The Single Undead Moms(41)
In the distance, I could make out a tall, furry shape near the tree line, at least eight feet tall, with long, apelike arms covered in reddish-brown fur. Danny gasped, and the shape’s head whipped toward us. Its yellow-gold eyes flashed in the moonlight, and I sprinted across the grass to plant myself in front of the boys.
I clamped my hand over my son’s mouth and glanced around, wondering why the other vampires didn’t seem all that alarmed by the appearance of a Bigfoot in my backyard. Dick was freaking smirking at me. You didn’t smirk in front of Bigfoot. It was just asking for trouble.
I didn’t smell anything. It seemed completely wrong that this hulking, fur-covered creature was standing upwind of us and the only scent I could detect was a touch of sweat and Polo cologne. I stepped toward it, a growl forming on my lips, and Nola put her hand on my arm, smiling gently and shaking her head. “It’s OK,” she whispered. “Really.”
What in the flaming hell was going on here? Was this some sort of weird initiation into the vampire world? Social acceptance through cryptid pranks? Reluctantly, I loosened my grip on Danny and let him wander closer to the mystery guest.
“Look at him, Mom,” he whispered reverently. “He’s real.”
“Take a picture,” Harley hissed through the hand clamped over his mouth. I noticed that he’d hung back, clutching at my shirttail and watching the proceedings from around my hip.
“Oh.” Danny fumbled with the camera, but before he could raise it and hit the right buttons, the creature let out a low sound, a cross between a moo and a bark. He—I was assuming it was a he—made a strange hand-jerk gesture toward Danny and then lumbered into the woods.
It wouldn’t do, I suppose, for Bigfoot to pose for a selfie with the birthday boy.
“Let’s go after him!” Danny said, still trying to aim his camera at the retreating Sasquatch.
“Er.” I struggled to find the right explanation that wouldn’t scare Danny but would drive home the “don’t go running off into the woods alone in the dark” lesson.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Harley supplied. “It looked like he’s just eaten and taken a crap. He’s probably off to bed. You don’t want to interrupt a Bigfoot’s bedtime, Danny. It’s dangerous.”
“Solid logic,” I told Harley.
“Harley, we’ve talked about usin’ the word ‘crap’ like that,” Wade said pointedly.
“Sorry, he’d just taken a dump,” Harley amended.
I snickered but managed to hide it with a cough. I knew how much it annoyed me when other parents found Danny’s particular brand of “forthright humor” charming.
“Aw, man!” Danny cried, snapping a photo of our now empty backyard. “I could have had photographic evidence. But Mom, he waved at me. Did you see? He waved.”
“Bigfeet love birthday parties,” I told him. “They love cookie cake. It’s a scientific fact. And you know what? It’s almost time for cookie cake and presents. How about you and Harley go inside and wash your hands?”
“OK!” Danny dragged Harley back into the house. Wade’s poor son was going to have NBA-length arms come morning.
“That was awesome,” Jane told me. “You’re totally planning Jamie’s next birthday.”
“Darling, Jamie is almost twenty-one years old,” Gabriel said as he followed her through the back door. “He’s a little mature for streamers and goodie bags.”
“But I missed so many of his birthdays!” Jane protested.
Without a word, Wade wandered toward the tree line, as if he was considering following the creature into the woods. I might have worried, but Wade struck me as a particularly capable guy, as in, when the zombie apocalypse finally happened, I expected to see him rolling through town in a tow-truck-turned-tank, picking off zombies with a potato gun modified to launch grenades. And he would probably look crazy hot while doing it. Stupid effective cheekbones.
While I contemplated this disturbing postapocalyptic image, Jed jogged around the corner of the house toward my side of the yard, shrugging back into his shirt. When he realized I was watching him, he stopped in his tracks.
“I have so many questions,” I said, shaking my head.
“So, yeah.” Jed grimaced as he finished buttoning his shirt. “I’m a shapeshifter.”
“That’s a thing?” I exclaimed.
“’Fraid so,” Jed said. “I have this little genetic quirk that lets me take on the appearance of just about any livin’ thing, real or fictional. It’s like being a werewolf but having more options. For the longest time, my family thought we were cursed, but it turns out we just happen to have a couple of extra genes thrown in. Jane and Nola thought Danny would get a kick out of it. I’m sorry for not checkin’ it out with you before. I didn’t mean to make ya uncomfortable.”