Wolf for Hire

Chapter Forty Nine

Virginia wasn't asleep. But neither was she truly awake. She was suspended somewhere in between, dimly aware of the world around her as figments of her imagination took shape.

Squeezed between the metal underbelly of the support platform and the cold concrete floor, Virginia's addled mind insisted she was holed up in a cramped little den, bedding down for the winter. Outside, a beast, larger and stronger than she, prowled nearby, stalking her. She felt weak, vulnerable, and alone. Her body shivered from the toxin still working its way through her system, but, in her mind, she felt it only as the chill of a long night.

Some nights had thunder—cars horns blaring, doors slamming, engines roaring. People heard shouting through the walls, their footsteps pounding on the floor above. It terrified her. The city was a forest of burning lights and stone with no end, and there was no escape from the noise.

But on those nights, when the moon was small, and so was she, there would come the sound of rain—a running shower; its patter soothing her. And her AJ would be there, holding her. A presence that surrounded her, filling her with warmth and security that eased her mind. Lulling her to sleep.

But now her AJ was gone. Virginia had felt her leave—slip into the night to hunt the beast. Without her AJ to anchor her, the den seemed to shrink; the world outside grew teeth. The cold concrete bit into her, as if the den were not a sanctuary, but the jaws of the beast that hunted her.

She feared that she'd squirreled herself into a trap. Made herself easy prey.

But, then came the arrival of another packmate, easing her fear. He appeared by her wrist, and eight fuzzy fingers made their way to her head, where they began playing with her ears. A small part of Virginia's mind, recognized the spider. But, in the rest of Virginia's mind, her perception altered by the poison, she felt only the brush of a nose from another dog, nuzzling his ailing companion.

The sensation wove itself into Virginia's dream, and she took comfort in the thought that she wasn't alone anymore. Soon, more came to join her. She felt her AJ pull from their memories, recalling the night before, when all of her pack was together in the room with the bunk beds. And the den of two became a den of many. Her pack was now with her, pressed together in the den, piling over her with shared heat, staving off the cold.

Virginia felt her fear ebb, and found herself able to finally rest. Her mind drifted, time blurring—if minutes or hours passed, she couldn't tell.

She might have fallen into real sleep if not for the faint echoes of AJ's thoughts slipping back to her.

A melody in the distance—sultry, wordless, composed of sensations. Rather... stimulating sensations. Part of Virginia knew this wasn't meant for her, but she listened to it anyway, finding the melody alluring.

It toyed with her imagination.

Soon, her dream began to shift. In her mind, Elmo—her fuzzy red packmate—became a strapping young he-wolf, with a fiery red mane and long, dark fangs. Who, despite his strength, caressed her with such a gentle touch.

The melody, the touch. It made her feel things.

Things she rather enjoyed.

Virginia, in her little den, stretched her legs, her body tingling, and rolled onto her back as a slow heat stirred inside her. She felt the he-wolf's touch travel to her throat. The boldness excited her—going for such a vulnerable spot without hesitation. A soft pressure on her neck, as if to say, "I could take your life, but there is more I want."

He wanted her. Virginia could feel it, and her imagination ran wild.

She began to wonder if he wanted more than just a packmate. She and Elmo had already traveled and hunted together—perhaps now they were ready for the next level. They could lead the pack together, go out and explore new territory. And, when winter gave into spring, when things heated up, perhaps the two of them could explore other things together.

In the distance came a deep, throaty sound—not one of pain or anger, but of pleasure. In Virginia's mind, it was Elmo the he-wolf who made it. A sound of longing. He wanted her too, and the thought sent Virginia's heart fluttering. In the embrace of her newfound mate, Virginia slipped into a warm, sensual sleep, awaiting spring.

Then, in what seemed the next moment, she felt herself seized by the tail and drag her from her den. Confused and groggy, her mind believed this to be the work of the he-wolf.

He began to lick her—from head to foot. His long, sweeping tongue spared no contour. Making her tremble.

And Virginia understood.

Her he-wolf didn't want to wait for the spring. He wanted her now.

And with a tongue as large and strong as his—well, what did that say about the rest of him?

Maybe he didn't want to lead a pack with her—maybe he wanted to make a pack with her. Take the 'virgin' out of her Virginia, as it were.

Oh, for the love of—Virginia, wake up, a voice snapped through her head.

