Wolf for Hire

Chapter Ten

"Judas! Blackguard!" Phin screeched, wings flailing as feathers scattered like confetti.

"A betrayal most foul!" Ferb chimed in, his sharp voice reverberating through the car.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, my knuckles whitening. "I got you the snacks, didn't I? You'll get them when we're home. But you're not eating in the car. You'll make a mess."

Naturally, they ignored me, their indignant tirade continuing unabated.

From the back seat, Maggie—a dog with far more dignity than I had patience—watched me in the rearview mirror. She'd abandoned the front seat when Phin and Ferb seized it from her, squeezing herself into the back with all the resignation of someone who understood she'd lost the argument before it started. Her amber eyes radiated sympathy, but I could've sworn she was smirking, too.

"Deceiver! False prophet!" Phin's crest flared dramatically.

"Sworn under oath!" Ferb jabbed his beak toward the plastic bag on the floor, trying to claw at it. He wasn't going to get far; I'd double-bagged it.

"No," I muttered, my eyes flicking to the rearview. "I kept my promise. I said I'd get you snacks. But I didn't say you'd eat them now."

Phin flapped against the dashboard, loose feathers fluttering onto the console, while Ferb clicked his beak like an angry typewriter. My patience frayed, thread by thread.

They hadn't been like this after church. They'd been sweet, playful even, singing some ridiculous rhyme about snack time. That all fell apart the second we stepped into the gas station.

Maggie stayed in the car, windows cracked just enough for her to stay cool, while I dragged Phin and Ferb through the store. They immediately zeroed in on the junk food aisle, pulling items they wanted off shelves and tossing them on the floor.

"Chips!" Phin demanded, flapping toward a bag of neon-orange cheese puffs.

"No," I said, already stooping to pick up a half-dozen granola bars that had rolled off the shelf.

"Meaty sticks!" Ferb screeched, tossing a box of Slim Jims across the aisle with the enthusiasm of a toddler.

"Definitely not," I muttered, sighing as I returned the scattered snacks to their rightful places. "You've got twenty-two dollars. Let's keep it reasonable."

Phin clicked his beak, a rhythmic percussion to my rapidly fraying nerves. I grabbed a bag of trail mix and shook it. "Nuts, raisins. Healthy. What do you think?"

"Pah!" Phin turned away as if I'd handed him something foul.

Ferb's eyes lit up, and he jabbed a wing at a garnished bag of sour gummies. "Those."

"No," I said, shaking a bag of unsalted popcorn instead. "These."

They squawked in protest, but when I shook the bag again, Ferb tilted his head. "Shake it, baby, shake it," he chirped.

I stiffened, thinking he was being lewd, but then Ferb started beatboxing, mimicking the sound of the shook bag. Phin joined in, making the sound of maracas with an uncanny accuracy.

The absurdity deflated me. "Fine. Healthy and shakeable."

I started selecting snacks for the two birds, shaking the packages to pacify them. What I ended up with was a bag of unsalted Shinny Pop's popcorn, Dot's Homestyle pretzels, Mexsnax pumpkin seeds, Omega Trail Mix, and a grape fruit cup. Total: $16.48—or $18.29 with tax. That was manageable, though I was still eyeing the fridge for a drink.

My eyes drifted to the fridge section and landed on a 24 oz. White Claws for $3.25.

I did the math. $18.29 plus $3.25 with tax would put me just under $22. I could swing it.

Bad idea. Bad idea.

I grabbed a grapefruit-flavored one and headed for the checkout.

Behind the counter, the cashier—a kid barely out of high school—had his phone out, recording us with a grin that stretched ear to ear.

I shot him a withering glare. "Seriously?"

He chuckled and slid the phone into his pocket. "Sorry. My mom loves birds. Thought she'd get a kick out of this."

I dumped the snacks onto the counter, feeling my patience simmering just below the boiling point. "Just these."

