Wolf for Hire

Chapter Fifty One

Nevermore must have realized he'd misspoken—somewhere between my question and Sylvester looming over him.

I could sense Nevermore's mind racing, trying to come up with a response.

Fog curled around us, isolating us from the rest of the mill—the two of us just shadows, one large, one small, hidden in the orange glow of sodium lamps on white vapor—while somewhere beyond the veil a horn groaned across the harbor, Sylvester's ears swiveling toward the sound that, in here, seemed muted and far away.

"I—I'm pretty sure you either mentioned the Sisters or thought aloud about them," stammered Nevermore, his talons scraping metal as he shifted nervously on the railing.

I lowered Sylvester's head to hover in front of Nevermore, narrowing his eyes.

Normally, I'd buy that—but perhaps it's this 'enhanced intuition' you talked about, or maybe it's just a good nose. Sylvester snorted in the raven's face. Either way—I smell bullshit.

Nevermore hopped back along the railing, wings unfurling. "Hold on. Now's not the time—"

A-a-ah. Stay! I commanded—not targeting Nevermore himself, but his avian counterpart, Nevermind—the actual raven within him—freezing them before either could attempt flight.

Nevermore's beak hung open in astonishment.

What kind of face is that? I thought as Sylvester gave the raven a gentle nuzzle. Didn't think I'd use your better half against you?

"Well, no, not really," said Nevermore, trying to pull his face away from the chimera's nose while his talons clamped him to the railing. "Thought you'd try to use our familial bond for this."

Yeah, like you haven't resisted that before.

Not to toot my own horn, but I thought I'd been rather clever. Nevermore had been able to defy me before—albeit playfully—but that was with his human half at work.

But a raven's mind was simpler, and I could leverage that.

"Yes, yes," muttered Nevermore dryly. "Clever girl."

I took a moment to study him, allowing Sylvester to encircle the raven with the length of his neck. You know, speaking of bonds, I couldn't help but notice that with all that jabbering about the pact between Eugene and me, you specifically left yourself out. But I figured you meant for that—as a way to protect Sandy and JT, or even Elenore—to make sure you weren't compelled to reveal anything about them to Eugene or the DOA.

I projected my mind toward Nevermore—not trying to enter it like I had with Sylvester, but to make him feel my presence, like a firm hand on his mental shoulder.

Though, while this was the extent of what I was comfortable with, Sylvester felt inclined to push further.

His teeth parted, bulbous tongue snaking out, and an intrusive thought surfaced in my mind: I've got you where I want you… and now I'm going to lick you.

Not that this was my actual intention, but I had to admit, it did feel good to make Nevermore squirm just a bit. To one-up this witty little budget-branded Edgar Allan Poe or whoever he was.

And though Nevermore was clever and could probably resist me to some extent, I felt certain that, if I pushed, I could make him talk.

But that precedent I didn't want to set: to treat my companion as nothing more than—well... a familiar.

I eased Sylvester back to once again stand over Nevermore.

The truth was I didn't want to hurt him—or humiliate him. As frustrating as he could be, he was the only one I could really talk to, and I'd come to value our odd little relationship.

I just... wanted him to be more transparent with me—as I was with him.

Look, I'm still willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. I trust you about as far as I can throw you, which—if we're being honest—is pretty damn far. You're the closest thing I have to a confidant, and I'd like to keep it that way. But—I released my hold on Nevermore and Sylvester relaxed his posture—that won't work if I think you're hiding something from me.

There. I'd said my piece. The ball was in Nevermore's court now.

His beak clicked shut, then opened again, wings twitching like he was still weighing flight. "I see you're… ah… really getting the hang of your telepathy," he croaked, making a stab at levity.

Seemed Nevermore preferred to deflect rather than answer me directly. Very well, if he wanted to play games, guess I'd just have to indulge him. But why leave Sylvester out of the fun?

Especially when an incentive was required.

Just so you know, I'm giving serious thought to letting Sylvester lick you. See how many times it takes him to get to the center of this Tootsie Pop.

I might have released Nevermore, but I'd still kept him in tongue's reach. As I spoke, Sylvester flexed his prehensile tongue like a serpent coiling to strike.

Truth or Tongue, Nevermore—your choice.