It was her AJ's voice, and it came like a splash of cold water. A switch flipped, and the dream burst—vanishing in a trail of soap bubbles. And with it, her he-wolf. Leaving her body cold and aching.

She let out a whine, bemoaning her loss—she'd almost made it to the best part.

But the sensation lingered. That warm, wet drag against her side... was still happening.

Was Elmo still licking her?

It's Sylvie. He's cleaning the secretions out of our fur. So hold still—and stop making those noises. You're giving him ideas.

Sylvie? Virginia thought blearily. Who was Sylvie?

She sniffed the air, picking up a familiar scent. A scent she recognized and that sent a shiver down her spine.

She opened her eyes and her blood ran cold.

Gone was her red-furred mate. In his place loomed a monstrous head with a bulbous, serpentine tongue. A tongue that slithered from a mouth bristling with teeth.

Heart pounding, Virginia let out a strangled howl as she twisted free of the tongue.

Calm down. There's no need to—Virginia! Heel!

Virginia did not heel.

She flailed.

She thrashed.

She rolled to her feet.

And bolted.

Through Sylvester's eyes—where my awareness currently lingered—we watched Virginia vanish deeper into the facility.

There was the sound of head hitting pipe, and a sharp yelp. The process repeated.

Virginia had run off with my body—and was bouncing us off every pipe in the process. I was probably going to feel it in the morning.

I figured that Virginia was still under the hallucinatory effects of the bufotoxin. Because, when she looked up into Sylvester's jaws, she'd seen not one set of teeth, but two.

The front: all long, sharp canines, for seizing prey and never letting go. But the back? A row of thin, hooked incisors. A pharyngeal jaw—halfway between a moray eel and the Alien.

Small wonder she'd reacted poorly.

While we might be a werewolf, she was still—at heart—a regular wolf. And had reacted accordingly.

But, in her drug-fueled panic attack, she was too far gone to shift into our werewolf form—too trapped in the singular mindset of a frightened, instinct-driven wolf.

Which meant Sylvester could handle her just fine. Once we caught her of course.

I shifted my awareness back to Virginia. Her mind was still closed off to me—a necessary buffer to keep at least one of us sane—but I could still peek into her headspace. Watch what she was thinking.

Through her eyes I saw a forested expanse of towering silver trees and high roots that she had to weave under and around. Her paws slipping on the cold stone beneath her, the tree canopy above her so thick it blocked out the sky.

Yep, she was still high as a kite.

Even though I could piece together what Virginia was actually seeing, I couldn't see through the haze of her own perception. Not unless I took full control.

Which meant being the one subjected to the bufotoxin—Allison in the Sky with Diamonds.

Whelp. So much for the that introduction. Let's try this again, I thought to Sylvester.

Sylvester snorted, his posture perking with giddy anticipation—the hunt had resumed.

I'd deliberately kept Sylvester's desire to pursue Virginia intact—needed him to follow us, after all—but I'd tweaked the motivation behind it. So, instead of raw predation, I reframed it as a game.

Hide-and-seek, basically. Which was almost like hunting, but where Sylvester could repeat the process over and over.

His mind latched onto the idea, spurred on by the sense of joy and playfulness that had arisen in his mind after my 'spell' had taken effect.

He took off after Virginia, his progress slow and methodical as he navigated the tight weave of pipes and narrow corridors with his large frame.

But that was okay—he'd let his playmate, Virginia, get a head start. Give her time to find a better hiding spot.

At least, a better one than her last spot.

Virginia, bless her heart, had tried her best to hide. And given her altered mental state, she could be forgiven for her mistake.

Her mistaking being that she let her treacherous little tail stick out.

Sylvester and I spotted it immediately.

It wagged beneath the support platform.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Tauntingly soft.

Infuriatingly fluffy.

Sylvester loved soft things—especially when they moved.

When they squirmed.

He wanted to chase them. Catch them. Pin one down and bury his face in its soft belly.

Hold them up with his mouth and squeeze them.

Hear them squeak.

And the thought made him giddy.

It was almost cute—if you ignored the part where you might be the chew toy.

Easy on the cute aggression, Sylvie, I said to cut off his train of thought. Remember, you can't have your playmate and pincushion them too.

Right, thought Sylvester. He couldn't play with Virginia if he injured her.

But, they could still play rougher with each other than with other animals—she'd shot him and he'd thrown her in a tank—and they'd both walked off their injuries with nary a mark.

