Wolf for Hire

Chapter Fifteen

I pulled into the storage facility with Maggie and Nevermore, along with one additional passenger.

Maggie
sat in the passenger seat, the old German shepherd looking like a
proper professional in her service vest. She watched the passing road
and buildings with measured calm, her head swiveling slowly from side to
side. Every now and then, she glanced up at me, as if checking in.

Nevermore
perched on the headrest behind me, shifting between disdainful silence
and muttered complaints. His feathers fluffed occasionally in irritation
as he side-eyed Coy, whose boundless energy was proving to be an
ongoing trial for the raven.

Coy,
of course, was in the backseat, bouncing from one side of the car to
the other. He'd rolled down the window himself, tongue lolling as he
leaned into the wind. Every time we came to a stop, he'd hop out to
investigate something that caught his eye—or nose.

The
first half-dozen times he pulled this stunt, I panicked, slamming the
brakes and scrambling out to track him down. But the second I got out,
there he was—already back in the car, looking at me like I was the one being ridiculous. Eventually, I learned to just keep driving and let him come back on his own.

Moving
or not, Coy's ability to return to the car did, in fact, border on the
supernatural. He could be, quite literally, wherever he wanted to be.

Needless to say, I hadn't planned on bringing him.

Before
leaving, I'd gone through the trouble of laying down ground rules for
the dogs while I was out. Coy—especially Coy—had received a detailed
rundown of expectations.

Which he promptly ignored.

My backseat was empty when I reversed out of the driveway. Then, as soon as I shifted into drive, there was a faint pop—and suddenly, there he was. Sitting nonchalantly, as if he'd been there the entire time.

Yesterday, this would've sent me spiraling. Today, I just sighed.

I
had read more of Sandy's book, and now things made a little more sense.
Coy, like Monty, Camellia, and so many of the other familiars, had his
own magical... quirk. Which was to say, he wasn't bound by normal
rules—be they the laws of society or physics.

If Coy wanted to come along, he was coming. And there was naught I could do about it.

So
instead of fighting the inevitable, I went back inside, grabbed an
extra service dog vest, and told him he'd have to wear it if he wanted
to join us. Out of spite, I slapped an In Training patch—which I took from one of the smaller vests—and stuck it beneath the embroidered Service Dog emblem. Nevertheless, Coy wore it with the same smug satisfaction.

He had won, and he knew it.

Our
first stop was my storage unit. The facility's narrow corridors of
outdoor units stretched ahead as I navigated to the farthest edge of the
lot, parking near the northern fence.

Rolling
down the windows, I killed the engine, letting the oppressive July heat
sweep in like a smothering blanket. I'd bit hoping for a breeze, but no
dice.

"Alright,"
I said, unbuckling my seatbelt and pushing the door open. "Here's the
plan. I need to grab some clothes and emergency cash from my unit.
Meanwhile, we'll check the tracks for Boden's scent. The CSX line runs
right behind the truck service station next door, so we can kill two
birds with one stone."

As
fortune would have it, the storage facility where I'd rented a unit was
serendipitously positioned. The CSX line, after crossing the Ashley
River at the drawbridge I'd come across yesterday, cut a straight path
through North Charleston, passing within a stone's throw of my unit.

Nevermore ruffled his feathers and hopped closer to the open window. "And whom would you have this bird stone?"

I
pointed to the chain-link fence, beyond which ran the Mark Clark
Expressway. "You and Coy are my trespassing team. I can't afford another
charge on my record, so it's up to you two. Follow the road to the
right—it'll lead you straight to the tracks, about a hundred yards
north. Have Coy start there and work your way back down towards the
Ashley River until he picks up Boden's scent."

Nevermore's
tone dripped with melodramatic skepticism. "Let me ensure I understand.
You expect me to monitor this mutt as we wander like vagabonds along
the rails, while you root around your storage unit?"

"Pretty much," I said. "Just make sure Coy doesn't get too distracted or make trouble."

