Wolf for Hire

Chapter Fifty

As Sylvester approached the loading bay, I visualized how he could activate the switch to open the doors. All he had to do was press the button on the box attached to the wall.

Sylvester followed my instructions and hit the switch—by which I mean crushing it with his hoof and denting the wall.

I was reminded of why I'd called him Sylvester Stallion in the first place.

Should have had him use his tongue.

We'll need to work on that, I thought to Sylvester. He snorted his affirmative as the bay doors rumbled open, metal squealing as they dragged up their tracks.

Orange light spilled into the facility, illuminating the mess we'd made at the entrance: the scattered pieces of the forklift Sylvester had disassembled, and the desecrated industrial-sized roll of paper. It stood out among the other stacked rolls of bleached kraft paper, its exterior stained black by Sylvester's skin secretions.

Its interior glistening with... other secretions.

WestRock could probably recycle it.

I had Sylvester linger in the shadows, ears twitching as he listened to the world outside. The bay doors opened onto a staging area that branched off the main thoroughfare, occupied by various service vehicles, and apparently being used as a parking lot by some of the staff.

From Virginia's less-than-subtle escape attempt, I knew most of the evacuated staff were gathered nearby. I could see the flickering wash of EMT lights against the column of steam still belching from the hole Sylvester and I had punched through the roof. Assuming Daniel, Bo, and Trevor had raised the alarm—and why wouldn't they—it was safe to say the staff were on edge, ready for anything out of the ordinary.

I'd managed to sneak Virginia across the mill as a wolf—mind you, a non-inebriated wolf—but now I was steering .

My giant horse chimera.

What I needed was a lookout.

Projecting my thoughts into the night, I shouted: Nevermore!

A moment later I heard a faint croak in the distance. Within a minute Nevermore appeared, alighting on one of the vehicles outside.

"Allison?" Nevermore spoke after surveying the staging area and finding it empty.

In here, I replied.

Nevermore took to the air and flew inside through the bay doors, perching atop what remained of the forklift's cabin, his small form vanishing as he left the orange glow for the unlit bay. His gaze swept the bay, head low, likely searching for me in wolf form. But instead, he caught sight of Sylvester's hooves and his gaze traveled upwards until he was staring at the head looming over him.

He locked eyes with Sylvester.

Nevermore, with his black feathers, was hard to see in the shadows. And so had Sylvester.

Nevermore's beak hung agape.

"I, uh… hope this means you were successful?" he managed to say, his voice trembling.

Sort of, I answered through Sylvester. He's at least calmed down.

"Oh. Splendid. I was worried for a second." Nevermore hopped back a step, peeking around Sylvester.

"So, uh… where are you?"

I'm inside him.

"Egad! You were swallowed?"

What? No! I mean I'm projecting myself through him.

"Ah, of course. Should've guessed." Said Nevermore, before adding, "But I must ask. How exactly did you manage that?"

I really don't know, Nevermore. Magic? First I linked to him with my telepathy. Then, well...

I debated how much to tell him—didn't want to overshare.

Let's just say Virginia got poisoned by his skin and started to hallucinate.

"Poisonous skin?" Nevermore blinked.

Yeah, like how toads and frogs secrete toxins through their skin. The hide you see now is actually a fake layer created by the secretions.

Sylvester turned sideways to show off his flank, his skin now indistinguishable from a silky, well-groomed pelt. Fake or not, he took great pride in his appearance.

Yes, you're a handsome boy, Sylvester.

Sylvester preened.

"Fascinating," said Nevermore after looking the chimera up and down.

Either way, I had to cut myself off from Virginia before I was affected too, and somehow ended up inside Sylvester's head. From there, I was able to dismantle the curse controlling him. And now he's, sort of... well. Bonded to me.

"Bonded?"

Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe it's like a family bond. But it is not like the one between you and me—but I can sense his thoughts, like I can with Virginia.

"Speaking of—where is your body?"

Virginia got spooked by Sylvester and took off with it.

"And she's hallucinating," Nevermore muttered. "I swear, I take my eyes off you for just a second..."

He let the comment hang. "So, do you need me to help you... track yourself down?"

Oh, ha ha. No, I've got tabs on her. She's heading towards Eugene.

Sylvester leaned in to sniff Nevermore.

Startled, Nevermore hopped back, his feathers fluffing up. "Are you sure you have him under control?"

