Wolf for Hire

Chapter Forty Five

"Consider the following—" said Eugene, pacing in front of the open Slip, his eyes to the ground in front of him, as he spoke his thoughts aloud.

I sat on the edge of a welding table, hands planted on the table edge by my side. My head—and the heads of Coy and Boden—tracked him, swiveling like spectators at a slow-motion tennis match.

Behind him, the Slip remained open, revealing the long elevator shaft beyond. The light at the end of the tunnel picked out the pincushioned figure of the Puppeteer.

"Either the Puppeteer anticipated we'd come here and left the chimera to ambush us, or he sent it after us once you killed his thralls."

As Eugene kept talking, my attention drifted back to the body at the end of the tunnel.

From this distance, I couldn't make out any specific facial features, but I could tell he was a stocky, bearded man dressed in camo fatigues.

Perhaps he fancied himself a hunter.

Sprawled around him were three dogs—bigger than the ones we'd faced before. Broad-shouldered, high-backed, their fur coarse and dark. And by big, I mean they were almost as large as I was in wolf form.

It made me wonder if they were further along in their biomanced alterations than the others.

And, just like with all the others, there were three of them. Always three. Like the magic number.

"You must have made him panic with that stunt of yours. It would explain why he pulled out the big guns."

"What makes you think he panicked?"

While I was largely letting Eugene formulate his theory, I wasn't just sitting back and letting him monologue—I had a role in this. Ask a pointed question here and there, challenge his assumptions. Keep him thinking.

I'd poked enough holes in his earlier theory—using twenty-year-old movie logic, no less—that he'd been forced to reevaluate the facts.

Now I could practically hear the gears ticking in his head.

So, best to let him cook.

And, chances were good that I'd pick up some puzzle pieces I wasn't yet privy to.

Two heads could be better than one if the other two weren't Beavis and Butthead.

Coy had started nuzzling behind my ears again, trying to get my attention and Boden had buried his face into my mane, already half-asleep.

Neither of them had really been paying attention to begin with. That was the wolf's influence—her curiosity and caution, always listening for trouble, always sizing up Eugene. Trying to get a read on this odd smelling individual.

Even then, she was still working with dogs. One of which was barely more than a puppy. A very big puppy.

I scratched behind Coy's ears while Eugene paced, trying not to think about the fact that Boden's head was now drooling into my mane.

"That howl of yours threw a wrench into his operations. Before that, those dogs had me pinned in the back of an 18-wheeler I'd been inspecting on Commerce Circle. But then you howled, and it was like a switch flipped. The thralls—and the dogs they'd afflicted—all bolted straight towards you.

"What you did with that howl—it overrode the Puppeteer's control. Not only that, but you proceeded to take out the three thralls controlling the pack, dismantling any influence he had on the other dogs. Assuming he was also using them for reconnaissance, you effectively left him blind.

"And, considering how close we likely are to his base of operations—or at least an entrance to it—you effectively kicked the nest."

I considered Eugene's explanation, scanning for holes in his logic.

I'd been tagging along behind him so far—dogging his steps, no pun intended. But now it was clear: if we were going to find Nora and get out of this alive, I'd have to start being more proactive in his investigation.

"Okay," I said, "but what would make him think I couldn't just control the chimera as well?"

"Affinities. Your affinity for the dogs was stronger than his. But with an artificial creature like the chimera—one that was likely tailored for him to be its handler—you likely wouldn't have been able to wrestle control from him. At least, not easily."

"But why not? Like you said, it's basically just a modified horse. And I can compel more than just dogs."

Eugene scratched his chin.

"Recall that curse the thralls were spreading. Under the cover, it induced rage in the afflicted dogs—a strong emotion that our Puppeteer likely used to manipulate the animals, by redirecting or suppressing that emotion. It's basically just an infectious form of mind-control. Good synergy too—using an emotion that weakens the target's mental defense while compelling them to attack.

"But, considering the rage came from an artificial source, your compulsion must have hit at a more intrinsic instinct. But the chimera—though it may have once been a normal horse—could have had its mind altered to be more suitable for the puppeteer's control."

He paused.

"If anything, this wasn't true theriomancy he was using, but pathokinesis."

Oh great. More jargon.

"It's emotional manipulation," Nevermore said. He was perched next to me, atop one of the acetylene tanks used for welding. One that was hopefully empty.

"What I mean is, why does this distinction matter?" I asked.

Eugene replied, "it is important to understand the mechanism of action if you intend to counter it."

Okay. So magic has a mechanism of action now? What is this? Pharmacology?