The cashier raised an eyebrow at the White Claw. "That for the birds too?"

"No," I deadpanned. "That's for me, to deal with the birds."

"License?" he asked.

My stomach sank. "It's, uh... at home." I'd left it in Sandy's barn along with everything else in my purse.

I sighed and moved the beverage to the side. It was probably for the best that I didn't tempt myself with day-drinking, especially when considering how poor my tolerance for alcohol had become after contracting lycanthropy.

The cashier rolled his eyes, tap something on the screen, then scanned the can anyway.

The register beeped. Total: $21.80.

Called it.

"Thanks... Mitchell," I said, spotting his name tag as I handed over the cash.

He shrugged, dropping two dimes and the receipt into my hand. "You look like you need it." He started bagging the snacks, clearly amused. "You know, my mom used to take care of one of those African Greys. It was a rescue. We had to put him in the closet when guests came over."

I blinked. "Why?"

Mitchell grinned. "He knew a lot of racial slurs. She tried to fix it by making him watch The Lion King on repeat. But he just started calling people a 'lovely bunch of coconuts.'"

I winced. "Better than the alternative, I guess."

Mitchell double-bagged the snacks at my request, and I headed back to the car, Phin and Ferb perched on my shoulders like gremlins. They bobbed their heads in unison, reciting some off-key nursery rhyme:

"Popcorn, chips, and broccoli together!No, no, never, ever!"

Their voices grated like nails on a chalkboard, but I was too tired to care. I stuffed the bags onto the passenger seat at Maggie's feet and started the car. Phin and Ferb surrounded Maggie and began yipping and barking at her until she relinquished her seat and climbed into the back. The moment she moved, Phin and Ferb pounced on the bags, scratching at the plastic like starving vultures.

"Off," I ordered, trying to peel them away while guiding my car onto the road. "You'll wait until we're home."

And that was what got me into my current situation.

As the house came into view, I couldn't help but wonder how Patty at the church had kept them so calm for almost an hour. I'd barely lasted ten minutes before I wanted to throttle them. What did she know that I didn't? Sure, she'd looked wiped when I took them from her, but the birds had been practically singing.

I really should've read more of Sandy's book.

I scanned the driveway for JT's car and found it nowhere in sight. Good. I exhaled in relief and ushered Phin and Ferb inside, Maggie trailing dutifully behind. The birds clung to the snack bags like barnacles, their food obsession too strong for any escape attempts.

Phin nipped at my finger as I pried him loose. I glared. "Do that again, and I'll bite back."

"Mangy mutt," he squawked, and Ferb barked for good measure.

"Hey!" I snapped, but they just shuffled their feathers smugly.

In the kitchen, I opened the bags, measured out a reasonable serving into a bowl, and sealed the rest in Tupperware. I placed the bowl on the counter.

Cue the screeching.

"What now?" I sighed, rubbing my temples. "You're not getting it all at once. It's not healthy."

"Shake it, baby! Shake it," they squawked in unison.

I grabbed the Tupperware and gave it a quick, half-hearted shake, but it was enough. They launched into another beatboxing session, mimicking the sound like a pair of demented maracas.

Leaving the kitchen, I moved to the laundry room, moving my wet clothes into the dryer. The steady hum filled the background as I sank onto the couch, pulling out my phone to check the time.

Two hours. That's all it had been. Two hours to track down Phin and Ferb, deal with church, and survive the grocery store. It felt like a full day, and the exhaustion was already creeping into my bones.

A text notification glowed on the screen from JT.

Held up at work. Won't be back for a while.

Good. That gave me more time to track down the missing familiars without him catching on. Curiosity tugged at the back of my mind—whatever had paged him this morning had to be important—but I'd ask later.

I was just about to crack open the White Claw when the soft sound of paws clicking on the hardwood caught my attention. Looking up, I saw Murray, Annie, and Rudy padding into the room. They'd waited patiently while I wrangled the birds in the kitchen and were now ready to claim my attention. Rudy trotted over, his tail wagging and he placed his paws on my knee, staring up at me with bright, expectant eyes.

