Wolf for Hire

Chapter Forty Eight

Sylvester prowled the deserted corridors of the decommissioned facility, ducking under and stepping over the multitude of pipes that ran between towering stainless steel vats that ran in row after row.

His quarry, smaller and more agile than he, had, even in her inebriated state, traversed the aisles with ease, pulling farther ahead.

But that was okay.

He had her scent, and he knew she wasn't moving anytime soon.

He could take his time.

The inevitable was patient.

Unbeknownst to him, he'd already found his quarry—or, more accurately, I'd found him.

He had some vague awareness of my presence within his mind, but Sylvester was used to such sensations. Like the Puppeteer before me, he ignored the person behind the curtain—listening only to the music playing in his mind: the melody of pursuit.

The song of the hunt.

But I was busy setting up my own performance—one that played a different song in a different part of his mind.

And once I was done, he wouldn't be able to ignore me.

You see, Eugene had said chimeras could have more than one brain.

But conventional wisdom told me we all had at least two—the one between our ears and the one between our legs?

The reasoning part of Sylvester's mind had been hijacked by the Puppeteer's melody—which, when boiled down, was just another mind-controlling curse. Reshaping Sylvester's ability to think to serve the will of the Puppeteer—and of the Biomancer who made him.

I could pull those chords, sure, but I'd just be playing the same song.

But if this upstairs brain was being mind-controlled, I'd just have to call on the downstairs brain for help.

The upstairs brain determined how we thought and how we wished to behave; the downstairs brain, with its hand on the hormones, decided how we felt. And, as was often the case, the downstairs brain made the final decision—nature's way of making sure no rational species could logic their way into extinction.

So, to beat the curse, I'd just appeal to a higher power.

Or, technically, a lower one.

Besides, wasn't this a legitimate strategy in those tabletop games with all the dice? That, when you couldn't defeat the dragon, you could always seduce it instead?

I'd no intention of going as far as the Donkey from Shrek, but even his gambit had started with him not wanting to get eaten.

So, in that regard, he and I could see eye to eye.

This wasn't me trying to flirt my way out of anything. This was me weaponizing parts of his mind and biology against him. That, and I couldn't simply yank the curse out of him. I didn't have that kind of psychic power—and even if I did, I wouldn't know how to use it.

Hell, I didn't even know how I was doing half the things I was capable of.

Like Virginia, I had a vague notion of how my abilities worked and just made use of them. I had a mental image—or, in Eugene's words, a schema—that I could use.

But they were rudimentary at best.

For the dynamic between Virginia and me, I imagined us like occupants in a car—the car being our body, our seating determining how we operated. Combined with my fledgling telepathy—which I'd first mistaken as 'dog-speak'—I found I could do more than move seats. I could mess with the dashboard, shout out the window, and now even step out of the car, and into another.

Though, that last trick might only last so long as Virginia was hopped up on enough psychoactive secretions to give an elephant a transcendental experience.

As for Sylvester, I didn't imagine myself behind a wheel, but seated behind some grand musical instrument. Something like a piano—or better yet, a pipe organ.

Because while I could play a few pieces on the piano, I had no idea where to start with an organ.

But, maybe I could peek under the lid and see what was hidden inside.

I'd already dug through the stickier recesses of Sylvester's mind, finding countless strands of desire, following them to the thoughts and feelings they'd sprung from. And, underneath all the roiling emotions in Sylvester's mind, I sensed a creature that longed for affection.

Horses—like humans, like dogs and wolves—were social creatures who sought companionship. Even when stripped of most of his memories, he remembered being brushed across his coat, a hand against his muzzle—sensations he craved.

He'd once been just a normal horse, one who'd enjoyed the company of others. But now he was kept separate. Alone in a round, dark room, his food tossed down from high above. Allowed to venture out only to hunt.

He had to be alone because he was dangerous. Stripped of his coat, he'd been given a body that was toxic to the touch. And he was violent to those around him. His mind was assaulted by thoughts he couldn't quiet. Thoughts that made him want to hurt others. Thoughts he gave in to, relying on the brief solace when their urging stopped.

And they were back again.

These thoughts played in Sylvester's mind like a pre-recorded tune rolling in his head—like the music rolls of an old mechanical organ—compelling him to pursue his quarry.

He was supposed to go after a different target. A dark-haired man who smelled of sweat and spiced wood. And he'd been instructed to kill the man, but spare his dog.

The ones who had given him his thoughts—and his body—wanted that dog.

