Wolf for Hire

Chapter Twenty Eight

The
wolf jogged along the shoulder of Virginia Avenue, weaving through the
thin treeline that separated the road from a sprawl of low-slung
commercial buildings. The night air was humid and heavy, thick with the
mingling scents of oil, asphalt, and the faint tang of salt from the
Cooper River. Streetlights cast long shadows between the trees, their
light flickering against the passing silhouettes of freight trucks and
the occasional growl of distant engines.

Overhead,
the steady drone of tires on the expressway added a low, constant hum
to the nightscape, blending with the soft buzz of street lamps and the
rhythmic rasp of insects. It wasn't quite peaceful—too industrial for
that—but it had a rhythm. A beat. One that matched the wolf's steady, if
sluggish, pace.

The
tracks we'd been following—the Old North Charleston Rail—now ran on the
opposite side of the road but would soon cross over to join the CSX and
Norfolk lines as they merged and made their way to their final
destination: the North Charleston Port Terminal.

Across
the road, just beyond the tracks, stood the Amalie Oil Company: a
sprawl of storage silos, a fenced-in employee parking lot, and a private
port for petroleum transport. A bold red-and-black street sign proudly
proclaimed their oil to be "Better than it has to be™ since 1903."

After
gorging ourselves in North Charleston's garden of earthly delights,
we'd peeled off the rooftop and began our slow, northbound trudge. Back
in our wolf form, leaner but stuffed, we moved with labored steps. The
wolf's belly noticeably round. Her pace was sluggish, each stride
weighed down by a gut full of stolen dinner that went well beyond surf
and turf—land, sea, and sky were all accounted for.

I once had a classmate—a distance runner—who swore jogging after a meal helped with digestion. Said it "churned things up."

Personally? In my experience, it just led to cramps and regret.

Normally,
after a feast like this, the wolf would curl up somewhere dark and
quiet and slowly slip into a food coma. And, in such cases, come
morning, I'd awaken in someone's yard or garden, naked and
disoriented—and feeling a bit bloated.

At
which point someone would call the cop. A threat that still hovered
over me like a greasy sword of Damocles. Always dripping. Constantly
reminding me it was still there.

Fortunately,
tonight, the wolf had a reason to stay awake. Boden and Coy were still
out there somewhere, and she wasn't going to rest until they were
home—until the pack was whole again. Only then would she sleep soundly,
surrounded by her adoring entourage.

I'd
handed the wheel back to the wolf once we'd left the Culinary District,
and found myself feeling oddly less apprehensive at the idea. We'd come
to a bit of an... understanding. And, despite my regrettable lapse in
judgment earlier, and the voiding of my dietary commitments, I'd earned
myself some brownie points with the wolf.

If nothing else, she'd warmed to me. If just a little.

Wolves, like all dogs, were rather food motivated.

I
basically just needed to follow the same dating advice I was given when
it came to men: that the best way to their heart was through their
stomach.

Shame I never learned to cook.

It
felt like our relationship had shifted—less adversarial, more
cooperative. A few nights ago, she would've yanked the wheel from me the
second I hesitated. Back then, she only came to me for
information—facts, directions, context—and would rifle through my
thoughts like a junk drawer, only grabbing what was immediately useful.

Now, though, it felt different.

She
was listening. Not just scavenging. She was actually turning her
attention toward me, actively seeking my input. Asking for thoughts.
Suggestions. She wasn't just tolerating the presence in the passenger
seat—she was acknowledging me as part of the ride.

It
wasn't about control anymore—it was collaboration. That shift was new.
But it mattered. Her thoughts felt more open, her intentions easier to
sense without having to dig.

The
wall between us was still there, but it wasn't a fortress anymore. More
like a picket fence. Clear boundaries, but easier to speak across. Chat
with your neighbor. Pet their dog.

Not
that I was cozying up to her. She was still hijacking my body, after
all. But for the first time, some form of mutual collaboration didn't
feel entirely out of the question.

And it helped that she was no longer fixated on food. One less impulse to keep under control.

I
still felt conflicted about what we'd done tonight. The heist. The
indulgence. But it had taught me something—not just about her, but about
how to work with her. The key wasn't brute force. It was redirection.

Not to tame her instincts, but to guide them. Manipulate them. Place what she wanted on the other side of a constructive goal.

What she wanted was simple: food, a pack, a forest to call home. All I had to do was convince her to follow my lead to get it.

Which meant I had to find a way to deliver.

The
answer, of course, was money. Money and a job. Money for food, and a
job to make said money. And a job needed a car—public transportation
wouldn't cut it. The job I'd taken for Sandy, could provide the wolf

with the two ingredients to her happiness, but that was predicated on
holding onto the position, and securing a tenant position with Sandy.
Which seemed ever more dubious by the second, especially considering
that we'd assaulted my supervisor and her brother, JT.

