Wolf for Hire

Chapter Forty Six

The wolf inspected the work vehicle with cautious curiosity. She approached it like a predator circling another's kill—metal shell torn open, its engine silent and still.

Roof caved in.

Doors ripped off.

Tailgate... crushed?

Absolutely trashed, quipped the voice of her other.

Absolutely trashed, echoed the wolf's thoughts.

Her other was watching, thinking—planning. She'd sent the raven ahead to scout while the wolf took a slower, but deliberate route, stalking through the mill guided by instinct and by the smell of blood—fresh blood, and the foul magic that infused it.

She moved in shadows, hugging walls, slipping between rust-streaked tankers, skeletal pipe racks, and idling forklifts—the underbrush of a concrete jungle. As a wolf, and without the burden of the smelly wizard's jacket, she moved quickly and quietly.

The artificial orange light of the sodium lamps bleached the world of color, casting deep contrasts between lit and unlit zones. The brightness obscured the shadows beyond its reach—shadows the wolf could slip into with ease. Hissing steam veiled the sound of her steps, while plumes glowed like fire beneath the lamps, blotting out the night sky in a halo of orange haze.

The raven alighted on her back.

"What do you think our Chimera was trying to do to the backend?" he asked. "Seems like it was trying to climb on top of it."

Her other replied, Dunno. Maybe he was trying to relieve his frustration?

The wolf concurred. A creature like that needed an outlet for its aggression.

Her other pieced it together quickly: the Chimera had fled the warehouse, bled out in the grass, and waited as its wounds healed. Then, still pissed from being shot, it attacked the first thing that moved—a passing vehicle.

But it had fixated on the vehicle, and not so much its occupant. The driver appeared to have escaped, making it into the nearby building.

The building was a massive light-blue rectangle. Here, wood pulp—hauled from the dwindling mountain beside it—was doused in acid and bleach, then broken into fibers to be spun into sheets of paper.

Why a species would go to such lengths to make said paper was a complexity the wolf chose not to fathom. As long as her other understood things, that was all that mattered.

A keening sound cut through the air—sharp and constant. Somewhere inside, an alarm was going off.

The driver, after escaping into the building, must have pulled it to warn his colleagues. A motivation the wolf understood—but one that made her other apprehensive.

Because if it had been a fire alarm, people would evacuate. A response team would likely show up.

That meant more targets for the Chimera.

More game for Sylvester Stallion to hunt.

That was the name her other had given the creature: Sylvester Stallion. There had been some playfulness to the name—a characteristic of her other, who coped with fear by giving terrifying things silly names.

Her other had also named the raven—Nevermore. A clever name her other was actually rather proud of, though the wolf couldn't fathom what was clever about it.

Her other had a name as well—AJ.

But while her AJ often talked to her, and talked to others about her, she'd yet to give the wolf a name.

Maybe you could be Virginia, her AJ offered tentatively. Virginia Wolf? Or Virginia Werewolf? Kinda cute, right?

The wolf huffed. Of course her AJ would give her a dumb name.

Hey!

Virginia—I decided that I liked the name for her—left the wrecked vehicle behind and pressed on, following Sylvester's scent. His wound had stopped bleeding, but Virginia noted the limp.

She noticed it in the hoofprints: one set pressed lighter into the grass than the other. A subtle pattern, uneven in depth. He was favoring his back leg—the one I'd shot.

I wouldn't have noticed. But once Virginia noticed it, it all clicked into place—just like Eugene had said when we talked Biomancy.

"Soft tissue heals fast," Eugene had explained. "Especially if it's vascularized. But not with bone. Even with magically enhanced healing, its repair rate is typically bottlenecked by mineralization."

So: Keep aiming for the joints. Shatter the bone. It'll heal, but slow enough to buy me time. Got it.

He'd then shifted gears to the topic of chimeric design. "You need to treat this thing like it's built for overkill. Expect it to be deceitfully powerful. If it grabs hold of you, assume you're not getting away. Not unless either of you loses a limb."

