Chapter 39:
Day of the full moon.
July 3, 2023
Moonfall: 6:01 a.m.
Sunrise: 6:12 a.m.
Chapter Thirty Nine
The time on the Bronco's dashboard read 12:07 a.m.
A new day had begun, and I wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't been behind the wheel.
Because night was the wolf's day—and now mine, by extension. And the night wasn't even close to over.
Six hours.
That's how long I had before the moon dipped below the horizon. Before the wolf became consumed by her fatigue and curled up for her metaphorical nap. Without the wolf's influence, I'd return to being human. Perhaps a little hairier than normal, with a better sense of smell and hearing than normal, but still human. My senses, my strength and speed, would all be muted compared to how I was now.
That meant I had six hours to find this puppeteer, and find Kirkland. Then high-tail my ass back with Boden and Coy before I wound up running naked in the streets.
But, thankfully, I'd recommandeered my car, with all my personal effects in the trunk—so perhaps the latter could be avoided.
It would be my fallback plan.
I could also remain in this in-between form if I wanted, but without the wolf riding shotgun, it never quite fit right. The power, the ease of movement—it just wouldn't be there.
Not without her.
I'd be strong, sure, but only by human standards. Back to my usual budget brand of muscle magic. And if I stayed shifted too long without the wolf's support, I might get stuck that way.
At least until the next moonrise.
Which, incidentally, would be the Full Moon.
Not a fullish moon like tonight, mind you, but the capital F, capital M, Full Moon.
Eugene had said its light would trigger my true form—which I understood to be my werewolf form. Though, considering I felt like I was already stuck in my werewolf form most nights, I wasn't sure how tomorrow night would be any different than now.
I couldn't remember what happened to me during previous Full Moons, but, now that I could stay conscious post-transformation, I should be able to experience it.
Was it different than all the other nights I'd transformed? Maybe there was another level to this lycanthropy. But then again, perhaps it meant that I wouldn't be able to shift between my wolf and werewolf form.
Currently, I could still fully become a wolf, and not just a werewolf. I'd first noticed this on my run from West Ashley Park back to Sandy's. The wolf hadn't even been awake yet, but I could still shift myself between wolf and werewolf. And then when we were in the barn together, I'd discovered that the wolf couldn't turn herself into the werewolf. At least, not by herself. She'd tried to change forms without me and failed.
It seemed like we needed to cooperate to hit this sweet spot. Like we were playing tug-of-war—me pulling toward human, her toward wolf. And the werewolf form was the balance of the two. During the day, when the moon was gone and she slept, my will was stronger. So, human by default. At night, with the moon overhead, the wolf's will pressed in. She was always there, always nudging, always ready.
So, now I had only two options: be a wolf or be a werewolf. The difference coming down to how hard I pulled back.
Because the wolf was always pulling.
Maybe that was the key.
Maybe I'd been wrong all this time. Maybe it wasn't me holding us back—it was her. The wolf didn't know how to imagine being anything other than a wolf. I could picture being human or being a 'wolf in street clothes'. My mind was flexible. I could believe myself to be whatever I wanted.
But she couldn't.
She didn't know how to be anything other than what she was. Couldn't let go of her sense of self and let us become human.
But that begged the question: what exactly was she?
At first I'd assumed the wolf was just some primal aspect of me—the Auto-dog, I'd called her. Like some kind of instinctual manifestation brought to life by magic. But it was becoming clearer to me that she was her own entity.
She wasn't just me on a bad day.
She was something else entirely.
And as the moon's power grew in intensity, more and more of what she was manifested.
Eugene had mentioned something about possessions. That I might be possessed by a wolf-like spirit. Of all the theories he'd floated, that one had stuck the most with me.
A spirit, bound to a living being.
Just like Nevermore.
He'd described himself as a ghost stuck in the body of a raven. A spirit-tuner, Eugene had called him—a creature in tune with a spirit?
So what did that make the wolf? A ghost? That didn't seem quite right. I couldn't see a ghost wielding the moon's power so instinctively. Nevermore had some magic, sure—stuff Ellenore probably taught him—but he couldn't shapeshift. At least, I didn't think he could.
Maybe she wasn't a ghost in the traditional sense, but a spirit in the more abstract sense: an incorporeal being.