I do... eh, hold on a second.

Sylvester, I instructed, Nevermore is a friend, not food.

I'd felt a spike of culinary curiosity from Sylvester—his interest in Nevermore had taken a turn. He wasn't planning to eat him, not exactly.

But he had wondered.

Here was a soft, tiny creature that made funny noises, and Sylvester had to ask himself: what noises would he make if given a little... squeeze? Would he crunch, or would he squeak?

Sylvester enjoyed catching seagulls with his tongue, but found the gray-and-white birds only moderately palatable. Whereas this bird was the same color as him.

Did that make a difference?

Did it change the taste?

I'm sure they taste the same, I offered. But we can lick him later to find out. Just not now.

Sylvester found this suggestion agreeable.

Nevermore took flight, perching on a light fixture—out of tongue-reach.

"I would prefer that you didn't lick me at all." He huffed.

Clearing his throat, he continued. "I suspect you wish to rendezvous with Virginia and Eugene, then?"

Yeah. Assuming he hasn't already found the other Slip and... slipped into it. I've discovered a few things while bouncing around in Sylvester's head that I think Eugene might want to know. How are things over yonder?

I nodded Sylvester's head toward the flashing lights outside. Voices could be heard in the distance, but neither Sylvester nor I could make out actual words.

"Well, the three from earlier are fine—though one of them is getting his head stitched," Nevermore replied. "Most of the workers that evacuated the building you and Sylvester fell into are gathered in the parking lot just around the bend. So most of the attention is drawn over there."

So, you think we can get back to Eugene's without much notice?

"I think I have just the thing."

Like what?

"Magic."

Right. Of course it would be magic.

Wait—you can use magic?

"What kind of question is that? You've seen me use it."

Sylvester tilted his head—an expression of my own confusion bleeding through.

Yeah, like magic promises and pacts.

Nevermore rolled his eyes. "And those gusts of wind, the chilling air, the way I make my voice echo ominously. And I can wrap us in fog that follows us, making us look no more than an eerie shadow"

So, that's your magic? Spooky theatrics?

"Well, it's more like a Shade," Nevermore offered, "but one that instills a sense of dread and unease in the observer, as opposed to complacency."

In other words: a disguise that won't actually disguise us.

"Well, good ol' Elenore preferred thematics over stealth."

So, she taught you how to use magic?

"Well, yes. Or mostly. I was a bit of a dabbler in the occult arts in life, but it pales in comparison to what I've learned after death."

As a spirit-tuner.

"Spirit-tuner? Where'd you get that idea?"

Eugene.

Nevermore cocked his head. "Oh, he picked up on that, did he? Guess I shouldn't be surprised. But no, I'm not the spirit-tuner. That would technically be Algernon."

Who's that?

"That's the name I gave to the raven I am bonded to. He's the spirit-tuner."

I hadn't really thought about what'd become of the actual raven Nevermore was inhabiting, but I supposed it made sense that he'd still be present to an extent.

So, why Algernon?

"Named him after an old colleague. Edgar and Algernon. Rolls off the tongue nicely, don't you think? At least, he liked the ring of it."

Oh. Sorry about the name change then.

"Nonsense. Even Algernon likes it. Though, I suppose he too needs a new name. Hmm... what do you think ol' Argy? Nevermore and..."

Nevermore cocked his head, as if listening to someone unseen.

"Oh! That's a fun one: Nevermore and Nevermind."

Oh. Wonderful. That won't get old at all.

"He likes the ring of it, and that's all that matters. Besides, wasn't it you who bound me to the name Nevermore?"

He had me there.

So do you two... get along?

"Yes, quite. He rather loves wordplay: limericks, poems, puns. You could say we're kindred spirits."

More like kindred enablers.

"Well, I think if you're going to be stuck in the head of another, it's important to find common ground."

I tried to rub my temples, but Sylvester just lowered his head, not sure what I wanted him to do.

Right—we didn't have hands.

So we just sighed.

Look, I don't mean to make these snide comments. They just get voiced as soon as they pop into my head. And I still don't have a clue how to stop it.

"Your telepathy is developing faster than you can manage. I imagine this is a common struggle for beginners. Worry not. I for one find the transparency rather endearing."

At least you can keep your thoughts private. My mind feels like it's constantly on a dissection table.