I dropped the unopened drink, already bracing to shove him off. "Not this again—"

Then I saw it. Sunset-orange scales shifting to pink, glowing faintly in his mouth.

"Camellia?"

Rudy beamed, tongue lolling out, and gently deposited Camellia the Chameleon into my hands. Her body shimmered, transitioning from amber to coral, almost echoing his triumphant energy. Relief washed over me as I cradled her carefully.

"Good boy, Rudy!" I ruffled the fur on the back of his head, sending ripples down his flowing mustache.

His tail wagged harder, and then—because of course he would—he started humping my leg.

"Seriously?" I hissed, shaking him off. "You couldn't just take the win?"

Camellia clung to my fingers as I got up and carried her toward her enclosure, her earlier glow dimming into something more muted. The coral deepened to a dull vermilion with sharp streaks of violet.

I paused, puzzled. Was that random, or was she reacting to me? Her colors shifted again, this time into an electric blue, the same shade of grape Gatorade. My brow furrowed. "Are you trying to tell me something?"

Camellia blinked one conical eye fixed on me, the other swiveling it lazily away.

The colors reminded me of those cheap mood rings you'd find at the mall, their hues supposedly reflecting emotions. But, if this were the case with Camellia, it would be an easy enough theory to test.

So, I thought of JT's ass—it came to mind easily. Gradually, Camellia turned a shade of hot pink.

Hypothesis confirmed.

Her enclosure caught my attention next, particularly the mirrors scattered among the branches. At first glance, they'd looked like a miniature Stonehenge, arranged artfully around her bonsai tree. But now, they seemed deliberate, like they were positioned to reflect light—or maybe emotions—toward a single focal point.

If Camellia worked like a mood ring, the mirrors might act like a satellite dish. A way for Sandy to literally "read the room".

Or maybe the Stonehenge vibe was just aesthetic. Either way, it wasn't like I was being paid to figure this out.

Which begged the question: how much was I getting paid? Had I even confirmed that with V or JT?

Not that it really mattered. My goal was to stay in Sandy's good graces long enough to find a more long-term, werewolf-proof place to live. And after meeting Solomon last night, I was sure Sandy could help with my... condition.

Still, I needed the money. I was literally down to my last two dimes.

I returned Camellia to her mirrored kingdom, watching her scales fade to a dusky purple as she nestled into the branches.

It was time to check on the other search parties.

Out in the backyard, Puddy and Rosie were waiting, their tails wagging in tandem as I approached. They must have heard the car earlier because they were practically vibrating with excitement now, their thoughts spilling over into mine in bright, eager bursts.

"You found the owls, huh?" I crouched to pet them, my hands sinking into their warm, soft fur. "Where?"

Rosie's thoughts came first, clear and sharp: the image of a massive live oak tree at the edge of the property, its sprawling branches shadowed by a parliament of owls. Their eyes gleamed in the picture she sent me, silent and judging.

"Good job, you two." My voice slipped into baby talk, earning an enthusiastic tail wag from Rosie. Puddy shoved his nose into my hand, demanding his share of attention.

Before heading out, I detoured to the barn. After the fiasco at the church, there was no way I was approaching another group of familiars without reading up on them first. Once bitten, twice shy. And forced public speaking? That left scars.

The book was right where I'd left it, by the cot in the loft. I flipped it open to the section on owls, expecting the usual stereotypes: intelligence, wisdom, maybe a note about their eerie stares. What I found instead made me rub my temples.

Legal jargon. Pages of it. And not the mystical Arcanum I'd seen before—just plain old Latin. The kind that had haunted me since my accounting law classes.

Phasing like, Respondeat superior, and, Mutatio unius partis mutationem facit totius. Behind my eyes, my headache bloomed like a fresh bruise.