"Imagine it like a game of associations," Nevermore added. "Magic likes patterns. Red might stoke flame, blue might calm it. It's not about the color itself—it's about what the thought feels like. Theriomancy caters to instinct: pack bonds, territorial drives. Pathokinesis? That's emotion. Fear, rage, sorrow. Think rock-paper-scissors, but with concepts. One can blunt or override the other—if you know what you're dealing with."

I tried to wrap my head around that—emotions as levers, instincts as strings. It made sense, in a twisted sort of way. If the Puppeteer had used rage to steer the thralls, then maybe that was the real trick. Not commanding animals through dominance, but weaponizing their fury.

A fury that didn't fade just because the one holding the leash was gone.

Another thought occurred to me, one that made my skin crawl.

If Sylvester was meant to have a handler…

What would he do now that he was without one?

Eugene turned to look down the shaft, gesturing at the dead dogs around the Puppeteer.

"I could be wrong though, about the Puppeteer having a stronger affinity with the Chimera. It's likely he meant to deploy more thralls not only to help the Chimera find us, but to also keep you distracted. Prevent you from pulling the same trick as before."

"But..." Eugene fell silent.

"Kirkland got to him first," I said.

Eugene nodded, muttering, "Seems I've been picking up the pieces he left behind this entire time."

Join the club, I thought. That's all I'd ever been doing—picking up pieces. Trying to put them together, but never with a full picture to follow. All the while they were from separate jigsaw puzzles.

In books, in movies, someone usually walks in and tells you what the plot is. Who the Chosen One is. Why they matter. What they're destined to do.

Boy inherits a cursed ring from his older cousin and gets told to throw it in a volcano.

Lonely orphan learns he's a wizard and now must kill the noseless guy who murdered his parents.

Awkward girl gets tangled up in a love triangle with a werewolf and a hundred-year-old vampire who still goes to high school for some reason—though, come to think of it, maybe that one actually fit.

Because the more you dug into that plot, the more far-fetched it got.

Sort of like the situation I was in. Except worse.

Because, instead of being the mysterious girl who was seemingly immune to mind-reading and mental manipulation, caught in a supernatural romance, I was the werewolf—with no mental shield to protect my thoughts or shirtless Taylor Lautner vying for my affection.

What I had was the telepathic ability to unintentionally share my thoughts with others, and a Sylvester Stallion who looked like he'd take a bite out of me the same way McGruff took a bite out of crime.

It was like being in one of those games that never tells you the plot. Just leaves you with a trail of item descriptions, half-legible notes, cryptic symbols on walls.

Or as a tramp stamp right above your ass.

The kind of game that prompted you to waste your time arguing online about which convoluted theory made the most sense.

But deep down, we all knew—no one ever really knew what the story was supposed to be.

Least of all the author.

There was no directive or hand to guide me.

Just a long chain of small mistakes that somehow landed me in a warehouse with Eugene, staring down the open mouth of an elevator shaft.

I wouldn't be here if the wolf hadn't gotten out. Tonight, or the night before. If I'd paid more attention—if I'd noticed Carl pocketing the keys to his cage before he got a hold of my gun. If I hadn't taken my phone into the barn.

And while I'd shown the wolf how to open the doors out of the house, I'd never instructed her to close them behind her. Boden might've still wandered off, but Phin and Ferb wouldn't have escaped. Would've avoided the humiliation at church altogether.

And, if I'd just walked the dogs earlier, maybe I could've made it back to the barn in time. Though, knowing Coy, he might've entrapped me anyway. He had an opportunistic streak.

Because Monty forced me to shift in the middle of the day, I nearly didn't make it into town to search for Boden.

And I only managed to pass as human long enough to get there thanks to Solomon—though I'd be damned before I ever admitted it. He was the one who showed me how to negotiate with the wolf, how to keep my transformations hidden well-enough to pass as human.

And, if I hadn't made it into town to search for Boden, I never would've known he was in danger—and the wolf wouldn't have known either. She wouldn't have picked up the scent of Eugene or the thralls, and wouldn't have felt compelled to pursue them. We would've stayed home with the other dogs. And with JT.

God knows how that would've turned out.

And Eugene? He would've still been stuck in the back of that 18-wheeler all night, likely feeding Boden all his milkbones.

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I didn't get here by some plan. I wasn't pursuing anything. I was reacting. Adapting. Making a mess as I went.

Wrecking Judge Childs' car. Getting JT injured. Ruining the dining experience for half the Culinary District. All of it just reacting. Never once asking where I was trying to go. Just trying to find a dog and make ends meet.

And if there was a price to all this uncertainty, I was starting to feel it. The weight of always catching up

I'd gone from accountant, to barista, to pet-sitter, to pet-detective, to… whatever I was now—an undisclosed intern for an actual detective?