Don't get near his jaws? Don't need to tell me twice.

"And don't trust appearances. Some have hidden limbs, internal mouths, constricting tails—even backup brains and other organs. I've heard of one that was blown in half, and both halves kept fighting."

I'd tried to absorb it all, but it only made me more anxious. The Chimera had already scared the hell out of me. Now I had a whole checklist of reasons.

"Don't get caught in a straight-away. You won't outrun it. But you might outmaneuver it. It's strong, fast—but heavy. Its hooves won't have good traction on hard surfaces like concrete—use that to your advantage."

I pushed the fear down.

I got this, I told myself.

We got this, I corrected.

Virginia didn't speak—just gave that low, wordless push. A mental nudge to confirm she was still by my side. Not so much with enthusiasm, but solidarity.

Eugene must have noticed my hesitation, because his tone shifted.

"Look. You're not here to fight it. Just get it to chase you. Lead it somewhere quiet. That's enough. You don't need to get close to it or risk your life. Not if you don't have to. And I don't think you do. You just need to distract it and buy us time."

That was what I'd been thinking. But hearing him say it made me feel better.

I didn't have to be brave. Just smart.

I wasn't a hero. Wasn't chosen for this. I just happened to be nearby. A girl in the wrong place at the wrong time. And yet, I was the best shot we had at keeping things from getting worse.

Ignoring, of course, my track record of doing just the opposite.

After that, Eugene called Mich to update him on the situation and our plan, and Mich asked to talk to me.

Eugene and I exchanged glances before he handed me the phone.

"Uh, howdy," I said.

"Virginia?" Mich asked.

"Yep, that's me."

"I appreciate you sticking your neck out like this, but I'd like you to do me a favor."

"That, uh, depends on the favor."

"Okay, so I had a hunch something might go sideways. Not a chimera, exactly, but... well. Let's just say when magic abides by the law, it's usually Murphy's.

"So," Mich continued, "I phoned our nearby field agent. She's already standing by. I want you two to coordinate."

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable with—"

"Hold on," Mich cut me off. "She's agreed to honor your non-disclosure pact with Eugene and let you extend it to her."

"And that won't be any trouble?"

"No. What'll be trouble is if this escalates and I have to hand this off to SLED. But, you can help us keep things within the DOA's jurisdiction by preventing this from getting out of hand. That is why I need you to work with our agent. This way, all of us can walk away happy."

"Besides," he added, "I know her. She's good at keeping secrets."

"She sounds like a real peach," I muttered.

"I think you'd like her."

Oh, I'm sure I will.

"Okay. So what would this coordination entail?"

"First, I need to know where you plan to lead the chimera so I can tell her where to rendezvous with you. If Eugene's right and the thing was being controlled with pathokinesis, then she should be able to help you out. But, only if it's safe to do so."

I covered the phone's mic and looked to Nevermore. "If we get Sylvester to behave, would you be able to meet with this agent ahead of time? Make sure Mich is telling the truth about the pact?"

Nevermore nodded. "Certainly."

I lifted the phone again. "Alright then. Have her wait at Ralph Hendricks Park. There's a land bridge connecting it to the mill. If I get the chimera's attention, I'll lead him that way. It was empty last I checked, and it should help me keep him isolated."

"I'll let her know. Also, I've sent out a request for additional backup, but our agents who are best suited for this kind of thing currently have their hands tied. Most are out in the field dealing with a similar issue up near Monks Corner and down towards Willtown Bluff."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know, someone spreading an infectious curse to people's pets. Turning them rabid. Been affecting livestock too. But in each case, the curse can be traced back to a single individual. One that's been biomanced. I was thinking we had a newly awakened mage having more than a little fun, but now I feel that this is a deliberate attempt to distract us."

"Like a red herring?"

"Yeah, but if a chimera is now involved, then I'm thinking you two hit the jackpot."

"Lucky us," I said dryly.

I gave the jacket back to Eugene and instructed Coy and Boden to stay with him.

His turn to be the third dog in the trench coat.