But
that kind of forward thinking was still too abstract for the wolf. She
didn't think in long-term plans—her world was made of immediacies.
Hunger. Safety. Pack. Maybe she could stretch her focus to tomorrow, but
anything beyond that was fog.

But
at least reasoning with her was always easier on a full stomach. Blood
sugar was required for her to think properly. And stop her gut-brain
from usurping her head-brain.

Not
only that, but I'd learned that my wolf was rather susceptible to
positive reinforcement. Dinner had bought me goodwill. Better to lead
her with the carrot, and not the stick.

Or, perhaps, a bone with a bit of meat—but it was still an apt analogy.

If I could make her happy and comfortable, I could domesticate her.

Kill her with kindness, so to speak.

Too many sticks spoil the broth—and you could still beat people with carrots.

We
reached the parking lot I'd visited earlier—the one where Boden's scent
had hit a dead end. It belonged to the Ingevity Corporation, a
football-field-sized sprawl of cracked pavement hemmed in by industrial
buildings and a thin treeline. The lot was mostly empty, save for a
scattering of cars parked near the front entrance. Maybe they belonged
to custodial staff or an office worker putting in weekend hours. But my
bet? Most were just from people looking for a free spot to leave their
car for the holidays. Out-of-towners, probably. Locals wouldn't risk
it—Charleston didn't mess around when it came to parking enforcement.
With the city growing faster than it could handle, any empty space was a
battleground, and towing companies were more than happy to cash in.

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

A
few high-mounted floodlights lit the center of the lot with glaring
intensity, leaving the far corners mostly in shadow. Around the edges,
low-hanging branches from the bordering treeline helped obscure the
view, making the outer stretches feel like the edge of somewhere long
forgotten. The depot and parking lot were divided by that same treeline,
with the Old North Charleston running straight through it on its way up
to the port terminal.

The
depot was of moderate size, wedged in a triangle between Virginia
Avenue and the tracks that ran up toward the port. At its center stood a
light-blue warehouse, large and boxy, operated by a chemical leasing
company. Tank trailers lined one edge of the property, their silver
sides dull in the moonlight, while rows of refrigerated cargo containers
were stacked like oversized ice chests along the opposite side.
Scattered industrial lights cast uneven pools of yellow across the
rust-stained pavement and chain-link fencing, giving the whole place a
disjointed, sterile look.

The
wolf slipped through the same damaged section of fence I had used
earlier, her nose twitching as she padded across the gravel. The scent
was faint, older, but still present. She moved with purpose, tail high.

She
retraced Boden's steps like reading a story faded by time. The scent
trail was over a day old, but still legible—written in sweat, pawprints,
and the tang of cologne. There had been dogs here—several. And the man.
The wolf read blood in the dirt, both canine and human, and the
distinct chemical whisper of gunpowder. A scuffle, brief but violent.
The man had fired a weapon, and been injured in turn. Bitten most
likely. But he hadn't bled a lot. Either he'd staunched it quickly, or
the wound had been shallow. Whatever happened here had been messy. And
sudden. Someone had come looking for trouble, and found it.

Boden's trail followed the man closely. Mirroring it. Not so much dogging his footsteps, but accompanying him.

And both trails vanished at the same spot: an empty parking space.

Boden
had been with the man. That much was clear. He'd followed the cologned
stranger into the depot, sticking close, container to container, like a
second shadow. He'd been there during the scuffle—present when the man
drew his weapon, fired, got bit. The wolf could pick up the sequence
from the mingled trails: Boden hadn't panicked or bolted. He'd moved
with the man, left with him.

Whatever Boden was doing with that man, he'd chosen to go with him. And he hadn't come back.

Same dead end, huh?

No, the wolf replied, turning back toward the depot.

She
circled back to the epicenter—the place where the blood and gunpowder
smells were strongest. But unlike me, the wolf wasn't revisiting the
scene for reflection. She was reconstructing it.

Her
nose filtered through the overlapping scents, isolating one from the
next. The other dogs. Their numbers. Where they'd entered. Where they'd
exited. The wolf wasn't interested in why they'd come—only in how. The
direction of their paws, the density of their prints, the tang of sweat
and adrenaline—they painted a map clearer than any satellite image.

Most
of the dogs had come from the west, from the direction of Park Circle,
and had fled the same way. That made sense; I'd guessed as much based on
where the missing dog posters I'd seen clustered on the boards at the
community center.

They'd come from Park Circle and had returned to Park Circle.

All except two.

Daisy and Matty.

The two dead dogs I'd found earlier. They'd fled to the north.

We returned to their bodies, curled up in the wooded stretch beyond
the fence line, just past the edge of the depot's lights. They were

stiff, collapsed near one another like they'd tried to run but hadn't
made it far. Probably wounded and fled. Matty looked like a Boxer—stocky
build, cropped ears. Daisy had the look of a Setter, or maybe a mix of
something similar—leaner, with a long snout and feathered fur around the
legs. Not huge dogs, but sizable enough to hold their own.

