Wolf for Hire

Chapter Thirty Eight

The wipes worked their way down my back. My leg twitched involuntarily—then kicked. It got worse from there. I had to stop what I was doing to hold it still.

I froze, glancing up. Hoping no one had seen.

Both Eugene and Nevermore were watching me.

"You know," Nevermore said, "despite expecting something like this, I'm still pleasantly surprised."

I hurled a wadded wipe at the raven. It stalled mid-air, floated briefly, then was reanimated by the spell and zipped back to my face.

"Son of a—"

As the spell continued, the used up wipes flopped lifelessly to the ground in a small pile, and fresh ones animated to take their place.

"General, my ass." I grumbled under my breath.

The wipes had scrubbed away the filth from the top layer of fur—the deer rot, the dumpster grime, the avian parting gifts—all gone from the surface. But some of the residue was deeper down. I still reeked a little, but a soft lavender scent now masked the worst of it.

A fragrant lie.

I'd need a real bath later, but for now, my fur didn't feel so sticky and miserable.

Not that I'd forget, or forgive, Eugene's service anytime soon.

Would need to return the favor in one way or another.

A few wipes circled my ankles before finishing at my feet. I'd balled up several wipes in my hands that had gotten too adventurous, and looked around for a place to toss them. I started checking the jacket again.

"You got a trash bag in here?"

"No, don't put them in there," Eugene said. "Just throw them out."

"Where? In your car?"

He pointed at the ground. "With the rest. I'll handle it."

"Disenchant these little bastards first," I said, holding out the wipes wiggling in my hands.

After they stopped moving, I dumped them into the pile. Eugene incinerated them with a spell, reducing them to white ash.

"You know burning trash in city limits is illegal."

"I'll alert the authorities."

I bent down to pick up Eugene's jacket and held up to him. "Here. You can have it back."

He waved a hand. "No, you'll wear it. Nevermore drafted you as an 'undisclosed intern.' So you get the privilege of carrying all the gear."

"Undisclosed intern?"

"Yes," Nevermore said. "A longstanding tradition. Secret apprenticeships. This way Desmond can officially allocate time and resources without disclosing your identity to his employers."

"I'm also obligated to help you learn to use your abilities properly, as well as the basics of magical defenses," Eugene added.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll embrace the responsibility with open arms," I said.

"Desmond's just being shy," Nevermore said. "He's the one who actually suggested it."

"What? Why?"

Eugene shrugged. "Rather have someone watching my back rather than having to constantly look over my shoulder. The sooner you're up to speed, the better."

I gestured at the jacket. "I think you just want a beast of burden."

"With your strength, you'll be fine."

I squinted. "Didn't you say you didn't want it getting dirty?"

"Too late now, isn't it. Besides, it'll make you smell better."

The jacket did still reek of his cologne.

"Don't you need it on you to summon your stuff?"

"No. Just within fifty feet."

I narrowed my eyes. "So—you could've summoned Elmo any time."

"Why the hell would I do that? I don't want him anywhere near me. Maybe you haven't noticed, but I don't do well with spiders."

"Oh, he's harmless."

"Doesn't change the fact I can't focus with a tarantula crawling down my shirt. Or that."

Eugene gestured at Boden's snout, which poked from the jacket's collar, tongue searching for something lickable.

Coy peeked his head out too, still holding Eugene's wand in his teeth.

"Hey! Give me that!" Eugene shouted.

Coy dipped back in.

Coy! I projected. Please give Eugene back his wand.

Coy's head reemerged, and he looked around.

Eugene held out a hand.

Coy seemed to debate the idea from a moment, then dropped the wand into Eugene's hand.

It glistened with saliva.

Eugene's eye twitched. He wiped the wand on his pants before making it vanish with a flick of the wrist.

I held out the pack of wipes. "Want one?"

He took one without a word and I stashed the pack back in its pocket space.

"If you want to keep your pets in there, you'll have to wear it," Eugene said.