He had a playmate that was fluffy, but didn't break—at least, not easily. The thought gave him joy—and made my ribs throb in dreaded anticipation.

But Virginia had gotten covered in his skin. His top skin, at least. So, for now, she wasn't in the best condition for any rough play.

Sylvester could cover himself in an outer layer—his top skin—made from his toxic secretions. It acted like camouflage, but would dissolve in water or rain, revealing his true hide underneath. And it seemed prolonged exposure to steam worked as well.

He'd have to remember that.

Sylvester knew that contact with his wet top skin could poison most creatures. And getting a piece of his skin on them could be fatal. Or, at least, have a creature strung out for days. How long, he didn't know. He typically ate them well before then.

But while it seemed Virginia could endure the poison—sort of—I wasn't sure I could. Or, at least, I didn't want to find out. And, if the moon set before we got the rest of Sylvester's skin off Virginia, I'd be forced back into our body and stuck riding out the high with front-row seats to a technicolor freak show.

And God knew the things my mind was capable of subjecting itself to.

It was why I preferred to drink instead.

Besides, I said, the sooner we clean off Virginia, the sooner you can go back to chasing her.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

This was true, Sylvester agreed. He wanted to help his playmate after all. The sooner she recovered, the sooner the two of them could go back to playing.

After Sylvester had dragged the semi-lucid Virginia out from under the platform, I'd commanded Elmo to return to the bracelet—still magically adhered to Virginia's wrist—and Sylvester set about cleaning Virginia with his tongue.

Aside from his teeth, his tongue was really the only tool we had.

I hovered on the edge of Virginia's awareness, weighing whether to shake her out of her stupor or let her ride the dream a moment longer. Let her keep fantasizing about Elmo—her Emotional Support Spider turned Steamy McDreamy.

But the noises she kept making… yeah, no.

Having already helped one creature go hump in the night, I decided that giving one nightmare a wet dream was enough for me. Madame Allison didn't do two-for-one specials.

And I'd basically be getting myself off—just with extra steps. Along with a healthy side of self-loathing.

I wasn't that desperate.

So, I elected to wake her up.

Cue the drug-addled Virginia waking to a smile that could make a werewolf turn tail.

Literally.

Honestly, I should have known better.

Let a sleeping werewolf lie, and all that.

Let's give her a little time to adjust. Process things. Her mind is a little… all over the place.

Sylvester snorted an affirmative.

Hell, I commented, thinking aloud, part of her is stuck with you right now.

Sylvester suspected that the comment wasn't meant for him to hear, and felt awkward for eavesdropping. And guilty for having poisoned his playmate.

I sighed—mentally. Sylvester exhaled, and I felt the breath like it was my own.

Right—we were connected now. Sylvester had direct access to my thoughts.

It's okay. It can't be helped, I said, reassuring him.

I pictured myself on his shoulders, fingers in his mane. He felt it too. Almost as if the touch had been real.

I was still adjusting to this bond that let Sylvester sense my thoughts—just as Virginia did.

Except that he wasn't the one in my head. I was in his.

I wasn't stuck here. I could return my awareness to my body, to Virginia. But a piece of me stayed with him.

His own personal Auto-Jane and copy of the AJanencyclopedia.

I hadn't meant to form such a bond with Sylvester, but with his handler gone and the curse shattered, Sylvester's mind had searched for something to fill the hole it left behind—a hole carved into him by the Puppeteer by twisting Sylvester's memories of the one he trusted most. His caretaker

I only say caretaker, because I don't know what else to call them. I wasn't even sure they were a person. But whoever—or whatever—they were, they were the core of who Sylvester was.

Someone he had imprinted on—like a duckling on the first face they see—and loved more than anything else.

But that memory had been defiled.

Rewritten.

Turned into the anchor that allowed the curse to reshape him into the monster he had become.

But my 'spell' had put an end to it—used his own desires, his hunger for affection, intimacy, connection—to draw and quarter the curse. Unanchoring it from his mind and giving him something else to latch onto. Someone else to imprint on.

That someone being me.

Not just the idea of me, but the actual me—my telepathic presence. My psychic self.

Perhaps it was because I'd stuck one too many chords from the recesses of Sylvester's mind to myself. Sticky chords that, when I'd tried to pull them free, clung to me like tape—sticking to one hand or the other, never letting go.

