Wolf for Hire

Chapter Forty:

The truck bucked and bounced over broken asphalt as I guided it toward the mill's front gates. Eugene rode shotgun, while the heads of Boden and Coy lolled on my shoulders, panting and looking out the windows like they were enjoying a casual Sunday drive.

Except that it was now a Monday.

The road hadn't seen a repaving crew in years. The cracked and potted pavement jolting up through the tires, shaking my spine and rattling my teeth. I might have knocked heads with my shoulder companions if not for my grimy mane—like a long unwashed neck pillow.

But I kept my head tucked down just in case. Boden had one of those bony knots on the back of his skull that could easily give someone a black-eye. A skull so thick it could be weaponized.

To our left, dense coastal forest loomed—live oaks draped in Spanish moss, palm fronds rustling at the forest floor. To our right, an industrial mess of pipes, towers, and steam rose in a jagged silhouette: the mill's chemical wing, where WestRock manufactured concentrated bleach, sodium sulfides, and who knew what else, all on-site. Towering stacks hissed vapor into the night, backlit by yellow-orange sodium lamps casting everything in a fiery glow.

The forest thinned as we neared the main entrance. A massive employee parking lot stretched ahead, buzzing beneath phosphor lamps that drenched everything in sickly green-white light.

Just beyond: the front gates.

Though, calling it a front gate was rather generous. It was more a squat check-in booth with white walls, under a blue diamond-shaped awning, and a single night guard inside.

WestRock might have been in the process of shutting down for good, but many of its facilities were still operating. Skeleton crews staffed key systems. Lights were still on, the plant not dead yet.

I glanced over at Eugene. "Do you want me to slow down?"

"No, just focus on driving. Go past the entrance and into the mill. Don't stop."

I hesitated. "Oookay..."

I kept the truck steady, left foot resting on the clutch, ready to press down if I suddenly needed to shift gears. I kept an eye on Eugene, hoping he'd do something. Cast a spell. Summon a distraction. Pull out a badge. Anything.

But he didn't move.

Just stared straight ahead, cool as a cucumber.

Boden sneezed. Coy huffed. Neither of them seemed bothered in the least either.

Was this it? Was the plan just to drive on through and hope the guard didn't care enough to stop us?

My grip tightened on the wheel. The booth loomed, its fluorescent lights spilling into the Bronco's cabin. No shadows or tinted windows to hide us.

I could make out the guard now—a heavy-set man in a gray collared shirt, high-vis vest hanging loosely on his shoulders, buzz-cut head drooping in his hand. He blinked as we approached, bleary eyes watching the approaching vehicle.

And Eugene still made no move.

My pulse thudded harder. I opened my mouth.

"What do you plan to—"

Eugene raised a hand.

"Don't worry. Just drive," he said, calmly cutting me off.

Easy for you to say, I thought, you're not the one who looks like a three-headed dog.

Granted, even if I got Boden and Coy to duck back inside the jacket, it wouldn't fix the whole clearly-a-werewolf-driving-a-truck problem. The moment that guard so much as looked in my direction the jig would be up and the whole plant would be on high alert.

Three dogs in a trenchcoat, driving a truck.
Pretending to be human, relying on luck.

Nevermore and the stress were getting to me.

No doubt the guard would radio the rest of security on staff. We'd be pinned before we got two feet past the gate.

I side-eyed Eugene again.

He was looking directly at the guard, silently mouthing something. Almost too soft to hear. But I caught the words: "Mallumigi la Menson." Repeated again and again.

Badly light the mind? That couldn't be right. It sounded reminiscent of Latin, but it was hard to piece out anything sensible.

Though that was why Eugene said he used Esperanto.

The words brushed against my ears with a sound that I felt more than heard. Magic. I sensed it—like a thin veil settling over my face. Soft, almost imperceptible.

I held my breath, hoping whatever this was would be enough.

If he could float me like a balloon or stitch extra-dimensional pockets, surely he could manage a half-asleep guard. Knock him out. Cloud his vision. Make him forget we existed.

My stomach crept into my chest as we rolled forward.

The guard looked up.

He looked straight at me.

Me—with snout, claws, and two panting shoulder companions—behind the wheel, staring back like a deer in the headlights.

I froze, foot locked over the clutch, letting the truck coast.

The guard stared.

Then... blinked.

And dropped his gaze.

He let his head slump back into his hand and continued nodding off.

The Bronco cruised on by.

I exhaled sharply, turning the wheel to the right, following the main thoroughfare deeper into the mill.

