Wolf for Hire

Chapter Eighteen

"Come on, come on. Pick up the goddamn phone."

I
paced in tight circles on the pavement, panting and panicking. It was
too hot, my fur too thick, and my socks too... damp. I was on the verge
of jumping out of my own skin. I wanted to be anywhere but here, and be
done with this godforsaken day—and that was before accounting for the
impending moonrise.

My phone was pressed against my ear. Three rings. Four. Then straight to voicemail.

JT's voice crackled through the speaker, warm but perfunctory: "Hey, you've reached Dr. Caene. You know the drill. Leave a message, and I'll get back to you—"

I
hung up before he finished. I'd already left a message the first
time—concise, to the point. The second had been less concise. Borderline
frantic.

Now,
I just muttered a curse—damning JT and the dog that had birthed him—and
bounced on the balls of my feet, too wired to stand still.

Maggie
watched me, her demeanor stoic, but I could sense her anxiety pressing
up against my mind, only to be smothered by my own bundle of nerves.
Which probably wasn't helping either of us. She was worried—about me,
about Boden, and now, about Coy as well.

Boden was still missing. And now, so was Coy.

Well, not missing, exactly. I just didn't know where he was anymore.

I'd basically... let him go.

It
had been obvious since we'd stopped searching for Boden that Coy was
eager to continue—with or without me. And I didn't have the time or
luxury to stop him. Or the capability, considering he could literally
teleport. Maybe I could've pulled rank and used one of Sandy's command
words, but that would only tip the scales towards resentment and
insubordination.

Besides, I had familiars, didn't I? Might as well use them.

Make lemonade from lemons.

If
he wanted to keep looking, then that would be his assignment. And, if I
wanted his cooperation in the future, it wouldn't do to give him a
reason to defy me now. That, and giving him what he wanted gave me room
for... negotiations.

I told him he could go—but only under two conditions:

One, he had to be back before morning. Two, he had to take Nevermore with him.

Technically, there was a third—stay out of trouble—but that was implied.

Nevermore, understandably, had not been thrilled. I'd doomed him to babysit.

The
raven shifted his weight from foot to foot, feathers puffed in barely
contained irritation. "And how exactly am I supposed to follow a
teleporting dog?"

I pointed at Coy's vest. "Just sit on him. If the vest goes where he goes, then you will too."

Flawless reasoning.

Nevermore regarded me with one skeptical eye. "You do realize I have to keep my eyes closed, right?"

I shrugged. "Then just remember to blink."

Coy
pranced in a circle, tail wagging, his excitement radiating through our
bond like static electricity. While I hadn't so much given him
permission as acknowledged the inevitable, he was nonetheless
thrilled—I'd basically written him a blank check to go out on the town.

But that's where Nevermore came in. He'd hopefully reign in Coy's behavior a bit.

Keyword: Hopefully.

Coy,
pleased beyond reason, waited for Nevermore to board, gave an eager
shake—then, in the literal blink of an eye, bamfed out of existence,
taking a deeply disgruntled Nevermore with him.

And just like that, Maggie and I were alone.

Afterwards, I'd made my way to the Park Circle bus stop and attempted to call JT. And failed.

JT was a vet. I knew that much. But what
kind? There were small-animal vets, large-animal vets, exotic
specialists. Was he elbow-deep in a cow somewhere? Performing emergency
surgery on a parrot? Whatever it was, it was apparently too important
for him to check his damn phone.

I checked my phone again, scrolling through my contacts, looking for an alternative.

Inhale. Exhaled. Keep Calm. Keep scrolling.

I could call my parents. That was technically an option.

A last-resort, nuclear-option kind of option.

Dad
would be thrilled to hear from me—right up until he realized I was
stranded without a car and staying at the house of a man I hardly knew.
Then the excitement would congeal into anxiety, the kind that stuck in
you like bad heartburn. He didn't handle stress well; he let it eat him
alive. He'd insist I come home—and, if he was driving, I wouldn't have a
choice. Which meant finding myself in the same house as my stepmom.

Katherine. God, Katherine.

She'd
pry every last detail out of me like she was scraping plaque off teeth.
She could be so... surgical about it. Since my pre-teens, she'd
basically conditioned my siblings and me to be incapable of hiding
things from her—like some kind of Pavlovian Jedi mind-trick.

Not that I could hide the fact I was a werewolf. Not even a good poker face could help me conceal that. The wolf would be out of the bag as soon as the moon rose.

So,
if I called my parents, I'd be back in my old room in an instant. In a
house where I was neither wanted nor wanted to be. With a bedroom door
that was—if I remembered correctly—made of particle board.

Not exactly secure: I could huff and puff and blow the damn thing down.

So. No. Not an option.

