Wolf for Hire

Chapter Twenty Seven

I lay flat against the gravelly surface of a flat-roofed optometrist's office, the gray asphalt-like coating rough beneath my forearms. The roof had one of those rimmed lips, perfect for hiding behind while spying on the scene below. Just beyond the edge was the courtyard of a southern-style smokehouse, carved out of what used to be a small parking lot nestled between the eye clinic, an interior design boutique, and the smokehouse itself.

From my vantage point, I had a clear view of the setup: chest-high picnic-styled tables with tall bar stools, each one crowded with patrons elbow-deep in ribs, brisket, or bowls of loaded mac and cheese. Wooden holders sat in the middle of every table, packed with napkins, salt and pepper shakers, and an array of barbecue sauces ranging from pale yellow to dark molasses-red.

Music from the bar's speakers mixed with the chatter of conversations and the occasional burst of laughter. Standing fans panned lazily back and forth, barely moving the thick summer air. Waiters hustled between tables, balancing trays stacked with meats and sides, their aprons stained with sauce and sweat. The outdoor bar was packed—locals and tourists shoulder-to-shoulder, passing beers, cocktails, and various finger foods.

And in the middle of it all, my eyes locked on our target.

The wolf and I were in our in-between form—a stereotypical werewolf, and the proper attire for a late-night food heist. Claws ready, ears perked, eyes sharp. We were crouched and waiting for our order.

And by order, I meant the family of six's dinner—the one they'd placed nearly half an hour ago. It was just about time for it to come out. We could smell it now: the ribs had just come off the grill, still hissing with heat, the final rub of spices dusted over the caramelized glaze. Smoked meat, tangy sauce, the rich scent of fat crisping at the edges—the aroma triggered a visceral reaction, a sharp pang of hunger.

Which was saying something considering how much we'd already eaten.

We'd already struck multiple times this night, with the wolf picking the targets and me doing the dirty work. Sometimes it was easy—darting in and out of shadows to snag to-go boxes from slightly inebriated patrons, or slipping between parked cars to snatch leftovers left on hoods as people fumbled with their keys. I'd been spotted a few times, sure, but only as a flicker of dark fur, a vanishing tail. Nothing worth a second thought. We were in full wolf form for those heists, four paws and all—quicker, quieter, harder to recognize as anything more than a dog off her leash. Just a blur in the dark and gone again.

But the more we ate, the more we wanted. Hunger gave way to desire. We weren't just satisfying an empty stomach anymore. We were chasing flavor, thrill, the buzz of a clean steal and a greasy bite. Each snatch fed the wolf's cravings—and mine.

Eventually, scraps stopped being enough. We wanted entrees. Whole meals. Still steaming, fresh off the plate.

That kind of job took more than claws and shadows.

It took creativity.

It took teamwork.

Below, a waiter emerged from the smokehouse, balancing a tray heavy with a glistening rack of ribs, lacquered sauce catching the light like varnish. Just behind him, a waitress followed, arms full of sides—cornbread, baked beans, slaw, maybe even some smoked gouda mac and cheese.

The family of six—our unwitting benefactors—perked up immediately, scooting aside their emptied appetizer plates with anticipation. The first waiter set the ribs down in the middle of the table while the second began distributing the sides, asking who had ordered what.

That was when I saw my opening.

And I took it.

I reached behind me, wrapping my clawed fingers around Elmo, who curled obligingly into a tight ball like we'd rehearsed. With a flick of my wrist, I pitched him toward the waitress handing out the sides.

He flew true.

Elmo unfurled midair, landing squarely on her arm just as she reached to set down the bowl of mac and cheese.

For one glorious second, there was silence—brains lagging, trying to parse what fresh hell had come into their midst.

Then the screaming started.

The waitress flailed, the bowl flew—smacking one of the patrons directly in the face. Elmo tumbled onto the table, legs splayed.

Go, go, go, I ordered.

The spider scuttled across the plates, vanishing between cups and saucers as chaos exploded around him.

Patrons leapt back from the table, stools clattering to the pavement—some toppling, some of their humans joining them, falling in graceless tandem. The waiter, startled, dropped the remaining plates, ceramic shattering against concrete, and stumbled back with enough force to tip over the table behind him, sending its contents cascading to the ground in a spray of drinks, baskets, and fries. And other patron, perched upon those tall, top-heavy stools.

