Wolf for Hire

Chapter Fifty Two

Explain this to me, Nevermore: why would my sisters put their faith in Boden, of all creatures, and not—oh, I don't know—the actual werewolf?

Fog curled around Sylvester's muzzle as he snorted—his way of a scoff. Despite the ongoing urgency of catching up with my body—with Virginia—I could warrant a little time to answer the question of what the hell was going on.

"You'd rather she sent you?" Nevermore replied.

Well, no. But if she had me, then why not... use what she had?

Nevermore cocked his head. "Are we talking about the same person?"

Just saying.

Nevermore hopped off on the of car engines I'd exposed—when Sylvester had indulged me in a little disassembly—to the roof rack of a nearby jeep. Putting a more comfortable space between the two of us.

A precautionary measure, perhaps?

"Well," continued Nevermore, "assuming Sandra would use her friends as tools, you're also assuming she is even aware of your affliction."

Sylvester studied the jeep as I spoke, noting the leather soft top and upholstery.

Are you telling me she isn't?

"Yes. From my conversation with her, I believe that is the case. Mind you, I can't speak for the rest of the Sisters—only Sandra. And since it was her call on which familiars to send, she chose who she thought was best."

Like hell she did. What about Coy? Why not send—I don't know—the actual teleporting dog?

"Because Coy does what Coy wants," Nevermore grumbled. "Like dumping me in a bakery. I got swatted, you know—with a broom."

I mean, you just got to know how to communicate with Coy. Make him want to do what you ask of him.

Coy liked to wander after all, so the trick was to just let him and to give him something to search for while he was at it.

"Yes, well, not everybody possesses your ability to talk dog," Nevermore said haughtily. "Even Sandra finds him difficult at times—in fact, she often resorts to magic to summon him."

Okay, so he's fickle. But at least he's competent. But Boden, not so much. Don't get me wrong, he's a sweet furball and all, but he's a liability at best.

"Admittedly, having met said furball, I'm inclined to agree," said Nevermore. "But he seems to possess the traits of a Black Dog—at least per the Sisters' assessment."

Now it was my turn to snort.

Of course he's a black dog. He's a Bernie. They're mostly black.

Nevermore sighed. "No, not the color. The creature known as a Black Dog—it's a type of Canis Animi. Think Church Grims, or Doyle's Hound of the Baskervilles—the real one, not the fictitious one—oh, and our aforementioned barghest. All names for the same creature."

I tried to raise one of Sylvester's eyebrows with limited success.

What about Amoraks?

The raven shook his head. "No, they're not included."

I thought about it for a moment.

Wait, aren't grims, like, bad luck? Like a black cat crossing your path, but worse?

At least, that was what the third Harry Potter book had told me.

"Ah, a common misconception," Nevermore said. "They can sense the death and impending doom of others, and are drawn to it like moths to the flame. And it is because of this—along with their intimidating appearance—that they are historically believed to be harbingers of ill omen, when, in reality, they were merely there to bear witness."

I tried to imagine Boden as intimidating—the massive dark-furred puppy, tongue lolling, expression vacuous, dramatic music going dun dun dunnn.

Yeah.

I couldn't get it to work.

So color me skeptical—pink, like the shade of the Himalayan grains of salt I was taking everything in with.

So Boden was sent to help Eugene because… what? He can foresee Eugene's misfortunes? Protect him from his fate like some four-legged guardian angel?

"That was the idea, yes. When sufficiently motivated, a Black Dog can choose to intervene in the fates they observe," said Nevermore.

Or facilitate.

"Well, yes, when sufficiently motivated."

And how does one motivate a Black Dog? With snacks—I give you Beggin' Strips, you give me good luck?

"I mean, they're still dogs," said Nevermore. "And, luckily—or unluckily—our detective is both prone to misfortune… and easily deprived of his food. So Boden seems to have taken quite a liking to him."

I mulled this over. This idea that Boden could selectively intervene in someone's fate. I supposed it could explain how he was able to protect Eugene the previous night, when the thralls had attacked him.

And, it could explain how he seemed to know the best ways to inconvenience me.

A coincidence?

Perhaps when Eugene said Boden wasn't a dog, he meant to say, 'he's not a dog, he's just a pain in the ass.'