But what kind?
Eugene had mentioned a barghest. And something called an amarok. Neither name meant much to me. Most of my mythological knowledge came from books or television media, like Supernatural, Harry Potter, and Disney movies. I wasn't exactly an expert on the source material. And it's not like I had a smartphone on me to look any of this up either.
You made this pack, the wolf had said.
Eugene and Nevermore had suggested that I'd been the victim of some dark magic rituals. But was there something that I'd also done?
In my mind, the wolf listened, to our surroundings, and to me. Her presence curled around mine. Attentive to any potential dangers, but also curious about the thoughts running through my head. Trying to understand where my mind would lead us next.
She too wanted answers.
Wanted to remember... something.
She'd noticed it as well. Her own growing awareness. As the moon grew, so did she. Manifesting more and more of herself.
But, unlike in previous months, her consciousness had grown rapidly this time. Because this time, I had communed with her. Opened my mind to her, and let the wolf in.
All because Solomon had suggested that I try talking to her. Treating her like a person capable of reason, and not simply a fuzzy bag of impulse and instinct.
I'd changed my view of the wolf, my schema of her, and had allowed her to grow.
And I was convinced that that pompous black cat had known this would happen. But how? If he was working for Sandy—one of her familiars—then how would she have known I was a werewolf? We hadn't even met in almost four years.
Once I was done helping Eugene and got home, I was going to have to hunt down the furry little bastard and squeeze him for answers.
Because I was running out of time.
The big day was upon me. Big night, I should say.
The Full Moon was less than a day away, and I was going into it with too many loose ends untied. The biggest of which, aside from the current situation, was JT.
I had to tell him the truth, there was no getting around that now. The timing would be god-awful—telling him I was a werewolf on the eve of the Full Moon—but better late than never, I suppose.
My foresight might be legally blind, but my hindsight was 20/20. And I could see now how so much of the shit I was in could have been avoided if I'd just asked him for help. Had taken my head out of my ass and stopped looking at his.
Had I asked him more questions he might have realized that I was out of my depth, that I wasn't a witch. I might not have gotten the job, but it would have saved me from digging myself into the hole I was currently in.
Or even if I'd just fessed up this morning—yesterday morning now—that I needed his help, I'm sure he'd have offered it.
To think that by swallowing my pride I could have saved me from so much indignity.
A penny saved, but a pound foolish.
And I was going to need his help. Especially if the Full Moon had any unforeseen effects on the wolf. Especially considering he wouldn't be dealing with a normal wolf anymore.
During the Full Moon, the real Full Moon, the wolf would have access to our full potential, with or without me. It explained a lot, actually. Like how the wolf had managed to escape during the past Full Moons.
If she'd been in the werewolf form all along, then she would've been strong. Smart. With thumbs.
A bathroom door would've been nothing to her. And I wasn't sure a barn door, no matter how sturdy, was going to work either.
I'd lived through three Full Moons so far, each of which ended up with me in someone's yard—usually Ms. Ursily's—and remembered none of them. And the wolf was in the same boat. Her memories during that time were always hazy, like a dream.
It was fair to say that neither of us could trust ourselves.
But maybe, this time, now that I'd figured out how to stay conscious while she was in control—and now that she was becoming more self-aware and cooperative—we might actually be okay. And then there was JT who could control animals. Maybe even a werewolf—with a little help.
Especially if we all worked together.
Making sure nothing went wrong.
So all I had to do now was tie up any loose ends. While this moon was still up.
So yeah. I was on a ticking clock.
Which made it all the more irritating that I was sitting in Eugene's Bronco, twiddling my claws, waiting for him to finish dotting his magical i's and crossing his bureaucratic t's.
After we shook on our newly minted non-aggression pact—and a handshake that nearly fractured the rest of his hand—we got to work securing the scene. His phrasing made it sound like we were crime scene investigators instead of two people surrounded by dead, formerly-possessed canine puppets.
Securing the scene, he explained, meant placing discrete wards around the thralls' corpses to keep animals from getting too curious. The curse afflicting the thralls was still active—residuals, he called it—and there was a risk that if a wild animal tried to eat one, it might absorb part of that curse. There was no confirmation that the curse only affected dogs. So, if a stray raccoon got too curious—and hungry—we could end up with a enraged trash panda.