Who was also a wizard and trying to teach me magic.

Trying to turn this werewolf into a werewitch.

Try to put that on a resume.

"He must have switched the Slips on the Puppeteer last second. Or—" Eugene said, cutting into my thoughts.

He'd stopped pacing and was now examining the doorframe of the Slip.

My attention snapped back to the present.

"Wait, what? Kirkland can do that? Swap Slips around?"

I rubbed my temples. Every time I thought I had a handle on this so-called 'magic,' Eugene would toss out something that flipped the board again.

Still, I was trying. Trying to think ahead. Ask the right questions. Pull the right strings.

That had to count for something.

"He likes to call it 'flipping.' Flip the Slip, so to speak. And, yes, it's one of his talents. He can rather quickly change the destination of a Slip, redirecting them to one he has prepared. A favorite tactic of his is to get someone to chase him through a doorway, only to flip it the moment he passes through, rerouting his pursuer to a destination of his choosing."

"Like a landfill?" I prompted, remembering what Eugene had said earlier.

"Or anywhere that's sufficient to slow down or trap you. Once, he sent me into a high school locker room. Couldn't reopen the Slip because I ended up being restrained by the campus security."

Jesus, I thought. No wonder Eugene had a grudge against Kirkland. Getting teleported into the wrong place at the wrong time could get you in a hell of a lot of trouble.

I wondered whether, if I looked up Eugene's criminal records, would I find, like mine, a long list of misdemeanors somehow traceable to magical hijinks?

"If he is using the shaft as his drop-site," Eugene went on, "then we can expect that there may be more than a dozen other Slips leading to it."

"Like an extra-dimensional garbage disposal," I mused.

Eugene examined the inner side of the door, ran an index finger down the surface of the door and rubbed it against his thumb, sniffing it. As if he was trying to detect some residue.

"The door opens towards us on this side, but that could mean it opened inward on the other," Eugene said. "Meaning the Puppeteer would have already been partway through the Slip before he realized it wasn't the right one. Snared by the trap as soon as he opened the door."

"Clever," Nevermore said.

Eugene nodded. "Wouldn't have needed to magically disguise the switch-out. Not if he could just use the physical nature of the door to his advantage."

"Okay," I said, "but if Kirkland flipped the Slips last second, how would he know when to do this? Has he been watching us? Or the Puppeteer?"

Eugene scratched his chin, puzzling it out. "Divination was never his forte. Hmm..."

Eugene stopped pacing, eyebrow coming together, eyes moving as if tracing the words on a page. A visual click, click, click of the gears in his brain.

And then, the realization. Eyebrows went up, and his hand ran through his hair as something finally slip into place.

"All those mana signatures I've been following across the city. I thought Kirkland was just trying to cover his tracks—creating fake Slips to hide where he was really keeping Nora. But if you're right—if Kirkland is actually trying to help—then maybe those weren't decoys. Maybe he was dismantling the network of Slips being used by the Puppeteer and his associates. Limited them to just a few he could monitor and wait for the right moment to make his move.

"And I got attacked likely because the Puppeteer thought I was Kirkland." Eugene muttered to himself.

"Wait, so like, how easy is it to even make a Slip? For Kirkland to flip this one, someone else must've made it."

"You're correct," Eugene said, "a mage or skilled practitioner can construct a Slip with the right ritual. Even I can make one with the proper tools. Kirkland's just... much better at it."

He let that sit for a moment, and I used the pause to think—doing my best to follow everything he'd just said—to make sense of this 'magic' while still thinking rationally.

More fuel for my migraine.

I decided to push the conversation forward. "So what do we do now? Do we inspect the Puppeteer's body, or look for the second Slip—assuming Flipland hasn't gotten that one too."

There was a third option creeping in around the edges—one I couldn't bring myself to say. I was trying to turn over a new leaf, sure. Be proactive. Take charge. But this wasn't a baby step. It was a leap into something I wasn't ready for. Something that terrified me.

"Well," Eugene said, "I can safely lower the two of us down the shaft, but I'd have to undo the gravity trap at the threshold to let us back through. That risks collapsing the Slip if I'm not careful—and that's assuming Kirkland hasn't placed an anti-tampering enchantment on it."

He gave a half-shrug. "You know? To make sure his Slips stay one-way."

Then, returning to the thread, he added, "And considering the Puppeteer doesn't look like he'll be going anywhere soon, I think we should prioritize finding the second Slip. Since our Chimera is still alive, we can assume Kirkland hasn't trapped that one.

