the gym in a month, and I could use the exercise. Once I’m done beating the sense back into you, I’m going to get Mom’s shears so she can card your fur and turn it into yarn. That should keep her busy for at least a week. I’ll even be nice and buy her the bleaches and dyes she needs and suggest she use the garage as her workshop.”

  My father’s ears turned back and he bared his teeth at me. His dark eyes took on a faint silvery gleam, and he licked his tongue over his three inch long incisors. A better man would’ve started counting.

  I hammered my knuckles between his eyes hard enough he yipped and staggered. My second blow caught him underneath the chin and floored him. With a wince-worthy thump, my father crashed onto his back, his arms and legs twitching. I nudged him with my boot and was rewarded with a groan.

  My hand throbbed, and I hoped I hadn’t broken anything attempting to beat sense into his thick skull.

  In his hybrid form, Dad weighed between four and five hundred pounds, so I grabbed one of the hauling chains hanging from the wall, secured it around his feet, and hooked it to the tractor. After snagging Mom’s new electric shears from the tack shed, I dragged Dad to the front porch. I checked on Sally, and when she seemed like she’d be fine, I went to work before Dad woke up and stopped me.

  Sometimes I loved my life.

  Without his fur, my dad looked like an oversized mole rat with a steroid addiction and a gym membership. Gathering his precious fur in several garbage bags, I hauled them into the kitchen and showed them to my mother. “I come bearing a gift, Mom.”

  “What have you done now?”

  “I found your electric shears in the tack shed, so I thought I’d take them on a test drive.”

  Her eyes widened. “You sheared Sally already?”

  Grinning, I replied, “Not quite.”

  The moment realization of what I’d done dawned on my mother, her eyes bulged, she grabbed one of the bags, and peeked inside. “Your dad really let you shear his fur? How on Earth did you manage that? You darling boy. It really is Christmas.”

  “Let is a really strong word.”

  Mom stared at the three bags before turning her gaze to me. “I should be scolding you for this, Shane. I raised you better. Yet…”

  “Yet you have three bags of Dad’s fur to card and spin into yarn. I’ll even buy all the bleaches and dyes you need so it can be just the right colors for your knitting adventures.”

  My mother’s eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “I truly have the best son.”

  I set my offerings at her feet and kissed her cheek. “I left him on the porch. I’m sure his concussion will heal after he shifts a few times.”

  “You’re grounded. As punishment, you must eat your supper. Then you’ll bring Sally into the house to begin her indoor training. Bad Shane. Don’t do it again.”

  The infuriated howl from outside promised a great deal of trouble, but I laughed all the way to the table, where I dropped onto my seat and waited for the fireworks. Angry werewolves scared sane folks, but only an idiot accused my family of sanity. The sight of the oversized mole rat invading her kitchen reduced Mom to helpless laughter. She slid to the floor, leaning against her cabinets, chortling so hard tears streaked down her cheeks.

  “Shane.” My father snarled and snapped his teeth at me.

  Maybe leaving a little bikini of fur to preserve his dignity hadn’t been the best move. The bikini challenged my ability to keep my expression calm and neutral. “You’re in great shape, Dad. Have you been working out at the gym lately? You’ve got some nice muscle tone. That’s a pretty spectacular six pack you’ve got.”

  “Shane!”

  “That said, I’m pretty sure fur-lined bikinis went out of style years ago.”

  My mother whimpered and clapped her hands over her mouth, her shoulders shaking as she struggled to regain her composure. It wouldn’t work, not this time. No matter what my father said, I’d break one or both of them, and I’d en
joy every minute of it.

  If I was digging my own grave, at least I’d make my death memorable.

  At the rate my father huffed and puffed, he’d blow the house down or rupture something. “Shane Abraham Gibson, give me one reason why I shouldn’t tear you limb from limb and drape your dripping corpse from my porch rail.”

  “Secretly, you’re proud your son dropped you in two hits and kept you down long enough to gift his wonderful mother with sufficient fur to keep her busy for a week. I just gave you a week of peace and quiet. I wasn’t even armed, and I didn’t scrape my knuckles, either. You should be thanking me.”

  Wailing, my mother writhed on the floor, kicking her feet. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve worried she was having a seizure. “Fur-lined bikini,” she gasped.

  Maybe the fur-lined bikini had been a good move after all. If my mom kept laughing so hard, she’d pass out, and I’d be able to eat dinner without interruption, as my father would spend the rest of the evening shifting between his three forms to grow his fur back.

  “Patsy,” Dad growled.

  “Fur-lined bikini,” she countered, as though her words somehow justified her inability to contain her laughter. In some ways, it did.

  Howling, my father scooped my mother off the floor with one arm and bounced out of the kitchen. She squealed. Between giggles I could hear across the house, she called, “I’ll put the leftovers in the fridge before bed, Shane.”

  I really didn’t want to know what my parents were doing, but if I stayed in the house, I’d find out. A quick check of the stove determined Mom had made beef stew. After careful consideration, I grabbed a few apples from the fruit basket and headed out to the barn.

  Hopefully, Sally wouldn’t mind some company, because the paper thin walls of the old farmhouse had been half the reason I’d fled to Chicago in the first place. There were simply some things a man didn’t want to hear, and male werewolves didn’t lose their virility with age.