And considering three of the original curse-bearers were still out in the open unwarded—Matty was still marinating, Daisy pushing up daisies, and Tyson... well (I didn't have a good alliteration for him)—the last thing we needed was to expand the curse's radius of effect.
The setup looked more arts-and-crafts than arcane ritual. First, Eugene walked around the depot gathering large chunks of gravel. Then he had me dig through his ridiculous Mary Poppins jacket and retrieve—of all things—a box of crayons.
Yes. Crayons.
Like the kind you give toddlers.
Not a wand. Not chalk. Not enchanted ink.
Crayola fucking Crayons.
And not just a tiny box either. Eugene had an entire classroom-sized set—with 16 assorted colors.
I held the box open for him while he made his selection—Green, Black, and White.
Since I was now his undisclosed intern, I got to wear the magic jacket. Which meant I got to carry all of his stuff—his so-called equipment—like a glorified porter with a gun license.
Speaking of, I was also carrying his gun now too. The classic Colt 1911 had originally been holstered under his right arm, but thanks to the bite from Tyson, the repeated re-injuries from his own muscle memory, and the iron-clad handshake I'd given him, his right hand was out of commission.
Couldn't even move his wrist because of the swelling.
And it wasn't like he could just flip the holster to the other side—as Nevermore had suggested. His rig was fitted specifically for a right-handed draw.
Right to blast, left to cast.
And since his only usable hand was currently tied up holding rocks and other things, that left exactly one person to carry his firearm.
Me.
So, being the team intern apparently meant pack mule and hired muscle. I'd call it a promotion, but promotions usually meant getting paid.
And just because I'd been hired to a new position hadn't absolved me of my existing responsibilities. My previous occupation was not null and void.
I was still a pet-sitter. And I had two dogs breathing down my neck to prove it.
Coy and Boden had learned they could poke their heads out of the jacket's rear pocket space, each now resting a head on one of my shoulders. Boden on the right, Coy on the left, both panting. Both breathing on me. They'd decided that being carried around in a magic jacket was better than walking—especially after being on their feet all day. But that didn't stop them from getting bored or from seeking attention.
I had to keep a hand on their muzzles to keep them from nuzzling me or licking my ears.
Undisclosed Intern? More like three dogs in a trenchcoat.
Meanwhile, Eugene had strapped his wand to the underside of his right wrist like some kind of bootleg Assassin's Creed character—held in place with elastic bandages that sandwiched his hand between the wand and a bag of frozen peas.
The blueberries had already thawed.
He'd given me his staff to hold and, to his chagrin, I gave it to Boden, who was more than happy to hold a magic stick. A little too happy.
The pup could barely keep himself still, and to my chagrin, he kept hitting me in the face with the staff until I was forced to wrestle it away and stuff it into another pocket. Boden had whined after that.
Eugene held the pieces of gravel steady with his left hand, while the crayon magically scrawled what looked like Chinese characters onto the stones—and by magically, I meant Eugene was using his Jedi-fantasia magic to manipulate the crayons without holding them. He only had one usable hand, after all.
The white-marked rocks were placed in a loose ring around the bodies. Then the black-marked ones formed a smaller ring inside that. Finally, he set three green-marked rocks in the center. One for each dog.
Despite being instructed to be quiet and let him focus, I couldn't help myself. "Okay, I have to ask—how exactly is this supposed to work?"
"The characters I've written on each stone let me invest them with an idea," he replied. "That idea affects how the stones interact with magic."
I watched him levitate the next crayon into position. "Right, but how does one 'invest an idea' in a rock? I mean, I get it's magic—but magic how?"
Eugene glanced up. "You have to understand—magic isn't an objective science. It's more of a subjective art. It's shaped by the schema of the practitioner. I was trained to view magic through Chinese Wuxing and Celtic Animism. These characters represent three of the five Wuxing elements: white for metal, black for water, and green for earth. I could've used actual metal or poured real water, but it's more efficient timewise to impart my schema—my mental interpretation of magic—into these objects and alter how they interact with magic. This little trick being the basis of animism."
"So that's how you make all your little trinkets work?"