Coy
pushed the back door open with his nose and hopped out. The second his
paws hit the sunbaked asphalt, he yelped and bolted back into the car,
tail tucked tight.

"Might want to avoid the pavement," I said, biting back a smirk. "It's a little warm out."

"Hardly
too tall an order," Nevermore said with exaggerated dignity. "Still, if
you're delegating pet-sitting duty to me, I'll require a cut of your
payment."

I raised an eyebrow. "What would you even do with money?"

"Buy shiny things," he replied without hesitation.

I rolled my eyes. "Sure. Fine. You've got a deal."

Nevermore preened. "Excellent. Mr. Coy, shall we—oh. Well, there he goes."

There was a faint pop. When I turned, Coy was gone, as if he'd never been there at all.

Nevermore tilted his head, bemusement almost palpable. "Shall I follow him?"

I
sighed. I suppose my hopes had been too high that Coy would cooperate.
"No. Let him do his thing. Can't have both of you getting lost."

Sliding
back into the driver's seat, I shut the door and leaned against the
headrest. Nevermore fluttered to perch behind Maggie, his feathers
ruffling as a breeze blew through the open window.

"How do you suppose he does that?" Nevermore asked.

"I
have no idea," I muttered, restarting the engine. "All I know is he can
only do it when no one's looking—like some kind of Schrödinger's dog."

"Did Sandy's book offer any illumination on the matter?"

"Depends," I said. "Does 'wanders in the relics' mean anything to you?"

Nevermore tilted his head. "Under what context?"

"Umm," I tried to recall the exact wording. "Sandy wrote something about Coy in what I think was Latin. Or maybe it's just how her Arcanum looks to me. Either way, it said Errat in Relicta. Wanders in the Relics."

Nevermore
straightened, his posture shifting. A glimmer of recognition sparked in
his eyes. "Ah, I see. You mistranslated—or rather, it doesn't translate
neatly. The phrase means 'Wanders in Abandon.'"

"Don't you mean with abandon?"

"No,"
Nevermore said, his tone betraying a faint note of satisfaction. "'In
Abandon.' It's not a state of mind; it's a place." He paused
thoughtfully. "Though, I suppose one could argue it's also a state of
mind. Philosophically speaking, of course."

I
frowned, adjusting my grip on the steering wheel as I navigated a tight
corner between the rows of storage units. "And where exactly is this...
Abandon?"

Nevermore ruffled his feathers, settling himself like a professor preparing for a lecture. "Not one place, precisely. Abandon
is a catch-all term for many similar places. You're likely familiar
with the concept—it permeates mysticism, religion, and literature. The
idea of an overlapping reality. Think of Lewis's Narnia, Lovecraft's
Dreamlands, Alice and her Wonderland, Peter Pan and Neverland, or
Riordan's Olympus." He paused. "Admittedly, Riordan's mythos is just
repackaged Greek mythology—but why reinvent the wheel?"

I raised an eyebrow. "So you're saying the afterlife is a trope."

"And
one as old as time itself," he replied airily. "These
realms—collectively called Abandon, at least in some circles—are usually
tied to physical geography, but not always. For our purposes, imagine
the world as you know it—this material world, or Sonder, the term
opposite to Abandon—as the surface of a frozen lake. Everything you
know is on top of the ice. Not the ice itself, but the surface, the
snow, and everything that walks atop it. That is Sonder. Beneath it lies
the water—vast, dark, and deep. That's Abandon. Not separate mind
you—both ice and snow are made of water—but rather an extension of this
world. And most incorporeal beings—ghosts, spirits, demons—are believed
to dwell there."

I mulled that over as I pulled up to my storage unit. "So... it's like the Upside Down?"

Nevermore blinked. "The what?"

"From Stranger Things. It's… uh… after your time."

He
made a small huffing noise. "Abandon is where Coy moves when he
vanishes. He doesn't teleport—he steps through the ice and resurfaces
elsewhere. It's efficient for short distances but not instantaneous—he
still has to traverse the space. But because time and distance work
differently there, it appears instantaneous to us."