Nevermore shrugged. "It could be he knows something we don't—boy scout that he is. There are flaws in the Sisters' characterization of Boden after all."

Such as?

Nevermore hummed, "Specifically, his resistance to the thralls' curse. Black Dogs are known carriers for curses—they're drawn to the sources of misfortune after all—so they tend to acquire a plethora of curses over their lifetime."

"In fact," continued Nevermore, "Elder Black Dogs can even bring about the very tragedies they foresee by simply being present."

Oh, so Boden's bad luck after all.

As I spoke, something cold had brushed against my face and I'd turned Sylvester's head to look for it.

"Were you even listening?" said Nevermore. "Also, his name is Bowen, by the way. Not Boden."

I was, in fact, not listening. I'd gotten distracted. Because what I'd felt hadn't actually been physical.

It had been a mental sensation. Like being prodded by a cold, wet nose.

A nose that poked again.

Speaking of bad luck.

Wondering aloud, I asked: So how does Sandy even find such a dog? Or any of the animals in the menagerie for that matter? Do people just, like—give her magic pets?

"Yes, actually," said Nevermore.

My—Sylvester's—head whipped over to the raven. This had caught my attention.

Wait, seriously?

"Sandra is well-known amongst the magical community for fostering and boarding familiars and other magically adept creatures."

"In fact," continued Nevermore, with more than a little pride, "she's become a witch of some renown."

Oh, wonderful.

My employer was famous.

So, does that mean I have Sandy to thank for losing Boden? Because she was the one who ordered him to leave?

"Bowen."

What?

"You know what, never mind," said Nevermore. He then quickly turned his head and whispered, "no, not you."

He returned his attention to me.

"Yes, you're correct," he said. "Sandra sent for him, though she actually used a familiar to guide him."

Which one? Coy?

"I believe it was a falcon."

I felt a flash of recognition: Toby.

Fucking Toby.

So that's what the little shit was up to: running errands for his master.

"Oh, good, you already figured it out."

Sylvester and I grumbled in irritation.

Then what was the whole point of me getting sent on a wild-goose chase to collect all of the other familiars? Some kind of test? Or hazing ritual?

"I think that's because you and Virginia left the door open," said Nevermore.

I groaned. Of course.

The presence of magical shenanigans and dipshittery didn't mean I couldn't still shoot myself in the foot… hoof, or paw.

One did not exclude the other.

I felt another nose-poke, followed by a gentle pulling sensation. Seemed like someone was ready to have me back.

But I was a little busy at the moment. I still had something I needed to figure out.

Then tell me, why couldn't they just tell me? Neither Sandy nor my sisters mentioned any of this. If they had, I certainly wouldn't have wasted so much time, gone searching for Boden, or gotten my car repo'd. Hell, I wouldn't be here—

I stopped myself.

Oh my god. They knew I'd get involved. Didn't they?

"Frankly, I have no idea," Nevermore said firmly. "And I think it's best we don't point any fingers—fangs or feathers—until you've talked to Sandra and the rest of your coven. Because I don't believe any of them even realized how involved you've gotten—or that you're a werewolf, for that matter."

Then how do you explain all of this?

I gestured Sylvester's head in the direction of the mill—at least, at the orange glow that perfused the fog—and then at Sylvester himself.

Because I could have sworn that my problem was just lycanthropy. Not whatever... this is.

I fixed Nevermore with a look.

You can't seriously think this is just a coincidence. The familiars. The timing. That was all… what? Just a failure to communicate?

He replied without hesitation, "I can, and I am. And the timing isn't strange. Sandra needed someone to look after her familiars so she and the Sisters could focus on their plans—plans that didn't involve you going full AJ Ventura."

I glared at Nevermore; he stared resolutely back at me. Seemed he was no longer intimidated by the chimera that towered over him—that he finally understood he was still talking to the same young woman from before. The same young woman—barely more than a girl—who was stressed out of her goddamn mind.

Sylvester simply watched on with detached curiosity.

This was all mentally stimulating for him.

For a moment, there was only the sound of waves crashing on rocks and the hum of the mill.

Then I lowered my gaze and sighed.

Okay—fine. I'll drop it.

No point belaboring it any further anyway.

Nevermore visibly relaxed, finally able to get his point across.

Still, I had other questions.

Were you at least able to tell Sandy about my lycanthropy? Help clear up this... miscommunication?