Bonded for less than an hour, yet Sylvester and I already had ourselves a functioning Good Cop, Bad Cop routine. A role he'd be glad to take seriously. Because if his AJ wanted answers, he'd make sure she got them.

Just had to give him the word.

Easy, big boy, I thought, this isn't an interrogation. This is a... neigh-gotiation.

How was that for levity?

"You and your euphemisms," said Nevermore, with a note of disappointment. "Glad to see you haven't lost your humor. Though tell me: Is it secrets you are after, or are you trying to regain your lost footing?"

What's that supposed to mean?

"What I mean is that I think your desire for control compels you to strong-arm the very people who would help you: me and especially Desmond."

I—!

I paused—hadn't expected Nevermore to counter with something so direct or so blunt.

It stung.

Well, great. Now I felt like shit.

Nevermore, I just want to know what's going on. And, if you think hiding stuff from me is for the best, then—fine. Just say so and I'll drop it.

Nevermore just sighed. "Look, Allison, there is a lot I intend to tell you, but right now I fear you'll just use it as kindling. I'd rather we save this conversation once we've gotten you back home and rested. You seem like you're barely holding yourself together, and I worry you might... do something reckless."

Like what, Nevermore? I snapped. Assault a detective? Kidnap a chimera from a cult? Or how about we go back further—I've already stolen food from patrons in town, committed larceny against the towing company, assaulted JT, exposed myself to minors. Oh, and I negligently allowed a monkey to discharge my firearm.

Part of me realized that I was probably supporting his argument, but a bigger part of me, the part that wanted to know, wanted to feel in control, didn't care.

I mentally poked at Nevermore to drive my point home. So, tell me, Nevermore—what exactly would you be protecting me from at this point?

Nevermore winced, and I realized I'd pushed hard enough for the question to border on compulsion.

I hurriedly withdrew my thoughts.

Damn it, I'm... I'm sorry.

Maybe Nevermore was right; maybe I did need some rest.

For a moment, Nevermore was silent. Eventually he asked, "Is JT okay?"

He's… fine, I replied, Virginia just knock the wind out of him. Prevented him from using any command words. Nothing more than that—I made sure she didn't.

Then I added, I'm pretty sure he'll be sore tomorrow though.

Hopefully, I'd think of an apology by then.

"Oof. I was wondering how you got away."

It was clear to me that Nevermore was attempting to change the subject. It was probably for the best, but I found myself unwilling to drop our previous conversation altogether. Perhaps a different approach was warranted—an easy yes-or-no question that I suspected I already knew the answer to.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Nevermore, be honest with me: you've been in contact with Sandy, haven't you?

Nevermore sighed. "Well... yes."

When? I pressed.

I figured the trick to getting Nevermore to talk—outside of forcing or compelling him—was to keep him going with more low-stakes questions; just keep up the momentum until, like me, he'd start to snowball.

"After Coy and I left you at Park Circle. He teleported straight to her. Coy is one of Sandy's familiars, after all."

One of?

"Well, Coy and the rest of the dogs."

Ah. Right. I supposed I should have expected some employer oversight after all. But, damn, did that mean Maggie and all the others were reporting on me to Sandy?

Almost felt like betrayal.

Okay, but why hide this from me? If anything, I'd be happy you got to see Sandy again. Hell, I was always happy to see my sorority sisters again—aside from V, of course.

"Well, I did mean to tell you—truthfully. But it was more a matter of poor timing. And, with everything going on—you broadcasting your thoughts, this whole chimera body-swap you have going on—your mental state being more than a little fragile at the moment... I mean no offense—"

—And what about your meeting with Sandy would upset me? I interrupted with a huff.

Calling me fragile. It wasn't unfair, but still rude.

"Well, it wasn't so much the meeting but the fact that... well."

Sylvester and I leaned forward to listen, and Nevermore shrank beneath us as if trying to melt into the shadows. Seemed he realized he'd said too much.

But too late now—once you started talking, it was hard to stop.

Especially when I gave him a little... help.

Through the fog, machinery whirred to life, followed by a hiss of steam. Sylvester's ears twitched and I projected my thoughts toward Nevermore—this time with a subtle… push.

A gentle nudge of encouragement.

Telling the truth made you feel better in the long run, after all.

Well?