Nevermore croaked. His way of a laugh. "I'm sure you'll eventually get the hang of it. But better to leave any secrets with me in the meantime."

Sylvester started to pace, to help me alleviate some frustration.

Well, aren't you thoughtful.

Sylvester was taking my basket-case of emotion in strides. He seemed entertained by the colorful thoughts coming from his AJ. The music for her mind—discordant, but not unpleasant. A simple, freestyle melody he preferred over the thoughts he'd known before.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

He found himself eager to please his AJ how he could.

To comfort this rider in his mind.

Maybe she'd even enlist his help to blow off some steam.

Oh yeah, and how'd you reckon to do that.

He glanced at the rows of stacked paper rolls. All in pristine condition. Ready for the two of them to blow off more than a little steam together.

Oh for— Honestly. I don't know why I was expecting something different. Seriously? It hasn't even been a half-hour.

Sylvester's response was simple enough: you use what you have. I suppose when you had a hammer, everything looked like a nail—and the same could be said for pool noodles.

But I couldn't be thinking about this. Not with Nevermore in the room. I needed to think about something else, and fast.

So, uh, Nevermore. How's your raven friend now, now that you're back?

Nevermore seemed to perk up at the question. "Well, for him, I never really left. As a spirit-tuner, he could still tune in to me whenever he was feeling a little lonely or nostalgic. That's the thing about spirit-tuners, once they tune into you, resting in peace goes out the window."

Nevermore sighed, before adding: "Overall, I'd say he's pleased I'm back."

And your magic stems from Algernon—

"—Nevermind."

What? Oh for fuck's—You know what: fine. So your magic stems from Nevermind being a spirit-tuner?

"Yes. Well, sort of. The bond between a creature and a spirit—ghost or otherwise—can be a source of magic. And the nature of that bond can affect how the power manifests. Nevermind and I get along rather well as we share a love for words and... spooky theatrics."

Nevermore spread his wings. "Speaking of—"

He hopped down from the fixture and took flight, leaving the bay and perching atop a service vehicle in the staging area outside. "Now, how shall I..."

Nevermore looked around, catching sight of the steam plume rising from the hole in the roof. Lamps buzzed above, their pale orange glow washing out any other color save for the flickering red lights of the EMTs.

"Ah, there we go."

He made a show of clearing his throat before speaking in a deeper, richer voice:

"From hissing vents the shadows flow,
Through sulfur haze their tendrils grow.
And conceal the Beast, let none believe—
Till all they see is the tale I weave."

Peeking out of the bay door, Sylvester and I watched as the plume of steam grew heavy, condensing before us, filling the staging area with a dense fog.

Well, that works. But was it necessary to sound like the Thriller outro?

"What nonsense is that?" Replied Nevermore from somewhere in the fog. "Vincent Price was a master of the art."

Sylvester and I stepped out into the fog. It curled low across his legs, glowing orange where the lamps cut through, and I tried to judge where we were using points of light to navigate.

To my surprise, Sylvester remembered the mill well and navigated with ease. I supposed it was his stomping grounds after all.

Well, clever boy, I said, allowing him to make his way without my constant involvement.

Nearby, I could hear the flap of Nevermore's wings as he flew alongside us. As we crossed the main thoroughfare, shrouded in the fog, shouts could be heard in the direction of the gathered staff.

Seemed few had seen Sylvester's shadow, and had indeed been spooked.

As Sylvester made his way south across the mill, blanketed in the fog, I checked on Virginia. I found she'd tucked herself under a car. Reaching out to Elmo, I also sensed the presence of Boden and Coy close by. Reaching out to them, I got a clear picture of what was going on.

Huh, I said to Nevermore. I think she's under Eugene's Bronco. But he's moved it to the warehouse. Did he really go all the way back for it?

"No, I don't think so," said Nevermore. "More likely he had Marvin reposition himself."

Sylvester and I stopped walking. We turned our attention to Nevermore, who'd perched on a length of railing. In the fog he was barely more than a small, black shape.

Okay, who's this Marvin you keep talking about? Did Eugene slap a self-driving enchantment on his truck and give it a name?

"Marvin is the onboard poltergeist," responded Nevermore.

Oh, so not enchanted, just possessed? Yeah, that makes it better.

"Closer to say he is the truck. The ghost of a former owner having fused with it, giving it sentience."

And he can control the truck? Himself, I mean?

"To a wide extent, yes."