"I have a pelt, if you haven't noticed. It's too hot for me to wear a jacket."

"I thought dogs only needed to pant."

"Don't start with that again."

"Again?"

"She means me," Nevermore said. "We discussed this before. She can sweat from her feet."

"Nevermore!"

Eugene turned back. "It's night. It's cooling off. Cover up."

"Even if it were snowing, it'd still be too hot."

"Ms. Virginia," Nevermore cut in. "Desmond's trying to be polite, so I'll just say it: you're looking a bit nipply."

I looked down.

Oh. Right. Humanish anatomy.

"Not that I mind of course," Nevermore added.

"Oh, grow up," I huffed, pulling on the jacket.

"Can't grow up when you're dead," he chirped.

I zipped it up.

"Better?" I said to Eugene, holding out my arms. Because of my slight hunch, the jacket was just long enough to reach below my waist. Like an extra mini skirt.

Despite its weight, it didn't press down on my shoulders like I'd expected. The magic seemed to insulate much of the jacket's actual mass from the effects of gravity, but it still had that mass. That inertia.

It was like how I'd imagine it to be an astronaut on the moon, strapped inside a two hundred pound suit. Sure, it would feel as light as a feather. But, if you got moving, you'd still have two hundred pounds to contend with.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Eugene's jacket weighed thirty, maybe forty, but felt like it had the mass of much more. At least 120 pounds of dog, plus whatever crap he stashed in the pockets.

Said dog-weight was also poking me in the back with their wet noses.

I swung my arms experimentally. "Is it supposed to have all this resistance?"

"You'll get used to it," Eugene said.

"And you wear this all the time?"

"When I'm in the field."

Shit. If he wore this regularly, he had to be toned as hell.

Then I remembered he could hear what I was thinking. Telepathy stuck on voicespeaker.

"You said you think you know what the Puppeteer is?" I asked, trying to redirect my line of thought. "So, what are they?"

"A type of theriomancer."

"And that is…?"

"You ever watch Game of Thrones?"

"Who hasn't?"

"I haven't," Nevermore chimed in.

"You don't count," I shot back.

"Hey."

"They're basically like Wargs," Eugene continued. "They can control animals from a distance. Use them to attack people, like our perp, or more often for scouting and reconnaissance. Most theriomancers I've come across serve as diviners like myself, or similar roles. I'm guessing the blood the dogs are made to consume—if that's what it is—is likely part of a ritual to force a familiar bond. Something that binds them to the puppeteer."

I raised a hand. "And you think my abilities are similar to theirs because...?"

"In many ways, your abilities could also be considered theriomancy," Eugene said. "You can communicate with and compel animals—and even shift into one, even though it may be involuntary."

"So what, lycanthropy is just theriomancy?"

"No, not exactly," he replied. "Like I said before, lycanthropy is more of a symptom than a cause. Whether your lycanthropy manifested your abilities, or your abilities are manifesting as lycanthropy... we won't know until we figure out what happened to you."

"My abilities?" I said. "I didn't have any abilities before becoming a werewolf."

"No. What I'm suggesting is that your lycanthropy may be the manifestation of your abilities, not the other way around," Eugene said.

"How is that even possible?"

"Latent inborn abilities aren't actually that rare," Nevermore offered. "Many people are born with the potential for magic, but few develop real talent. It's like wiggling your ears or becoming ambidextrous—it's a skill many people can learn, but never attempt to."

Eugene nodded. "Many people report prophetic dreams. It's pretty common, actually. It's just that most folks don't remember them well enough to make use of them. And many of those who learn to lucid dream, with the right training, can even learn to astral project. Problem is, developing magical ability is like trying to train a muscle you can't feel. You don't know how to move it, so you don't know how to strengthen it. Sometimes, it takes exposure to a significant supernatural event to even bring it to the surface. But unless it's the right kind of exposure, it's more likely to hurt than help."

"English, please," I said.

