Wolf for Hire

Chapter Seventeen

Maggie moved with steady precision, flicking her attention between me and the world around us, always working, always analyzing. Coy, by contrast, was determined to investigate everything—hydrants, mailboxes, fence posts, stray tufts of grass. If it was vertical and outside, he was interested.

"Really?" I muttered as he paused at yet another fire hydrant. "You've literally been through here before."

Coy wagged his tail, completely ignoring me, his nose buried deep in the world of scent.

And, annoying as it was, I understood.

With Maggie's guidance, I was learning to parse through odors in ways I never could before. A simple bench at the bus stop carried layers of history—distinct scents from the people who had passed through. I could distinguish joggers from pedestrians based on olfactory cues alone: their level of exertion, their relative age, the laundry detergent they used. I could even detect certain health conditions—diabetes, pregnancy, and whether they were an alcoholic.

I'd read that dogs could smell diseases like cancer, epilepsy, and hormonal imbalances, and I was beginning to see how.

The whole neighborhood was a shifting tapestry of information, constantly refreshing. For a dog, I imagined it was no different than scrolling through a social media feed—except instead of updates about politics and cat videos, it was a catalog of who had been here, where they had gone, and what they had been doing.

Coy, of course, treated it more like a dating app.

He wasn't as blatant about it as Rudy, but I could tell where his interests lay.

Still, despite his leisurely pace, he led us true. His meandering had a purpose, and as we wound through Park Circle, Boden's trail took shape.

Boden had avoided the main roads, keeping to the quieter backstreets. His path hugged Bexley Street, which ran parallel to the train tracks marking the neighborhood's outer perimeter. From there, the tracks veered north toward the North Charleston Port Terminal, but Boden hadn't followed them. Instead, he cut through an overgrown lot, staying on Bexley before slipping through Triangle Park's narrow streets along Oakwood Avenue, finally emerging onto Virginia Avenue.

Oakwood Avenue was our last stretch of normalcy—modest bungalows, overgrown lawns, quiet houses. But Virginia Avenue was different. The sleepy residential road gave way to a cracked four-lane highway, its median a battered strip of concrete.

Beyond it loomed the industrial sprawl—the Buckeye Port Terminal and the Amalie Oil refineries, skeletal structures stretching toward the sky, belching white plumes of steam into the heavy air.

I stopped at the curb, eyeing the expanse beyond.

Boden's trail wove between warehouses and supply yards, slipping past fenced-in lots. Fortunately, it didn't lead into the refineries themselves—security there would've been far worse than anything we'd encountered at a storage depot. If it had, I'd have had to rely entirely on Nevermore to scout ahead.

Not that I didn't trust him.

I just didn't trust his nose.

Instead, Boden's scent guided us north along Virginia Avenue, cutting through the Charleston Metro Chamber of Commerce parking lot.

The lot was massive, easily the size of two football fields, with faded white lines marking row after row of empty spaces. The asphalt shimmered under the oppressive July sun, a heat mirage making the few scattered cars seem like they were floating.

I made a mental note—if our search dragged us any farther from Park Circle, I could move my car here. But first, I needed to see where this led.

Boden's trail skirted the edge of the lot, leading to the farthest corner, where a thicket of trees bordered yet another set of train tracks. Beyond them, I could just make out the outline of another storage depot—small, but nearly identical to the ones we'd searched before.

My stomach twisted with irritation.

The scent hit me before I reached the trees—cologne, faint but distinct, clinging to the foliage like a signature.

Boden had been following this guy, all right. And from the familiar traces of exhaust, this was likely where the man had parked. I couldn't pinpoint the make or model, but I had a hunch—four-cylinder engine, cheap gas. Probably some kind of sedan.

"Of course you were here," I muttered, crouching to inspect the ground. "Dragging Boden all over town. And now me."

Maggie joined me, her nose pressed to the dirt, sifting through the layers of scent. Coy, meanwhile, flopped into the nearest patch of shade, panting contentedly like he'd done the hard part. Maggie join him not long after.

I decided it was best to join them as well, the three of us panting under the meager cover of the trees. The heat was unbearable, and with so much of my pelt tucked under my clothes, I felt like I was wearing a portable oven. In hindsight, I should have brought a water bottle, but I hadn't expected Boden's trail to take me this far. Another reason to be annoyed at this cologned mystery man.

Nevermore perched silently on the fence, scanning the depot beyond. "Hmm. I don't think this place is in operation today. The front gates are locked, and I can't see anyone inside. I think we're good to go."

I pushed myself up, brushing the dirt from my hands. "Alright," I muttered once I felt somewhat cooler. "Let's see what's inside."

The depot stretched before us—rows of refrigerated containers lined up in tight formation like oversized dominoes. The air carried the usual cocktail of industrial smells—oil, asphalt, exhaust—but something else lingered beneath it. Faint. Acrid.