I paused, thinking. Wait. And he just let me drive him?

"I think he's rather fond of the assertive type."

Lovely.

First a horse and now a truck—I was developing a rather eclectic the fan club.

Nevermore hopped closer, coming into view. "Can you tell what he's doing? Eugene, I mean. I'm guessing he hasn't entered the Slip then?"

Well, yes and no. He's using Marvin's winch to lower himself into the Slip. But the one with the sideways elevator shaft.

"Hmm... must have found a way around the gravity trap then. I suspect he means to study the body of our deceased Puppeteer. Perhaps looking for clues as to where the other Slip is hidden?"

No. Coy says they already found the other Slip. But Eugene hasn't gone through it yet. What the hell?

"Well, now I too am curious."

Sylvester and I began to walk again, only from me to paused a short time later.

A thought had occurred to me.

Nevermore.

Nevermore paused too.

This whole 'bonding with spirits' thing you've been talking about. Could that be what's going on with me and Virginia? That she's some kind of spirit or ghost I've bonded with?

"Ah, you've picked up on that. Yes, the thought occurred to me too," said Nevermore. "And, as bonding with a spirit is typically more mutualistic than antagonistic, as is often the case with possession, it could explain the more peculiar aspects of your lycanthropy."

Which is?

"Your knack for communing with animals and your telepathy by extension. These are common talents amongst practitioners, such as mediums and shamans, whose power comes from the spirits they channel. Along with traits like precognition and enhanced intuition."

What about shapeshifting? Is that common too?

"Yes. Many shamans can take on the form of the spirit—or spirits—they've bonded to. And just as many are permanently changed by the process."

Lycanthropy is just a symptom, and all that, I thought, echoing Eugene.

"Precisely. In fact, spiritual possession is often the cause of some of the more… atypical forms of lycanthropy."

Atypical?

"You know, the non-werewolf kind."

But doesn't the 'lycan' in lycanthropy mean 'wolf'?

"Well, yes, in the literal sense. But it's also used as a catchall term for anyone who can turn into an animal, or animal-like creature."

Like what?

"Oh, like all your other 'weres': werecats, werebirds, werebears—the list goes on."

Werelions, weretigers, werebears, oh my.

"Quite."

I was reminded of something Virginia had said to me: You made this pact. As if I had somehow agreed to the two of us coming together. A decision that had, in some way, been mutual.

But was this what had actually happened to me? That I'd bonded with some kind of wolf spirit? Sure, she felt like a separate entity from me—but nothing about her felt particularly... mystical. She liked to dig through the trash for god's sake.

Furthermore—

This still doesn't answer why or how I even bonded with Virginia in the first place. I have an idea of when it happened, but no recollection of anything related to it.

"Actually, it might," Nevermore said. "You recall how Eugene proposed that you may have been targeted for your affinity for a certain magic?"

I do.

"Then let me ask you this: do you share any relation to any indigenous people? I my have been joking when I mentioned the Turks, but now I'm genuinely curious."

I mean, my mother was part Sioux. Does that count?

"It just might. And it may give us an idea of what Virginia is."

Alright, hit me with it. What do you think she is?

"Canis Animus, I believe that's the term spirit ecologists like to use. Though that applies to spirit dogs in general, and includes the Bargest and Amarok, which Eugene already suggested. Seems he also considered this. What's important to understand is that spirits of nature like these are often tied to the land they come from. And people whose ancestors lived in close proximity to the spirits for generations tend to share an innate affinity for them."

So you think I was targeted because I share First Nations ancestry?

"Well," said Nevermore, "my expertise is rather limited to niche areas of the occult. But cults often search for hosts—priests or priestesses to channel whatever deity they worship. To this end, they often kidnap people and force them through an anointing ritual."

How does turning me into a werewolf make me a priestess?

Nevermore shrugged. "Admittedly, this is just speculation, but it would align with the worship of either the totemic spirits, or some similar bestial spirit of nature."

Okay, but why me? I can't imagine that my affinity would be considered 'top-shelf'. Hell, I didn't even qualify for the Native American College Fund.

Though, that was because my mother's family hadn't been associated with a 'federally recognized tribe' for almost a century.

Nevermore nodded his head. "So, here's the thing: I don't think it may have just been you. Anointing usually comes down to a game of numbers: a cult grabbing as many potential hosts as possible and pushing them through the ritual until enough succeed—and survive. It's possible you were one of many who were targeted."