So it was only natural that Sylvester's mind attached another chord to me. A single heavy chord. Cold to the touch and trembled when held—making my own heart ache in response.

A chord between me and the hole that had once been the memories of his caretaker.

A hole that he wanted me to fill.

To make it stop aching.

In the afterglow of my spell—in the 'clarity' that followed—Sylvester craved neither prey nor passion. He longed for was the warmth I'd given him. Not warmth of the body, but of the mind. Of the heart. That feeling of connection he'd felt between us when, in order to get my spell to work, I'd put a little of myself into it.

After all, I'd never read a steamy romance novel that lacked at least a little... authenticity.

He'd felt something between us. Something warm—something real—and he didn't want to let go.

Look, Sylvester. I'd thought. You shouldn't go looking for a meaningful relationship from a one-night-stand. It doesn't work out. Trust me.

Not to mention the whole him being a giant chimera and me being a voice in his head. It was the same advice V had once given me—regarding dating your one-night-stand, not your imaginary friend, mind you.

But either Sylvester didn't understand, or didn't care. Or maybe he did—and simply chose to go for it. Chose to believe that what he felt meant something.

The heart wanted what the heart wanted.

And Sylvester wanted me.

Me, who made the music in his mind stop. The music that deafened his thoughts—blinding him to the truth. Forcing him to react to the will of the one who played him like an instrument. Used him as a tool.

But he could see it now. See that his mind had not been his own. That the anger he felt was forced upon him. That, in that anger, he hadn't noticed as pieces of himself were stripped away.

They'd made him forget who he was. Made him easier to control. Easier to make believe things that weren't real.

None of his memories were real anymore. Just hollow impressions. Cavities shaped like what had once been. Memories of a memory.

But I was real—to him at least. And the way I'd made him feel? That was real too.

And I'd given him a name.

That mattered more than I'd expected.

Names were like magic. They made you real.

Sylvester Stallion. A name that was both strong and playful. A name that reflected who he was meant to be. Who he wanted to be.

Before that, he'd had only a title.

The Kelpie, they'd called him. They, who both feared and tormented him. Who saw him as only a monster.

The Kelpie was a warning, a label for others. Sylvester was a name he could claim. A name that gave him shape.

But I found myself viewing the title in a different way. Now as a warning, but a sign.

Perhaps I was projecting—infatuated with a bit of childhood fantasy— but I rather liked thinking of Sylvester as a kelpie, as opposed to a monster or a chimera. It had a better ring to it and went well with his aquatic horse aesthetic.

I supposed if you were going to turn a horse into a chimera, you might as well do it with a little style—morbid as that might sound.

And seeing Sylvester not as a lab experiment, but as some kind of mystical horse, plucked at the child in me.

I'd once gone through that phase where, as a little girl, I'd wanted a horse or pony. A desire spawned by a particular kids cartoon show, and nurtured by the availability of petting zoos and farms around Charleston County.

And though the reality of actually caring for a horse had tempered my expectations, so too had it given me an appreciation for such creatures.

Horses were, in many ways, smarter than dogs, and lived far longer. Better yet, they could easily carry me into battle—the fifteen-year-old me who'd watched one too many Xena: Warrior Princess reruns at least.

And Sylvester was by no means a dumb beast. He was built bigger than most horses—his brain included. I could sense the levels of cognition he was capable of.

He just didn't know how to think for himself. With his memories gone, his mind was a blank slate—just instincts and the yearnings of a yearling.

And somehow, I'd become the placeholder. A warmth to curl around until he figured out what came next. To figure out who he was.

And, if anyone was going to help him, he wanted it to be me.

That longing chord pulsed again, and I found I envisioned myself embracing this yearling.

One of the farms I'd frequented had a spritely little Shetland known as Silly Tilly. She loved marshmallows, and even with months between visits, she remembered me—as the one who liked to sneak in treats.

Now, I had myself a Silly Sylvie.

He was not just a chimera or a curse, but someone looking to me for guidance. For safety.

For better or worse, I was the one he looked to for comfort.

Even if I wasn't sure I deserved it.

But maybe being needed was enough.

Admittedly, there was a huge difference between a pony and a two-ton virile chimera. Especially one whose aggression had been substituted with a ticking timebomb called a refractory period.

But I wasn't looking at Sylvester from the outside anymore. I was inside, seeing the colt within the chimera.

