Wolf for Hire

Chapter Eleven

The woods were quieter than I remembered. Maybe it was the daylight, or maybe it was the exhaustion pressing down on me like a fog. Retracing the wolf's path wasn't hard—I remembered it too well. Letting the wolf take the wheel last night had kept me conscious, but it left me drained. Safe to say, I hadn't gotten more than an hour of sleep.

Nevermore perched on a low branch, his sharp black eyes tracking my every step. "Wouldn't it be wiser to ask your neighbors if they've seen this Boden?" he asked, his voice slicing through the stillness. "A dog like the one you've described couldn't go unnoticed."

I sighed, brushing a low-hanging branch out of my way. "I don't want anyone else knowing the familiars are missing."

"And why not?" he pressed. "Wouldn't that make this search significantly easier?"

I shot him a sidelong glance. "Because JT doesn't even know. If he finds out, I'm dead."

His head tilted, feathers ruffling in that way he did when appraising something unpleasant. "Let me ensure I have this correct. Little Sandra, now all grown up, is absent. You, her stand-in, appointed by her brother, has misplaced several of her familiars—including this Boden—and yet refuses to inform anyone who might assist in their recovery." He paused, clicking his beak thoughtfully. "A fascinating strategy."

"It's not like that," I said, my tone sharper than intended. "I'm handling it. I've already found most of them."

He let out a low, skeptical caw. "Handling it... by traipsing through the woods with a possessed raven, rather than employing the help of others or the resources available in this very house?"

I stopped walking, turning to glare at him. "Okay, first of all, it's working. Second, I've got a system."

"A system?" His wings shifted, the movement dripping with mockery. "Enlighten me."

I hesitated. "I have a good sense of smell."

Nevermore stared at me for a long moment, the silence sharper than any insult. Finally, he let out a soft, derisive caw. "Color me skeptical, but a human nose isn't that capable, last I checked. What's really going on?"

My mouth tightened. "That depends. Can you keep a secret?"

His head tilted further, a glint of intrigue flickering in his eye. "I'll take it to my grave."

"Not exactly comforting," I muttered, pushing past another branch. "Considering you're already dead."

His chuckle was dry, rattling like brittle leaves. "Fair point. If it eases your mortal anxieties, you may bind me with an oath. I am now your familiar, after all, and bound to your service. Command me, and I will keep your secret."

"You're actually bound to keep it?"

"Indeed." He puffed out his chest, clearly relishing his self-importance. "It's one of the perks of having a familiar as intelligent as I. We make excellent confidants."

I stopped walking again, meeting his gaze. "Fine. Swear you won't tell anyone."

He dipped his head with theatrical flair. "I swear. No word of your secret shall pass my lips."

"Or beak," I added, lifting an eyebrow.

He sighed, a long-suffering sound. "...Or beak."

I glanced around, making sure we were alone before speaking. "I'm a werewolf."

Nevermore blinked, his head jerking slightly like he needed to reset himself. "Ah. Of course. Though, for clarification, are we talking more of an Underworld werewolf or a Twilight werewolf?"

"Ugh, more Twilight, I guess—wait. That's it? No shock? No disbelief?"

He clicked his beak, sounding almost amused. "Miss Avery, I'm a ghost in a bird. Suspension of disbelief is no longer a concern."

"How do you even know what Twilight is? Those movies didn't come out until the 2010s. Or did you read the books? Wait. How does a bird read books?"

"They were read to me," he said. "By Sandy. She was enthralled by them in grade school."

"She and I both," I muttered to myself.

"Besides," he continued smoothly, "I've seen stranger things. Though, I suppose this revelation explains a few things."

"Like what?"

"Like why you're avoiding anyone who could actually help," he said. "And why you're so inexplicably determined to solve this on your own. Do Sandy and JT know about your... condition?"

I sighed, crossing my arms. "Sandy doesn't know. JT doesn't know. And they don't need to. I've got this handled."

He clicked his beak thoughtfully. "Curious. And you've been managing this... situation solo? No guidance?"