I
shoved my phone back into my pocket and ground my heel against the
pavement, feeling the unpleasant adhesion of my damp sock. My stomach
turned, and my skin... rippled?

It wasn't just the moon. It was the sun.
The heat was getting to me. With my fur and my turtleneck sweater, I
was not well-suited for July. And though the temperature was gradually
dropping as the sun lowered in the sky, it didn't make things any more
pleasant.

This
was the South Carolina coast we were talking about. And in the summer,
when evening came around, and the temperature was tolerable, all the
biting insects came out to feast.

Even now, I could hear the incessant, tinnitus-like hum of mosquitoes swarming around my head.

I needed to get home, ASAP. If only for my own sanity.

I let out a breath, rubbed my temples, and opened my contact list again.

Candice
might be a possibility—she would have closed up shop at 6 p.m., but she
lived all the way up in Moncks Corner. It could easily take her 45
minutes to an hour to reach me. And that was assuming she wasn't
teaching her women's self-defense class.

The list went on.

Dina K., former coworker—barely knew her.

Kayla, current coworker—didn't have a car.

Michael, my brother—lived all the way in Ridgeland.

Justin, my ex—was... hell, I didn't know where he was, nor could I remember the last time we'd spoken.

He might as well be dead for all I knew. Or cared.

I
kept scrolling past the assorted contacts in my phone—college
classmates, people from high school, coworkers, networking
acquaintances, and some names I straight-up couldn't recall adding in
the first place. Probably the result of syncing my contacts with my
social media: my so-called friends.

And then, toward the end of the alphabetically organized list, there was Vanessa.

V.

As sure as the moon would rise, and the sun would set, the light of my failures had led me, once again, back to her.

I hesitated, thumb hovering over her name.

The last time I'd called her—and every time before that—she'd shown up and helped me out of a bad spot. But I knew it would cost me. V had a way of collecting favors—interest-bearing obligations—and I was already in debt.

And now, in need of one hell of a favor.

It was a vicious cycle but damn if she didn't deliver.

So, despite my best judgment, I tapped her name.

V picked up on the third ring.

"AJ," she greeted me cheerily—that unimpressed, mocking kind of cheer. "What a surprise."

I ignored the bait. "I need your help."

A pause. Then a slow exhale—the kind meant to convey put-upon patience. "You don't say."

"I wouldn't be calling if it wasn't important."

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"It always is," she replied. She didn't sound sarcastic, but hers was the kind you could taste. "So, what's the catastrophe this time? Still wrangling those little critters?"

"I'm
managing that just fine, thanks," I said, a little too fast. "This
isn't about them. My car just got repo'd, and I need a ride back to
Sandy's. Immediately."

"Haven't
they been after your car for, what, a month now? I'm honestly impressed
you managed to outmaneuver them for as long as you have."

I resisted the urge to groan. "V."

"I mean, it's not like you have someone—let's call him, oh, I don't know, JT—who, I'm sure, would be absolutely delighted to play chauffeur for you."

"I already tried him. Multiple times. He's not answering."

"Hmm.
Not surprising," she mused. "If he has surgery scheduled today, he
could be tied up for hours. You just have to hold tight until—"

"I don't have time to wait," I cut in. "I need to get home now."

So much for not getting baited.

She was intentionally being obtuse. To prod me until I let slip some juicy detail. This was her
game—her way of fishing for information. She was testing the waters to
see just how in over my head I was. So she'd know how much to charge.

V
hummed, like she was weighing the effort against the potential
entertainment value. "Well, I'd love to help you, really, but I'm busy
with work."

"How are you busy? You work your own hours." I bit back.

"I do, and right now I'm conducting a bit of... investigative journalism," she said.

"What kind of gossip column requires investigative journalism?" I said incredulously.

"The best kind," she replied.

I
opened my mouth to respond, to press her, but she'd gotten me off on a
tangent, and I needed a second to collect my thoughts. She smoothly
flipped the conversation before I could.

"AJ," she said, tone deceptively light, "what's really going on?"

I bristled. "As I said, my car just got taken, and I need to get back to Sandy's as soon as possible."

She
let the remark slide by, her voice staying pleasant. "And you can't
wait for JT to get off work because…? You know, if you'd just tell me what's wrong, maybe I could help."

Objectively, she sounded genuine. But I knew better.

This
was how V operated. She spun concern and camaraderie into a web,
waiting for me to blunder into it. If I told her the truth—if I told her
about the wolf—she'd find a way to make use of it. I was certain. Especially now that I knew she was a witch. Or something to that extent.

She could find all sorts of silver linings.

I
could already hear her pitch. A lucrative side hustle, too good to pass
up. Another strip club fiasco, but this time a dog show. Something that
would make bank for the two of us and would cost me nothing but my
dignity and sense of self-worth.