Nevermore's voice was tiny when he spoke. "Well… it—uh, would appear that Sandy and the Sisters are… involved in your current predicament."

And there it was.

The admission I was looking for.

I—fucking—knew it!

"If you'd allow me to explain—" Nevermore started.

But it was too late. Sylvester and I were already on the move.

And Nevermore had to take flight to keep up.

Several minutes later, Sylvester and I had finished our foray.

"You see, this was the very thing I was worried about," said Nevermore, surveying the three-odd cars that Sylvester and I had gone and totaled.

"I had hoped to tell you later, when you'd… returned to yourself," Nevermore continued. "But I believe that ship has now sailed."

As if on cue, another horn blared across the harbor. While he hadn't said it explicitly, the tone of his voice certainly spoke of 'I told you so'.

We were in the parking lot near the water's edge—the same one where I'd parked Eugene's Bronco, Marvin—and, through the fog, I could hear the crash of waves across the massive stones that lined the shore.

Before us were a group of cars—two sedans and a pickup—windshields shattered, hoods peeled back, doors plucked off like petals.

I'd even launched a few tires into the harbor like frisbees.

It'd helped me vent.

After Nevermore's admission—that my sorority sisters were, at least in part, responsible for my current shitshow—something in me… slipped.

A mask of civility falling away.

Normally, when I got angry or frustrated, I merely stewed: keeping my anger in check until the emotion burned itself out naturally—healthy, I know. But, as I'd come to understand, things were different now.

Because, as Nevermore put it, I wasn't exactly myself.

I was currently sharing headspace with Sylvester and, as such, the emotions we experienced came through him. And he—his body—was far cry from the girlish figure I was used to. Though he may be a young colt at heart, his body was basically a two-ton testosterone-producing machine.

So, in addition to mirroring my emotions, Sylvester would amplify them too—especially aggression.

I may have broken the Puppeteer's hold over him. Dismantled the curse that had driven him into a rage. But, even so, that didn't mean Sylvester wasn't still capable of such emotion.

Didn't mean I couldn't push him myself, and me along with him.

While I was no stranger to bouts of extreme emotion—thanks to monthly cycles of the natural and supernatural varieties—I didn't typically find myself in a form that could be so easily compelled into physical action.

Sylvester was a creature of pure size and strength, with me behind the helm.

And, when faced with that power, and the impulse to make use of it, I'd discovered something about myself:

I couldn't handle it.

Then again, I'd always been working under the assumption that I could work Sylvester's mind the same as mine—operate using the same pedals, same brakes as I used on myself.

And on Virginia.

But maybe that's why she kept slipping my grip—because I kept trying to manage her feelings the way I manage my own.

And I'd also assumed that the way I managed my own hadn't needed to change either.

But, regardless of the cause, my bond with Virginia had been changing me—mentally and physically.

Only I was still learning how to adapt.

Solomon had made me realize that I was neglecting my physical needs—with my dietary practices akin to fasting. And I was now sure a similar criticism could be levied against how I was handling my mental needs.

Because god knew the we southerns liked to care for our mental health.

And now, now that I'd found myself in a body that was head and shoulders different than my own, that fact was made painfully obvious to me.

Sylvester, because of what he was, had impulses he had to control that were far different than mine, in both magnitude and direction.

The same went for Virginia.

So, if I was to stay sane and civil, I would need to re-learn my sense of self-control—whether I was in a body that was different than my own, or in my own body that was constantly changing.

Because, right now, I was certainly not in control. Not sufficiently, at least.

But what hit me hadn't been anger. Not really. Nor would I describe it as joy.

Rather, a sense of vindication.

The idea that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't solely responsible for the mess I was in. That maybe I'd been set up to fail, and failure had been the plan all along.

That I was meant to be the wrench to be thrown into someone's engine.

Because no one could expect an Average Jane with lycanthropy to pilot a chimera cleanly, or without issue.

I was a certified walking trainwreck.

And no one knew that better than my sisters.

My actual sisters, and especially my sorority sisters.

This, unsurprisingly, this frustrated me.

A lot.

And, normally, that would've been the end of it—assuming I was my normal self, of course. But, once you combine everything else I'd been subjected to tonight and then threw Sylvester into the equation—mind and body—my emotions became a feedback loop.

