Wolf for Hire

Chapter Twenty Nine

We didn't have to travel far before learning the fate of our third dog.

Barely
half a mile up the road, the trail cut past the Kinder Morgan and
Buckeye Terminals—oil storage facilities, just like the Amalie terminal
we'd passed earlier—before reaching the T-intersection at Virginia and
Lincoln Avenue. Just beyond the crossing, the Mark Clark Expressway
loomed overhead, its offramp descending to merge onto Virginia Avenue,
just beyond the intersection. Though the roads were mostly quiet, the
occasional car came barreling off the ramp, blowing straight through the
stop sign and zipping down Virginia like it had someplace urgent to be,
all while lacking a sense of self-preservation.

Lincoln
Avenue itself was a stretch of warehouses and truck yards, home to
outfits like Quality Transportation, Port City Transportation, and
Bull's Bay Diesel and Rig Fix—the kind of places that kept the freight
economy rolling and gave eighteen-wheelers a place to park, rest, and
get patched up.

Directly
across the intersection stood Ralph Hendrick Park and its small boat
landing—just a sliver of green along the industrial corridor, mostly
grass and gravel, dotted with benches facing the water and flanked by a
fair number of trees that grew thick just before you reached the
riverbank.

It was here that the trail veered off-road, and a pungent smell hit the wolf's nose.

Death.

So our dog hadn't made it after all.

The
wolf circled the intersection slowly, triangulating the direction of
the scent. It didn't take long to figure out where the body was. Across
the street, in the shadows of a park. They were probably somewhere
amongst the trees.

I
found myself resenting the cologned man. He'd shot the dogs. There was
no getting around that. But I also had to admit he hadn't done it
without cause. Matty and Daisy hadn't exactly been lapdogs, and if
they'd come at him under the influence of whatever this curse was, what
choice had he had?

So, maybe he wasn't the villain. Maybe he'd been defending himself.

But
that didn't make the whole thing less tragic. Those dogs hadn't asked
to be cursed. Someone—or something—had made them into weapons.

And the one who did that? That was the real enemy.

The
wolf dipped low as a car hurtled past, its headlights slicing through
the dark. We stayed still, hidden in the shadows near the park's
treeline.

That's when I saw it—reflected in the brief sweep of high beams.

An innocuous blue and yellow sign hanging on the fence across Lincoln Avenue from Quality Transportation.

Jennifer Towing.

Well, son of a bitch, I seized control, turning us towards the lot.

The wolf didn't resist, though I felt her confusion. Wondering why I'd decided to deviate from our course. What about the dog?

He's dead, isn't he, I answered. He's not going anywhere.

But these assholes? These assholes stole my car. That had consequences.

Sure,
Jennifer was just carrying out a repo order for Dixie Nissan. But let's
not pretend that gave them any moral authority. They were the ones who
hooked my car and dragged it off. Leaving me stranded, far from home,
taking my clothes and my cash. They'd fucked me over and were the
primary reason I now found myself running around town in the body of a
wolf.

That made them the ones who earned my full attention.

Let
me be clear: I didn't hate the concept of towing. I understood the
necessity. Charleston was growing faster than its infrastructure could
handle, and with limited public transportation, congested downtown
streets, and an overflow of tourists and residents alike,
towing—legitimate towing—had its place. Illegally parked vehicles in
fire lanes or abandoned cars blocking loading zones do need to be moved.
I got that.

But
what we Charlestonians ended up with wasn't a public service—it was an
extortion racket hiding under the thin veil of municipal necessity.

The
companies that swooped in to fill Charleston's gap didn't act like
public servants. They showed up like vultures—only worse. Because
vultures were at least beneficial to the environment. Whereas these guys
were parasites.

They
thrive on ambiguity. Vague signage, quick-trigger tows, and the refusal
to even tell people where their cars were taken without demanding cash
upfront. And sure, there were ordinances—fee caps, signage rules, even
laws saying if you catch them mid-tow they're supposed to release your
car for eighty bucks. All written down, nice and official.