The facility rose around us—massive silos, catwalks, cranes. Buildings clad in concrete, steel, and baby-blue sheet metal. All devoted to the art of turning trees into miles of bleached kraft paper.

But the mill wasn't just about paper. It had an ecosystem of its own: auxiliary chemical plants, a sawmill, a water treatment facility, even on-site workshops for equipment repair and fabrication. The paper machines may have been shut down, but the chemistry side? It was still going. Paper or no paper, WestRock could still churn an easy profit producing industrial grade bleach.

Eugene stopped muttering. "Try to get us as close as you can to the building you followed the thralls to. I want to investigate it first."

I nodded, turning the Bronco onto a narrower path that looped deeper into the mill. I'd already wandered through here on foot earlier tonight, so I had a decent sense of where we were going. Most of the grounds were vehicle-accessible, but laid out like a jigsaw puzzle of structures, conveyor belts, and low-hanging pipelines, storage containers. Not unlike Charleston, really: messy, winding, and allergic to symmetry.

"So," I said, keeping my voice casual as I steered around a storage silo, "I have a question."

Eugene grunted. "Hm?"

"What did you do? To the guard, I mean."

I gave him a pointed look before he could speak. "And none of this 'it's magic' nonsense. I know it's magic. So explain the magic to me."

Eugene took a deep breath. "Well, it was basically a Jedi mind trick. It probably made him think he was looking at just another service vehicle or something equally boring."

"Probably?"

He shrugged. "I don't know exactly what he saw. The effect's subjective. The spell itself is called a Shade—sort of prevents your brain from flagging the spell's target as something out of the ordinary."

"Wait, so the guard actually saw us?"

"Seeing and acknowledging are two different things," he said. "Our eyes take in all kinds of visual info, but most of it gets filtered out by our brain, making us only aware of what's important. Shading just slips us into that mental filter. He saw us—just didn't register us as important."

"And we'd still show up on cameras?"

"Of course."

That did not make me feel better. I squeezed the wheel, twisting the leather in my hands, imagining the grainy security footage just waiting to be reviewed. I could only hope Eugene was right earlier—too much footage and not enough people to watch it.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

The truck's radio cut on, tuning into a classic rock channel. Johnny Rivers's voice bellowed through the speakers:

"Secret agent man! Secret—"

Eugene flipped the radio off before I could reach for the knob.

I guess this was the Bronco's—Marvin's—doing. Though Nevermore hadn't been very clear on what that was all about.

Magic man with a magic truck. Magic stick, magic whistle, magic jacket. Frankly, it was all losing any sense of wonder on me at this point. I'd be more surprised if Eugene had something that was actually meant to be normal.

His gun, perhaps.

We drove in silence for a bit as I steered us toward the rear employee lot that ran along the water. It was mostly empty this late, but not deserted—a few scattered vehicles were tucked into the far end. Company trucks, employee beaters—cars no one looked at twice.

The Bronco—Marvin—would fit right in, with his wrench, his bullbar, roofrack, and radio antenna.

That was sarcasm.

Beside the lot, opposite the water, were wide mounds of wood pulp—the once massive mountain from which all paper was made, now depleted down to mere rolling hills.

I pulled into a spot near the end of the row and shifted into park. Eugene reached for his seatbelt.

"Another question," I said.

He paused, half-twisted in his seat. "Hm?"

"How does magic work?"

He unbuckled with a soft click. "Well, it's magic. It doesn't really follow any rules."

Alright, smartass.

I rolled my eyes and popped my door open. "No, I mean your magic. Sometimes you chant a whole sentence, sometimes it's just a word. Other times it's a finger snap and poof, something happens. Like, what's the logic?"

Eugene circled around to the back of the Bronco and opened it up, rummaging through a duffel bag. "What you're asking about pertains to spellcrafting. I can't speak for everyone, but for folks like me—those who grew up in the age of computers—we think of it like programming. Function calls. Are you familiar with coding?"

I shut my door and joined him. "I'm fluent in Excel."

He snorted, pulling out a high-vis vest and a hardhat. "Eh, close enough."

He tossed me the vest. I caught it against my chest.

"Put that on," he said, slipping the helmet over his dark hair. "Both items are invested with Shades. They won't make us invisible, but they'll prevent anyone from noticing or hearing us. Just don't get too close—these things only work beyond fifteen feet."

"You worried about getting caught?" I asked.

"No, I just don't like having to answer more questions than I have to."

Eugene adjusted his hard hat while I pulled Nevermore from my coat pocket and let him hop up to the Bronco's roof rack. He fluffed and stretched his wings saying, "kind of you to unpocket me. I was starting to think I'd been abandoned."