My shoulders tensed at the mention of the Chimera. I couldn't bring myself to go there—not yet. The idea had my stomach churning like a dying motor.

"How likely is that?" I asked, pulling the focus back to Kirkland. "If he found all the others, why would he have missed this one?"

"Maybe he had a reason. Or maybe he just missed it. Had to be something preventing him, because taking out an asset like the Chimera would only work in his favor."

Again, another mention of the Chimera.

"What do you think happened? With Kirkland I mean?" I asked, steering the conversation again.

Eugene frowned. "I can only speculate on how he locates or flips someone else's Slips. Just like your talents let you sense magic in your own way, so do his. His abilities have limitations, and I've formed a dozen theories about his weaknesses. But none of them have been consistently reliable."

"But, if you were able to catch Kirkland before, then something must have worked?" I asked.

"That's because I forced him into real space," Eugene said.

I tilted my head.

"It was a summoning spell I re-engineered to pull someone out of the Abandon and into the real world.

"But I need to get close enough to his location, relative to real space, and he knows this. It's why he's learned to be more mobile since his arrest."

So the cat and mouse were constantly trying to outsmart each other.

"So… do you think Kirkland's nearby?"

Not wanting to derail Eugene's train of thought—especially since he was focused on Kirkland—I sent a thought to Nevermore instead: So, he's not ice-fishing for Cthulhu but Leonardo DiCaprio.

"Oh, that's a good one," Nevermore whispered back.

Eugene didn't seem to notice the exchange. "Possibly. If not near here, then perhaps near the side the Puppeteer came from. Or near the drop site. It would take time but, trying to find him would be another course of action."

Oh good, I thought. He'd wandered off in a different direction than the one I'd been avoiding.

He'd even come up with a decent fourth option. A welcome suggestion. Might keep my thoughts from circling the Chimera, even as I pushed them down.

"Apologies for the bluntness," Nevermore said, cutting in, "but I think it's time we address the Chimera in the room."

Oh no. No, no, no—

"What do you mean?" Eugene asked, sounding surprised.

Nevermore tilted his head toward me. "Virginia here has been doing a good job suppressing her telepathy, but I think she's forgotten about our familial bond. So, I can tell she's put it together—"

Nevermore, you son of a bitch!

If anyone was going to rip off that fucking bandaid, it should've been me.

Before I could make a move to seize him and shove him into one of the jacket pockets, he flapped out of arm's reach to a nearby light fixture. I was now on my feet and my sudden movement brought Coy back to attention, and jarred Boden awake with a snort.

"Our Chimera. This... Sylvester, is currently without a handler." Said Nevermore, from his high perch. "If we assume the worst, that the Puppeteer was killed shortly after Virginia took out the thralls at the depot, then we must assume that it attacked us out of territorial aggression. I suspect that, without a handler, it has defaulted to either base instincts or whatever our biomancer left it with."

He turned to Eugene. "The fact our Chimera has ceased its attack could either mean it's laying low. Ooor—"

"Or something else has drawn its attention," Eugene finished.

He turned to me. "Are you still unable to locate the Chimera?"

I sighed, already knowing where this was going. "No, not from within here."

I'd realized it earlier—when we were talking about affinities and whether I could compel the Chimera. I had suspected he attacked us not because he was ordered to, but because he wanted to. Because he was aggressive by nature.

No. Not by nature. By design.

Which meant Sylvester was a loose cannon. But, not a problem, if he stayed on our side of the mill.

"We need to make sure it doesn't wander into the part of the mill with more people," Eugene said, "need to keep it here where there are fewer things for it to fixate on."

So, he'd realized it too. But it was worse than that.

The Culinary District was just a stone's throw from here. If the Chimera wandered out and followed the scent of food—same as I had—it could hit the bars, breweries, and late-night eateries, where the Fourth of July crowd was still lingering. Even after midnight, Charleston nightlife didn't go quietly. Not on a holiday weekend.

I could already see the headlines.

Eugene continued. "We may be able to use your howl to lure it towards us."

There was rumble in my chest—my frustration beginning to boil. I had to stop waiting for someone else to offer a better plan. If we were really talking about engaging it, then fine—I'd talk.

"And then what? We try to take it down? With what firepower—"

I pulled open the jacket and gestured at Eugene's gun. "—this peashooter?"

"No. We are going to keep it distracted long enough for the DOA to send a response team."

"So we're calling the DOA now? And what about Nora?" The words came out sharper than I meant. I wasn't trying to cut—I was trying to make sure he saw it. The bigger picture. The part I knew he might miss—as one easily tunnel-visioned individual to another.

His expression faltered. That pained look told me he figured it out.