"And," Nevermore continued, "assuming this is the case, it would seem that, with you, they succeeded."

Bonded, not possessed. Instead of cursed, I am blessed. Is that what you're saying?

Sylvester huffed.

"Again, keep in mind, this is just speculation."

Well hell, Nevermore, how else would you explain everything that is going on with me? We already figured I was targeted, and now we have an idea as to why. But, it still doesn't answer who would've done this—or why I was left in the woods without any memory of it.

"I'll admit, I haven't the faintest idea either. But that is all the more reason I think your relationship with Desmond, and the DOA by extension, is invaluable. He and his colleagues would have the means and resources to investigate this further. They'd know which, if any, cults were active in your area around the time your... change, and they could look into who else may have gone missing around that time. For all we know, there may be others like you."

A comforting thought—that others like me had been screwed by some forgotten legacy. But, then again, that was how it went for most genetic diseases. And for the plots of over half the fantasy novels out there—good old Family Lineage trope.

Some of us inherited fortunes and unique eye colors. While some of us inherited risk factors for cancers and a susceptibility for cult rituals.

I was basically a walking cliché.

"Well, look at the bright side: you might have trauma buddies to bond with."

Sylvester blew a sharp burst of air in Nevermore's face. He squawked, and hopped further down the railing, muttering a string of colorful expletives.

"Okay, I'll admit that was a little tactless of me, but are you sure he's not going to eat me? I'm asking for Nevermind's sake, mind you."

I reached out to Sylvester, trying to calm him with a mental touch.

Sorry. Sorry. It's my fault. He wasn't lashing out at you. He was just trying to interrupt the conversation.

Nevermore tilted his head. "Is something wrong?"

No. It's just me. I was getting a little worked up and it was bleeding over to Sylvester.

"Oh?" chuckled Nevermore, still ruffled. "Your nightmare in shining armor was trying to protect you?"

I guess...

I didn't follow up with anything else, and a moment of silence stretched between us. Nearby I heard the crash of waves. Sylvester's memory placed us right along the coastline, not far from where Eugene and I had originally parked.

Nevermore eventually broke the silence.

"Tell me, Allison," he said, his tone softer, "are you alright?"

I…

In the dense fog, with only pinpricks of light and the sound of the ocean—the wind and the waves—it was easy for me to imagine we were on some faraway strip of road along the coast. Well outside the city. No DOA. No paper mill. No biomancer or problems in sight.

A quiet moment of peace.

I eventually shook Sylvester's head.

No. No I'm not.

Nevermore didn't respond, but instead waited for me to continue. So I did.

I'm in over my head, Nevermore. I'm not a witch, or a shaman, or some cult priestess. I've said it before: I'm an accountant. That's my skillset. That's what I know how to do right. I'm not supposed to be here, and I don't know what I'm doing. I've been improvising from the start—and every time I think I have a solution, it only gets worse.

The words spilled in a rush, giving voice to the confusion and anxiety clawing inside my chest. The weight of everything pressing down on me.

I'm becoming a mess. It started ever since I first transformed, and it's only piled up. And just today, I've dug through dumpsters and stolen food for Virginia, stolen my car back from the towing lot, assaulted a DOA detective—and now I'm caught up in some slapdash sting operation where I flashed several workers and jacked off a chimera—

"—You did what to the chimera?" Interrupted Nevermore.

Ugh—Hijacked. I meant hijacked a chimera.

"Ah, of course. That makes more sense."

Sylvester snorted, as if to confirm this interpretation of events—he knew the score: he didn't kiss and tell.

Look, I've been clinging to the hope that once this night was over, I'd be able to regain a sense of normalcy. That I could set all this behind me and focus on putting my life back together. But the longer this goes on, the more impossible it feels.

Normally, I'd have to paused for breath, but that's the thing about telepathy: you didn't need to breath. So I just kept going without any brakes.

I am now mixed up with the DOA and whatever else is going on. And, if that weren't enough, I'm apparently supposed to be some important cult figure. And do you really think they'd just let me go so I could live a normal life?

Nevermore spread his wings to interrupt, creating eddies in the fog. "Speculations, Allison. Nothing more."

Sylvester stamped a hoof.