"Can he get lost?"

"I don't imagine he needs to go very deep. Think of him scooting along the underside of the ice."

"The Upside Down," I said smugly.

Nevermore clicked his beak. "Hmm. You know, that is rather clever term. I may steal it."

While
I wouldn't say I understood all of what Nevermore was telling, the
concept itself wasn't hard to grasp. I'd already accepted that magic
existed, so why would the concept of a magic plane of reality be any
harder to swallow?

I mean, I was talking to a bird, and I had a tail. My sense of disbelief wasn't so much suspended as expelled.

"Is staying there dangerous?" I asked.

"For
extended periods, yes. Abandon isn't stable like the material world. It
churns and shifts, like the sea. And like the sea, its depths hold
things best left undisturbed."

"Like what?"

"Ever read Lovecraft?"

I snickered. "So, you're saying I could go ice-fishing for Cthulhu?"

"I imagine many have tried."

"What? Why?"

"Again,
have you read Lovecraft?" Nevermore's tone turned pointed. "Fanciful

though his works were, and a bit of a prick he was, that man was
meticulous in his research into the occult."

"Oh, and what about Poe?" I prodded playfully.

Nevermore stiffened. "I'd rather not talk about Poe."

I
pulled up to my storage unit, killing the engine and stepping out into
the oppressive July heat. The sun baked the asphalt, and the humidity
clung to me like a second skin.

Leaning
across the front seat, I popped open the glove box to fish out my keys.
Maggie shifted to make room, then took the opportunity to sniff inside
before landing a quick, opportunistic lick on my ear. Professional or
not, Maggie was still a licker.

"Ugh—Maggie!" I wiped at the wet spot, but she looked entirely unrepentant.

Shaking
my head, I stepped around the car to unlock the storage unit. The
roll-up door groaned in protest as I lifted it. I knew to be
careful—last time I was here, I'd stacked the boxes in a rush, leaving
them precariously balanced.

Sure
enough, as I eased the door open, I felt the weight of the nearest
stack pressing against it. Their balance had shifted. Carefully, I
braced the leaning pile with one hand, cracking the door just wide
enough to keep it from toppling.

One box, sitting just out of reach at the top, had other ideas.

It tumbled to the ground, splitting open on impact.

Scattered
across the pavement were picture frames I'd once hung on the walls of
my apartment—a family photo, one of me and my brother Michael as kids,
another of me carrying my half-sister Chelley on my shoulders when I was
fifteen and she was two. My college diploma in another.

I exhaled through my nose. At least the frames were cheap plastic, so they hadn't shattered.

After making sure the rest of the stack was stable, I knelt to start gathering the pictures: snapshots of my life.

Nevermore swooped onto the edge of a nearby box, his black eyes gleaming with amusement. "Ah, a metaphor made manifest."

"Don't start," I warned, shoving the frames back into their box.

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

"There once was a lass who made messes,
Her failures she rarely confesses.
But when towers collapse,
And she's found in a lapse,
She claims she's just under some stresses."

I leveled a glare at him. "Nevermore, I will stuff you in a box."

"My artistry is wasted on you," he lamented, clicking his beak in mock dismay before hopping just out of reach.

I
ignored him and picked up another frame. This one was from my
stepsister's wedding. The whole family was there—Dad's side, Katherine's
side. Everyone.

Except me.

I
hadn't been around that day. I'd been missing, lost somewhere in the
woods during my three blackout days in March. I hadn't talked much to
Sarah or my stepmother since then, and we weren't exactly on good terms.

But what could I tell them, that I'd missed my sister's wedding because I was too busy becoming a werewolf?

Katherine would probably accuse me of just making more excuses.

I
got to work, carefully unloading the boxes one by one to avoid another
avalanche. Eventually, I found the one I was looking for: my day-to-day
clothes.