Eugene shrugged. "More or less."
I pushed Boden's head to the side as I looked down at the rings. "So all of this together does what exactly?"
He pointed at each stone in turn. "Green for earth, to absorb the lingering energies of the curse—the residuals. Black for water to disperse that energy. And white for metal to contain and conduct it—and to help keep other things out. The outer ring keeps the curse from leaking out and wards animals from wandering in. The wards draw power from the energy left behind in the curse itself, slowly burning it out."
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
"Huh." I squinted at the rocks. "Looks like New Age nonsense to me."
He nodded. "New Age nonsense is based on actual magical practices. You should be able to feel it yourself. Try stepping closer."
I instructed Coy and Boden to duck back into the pocket while I approached the circle.
And, as I did, I felt something.
Not a wall. Not resistance—not exactly. Just a sense. A thought. It felt like stepping over the out-of-bounds line of a basketball court or nearing the yellow divider line while driving—something subtle, yet deeply ingrained. A conditioned mental response that said: do not cross.
The idea of a boundary.
But it was just a thought.
So I crossed it.
As soon as I did, I could sense the residual magic clinging to the thralls. I could smell that foul magic. The magic my mind interpreted like the smell of old dried blood. I hadn't been able to notice it before stepping in, but here, inside the ring, it was readily apparent. And yet, it was also more muted. Dampened.
The sensation disappeared as soon as I exited the circle.
"Well, I'll be damned," I muttered.
I stepped back and surveyed the setup. If I hadn't seen Eugene placing the stones myself, I probably wouldn't have noticed them. But the effect?
It definitely felt real.
"So is there anything I can actually take away from this?" I asked. "Something I can use? I mean no offense, but I'm not exactly a magic-user like you."
Eugene thought for a moment, then nodded. "Understanding schema is important for anyone, not just spellcasters. It's not just about how you shape your own magic—but how that magic affects you."
"So I can use this to protect myself?"
"You already have."
I blinked. "How so?"
"Earlier when you countered my repulsion spell."
"Vorpollo? That blast thing? How did I counter it?"
"That spell was meant repulse the things around me. It should have only forced you back. But we both got tossed. That's not how it's supposed to happen."
"You're saying I—what, willed your spell to misfire?"
"Basically. You believed it could, and even stated just as much while you had me grappled. That belief was a basic schema, one just strong enough to influence the spell."
I frowned—something I found myself doing a lot lately. Frowning. "If magic can be undone that easily, how is it useful at all?"
"One, this is why you need a faster imagination than your opponent. Two, this is why you don't spam the same spell over and over in a duel—more of a lesson for me, though. Variety keeps your opponent guessing. And this is why I use Esperanto instead of Latin—most mages are familiar with Latin. And many of the older ones speak it fluently. They hear the spell you're casting and figure it out before it's done. Esperanto throws them off just enough to buy me time."
"Isn't Esperanto based on Latin, though?"
"It is, but the differences are enough to be confusing."
"So I countered your spell because I guessed how it might work?"
"Because you anticipated a weakness and sufficiently believed in it. That's how schema works when used for defense. In fact, it is a trick that even an ordinary person can utilize to protect themselves. Many spells only function if both caster and target believe in them. Like hypnosis—you can't be hypnotized if you're consciously resisting it."
"So, disbelieving can break spells?"
"Certain spells, yes. Especially illusions. But only if you can realize it is an illusion. Easier said than done. Illusory pain will still feel pretty damn real. And spells that create real things can't really be resisted. Fire conjured through magic will still burn you. And spells that produce emotional effects—anger, fear, desire—are particularly tricky too. They short-circuit your ability to think rationally, which makes resisting magic much harder."
"So a rage spell, like the one on the dogs—it's like a mental smokescreen?"
"Exactly. Such rage would weaken their mental defenses. It's the first step most spirits or malevolent forces take when trying to influence or possess someone. Animals included. Just like in horror movies—terrorize the victim, wear them down. Get them thinking with their lizard brain."
I nodded slowly. Huh. That... actually made a lot of sense. Like a haunted house only really worked if you bought into the scares. I filed that away. Seemed like it could come in handy later.
"So… what now?"
