Wolf for Hire

Chapter Four

With Sandy's menagerie finally fed and watered, I could focus on making my day productive. If JT could juggle this circus and still hold down a job, so could I.

A few Uber rides could add a little cash to my account—not much after insurance and gas, but enough to stay ahead of my credit card minimums. One less thing eating me alive.

I stepped outside and Coy followed.

"No, you're not coming with me, Coy," I said, and instructed him to return to the house as I got into my car, or, at least, I tried to. I was locked out and missing my keys. Must've dropped them in the yard.

Coy was right behind me when I turned around, having chosen to belay my most recent order. I sighed. "Fine, help me find my keys."

I searched the yard, half-convinced I'd dropped the keys while wrangling the dogs. Then I checked the barn. No luck either.

I retraced my steps through the yard and house, yielding the same results—or lack thereof.
Just as frustration set in, Coy trotted back, signaling he'd found my keys.

"Where?" I asked, hoping for an easy answer.

Coy's response was simple: Carl.

I groaned. Of course. I'd left my keys in my jeans, and that little bastard must've picked my pocket while I was cleaning. Must've gotten too close.

A thought struck me—had that been his plan all along?

Capuchins were smart, but that… that was devious, if true.

Sure enough, when I reached his cage, Carl was swinging lazily on his pastel-pink swing, jingling my keys.

When I demanded them back, he gave me a look that, to me, said, You want them? Come and get them.

He tossed the keys just behind the cage door, daring me to open it. I knew, in the back of my mind, that if I did, Carl would be out of here in a heartbeat. That was his plan, I was certain.

"Nice try, Carl," I responded, refusing to take the bait. Time for a counter-offer.

I headed to the kitchen, grabbed the bag of banana chips, and returned to Carl's room. Let's see how big of a sucker he was for these things.

"Give me my keys, and I'll give you chips," I said, holding up the bag.

But Carl didn't yield.

Through a series of pointing at pictures and gesticulating, he indicated that I was to give him the chips first. I knew exactly what would happen—he'd take the chips, keep the keys, and probably demand more.

I wasn't about to negotiate with a tiny terrorist.

"Chips are for good behavior, Carl," I said. "Handing me the keys is good behavior."

Carl gave me the finger—two of them.

Alright, Carl. Time to play hardball. I waved a chip just under his nose, then popped it into my mouth before he could swipe it.

Carl screeched, flailing his arms like a toddler throwing a tantrum, reaching through the slot toward me.

"Every twenty seconds you keep acting up, I'm eating another chip," I warned, waving the bag in his direction. "And trust me, Carl—I'm hungry."

It wasn't even a lie—I'd eaten, sure, but hunger was basically my default setting. Carl acted like he didn't understand, but I knew better. He was trying to call my bluff. Too bad for him—I wasn't bluffing.

I set a timer and started eating a chip every twenty seconds.

Five minutes in, Carl was full-on screaming, doing laps around his cage like a tiny, furry hurricane. The angrier he got, the more stubborn he became.

Instead of surrendering the keys, Carl dug a hole, dropped them in, defecated on them, and buried them.

I stared, dumbfounded. This little fucker had just shit on my keys.

I ate the rest of the chips, ignoring the queasiness in my gut. It wasn't about the chips (or their potential laxative effects)—it was about the principle.

With my keys locked in Carl's little prison, I had no choice but to borrow Sandy's minivan. JT had said I could use it for errands—so, no ridesharing, but Uber Delivery and DoorDash were still on the table. Besides, I needed groceries.

Sure, using someone else's car was technically against Uber's policy, but I wasn't transporting people—just food. Things only got litigious when humans were involved.

I fished the minivan keys out of the cookie jar—Sandy's go-to hiding spot for everything, apparently. The van was an old Ford Freestar, and as soon as I opened the door, the stench of a dog hit me like a wall.

It was like stepping into a kennel. This bad boy would definitely earn me a 5-star review—if the passengers were dogs.

I clicked the garage door opener on the visor and started the van.

Glancing back to reverse, I almost jumped out of my skin—Coy was sitting in the back seat, looking smug as ever.

"Oh, come on!"

I threw the van in park and opened the side door. "Out, Coy."

He hopped out, and eight more dogs surged in, their excited thoughts slamming into me. The van starting? That meant one thing to them—dog park time.

The kitchen door to the garage had been left open. Probably Coy's work—Mr. Master-of-Opening-Doors.