But the dog he hunted now was a different one—she walked on two legs, and had somehow realigned his thoughts onto her. Making herself his target.

So be it.

She was his target now, so he pursued.

What does the Biomancer want with Boden?

The question entered Sylvester's mind, but it was lost in the sound of his other thoughts.

It occurred to me I could probe further into Sylvester's mind—view his more recent memories.

But that would require time I didn't have.

It was only a matter of time before Sylvester found Virginia's hiding spot. And only a matter of time before the mill's staff found Sylvester. They had their hands full fixing their main production line after something collapsed the roof on top of it, but that didn't stop one of them from wandering over to us.

The priority was to get Sylvester under control and out of the way.

I could interrogate him later.

And I as also worried what would happen if I kept interfering with the cursed part of Sylvester's mind. Didn't know what pressing the wrong series of keys would do—and I didn't want to find out. Like pulling out the wrong stops on the organ and blasting myself with an ear-splitting cacophony, I could unwittingly send Sylvester into an uncontrollable rage—defeating the point of me being here: to keep him from hurting bystanders.

Better to not touch anything.

Better to create my own instrument—a fiddle I could… fiddle. One strung with the stickier chords of Sylvester's mind. If I could redirect his attention—make him care about something other than this hunt of his—I could use that stickiness to gum up the Puppeteer's finely tuned machine.

Stick the pool noodle in the pipe organ, so to speak.

Using Sylvester's own emotions—the ones from his downstairs brain—to hard-reset his upstairs.

If I was lucky, I'd short-circuit him.

And if I wasn't, well: better a confused, horny murder beast than an efficient, hungry one.

But first, I needed his attention.

Using one of Sandy's command words, I spoke in his mind:

Hey. Listen!

I felt the word catch hold of Sylvester's thoughts; surprised that the presence in his head was suddenly speaking to him. Directly to him. And loud enough to be heard over the music. He had felt this presence before, first encountering it when he'd tried to squeeze himself into the room with the two-legged dog and a few other edible people.

Before, it pressed that sore spot—plucked the chords that made his head ache and made him want to hurt things. And all that after the two-legged dog had spoken to him and quieted the thoughts in his mind.

But this time the presence led with a softer touch. Which was preferable over how other one usually contacted him. The one like to stab at his mind and turned his thoughts red.

And the presence was actually talking to him.

Which was different.

But, as interesting as that was, he had more important things to do.

He was getting closer to his target; he could smell it—smell her.

Unlike the other dogs he'd been fed, or the intruders he'd hunted, this one had given him a lot of trouble.

She was fast, clever, could almost match his jump—and she'd touched him and still gotten away

Usually, his targets fell to the ground soon after contacting his skin—convulsing and frothing at the mouth. But she'd managed to run.

Prolong the chase.

Extend the fun.

So, Sylvester was looking forward to finally catching her. Was imagining the satisfaction he would feel once he had her in his teeth. She, who'd shot him in the foot and then in the ass.

Normally, finishing a hunt brought him only a meager solace. A simple peace of mind.

But this one?

This would bring him actual joy.

Damn.

And here I thought the Puppeteer and the Biomancer had done a number on him—doing all they could to turn Sylvester physically and mentally into a monster. But now I'd come along and poured some accelerant on the fire—given him a compulsive obsession.

And I'd yet to even put my plan into action.

But, you know what? That was fine. Let him obsess as much as he wanted.

I'd gotten what I needed: for him to register my voice—my telepathic voice.

Now I had the sensation I needed—this awareness of me—to draw my own chords, pull from deep within Sylvester's mind, using the association to pull them taut. From the downstairs brain, from the basement of Sylvester's mind, I drew the stickiest chord I could find, one that pulsed at my touch.

And stuck it to myself—my telepathic self.

In fact, I stuck as many chords of this kind to myself as I could find, building as strong an association as possible between my presence and the things his subconscious truly desired.

It would allow me to get as intimate as I needed, all while staying physically remote.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Considering what he'd done to that truck after getting frisky with it, this seemed like a pertinent safety measure.

So, we were going to do this over the phone.

I'd once called Vanessa when things with my ex, Justin, started falling apart. He kept "traveling for work"—or so I believed—and I had it in my head that the fix for this distance in our relationship was a little cellular intimacy.

Some good ol' phone sex.

And, if anyone could coach me, it was V; she could talk people into—or out of—most anything.