The
wolf approached slowly, hackles raised. At first, I thought I
understood her anger. I felt it too. I'd seen these dogs on the
community boards and in posts from worried owners. They weren't just
animals. They were companions, family. Someone had loved them. And now
they were gone. Shot down in some senseless chaos. No answers. No
justice.

But as we drew closer, the wolf's anger didn't fade. It grew.

And that's when I realized—it wasn't grief. It wasn't sadness twisted into frustration.

It was hate.

It
poured off her like heat from pavement, and the longer she lingered,
the more it bled over into me. Our pulse picked up. Our jaw clenched. It
was the kind of feeling that made your vision tunnel and your thoughts
snap sharp.

And it didn't feel like her.

The
wolf wasn't hateful. She was feral, sure. Fierce. But when she hunted,
it was instinct. Clean. She didn't hate the deer she took down. If
anything, she loved the deer. Loved deer in general. They way they
smelled. The way they moved. The sound they made when frightened. She
loved to stalk them, loved to chase them. To sink her teeth into them.

A love for food.

The kill wasn't cruel. It was natural.

Even
the poor worker she and Elmo had scared shitless behind the
restaurant—she hadn't hated him. Sure he'd been an obstacle. Annoying,
maybe, but not hated. He'd brought food, after all. Which counted for
something. An overall net positive review.

But this?

This rage was foreign. Thick. Wrong. The emotional version of a chemical burn.

It was bitter. Metallic. Like burnt ozone and copper. It smelled foul.

Smelled like...

Get back! I said, reaching for the wheel, forcing her to move. To step back.

She recoiled, the fury vanishing like voltage in a short circuit.

And that confirmed it.

I'd
suspected that something had been affecting the dogs. Something that
manipulated them. Compelled them to violence. I'd sensed the magic on
the dogs earlier. Smelled it. Felt it. But it hadn't affected me. Aside
from giving me the heebie jeebies, of course. But that was because I was human.
Sure, I'd been part wolf at the time, physically, and perhaps even
mentally—I'd had to believe I was a wolf to get the transformation
right. But deep down, I was still a normal person, still knew I was
human. A wolf in all but spirit.

But the wolf, despite being a manifestation of my lycanthropy, was still a dog.

Could magic really work like that? Could it target the spirit of something? The soul?

Well, I mean, it was magic after all.

But something else also bothered me.

Not
all the dogs had carried this scent. Only Daisy and Matty. Their bodies
still radiated that foul smelling magic. It didn't just cling to
them—it emanated from them.

They weren't just cursed. They were a source. Transmitters for whatever had cursed them.

And this is why I didn't want to get involved, I said to the wolf. This is over our heads.

But the wolf was undeterred. She turned away, picked up a new trail.

Fine, I told her. But if I feel that stuff creeping in again, I'm stepping in.

A huff of agreement—she knew the score.

She also knew what our next move should be: we had a new scent to follow.

The wolf didn't follow the crowd into Park Circle. She didn't need to.

Out of the many trails crisscrossing the depot, only a few bore the heavy stink of magic. Daisy. Matty. And one more.

A third.

One of the cursed dogs had gotten away.

The
thought struck me—whoever, or whatever, had done this would have needed
time. These dogs had likely gone missing before the others. Long enough
for whatever that had been done to them, to be done to them. If I went
back and checked the dates on the posters or cross-referenced the
Facebook page, I might be able to figure out which dog it was.

Or I could let the wolf follow her nose. That would probably be more expedient.

The trail continued northward, hugging the shoulder of Virginia Avenue. It was easy to follow. The dog had left a blood trail.

Huh. Three cursed dogs, and the cologned man had managed to hit all three.

Quite the stroke of luck...

No. Not luck at all.

The wolf and I realized it at the same time.

The cologned man had known exactly which dogs to shoot.

But how?

I
could sense the magic, smell it, because of what I was. That was a
quirk of my lycanthropy, and an ability the wolf and I seemed to share.

But
the cologned man couldn't have been like me. Hell, if he was he
wouldn't have been able to tolerate the god-awful cologne he was
wearing. His nose would be too sensitive. So he must have had some other
way to tell. Perhaps he too could sense magic. Or maybe there was some
kind of tell that gave them away—like glowing red eyes or something.

Then again, he had Boden. Perhaps he too could sense magic like Coy and I could. Could smell it.

If the information in Sandy's book was to be believed, that would be well-within Boden's ability.

But if Boden could sense magic too, then how would he have communicated that information to the man?

Odds seemed pretty good that the man in the cologne had some tricks up his sleeve.

All
the more reason to figure out where the cursed dog had been taken and
twisted. I felt confident that wherever this wounded dog had gone, it
was likely back to whatever was pulling the strings.

And
if the wolf and I found that, then chances were good that the cologned
man would already be there, or, at least not far behind.

Time to return to the hunt.