The section stretched on, outlining esoteric laws, protocols, and—most maddeningly—litigious debate. Sandy's notes didn't just describe the owls as wise. They painted them as compulsive disputers of law and protocol. The kind who'd argue endlessly over a misplaced comma.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

I snapped the book shut with a groan. "Oh goddammit," I muttered, the words half-sigh, half-growl.

I needed to prepare for court.

The live oak loomed above as I approached, its sweeping branches forming a cathedral of dappled green light. Perched in a perfect semicircle on the uppermost branches, the owls turned their heads in eerie unison, their eyes gleaming with uncanny intelligence.

I adjusted my suit jacket—had to come dressed in my Sunday Best—and set the cage of mice on the ground at my feet. Sandy's notes had been clear: the owls were much smarter than most familiar, but impossible. Governed by a web of self-invented laws, they valued debate over solutions, treating every request as if it were a matter of constitutional import. Sandy had tried to beat them at their own game and failed. I couldn't afford to.

Winston, the great horned owl, regarded me from his central perch. His amber eyes burned with a sharpness that felt almost physical. When his voice came, it wasn't a sound but a presence, pressing into my mind with clipped precision.

Audibly, it sounded like a normal hoot.

Ms. Caretaker—

"Miss Avery, if you would" I corrected quickly, trying not to sound defensive.

Miss Avery, Winston amended, his mental tone unflinching. Are you attempting to bribe the House?

I set the cage of mice on the ground with deliberate care, meeting his gaze. "It's not bribery. It's lobbying. I'm advocating for legislation."

The grove rustled with waves of displeasure, the sound of feathers ruffling like dry leaves in the wind.

Lobbying, Disraeli, the snowy owl, hooted with frosty disdain. He puffed himself up. A thinly veiled attempt to subvert parliamentary integrity. Scandalous.

"That's the point," I said, folding my arms tightly to keep from clenching my fists. "I need a resolution passed promptly—help me locate the missing familiars."

The owls shifted, talons scraping against bark in a grating, discordant chorus.

Winston's wings folded neatly at his sides. Your request has been noted and will be postponed. To reconsider it now would violate Article Seventeen, Section Four, which mandates proper scheduling for appeals.

I inhaled deeply, biting back the first response that came to mind. "Emergency clause. This qualifies."

Point of order! Thurmond's slow, molasses-like drawl cut through the grove. The barred owl shifted on his perch with deliberate precision, his feathers flaring slightly. Miss Avery has already violated multiple House rules. Improper feeding schedules. Disrupting deliberations. Ignoring procedural etiquette.

He launched into a painstakingly detailed filibuster, citing passages from Sandy's notes with excruciating accuracy. Each word jabbed like a paper cut, and I could feel my patience fraying.

"Thurmond," I interrupted, my voice taut, "if your goal is to bore me into submission, it's working."

A ripple of indignant hoots swept through the grove, their collective outrage palpable.

Miss Avery, Winston's tone sharpened, cutting through the unrest. The esteemed Thurmond is exercising his right to outline the petitioner's violations. You would do well to listen.

I forced a tight smile, my jaw aching from restraint. "Violations? Let's talk about violations. I'm doing your caretaker's job while she's away. Should we go over her infractions too, or are we just roasting me today?"

Caretaker Sandy's infractions are not under review, Disraeli said smugly, his feathers bristling with self-satisfaction. But yours are numerous. Let us begin with your blatant disregard for feeding schedules.

"You ate the mice, didn't you?" I shot back, unable to keep my tone completely even. "Food is food."

You deviated from protocol! Disraeli snapped, his feathers puffing out dramatically.

"And I'm deviating now," I said, unable to keep the edge out of my voice. "Let me make this clear: I don't have time for your convoluted rules. You've made up half of them anyway."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the leaves above seemed to hold their breath.