I found myself pulling him into my arms. And in doing so, I found myself drawn closer to the hole in Sylvester's heart.

That's when it hit me—he was playing me. Not maliciously. Just intuitively—nudging at my soft spots with the same tools I'd used on him.

It didn't make me angry. If anything I felt... amused. Maybe even proud.

You sly dog, I'd said to Sylvester, you're using my own trick against me.

A thought came from Sylvester, like an innocent smile. As if to say: What? Who me?

Perhaps it was my inability to shield my thoughts, but Sylvester had somehow figured out how to pluck the chords he'd attached to me. Toying with me the same way I'd toyed with him. Unapologetically pulling at my heartstrings. Resonating his childish desire for connection with my own.

It seemed he could think for himself after all.

And damn if it didn't work.

Maybe I was a sentimental fool. But, well... sometimes the heart just wanted what it wanted.

And, from a practical standpoint, what I was about to do made a good bit of sense.

Leaving Sylvester unbonded would leave him open to manipulation. A target for another curse. And a colt at heart he may be, but dangerous he still was.

And who better to assume the role of caretaker than someone who knew him, for better or for worse, as intimately as I? Someone who could feel what Sylvester truly felt. And could make him understand what words could not.

I couldn't imagine that the Puppeteer or the Biomancer could know Sylvester like I could. Otherwise, how could they have done the things they had to him? Unless, of course, they were just as much the monsters that they'd tried to turn Sylvester into.

Sure, I wasn't perfect. But I knew him—his thoughts, his instincts, his ache for connection. Who else could help him rebuild? Who else wanted to?

I didn't know what he needed yet. But I wanted to figure it out. For his sake, if not mine.

And, hopefully, soon.

Okay, Sylvie, I thought, letting go of my resistance. I'm here for you.

The chord that pulsed with longing now thrummed with joy. A jolt I felt with my whole being. I felt Sylvester's mind draw me in. Into that void that filled his core.

Inserting not a curse—but me. His AJ.

Sylvester's mind closed around me. The hole molding to my presence. Reshaping itself in my image.

And I found myself seated at a grand piano—ready to play.

My turn to be the Puppeteer.

But that wasn't right. Not anymore.

No, I thought. Not like this.

I didn't want control. Like Sylvester, like Virginia, what I wanted was a companion. Someone who moved with me—not beneath me.

A member of the pack—not an instrument.

And I was not his puppeteer, nor the pianist.

I reimagined myself. Not as the one at the key, behind the wheel, or pulling the strings. I was his rider, astride his shoulders, running my hands through his mane as I held on to him.

Imagining him as who he was.

As Sylvester Stallion—as he was meant to be.

And you may carry me as long as you wish, I'd spoke to him.

And, with that thought, the hole closed—the emptiness filled.

And our bond was formed.

All that was left now was to introduce Virginia to her new packmate.

Which was complicated by the fact that Virginia had been off her rocker and was now on the run.

Note to self: avoid out-of-body experiences when your body has a mind of its own.

The first attempt hadn't been ideal, but I was sure our next try would yield better results. Once the remains of Sylvester's skin were cleaned off her, and Virginia got the rest of the toxin out of her system, I could connect the two. Help her see Sylvester as someone she didn't need to be afraid of.

Perhaps we should keep your mouth closed next time we lick her. The teeth are a pretty hard sell, I said to Sylvester.

God, it felt weird how natural it was to say "we."

Sylvester, who'd bent down to stick his head into a crawlspace under another support platform, lifted his head, considering the suggestion. He had to open his mouth—both of his mouths—to stick out his tongue. But once the bulbed tip was out, he could close the front jaw just enough to hide his teeth without biting his tongue.

He experimented with this mouth-closed, tongue-out setup. Flexing his prehensile tongue, he plucked at knobs and cables within reach.

There was a click, and machinery began to rumble.

Off. Turn it off, I said.

Sylvester flicked the switch with his tongue, and the machine shut off.

Okay, so he could manipulate objects with his tongue. That was neat... I guess.

We were in the pulping section of the facility. Giant round drums lay on their sides, rotated to mix the wood chips as they were dissolved into pulp. Large enough for even Sylvester to stand in without needing to duck his head. He was peeking into the spaces under the drums, looking for signs of something fluffy.

He was getting close.

He could feel it.

Could hear her breathing.

But where was it coming from?