Me especially—jobs, favors, clothes—you name it.

She'd given me some decent tips too—particularly on the use of positive affirmations and tactile descriptions. She'd then had me practice with her—engage in a little roleplay to... help build my confidence.

But I'd had to put the phone down—our practice cut short because I found the whole thing a little too engaging.

Needed to take a step back to… calm myself, before I could return to my lesson.

Not that any of it ended up saving my relationship—because distance hadn't been the problem—and V knew it. But she'd entertained my request anyway—as much out of the goodness of her heart as for her own amusement.

If only she could see me now: her student about to make a fool of herself once again.

Ring, ring… click. Mmm, you've reached Madame Allison—press one for sweet nothings, press two for slow and steady, press three for direct-to-brain Pavlovian conditioning.

I spoke to Sylvester again:

Heyyy. I drew out the thought.

This time Sylvester stopped; the voice in his head sounded far more interesting than before.

It touched him in a way he wasn't used to.

A way that he rather liked.

Listen.

The command sent a shiver down his spine.

Now he'd stopped listening to the music.

Now he was eager to listen to me.

As I'd learned the hard way, I couldn't do 'seductive phone maiden' to save my life—or my relationship.

But, then again, I didn't think Sylvester would actually care. He was a horse-creature with an attraction to vehicles.

I was neither.

Just a voice in his head.

So, being seductive was as pointless as a striptease for someone who didn't understand the concept of clothes. But, like so many animals I knew, Sylvester just wanted attention and affection. Food too—but that wasn't something he was regularly deprived of.

So I figured: why not go with good ol' puppy-talk?

I could do that just fine.

Who's a good boy?

I plucked at the chords I had gathered to myself.

Who's a big handsome boy?

With each chord I projected my thoughts into him, making him imagine the stroke of a brush down the neck, the touch of a hand cupping his face. And, though it was all in his head, his response was real enough. He arched his neck and leaned into the brush, stumbling slightly as he was met with no physical resistance.

Not real, he thought.

Disappointment spread through him. But that was his upstairs talking.

The downstairs part of him didn't care. It wanted it to be real; it wanted to be fooled.

And, if he wanted immersion, I'd give him immersion.

Awww. I can make it real for you. I told him, and plucked a series of chords, spreading the sensation of the brush across his back. Psychosomatic or not, his skin pleated in response.

That was all the convincing Sylvester's downstairs brain needed. I nudged him towards the side of a large metal vat, smooth and cool to the touch, and plucked a few more chords.

Give it a try. Yeah. There's a good boy, I said, encouraging him.

Sylvester rubbed against the vat, luxuriating in the sensation of his skin sliding over the smooth metal. I pulled from my own memories from the night before, one Virginia and I shared: the first time we slept in a pile with the other dogs, surrounded by the warm press of Sandy's pack. Of the closeness and comfort she felt with them all around her.

See? This is me, embracing you, I said to Sylvester, sharing that sense of that closeness and warmth with him. Made him feel the presence of others.

And, like a lush, he closed his eyes, with those frog-like pupils, as he leaned against the tank, to better picture—better experience—these feelings I shared with him.

Hunger still chewed at him, but the feeling was beginning to dull. The curse told his upstairs he was hungry for one thing, while his downstairs hungered for something else

An argument the downstairs was winning.

For him, it was rare that his body brought him any sensation he deemed pleasurable. Either aching with hunger or itching when his skin dried out. This was a nice break from the norm.

And he knew his quarry wasn't going to get away, so what did it matter if he got a little off-track?

I myself was pleasantly surprised that Sylvester took so readily to my manipulation. Though, considering that I could sense his actual thoughts, pulling the right chords was relatively easy.

I was just giving him what he wanted: a little TLC.

Perhaps, with a little more work, I could save myself from any further indignity and hit him with the line: AJ is friend, not food.

But that would mean bringing his attention back to his desire to eat Virginia—me by extension. And, as long as the curse remained in place, anything I did to Sylvester would be temporary at best.

So while he indulged in a little tactile stimulation, I scanned his mind for the tools I needed.

Though part of Sylvester still knew that this was a trick, a larger part of him was glad to be tricked. Glad to remember what the company of another felt like. To be amongst his brothers and sisters.

In that moment, I caught a flash of memory.

Or at least the impression of a memory.

Sylvester had tried to recall something from his past, but was met with a missing file error.

As I'd suspected: his memories were gone.

But the nostalgia was still there.