The
box was heavier than I remembered, but I managed to lug it to the car,
sliding it into the trunk beside the two booted tires that had been
living there since my last run-in with the repo agency Dixie Nissan had
contracted. I made a mental note to ditch them at my next possible
convenience—and, if I could scrape together the funds, finally get a
replacement tire from LKQ.

Returning
to the unit, I spotted another familiar box—one containing my office
supplies. My slim black briefcase with the Muckenfuss logo embroidered
on the front was wedged between legal stationery and a few books.
Inside, nestled among stray pens and old receipts, was a black leather
hand wallet where I kept my emergency stash of tip money. Mostly singles
and fives from shifts at the Moxy, though several crumpled tens and
twenties were mixed in—remnants of the soul-crushing nights I'd spent
working at Club Cheetah and King Street Cabernet at V's behest.

I counted the bills. Two hundred and twelve dollars. A small fortune, given my circumstances—but also everything I had until my next paycheck.

I reached for my purse to stash the wallet, wanting to keep it close.

"Did your purse just move?" Nevermore asked, his voice edged with curiosity.

In
hindsight, I should have paid more attention to that. But in the
moment, I dismissed it, assuming it was just my gun shifting its
weight—I wasn't about to leave it alone in a house with an unsupervised
Carl, after all.

But
I'd left it unattended while I went to feed the menagerie. I while I
was worried about something begin taken from the bag, something might
have climbed in.

Something with eight legs.

I
opened the purse, intending to drop the wallet inside—only for a
massive, red-fringed ornamental tarantula to scuttle up my arm.

Elmo.

A tangled mess of instincts fired at once.

My brain knew it was Elmo. Knew he was harmless, that he belonged to Sandy, that I'd seen him before.

My body, however, did not care.

A
shriek tore out of me as I flung my purse across the unit, sending its
contents flying. My feet scrambled backward—too forcefully—right into
the stacked boxes behind me.

Which immediately collapsed.

The entire mess came crashing down, boxes splitting open, their contents spilling across the pavement for all the world to see.

Which, really, only meant Maggie and Nevermore.

Nevermore let out a low whistle, then alighted on the nearest box—one filled with most of the clothing from the last—and, well, only—romantic relationship I'd ever been in.

He
eyed the lingerie, his head tilting ever so slightly. "You know, I
never would have thought pink to be your color. Especially a shade so…
vibrant."

"Shut up. Shut up."
I growled, still trembling from the heart attack Elmo had damn near
given me—Elmo, who now perched himself atop my head, perfectly at ease.

I wasn't at ease though. Instead, I was brimming with a pure, and unadulterated rage.

But it wasn't because of Elmo. Nor was it the boxes. In fact, I couldn't say I was mad at any one particular thing. I was mad at all things. In fact, I'd probably been mad at everything for a while now. But I'd kept it under wraps—right up until the moment the damn boxes finally broke this wolf's back.

I needed to hit something. Not a person, not an animal—but something.
My desk, preferably. I wanted to lock myself in my room, beat my fists
against the wood hard enough to make the room shake, and let loose a
string of blasphemies creative enough to make a televangelist weep.
Then, when I was good and spent, I'd call V, to vent until my throat was
raw, and then ask if she wanted to go out for tequila shots.

One night of getting sloshed, a morning spent recovering from the hangover, and I'd be right as rain.

Except, I couldn't risk going out drinking with the moon this full. That was just begging to end up on the front page. Drunk Werewolf in Charleston: John Landis' Long-Awaited Sequel.

But once I got home? I was cracking open a White Claw. Consequences be damned.

Surveying the mess, I let out a long, exasperated growl. "Great. Just great."

Nevermore hopped closer, tilting his head as if savoring the moment. "Perhaps I could liven things up with a bit of poetry."

"Don't you dare."

"Not a spider's so itsy-bitsy…"

"Nevermore," I warned.

"For a lady oh so ditsy—"

I lunged. Nevermore squawked as I caught him mid-recital and, without hesitation, shoved him into my car's glove box.