Through Virginia's eyes, I watched Sylvester from above. But what she saw wasn't a chimera. Sylvester was an onyx monolith—a breathing shadow that swallowed all light, closing in with the sound of trills and tapping hooves.

Virginia knew to remain still. To draw only the faintest breath. Lest she breathe in the shadow, and have it consume her.

You sure you don't want a hint? I asked Sylvester, shifting my awareness back to him.

Sylvester snorted sharply—No.

They were playing a game. And a game had rules. No cheating.

A stubborn yet sound logic.

Seemed a bit of me was already rubbing off on him.

Sylvester, for the most part, relished the challenge. He had already closed in on Virginia's new hiding spot. Using smell and an impressive sense of hearing, he'd narrowed down her location. And now he was cornering her.

But I already knew where Virginia was—one would hope I could keep track of my body. She was pressed flat against the top of one of the cold metal drums—recalling how she'd hidden from Eugene the first time we'd met. Above and out of line of sight.

Though, considering she could see Sylvester, that meant he'd be able to see her.

Or, at least, her ears. Those fluffy, treacherous ears—perked just above the rim of the drum, giving her away.

Still, Sylvester insisted on figuring it out himself. Rules were rules.

Sure, it was all fun and games, but we were on the clock. If the mill staff didn't catch on to us, then the Biomancer or their colleagues just might. Surely, someone had noticed that their chimera was missing.

Then there was the fact the moon would soon begin to set. So, we needed to get back to the south side of the mill and meet up with the others ASAP.

But, I figured Sylvester would realize soon enough that he should be looking up, not down.

So, instead, I turned my attention back to Virginia. To talk her off her ledge—metaphorically and literally.

Virginia was cornered, her mental dial bouncing between fight and flight. And while she wasn't in the right mind to go full apex predator—too addled, too confused—she was still a werewolf. That made her dangerous, not just to Sylvester, but to herself. Which also meant me.

And, if we weren't careful, the three of us—two and a half perhaps—could cause even more property damage than we already had.

So, best to make flight seem like the more lucrative option.

Okay, Virginia, I'll distract Sylvester for you. I'll have him turn his back and count to ten. That should give you enough time to make it to the door.

Still unmoored from reality, Virginia didn't trust what she saw—or heard. In fact, she'd become convinced that Sylvester had eaten me—her AJ, swallowed by the shadows—and was using my voice like a hunting call. Luring her into a trap. Into his open jaws.

But I'd already planted a few ideas in her mind—using the same trick Sylvester and I had been playing on each other. Drawing an association between a desire and an idea. The desire for safety, with the memory of her pack—specifically Boden, Coy, along with Eugene.

Plus directions to the nearest exit, for good measure.

Once the chord was taut, I gave it a pluck, priming Virginia with the thought that if she could get back to Eugene and the others, she'd be safe.

Come to think of it, Virginia had already done something similar to me, back in the Culinary District, when she played on my desire for a little self-indulgence to help her get a taste of southern cuisine.

All of us cut from the same cloth, you could say.

Funny, how the tables had turned. I'd gone from using Virginia to lead Sylvester... to using Sylvester to herd Virginia.

I suppose drugs could do that to a person.

I gave Sylvester the signal, and he turned his back. Virginia figured out the rest. There was a creak from one of the drums as a weight shifted, followed by a thump, and the clicking of claws on concrete, moving away rapidly.

Let her get a head start, I told Sylvester. Don't want to rush her. Otherwise, she might do something stupid.

No sooner spoken than—as if by self-fulfilling prophecy—Sylvester and I heard glass shattering.

A quick peek-in on Virginia told me she'd found her exit. A door next to a window leading outside. And, in her state of elevated consciousness, faced with a perfectly functional door and a closed window, Virginia's fried brain went for what it deemed the most obvious means of escape.

She'd dove through the window.

For fuck's sake, Virginia! There was a door! Right there!

Even better, as Virginia ran out into the main thoroughfare, she found herself face to face with a crowd of two-legged animals, red lights dancing across their faces. She took a moment to stare at them like a deer in the headlights.

Well. That explained where the staff had evacuated to. And it seemed an EMT was there too. Probably stitching up Trevor's head.

Together, Sylvester and I sighed.

So much for avoiding property damage—or keeping a low profile.

Looks like we're taking different exit, I told Sylvester, and guided him back to the loading bay.