While Eugene didn't like having two slobbering dogs breathing down his neck, he begrudgingly agreed that the dogs would be safer with him—and that he could probably use their help. Use them as a bit of an early warning system, at least.

Almost as an afterthought, I told Eugene he might be able to use Coy to find the second Slip. Because—oh yeah—Coy could teleport.

And not just any kind of teleportation—He could pass through the Abandon.

Errat in Relicta—Wanders in Abandon.

That was the nature of his magic.

So I figured: if a dog could slip between the Abandon and Sonder at will, maybe he could also sense actual Slips.

When I told Eugene this, his eyes literally bulged.

"You're telling me one of your dogs has been opening Slips at will, and you just forgot to mention it?" Eugene looked ready to throttle me.

"It genuinely slipped my mind. Given the circumstances, can you really blame me?"

Turns out, Coy's abilities weren't all that different from Kirkland's. Just less developed—Superdog to his Superman.

Perhaps Kirkland's unique gifts weren't all that unique after all.

Still, there was a limitation: Coy couldn't create large Slips. Only small ones—big enough for himself and maybe a raven.

But even transporting Nevermore had been difficult for him, which was why he eventually abandoned Nevermore in some bakery.

Birds liked bread after all, right?

But a quick test with the elevator Slip demonstrated that Coy could easily open an existing Slip. He could literally nose the damn thing open.

I could see that this sent Eugene's mind racing, trying to figure out how to fit this puzzle piece into the plan. Hell, this must have opened all sorts of doors Eugene didn't think were possible.

That was Coy: Master of Opening Doors.

So, Coy and Boden stayed with Eugene. That left me with Nevermore and... well.

Let's just say Coy's abilities weren't the only things that slipped my mind.

But, then again, even Eugene had forgotten about Elmo.

Right up until Elmo decided to crawl out of the pocket he'd been napping in—and scuttle up Eugene's face.

I reacted before Eugene, cupping his mouth to prevent him from shouting "Vorpollo" or whatever spider-repelling spell he started to prepare.

Then again, he might've just been trying to curse—say some benign expletive—but I wasn't taking chances.

Eugene squirmed as I pinned him to the wall, my hand pressing into him.

Elmo, for fuck's sake, stop tormenting the poor man.

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I insisted—compelled, really—for Elmo to return to me, and the not-so-little guy gladly crawled down Eugene's face and across my arm.

First thing out of Eugene's mouth when I removed my hand was: "Jesus Christ, why?"

I shrugged as Elmo buried himself in my mane. "Dunno. Seems he likes you."

Eugene grumbled, "Wish he'd like me a lot less."

Guess not everyone liked spiders.

I mean, spiders still creeped me out too—Elmo included. But somewhere along the way, he stopped being nightmare fuel and started feeling... familiar. Comforting, even. Like my own, not-so-little emotional support tarantula.

With a dash of Stockholm Syndrome.

The wolf had followed a similar path. I'd feared her when she first appeared in my mind—convinced she was some invading entity trying to take over my body. But that hadn't been her desire. Sure, she'd gotten me in trouble, but she'd also answered my call when I needed her most. A creature of instinct and tooth, yes—but also loyalty. We still had things to work out, but at least I wasn't alone in this anymore.

Maybe that was the trick.

Face your fears long enough that they stopped looming over you and, instead, started walking beside you.

The Chimera still scared me. Why wouldn't he? But unlike the shapeless fears that stalked my everyday life—being found out, being cast aside, being a disappointment—this fear had form. Tangible. A monster I could address directly—trap, trick, or take down.

But maybe, just maybe, it didn't have to stay a monster.

The Chimera called—a deep trill from the dark.

Virginia froze, ears forward.

Then she moved, running towards the sound.

Sylvester Stallion was nearby.

On your feet, I told her, and we shifted into our werewolf form.

I called for Elmo to hop into Virginia's open hands. He scurried across our fur, balled up, and nestled into her palms. We closed our hands around him, and when we opened them again, he was gone. Then we flicked our wrist and summoned Eugene's gun into our hand.