But I didn't want to make use of my lycanthropy. I wanted to get rid of it.

V
let the silence stretch, waiting for me to slip up. I scrambled for a
way to deflect, but movement in my peripheral caught my attention.

The bus: Route 13 Inbound – The Redmount Line.

I'd
been standing by the bus stop at Park Circle on the off chance the
schedule was running late, and by the grace of God, it had paid off.

CARTA,
the Charleston Area Regional Transportation Authority, wasn't exactly a
public transit system to be proud of, but by American standards, it was
far from the worst. It ran seven days a week and could get you anywhere
in the city—or at least, anywhere eventually. Buses came hourly at best, but usually on time.

"You know what? I should be okay," I said, my mind made up. "Looks like I can catch the bus."

V seemed unfazed. "Are you sure about that? The buses don't usually run as late on a Sunday."

"I'll be fine." I lowered the phone as I stepped up to the bus sign.

"AJ, you really shouldn't—"

I hung up before she could finish.

V
was trying to talk me out of it, especially now that she knew I was
withholding information. She was a bloodhound for secrets—part point of
pride and part obsession. Hanging up on her was effectively blue-balling
her. There would be some hell to pay for that later, but damn if it
didn't feel empowering.

Suck it, V. How's that for leverage?

The
bus squealed to a stop, doors hissing open. Maggie padded along after
me as I boarded. I flashed my old College of Charleston student ID at
the driver. Students rode free—along with healthcare workers and kids
under six. I was technically none of those things, having graduated
almost four years ago, and the driver gave me a long, dubious look. He
glanced at Maggie too, but I didn't give him time to scrutinize either
of us before moving to my seat. A bit rude, sure, but if being a little
rude was what it took to get home, then so be it.

The
doors swung shut, and the bus lurched forward before I was fully
settled. It was mostly empty—just me, Maggie, and a few other commuters.
A lucky break. Fewer stops, fewer people. Fewer chances someone might
look too closely and realize the fur wasn't part of my clothing. Or that
the odd bulge in my pant leg wasn't a banana in my pocket, but an
actual tail—one that kept twitching against my will.

I kept my eyes on the time. Every minute brought me closer to moonrise. And every moonrise brought me closer to a felony.

Exhaling,
I sank into my seat. The bus rattled over uneven pavement, the low hum
of the engine filling the space. I tried to relax, but my pulse stayed
high.

On
my phone I retraced my route. From here, the Redmount Line would take
me to the North Charleston Superstop, one of the city's major transfer
hubs. From there, I'd catch the 32 Outbound – Northbridge Line, which would drop me at the Walmart on Bees Ferry—just a stone's throw from Sandy's house.

The
wolf normally wouldn't wake up until nightfall, but she was still
tuckered out from our scuffle with Monty earlier—and from me harassing
her to help me hold a semblance of my human form. So, with a bit of
luck, she'd sleep in. And, if I was really lucky, I'd have almost half
an hour after the moon rose to get into Sandy's barn and lock myself in.

I'd
already mapped out multiple routes. Back at IHOP, when V first roped me
into this bullshit pet-sitting gig, I'd pulled up my map app to check
how easy it would be for a wolf—or a naked, disoriented woman—to get
home undetected.

West
Ashley had plenty of neighborhoods, but it had just as many, if not
more, green, forested spaces. An ideal place for skulking. So, as long
as I reached West Ashley, I'd be fine.

I
double-checked my route now, just to be sure. The map confirmed I'd

reach my first stop in nine minutes—just enough time to catch the 7:30
bus into West Ashley. The Northbridge Line typically terminated at the
Citadel Mall on weekdays, about four to five miles from Sandy's. But on
weekends, it ran all the way to the Walmart on Bees Ferry, barely a mile
from Sandy and even bordered the CSX line: a safe, secluded route home.

So
even in the worst-case scenario where I ran out of time, I'd just get
off early, transform, then cut through the woods. I'd be home and in the
barn before moonrise.

Solid plan.

I just had to get there first.

The
bus pulled into the Superstop ahead of schedule—which, in real terms,
meant it was right on time. I barely noticed the shuffle of passengers
disembarking because my focus locked onto the Northbridge Line. My
connection was already at the station.

Once
on the sidewalk I bolted for the bus, Maggie keeping pace at my heels.
The bus doors were shut, but the driver was still in his seat. I rapped
on the glass, heart hammering.

After what felt like a full minute, the doors hissed open, and I hopped inside.

"Thanks,"
I gasped, hoping on and digging for my ID—which I kept in a card pouch
on the inside of my phone case, along with my drivers license and credit
card.

"Whoa, whoa," the driver said, holding up a hand. "Where do you think you're going?"

I blinked. "West Ashley?"