Metallic.

My shoulders tensed. The scent gnawed at the back of my mind, something familiar yet unwelcome. My body recognized it before my brain did, a subconscious warning crawling up my spine.

The perimeter fence was in bad shape—sagging, rusted, with gaps big enough for even a human to slip through. I crouched low, guiding Maggie and Coy through first before slipping in after them.

The scent only grew stronger inside.

Among the usual stench of diesel and asphalt, there was blood.

And a lot of it.

I froze, my stomach tightening.

"Coy, stop," I ordered.

He halted mid-step, ears pricking as he looked back at me. Maggie pressed close to my side, her body tense, nose twitching furiously.

Nevermore fluttered down to the fence beside me, his dark eyes sharp. "What is it?"

"I smell blood. Something was wounded here," I said, my voice low. "Maybe dead."

Nevermore's feathers ruffled. "Can you tell what kind of blood?"

I shot him a look. "I'm a werewolf, not a wereshark."

Coy sniffed ahead, his posture shifting from curiosity to caution. Maggie followed, lowering her head to inspect the pavement. I crouched beside her, my fingers brushing over a dark stain near the base of a container. It wasn't fresh, but it wasn't old either.

And there was the smell of gunpowder.

Maggie and I both recognized the scent for what it was. The sharp, sulfuric tang clung to the air, mixing with the metallic bite of blood. I straightened, my gaze tracking up the side of the container. There—faint but unmistakable—a spray pattern speckled the metal like a grotesque constellation.

Someone, or something, had been shot.

The lingering sulfur stench suggested black powder—likely from a short-barreled firearm. A handgun. Maybe a revolver. No bullet holes to estimate the caliber, though. Either it was small enough not to punch through, or larger but hit center mass.

Either way, our marksman hadn't missed, so far as I could tell.

Coy let out a quiet huff and padded forward, nose to the ground. Maggie hesitated before following. A faint, rotten edge tinged the air—the unmistakable scent of decay.

I swallowed hard. The blood trail wasn't singular. There were multiple.

I quickened my pace.

Please don't be Boden.

Coy led us toward a small grove of trees at the edge of the lot. Nevermore was already there, perched on the fence, his sharp gaze fixed on the branches above.

"What did you find?" I asked.

"I'm not certain," he said. "But something dead is definitely here.

I frowned. "You didn't investigate?"

Nevermore tilted his head, directing my attention toward the trees. A murder of crows had gathered in the branches, shifting restlessly, their sleek black forms rustling against the canopy.

I raised a brow. "So? Can't you talk to them?"

Nevermore scoffed. "Do you know nothing of corvid behavior? Crows are absolute bastards to other birds—especially ravens."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

I smirked. "Are the mean old crows bullying you?"

He fluffed his feathers in indignation. "They dive-bomb me, pull out my feathers, and ruthlessly harass me." He flicked a wing toward the chattering canopy. "See? Still they mock me."

He wasn't wrong. The air was alive with jeering caws and sharp, scolding cries.

"Don't you shame my mother!" Nevermore roared back at them.

I crossed my arms. "I could scare them off for you."

Nevermore clicked his beak dryly. "It's your funeral. Those little assholes know how to hold a grudge."

I stepped forward, and the crows stilled, watching. They flapped to higher branches but didn't leave, eager to keep nearby.

It wasn't difficult to figure out why.

Under the shade of the trees lay the body of a dog, its fur matted with blood. Another lay beside it, just as still.

I crouched beside the first, brushing my fingers over its collar. A name tag gleamed in the dappled light.

"Daisy," I murmured, the name tugging at something in my mind.

"She was missing," Nevermore said, landing on my shoulder. He glanced up at the crows above us, watching warily. "There was a notice for her on the board back in the park."

I reached for the second collar. "And this one… Matty. He was on that board too."

Nevermore clicked his beak, his usual sardonic air replaced with something heavier. "What happened here?"

Maggie sniffed around the bodies, her nose leading her away from the depot. Coy followed, careful and subdued.

I exhaled sharply. "No," I said, standing. "Come back. We don't need to go further."

I already knew what they'd find if they kept going.

I could smell more bodies deeper in the woods.

And I didn't need anything else to turn my stomach. I was sure by the end of my pet-sitting gig, I'd have an ulcer.

But, to my relief, none of them smelt like Boden.

I crouched lower, inspecting the wounds.

"Gunshot," I muttered. "Flank on this one, chest on the other. And…" I trailed my fingers over ragged marks. "Bite wounds."

Nevermore's feathers ruffled in the breeze. "You think Boden did that?"

I shook my head. "No, too small. Besides, Boden isn't aggressive—he's a smotherer, not a biter. If anything, he's more likely to drown someone in affection than take a chunk out of them. But, I do think our mystery man shot the dogs."