The waitress, shrieking, bolted as soon as Elmo was off her arm—only to crash directly into another server who had been clearing a nearby table. They both went down in a tangle of limbs, the snagged tablecloth depositing a slow cascade of cutlery and glassware down upon them.

One of the patrons snatched up a basket of potato wedge—the wedges flying off into the night—and took a mighty swing at Elmo, who effortlessly sidestepped the attempt, the living embodiment of a Spiderman logo possessing his own spidey-sense.

And then, just to rub it in, he scuttled up the man's arm.

More panic set in.

The man spun and flailed, trying to swat the intruder while effectively smacking himself in a furious, flailing mess of limbs. Elmo zipped from wrist to shoulder, under one arm and around the back, the man wildly slapping himself in a proper why-are-you-hitting-yourself routine.

But Elmo wasn't done having fun.

The arboreal tarantula, who could snatch a bird out of the air, sprang from the man's back like a furry little missile and landed on another diner's shoulder, sending them into their own spiral of screeching and panic. What followed was a daisy chain of shrieking patrons, flailing limbs, and overturned tables as Elmo made his way across the courtyard like an eight-legged plague that craved attention.

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And in the midst of all that noise and all those poorly managed startle responses, no one noticed the dark shape drop down from the rooftop, snatch the rack of ribs, and vault back up again in one smooth, impossible motion. Had anyone been paying attention, it would've looked like we'd rebounded from a trampoline.

That was the beauty of our werewolf form. It was as fast and agile as the wolf, as cunning and dexterous as a human, and stronger than both combined.

And boy, could we jump.

That had been the trick to Operation Wolf-Spider. Elmo ran the distraction, and I snatched the prize. In and out. Quick and clean.

Clean, except for all the barbecue that was getting all over my fur.

The rooftops made an ideal staging ground. Just like in hide-and-seek, the best hiding spots were always above or below a person's natural line of sight. And with all the streetlights aiming down, casting everything in a golden wash, no one seeing what lurked in the shadows beyond. The rooftops were cloaked in darkness, a perfect curtain to vanish behind.

And vanish I did—ribs in hand, the chaos below already fading behind me.

From the eye clinic building, I leapt up to the higher roof of the boutique—quieter, further above the noise, and with a much better view of the city sprawl beyond, and the night sky.

A proper place to enjoy a meal.

I loosened my grip, letting the wolf edge forward just enough to take the lead. She didn't hesitate. The first bite was immediate, intense—a tearing, chewing frenzy that sent grease and sauce flying. I tried to slow her down, to moderate the pace, but she was too eager.

Hiccups followed by the third rib.

Damned genetics.

It was nearly impossible to hold her back. Not when our shared form fused all our strengths—and all our senses. Every scent hit sharper. Every flavor registered deeper. The wolf picked up every savory nuance of the meat—the sear, the fat, the marrow-deep richness—while I caught the high notes: the tangy sweetness of the barbecue, the dusting of cinnamon-spice rub that lingered just at the edges. Texture, heat, contrast—each bite unfolded in tandem, a full-body experience neither of us could've fully appreciated alone.

The wolf radiated joy, an intense, pulsing contentment that buzzed beneath our skin. Her satisfaction bled into me, warm and bright. To her, this was more than food. It was celebration.

For me? Food had always been just food. Calories. Nutrition. Fuel. But now, sharing it with the wolf, feeling her delight sync with mine, I started to understand the appeal. When we ate together, it became something more.

And yet, somewhere between gnawing at the bones and licking sauce from my fingers, a cold weight settled in my gut.

I had given in to something I shouldn't have. Not just to the wolf's hunger—but to her hedonism. And not reluctantly, but gleefully. I'd followed her lead without hesitation, letting her cravings become mine.

And the worst part? I'd known better. I'd always told myself I was stronger than this, but the truth was, I never had that kind of willpower. I just liked pretending I did.

Take my vegetarianism. I had my reasons: it was healthier, better for the planet, more cost-effective. But under all that? For me. It was about self-esteem. About image. I wanted to feel like I was doing the right thing, being the right kind of person.

And by some twisted logic, I proved my so-called discipline by spoon feeding myself dog food to satiate the wolf. That, if I hated it, it didn't count as indulgence. Didn't count as breaking my conviction. That a little suffering meant I was doing it right.