Protocol exists for a reason, Trudeau, the screech owl, said nervously, his small frame trembling slightly. Deviating—um—disrupts the delicate balance of governance.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and exhaled slowly, willing myself to stay composed. Losing my temper wouldn't win this fight. "Enough," I said, injecting as much calm authority into my voice as I could muster. "You want to talk about governance? Fine. Let's talk about The Law of The Hand That Feeds You."

The air in the grove shifted, the rustling of feathers falling to an uneasy stillness.

"Article Six," I continued, pacing slowly, "uh... something, Six. In emergencies, resource allocation can be suspended until cooperation is ensured. So, help me find the missing familiars, or hunt your own mice."

Trudeau let out a panicked screech, his wings fluttering in alarm. Withholding provisions constitutes a breach of our resource agreement!

"Not in an emergency," I countered, though the words felt heavy in my mouth. The threat tasted bitter, but I couldn't see another way forward.

Winston flared his wings, his mental tone frosty. This borders on extortion.

"Call it whatever you want," I said, meeting his sharp gaze. "Either you help, or you starve. Your choice."

The grove seemed to hold its breath again. The owls exchanged glances—or whatever their equivalent of a glance was—a ripple of unease passing through them. For a moment, I thought I'd won.

But then Disraeli broke the silence with a disdainful huff, his feathers puffing as if to maximum volume. We refuse to cooperate under such barbaric terms.

The tension in my chest tightened like a coiled spring. They called my bluff, I couldn't push them further without risking irreparable damage. I needed them on my side. Burning bridges wouldn't help me now.

Wilkes, the barn owl, spoke unexpectedly, his voice calm and measured, cutting through the standoff like a gavel striking wood. There is another way.

Every eye—avian and human—turned toward him.

"Another way?" I asked, my tone wary but intrigued.

Seek the raven, Wilkes said, his words deliberate.

The grove erupted in a murmur of hoots and hisses. Disraeli bristled, his feathers puffing even further. He is unwell and unfit. Leave him be.

Several owls murmured their agreement, their discontent rustling through the grove like dry leaves.

I raised an eyebrow, forcing a note of humor into my voice. "What's that supposed to mean?"

You've driven him mad, Disraeli snapped, his mental tone sharp as an icicle.

I threw up my hands. "What did I do this time?"

Winston's wings shifted, his amber eyes fixed on me with a patronizing calm. You called him by a name you shouldn't have.

I blinked. "Wait—you're telling me that saying 'Nevermore' is enough to drive him mad? Or was it Edgar? Not my fault he has a dumb name."

Thurmond let out a low, deliberate chuckle, his voice like molasses. He's a raven, he drawled. Takes things to heart.

Wilkes clicked his beak sharply, cutting through the noise. Mad or not, he will help her. Caretaker Sandy would want this resolved quickly, and the raven has the intellect to aid her search. It is a reasonable compromise.

Winston ruffled his feathers, the motion slow and deliberate. Reasonable? he said, his voice laced with sharp disapproval. Ellenore made it clear the raven was not to be used for such tasks. It violates the agreement.

"Who's Ellenore?" I asked, but my question fell to the wayside as the owl continued to argue.

Ellenore's arrangement is irrelevant, Wilkes replied smoothly, his tone calm but insistent. The raven listened to her no more than he does her niece or nephew. Yet Miss Avery has achieved what they could not—he heard her. That alone merits consideration.

Oh great, I thought. Somehow, in my ignorance, I'd done something stupid again.

The owls exchanged pointed glances, hoots, and subtle head tilts, their debate slipping into a rhythm of unspoken nuances I couldn't decipher. Despite combing through Sandy's notes earlier, the entries on the raven were maddeningly vague and brief. And while I could see through Sandy's obfuscation, it was still full of cryptic references and frustrating half-thoughts.

"Okay," I cut in, pitching my voice higher to break their murmured deliberations. "Could someone explain this in a way that doesn't sound like a riddle?"