"It means," Nevermore explained, "that whatever force you were exposed to either afflicted you with lycanthropy and awakened your innate talents, or awakened your talents which then manifested as lycanthropy. Either way, you must have had some compatibility with it. Otherwise..."

"Otherwise what?"

"You'd probably be dead," Eugene said.

I blinked.

Somewhere deep in my chest, something pulled taut. Fear? Anger?

"Oh great! And how'd I get so lucky?"

Eugene looked to Nevermore. "You explain. I don't know how to sugarcoat it."

Nevermore turned to me. "You remember what we deduced about your tattoo? That it was obfuscated to conceal its true nature?"

"Yeah."

"Well, if we work with the idea that others are involved, then the answer to your question is not that you were lucky, but that you were likely targeted."

"Targeted? Why would someone target me?"

"Well," Eugene said, "remember how I mentioned human sacrifices and dark rituals when you asked me what contraband Kirkland could be smuggling?"

"...Yeah."

"Well, oftentimes not just any human will do. Sometimes, you need someone who's compatible with the magic you are casting."

"Like oil in an engine," Nevermore chimed in. "Not all oil works in all engines. Use the wrong one, and you could lose efficiency. Or worse, ruin the whole damn thing. Magic—and its components—often work the same way."

I stared. "Are you saying I was used as... engine oil?"

"Either that," Eugene said, "or a test subject. It's hard to know for sure. But at least we have a rough idea of the kind of magic you were exposed to."

I felt something twist in my gut. Anger. Definitely anger.

Someone had done this to me. Intentionally come after me, and fucked me over.

But why?

"This is still mostly speculation," he continued. "But considering how you appear to be manifesting abilities—like your telepathy, your ability to commune with and compel animals—it seems to suggest you either have an innate compatibility with the magic that originally caused all of this to you."

"There may be a witch in your family tree somewhere," Nevermore added. "Or a wolf. Don't happen to be Turkish, do you?"

I didn't answer.

I was still stuck on one word: targeted.

The wolf inside me, her presence wrapped around me, had also stirred at this tidbit of information.

And once again, I felt her trying to recall some fleeting memory. From long before tonight. From the night when we first met.

One that neither of us could seem to remember.

"And if others were involved in all of this," Eugene went on, "they likely targeted you because of that compatibility. Though how they figured this out, and what they used it for, I don't really know at the moment."

I didn't respond, caught on a singular thought:

The wolf had been guided to me.

I was sure of it now. She wasn't just some distinct part of my psyche. She was a completely separate presence.

And I her host.

And someone had brought her to me.

And by your side, I will stay, wolf affirmed.

"Now do you see why I was so eager to pester Eugene for help?" Nevermore said. "It occurred to me that if you were in fact the victim of an intentional act of dark magic—then this is something neither you nor I can effectively, or safely, investigate alone."

Right.

If I wanted to find the one who'd used me as some little experiment of theirs, I'd need all the help I could get. Both Eugene's and the wolf's.

Which meant I had to first deal with the business at hand. Couldn't have the puppeteer, or this Kirkland, getting in the way.

And maybe. Just maybe. This puppeteer, a theriomancer, might even know a thing or two about me. Because there was still a chance we were very much alike.

Baby steps.

Nevermore fluttered slightly, ruffling his feathers. "So when Coy and I stumbled upon Mr. Desmond while searching for Boden, I seized the opportunity. Couldn't allow such serendipity to slip by."

"Wait," I said. "If you two talked so much before showing up here, why was Eugene being such a prick?"

"Because Nevermore failed to tell me you were a werewolf," Eugene said. "Nor did I have a reason to expect running into you any time soon. Let alone get clocked in the head, break my nose, and get covered in dog slobber."

"So," I smirked, flashing a few teeth, "you were feeling petty."

"Wolf to the kettle," he muttered.

I turned to Nevermore. "And you think we can trust him?"