"I've done fine," I snapped, more defensively than I intended. "I don't turn into a monster or anything. Just a regular wolf. One that doesn't mind eating dog food. If it weren't for my apartment's no-pet policy, I wouldn't even be in this mess."

"Fascinating," he murmured, his tone dipping into genuine curiosity. "A bit different from the lycanthropy I'm familiar with, but I suppose the term is rather broad."

I raised a brow. "And what kind are you familiar with?"

He adjusted his perch, claws scraping softly against the bark. "Several varieties. Some rooted in the occult, others biological. But I suspect your case falls under the... occult category."

"Wait—biological lycanthropy?" I echoed, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," Nevermore replied, his tone smooth and matter-of-fact. "A form of infectious madness spread by the bite of an afflicted beast, or by consuming human flesh. It drives the victim into an animalistic rage and a wasting madness."

I snorted. "So, rabies or Creutzfeldt–Jakob disease. Got it."

The raven clicked his beak in begrudging agreement. "One of many names, yes. The symptoms do align, but let's not reduce every myth to mundane science, shall we?"

"Well, I don't have rabies," I said dryly, stepping over a gnarled root. "And I haven't eaten anyone. Pretty sure I'd remember that. What about the occult kind?"

"That," he said, fluffing his feathers slightly, "is the lycanthropy you're likely familiar with—an infectious curse. A bite that physically and mentally transforms the victim into a ravenous beast."

"An infectious curse," I muttered to myself. "Do you have to be bitten to get it?"

"Typically, yes. The strongest curses require a physical anchor. It can be the bite and the saliva, but blood is more common. It can be delivered by a bite or through a wound. Sometimes it's through consumption—like with vampirism—or a cursed object, such as an amulet or reliquary."

I hesitated. "So, vampires are real too?"

"Why wouldn't they be?" Nevermore asked, as though the question itself were absurd.

I rolled my eyes. "Fine, but what if you weren't bitten? How else could you get a curse like lycanthropy?"

He paused, considering. "If there's no bite, the source must be something equally binding. A curse needs an anchor—a mark, an object, or even a ritual."

I trudged over a tangle of roots, my flats crunching on dried leaves. "What about a tattoo?"

Nevermore's head swiveled toward me, his eyes gleaming with sudden curiosity. "A tattoo?"

"Yeah." I shot him a wary glance. "I got one while drunk. Around the same time this whole—", I waved my hand in a circle, "—situation started. Could a tattoo be cursed?"

"May I see it?"

"It's on my ass," I deadpanned. "So, no."

He let out a sigh, his wings fluttering as if to say I was being unreasonable. "Do you remember when or how you got this tattoo? Was there anything peculiar about it—or about the person who gave it to you?"

I faltered mid-step. Memories—or rather, the lack of them—screeched to the forefront. Three blackout days in March. One moment I was getting hammered at my sister's bachelorette party, the next, I woke up stark naked in the middle of the woods with a brand-new tattoo.

My silence must have spoken volumes.

"You sought my insight," Nevermore pressed, his voice sharper now. "And I am sworn to secrecy. Tattoos are often used in magic."

Groaning, I stopped walking and turned my back to him. "Fine." I tugged my waistband down just enough to reveal the mark. "Happy now?"

Nevermore hopped closer on the branch, leaning in to study it.

"Well?"

He said nothing.

"Ugh, Nevermore, what do you think?"

"It's a lovely posterior," he said breezily.

"Goddammit, Nevermore." I yanked my skirt back up, glaring at him. "The tattoo. What do you think of the tattoo?"

"Apologies," he said, sounding utterly unapologetic. He cleared his throat. "It's... ornate. Flourishes, I'd say. Seems fairly ordinary."

I frowned. "Flourishes? You mean the jagged lines? And what about the pentagram in the center?"

He tilted his head, feathers fluffing slightly. "What pentagram?"

I froze, then pointed at my back in frustration. "The one in the middle of the damn thing."

"Hmm," he mused, his tone turning thoughtful. "I believe we're seeing two very different things."