And, just like that, Nevermore tensed up again.

"No, I was not," he said flatly.

Why the hell not?

"I couldn't," replied Nevermore. "I made an actual magic promise not to reveal your secret, if you recall."

I thought you said magic promises didn't work. That's why you had me make a pact with Eugene instead.

"No, they're tricky to enforce because of semantics, but not useless," replied Nevermore, "and I agreed that nothing you told me would 'pass from my lips or beak.'"

And you couldn't just, like, write it down? Use your beak to scratch out 'AJ is werewolf'?

"I couldn't use my beak, remember."

Yeah, to speak, not to write.

Had I been talking normally, and not telepathically, my voice would have likely shot up a few octaves.

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"The word was 'pass,' not 'speak,'" he said. "As in the transfer of any information. Spoken or written."

But that's just—

"Semantics? Yes, I know," he said. "But our wording—or I should say my wording—was meant to be inclusive. Because, well, it wasn't like I was trying to trick you or anything. So, I wasn't able to properly warn Sandra about... your condition."

Nor JT by extension?

"No, I suppose not."

Oh, goddamnit.

Did everything I do have to come back to bite me in the ass every goddamn time?

There was another cold poke—harder this time—as if a certain someone knew the best time to piss me off.

But she needed to hold her horses. I was busy enough holding my own horse's—

You know what? Better I didn't complete that analogy.

So what the hell does Sandy think is going on then? That I'm just dicking around with her dogs? Having the time of my life.

Welp—so much for avoiding a Freudian slip.

"That you're learning the ins and outs of Familiar Care," said Nevermore.

Oh. Wonderful. And does she know that I don't have any experience with magic? That I'm not a witch like her?

"Yes, I was... actually able to address that with her," Nevermore said.

Annnd? What did she say?

He said nothing.

Nevermore. What did she say?

The raven sighed. "She said, and I quote, 'Classic AJ.'"

It took a moment to process this. Then—

Oh, motherfucker!

I was struck by the sudden and powerful urge to disassemble something.

Another car, perhaps?

Add to my growing list of insurance claims?

Sylvester stood up and began to pace around the broken vehicles, shattered glass crackling and popping underhoof.

Nevermore studied the two of us. "I take it that this isn't the first time something like this has happened with you and the Sisters."

Nope. It was Spring Break all over again.

"You know," said Nevermore, suddenly sounding jovial, "I was pleasantly surprised to learn you and Sandra have been roommates before. Didn't know you two had such a history."

What? No, I started, looking up at the raven.

Then paused.

Had I?

I mean, yeah, I dormed with the Sisters in college—our sorority shared a townhouse. So, technically, they were all my roommates at some point. Not just Sandy.

"Hmm, well she seems to remember it quite differently."

Well, apparently that's the theme now!

Sylvester's chest rumbled with a growl as I once again grew frustrated.

Everybody just assumes that I know what's going on—that I knew what was going on. And when I get shafted because of this, they act like it's my fault.

Sylvester stopped so I could put a dent in the side of one of the Sedans.

Classic-fucking-AJ.

It made a satisfying crunching sound.

I continued to rant.

They always do this to me. Like, 'hey, AJ, you want to join our camping trip?' And I'm like, 'yeah of course', because, you know—I like camping! But it turns out that camping is just a codeword for 'sabbath' or some shit, and they just assumed I knew.

My Sisters had never been stellar with their communication skills, but sometimes it was downright egregious.

"You participated in a sabbath?" said Nevermore, perking up.

I paused—a tire clamped in my teeth, air hissing out.

I mean, I'm guessing that's what it was—because now I know they're all witches!

"I could probably tell you," he said. "What exactly did you do?"

That isn't the point, Nevermore.

Besides, I'd discovered many things about myself in college. And the sorority camping trip in Spring 2016 had been informative in ways best kept to myself.

What happened in Yellowstone stayed in Yellowstone.

"Ah, the spring equinox," Nevermore said knowingly. "Should have guessed. Tell me, does your coven tend to be more Celtic or Roman in their practices?"

Just leave it.

There was the sound of tearing metal as Sylvester and I pulled the tire free of the wheel-well.

Wheel, rim, and all.

"Hmm, considering Sandra is using Latin to inscribe her Arcanum—"

—I said leave it!