A heavy pause followed as the owls blinked at me in eerie unison.

You gave him a name, Thurmond intoned, his voice slow and deliberate. And he accepted it.

I blinked. "Yes, you mentioned that. What does it mean?"

It means he recognizes you, Wilkes said gently. The raven has not listened to Caretaker Sandy or her brother in years. But he listened to you.

"That's still not an explanation," I replied, biting back irritation.

It's the truth, Wilkes countered, his words maddeningly neutral. And the truth is often more useful than answers.

I exhaled sharply, dragging my hand through my hair. "So what's his deal, then? Why is this raven—sorry, Nevermore—such a big deal?"

Wilkes tilted his head slightly, his gaze almost... sympathetic. Ellenore took many of her secrets to the grave. What she entrusted to Caretaker Sandy, she has yet to uncover fully herself. But the raven… was the closest thing she had to a confidant.

The other owls ruffled their feathers, their collective discomfort palpable.

"Confidant? You mean he was this Ellenore's familiar?" I said, not expecting an answer, nor getting one. Great. Cryptic riddles and a moody bird. Lots of moody birds, really. This was exactly what I didn't need.

Winston lifted a wing, cutting through the growing tension. He pointed to the farthest corner of the property. You'll find him in the Rear Garden, he said curtly.

If he seems distracted, use his other name, Wilkes added quickly, drawing sharp hisses from the other owls. The one Ellenore gave him. He despises that name, but it will get his attention. After that, call upon him thrice with the name you gave him, and he'll listen to you.

I sighed. It wasn't quite the answer I was looking for, but at least this was something I could work with. "Fine," I said, straightening my suit jacket. "I'll find the raven. But don't think this conversation is over."

The owls said nothing, their collective gaze as inscrutable as ever.

Still, I wasn't about to leave things entirely sour. Wilkes had been willing to meet me halfway, and I had a rapport to maintain—or salvage. I donned the raptor glove and lifted the cage of mice, holding it up for the semicircle to see.

"Well," I said with a faint smile, "if there are no objections, shall we adjourn this meeting for lunch?"

The air cooled noticeably as I followed the path to the rear garden, a gentle contrast to the sticky warmth of the day. The garden lay in the back corner of the property, its entrance a small trail that began just behind the barn. Mist still clung stubbornly to the ground despite the noon sun, curling between the creeping rosemary and blackberry brambles that overran the area.

I paused to pluck a handful of blackberries from the bushes. I popped one into my mouth, savoring their tart sweetness. Being able to pick blackberries was perhaps one of the only redeeming qualities of summers in the south, and my brother and I had spent countless hours as children searching for bramble patches like these. Our reward, stained fingers full of splinters, and a treasured handful of berries.

As I reached for another cluster, I froze.

Gravestones.

They emerged from the undergrowth like forgotten relics, their weatherworn faces tilted askew and blotched with moss. Names—Snickers, Maxie, Princess—peeked through the vines, some accompanied by dates, others left to time's discretion. My stomach twisted as realization dawned. I'd been snacking in a pet cemetery.

After some deliberation, I decided to swallow the berries I'd already eaten, but felt no desire to eat any more. Instead, I stuck the rest in my pocket, figuring I could use them on Nevermore.

As I stepped further in, the markers grew more numerous, the atmosphere heavier. My flats crunched softly against the gravel path as I navigated through the brambles, the cool air no longer feeling so pleasant. At the heart of the clearing, an ancient oak loomed. Its gnarled branches stretched wide, and at its base stood a solitary headstone larger than the rest.

Ellenore Williams.

The name sent a little chill through me. Sandy's aunt. Of course. I should've pieced that together sooner. If not for the owls' insistent meddling, I'd have turned around and pretended I'd never seen it. The last thing I wanted was to get more entangled in Sandy's family affairs. Dealing with her pets was already harrowing enough.