I stared at him, trying to process. "Hold up. Are you saying it looks different to you?"

"I can't say for certain," he replied smoothly, "as I don't know what you're seeing. But what I saw clearly looked like a feather flourish."

A memory resurfaced—Solomon's words about Arcanum being obfuscated to look like something mundane. "Could a tattoo be disguised with magic?" I asked.

Nevermore preened, clearly enjoying the topic. "It's possible. Magic is as flexible as the practitioner's imagination. But creating a cursed tattoo is already difficult. And to disguise it? For a subtle curse, that seems practical. Hides the source. But for something as subtle as a lycanthropic curse, it seems a little… pointless."

I shifted uncomfortably. "Maybe it was meant to hide it from me."

"Obviously not, if you can in fact see the real thing," he said pointedly.

"Well, I can't look at it directly," I muttered. "I have to use a mirror. Maybe that has something to do with it."

He tucked his wings neatly, his gaze sharpening. "Yes, I suppose that would make sense. But that raises a more pressing question: What purpose would it serve? Why go through all that effort for someone so... no offense, Miss Avery, but you seem rather... ordinary."

"Thanks," I muttered dryly.

"If your hypothesis is correct," he continued, "the intent may not have been to hide it from you, but from someone—or something—else."

I raised an eyebrow. "Like who?"

"Oh, I wouldn't know," he said, his tone turning breezy and maddeningly unhelpful. "But isn't it fun to imagine?"

No, no it was not.

What it suggested was that my so-called "simple case" of lycanthropy was anything but. It meant that this wasn't some random wolf bite, like in most movies, but something more deliberate—premeditated. And others would be involved. The implications were enough to set my brain buzzing in all the wrong ways, so I latched onto the next logical question to push the thoughts aside.

"How would someone even go about creating something like that?"

"Assuming it is cursed, of course," Nevermore began, his tone laced with curiosity, "the process wouldn't be subtle. Especially if you're overlaying two effects: the curse and the obfuscation. As for the method, I haven't the faintest idea. But, I wouldn't be surprised if mundane tattooing instruments were involved. The ink and the design, or, at least, the intention behind the design, would be the critical elements."

I pushed aside a tangle of brambles. "What about Sandy? Would she know anything about magic tattoos? She can apparently obfuscate Arcanum, albeit not very well."

"Ah, Sandra," he murmured, his voice dipping into something almost fond. "I can't speak to what she's learned since I was last summoned. But what Ellenore would have taught her focused more on speaking than writing."

"So, Ellenore used spoken-word magic?"

Nevermore nodded, his feathers fluffing. "Compulsions, commands—words imbued with intent. She crafted them meticulously and tested them... on me, mostly, and others."

I stopped short, giving him a wary glance. "Others?"

"She occasionally required a human test subject," he said lightly, though his tone carried an edge, like an echo of something he'd rather leave buried. "Words can be powerful, Miss Avery. Even normal ones. Ellenore understood that well."

I thought back to the Arcanum words I'd learned, rattling them off in my mind: Sit, stay, come, speak, listen, and he—

Nevermore squawked sharply, his wings flapping wildly. "Bloody hell, don't string them like that! And why are you projecting them?"

"Projecting?"

"You weren't speaking," he said, his tone sharp with unease. "You were projecting your thoughts. Direct communication."

I blinked. "I've been able to do that with animals since this werewolf thing started."

He clicked his beak thoughtfully. "Fascinating. Compulsions and commands are far more potent when projected."

"Would it work on humans?"

"Only if they can receive thoughts," he replied, his voice measured. "Most can't. Humans aren't built for that. And those who are often find it... burdensome."

I swallowed hard. "Is that why being around dogs makes me feel what they feel?"

"Likely," he said, his gaze sharpening. "A transmitter can also function as a receiver. Two-way communication."

"Huh. You really like radios, don't you?"

"They fascinate me," he said simply, preening his feathers.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Grateful for the shift in focus, I pressed on. "So, does Sandy have the same kind of magic as Ellenore?"