Nevermore clicked his beak. "Do you think these missing dogs attacked first? I can't imagine this man of ours harming a pet without provocation, especially with a gun. Not if he's trying to keep a low profile." He turned his head, eyeing the bodies with something close to skepticism. "Still, why are these dogs here? Odd behavior for a bunch of lost pets."

"Yeah," I muttered. "Doesn't add up."

Something smelled off about them—not just the blood and decay, but something deeper. A wrongness clung to them, sharp and sour, like the scent of sickness, but not one I could identify.

Maggie whined, pressing against my leg, ears flattened. She didn't like it either.

That was enough for me.

I led Maggie back toward the depot, hoping to piece together a better picture. The man and Boden had been here, just like at Veneer, just like at Meetings—searching containers. But then, the missing dogs had shown up, closing in from the same direction they'd later fled.

Coy sniffed along the pavement, weaving between containers with a rare sense of purpose. He halted near a faded smear of blood, barely more than a few drops on the sun-baked asphalt. I crouched beside him, brushing my fingers over the stain. Almost too dry to notice.

"Our man was bleeding," I said, frowning. "Not a lot, but enough."

Nevermore landed nearby, tilting his head. "So he wasn't just fending them off—he took a bite."

Maggie circled ahead, tracking the faint, lingering scent of the pack. They'd scattered after the attack, heading back toward the suburbs. But the man's scent veered in the opposite direction, straight to the parking lot where I suspected he'd left his car.

"What would sic a pack of pets on someone?" I muttered.

Nevermore shifted, talons scraping against the metal container. "Something must have turned them. Stray dogs will form packs, and some can become aggressive, but this doesn't feel natural." He ruffled his feathers. "Then again, maybe I'm biased toward assuming something supernatural. Being a talking bird and all."

I started chewing on the inside of my lip, thinking about the two dogs. Daisy. Matty. Just two among dozens of missing dogs.

"They all had bite marks," I murmured, mostly to myself. "Probably from other dogs."

I turned to Nevermore. "Didn't you say some infectious curses could spread through a bite? Could that explain this?"

Nevermore considered. "It's possible, but for it to manifest and spread this quickly, it would need to be actively channeled."

I narrowed my eyes. "What does that mean?"

"It means someone would have to cast the spell and sustain it. A passive curse—like the one you may be afflicted with—needs time to develop. But something like this, something capable of affecting so many creatures this quickly, would require active facilitation. Like someone performing a ritual or spell."

I exhaled sharply. "Assuming, of course, that this is even supernatural. I don't mean to Occam's Razor this, but jumping to the conclusion that some evil sorcerer—or practitioner or whatever—cast a spell that turned dogs into killing machines feels like bit of a stretch. Even for me. As weird as this is, there's probably a more rational explanation."

"Of course," Nevermore agreed. Though, like me, he didn't sound convinced.

I pointed toward the lot. "He got in the car—Boden, I mean—and left with the man."

Nevermore was quiet for a moment before landing beside me. "Then the trail goes cold."

I nodded, my thoughts churning.

Something strange had happened here—something I didn't fully understand. And Boden, sweet, goofy, too-friendly-for-his-own-good Boden, had gotten caught in the middle of it. And, if his magical nature played a role in this, if Sandy's speculation was correct, it only complicated things.

And now, if I wanted to find him, I'd have to get involved in... whatever this was.

Or…

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. "I'm going to have to tell JT Boden's missing."

The words tasted bitter. I'd done everything I could. Followed every lead. But whatever Boden was caught up in now, it was over my head.

I could only hope JT would understand.

I stood up, straightening my clothes and turned to Maggie and Coy.

"Come on," I said. "We've done what we can here. Time to head home."

Maggie and Coy didn't move.

That was when their distress finally hit me—a slow, heavy wave of sadness emanating from them. They didn't want to stop. Not now.

It hadn't occurred to me until this moment that I wasn't the only one bothered by Boden's disappearance. To me, he was a responsibility. But to them, and probably the rest of the dogs, he was family.

I'd been too caught up in my own head to notice. Maybe it had been too subtle at first for me to intuitively pick up on, or maybe I just wasn't paying attention. But now, after finding the missing dogs and losing Boden's trail, even I, in my obliviousness, couldn't help but notice it.

Nevermore, either reading the moment or simply being observant, fluttered closer. "We could follow the missing dogs' trail," he suggested. "Might lead to more answers."

"No," I said sharply, the word leaving my mouth before I could temper it. "We're not following that."

Nevermore tilted his head. "Why not? The trail could lead to—"

"What, more dead dogs?" I cut in, my tone edged. The humid air pressed down on me, thick and suffocating. "We know Boden's not there. He left with the man. That's all we need to know."