Eugene hadn't left us empty-handed.

Before we parted, he'd handed over a bracelet—something that looked like it belonged in a kid's art bin. Colorful knotted string with six lettered beads.

Each bead was tied to a summoning charm—miniaturized versions of the ones he'd built into his jacket. All I had to do to summon the object inside was focus on a memetic trigger: an idea or association linked to both the letter and the object.

Technically, there was a seventh enchanted bead that doubled as the clasp. One that just kept it from falling off when I shifted.

For the charm to work, the item had to be handheld. Mostly. Eugene said if I could hold it and think of it as "handheld," the magic would cooperate. Those were the rules. Ish.

E was for Elmo.

Easy enough—memetic and mnemonic. Eugene hadn't planned for the beads to store living creatures, but Elmo didn't seem to mind. And, he had just enough cognitive spark to trigger the link himself—pop in and out of the bead as it suited him.

So that was something.

G was for gun.

Eugene's, to be specific. And while the gun itself wasn't magical, the bullet was. Just one single bullet—enchanted to reset every half second, caught in a little time-turning loop.

Relative to the gun, of course.

Eugene called it a "relatively simple spell," but admitted he'd spent weeks getting it to reload in the chamber instead of wherever the bullet had been before. Considering the Earth moved at roughly 140 miles an second through the Milky Way, I figured a few of his early attempts were now somewhere out in deep space.

Twists causality like a dial, and he had the audacity to call it a simple spell.

Would hate to find out what constituted as complex.

I was for iPhone.

Technically Eugene's Android, but magic didn't care. It just needed to be clear in my head. Mich had asked if I had a number to give his agent. But I didn't have a phone. So Eugene handed me his. Said he had other ways to communicate.

So now I had his phone. And it was stored in the bracelet.

Cool.

J was for crowbar.

Because it kinda looked like a J, if you tilted your head and squinted.

Not my most clever idea, but it worked. That was all that mattered.

The crowbar wasn't enchanted—it was steel. Steel and most other iron alloys didn't respond to magic very well. In fact, it was great at ruining it. That made iron useful against fae, spirits, and anything built more out of magic than matter. It was for the same reason most hauntings didn't do well in buildings made of steel-reinforced concrete.

Also, it was a crowbar.

Good for breaking, prying, levering, and—when things got desperate—bonking.

Speaking of magic and metals—

N was for Numus.

As in the Latin word for coin. And the coin in question?

Eugene's silver dollar—his moon-wrought token.

An odd choice, to be sure.

I nearly dropped the damn thing when he slipped it into my hand. It felt like it should burn me—hummed with supernatural heat.

But it was cold to the touch.

Eugene explained that the enchantment allowed the coin to sequester and store moonlight. And, once saturated, the silver became… unreactive. Or, at least, safe to touch. It even had its own memetic trigger that could be used to release the stored energy and power a spell or something akin to it.

Turns out all that monologuing of his—about the coin acting like a defibrillator that could reset my transformation—was just theatrics. A ploy to make me believe the spell he'd been secretly crafting would work as intended.

Spells worked better when both caster and target believed, and was the spell that would have done the heavy lifting. The coin was just the juice.

He'd also been trying to spook me. Trick me into willingly revealing my human form. At the time, he hadn't believed me when I said I couldn't.

Of course, I disrupted everything when I threw Elmo into the mix.

"And here I thought you just wanted revenge for hitting you with your staff."

Twice.

"One doesn't exclude the other." Eugene, dryly. "Let's not forget what you made Boden do to me."

At the mention of his name, Boden lifted his head off Eugene's shoulder and tried to subject him to more tongue. Eugene caught him by the muzzle.

"Look," said Eugene, "you wondered if the coin could be a source of power, and you were right. That's basically what it is. I have several other items like it that I use to fuel my more powerful spells. Just as you can gather moonlight in silver, you can gather sunlight in gold."

Eugene fished the golden crucifix from a pocket.