I chucked the tire like a frisbee, hurling it out over the harbor.

Or, at least that was what I'd been aiming for.

But I must have gotten turned around by Nevermore's fog. Instead of hearing a satisfying splash of water, I heard the crash of glass and metal.

Followed by the chirping of a car alarm.

Sylvester and I lowered our head in defeat—so much for minimizing property damage.

Were you able to tell Sandy anything useful? At all?

"Well, to be honest, most of our conversation pertained to our surprise reunion," he said. "She didn't expect to summon both Coy and me." Nevermore chuckled. "The look on her face. Did you know she dyed her hair? In fact... she looks a lot like—"

—Nevermore. Please. Get to the point.

"Right. Worry not, I covered the key events that transpired up to when we parted ways at the park."

Like what, pray tell?

"Like how you wrangled Monty the python and were then caught by the neighbors' kids—"

Ugghh! Why'd you have to tell her about that one?

It was not what I would call my proudest moment. Though, what had happened at the church wasn't far behind.

"Well, it made for a rather exciting story," Nevermore replied, "and because it's important for Sandra to know she may be entertaining guests in the near future."

Oh, right—the impending consequences of my actions.

How did Coy, or any of the other familiars, not cue Sandy off about me being a werewolf? They all saw me transform last night—how can she still be in the dark?

"Because while familiars may traditionally be the eyes and ears of their masters, they're typically garbage at the game of telephone. And I know this from experience," said Nevermore.

Because you're one of them?

"Hah. I suppose I walked into that one." Nevermore cleared his throat. "No, it is important to understand that magic alone doesn't make you smarter. Or anyone for that matter. And a dog, magical or not, still sees the world as a dog would—barring any unique senses, of course. So, from what I can tell, Coy perceives you and Virginia as two separate individuals. And that's the impression he passed to Sandra."

And you couldn't say anything to the contrary?

"Nope. But, at least she seems to think that you and 'your dog' are getting along well with the other familiars."

Getting along? One of them shot at me!

"Oh, right, the monkey? No, that's typical behavior for a boggart. Nothing surprising about that."

I felt the sudden urge to throw something larger than a tire.

Then how the hell am I supposed to get out of this mess? Just sit down and tell her the truth—that I'm some kind of werewolf shaman who has no idea what she's doing?

"It's a common Disney plot for a reason," he said. "The telling‑the‑truth part, I mean—I don't think Disney's ever used werewolves before."

He then muttered, "though, I suppose Pinocchio technically had were-donkeys."

Nooo, I said, trying to emphasize my frustration. You don't get it, Nevermore. I hid my lycanthropy from my sisters because I was worried I'd scare away my friends. Or hurt them. Sure, they're not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but they're mine, and... the only real group of friends I have.

And this wasn't an idle exaggeration. I wasn't great at making friends, or maintaining friendships outside of direct family. Grade school had taught me many a lesson in futility: that despite my efforts to make friends, or at least to be friendly with everyone I met, I found most of them would be mean to me for reasons I could not fathom.

As if being honest and earnest were character flaws.

Something to mock.

To exploit.

Even when I gave up and stopped engaging, nothing changed. My classmates—then coworkers—still didn't like me.

Damned if I did or didn't.

Like there was something I was missing—some magic that I lacked.

A red flag everyone else could see except me.

And being a good student or diligent employee only seemed to widen that divide. And the few who crossed it usually wanted something: classmates who wanted their homework done for them, coworkers who wanted someone to cover their shifts. Sometimes it was just for money. Other times it was for… favors.

And I'd typically fall for it every time. Because, at the end of the day... I liked having friends.

Like feeling valued.

But what's this? The people you thought of as your best friends didn't see you the same way? That all the effort and energy you put into your relationship wasn't matched by others?

Classic AJ.

So, being friends with V was easy. Like all my other friendships, it was transactional—which, in my book, was a normal fucking relationship. With friends, with family—my stepmother especially—relationships came with a cost. Measured out in time, money, energy. Dignity.

V needed someone who could be meticulous when it counted. And I needed someone who knew how to network.

Outsourcing the work that I couldn't do in-shop was just good practice after all.

Sure, V usually won in our exchanges—she always got something out of the networks she created for me—but at least she was honest about it.

No facade, no airs.

Just a price.

And growing sense of indebtedness.