Eugene wiped his hand and pulled out his phone. "Now you're going to wait by the truck while I make a phone call."
"What? To whom?"
"My contact with the DOA. Need to make a report."
"Can't make the call in the truck?"
"It involves some official matters, so a bit of privacy, if you would. Focus on keeping your eyes and ears peeled instead. Make sure nothing tries to sneak up on us."
Instead of arguing, I strolled up to the Bronco and slid into the driver's seat—and proceeded to eavesdrop on Eugene's conversation.
He wanted me to keep my ear open? Well, he was going to find out just how good my hearing was.
I rolled the window down the rest of the way and stuck my head out. Heads, actually. Coy and Boden had, once again, come to join me.
Even though Eugene had moved several dozen yards away, I—thanks to my acute hearing—could listen to the haptic buzz of his phone as he dialed. The call went through almost immediately, and I recognized the sound of an automated voice menu. I heard Eugene curse under his breath. He hung up and dialed again—only three digits this time—911, probably.
A female dispatcher answered. Eugene identified himself by name and his detective license, then asked to be patched through to a Mitchell Raines, providing his precinct and badge number. The dispatcher asked if he'd be okay being put on hold or if he wanted to leave a callback number while she checked for Raines' availability. Eugene chose to be put on hold.
And we proceeded to wait.
Eugene standing at the edges of the truck's headlights, and me now watching the minutes tick past midnight, growing increasingly impatient.
He'd left the engine running, and I'd opted to keep it running. It would've been suspicious if I'd cut it off. But I didn't really need to—the sound was constant, rhythmic, easy to tune out.
Still, I'd cut off the A/C and radio to hear more clearly.
It was uncomfortable to sit in the truck without A/C, especially with Coy and Boden crowding me, their hot breath rolling across my face and neck. I could sense they were just seeking attention, and probably wanted a treat—but I didn't know where Eugene kept the milkbones. My guess was the Ziploc pocket, but I couldn't risk opening it with the two of them so close. Boden, in particular, would smell the burger and fries inside, and I'd be forced to wrestle with the big boy.
Considering all the other weird things stored in that pocket—really, in most of the pockets—I didn't want to risk Boden eating something he shouldn't. So I had to try and keep my two extra heads occupied with regular head rubs and chin scratches while I continued listening in on Eugene—who was currently listening to elevator music
Try being the key word. Because, to make matters worse, the radio and A/C fans kept flipping themselves back on at random.
The fan blew in my face, crowding out my ability to hear with white noise, and the radio flip itself to a music station—Q104.5 - The Lowcountry's Classic Rock—which was playing Private Eyes by Hall and Oates.
Private eyes, are watching you.
I growled under my breath. "The hell? Did he enchant his truck too?"
Nevermore, poking his head out of the jacket and swallowing a blueberry from the thawed pack I had laid in my lap for him, replied, "Oh, no, that's just Marvin."
"Marvin?"
"The truck."
"Eugene named his truck?"
"No, his mother gave it to him."
"This is his mother's truck?"
"No. It's Marvin's."
I gave up. "Hush, Nevermore, I'm trying to listen."
Eugene's call had finally gone through. I could hear it ringing on the other side of the line.
I held the knobs for the A/C fan and the radio volume down in place, leaning forward in the process so I could keep an ear out the window. But that also meant letting go of Coy and Boden.
Which meant my face was forfeit.
I'd decided it was more important to hear what Eugene had to say than to keep myself from being tongued. I could take a little more indignity at this point. Considering what I'd already been subjected to over the past two days, this was just a drop in the bucket.
Boden pulled his head back into the pocket space, then poked it out under my arm, snaking around to get at the blueberries in my lap—milkbone or not, food was still food.
Nevermore squawked in indignation.
Meanwhile, Coy began to groom me, nibbling at the base of my ear and along the back of my neck. More attention seeking—and damn if it wasn't distracting.
My ears were sensitive.
"Detective Raines," came the voice on the line.
"Mich, what the hell happened to Gabby?"
"She's off for the night. Didn't she give you my cell?"
"No. I had to call dispatch."
"I'll text it to you. So, what do you have for me, Gene?"
"Three more thralls to clean up," Eugene replied, calm and clipped. "And the location of the three from last night."