As I wrestled with the dog swarm, Coy snuck back in, this time claiming shotgun as my self-elected co-pilot.

"Guys, seriously. I'm just going to the store. This isn't a field trip."

The wave of disappointment hit me like a freight train. Their pleading eyes radiated pure, soul-crushing sadness. Gah! Not the peer pressure—a weakness greater than silver. It weighed on me like Boden sitting on my chest all over again.

Come on, AJ, take charge. Be the captain. Don't let a pack of dogs walk all over you. Assert yourself!

Naturally, I caved.

"Alright," I groaned, "you can come along."

"But it's a quick trip, and you're all staying in the car," I added quickly, before they got any wild ideas.

This cheered them up a little. But now delivery runs were out—there was barely room for my own groceries, let alone someone else's. Plus, with Boden on board, any food deliveries were doomed. If he liked crickets, just wait until he smelt Jimmy John's.

Probably for the best anyway. I didn't need to split my focus with multiple gigs—better to nail down one thing at a time.

I cranked up the AC—and was greeted by a warm breeze. The fan worked, but that was it.
In unison, three windows rolled down—apparently, Sandy had taught them how to use the buttons. Four heads popped out of each, with Coy, of course, claiming the passenger window for himself.

I sighed and rolled down mine too.

With Costco just down the road in West Ashley, the errand ended up being a short trip. I found Sandy's Costco card in the glove box and was already plotting a membership split—a small bonus if I ended up as her roommate.

I wasn't totally sold on being roommates yet, but the Costco deal? I could definitely sell her on that, whether I moved in or not.

I parked near the entrance and left the van running with the windows down, cranking the fans as high as they'd go.

"Stay put," I warned them, assigning Coy to keep the others in line and Maggie to watch Coy. Coy might be the general, but Maggie was definitely the trusted advisor.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

I was quick—just dog food, Blue Moons, and some microwave meals. But when I got back, the van was surrounded by shoppers, all doing an impromptu meet-and-greet with the dogs.

To be fair, the sticker on the van did say: Beware of Dogs, They Love to Cuddle.

Coy and Maggie assured me that everything was under control. Apparently, Sandy's dogs were local celebrities here in West Ashley.

You should've seen their faces when some random stranger—me—showed up to load groceries into the van.

I explained I was just watching Sandy's animals while she was out of town. When they asked if I was family and I told them I was a college friend, they looked even more surprised.

Was it really that strange for Sandy to have friends?

Back at Sandy's, I crammed the groceries into the tiny fridge before hunting down the guest room. It was more of a glorified broom closet—just big enough for a bunk bed and a tiny desk, but I could make it work.

At first, I actually thought it was a broom closet and had to ask Coy for directions. A metal pipe stuck out from the wall for hanging clothes, and the doorknob jangled loosely as I pushed it open.
The master bedroom—formerly Sandy's aunt's—was now the turtle room. The guest room felt untouched—freshly made beds, no clothes, no personal items. It made me wonder: where did Sandy sleep? Another closet like this? The attic? Or was she roughing it on that cot in the barn?
I dropped my bag on the bottom bunk and set up my laptop on the desk. The wifi network? Noonvale. The password? fur&freedom123—apparently, Sandy was a Redwall fan. But, if true, that put a much darker spin on the use of live mice.

With no Uber gigs on the horizon, I had a few hours to kill. There was a Zoom meeting I'd planned to skip, but maybe fate was telling me to suck it up and join.

It was for the young and entrepreneurially minded, hosted by some group called Entrepreneurs Helping Entrepreneurs. I'd been invited by Sally, a woman I met at a networking event. Since my work as a personal accountant technically meant I was self-employed, I figured I qualified.

To create a somewhat professional backdrop—or at least one that wouldn't glitch out on Zoom—I tacked a white sheet to the ceiling behind the desk and set a lamp behind my laptop for decent lighting.

My ancient laptop had a terrible mic, so I used my phone for the meeting and kept the laptop nearby for quick Google searches—wouldn't want to look incompetent in front of my fellow 'entrepreneurs'.

I gave Coy strict orders to guard the door and make sure nothing disturbed me. I didn't know how long the meeting would last, but I prayed it would be worth the time.

It wasn't. The group of 'altruistic entrepreneurs' turned out to be an MLM recruitment scheme in disguise. I'd half-expected it—any group pushing The Business of the 21st Century by Robert Kiyosaki was suspect—but I was still disgusted at how much of my time they'd wasted.