But

writing a law isn't the same as enforcing it. They still broke the
rules. They still demanded illegal cash-only payments when the code said
they had to accept cards. They stash your car for days, stacking up
fees, knowing the worst they'll get is a fine that costs less than a
tow. That wasn't punishment. Just overhead.

And
they didn't prey on tourists so much as they prey on people like me.
Students, shift workers, single parents—anyone who needs their car to
survive. Where one day without your card was a missed paid check, or a
lost job. And they could charge you whatever they wanted to. Because if
you couldn't pay, your car was forfeit.

They were not just unethical. They were functionally predatory.

So I didn't feel the slightest bit guilty for what I was about to do.

Because stealing from thieves? That wasn't theft.

That was justice.

I
glanced both ways down the road, checking for any stray drivers who
might catch a glimpse of something hairy and suspicious hopping a fence
in the middle of the night. The road was clear.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

I
stepped up to the fence—standard chain-link, about head-high, topped
with a foot of vine-covered barbed wire. Nothing I couldn't vault.

The
lot beyond was wide and cracked, filled with rows of cars lined up like
cattle waiting for auction. A mobile trailer with a porch light served
as their office. Just to the right of it stood the front gate. One half
was a sliding gate, probably remote-operated. The other half swung open
on a hinge—and someone had left that swinging side wide open. Probably
by one of the drivers. Lucky me.

I crept inside.

The
place reeked of grease and resignation. Rusting sedans and dented
pickup trucks lined the cracked pavement, some with flat tires, others
with hoods popped open and windows shattered—a genuine wreck. Puddles
shimmered with rainbow sheens under flickering security lights, and
litter—soda cans, food wrappers, and bits of broken bumper—clung to the
chain-link fence like forgotten confetti.

It looked more like a junkyard than a storage lot.

And that was basically what it was.

These
weren't just impounded vehicles. These were forfeitures—cars that
people had no hope of reclaiming. Victims of fees that ballooned past
reason. Their owners had been forced to walk away—because without a car
to drive, they were pretty much forced to leave on foot.

There
it was: my black Nissan Altima, parked near the front, not far from the
office. No boot on any of the wheels, and no flat tires, thank God. The
doors were still locked of course, but that wasn't a problem. I had a
spare key hidden inside the passenger side mirror, held in place by a
small, innocuous metal clip.

I'd locked myself out often enough to always make sure a spare key was hidden somewhere on my car.

The wolf stirred in the background, wary.

You're getting distracted, she seemed to say.

And you weren't when you made me detour for dinner? I snapped. This is my turn.

She huffed but didn't argue.

I
circled the lot, watching for cameras. They were aimed at the gate and
nowhere else. Fortune was on my side. Jennifer Towing was obviously
relying on its remoteness to protect them. Not even the buses came this
far up Virginia Avenue, so there was basically no foot traffic.

I shifted. Back into werewolf form. Clawed, furred, but with thumbs. Good enough to pluck out the key and put it in a lock.

I
unlocked the trunk and pulled out the spare tires—the ones with the
GPS-enabled boots. I dragged them under a row of cars and tucked them
out of sight.

The plan from there was simple: hop in, start the car, drive out.

There was basically nothing stopping me.

And then my gut made a noise.

A deep, sudden churn. A slow swirl of dread started in my abdomen, curling low and tight. I knew that feeling. We both did.

Transforming and lugging the tires around must have been the trigger.

But so soon?

We'd just eaten. Barely an hour ago.

Either
the wolf's metabolism was supernaturally fast—or this was the deer and
Purina from earlier finally reaching the end of their long and noble
journey.

Nature had called.

And had dialed #2.

And when the call came, it wasn't the kind you could easily ignore.

There
wasn't a public restroom in sight. Not this far out. I scanned the
surrounding lots for a porta-john, some kind of outhouse, anything that
might pass for a toilet. No dice.

I turned my attention to the trailer. This office trailer would certainly have a restroom. It was my best bet.

I sidled up to it quietly and peeked through the side window.