Somewhere in Sylvester's mind, in a place likely smothered by the Puppeteer's curse, were the memories of the real Sylvester.

Or, at least, what was left of them.

And I needed to find where they were.

That meant pushing Sylvester a little further along.

I directed him to a stretch of wall, of painted concrete blocks, their bumpy surface with more texture—more scratch. Closer to the hairs of a coarse brush.

He slid against the wall, back and forth, as I helped him reimagine what it was like to be groomed. To remember what it was like to have his caretaker, the one who had raised him, brush and dote over him.

Another flash of memory.

This time I snagged it in my mental grasp, finding myself holding a taut thread that pulsed with anger.

Another suspicion confirmed: that the memories I was looking for were bound up in the curse—or made into it.

I could follow the thread to the source, into the cursed part of Sylvester's mind, but there was a risk I'd set him off. Kick his upstairs brain back online.

Better to make sure Sylvester was more than a little distracted. Get his downstairs brain a little more... engaged.

I returned my attention to Sylvester and his activities.

We'd started with cool and smooth, then moved on to something textured.

Now for something with a little give.

Through Sylvester's eyes, I had him scan the facility for a suitable distraction, finding what I was looking for by the loading bay. A sultry-looking forklift—not much of a trunk or tailgate, but it had a cushy leather seat in just the right position for... a little creativity.

Not something for Sylvester to rub against, but to rub off on.

As I said: I needed him distracted.

And, I mean, he seemed to have a thing for vehicles already.

Might as well indulge him.

It wasn't as big as a truck, but bigger wasn't always better. And the forklift was a stocky little thing.

So, you never know until you try.

Come on. Give it a go.

Sylvester wasn't sure what I meant at first. But after I sent him a few thoughts—and plucked a few chords for... encouragement—he got the idea.

And he eagerly got to work.

Have fun.

Meanwhile, I followed the thread I grasped to its source, letting it pull me, guide me, through Sylvester's mind like a line being reeled in, and found myself in a familiar place—where I'd been once before, when I plunged into the mind of the thrall I'd captured.

That same mental inferno.

The mind inside the curse.

I'd pierce the cursed part of the enthralled dog's mind with ease because I'd been able to overpower him—mentally and physically. Partly because my telepathy was more suited for canines, and partly because the thrall's curse was fundamentally different from Sylvester's.

The curse on the thralls was meant to be one-size-fits-all, able to spread from one dog to the next, linking them into a kind of hive mind the Puppeteer could steer as a single entity.

It was meant to be pliable, to be stretched, reeled in, and supressed.

That was fine for the dogs.

But Sylvester wasn't a dog. And he was too dangerous to settle for anything but complete control. Which meant this curse wasn't easily broken, and I couldn't pierce it as easily—or without consequence—like I had with the dogs

But now I'd found the backdoor, a way to slip in without setting anything off. And Sylvester was distracted—no longer fixated on hunting, and more fixated on… humping. In pursuit of that sweet release.

So if I accidentally plucked a few chords on the way in, I'm pretty sure he hadn't noticed.

And now I was where I wanted to be.

Now, having followed the thread of memory to its source, I found the remaining memories I was looking for: the memories used to anchor the Puppeteer's curse.

The memory of Sylvester caretaker—or, at least, someone that looked and sounded like his caretaker—feeding him something that tasted of blood, and burned inside him.

Like the other enthralled dog, Sylvester had been tricked.

Tricked into believing the person he trusted most—the one who raised him for a colt—had forced him to undergo the torturous transformation that turned him into the creature he'd become and put him in this body he detested.

This sense of betrayal catalyzing the process.

The memories themselves were gone, only their impressions remained, likely purged by the magic that had recreated him as Sylvester. Leaving behind an aching hole in his heart.

A slot that might as well read: Insert mind-controlling curse here.

But now that I was at the source—the memories that kept the curse anchored—I had an idea of how to tear down the whole damn thing.

It started by taking the chords I stuck to myself, and cross-knitting them with the chords bound to the curse. The idea being to have Sylvester's two brains work in exact opposition to one another.

Basically their natural state, if you asked me.

It was a part of life that our ability to reason, and our innate impulses, were always wrecking and imbalancing each other.

I was just doubling down on this natural order.

Sylvester's desire for companions—for company—was crossed with the curse's desire for him to hunt and kill those he pursued.

Couldn't have your cake and eat it too.

His desire to feel close to someone, something, anything, paired with his deep-seated sense of betrayal.