As if sensing my frustration, Coy let Maggie in. She sat next to me, placing her head in my lap. Petting her soft fur was surprisingly therapeutic. Maybe being Sandy's roommate wouldn't be so bad. Free therapy dogs were definitely a nice perk.

My mood lifted, and I got back to work, this time applying for a credit swap. If approved, I could transfer my debt to a new card with 18 months of 0% interest. It wouldn't solve my financial problems, but it'd give me some breathing room.

After that, I knocked out a few job applications and fired off some interview emails.

Maggie curled up beside me on the bottom bunk while I worked. When the door creaked open, I assumed it was just Coy checking in.

But instead of Coy, the black cat leapt onto my desk, strolling casually across my keyboard with what I thought was a ball of red yarn. The color alone should've been a warning.

"Hey!" I picked up the cat and gently set him on the floor, but not before he dropped the 'ball' in my lap. It took me a second, but when I glanced down, my blood ran cold.

It wasn't yarn. It was Elmo—balled up.

I was torn between hoping the cat had killed him and not wanting Sandy's pet to die on my watch. But since this was Elmo, I was really, really hoping he was dead.

He wasn't dead—just stunned. His legs unfurled, wriggling like something out of Alien.

How the cat got Elmo out of his enclosure and into my lap, I had no idea. Maybe Elmo escaped and this was the cat returning a prisoner. But figuring this out wasn't the first thing on my mind.

I screamed and jumped up, trying to fling Elmo off me—only to trip over the chair and get tangled in the sheet I'd hung from the ceiling.

Disoriented, on hands and knees, I scrambled for the door—only to slam it shut on myself. Panicking, I fumbled with the knob, yanking it clean off. Of course, it chose now to fall apart.

This whole house was conspiring against me.

"Maggie, find Elmo!" I half-whispered, half-yelled, wrapping myself in the sheet, frozen in place, knees tucked into my chest.

Maggie, bless her heart, had no luck. Elmo was probably up somewhere out of reach, being arboreal and all. Instead, Maggie sat beside me, resting her head in my lap, offering comfort in my time of need.

What I really needed was to get the hell out—and to call for backup.

Peeking out from my sheet cocoon, I spotted my phone a few feet away. I sent a thought to Maggie, who fetched it for me, ever the dutiful helper.

I called JT.

"JT, Sandy's cat just dropped Elmo in my lap, and now I'm stuck in the room with him!" I hissed.

"Dang, my money was on you calling about Carl. So, what do you mean by 'stuck'?"

"The guest room's doorknob fell apart, and now I'm stuck in here!"

"Did the side with the shaft fall into the hall?" JT said calmly. "If so, you can exit through the window. I'll come fix it after work."

"I'm not worried about the door, JT—I can fix that! It's the tarantula Sandy's cat dropped in my lap!"

Silence.

"What cat?" JT finally asked.

"Big black Maine Coon with yellow eyes! Keeps bringing me bugs—ring a bell?"

"Nope. Must be a stray. Sandy doesn't keep cats; she's allergic. Anyway, don't worry about Elmo. She's harmless—actually very affectionate. Tarantulas can make great pets."

"Affectionate? Affectionate!" I echoed, incredulous. Maggie let out a low huff, but I ignored her.

"Yeah, she doesn't take much to warm up to. Loves to be tickled."

"Tickle Elmo? Is this a joke?" My voice shot up a few octaves.

"I usually use the feather by her enclosure, but in your case, you could use your hair as a tassel."

"And why would I ever get my face close enough to tickle him with my hair?"

"To make her your friend, of course."

"And why, exactly, would I want to be friends with a tarantula?"

"Who wouldn't?"

"I don't do spiders, JT!"

JT chuckled. "Think of this as a chance for personal growth. Overcome a deep-seated fear. Or does Miss I-Know-What-I'm-Doing need Mr. Tall, Dark, and Veterinarian to come save her?"

"Over my dead body!"

"Then it sounds like you've got all the motivation you need to pet a spider."

I hung up, thoroughly annoyed. Make light of my dire circumstances, will you? I'll wipe that pretty little grin off your pretty little face… somehow.

Maggie nudged me again, so I peeked out from under the sheet. She indicated that she had found Elmo. He was right on my knee.