Like a mic held up to a speaker.

A vicious cycle of thought that, once it started, I was swept up in.

Thankfully, Sylvester was not a stranger to extreme bouts of anger and frustration, and knew a way for me to channel it into something constructive:

Controlled demolition.

When Sylvester got frustrated, he found beating things made him feel better—vehicles, the walls of buildings… himself—so he figured it would make me feel better too.

So, he'd navigated the fog to the nearby parking lot, finding a suitable host of vehicles, and, nosing the fender of the first one, offering it to me the way a dog would offer a toy.

Then he let me loose.

And—property damage aside—damn if it didn't feel good.

A little too good.

By itself, one car had been more than enough to get over what Nevermore had told me.

But I'd had a lot of baggage to unpack.

And, you know what they say: Three time's the charm.

And, though violence might not be the answer, it was still a solution.

Just not a very good one.

Like, how the hell was I going to explain this to Eugene or the DOA?

Temporary insanity?

"Got it all out of your system?" Nevermore asked.

Sylvester and I made a small, guilty nickering sound.

The fog shifted in the breeze, causing the lamps orange glow to twinkle off the rounded pieces of tempered glass scattered across the pavement.

"Well, if you feel steady enough," Nevermore said, "I'd like to explain this properly. Before some other sorry sod loses his means of transportation."

Apply salt directly to the wound.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Nevermore hummed, thinking. "Let's keep this simple, shall we. Context first."

Sylvester and I took a seat—as would a dog—which felt more than a little unusual in Sylvester's equine form. But not uncomfortable.

"So, it would appear that the Sisters—Sandy included—have been at odds with a particular cult for some time."

Let me guess—the same cult that abducted Eugene's niece?

"The very same," said Nevermore.

This confirmed a suspicion that I'd had—that there was indeed some kind of connection between Sandy and what was going on.

"And, as such," Nevermore continued, "they have a vested interest in Desmond's investigation as he's been successfully uprooting their operation."

Seems more like Costco-man's done most of the work, if you ask me.

He had offed the Puppeteer after all.

"Well, yes, this Kirkland fellow does appear to be causing the cult a good deal of grief," Nevermore admitted. "But as you pointed out before, he and Desmond seem to be coordinating their efforts—inadvertently at least. Where goes the rat, follows the cat, and all that."

So, Eugene is a surgical strike following a wrecking ball, and the Sisters seek to capitalize on the opportunity?

"That is... one way to look at it."

Does this mean that the Sisters work for the DOA?

"No, I wouldn't necessarily say that."

Technicalities, Nevermore?

"Okay, so they do accept contracts from the DOA from time to time," he replied. "But, for all intents and purposes, the Sisters are a private group of practitioners—a incorporated coven. TOP, or something, LLC, and they'll sometimes lend their services to the DOA, or other such organizations."

Okay, so like, what? Freelancers?

"Yes, that would be more accurate."

A sudden realization dawned on me. Along with helping the sorority balance its budget, I'd also helped them file for a private business license, filed under OTP LLC—OTP for the Greek letters used by our sorority. But, I'd always thought they use it to sell products on Etsy or collect fees for services rendered—judging from the revenue they pulled in.

Like, what appeared to be cooking classes named 'Artisanal Brewing' and 'Love Potion Cuisine'; home decor workshops named 'Feng Shui Your Way' and 'The Art to a Happy Haunting'; or somewhat ambiguous labels such as 'Deluxe Spell Package' or, simply, 'House-calls'.

I thought most of these were either thematic, or straight up jokes.

But actual freelance witchcraft?

I was supposed to be the organization's registered agent.

I filed their taxes every year.

How did I not know this?

"Well, either you are just naturally very dense, or you've been subject to some kind of shade that made you ignore the obvious. A possible combination of the two methinks."

With tact like that, it was a small wonder Eugene had shoved Nevermore in a glovebox.

Okay, but how does that make them involved with me? Being here?

"Well, as I said, they are invested in Desmond's success. So they planned to provide him with some... backup."

And they sent me.

Of course.

Who better to send after your wounded enemies than an honest to god werewolf?

"An astute observation." replied Nevermore, "But also wrong. They actually sent Boden."

Boden?!

My brain ground to a halt.

The hell?!

Well...

Now that was just insulting.