My gaze lifted to the tree above the headstone. Perched on a branch high in the oak was the raven.

Nevermore—or Edgar, or whoever he fancied himself today—was perched like a brooding shadow, his black feathers gleaming in the dappled light. He muttered to himself, an erratic mix of half-formed words and garbled mimicry. His head twitched in sharp, spasmodic movements as if caught between two radio channels.

"Nevermore," I called out, my voice cutting through the eerie stillness.

Nothing. He kept muttering, his attention still fractured.

"Edgar?"

The raven froze mid-mutter. The chill in the air deepened, the mist thickening as if stirred by an unseen breath. Slowly, Nevermore turned, his black eyes glinting with a startling intelligence that made my stomach twist.

"Speak not the name, speak not the name," muttered the raven, his voice more human-like now.

I hesitated, my breath catching as the atmosphere thickened. Calling upon Ellenore's familiar felt more dangerous than I'd anticipated, but I pressed on.

"Nevermore, listen to me."

The raven clawed angrily and beat his wings. The mist thickened, and the breeze became a gust. Leaves swirled around me, carrying faint whispers I couldn't quite catch.

"Wait! Nevermore, I need your help."

The whispers grew louder, their incoherent words crawling under my skin. Wind whipped hair into my face and the cold bit at my cheeks.

"Damn it, Nevermore!" I snapped, clutching my jacket tighter. "Stop being so goddamn dramatic!"

And then, everything stopped.

The wind died. The whispers silenced. The chill lifted, leaving the air unnervingly still.

"So is that like, your quirk something? Making everything go all edgy and creep—what the!"

The raven swooped down upon me and began ruthlessly pecking me, jabbing his sharp beak into my head and the hands I threw up to protect myself.

"Blasted woman!" he bellowed, his wings smacking me in the face. "Will you not let the dead rest?"

I stumbled back, caught off guard by the sudden assault. "What the hell are you talking about. You seem pretty alive to me!"

"Do I?" He circled around before landing on a lower branch, his feathers bristling. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

I folded my arms and blew hair out of my face, unwilling to be cowed by a bird, even one this theatrical. "Yeah, I finally got your attention."

His screech split the air, sharp enough to make me wince. "You will dismiss me this instant!"

"Dismiss you?" I scoffed. "You live here!"

He launched toward me, his speed unnervingly precise. "I don't mean the bird, you imbecile! I'm talking about myself—the spirit you summoned into this wretched bird!"

I ducked as he swooped low, claws brushing my shoulder. "Summoned? I don't even know what you're talking about!"

Nevermore wheeled sharply, his wings beating furiously. "You summoned me with a name! And bound me thrice!"

"Oh, come on," I snapped, batting at him as he dive-bombed again. "That's just bad movie logic!"

He landed heavily on my shoulder, his claws digging into my shirt as he delivered a series of sharp pecks to my head. "Do not mock the forces you so clearly do not understand!"

"Will you quit it?" I yelled, swiping at him ineffectively. "I didn't even mean to—ow! Okay, that's it!"

Reaching up, I grabbed him mid-peck, holding him at arm's length. He squawked furiously, his wings a flurry of black as they flapped against my grip.

"You will release me!" he commanded, his voice low and imperious. The dramatic tone might have carried weight if he weren't a two-pound bird.

"Not until you stop acting like a psychotic parrot!" I shot back, giving him a small shake for emphasis.

His flapping slowed, and he fixed me with a long, piercing stare. The indignation in his eyes softened—just slightly—into something wearier. Then he let out a sigh, long and drawn-out, his wings going slack.

"Very well," he muttered, his tone laced with begrudging resignation. "Compose yourself, madam. There is much to discuss."

I hesitated, then carefully set him down on a low branch. He ruffled his feathers indignantly, but the hostility had ebbed, replaced by an air of tired superiority.