I
parked on the shoulder of Charlene Drive and got out, holding Maggie's
leash to sell the illusion that we were just out for a casual walk.

Once
again, the July heat hit like a wall—thick, humid, and suffocating. The
transition from my air-conditioned car made it feel even worse, like
stepping into a sauna fully clothed. Maggie stepped onto the grassy
shoulder, instinctively keeping her paws off the blistering asphalt. She
panted, tongue lolling as her head swiveled, taking in the
surroundings.

Ahead,
the chain-link fence of the Veneer Avenue Depot stretched across the
landscape. Right beside it, Brentwood Middle School ran the length of
the depot, separated by a thin corridor of trees. On the other side lay a
stretch of track that linked back to the CSX line. Towering piles of
gravel, sand, and various rock products loomed in uneven stacks, waiting
to be hauled off for construction.

Concrete,
dirt, and steel—these were the ingredients chosen to create our perfect
modern infrastructure. But the government accidentally added an extra
ingredient to the concoction: car lobbyists.

Thus, the U.S. transportation system was born.

Trains
rumbled off in the distance, accompanied by the faint echoes of
machinery. A sign that something, at least, was still moving. But the
depot itself looked deserted.

Sunday staffed.

Coy
had taken nearly half an hour to reappear after his jaunt into Abandon
at the storage facility, giving me time to reorganize my boxes—and my
thoughts. When he finally returned, he reported finding Boden's scent,
tracking it back here. A sort of pit stop before heading deeper into
town. But before I could press for details or clarification, he bamfed
off again, leaving me with an irritatingly long list of questions.

Waiting in the car wouldn't have been a bad choice, given the heat, but I was too anxious to sit still. I needed to do something, and Coy's report had too many gaps—peculiarities he couldn't, or wouldn't, explain.

So, I decided to do some sleuthing myself.

Maggie
and I skirted the fence line, weaving through the narrow strip of trees
bordering the depot and the middle school. Overhead, Nevermore circled
before settling on a branch just ahead, keeping an eye out for workers
or wandering eyes.

After
spending some time confined to the glove box, he had emerged in lighter
spirits, having used his solitude to perfect a bizarre crossover of London Bridge and Little Miss Muffet, sung to the tune of The Itsy-Bitsy Spider. Try as I might to resist, it made me smile.

"No one in sight," he reported, ruffling his feathers. "We are in the clear."

I nodded, guiding Maggie along with a gentle tug of her leash. Shifting my bag on my shoulder, I felt the weight inside shift.

I'd
left my hand wallet in the glove box—after freeing Nevermore, of
course—and had instead made room for Elmo. I couldn't leave him in the
car, not unless I wanted to slow-roast the tarantula. I wasn't sure how
comfortable he was, since my ability to talk to animals seemed less
effective with arthropods, but he seemed unbothered. Maybe even enjoying
himself. As if he knew he was on an adventure.

Regardless, as long as he stayed in the bag, I was happy.

Halfway
down the fence, just past the middle school's baseball field, Maggie
stopped. Her nose twitched, ears swiveling, before she tugged me toward a
cluster of foliage along the fence line.

I crouched beside her, breathing in slowly through my nose.

At
first, Boden's scent was faint—just another thread in the tangled weave
of dirt, foliage, exhaust, and asphalt. But once I caught it, I could
follow it, tease it apart from the rest.

Maggie
moved with purpose, her head low, nose sifting through the layers of
scent clinging to the air. She led me to a patch of scuffed-up ground
near a cluster of marked trees, where Boden had lingered. His trail wove
through crushed vegetation, tire tracks, and footprints.

Boden hadn't been alone.

I inhaled deeply, sorting through the mess of overlapping scents.

One
stood out: sharp, artificial—cologne. Ralph Lauren, if I had to guess,
though it did little to mask the sour tang beneath it. Sweat. Unwashed
skin. Whoever he was, and I knew from the scent that it was a he, he hadn't showered in days.