"A sun-wrought token, if you would. Copper can create a fire-wrought token. So can rubies—but copper's more economic."

Looking at the coin in my hand, I asked, "So you're saying I can use this as what? A battery?"

"That is correct," said Eugene. "It may even help you use your abilities after the moon sets, should you find yourself in danger."

He hesitated, then added, "Buuut... if you're creative, you might figure out other uses for it."

Well, alrighty.

He'd tricked me once with the coin. Now he was trusting me with it. That had to mean something.

That just left the final bead.

L was for Sock.

Nora's sock.

It looked kinda like an "L"—and it was left-footed. Or at least, I convinced myself it was. That was all the magic needed—a clear enough idea.

Remember, it didn't matter if it was true.

"You said you could track someone once you smelled them." he stated. "If that's true, then you'll need this."

The sock carried more than just her scent—it held a trace of her magic. As Eugene explained, Nora had been wearing that sock when her powers first awakened, and it still bore traces of her mana—a scent that seemed both floral and electric.

Virginia and I had sniffed the sock before stowing it, and I recognized the same scent on the bracelet. Not her magic—Eugene's was all over it—but her physical scent which still lingered.

"So Nora made this for you," I said, raising the bracelet.

"Wouldn't have been able to enchant it if it weren't sentimental."

Unlike with the jacket, with its open pockets, the pocket spaces stored within the bead were completely sealed off from the real world, the presence of the contained item was almost unnoticeable. I barely felt the added weight. The trade off being that the bracelet was far more limited in capacity and scope.

But that was fine with me.

With the final item stowed in the bracelet, Eugene and I parted ways.

He took Boden, Coy, and his magic compass to locate the second Slip—and to find Nora. The plan was to send Coy to fetch me once Eugene found and opened the Slip. Let me follow after him.

Meanwhile, Virginia and I—with our nose and Nevermore—would track down Sylvester. We'd catch up with Eugene after.

Virginia and I left the warehouse through the back exit. Once we were out of sight, I shifted back into wolf form.

The beaded bracelet adhered to our forearm, held fast by magic.

When read in order, the beads spelled out the word: JINGLE.

And Nora had made it for her uncle, Eugene.

Yu Jing.

Uncle-fucking-Jingle.

Whether it was a reference to his name, or the sound of his keys jangling with all the other crap in his pockets, I didn't know.

But I understood why it had so much sentimental value to him. And why he'd given it to me now—along with the sock, his gun, and the moon-wrought token.

It was so that, in case he failed, I'd have everything I needed to finish the job

No pressure, AJ.

No pressure at all.

Virginia and I, gun drawn and pointed down, were closing in on the sound of Sylvester Stallion.

We rounded the corner and emerged into the broad corridor that cut between two massive sheet-metal buildings—a web of overhead pipes stretched above my head, and along the length, sodium lights drenching everything in a pale orange glow, casting harsh shadows in the deeper recesses of the structures.

And, as I stepped into the corridor, a golf cart flew by.

And by flew, I didn't mean driving really fast. I meant it was airborne. Hurtling through the air with tremendous force. And it was missing its top half.

It crashed hard into the cement pavement in front of me, tumbling. Paneling, headlights, and other bits and pieces sheared off.

It rolled and lodged into a nest of pipes. Metal screamed. Steam burst in explosive jets, fanning out in all directions. Hissing like a thousand angry kettles.

I caught a glimpse of the cart's crumpled side before the steam obscured the word stenciled there: Security.

Well. That explained it.

Someone had pulled the alarm. Security came to investigate.

Further down the corridor, Sylvester gripped the other half of the cart in his jaws—roof clenched between his teeth. He'd yanked it clean off the cart, shaking it so hard as to pulled it apart.

Between me and Sylvester lay the cart's occupant. One of the mill's security guards. In fact—the same one who'd been stationed at the mill entrance. The one Eugene had hit with the shade.

Poor bastard. Must've been closest to the alarm. Got sent to check.

Here's hoping he had worker's comp.