"Look, we can't lure the Chimera away and hunt for the Slip at the same time," I said. "You say this other slip is going to be bigger. And it took you, what? Fifteen? Twenty minutes to open this one with your doodles?"

I gestures at the inscriptions around the doorframe. The one Eugene drawn with his crayons.

"Unless it's up a tree or tucked somewhere that thing can't reach—which we know it can, because it came through the damn thing—how do you expect us to find and open it while that thing is trying to break in? You saw what it did—"

I jabbed a thumb toward the half-destroyed wall with the door Eugene had magically welded. "Thing's a goddamn wrecking ball."

I let the silence hang for a beat.

"But, that's assuming we're sticking together."

There. I said it.

The thought I'd tried to keep to myself. The one I didn't want to follow to its conclusion.

The idea that we should split up and that I go after the Chimera—enter the ring with Sylvester Stallion.

Eugene hesitated. "If Kirkland is really trying to help—maybe things aren't as dire as they seem. Maybe we can even trust him."

I clenched my jaw.

It wasn't what he said—it was what he meant. He saw the risk I was taking and was trying to give me an out.

Well, too late for that.

"Trust him?" I snapped. "You've been chasing him down the coast like a trail of breadcrumbs. If he didn't need help, then why hasn't he found Nora yet? A man with talents like his? You said yourself—something might've kept him from sealing off the Chimera's Slip. For all we know, he's just as over his head as you are."

Cat and mouse? More like two peas in a pod.

I took a breath, trying to steady the heat rising in my chest.

"At least, you don't have the luxury to assume he isn't. And whether your next move is to find Nora or Kirkland, someone still has to deal with the Chimera. I can't track someone I haven't smelled, nor can I follow trails through the Abandon—and even if I could, I wouldn't know how."

I locked eyes with him.

"But you know how."

I didn't care about Kirkland. But I cared about Eugene—knew what finding Nora meant to him.

I pointed toward the welded door. "And I can track the Chimera. I should be able to easily compel it to follow me. Hell, if the Puppeteer was its handler, maybe his strings are still attached.

"Even if the Chimera was tailored for the Puppeteer, he's dead now. No competition. No one to stop me for taking his reins."

I hated saying it. Hated thinking it.

I had quite the imagination when it came to digging myself into a hole: even hitting rock bottom couldn't stop me.

But I had to sell it—not just to Eugene, but to myself.

He told me that magic worked better when you believed in it.

And knowing? That was stronger than belief.

I knew I could do what I was proposing—at least in theory. I'd already demonstrated it before. Just on a smaller scale. Compelling other animal to obey me, linking my mind to theirs.

But whether or not I was ready to push myself to do more? To do the same with a creature like a Sylvester?

Well...

I had to believe I was.

I exhaled slowly. "And it's not just that. If I can get close enough, maybe I can peer into what's left of its mind. Find something useful—about its creator, about what the hell's going on."

If this sounded like conviction—it wasn't.

But damn it, it made sense. To me, at least.

Nevermore fluttered down from the light fixture, alighting back on the table.

"She's right. And even if the DOA manages to get involved, they'll still need someone to handle this creature. If only to keep it contained while they figure out how to neutralize it."

He lifted a wing towards me and added: "Unless they have an experienced theriomancer currently on staff, Allison is the best shot they've got."

Thanks for the moral support, Nevermore.

He turned to face me more fully, his tone gentler.

"I feel that you think I am trying to demean you. That is not the case. I worry about the risk you'll be taking is all. But that doesn't change the fact that I think you are making the right decision. And I will assist you however I can."

And so will I.

The thought came from the wolf.

She had been quiet through most of the discussion. Too much planning. Too many possibilities. Too many words she didn't understand—magic, strategy, risk—all tangled and distant. But all that didn't matter now. Now that I'd narrowed all my decisions down to one. And backed myself into a corner in the process.

Eugene studied me carefully. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

No.

Not even close.

"I..." He paused, struggling to find the right words. "I can't ask you to do this. Not alone."

I could sense this was eating at him. The idea that a near stranger was taking such a risk on his behalf. I understood. I wasn't great at asking for help either—even when I needed it most.

But he was wrong. I wasn't alone. And I wasn't just doing this for him. Or for Nora.

It was also for me.

Facing an actual nightmare wasn't ideal, but it was the price I paid for running from my problems for as long as I had.

But now I'd made a decision. Chosen a direction. It wasn't a choice that I liked, but it was a choice.

And now that my mind was made up—now that I had focused on a singular goal—the wolf was ready.

She'd been waiting for this. Waiting for me to give us a purpose.

And now it was time to act.