"Doubtful," Nevermore replied, his feathers settling. "The Sandra I remember lacked Ellenore's knack for compulsion. But not for wordplay. And it's clear from what I've observed—your use of Arcanum—that she's learned a few things under her aunt's tutelage."

"JT said they were like mother and daughter," I offered, stepping over a root and adjusting my pace.

"Indeed, they were close," he said, his tone softer now, almost wistful. "Much closer than little Jacky ever was with Ellenore."

I frowned. "JT wasn't close to her?"

"No, Jacky loved her too," he replied, "but he didn't quite have the same patience for Ellenore's... eccentricities. Nor did he possess his sister's talents. Smart lad though."

I hesitated before asking, "Then what about you? Why hasn't Sandy or JT tried to summon you in fifteen years?"

"Oh, they've tried. At least, Sandra tried." Nevermore said with a dry chuckle. "Ellenore ensured they couldn't. I asked her to. She made it so her raven wouldn't hear their voices. Let me have my rest. Though..." He paused, fluffing his feathers. "He'd tune in from time to time. That's just his nature. Annoying, really."

I frowned, frustration prickling at the back of my mind. "But he listened to me. Why?"

Nevermore shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. "Perhaps your ability to project thoughts found a chink in the enchantment. Or maybe, with Ellenore gone, it's weakened. And that those damn owls having you invoke me on hallowed ground, well, it sealed the deal."

"Lucky me," I muttered.

"Quite," he replied, a hint of amusement in his voice.

As we walked, his words hung heavy in the air, tugging at the edges of my thoughts. I should have been focused on finding Boden, but questions about Sandy, Ellenore, and the damned tattoo lingered like gnats on a humid afternoon.

The conversation lapsed into silence. The woods were thicker here, the air clinging to my skin like a damp sweater. The late-afternoon sun pierced through the canopy in narrow beams, illuminating the faint shimmer of heat rising off the forest floor. Then, the scent hit me—coppery, earthy, and sickly sweet.

We stepped into a small clearing, and there it was: the deer carcass. The body lay splayed across the ground, bones picked clean save for lingering strands of flesh and sinew , now crawling with flies. A buzzing filled the air with a dull hum.

"Ghastly," Nevermore murmured, cocking his head as he studied it. "Did Boden do this?"

"No." My grip tightened on the straps of my bag, nausea churning in my stomach. "I did. Well... the wolf did. I wasn't really in control."

He regarded me carefully, his gaze sharp. "And you ate the whole thing?"

"She shared," I muttered, my tone defensive. "With like, eight other dogs."

"Ah, a magnanimous huntress," he said, his voice dripping with amusement. "And Boden was among them?"

I nodded, keeping my eyes off the ground, away from the carcass.

"So, the wolf led them," he mused, his beak clicking thoughtfully. "A pack following her command?"

"She was… Taking them for a walk."

Nevermore's cackle was sharp and sudden, cutting through the oppressive hum of the flies. "Oh, they must have loved that. And you? What was it like?"

I clenched my jaw, bile sour in the back of my throat. "I don't want to talk about it."

"How delightfully evasive," he said, hopping to another branch to keep pace with me. "Do you shy from your instincts, Miss Avery? The thrill, the chase, the—"

"Why do you even care?" I snapped, stopping to glare at him.

"Care?" He fluffed his feathers dramatically, his voice taking on a theatrical lilt. "Why wouldn't I? I may be dead, but I was once a renowned chronicler of the grim and the macabre." He gave a mock bow. "Perhaps I could compose a little something to commemorate your nocturnal escapades."

"How about no—"

Before I could stop him, he launched into a poem:

"A modest young lady at dusk,
Sought no quarrel, no rancor, no fuss.
But the moon in her eyes,
Did cast off her guise,
And her heart turned to wanderlust."

"Seriously?" I groaned, pressing a hand to my forehead. "A limerick? Are you done?"

"Oh, I'm just getting started," he said cheerfully, clearing his throat with exaggerated drama.

"By day, she wore suits and fine dress,
By night, she left all as a mess.
From boardrooms to woods,
She misunderstood,
That wolves find corporate life... quite a stress."