Sliding the vest on, I glanced up. "You hear all that, Nevermore? Keep watch from above. Make sure we keep our distance from others."

Nevermore surveyed the two of us. "Quite the motley crew you two are making. Did I hear someone mention spellcraft?"

"Ah-a, Nevermore," I hooked my thumbs into the sides of the vest and lifted it slightly, half for effect, half for air. "You're not shaded. You don't get to chit-chat. You got work to do."

"Why I never," he squawked in mock indignation.

I gave him a brief rundown of where we were headed. With a beat of his wings, Nevermore launched into the air, gliding in the direction I pointed.

The parking was separate from the mounds of pulp by a set of low profile train tracks that forked off from the main yard and cut through the industrial sprawl like a vein, threading between low-slung warehouses and towering tanks.

The mill used rail carts to shuffle wood pulp and equipment between processing zones. The tracks ran the length of the compound, and I knew if I followed them to their southern end, I'd eventually reach the land bridge that led back to the park where my car was hidden. That was my escape plan if things went sideways: make a run for the park, hop in my car, and GTFO.

For now, I led Eugene along the western fork, deeper into the interior of the mill.

I stepped up onto the tracks, walking in parallel with Eugene as we moved side by side along the narrow lane. I hopped from tie to tie while his boots crunched along the pavement beside me.

"So, back to my question," I said, tilting my head toward him. "You were saying something about spells and code."

"Right." Eugene didn't look up. "The gestures and words aren't the spell themselves. They're the triggers that call on it."

He raised his voice slightly to carry over the rumble of a pump station. "All magic involves schema—mental frameworks. Constructs of thought. But thought is slippery. Unstable. And magic doesn't play nice with ambiguity."

The tracks ran flush with the road as we crossed the main thoroughfare, and I ended up joining Eugene on the pavement.

Eugene continued, "for simple spells with a strong schema—a clear mental image—a snap or a word can be enough. Just calling a standard subroutine. But when things get complicated, you need more complex wording to bind the shape of your intent. Words anchor the thought. Keep it from unraveling."

He glanced over at me. "Making any sense?"

I shrugged. "I mean, I get the concept. But now I've got a bigger question. How do you go from thinking about magic to actually doing it?"

"Hmm," Eugene said, adjusting the bandages on his wrist, tightening down on the bag of frozen peas that had become slick with condensation. "Well, how does someone learn to ride a bike?"

I frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Literally," he said, walking backwards now so he could face me. "How does someone learn to ride a bike?"

"Practice?"

"Right. And about how long did it take you to learn?"

"A few days, maybe. But my brother helped me."

"You had guidance. That's always good." Eugene paused as we passed beneath a massive conveyor system. Rusted supports and suspended piping loomed overhead, rattling with a deep, metallic hum that filled the air. We waited to speak until we were past it.

"Now," he continued, "imagine trying to learn to ride a bike without a vestibular system."

I stopped short. "Ah, what?"

"You know, the thing in your ear that helps with balance."

"I know what a vestibular system is. I'm asking why it matters."

"Well, without a sense of balance, riding a bike isn't just hard—it's almost impossible. Part of the process is learning to integrate the movements of the bike with your body's vestibular sense. Without it, you're basically stuck with training wheels or some other crutch."

I considered that, letting the analogy settle in.

"So, like you said before," I murmured, "learning magic is like exercising a muscle you can't feel."

"Yes," Eugene nodded. "But it is a muscle most of us have. In fact, it's wrong to say humans lack magic. Quite the opposite. We are inherently magical creatures—we just don't think of our gifts as magical."

I raised a brow. "You mean technology? That whole 'sufficiently understood magic is basically technology' thing you said earlier?"

"Exactly. And not just tech. Our languages. Our sciences. Our philosophy. Consider the following—"

Eugene pulled out his phone—a scratched-up Android with a cracked screen—and held it up like a prop.

"What does it take to create a modern smartphone?"

I gave him a sidelong look. "Are you asking for specifics, or general knowledge? Cause I could tell you shit if anything."

"Don't worry, it's mostly rhetorical."

He turned the phone over in his hands. "For simplicity, let's ignore the centuries of scientific discoveries that went into designing one of these. Just think about what it takes to make one."

"Alright," I said, a bit skeptical. "Hit me with it."