A heart wasn't whole without the ache.

I also crossed dozens of chords in every which-way for good measure.

As they say: chaos breeds opportunity.

Once the chords were all in place, I just needed a strong influx of emotion to tighten them beyond the breaking point. A tug-of-war, between aggression and affection, with the odds stacked heavily to one side.

And I knew one way to achieve this:

With magic.

Assuming, of course, that my telepathic abilities even constituted magic.

Eugene had said schema was the foundation of spellcraft. That the shape of a spell was as much about framing as it was about power. So I was going to cast a spell on Sylvester. One that used his own mind to purge the curse controlling him.

A spell powered by Sylvester's own emotions.

But for such a spell to work, the emotion would need to be particularly strong.

Particularly… climatic.

Which came back to the part of my plan that I'd been dreading from the get-go: making the actual preparations for my 'spell'.

My Post-nut Clarity Countercharm.

Yep.

That was my plan.

And, so far, things were going pretty well.

I checked back in with Sylvester.

How we doing Sylvie?

The response: not so good.

Hmm. Perhaps I'd spoken too soon.

It would seem the forklift was not Sylvester Certified.

The suspension had held, and the seat had give.

But what it lacked was grip.

And, deprived of the physical satisfaction he craved, Sylvie—Sylvester—had gotten more than a little frustrated. Making a few modifications to the forklift that would ensure it couldn't disappoint anyone ever again—by removing the roof, the steering wheel, the stick shift, and, of course, the leather seats.

He was more riled up than before—his desire to tear into something returned, and following that desire led him back to the hunt. His thoughts returning to Virginia.

Ah, ah, ah. Look over there, I said, redirecting Sylvester's attention once again.

We were at the loading bay, which the staff at WestRock was using for temporary storage since this wing was no longer in operation. There were lots of things stored here. Among which were dozens of hay-bale-sized rolls of paper, stacked neatly in pyramids of three, held in place by beams on either side.

They looked like giant rolls of toilet paper, easily five to six feet in diameter. And, like rolls of toilet paper, there was a hole in the center—large enough to fit your arm in.

Or... a pool noodle.

Part of me—the part that knew dreams did not come true—had seen fit to keep a suitable contingency ready for when things inevitably escalated.

Or, perhaps, deteriorated.

Saving the best for last, I thought bitterly, as I guided Sylvester over to what was basically an improvised mounting dummy.

Sometimes, you didn't need to get creative.

Sometimes, you just need a good hole to stick something in—be it your head, or your noodle.

Alright, Sylvie, third try's the charm.

Problem was: after yet another failed attempt—Sylvie just wasn't feeling it. Even after I'd gotten him into position.

Of course.

I could guide this horse to water, but I'd have to push him to the brink.

It was possible that I could just give Sylvester a few ideas—and a few tactile sensations—and let him figure out the rest. Thereby minimizing my own involvement. But that sort of thinking was how I kept ending up in situations like this.

Paying the fines for my shortsightedness with what little dignity I had left.

And now I was on credit.

Letting Sylvester 'figure it out' also ran a high risk of him failing to, well… finish the job. Again. Which would mean that my spell—if you could even call it a spell—wouldn't work.

And, if we couldn't muster enough juice, Sylvester would remain under the influence of the Puppeteer's curse, and return to his hunt for Virginia and me. Hungrier than before.

So, no. I had to make sure things were done right. And, to make sure things were done right, I needed to be more… involved in the process.

Not that there was nothing weird about this.

I figured most equestrians had to eventually face a similar problem. The Carolinas were full of horse breeders, rearing horses for races, or shows, or draft horses, like Sylvester, to pull carriages for tourists. There were surely a handful of them who had to guide the occasional young stallion through his first time. Hold nature by the hand.

It was just part of the job.

And—despite evidence to the contrary—I was a professional.

One who cared about the quality of her work.

As well as her own skin.

Don't give up, Sylvie. You're almost there.

All I needed now was to give Sylvester a little encouragement. And if that meant donning the mantle of Madame Allison and whispering sweet nothings into his mind to coax him past the finish line? So be it.

My 'spell' would do the rest.

And if there was one silver lining to my idiotic decision to solo Sylvester's capture, it was that no one but God himself could judge me for my methods. And a quick check-in with Virginia confirmed that she was still high as a kite—no peeking in from her.

So, with God as my witness—my only witness—I'd ensure that what happened at WestRock stayed at WestRock.