I exhaled sharply, fighting the urge to laugh. "Nevermore, if you value your feathers, you'll stop."

"Ah, threats now?" he quipped, hopping to a branch just out of reach. "How utterly predictable. But I refuse to be silenced! Observe:"

"With grace and a glare, she proceeds,
Through mysteries and werewolf misdeeds.
Her partner, a raven,
For ghosts she is bravin',
Together, they solve strange miscreeds."

"Enough!" I snapped and covered my ears, though my words lacked any real bite. "You're ridiculous. Do you just sit around thinking these up?"

"Ridiculous?" He flapped his wings in mock outrage, swooping to perch on my shoulder. "I'll have you know, my dear, that you are witnessing a master at his craft."

I stopped walking, giving him a sidelong glance. "Master, huh? You've been waiting to use these on someone for years, haven't you?"

"Ages," he admitted with a dramatic sigh. "It's refreshing, really, to have an audience again."

"And by audience, you mean someone who can't actually leave," I muttered.

"Precisely!" he crowed, preening his feathers. "Now, shall I continue?"

I groaned. "Do I have a choice?"

"Not remotely," he said, puffing up his chest. "Here's another one, just for you:"

"A wolf in her office attire,
Takes a case that will likely backfire.
With a raven in tow,
She hunts high and low,
For the truth in the muck and the mire."

Despite myself, I cracked a smile, quickly hiding it behind my hand. "Okay, I'll give you that one. It's not terrible."

"Not terrible?" he squawked, feigning offense. "I'll have you know, it's a masterpiece of wit and form. You should be honored."

I shook my head, the corners of my mouth still betraying my amusement. "I swear, if I didn't need you, you'd be stuffed and mounted by now."

"You'd miss me terribly," he replied, his voice smug.

"Debatable."

Before we said anything more, I caught a faint yet familiar scent—Coy and Emma. They were nearby. I inhaled and called out, "Coy! Emma! Here, now!"

Off in the distance, underbrush rustled, and soon they trotted into view, tails wagging and ears forward, the picture of self-satisfaction.

Then I caught another scent.

"Oh, for the love of—" I pinched the bridge of my nose, glaring at the pair. "You were supposed to be looking for Boden, not... goofing off."

Coy tilted his head, his tongue lolling lazily as if to say, Us? Never.

Emma trotted up, nuzzling my hand with exaggerated innocence, the kind only guilty dogs can manage.

I opened my mouth to scold them when Coy snorted, cutting me off. His thought pressed into mine, clear and direct: Found something. Follow.

I blinked. "Wait, what? Is it Boden?"

Coy huffed impatiently, his tail wagging harder.

"Fine," I sighed, waving a hand. "Lead the way."

They spun and darted back into the trees, weaving through the undergrowth with the effortless grace of creatures born for it. I stumbled after them, tripping over roots and muttering curses. Ballet flats on a forest trail were as useful as roller skates on gravel, and my sneakers—along with my common sense—were back at the house.

Nevermore fluttered ahead, landing on a low branch like a smug tour guide. "Would it kill you to keep up?"

"Would it kill you to be helpful?" I shot back, yanking my sleeve free from a snagging branch.

The trees thinned, revealing the rusted steel rails of railroad tracks. Coy and Emma trotted along the edge, their paws clicking softly against the gravel. I followed, the crunch of stones beneath my flats grating on my already frayed nerves.

"Are we trespassing?" Nevermore asked, flapping down to perch on my shoulder.

"Yes," I muttered. "CSX owns the tracks. So it's private property. Technically, it's illegal to be here. But I doubt there's anyone around to enforce that."

"You're truly a model citizen," he said with a dry chuckle.

I ignored him, focusing instead on the faint hum of high-voltage transmission lines overhead. The memory of last night surged forward: the wolf's heightened senses catching the buzzing, the electric tang in the air, the primal urge to avoid the open meadows beneath the lines.