Nevermore tilted his head. "Well, Boden seems to like him. And, if the two of you hadn't gotten off on the wrong foot, you might have decided on a mutually beneficial partnership without my intervention. But alas..."

He spread his wings. "You know? Enough with that. Shall we formalize our compactual agreement and work toward a common goal?"

My fists were clenched and I hadn't realized it.

I didn't know who had done this to me.

But I knew this much.

I was going to find them.

And when I did... well.

I'd let the wolf decide what to do next.

We spent the next several minutes hashing out the terms in finer detail. The pact would bind Eugene and me to a mutual confidentiality agreement—no disclosures about each other's nature or involvement without express consent of the other. In exchange, we would share information and resources until the Puppeteer and their associates were located and neutralized.

Fair. Formal. Reasonably sterile.

Or at least, I was sure it was supposed to be.

Nevermore, of course, had to add some flair.

He fluttered to the space between us, puffed out his chest, and declared in a tone that could only be described as mock-grandiose, "And now, to finalize the binding. Do you, Ms. Allison, solemnly accept this bond of mutual magical purpose, shared accountability, and noble intent?"

He gestured toward Eugene. "Will you take his hand, and seal this accord before the feathered witness of fate and—"

I fixed him with a flat stare. "Nevermore, I swear to god. If you keep making this sound like wedding vows, I will summon every crow in a two-mile radius and let them pluck you bald."

"You wouldn't do that," he said.

"But she could," Eugene added.

Nevermore grumbled, "Kids these days. No sense of humor."

He huffed, clearly put out, but continued in a flatter tone, "Very well. All that remains is the sealing gesture. I've already woven the spell that will enforce this pact."

He turned to Eugene and me with a theatrical sweep of his wing. "When you two willingly shake hands, the pact will activate, and all terms and clauses shall be mutually agreed upon and enforced."

I raised an eyebrow. "You could've just said that."

"Where's the fun in that?" he muttered.

Even as I rolled my eyes, I felt it—something beginning to settle around me. A shimmer of presence, like fine silk or mist, brushing against my skin.

Magic. Wrapping around me like thread.

It spun and circled with intention, weightless but not idle. By the time it concentrated around my right wrist, I could feel it fully—like a band being drawn tight, but not painfully so.

"Upon the shaking of hands," Nevermore intoned, "you two agree to the terms of this pact until such time the two of you mutually agree to its annulment, at which point you may shake hands once again to terminate the pact. Are we all in favor?"

Eugene removed the bag of thawing blueberries from his wrist and lifted his hand. "I am in favor of these terms."

I narrowed my eyes at Nevermore. "Why do I get the impression you've just been maneuvering me into this position for your own amusement?"

"Just my own amusement? Nonsense," he said. "This serves all three of our goals."

"Oh, and what are you getting out of this?"

"Well, if you must know, I find being brought back from the dead merely to find a lost dog to be rather a bore. This, on the other hand—this is quite worthwhile."

"Right... So all we need now is for Eugene and me to shake hands. Your part is done?"

"That is correct."

I turned to Eugene. "And you're sure it's safe for Elmo and the others to stay in these pockets?"

Eugene, who'd once again covered his hand with the half-frozen fruit, grunted. "I'd like for them not to, but they should be safe in the back. Nothing magical in there for them to mess with."

"Okay. Good."

Without warning, I seized Nevermore.

"Wait! What are you—" he squawked.

"Hear that, Nevermore? Don't mess with anything."

And then I shoved him into the pocket space under my left arm.

Holstering him, you could say.

"I'm not going to sugarcoat this," I said. "I'm not in favor of any of this, but I'll still agree to these terms."

"Well," Eugene said, "they say the best compromise is where no one is happy."

Putting on my best professional voice, I held out my hand. "Look forward to working with you, Detective Desmond."

Eugene removed the pack of blueberries from his braced right hand and reached out. "Likewise."

As we shook hands, I gave Eugene a good, hard squeeze.