"We start by mining quartz—not sand mind you, as it's too full of impurities. We melt those crystals into liquid silicon metal, then grow a single, flawless crystal, shaped like a cylindrical rod using a seed crystal. We align it with X-rays—once produced via radioactive decay, now mostly using copper anodes—to orient the crystal and cut it along the domain. Which allows us to cut this cylinder into ultra-thin wafers that won't easily shatter."

He mimed slicing through the air.

"After that we use photolithography to etch transistor patterns onto them a few dozen atoms at a time—layer by layer—squeezing a quarter billion transistors into a space the size of a postage stamp."

"We mount them on printed circuit boards, along with gold-leaf channels for conductivity, bound together on petroleum-based plastic—plastic that's made from the bodies of dinosaurs and other ancient sea life. Add a lithium battery, a glass screen, and voilà—a smartphone."

I blinked. "And you're wildly oversimplifying all of this because..."

"Well," he said, turning forward. "Let me reframe it."

He slipped the phone back into his coat and adjusted his pace to match mine, tone shifting from lecture to something more suited for an incantation.

"We delve into the earth and mine crystals with special arcane properties. Through alchemical processes we've perfected over centuries, we refine and purify them, transmuting crystal into metal. Using X-rays—the dying light of atoms—we are able to cut this metal into sheets as thin as paper. Then onto its surface, we inscribe millions of microscopic runes.

"We encase the resulting spellwork in a substance made from petroleum—the blood and bones of ancient titans and primordial life—interwoven with threads of gold. And then we breathe life into the whole thing with electricity—harnessed lightning—imbuing it with the semblance of sapience."

He glanced at me sideways. "We don't call it magic. But it's basically magic."

Somewhere above us I heard Nevermore chime in. "Ah, I remember when radios first came about. Such marvelous contraptions. Who'd have thought you could get a coil of wires to talk to you? Now that's witchcraft."

"So," I said slowly, ignoring Nevermore, "language is magic too?"

He nodded. "Absolutely. Language is a tool to store memory, transmit ideas, shape our minds. What if I told you I could alter your thoughts, or your behavior, just by making certain sounds?"

"Right," I deadpanned. "Because talking is mind control now."

"Here, give me your hand, I'll show you something."

I did.

Eugene looked me dead in the eyes and said, "Mind control."

"Ah goddamn it," I huffed in irritation. I withdrew my hand.

My brother used to do the same shit to me when we were kids. Only he'd follow it with a patronizing, "Good girl," like I was some kind of show dog.

If only Michael could see me now.

Three dogs in a trenchcoat, learning about magic.
Their wand was a stick—their results were quite tragic.

Eugene let the joke slide, continuing more soberly. "Language lets us store knowledge beyond our lifetimes. Share dreams. Shape opinions. Create infectious ideas. Spells works the same way. Spells are constructs of thought, and words help us form our thoughts, and keep them steady."

He lifted up the smartphone again, "and, when all else fails, we can build training wheels for ourselves."

"And you just take it one step further with this by investing random items with magical ideas?"

Eugene snorted, "One step further? I'd say what I'm doing is rather primitive by comparison. Couldn't recreate a simple flip-phone even if I tried."

"Well, forgive me for missing the obvious, but how does this answer my original question? About using magic and not just thinking about it?"

"Because I'm trying to reshape the way you look at magic. Teach you how to feel those muscles you normally can't." Eugene replied.

He folded his arms behind his back as we walked. "If you're looking for a particular takeaway, I'd say focus on developing your ability to sense magic. These heightened senses of yours are by far your greatest asset. They'll be essential if you ever hope to wield magic."

I gave him a look. "And if I can't or choose not to?"

"Then they'll be instrumental in protecting you from those who do."

Eugene had responded without hesitation.

I squinted at him. "You seem pretty eager to turn me into some sort of mage. Is this all because of our little pact, or do you have other motives?"

"Both. But it's also important to identify new magic users early. Imagine a child who can start fires with their thoughts, but doesn't know how to stop thinking about it. Now imagine that child was also quite powerful. This might seem like an extreme, but it's more common than you think."

He gave me a sidelong glance. "Luckily, you seem to have a decent handle on your abilities. Even despite the impulsive nature of your… wolf."

Well, that was generous of him, because I wasn't entirely certain the wolf was to blame for all of my impulsive decisions.

"And," he continued, "you've already countered one of my spells. Which leads me to think you've got a knack for this."

"Yeah, well, this is a temp gig," I said. "I'm not planning to stick my nose any deeper into DOA nonsense than I have to."

"Of course," he said lightly. "Your first and only ride. Never again."

I scowled. You son of a—you're trying to jinx me!