His
scent pooled strongest near the tire tracks, where the ground bore the
subtle imprint of weight and stillness. If I had to guess, he'd taken
the utility road that cut between the school campus and the baseball
field to park here—out of sight, tucked into the woods.

Maggie
let out a soft huff, confirming my thoughts. I scratched behind her ear
absently. Like me, something about this made her uneasy.

Crouching, I gestured toward the disturbed ground. "Can you tell if he was parked here long?"

Maggie's
nose twitched as she inspected the air where I suspected the car's
muffler had been. The lingering scent of exhaust was obvious, but by
itself, it didn't tell me much.

She, however, could tell a lot more.

The information she relayed back to me was clearer than I expected. Maggie wasn't just good at this—she was better
than me. From scent alone, she could determine not just how long ago
the car had been here but how long it had idled before leaving. Hell,
even Coy hadn't picked up this much.

This old girl was wise indeed.

From
her insight, I could place the man here about an hour before midnight,
matching the time that both she and Coy had estimated for Boden's
arrival.

Which begged the question: what was he doing here?

"Alright, Maggie, let's see where this takes us."

She
led me along the fence line, nose to the ground, pace steady but
focused. The scent veered toward a section of chain-link where the metal
had been cut and pulled back.

I frowned, brushing my fingers along the frayed edges. "Cut with pliers it looks like. Someone made an entrance."

Nevermore swooped low, landing on the fence. "Well, this is troubling."

I
peered through the gap, scanning the depot beyond. "Nevermore, watch my
back," I muttered before slipping through, Maggie at my side.

"Are you sure that's a—oh, well, never mind," Nevermore sighed as he flapped after Maggie and me.

Inside, the depot was eerily still. No workers in sight, but the distant hum of machinery told me I wasn't alone
alone. I stayed low, Maggie and I following the man's scent as it wove
through the site, past office buildings and between stacks of shipping
containers.

Our
cologned man hadn't been wandering aimlessly. His movements were
methodical, stopping at each container as if searching through them.

What were you looking for?

After I was satisfied with our findings, we slipped back through the hole in the fence, hurrying to reconvene with Nevermore.

"He was looking for something—the man, I mean," I said, rubbing my chin. "Or scouting for a job."

"Like a heist?" Nevermore offered. "Who'd want to steal a bunch of dirt?"

"He
might have been after equipment or vehicles," I mused. "They can be
worth a small fortune. But according to Maggie, he spent most of his
time around the shipping crates, not the machinery."

Nevermore cocked his head. "And Boden? Was he dogging the man's footsteps?"

I hesitated. "It seems like it. He was with the guy the entire time."

Nevermore ruffled his feathers. "Is this odd behavior for our lost dog?"

"Not
if food was involved," I muttered, standing and dusting off my clothes.
"Found a cheeseburger wrapper in a waste bin outside the office
building. It smelled of the man's cologne and looked like it had been
chewed up by a dog. Either our man fed it to Boden, or—more likely—Boden
assumed it was for him and took it. Either way, Boden's stomach is the
way to his heart."

Nevermore made a dry clicking sound. "Charming."

"At some point, the guy left," I added, "and Boden wandered deeper into the city."

"So, we now wait for Mr. Coy to return."

"Hopefully, he'll be more detailed this time," I muttered.

Nevermore
and I made our way back to the car. Stepping out into the open, the sun
bore down like a weighted blanket. No wind, no breeze—just heat
pressing in from all sides. My mind churned through the details of what
we'd found, but the more I thought about it, the more pointless it felt.

"Are you thinking about reporting this?" Nevermore asked, fluttering beside me, landing on my shoulder.

"To
who?" I scoffed. "The cops? Yeah, I'll just waltz into the precinct and
tell them I followed my nose to—what, exactly? A future crime scene?"

"You could omit the nose part," he suggested dryly.