He rattled off their locations—one by one—giving Mich a rundown of where all the thrall corpses could be found.
I struggled to focus on Eugene's conversation, what with Nevermore protesting at Boden and Coy nibbling on my ear. I wondered if Cerberus from myth ever had to put up with this shit.
They say two heads are better than one. But I knew now that was a lie. And more wasn't better either, especially when your shoulder companions were Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.
"We need to remove them ASAP. The enchantment still seems to affect other dogs if they get too close. I worry what might happen if something tries to eat them."
"Getting better at shooting dogs, eh?" Mich asked, his voice prodding.
"Not this time. I wasn't caught off guard."
Yeah, right. There's a big ol' goose egg on the back of your head that says otherwise, I projected at Eugene.
He shot me a look.
"What about the other dogs they've bitten?" Mich asked.
Eugene covered his mouth with his right hand. As if that would make him harder to hear.
"The enchantment the thralls perpetuate seems to cease once they're killed. Last night one of them got away—took hours to die from the looks of it."
"Get a time of death?"
"Mid-morning, around nine or ten, best I can tell."
"Huh," Mich said. "That's a rather rough estimate. Especially from you."
That was because it had actually been my estimation.
"What can I say? I'm not a vet." Said Eugene, brushing it off. "Does this line up with what your informant saw?"
"Pretty much. At about a quarter till ten, all those rabid dogs animal control rounded up finally calmed down. Not that it stopped one of them from contacting the CDC. Real shit show now."
"Well," Eugene said, tone dry, "I did warn you guys something like this might happen."
"So, you think this is your perp's doing?"
"Kirkland? No. He's not capable of this sort of thing. I'm thinking he's part of a crew now."
"What are we looking at?"
Eugene paused for a moment, his hand lowering to his chin.
"A possible theriomancer. Maybe an illusionist too. They're using wards that interfere with my ability to track them, and glamours by the look of it."
"So, you suspect an occult co-op?"
"Either that or his employer has others on payroll. Does any of this ring any bells for you? Know of any groups along the East Coast that match the description?"
"Hmmm... I would've said the Green-flame Saints—both the kidnapping and animal thralls match their M.O. But they got wiped off the map a few months back. Though I wouldn't be surprised if another group moved in to take advantage of the free real estate. Maybe even recruited a few surviving members."
Kidnapping? I thought. Now that was new.
"Check to see if there are possible matches in the database. I'd like to know who I might be up against."
"Can do. So, what now?"
"I'm going to check the Westrock mill and Northern Port Terminal. The thralls came from that direction."
"Ah. Yeah, those would be a good hiding places," Mich agreed. "You sure you're good to do this alone? I get not wanting to split the bill, but I think you should wait a bit. I can get another contractor out to you. She's on another case right now, but I wouldn't be surprised if this one you're on gets bumped up in priority. I'm going to make a few calls. Meanwhile, how about you collect the dogs for us and bring them to a drop location for us."
"Absolutely not. We've lost too much time already. If I wait any longer, Kirkland will have moved everything. And I've already chased him this far."
More likely Eugene didn't want to put six dead dogs in his truck—three of which would be quite ripe by now. Not that I could blame him. I'd be on the same page.
"Besides," Eugene finished, "I already have help."
"From whom?"
"An undisclosed intern."
"Oh, don't tell me you press-ganged a local." Mich sounded dismayed.
"No, actually. They're the one who made the proposal."
Yeah, only after you impressed its importance on me.
I received another look.
It was clear now that he knew I could hear him. But what could he do? Move further away and potentially separate himself from his main source of protection?
No. I didn't think so.
Eugene would either have to suck it up or learn to speak more quietly if he was going to work with me.
"Well, thank God for small blessings," said Mich. "That'll at least save us both a lot of paperwork. Are they already on file?"
"I really can't say, Mich. You know how these things work."
"Well, if it's someone who knows how to rope one of us into an NDA, that only leaves a handful of people in the Charleston area I can think of. You at least got a callsign I can put down in the report?"
There was a pause. Eugene looked over at me. I shrugged.
"Virginia," Eugene said at last.
"Daww, Gene found himself a Gin," Mich teased.