"The wolf stayed away from the towers," I said, gesturing at the nearby tower several dozen feet away. "But the tracks? She liked the tracks. Woods on either side, thick canopy above—a dark little tunnel. Perfect for prowling."

"Ah," Nevermore mused, tilting his head. "but what you're really saying is, deep down, you want to freighthop out west and live the drifter's life."

I rolled my eyes. "She thought it was fun. The dogs did too."

"And Boden?"

I frowned, trying to piece it together. "He followed. But the wolf stopped at the drawbridge—she didn't cross."

"And the dog?"

The question hung in the air as we reached the riverbank. The Ashley River stretched wide before us, the drawbridge towering above like a steel skeleton against the hazy afternoon light. Lowered now, it cut a stark line across the water, though I knew it wouldn't stay that way for long.

I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply. There it was—Boden's scent. Faint but distinct, carried on the humid breeze.

I groaned. "He crossed."

Nevermore fluttered to the bridge railing, his sharp eyes scanning the opposite shore. "And now he's stuck on the other side?"

"Seems like it," I muttered. "Boaters can call in to get the bridge raised. I'm guessing that's what happened, and Boden got caught on the wrong side when it went up."

Coy wagged his tail furiously, his pride evident. We did good?

I patted his head distractedly. "Yes, you did a good job, Coy."

"Charming," Nevermore said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "What's our brilliant plan now?"

"We head back." I turned, already retracing my steps along the railroad tracks. "I'll need the car to go into Charleston. Not walking across this bridge on foot. Too risky. Especially not during the day."

"Practical," he said, feigning surprise. "For once."

I shot him a glare, but he only cawed in amusement, swooping ahead to perch on a low-hanging branch. Coy and Emma followed me, their tails wagging happily, oblivious to the weight of my thoughts.

The tracks stretched ahead, the rusted rails gleaming faintly in the sunlight as we passed through narrow corridors of trees. The midday heat pressed down, making the stillness almost oppressive. Time passed in rhythmic steps, the crunch of gravel underfoot blending with the distant hum of cicadas.

We were halfway back to Sandy's when the barking cut through the air—a sharp, frantic yapping that sent a shiver racing down my spine. It wasn't Boden. Too small. But there was something feral in it, something violent.

I stopped, my heart thudding as Coy and Emma froze beside me, their ears swiveling toward the sound.

Nevermore, perched lazily on my shoulder, gave a dismissive click of his beak. "Shall we investigate, or are you hoping it resolves itself?"

I shot him a look. "You're the one with wings. Go check it out."

With a dramatic flutter, he launched himself into the air, vanishing over the treetops. Coy whined softly, his nose twitching toward the noise, but I laid a hand on his head. "Stay," I said firmly, though my own instincts urged me to move.

Moments later, Nevermore returned, his feathers ruffled in what I could only describe as gleeful disbelief. He landed on a branch above me, his voice pitched with amusement. "You're going to love this," he announced. "There's this Jack Russell terrier—an absolutely tiny thing—fighting the largest snake I've ever seen. And, shockingly, the dog seems to be winning."

My stomach dropped. "Describe the snake."

"Massive. At least twenty-five feet long. Black and gold scales. Quite impressive, really." His head tilted. "I presume it's one of ours?"

"It's Monty," I said, breaking into a jog. "But she's usually not that big."

"Do I even want to ask why Sandra keeps such a python?"

"She's supposed to only be five or six feet. Pet-sized," I called over my shoulder, leaping over a low ditch as the barking grew louder.

"And now?"

"No idea," I huffed. "Probably magic. Always fucking magic."

Nevermore swooped alongside me, a note of laughter in his voice. "How does one handle a twenty-five-foot familiar?"

"Badly," I muttered, skidding to a stop at the edge of a wooden privacy fence. The barking was coming from just on the other side.

Peering over, I found the scene Nevermore described—and it was every bit as bad as I imagined.