"And then what? Tell them my psychic powers and service dogs led me to an unsubstantiated lead on a man who might
have been scouting a gravel yard for… who knows what?" I shook my head.
"No. Even if they did listen, it wouldn't go anywhere. Everything I
know, I know because of Maggie, Coy, or my own senses—which means none
of it holds up in court. No fingerprints. No security footage. No paper
trail. Just a lingering scent and a hunch. Oh, and some footprints, but
those still don't prove anything."

Nevermore tilted his head. "So is that not what's bothering you?"

I sighed. "A lot of things are bothering me, Nevermore. You'll have to be more specific."

"Well, something seems to be bothering you. I mean, you're hyperventilating."

I stopped mid-step. "What?"

"You've been puffing like a bellows since we left," he said, eyeing me closely. "I'm worried you're about to keel over."

"Oh,"
I muttered. "Yeah, that's—look, it's just a werewolf thing." I pulled
back my cheek with a finger, flashing my canines. "See? Sill got my
teef."

Nevermore recoiled slightly. "Well, that's lovely."

"Anyway,"
I said, letting go of my lip, "I couldn't transform myself all the way
back to human, so the changes are only skin deep. Hell, I still have
most of my fur—it's just hidden under my clothes."

Nevermore considered this. "So… you're a wolf in street clothes. And, what, you're panting?"

"Well, canines don't have sweat glands like humans do. We have to pant to cool down."

"But don't dogs sweat through their paws?" Nevermore asked.

I
hesitated, glancing down at my shoes before wiggling my toes
experimentally. The sensation hit immediately. Damp, sticky fabric.

I groaned. "Ah. Great."

"What?"

"My socks are wet."

Nevermore blinked. "And?"

"And now I know my socks are wet," I said through gritted teeth. "And I can't un-know that."

The
rest of the walk back to the car was spent in a slow-building, deeply
personal hell. Wet feet. Soggy, sticky feet. There was no worse
sensation—aside from, perhaps, getting shot in the ass by a monkey. The
way the damp fabric clung, sucking and pulling with every step, like I
was perpetually peeling off slimy, half-used duct-tape. It was
unbearable. Disgusting. Like walking through life in a perpetual, clammy
handshake. I hated it. Hated it more than I could rationally explain.

By
the time I reached the car, I was barely containing the full-body
cringe threatening to take over. Before sliding into the driver's seat, I
sat with my feet still outside, yanked off my sneakers, and peeled the
offending fabric from my feet, shuddering at the sensation. Cranking the
AC at full blast, I shoved my feet toward the vents, desperate to erase
the lingering moisture before it soaked into my very soul.

Nevermore, perched on the steering wheel, let out an affronted squawk. "You're fouling up the car."

"Don't give me that. Birds can't smell," I shot back, wiggling my toes as the blessedly cool air hit them.

"Like hell we can't."

I arched an eyebrow. "Don't ravens eat carrion? Shouldn't you like the smell of dead fish and roadkill?"

Nevermore scoffed. "Why in the world would I find your socks appetizing? Your feet smell worse than wet dog."

"Hey!"

My
purse squirmed. Sighing, I unzipped it, letting Elmo scuttle free. He
climbed onto the passenger seat's headrest, took a moment to get his
bearings, then cautiously approached my sneakers in the seat below him.
After a brief investigation, the large ornamental tarantula immediately
scuttled away.

"See?" Nevermore declared triumphantly. "They even repel spiders."

"No, he doesn't like them because he can't fit inside them. He's too big." I turned to Maggie. "You don't mind, do you?"

Maggie—who
had climbed into the passenger seat, and now sporting Elmo atop her
head—nudged my shoe onto the floor. She made a noise halfway between a
huff and a sneeze.

"Thanks for the support," I muttered.

I could sense
Nevermore gearing up to say something colorful, a poetic jab about my
feet, but before he could immortalize them in verse, there was a faint pop from the backseat.

Coy reappeared, tail thumping lazily against the seat.

"And where have you been?" I asked.

Coy just sat there, his mouth agape in a dog-faced grinned.