The stocky fellow was struggling to get up—he'd gotten his bell rung hard after getting ejected from the cart, and seemed disoriented. Had trouble lifting his head.

Sylvester tossed the roof of the cart aside and scanned for his target, spotted the guard, and began to stalk toward him.

I did a mental calculation, recounting Eugene's warnings about chimeras—or was it chimerae? Not important. What was important was that just because it looked like a horse didn't mean it would behave like one—or be limited to horsey things.

I needed to avoid close quarters. If it could toss a golf cart, it could easily crush me. I wasn't about to test my werewolf robustness against the strength of his jaws. Or his hooves.

Aim for the ankles, I told Virginia, and together we took aim with our right, covered our ear with the left, and fired.

Virginia wasn't a bad aim. Her aim was mine. But our target was further away this time, and moving.

So we missed.

But that was okay—we just needed to get his attention.

Sylvester snapped his head toward the shot. Right at me.

"Uh, hi. Me again," I waved. My planning hadn't involved coming up with any good catchphrases.

Sylvester stared for a moment, howled, and then charged.

This was still part of the plan.

You got this right? I asked Virginia.

I knew full well I would've frozen in that moment. Like a deer in the headlights. That's why Virginia was in control. She wasn't any less fearful than me, but at least her fear didn't inhibit her sense of self-preservation like mine did.

Virginia dropped the gun. I pulled it back into the bead—as copilot, I handled planning, magic, and inventory.

Virginia timed the transformation perfectly. We became a blur of fur and muscle, turning wolf mid-stride as we darted between Sylvester's legs, ducking low enough to avoid a black eye from the pool noodle.

He was strong, and he was fast, but he was also really big. And big meant wide turns. And no stopping on a dime.

Especially on cement.

Sylvester skidded, launching himself into a cloud of steam behind us, crashing into the network of pipes.

Tripping and stumbling among the mess of metal, he was blinded and deafened by the hissing vapor. Above the ruckus, I heard him bellow in pain and fury as he was scalded by the heated steam.

Virginia and I shifted back into our werewolf form and scooped up the dazed guard in a fireman's carry. My shoulder slammed into his solar plexus, knocking the breath out of him.

Sorry, mister. No time to be gentle.

My ears picked out the sound of shouting, and I turned in that direction, spotting a side door held open by another worker.

I bolted for the door. The worker's eyes went wide as he dove out of the way and I barreled through.

Inside, I slid on the tile floor, scrambling to keep balance, and dumping the security guard unceremoniously on a table.

Here's hoping he didn't already have a back injury.

We were in a canteen. Small kitchenette to one side. Lockers on the other.

Two other men stared at me—the one from the door and another who was currently on the phone. I could hear it ringing. Calling for help, perhaps? Each of them looked old enough to be my dad.

"Back up," I commanded. "Stay away from the door."

They didn't respond. They just gawked.

I followed their gaze. It led straight to my chest.

I growled in frustration. "Eyes up here!" I snapped. "Look, there's no time to explain. I need you to make sure everyone stays inside until I'm done taking care of that creature outside. Am I clear?"

The shorter of the two—his nametag read Daniel—looked over at his colleague, named Bo.

That was all his nametag said—Bo.

Daniel looked back at me and asked, "Is that a costume?"

I palmed my face. How the hell was I supposed to explain anything at a moment like this? I needed a different approach

Beside me, the security guard managed to sit up—his nametag read Trevor—groaning and touching the side of his head. His fingers came back red.

"Oh. Shit," he said, sounding a little woozy. Then he looked at me.

"Where—weren't you wearing a coat?"

As if by gravity—or some law of nature—his eyes too found their way to my chest.

One time. I worked at a strip club one time. That did not make me an exhibitionist. Nor did it make me any less uncomfortable being ogled.

I get it, the rest of me was hard to look at. And the familiar was comforting.

But damn it—

"I need you to pay attention," I said through clenched teeth. I turned towards the group, using an arm to cover my two little distractions.

"Look, this is going to sound weird, but I—Oh shit!"