No! Don't you get it? That tattoo on my back. It isn't some tasteless tramp stamp. They branded me, Nevermore. Chipped me like a dog so they can track me down when it's time to collect me.

It wasn't GPS tracking, but a magic tattoo seemed like the next best thing—I couldn't imagine it being much else.

And how do I know I'm not being used by them even now? Doesn't it seem odd to you? That I just happened to run into Eugene, with his beef against the Green-flames, and just so happened to have the perfect skillset to counter the Puppeteer's cursed dogs and take control of Sylvester? Damn it, Nevermore, I'm piloting a giant murder horse. How is that all an accident?

To Sylvester, I added quickly, don't worry, you're perfect the way you are—your AJ just needs to vent.

Nevermore folded his wings. "I will concede that there is a lot more going on than seems by chance. But let's not give in to paranoia too quickly."

You know what—maybe I am being paranoid. Maybe I'm just looking for something, or someone, to blame for my choices. But that still doesn't answer the question of what I'm supposed to do now.

Sylvester began to pace—his AJ needed it.

I've gotten Sylvester under control. He's no longer under the Puppeteer's curse. I've even bonded with him. And—yeah, maybe I'm doubling down on the dumbass—but I really don't want to turn him over. Not even to the DOA. He's not some dumb beast, Nevermore. He's smart, self-aware, and oddly affectionate. He doesn't desire to be locked away in some cage. But I don't know what I can do to help him.

I didn't know if it was Sylvester's emotions bleeding into me or not, but the thought of actually giving him up made me sick. Sure, he was worth his weight in problems, but he was my problem now.

Mine.

I didn't want to abandon him. But what the hell was I going to do with a chimera?

I've been hoping Sandy could help me with Virginia. I mean, left to her own devices, she's basically just a large wolf. But Sylvester? Even if Sandy could help, I doubt the DOA will let me walk off with him. He's not some itty-bitty pony I can take home. He's huge and poisonous—not something you can treat as a pet. But looking after him is not something I can just wing. I need help.

All while I ranted, Nevermore listened and took this all in.

After a pause, he spoke. "It's normal to feel overwhelmed when you're first exposed to magic. But you've handled yourself well, all things considered. And you're not alone—you've got me, Eugene, Sandy, the Sisters. Even Sylvester himself. And the DOA? I'm sure they'd be willing to work with you. Back in my day, monster tamers were always in demand—high turnover rate, you see."

Really? You think the DOA would work with me?

"Why destroy what you can employ." He said, echoing a statement he'd made before.

Oh... right.

If we wanted to stay together we'd have to be useful.

Not that I expected this to be free of cost or anything. There was always a price.

I felt Sylvester's mind press against me like a mental nuzzle. It seemed he was copying the same technique I had used on him. Using his presence to calm and reassure me.

I'm sorry, I thought to Sylvester. I didn't mean to subject you to all that.

Despite my outburst, Sylvester didn't seem perturbed. His response wasn't one of irritation, but instead felt like a steady pulse of understanding and acceptance.

And I realized: he did understand me—perfectly. Because his predicament mirrored my own. We both had been mentally and physically twisted by some cult ritual and left to wander without any explanation or purpose.

But now Sylvester had a purpose.

He had me—and I needed help.

His damsel in distress.

My frustration was his frustration, my anger his anger. When he'd bonded with me, he'd bonded with all of me—the good and the bad.

And if someone was hunting his AJ, well…

It was food that would deliver itself.

What more could he ask for?

I, on the other hand, often asked for a deep and meaningful relationship. But, didn't imagine it would come in the form of a horse—or a kelpie, I should say.

One had to wonder what that said about the state of my love life. That I was perhaps a little too desperate for connection and failed to see that I already had what I was looking for.

Because, I had friends.

And, I had Virginia.

Nevermore was right. I wasn't alone. And he'd reminded me of something else I'd nearly forgotten.

I also had the Sisters.

Eugene had speculated that Sandy was part of a coven, and it seemed pretty obvious now that was exactly what the Sisters were: a coven of witches. One that I may have unknowingly joined back in college. But I would take whatever help I could get.

That said, I hadn't put much thought into them since JT and I spoke about them yesterday morning.

And something about that nagged at me.

Nevermore had said he hadn't been summoned in almost fifteen years. Which begged the question:

Nevermore, I thought.

"Hmm?" Replied the raven as Sylvester and I stepped closer.

How do you know about the Sisters?