"Look," I began, brushing stray twigs from my jacket. "Nevermore—or Edgar, or whatever—you're talking to the wrong person if you think I'm some kind of witch. I'm just helping Sandy take care of her familiars. "

The raven's head tilted, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Little Sandra has a human friend? How quaint." His beak clicked with disdain. "Where is she? And Ellenore? I have complaints about her hired help."

"Sandy's out of town," I said evenly. "Some kind of emergency." I hesitated before adding, "And Ellenore... she's dead. Sandy inherited the house." I gestured toward the gravestone.

Nevermore froze, his wings lowering slightly as his gaze flicked to the headstone. The haughty edge in his voice faltered. "Ellenore is... deceased?" His feathers settled as if weighed down by the realization. "How? How long?"

"I don't know the details," I replied carefully, wary of the sudden shift in his demeanor. "It's July 2023, if that helps."

He stilled completely, the sharp glint in his eyes dimming. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost hollow. "Fifteen years. It's been fifteen years."

"Since you were last summoned?"

"Yes."

The weight in his tone surprised me. For all his pomp and vinegar, there was something deeply human in his sorrow.

"You and Ellenore were close, huh?" I asked cautiously.

A bitter laugh crackled in his throat. "Close? Hardly. Not for someone who so unceremoniously pulled me from the grave. No, this bird—her familiar—was my prison. She shackled me to this wretched creature so I could help."

"Help with what?"

"Her dreadful poetry. Her endless need to talk." His voice grew softer, tinged with something I couldn't quite place. "And to watch over her precious little Jacky."

"Jacky?" I blinked, the name catching me off guard. "You mean JT?"

He tilted his head, his feathers ruffling faintly. "Oh, he goes by that now? How is he?"

A small smile tugged at my lips. "Yeah. He's doing well. Almost a licensed vet now. Quite the looker, but, uh... don't tell him I said that."

Nevermore chuckled, the sound rasping and dry. "Splendid. He actually went through with it."

"He wanted to be a vet that long?" I asked, caught off guard by the note of fondness in his tone.

"Sure, sure," he murmured, voice drifting into something wistful. "I daresay I'd like to see the man he's become."

I studied him, my curiosity deepening. For all his theatrics, there was a weight behind his words that I couldn't ignore. "You're not just some random spirit, are you?"

"Random?" He puffed up, feathers bristling with affront. "Madam, I am anything but. Do you not realize the significance of a name invoked thrice? Ellenore bound me with one for a reason."

A flicker of unease passed through me. "She summoned you with 'Edgar,' didn't she? She meant to call Poe."

He let out a sharp, derisive caw. A mirthful laugh. "Of course she did. But summoning spirits isn't as simple as reciting a name. Instead of the great Edgar Allan Poe, she got me. Ha!"

I frowned. "And who are you, exactly?"

His feathers settled slightly, and he tilted his head, fixing me with one dark, gleaming eye. "Even if I did remember who I was, I wouldn't tell a soul. Lest I besmirch what little reputation I had in life—traipsing around as a dumb bird."

"So... it's okay if I keep calling you Nevermore?"

He sighed, wings drooping with resignation. "It's a much better name for a raven than Edgar, I'll admit."

"Glad we're on the same page," I said, still smiling despite myself. "Now, about the reason I called you here… I am trying to find a dog."

"A... dog?" he interrupted, his beak hanging slightly ajar. "You summoned me for a dog? Surely, you're joking?"

"Look, I only summoned you here because of the owls," I replied, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. "I haven't a clue what is going on with you, or what I may have done, let alone how to dismiss you. I'm just trying to find a missing familiar."

His head drooped, and he muttered under his breath. "Figures. Fifteen years, and I'm summoned by accident for a dog."

"And a snake too. Though we can ignore the spider. I'm actually hoping he's gone."

"Oh goody," said Nevermore, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

"Well," I said, digging into my jacket pockets, "if it makes you feel any better... I brought blackberries."