Monty was enormous, making what was an otherwise respectable suburban backyard, with a swimming pool, seem tiny and cramped by comparison. Her golden scales shimmered under the midday sun, her massive body twisting and coiling as she struck at a scrappy Jack Russell terrier. The little dog was relentless, darting and dodging with terrifying speed, its teeth snapping at her tail and flank whenever she missed. Monty's glittering scales were smeared with blood, dozens of tiny bite marks marring her length. But her strikes were getting closer.

"Dammit, Monty," I muttered.

Nevermore perched on the fence, tilting his head like a critic appraising a chaotic performance. "Charming little tableau, isn't it? What's your plan?"

I scanned the yard quickly—no people, just the writhing chaos of snake and dog. "We need to get Monty out of there before she eats that dog or someone sees this mess."

I dropped my purse and shrugged off my suit jacket.

"And how, pray tell, do you plan to manage that?"

I took a step back, sizing up the fence, and muttered, "Stupid idea." I tossed the jacket towards Coy and Emma. "Hold this."

Then I jumped.

My goal had been to grab the top of the fence and pull myself over, but the wolf had a different idea. She stirred as I pushed off, lending me strength, and I cleared the fence with plenty of room to spare. Too much, actually. I landed awkwardly, my legs buckled as I stumbled forward, knees driving into the ground, hands barely catching myself before faceplanting into the grass.

"How about warn me next time," I hissed.

"That was... theatrical," Nevermore remarked for his fence perch.

I ignored him, sprinting toward the fight unfolding near the pool. Monty's head shot forward like lightning, but the terrier twisted away just in time, its teeth sinking into her side instead.

"Monty! Both of you!" I shouted, skidding to a stop. "Stop!"

Neither animal acknowledged me.

Monty's movements grew more erratic, her coils thrashing as she tried to shake the dog off. Her wide, dark eyes gleamed with more than just anger—she was scared.

I hesitated, my pulse hammering. "Bad idea," I muttered, then lunged for Monty's head.

She reared back, her body coiling like a spring, her head poised to strike. The image of a news segment flashed through my mind—an Indonesian man swallowed whole by a reticulated python. The specialist they'd brought on had outlined key survival tips: avoid their bite, avoid being wrapped, and above all, control the head.

Easier said than done.

Monty lunged, and I moved instinctively, grabbing just behind her jaw. Her forward momentum yanked me off my feet, and I stumbled before regaining my footing. Her scales were slick and warm beneath my fingers, muscles rippling with shocking power as she writhed.

"Monty, heel!" I shouted, pushing the command—a recent addition to my repertoire—into her mind with as much force as I could muster.

For a brief, miraculous moment, she froze. Her black tongue flicked in and out, and her massive body trembled but stilled. Relief washed over me.

Then the Jack Russell sank its teeth into her tail again.

Monty's stillness shattered. She lashed out, her massive coils thrashing wildly, and I staggered under the sheer force of her struggle. I tightened my grip on her head, but the terrier's relentless biting sent her into a frenzy.

"Get off her!" I yelled at the dog, but all that was in the little beast's mind was an untempered bloodlust. It clamped down harder, growling through clenched jaws.

In my hands, I could feel Monty's body shifting—growing. The more agitated she became, the larger she swelled, her scales pressing harder against my palms. Her massive form twisted violently, pulling me off balance. My feet slipped on the damp grass, and before I could steady myself, we toppled backward—straight into the pool.

The water hit like a slap, a chilling shock. My grip on Monty faltered, and in an instant, her jaws snapped down on my shoulder. Pain flared hot and sharp, tearing a scream from my throat.

I thrashed instinctively, trying to pull free, but Monty moved faster, pulling me into her embrace. Her powerful coils wrapped around me, pinning my arms to my sides, each loop tightening like a steel cable.

This was a stupid idea. A very, very stupid idea.

Monty's head was almost face-to-face with me, her dark eyes gleaming with an eerie intelligence—and fury. This wasn't just a fight anymore. The realization struck me with sickening clarity: she had her prey and was now hunting.

The coils tightened further, crushing the air from my lungs. Bubbles streamed gently upwards, each one marking the precious breath I couldn't reclaim. My vision blurred at the edges, the weight of Monty's body dragging me deeper into the pool.