But I didn't just force that logic on myself—I forced it on the wolf. I made her choke down the same garbage and expected her to live by my rules. No choice. No consideration. Just my own warped sense of control projected onto both of us.

And now, tasting something real, I could feel her joy—simple, stunned, and overwhelming. I was happy. So goddamn happy—and that was the part that made me feel awful.

Even as the wolf kept licking barbecue sauce from our fingers—I found myself savoring the fleeting traces of flavor.

So much for ascetics.

All that austerity? It wasn't virtue. It was performance. The habits of a self-loathing penny-pincher. And the second I was tested—really tested—I failed.

I'd let the wolf pull me along because, deep down, I wanted her to. I wanted to taste what I'd spent years pretending I didn't need. Or didn't want.

Now the idea of going back to tofu or lentils or anything less than this made my stomach turn.

Don't get me wrong, there was amazing vegetarian cuisine all around Charleston. But damn if I could afford it.

And while cooking for myself was the clear and obvious solution, it was predicated on my ability to cook. And let me tell you, I was no Nathalie Dupree.

The wolf, having finished lapping up the remainder of the sauce, searched for one of the ribs to gnaw on. I'd lost track of everything we'd eaten. Somewhere between the second gyro and third set of fries, and lost the tally. But, given a rough estimation, and factoring in the 9% sales tax with a modest 15% tip, I figured we'd racked up a dinner bill just shy of three hundred dollars.

The wolf, still savoring the last bit of bone, gnawed contentedly while my mind reeled in silence. Not just because of what we'd done, the food we'd stolen, the people we'd terrorize—with Elmo's help of course—but what it meant going forward. This night would be burned into the wolf's memory, something visceral and unforgettable.

A core memory.

And now that she'd tasted real food—good food—she would want more.

So would I.

And neither of us could afford it.

Three hundred dollars for a single night of eating out. Three hundred dollars I didn't have. Worse, this wasn't going to be a one-off. A once in a blue moon spending spree. This was going to be every full moon. At least three to five times a month. And I'd already maxed out my credit cards. I couldn't go into more debt even if I wanted to.

Still, the wolf wasn't going to settle for canned dog food again. Not Kirkland. Not Purina.

She had new standards now.

Even if I tried to play it smart—cooking at home, buying in bulk—I didn't have the skills to replicate what we'd eaten tonight. I was going to have to figure out how to feed a ravenous beast that had developed a gourmet's appetite.

But continuing to conduct more food heists wasn't sustainable either. Eventually, people would start to notice. Grow suspicious. And start checking the security cameras. Cameras which were everywhere. In every venue, on every corner, at every store front.

Our saving grace was that most security footage was grainy, low-res, only reviewed after the fact, when a crime was suspected. And even then, what would they see? A big dog? Maybe. A black blur with long limbs and a tail that appeared in only a frame or two? Also a maybe. But enough to take seriously? Probably not.

Not at the moment, anyway.

But if the wolf decided she was a foodie now? If she insisted on repeating this?

I'd be screwed. Every night was already like a game of Russian Roulette to see if I ended up in jail again, and that had been when the wolf had actually tried to avoid people.

But now I'd created a monster with a refined palate. A hunger that only fine dining could satisfy.

The wolf hiccuped, and the bone she'd been chewing on fell from her mouth—I'd warned her not to eat too fast. She pondered whether she should work on another bone, or should find something to drink. There were many interesting beverages to be found across the streets below. Some sweet, some sour. Some that made you feel strange in interesting ways. She'd never had much of a sweet tooth, or a sour tooth, but she was learning to appreciate all sorts of new flavors. And it seemed this other in her head, the one with all the colorful thoughts and memories, had a penchant for the fizzy drinks that smelled like bread.

Perhaps they were worth trying.

Uh-uh. Not while we are still on the clock.

Movement flickered at the edge of our vision. Elmo appeared, scuttling up from the roof's ledge, making his way over to us. He climbed up our leg and onto our back. He settled into his usual spot at the nape of our neck, where the wolf's mane was thickest, legs braced against the fur, seemingly pleased with all the attention he'd received.

What took you so long?

He didn't answer, just drummed his legs on my head.

Well, at least he was in good spirits too.