But I was fine with that because I got something else: I got to be part of the Sisters—V's little collection of oddballs: that was how I thought of them at the time at least.

In the beginning, she organized us into a sorority—to get campus funding—and I was set up as its treasurer: I filed forms, set the budget, kept the books—cooking them when need be—all to keep us in good standing with the university, and then as a business when the Sisters began to spin up various side hustles.

After all, scaling up was easy when you had a solid financial foundation.

And I liked being part of the Sisters—my sisters. Sure, communication wasn't their strong point, but if there was one thing they did understand, it was… reciprocation.

My desire for real friends was met with a genuine effort to be friends. In a way that didn't feel transactional. Because I felt like I got out far more than I put in.

A strange, yet welcoming feeling.

Even after I graduated, they kept me in the group chat and invited me to everything—Girl's Night, concerts, road trips, camping—and pinged me when I went quiet.

u alive? — movie night? — we saved you a seat.

Missed you at the potluck — saved you some leftovers.

Little things, sure. But they were a constant—always there to remind me I wasn't forgotten. That meant a lot to me.

Working full time meant I didn't always have the time or energy. Getting fired killed my funds. But it was only after my issues with the full moon that I finally went full incommunicado. And because, more than not wanting to be a burden to my friends, I was scared that I might harm them.

And I muted the chat, because it hurt to know what I was missing out on.

And because I would've been tempted to reach out.

It was so dumb in hindsight.

Nevermore sat patiently as I rambled on.

Because, as it turns out, they're witches—who'd have thought? And now I cannot help but wonder if I was under some spell this entire time. That I was so completely oblivious to all the strange shit my sisters were up to because of a Shade. Or that I was simply bewitched into being free labor. And if I tell them I've become a werewolf, do I get used for that too? End up in more situations like… like—

"Like this?" offered Nevermore.

…Yeah.

That basically summed it up.

If I was honest with myself—if my sisters really were manipulating me—I'd rather not know. Scrub the whole idea from my memory. Because I'd be happier not knowing.

The world was already a harsh enough place without my small little delusions to provide me with some comfort and warmth. I didn't want to learn that my self-imposed isolation was the true norm. That I was actually as alone as I felt.

Sylvester made a distressed whinnying sound. He knew how to fix mad—and he had the cars to do it. He didn't know how to fix sad. He needed an AJ for that. And he only had one—one sad AJ.

It was a bit of a conundrum for him.

"As futile as this may be, try not to overthink things. I've faith that the explanation is more mundane than you think," Nevermore said. "You're amongst a jury of your peers—at least in terms of good ol' non-magical communication."

I hoped he was right, because I didn't like the alternative.

"If it is any consolation, I do think Sandra appreciates all your effort. She even seems to think you're doing a decent job… all things considered."

I suppose that cheered me up a little—that my silver lining was a gold star on my job review.

I turned back to the raven, a curious thought crossing my mind.

So, what does Sandy think about me accidentally summoning her dead aunt's old familiar, Mister-I-haven't-been-summoned-in-fifteen—

I stopped, and Sylvester turned his head in the general direction of the warehouse Eugene and I had been in earlier.

Oh for fuck's sake.

The occasional wet nose-poking had evolved into an incessant prodding.

"Something wrong?" Nevermore asked.

It's Virginia. She's been… trying to get my attention.

Another poke.

Nevermore tilted his head. "And you've been ignoring her?"

I've been a little preoccupied.

Like, damn, couldn't a girl trauma-dump in peace?

There were two more pokes. Then the tugging began.

Virginia was losing her patience.

Well, Sylvester, it seems our joyride is coming to an end.

This seemed to unsettle him a bit.

I wouldn't worry. I'm sure you'll be seeing me again soon.

One did not bond with a chimera and just walk away from it. And I was pretty sure he'd hunt me down if I tried.

I directed my attention back to Nevermore.

Let's finish this later; I really need to check on her—make sure nothing stupid is going on.

Leaving my lycanthropic alter-ego to trip unsupervised was probably not a good idea. But, then again, so was about every other decisions I'd made thus far.

But, at least she no longer seemed to believe I was trying to eat her. So that was a good sign.

In the meantime, I need you to guide Sylvester to the park and rendezvous with this DOA agent we're supposed to meet. Let them know what's going on, but only after they agree to the pact. I'll reconvene once I—

—I never finished the sentence.