Eugene hung up and returned to the truck. He stopped short when he saw me in the driver's seat, my head poking out the window—with the heads of Boden and Coy sticking out from my jacket collar like furry, panting shoulder ornaments.
Just three dogs in a trenchcoat.
"Alright, out of my seat," he said.
"Yeah—no. You're not driving with your hand like that. How are you going to operate the stick?"
"With magic."
"Same magic you keep injuring yourself with? Hell no. You can try it when I'm not in the truck."
"Can you even drive with your... paws?" He gestured at my feet.
"They reach the pedals. That's all that matters."
He sighed, walked around the front of the Bronco and climbed into the passenger side. Seemed he was learning to pick his battles.
"So," I said, once he was settled, "Mich seems like a nice enough guy."
"How much did you hear?"
How much do you think? I thought. Eugene scowled.
"Hey," I said, "I can't help it if I have good ears. But at least I'm not eavesdropping on your thoughts."
"We are going to have to work on this," said Eugene, unamused.
I rolled the window up, but not all the way—just enough to give Coy sufficient space to stick his head out. Give him a needed distraction.
Boden, his muzzle stained purple from the pack of blueberries he'd had his face buried in, now inched his nose closer to Eugene.
I flipped the A/C back on and put the truck into reverse. The belt squealed as I turned the wheel all the way to the side.
I turned to Eugene.
"So... who are these Green-flame Saints?"
Eugene, stroking Boden, replied, "The Sanctorum of the Green-flame—Green-flame Saints for short—are basically an eco-cult. Or, at least, they were. Think Greenpeace if it were run by pro-apocalyptic survivalists who thought the Black Death didn't go far enough. They believed humanity's great sin was not our greed or war—but our plumbing, vaccines, and air-conditioning."
Eugene had stopped petting Boden to do a one-handed finger quote—could only use one hand—at the mention of Greenpeace, so I assumed he was paraphasing something he had heard. After which he returned his hand to Boden.
At the mention of A/C, I cut it off. I was in the middle of a three-point turn, and running the A/C while engaging the power steering was putting too much strain on the belt, causing it to slip. The sound was starting to hurt my ears.
Marvin the Bronco, really needed a tune up.
"So, like, what? Luddites with magic?" I replied as I spun the stirring wheel.
"With a hefty dash of radical Malthusianism. Think, like, the belief that technology has made humanity too soft and over-abundant. That nature should be in charge again. 'Survival of the fittest' and all that. Culled the population of all but the strongest and smartest."
"Sounds like eugenics with extra steps. So, why the green flame?"
"It reflects their preferred flavor of magic. Nature or natural magic. The kind of magic that allows you conjures giant roots to destroy roads or water lines, controls swarms of insects to short-circuit grid relays. They typically targeted key infrastructure—power plants, chemical refineries for fuel and fertilizers—or just tried conjuring up actual diseases. Or, you know, compel wild or domestic animals to attack people and spread fear."
"Doesn't sound like they're actually protecting nature."
"No. But that wasn't their goal. Not that it stopped them from seeing themselves as the Mother's wrath. That by channeling her magic, they'd enact Mother's will. Or something to that effect."
Then Eugene added.
"Mother meaning Mother Nature of course."
Kind of him to clarify. It occurred to me that Eugene actually enjoyed talking about magic and the occult. I'd first picked up on it when I got him monologue about the his silver dollar. He almost spoke like an academic. So, one had to wonder why someone like him was in this line of work of... what? Tracking down rogue mages?
Perhaps it was a case of loving what you were good at.
But if he liked talking, then I didn't see a reason to get him to stop. Because I felt like there was something important I could learn from this.
"So... just sugar-coated violence?" I replied, to show that I was listen listening and interested. Then, I followed up by asking, "Did they actually believe in what they were doing? Or in this Mother?"
"Well, they were a cult. So... yeah. I'd imagine they did. And it's not the first time a cult has worshiped a personified force of nature. But whatever they were messing with, seems something bit them back."
"Like what?"
"Dunno. The current theory was that it was either a rival cult, or in-fighting. Though, one of my colleagues thinks they might have Jonestowned themselves."
I pulled the truck out of the depot and onto Loop Road, heading toward Mill Road.