Coy whined softly, his body tense with indecision, torn between the trail and me. Maggie stepped closer, pressing her shoulder against my leg.

Usually, she did that to steady me. But now, it felt like the other way around.

Maybe she was grounding herself. Maybe she was trying to herd me toward the trail.

Maybe it was both.

Either way, now she was the one who needed reassurance.

I knelt, running my hand along her back, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath beneath my palm. "We'll find him, I promise," I murmured, not entirely sure if I was saying it for her sake or mine. I wasn't giving up, but damn if it felt like it.

As I stroked her fur, a sensation stirred deep within me—vast, immense, like staring down from a great height and feeling the pull of something just beyond my reach.

A feeling I knew all too well.

I froze.

Digging into my purse, I pulled out my phone, careful to keep Elmo from making a break for it.

6:45 p.m.

My stomach twisted.

An hour and thirty minutes until moonrise.

And I was at least twenty, maybe thirty minutes from the car.

"Ah, crap," I muttered.

Nevermore alighted on a low branch, clicking his beak in that infuriatingly knowing way. "Cutting it a bit close, aren't we?"

"Thank you for the timely reminder," I snapped, shoving the phone back into my pocket. I turned to the dogs. "We'll continue looking for Boden tomorrow, but right now, we really need to get home. I can't be out like this for much longer."

I sensed their reluctance, the unspoken resignation in the way they hesitated before falling in line. Even though I knew this wasn't my fault, the weight of it settled over me like a personal failure. But what the hell could I do?

We took the most direct route back to the Park Circle Community Center, avoiding Boden's winding trail in favor of the main roads. It should have been a quick walk.

But Maggie—who had been an absolute trooper all day—was finally starting to show her age.

She never complained, never faltered, but now, the fatigue in her steps was undeniable. There was no doubt in my mind that I wouldn't have made it this far without her, but I needed to remind myself that she wasn't invincible. Hell, for all I knew, she, unlike the others, was just a normal dog.

For a brief moment, I considered carrying her, but she insisted she was fine, so I let her walk.

Besides, we had time.

Once we got to the car, it wouldn't take more than twenty minutes to get home.

It was only a twenty-minute drive home. No need to rush.

That's what I told myself.

But no matter how I tried to focus on that, my nerves were fraying. The weight of everything pressed down on me—Boden's disappearance, the mystery of the cologne-soaked man, the dogs who had seemingly turned violent. The puzzle pieces refused to fit together, and worse, my mind kept constructing increasingly grim possibilities.

And underneath it all, something else stirred—the wild, restless energy rising inside me, answering the call of the moon as it climbed toward the horizon.

I inhaled deeply through my nose, exhaled slowly. Keep it together.

"Doesn't that look like your car?"

Nevermore's voice cut through my thoughts—subdued, hesitant.

I looked up just in time to see a tow truck—Jennifer Towing decal on the side—pulling out of the community center lot.

A black Nissan Altima wrenched to the back.

My Nissan Altima.

For a heartbeat, my brain refused to process what I was seeing. Then Ms. Patterson's voice echoed in my head, smug and matter-of-fact: Those boots have trackers, you know.

Oh, God.

How could I have forgotten something so important?

"No, no, no," I stammered, dropping the leashes and breaking into a sprint, as if sheer willpower alone could stop the truck from disappearing down the street. But it was already gone, taking my car, my cash, my spare clothes—everything I hadn't thought to carry with me.

I stopped and just stared.

Coy barked happily, tail wagging like this was all part of some game of tag. Maggie, after catching up, sat beside me, calm and steady, watching the tow truck with mild curiosity.

The panic hit all at once, cold and sharp.

No car.

No cash.

No cards.

Nevermore landed on the curb beside me, tilting his head. "Did you leave your money in the car?"

"Yes," I said flatly.

He hesitated. "Think you can hire a cab?"

"None of my cards work," I muttered, barely hearing myself over the rush of blood in my ears.

Nevermore clicked his beak. "How long would it take to walk?"

I wobbled on my feet, then sank onto the nearest bench, pressing my face into my hands.

More than four hours. That's how long it'd take to get home.

The closest bridge into West Ashley had no pedestrian path. That bridge was miles downriver. Even if I ran, I wouldn't make it in time.

The sun still hung high in the sky, and soon, the moon would be joining it. My pulse pounded in my throat, a steady, rhythmic drumbeat counting down the inevitable.

I'd go full wolf in broad daylight.

Worse, it was on the eve of the full moon. I wouldn't be able to control the wolf as I had the nights before. She'd be too driven by her instinct to listen to reason.

As if on cue, my phone buzzed.

The alarm I'd set.

One hour.

One hour until moonrise.

One hour until I turned into a werewolf in the middle of suburbia.