Elmo's legs twitched, sending cold shivers down my spine. My body was rigid with the knowledge that one wrong move could provoke him. With trembling fingers, I forced myself to extend a hand and rub the top of his head, my mind racing with facts about tarantula bites and potent venom.

Most tarantula bites weren't dangerous to humans, but Elmo wasn't most tarantulas. He was an Old World tarantula—no urticating hairs, just venom that made a wasp sting feel like a pinprick. Considering the cost of antivenom in the U.S., one bite could send me into financial ruin from which I'd never return. Or the grave, if I was lucky.

To my shock—and disgust—Elmo lifted into my touch, nuzzling my hand like a damn cat.

Turns out, Elmo also loved being stroked, and loved his belly rubbed. After he rolled into my lap, onto his back, I hesitantly wiggled my fingers against his abdomen, expecting him to snap. But no—he curled around my hand, playing with my fingers like a cat during a belly rub—minus the teeth and claws.

Speaking of teeth, his fangs kept me on edge. Elmo's were nearly an inch long, and they had my mind running in circles—most reported bites of their genus. I was too drained to panic but too wired to go into autopilot—even the auto-dog seemed to have called it quits.

Then, without warning, Elmo decided he was done playing on his back.

Still gripping my hand, Elmo proceeded to climb up my arm. I froze, my breath catching, a string of curses flowing out of my lips as he scuttled past my shoulder, then up the back of my head. Half the nerves in my body screamed at me to move, the other half to hold absolutely still. I was going to tear a muscle at this rate.

When he finally settled on top of my head like some nightmarish hat, all I could think was, at least he didn't go for the facehugger approach.

"Out of sight, out of mind," I told myself, trying to slow my racing heart. Maybe if I didn't have to look at him, it'd make this easier. He seemed content where he was, so I carefully opened the window and crawled out, moving slowly, making sure not to jostle my terrifying passenger.

With Elmo now 'handled', I could check off the last thing on my list—cleaning his enclosure (excluding Carl, who lost meal privileges after shitting on my keys). But when I reached the enclosure, the latch at the top was ajar. I knew it wasn't me—I'd triple-checked it earlier, and if I'd had a brick handy, I would've put it on top.

Someone—or something—had opened it.

I wasn't one for superstitions, but that was before I became a werewolf. For God's sake, I could talk to dogs. So, being a werewolf begged certain questions, like: if lycanthropy was real, then what else was real?

Charleston was a supposed hotspot for haunted houses. Perhaps Sandy's house was also haunted. Or maybe it was the animals that were haunted. Or both—one did not exclude the other.

But perhaps I was going crazy, and there was still a rational explanation.

Carl? I checked—he was still in his cage. Maybe the cat. Apparently, for many of Sandy's animals, doors were just suggestions, not obstacles.

Their above-average intelligence could be a sign of something more, or just the result of good training. I didn't know. It wasn't like I had a good baseline for such things.

I used the piece of the broken doorknob to let Maggie out. Many of the other dogs had crowded around outside, drawn by the commotion. I sent them off, then went back to Elmo's enclosure.

Changing the bedding was easier than expected. The bottom slid out like a tray, with a wire mesh holding up the decorations. Among the bedding: the husk of a thoroughly drained grasshopper, the molted exoskeleton of Elmo, and—surprisingly—a tiny, very alive frog.

It should've shocked me, but after researching Fringed Ornamental Tarantulas, I knew a thing or two. For one, they kept frogs as pets.

"If you're Elmo, then I'm guessing this is Dorothy." I wasn't sure if Elmo understood references to Sesame Street, but he seemed pleased when I allowed Dorothy to hop atop my head to join him (if him wiggling was a sign of contentment).

Great. Now I had a spider and a frog on my head. All I needed now were a few dogs, and I'd be two cockatoos short of a Disney princess.

I replaced the bedding and waited for the humidifier to do its job, then opened the top for Elmo. He crawled down my arm with Dorothy perched on his head, just like he'd ridden on mine. I found a Tupperware in the kitchen for Elmo's old carapace. It was rather intact and I intended to save it for my sister Chelley. She loved these sorts of things, and after what Elmo had put me through, neither he nor Sandy were in a position to object.

Once Elmo was settled, I returned to the guest room and disassembled the doorknob completely, leaving the pieces in the desk drawer for JT to fix later. Then I sat at the desk and started searching for rooms to rent.

If this place was in fact haunted, Sandy would literally have to pay me to live here.

Even free therapy dogs and cheap rent weren't enough to put up with this bullshit.