With a mental force that felt akin to being scruffed by the collar, Virginia yanked me out of Sylvester, and back into, well… myself.

Just like that.

A process that was as jarring as it was abrupt.

I found myself thrown back into the passenger seat of my own body by Virginia.

Had she been able to do this the entire time?

The actual fuck, Virginia?

Virginia didn't respond. Because Virginia was in full panic mode. She had a problem, and wanted me to fix it.

Figured.

I took stock of our surroundings. We were in the same warehouse as before, the one where Eugene and I had found the Slip. But things were a little off.

For starters: Virginia was high as a kite.

Not that I mean she was still tripping—and she was—but that she currently found herself suspended in the air, about ten feet off the ground. Like a kite. Her teeth clamped around the only thing keeping her from flying off.

Though, unlike a kite, she was tethered no to a cord, but to a boot.

A particularly heavy boot.

Something about that didn't seem right.

I could still feel the lingering effects of the bufotoxin in Virginia's system—her body ached, her skin crawled with pins and needles, and colors came with their own unique smell—but she'd gotten through most of it. Enough not to be straight up hallucinating.

Speaking of: where was Elmo?

The boot in question wasn't one of the work boots Eugene had been wearing, but an honest-to-God Stetson cowboy boot.

Made out of… was that gator skin?

What was more, the boot was still occupied.

Virginia had gone hunting. And it seemed she'd caught someone.

Virginia. Explain before I—

I was getting vertigo. Like, really bad vertigo.

Virginia had tried to shake her prey to death, but as her feet weren't firmly planted on the ground, she only managed to flail around uselessly in the air.

Churning her stomach in the process.

And she was already more than a little nauseated—her body trying to purge a poison it believed she might have ingested. She was drooling profusely—frothing, even—as she fought against the urge to empty her stomach. That had been a lot of good barbecue she'd eaten—shame to have to re‑consume it.

And the best part was that I was now along for the ride—able to enjoy the experience with her.

And, god, it felt like shit.

My head hurt. And there were so many moving parts to keep track of.

Virginia managed to relay her thoughts to me, something about locating her prey and successfully hunting him down.

Him...

Now that was concerning.

Because there weren't a lot of hims she could have chosen from.

I tried to examine the man occupying the boot. I didn't recognize his face, but I recognized the camouflaged ensemble. And Virginia recognized his smell.

Seemed she'd caught herself none other than the Puppeteer himself.

Up close—and not at the far end of an elevator shaft—I could see he was taller than Eugene, more well‑built, with greasy light‑brown hair tied into a ponytail. Minus the facial hair, he looked like he'd walked off the set of Duck Dynasty.

Needless to say, I was a bit skeptical. Because of, well… context clues.

Numero uno being the fact that the Puppeteer was dead. I'd seen him impaled.

Then there was the fact that the man was not only wearing Eugene's jacket, but also holding Eugene's staff, and had his wand strapped to the other wrist.

A wrist that appeared to be broken.

There was also a harness around his waist that was tethered to the Bronco's—Marvin's—winch by a cable. This, combined with the fact that Virginia's newfound flight was identical to Eugene's levitation spell—though, this time she managed to snare the caster by the foot in the process—something smelled off.

Like more magical bullshit.

So, no point in overthinking it. There was a succinct solution to all of this.

I projected my thoughts out to the man.

Hey, magic man—what the hell's going on?

"Allison!" said the Puppeteer in Eugene's voice. "For the love of God, it's me—Desmond!"

I turned my attention inward. See, Virginia? All you had to do was ask. Now apologize.

"How about you let me go, you crazy bit—ah!"

I had Virginia let the man go.

Which, in hindsight, was probably not the best idea—par for the course, I guess. But, in my defense, it had been his poor choice of words.

Dangling from Virginia's jaw, the man had been roughly three to four feet off the ground. Not terribly high—but falling from that height, onto your back, onto a concrete floor, still hurt. Even with Eugene's magic jacket dampening the impact, it was enough to knock the wind out of somebody.

And ruin the spell keeping the 130‑lb werewolf held aloft.

A werewolf that was ten feet in the air.

Directly above that somebody.

Which was exactly what happened.

Virginia and I fell, pancaking the man beneath us.