The driver gave me a long, measured look. "I'm about to go off shift. This is the inbound bus. It's out of service."

My stomach lurched. "What? No—there's supposed to be an outbound at 7:30."

I whipped out my phone and pulled up the schedule. The driver leaned in, squinting.

"There is," he said. "Tomorrow morning. 7:30. AM."

I stared at him.

The driver tapped the screen. "See here? You got AM and PM mixed up."

Slowly, I scrolled back through the route I'd mapped.

The
times had started in PM. But at the Superstop transfer point, they'd
switched to AM. That one-minute wait between transfers wasn't actually a
wait. That was just how long Google Maps expected it would take me to
walk from one side of the station to the other.

The real wait time?

Twelve hours.

Twelve goddamn hours.

"First time taking the bus, huh?" the driver said.

"Um,
yeah." I nodded dumbly, still parsing the consequences of this little,
itty-bitty, oversight. It wasn't my first time taking the bus, but it
was my first time in a long time. And never this route. Never this late.

The driver must've seen the horror dawning on my face because he shrugged, almost apologetic.

"Sorry. Wish I could help, but there's nothing I can do."

I swallowed hard. "Are there any other buses still running?"

"None that'll take you to West Ashley." A pause. "You'll have to call for a ride."

I stepped off in a daze, barely registering Maggie trotting beside me.

Call for a ride.

Right.
Me and what money? I needed a working credit card. Or cash. But I was
literally down to two dimes. Couldn't buy shit for two dimes.

Maybe I could bum a ride off a stranger.

Me. A young woman. Alone. In a bad part of town. Asking some rando for a lift.

Yeah. No.

It wasn't that I couldn't defend myself. Quite the opposite.

I
still had my gun. I still had Maggie. And soon, I'd have teeth and
claws and a hair-trigger temper. My wolf hadn't hurt anyone yet, but
then again, it had never been locked in a car with a stranger. I had
about forty-five minutes before moonrise, and another fifteen before
nightfall. A problematically short window of time that really meant
nothing if the wolf decided I was in danger and took over early—like she
had with Monty.

I pressed the heel of my palm against my forehead, trying to hold myself together.

Wandering into the adjoining parking lot, I took bearing of my surroundings—

And almost laughed.

The
Charleston County Department of Social Services sat directly across
from the Superstop. And right beside it, the County Magistrate's Office.

Cosmic cruelty.

I'd
been here before. This wasn't the courthouse, but one of several court
offices. A few months ago, I'd stood in that very building, handing over
the medical forms that got me acquitted of my first round of charges
for trespassing and public indecency. The result of my
lycanthropy-induced sleepwalking.

And now I'd found my way here again.

I'd always had a feeling I'd be back.

I let out a long, shaky breath.

No choice. I had to call V back.

But this time, there'd be no catch-and-release. Not after I'd just ding-dong ditched her.

She was going to gut me.

That meant telling her the truth. The whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Not the end of the world though. She'd find a way to help me—of course she would—but there would be strings attached.

So many strings.

And considering she was a witch, capable of who-knew-what, those strings could be very problematic.

The strings of a puppeteer.

But, frankly, all magic was problematic, and I'd yet to find anything to the contrary.

But
between the unknowable consequences of taking V's help, and the known
consequences of going full werewolf in the city, it was a no-brainer.

I just had to consign my dignity to death.

I pulled out my phone, scrolled to her contact—

"Miss Avery?"

The voice came from the aisle of cars next to me.

I froze, the sudden feeling of dread surging through me.

I knew that voice.

Panic
snapped me into action, stuffing the phone into my purse like a guilty
teenager caught texting in class. A stupid reaction. I had nothing to
hide.

Well—aside from the whole werewolf thing.

"I thought that was you."

The voice sent a bolt of raw terror through me, sending my tail curling between my legs.

If
I were capable of normal perspiration, I'd be drenched in cold sweat.
Instead, my palms went clammy, my fingers trembled, and—more than
panting—I actually started to hyperventilate.

My feet were… well, pretty much the same as they'd been all day.

I was a hairy, sweaty mess.

I
forced myself to inhale through my nose, exhale through my mouth. It
wasn't working. Between my now frantic panting and elevated heart rate, I
was practically vibrating.

Why?

Why was she here?

Of all the people in Charleston, in my hour of greatest need—why her?

It was Sunday, goddammit. Public officials weren't supposed to work on Sundays.

But
that scent—powdery and sharp, something citrusy and medicinal, laced
with the faint tinge of tobacco smoke—was impossible to mistake. It had
been ingrained in my psyche through too many unfortunate encounters. A
conditioned fear response.

I turned stiffly, already knowing who I'd see.

Judge Childs.

Judge Amanda-fucking-Childs.

The magistrate overseeing all my court proceeding.