A shadow appeared in the small wire-mesh window of the door.

I had barely a moment to seize Bo and Daniel by the collars and throw them to the ground as Sylvester rammed his head through the door window, like Jack Nicholson starring as the Kool-Aid Man

Bit of an, "Oh Yeah! Here's Johnny!" kind of a vibe.

Sylvester's jaws snapped shut inches from my face and, needless to say—I screamed. Trevor screamed. Bo and Daniel, scrambling across the floor, screamed.

I say "screamed" because it sounds more dignified than what actually happened—I made a yelping sound like a chihuahua learning what happens when you lick an electric fence, and the three grown men produced the kind of sound you'd expect from children in a scary movie theater.

We all plastered ourselves against the walls—Bo and Daniel to the right and left, Trevor and I against the wall facing the door with Sylvester's head jammed through it. Each of us barely more than ten feet from the chomping maw of Sylvester Stallion.

As I said, it was a small canteen. And it was getting smaller as Sylvester forced his way into the room, ripping the door off its hinges. It hung from his neck like a bent bib, his shoulders bending the frame as he tried to advance.

I looked for a way out. There was a door on the side with the lockers, one leading to the rest of the building. Daniel was already getting it open. Trevor could make it to the door, but Bo would have to slip past Sylvester first.

Sylvester managed to push himself another two or three feet into the room. The bolts anchoring the wall to the floor were starting to give.

"Yo! Bo!" I said, "Crawl to the door!"

"Are you insane?" shouted Bo. He'd squeezed himself into the corner between the wall and fridge.

If Sylvester didn't manage to force himself the rest of the way in, Bo was good to sit tight.

If, being the key word.

"Ugh!" Nevermind. I focused my attention on Sylvester.

"Heel!" I commanded, projecting my thought toward the chimera.

Between striking him with the crowbar—which meant getting closer—or shooting him again, both options would only piss him off further. And if I wanted to get him under control, I needed him to calm the fuck down.

So, a non-violent solution seemed best.

And to my amazement, Sylvester stopped pushing forward and took a step back.

I followed, taking my own step forward, as I projected my mind into his, searching for any strings I could pull: be it a thought, memory, or impression. Something useful amongst the fury and hunger that seemed to be all Sylvester could think about.

The door hanging around his neck caught on the frame. He jerked to a halt, snarling in sudden rage as he began rearing and pulling.

"Heel!" I commanded again, and this time I relayed to him a thought—an idea of how he could free himself from the doorway. As an olive branch, so to speak.

And, as I instructed, Sylvester did just that, leaning forward, turning his head to allow the bent door to pass through the opening. His gaze boring holes into me all the while.

I noticed his eyes were slitted. Not like a snake's, but sideways like a frog's. A little unnerving, but he'd listened to me. So far, so good. We were making progress.

I reached out to Sylvester again with my thoughts, trying to get a sense of where his mind was at.

And was dismayed to find his thoughts unchanged. Still the same one-track desire to eat me. Fixated on whether I was chewy or chunky.

And I was just where he wanted me.

Wait? What?

Before I had time to react, Sylvester opened his mouth and nailed me square in the chest with a long, bulbous tongue. It hit with a wet smack, warm and sticky and twice as wide as my head.

Like a frog's. A goddamn frog tongue.

Virginia and I were at a loss for what to do.

I hadn't planned for... this.

It was gelatinous, stretching as I tried to pull it away, seeming to spread over me like it was a tiny piece of The Blob.

Disgust rose in my throat.

Why?

WHY WAS THIS A DESIGN CHOICE?

The muscles in Sylvester's tongue flexed, and the stretchy, sticky flesh at the end suddenly became rock hard, clamping down on my hands and chest.

"No, no, no!" I shouted, but there was nothing I could think to do. All the while, Daniel, Bo, and Trevor watched on with the same dumbstruck expression as my own.

Sylvester whipped back his head, yanking me off my feet, pulling me through the door, and flung me out into the night.

And, let me tell you—I did not go gently.