"So... I couldn't help but notice your thaumic assay on the thrall-dogs came up green," I said, leaning on the wheel. "Didn't mention it to Mich though. Why is that?"
Eugene didn't even glance over. "It wasn't relevant to the conversation."
"Really?"
I laid the sarcasm on thick.
"Hear me out," he said, holding up his good hand. "I wanted Mich to give me an objective opinion of what he thought based on the other observations. Mentioning the assay would've only biased him. But despite that, he still came to the same conclusion I did. So, the assay became a moot point. Besides, these assays, like all magic, can be very subjective. The enchantment on the paper is shaped by the caster's own perceptions."
Eugene turned toward me. "Which begs the question, if you saw the assay while spying on me, what did you see?"
"Well... as I said: a green flame."
"Just a green flame?" reply Eugene.
I stopped at the intersection of Loop and Mill.
"Well, it was more of a dark or dull green. Like... moss green. Maybe dark fern."
"Whereas I'd call it a hunter's green," Eugene said.
"Okay, so, how is this relevant?"
"It's an important nuance. Tell me: what does green-colored magic mean to you?"
"Well, in Harry Potter, green was the color of the killing curse—Avada Kedavra," I offered.
"Whereas in Star Wars, green was the color of the good Jedi's lightsabers," he countered. "See? Color alone doesn't really mean much."
"So, if you're saying the enchantment is calibrated to your perception," I said, "then I should be the one asking what green means to you."
"You're catching on."
I turned left onto Mill, heading towards Virginia Ave. Eugene adjusted in his seat, watching the road lazily.
"So, what do you use for your assays? Wuxing?" I asked.
"Initially, yes. But once I starting working in a professional capacity, that is to say with others, it was important to use a standardized method. So the DOA, and many other organizations, use an agreed-upon system—one that is globally recognized and thoroughly developed."
"Like what?"
"Magic The Gathering."
"You're shitting me!"
The truck lurched as I almost dumped the clutch.
"Hey. Card game or not, it has well-developed magic theory. One built upon ages of folklore and mysticism. Like Wuxing, it has five element—or colors. And, in many ways it's just a modern iteration of quintessent systems like Wuxing. But much more well-known. So, that's the standard I now use."
"Didn't think real magic practitioners would like made-up fantasy," I muttered, shifting into gear.
"Not at all. Magic is a subjective art. A practitioner benefits from a healthy imagination. And with or without magic, we humans are incredibly imaginative. We've poured centuries of thought into the concept of magic, even if through the lens of fiction and fantasy."
He gestured broadly. "So, to answer the age old question: Yes. Wizards do read Harry Potter. And Lord of the Rings. And Chronicles of Narnia. We watch Star Wars and Star Trek. Play Dungeons & Dragons, or, well, Magic the Gathering—the list goes on."
I stopped at the intersection of Mill and Virginia, my hand hovering over the turn signal. I meant to ask Eugene something, but got caught on what he'd said.
"Star Trek, really?" I asked, raising a brow. "I thought that was science fiction."
"Well," he said, smiling faintly, "in the words of Arthur C. Clarke: 'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.' And the inverse is also true. Sufficiently understood magic is basically technology."
Eugene paused and looked out the window, seeming puzzled. "Is there a reason you're stopped here?"
"Oh, uh, right." I blinked. "So if we go straight down Mill Rd., it'll lead to the front gates of the mill. Or we can take a left here and use the WestRock employee parking."
"Head for the front," Eugene said without much hesitation.
I drove across the Virginia intersection, staying on Mill. The Bronco rumbled under us.
Considering how much time I'd spent on a road named Virginia, it was a wonder I hadn't thought of it as an alias.
Nevermore was right. Andy had been an egregious failure of imagination.
"Okay, front gate it is," I said. "But you do know there's security at the gate. They may be shutting down the mill, but it's not deserted. I assume you have a plan."
"Yes," said Eugene, "and I'm surprised you haven't figured it out."
"Wait. What are you going to do—" I stopped mid-sentence, heart sinking.
Oh, fuck me, don't say it.
I'd taken the bait.
Eugene grinned, and in a dramatic voice, said, "Magic."
He even wiggled his fingers.
It was a good thing our pact of non-aggression stayed my hand.
Because I would have slapped him.