I couldn't move. Couldn't think.

This is it, I thought dimly. This is how I die. Stupidly, in a backyard pool, wrestling a giant snake.

Then, deep inside, the wolf stirred once again.

It was more forceful this time, not a polite nudge but a full-bodied shove. A feral snarl ripped through my chest, low and guttural, vibrating through the water. It wasn't a sound I made—not consciously. It came from somewhere deeper, wilder.

My grip on the proverbial wheel of my mind slipped. I gritted my teeth, trying to hold steady as the wolf surged forward, clawing for control.

Bones cracked and reshaped, the ache sharp and relentless. My nails curved into claws, and my jaw stretched forward, teeth sharpening into predatory points. A rush of raw, primal strength flooded my limbs, my senses sharpening to a razor's edge. Colors dulled, replaced by shapes and movements that snapped into crystal clarity.

The pressure of Monty's coils was no longer unbearable. Manageable, even.

The wolf didn't hesitate.

We twisted forward, our teeth sinking into the thick flesh of Monty's neck. Her scales resisted, smooth and impenetrable, but then they gave way. A keening hiss escaped her as blood welled beneath my bite. Her coils loosened—not by much, but enough.

The wolf growled again, urging me to finish it.

No. My thoughts shot forward, sharp and resolute. I clamped down on the wolf's intent, pulling back even as its strength coursed through me. I wouldn't let her kill Monty.

Still, the wolf's power was undeniable. Even as I held back, I could feel it—the strength to snap Monty's neck like a twig. Just a mere thought and I could end her.

Monty's frenzy faltered, her blind fury giving way to confusion. I sensed it, like an echo in my mind—a flicker of submission beneath her fear, and I seized the opportunity.

Heel! I projected the word, sharp and commanding, with every ounce of focus I had.

Monty shuddered. Her massive coils began to loosen, sliding away from me as her enormous size began to diminish with every passing second. Finally freed, I broke the surface of the pool with a desperate gasp, gulping down air as water streamed from my fur.

The wolf receded slightly, though her grip on the wheel remained firm, her instincts coiled and ready.

Dragging myself to the edge of the pool, I heaved Monty onto my shoulders like a soaked, defeated scarf. The command I had used was one that Sandy employed specifically to pacify some of her more volatile charges, and it was fortunate that I had made time to read more of her book. Had my struggle with Monty drawn out any further, neither I nor the wolf would have had the strength to do anything but bite all the way down. I could feel the wolf's strength faltering, and every step felt deliberate, weighed down by a wave of exhaustion and the waterlogged mess of my clothes.

Monty's reduced size made her easier to carry, but the terrier clinging to her tail was another story. The little dog's jaws were locked tight, its growling muffled only by the occasional snarl.

"Seriously?" I muttered through clenched teeth, prying the dog loose with one hand. It barked sharply—defiant—before tearing off toward the house, its tiny legs a blur.

I stood there, dripping and trembling, Monty's weight pressing against my aching shoulders. My hybrid form lingered—the wolf unwilling to retreat completely. The air felt too sharp, the sounds too close. Something wasn't right.

I turned slowly, my senses prickling with unease.

Three kids—no older than twelve—stood in the window of the house next door, their eyes wide. In their hands: smartphones.

My stomach dropped.

I stared at them, my mind struggling to process the layers of the awful reality unfolding in real time. Instinctively, I crossed my arms over my chest, realizing far too late that my soaked white dress shirt—and me sans a bra—was far too revealing.

But no. That wasn't the real problem.

I was a hulking werewolf, standing in a suburban backyard in broad daylight, draped in a python, dripping wet.

And those kids had smartphones, which were recording.

A creeping sense of dread slithered into my gut, cold and unrelenting. It coiled tighter as I imagined the possibilities. In just a few clicks, I'd be plastered all over the internet. Hell, I was probably already being upload to social media this very moment, and I'd be clickbait by day's end.

Snake lady werewolf freakout!

Live! Real-life werewolf!

Bra? What bra?

Want more content? #LycanSubscribe