Inside:
a cluttered desk, towers of paperwork, and an empty rolling chair. No
lights, no movement. Just the faint outline of the room visible only
thanks to my night vision. The place looked deserted.

Abandoned? Maybe. Or maybe they were running on a skeleton crew tonight.

I
crept to the front door and gave it a test—locked. Figures. But there,
taped crookedly across the glass, was a handwritten sign:

CLOSED EARLY - HOLIDAY HOURS

I stared at it in disbelief. A damn federal holiday?

I
could feel my blood boiling. They were still towing cars, and yet the
office was closed. That wasn't just negligent—it was illegal. A flagrant
violation.

Towing
companies didn't get holidays. Not federal, not state, no Arbor Days,
or PTO. They were supposed to stay open 24/7 to ensure people could
promptly reclaim their vehicles. Legally, they didn't have to process
returns outside of normal hours, sure—but in Charleston, the city had
circumvented that by redefining towing companies' "normal business
hours" as round-the-clock.

Whoever
was supposed to be here had clearly abandoned their post early.
Probably off enjoying fireworks or drinks while the rest of us got
screwed.

And
you could bet your ass they'd still charge for the days they were
closed over the holiday. Double, because it was a holiday weekend.

I
could probably pry open the door or force open a window. I hadn't
really tested my strength as a werewolf, but if it was anything like in
the movies, I was pretty sure I could rip open a flimsy trailer door.
Though, the prospect of adding 'Breaking and Entering' to my growing rap
sheet didn't exactly appeal to me.

Still... if I was clever, I could find another way in.

Maybe, I could—

The wolf interrupted my train of thought with what I could only describe as a feeling of exasperation.

Oh.

Right.

I was a werewolf. I had were-privileges.

As a wolf, all of nature was my toilet.

We could go anywhere. Behind a tree, in the grass, between two parked cars.

Or—

Right on Jennifer's front goddamn doorstep.

Because fuck these guys—or girls. I was going to give them a piece of my mind.

A big ol' one-poo review.

The wolf's exasperation intensified.

I
eased my car into the parking lot at Ralph Hendrick Boat Landing,
finding a quiet little spot with just enough cover to hide us from the
road. The kind of place where no one asked questions, especially not at
this hour.

I
took a long breath and sat there for a moment, gripping the wheel. Smug
satisfaction simmered beneath the surface. It wasn't just about getting
the car back—it was about proving I could. That I wasn't entirely at
the mercy of some bureaucratic extortion or magical chaos.

A small, vindicated part of me wanted to do a victory lap. Or howl. Perhaps both. A little wolf on the brain, you might say.

Driving
as a werewolf, behind an actual wheel and not just a mental construct,
wasn't that hard either. As long as I had thumbs and could reach the
pedals, I could manage. Pawed, clawed, or not.

I'd
still been in the towing lot, just getting into the driver's seat, when
I'd been forced to duck down. Shifting back into a wolf and hunching
low as one of the drivers came rolling back into the lot, hauling a car
behind him—looked like a Toyota Corolla. He dropped it in the space
right next to mine, then peeled out again, probably off to chase another
call.

Once
the coast was clear, I shifted into my werewolf—just humanoid enough to
safely buckle up. And after adjusting my seat to accommodate
digitigrade legs. I checked the lights to make sure they were off before
starting the engine, then eased out of the lot. I followed the path the
driver had taken: turned right onto Virginia Avenue, and a short while
later, veered left into the boat landing.

I
parked and turned off the ignition, climbed out, locked the doors, and
slipped the key back behind the mirror where it belonged. Then I
stretched—long and slow—feeling every vertebra pop as the tension
unspooled from my shoulders, savoring my victory.

See? I told the wolf. Barely twenty minutes. And now we have a ride home.

I
turned to head deeper into the park, toward the waterfront. Just ahead,
I spotted a small building—a squat, cabin-shaped building that I
immediately recognized as a public restroom. And next to it, gleaming
under a faint halo of lamp light: two green porta-johns. Probably
dragged in for the sidewalk construction nearby.

I stared at them for a long moment.

"Whelp," I muttered.