Wolf for Hire

Chapter Nine

If what V said about familiars was true—that they were creatures of habit—then intuition told me where I could find a pair of cockatoos who got a kick out of imitating evangelical preachers. Especially on a Sunday.

And wouldn't you know it, there was a Baptist church right at the end of Wolff's Lair Road.

The Palmetto Community Church didn't look much like a church. From the outside, it was a big, gray sheet-metal warehouse with a cross bolted to the front and a few posters slapped on the walls. No steeple, no stained glass. If it weren't for the cross, you'd think it was a workshop. I sat in the car for a moment, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. It wasn't St. Andrew's, that's for sure.

Back when I was a kid, my family went to St. Andrew's Presbyterian in Mount Pleasant every Sunday. I knew the routine by heart—the rhythm. There was comfort in it. Show up, nod through the sermon, bow your head when you're supposed to, get your monthly dose of bread and wine. No fuss. You could just... exist.

Then my dad remarried, and we started going to Katherine's church. That's when everything changed. It wasn't traditional—nothing like St. Andrew's. Just like Palmetto, it was one of those modern church places. No pews, no hymnals, just folding chairs and people who looked way too happy to be there. And, they expected you to engage. That's what I hated. There was no hiding, no just going through the motions. You had to show you care. It made every movement feel forced, made me feel like I was pretending to be someone else. Katherine thrived in that environment. Me? I always felt like a fraud.

I glanced at Maggie, sitting next to me, her big brown eyes watching me.

"I know," I muttered. "But we're here, so... let's do this."

Her tail wagged slightly, as if giving me a nudge. Maggie might be calm, but only because I was the one walking into something I didn't want to face.

Stepping out of the car, I hesitated, taking in the scene. Families in their Sunday best—lots of denim, flannels, casual wear. That kind of modest effort that said, we're here, but we're comfortable. I left my Talbot blazer in the car, already feeling overdressed.

Most of the crowd was older, around my parents' age or maybe a little younger. Hardly any kids. They all looked like they belonged here. Me? I stuck out. Young, well-dressed, and uncomfortable. At St. Andrew's, I would've blended in. Here? I might as well have had a spotlight on me.

The scent of asphalt, fresh-cut grass, and cheap perfume hung in the air as we approached the entrance. Maggie stayed close, her service vest drawing a few glances from passersby. Perfect. I could already sense the sympathy in their eyes. People always had ideas when they saw a service dog—either they felt they should be extra kind, or they wondered if you were being pretentious. Or maybe that was just me. Still, I needed the extra pair of eyes and ears—and nose.

I made it to the double doors, bracing myself as I stepped inside. The floors were clean, but instead of the usual industrial cleaner stench, there was a light, lemony smell. A small blessing. Walking into new buildings was always a gamble—would it be an assault of cleaning fumes or cloying air fresheners? The joys of an acute sense of smell.

From the lobby, I scanned the room ahead. No pews, just rows of stackable office chairs. Instruments on stage, sound equipment along the back wall. If it weren't for the cross and the baptismal pedestal, I'd have thought they were setting up for a concert.

As I hovered near the entrance, a woman approached me. Late forties, curly shoulder-length hair, modestly dressed like everyone else. Her face was friendly. Too friendly.

"Hi there! I'm Patty," she said, extending her hand. "Are you interested in joining our congregation? If so, have you submitted a membership form online?"

My stomach dropped. Paperwork. Of course. I should've seen that coming. New church, new protocols. I scrambled to steady my voice. "I, uh... was hoping to fill one out in person. I just moved down the street." I added quickly, "I'm already a member of First Baptist on James Island though." It was technically the truth—that was Katherine's church. I was banking on this place being part of the same SC Baptist Convention network.

Patty's face softened. "Oh, how wonderful! We'd be happy to have you here."

Relief washed over me, but my anxiety spiked again. "Would it be alright if I filled out the form during the service?" I asked. "And, uh, is it okay to bring Maggie?" I gestured toward my ever-patient service dog. "She's a service dog."

Patty's smile somehow brightened even more. "Oh, she's lovely! What a sweetheart. Of course, you're both welcome." She crouched slightly, offering her hand for a sniff. But Maggie, ever the professional, lifted her paw for a shake.

Patty let out a delighted laugh. "Well, aren't you just the most polite thing?"

I forced a smile. "Yeah, she's great."

At least I wasn't getting turned away. Patty led us inside, and I found a seat at the back, grateful for Maggie's calming presence between me and the crowd.

Sitting down, I pulled out the clipboard Patty had handed me and pretended to fill out the form. My mind wasn't on it—I was scanning for any sign of Phin and Ferb. The scents around me—perfume, laundered clothes, and a faint whiff of coffee from the hallway—clashed, overwhelming my senses. I wanted to walk around, but every movement I made felt watched, scrutinized.

A few older folks drifted over to introduce themselves. Kind faces, polite smiles, small talk about the neighborhood. Where was I from? Same story I'd told Patty—just moved here, member of First Baptist. Normal, boring, safe. Maggie was a perfect distraction, soaking up the attention and compliments, making it easier for me to slip under the radar.

With each passing minute, my nerves wound tighter. What if Phin and Ferb weren't here? What if I'd been wrong? Worse—what if they were here, but I couldn't find them before the service started?

Just as I was about to give up and make my exit, a familiar scent hit me. Feathers and... popcorn. Faint, but unmistakable. My heart leapt, then sank. They were here. But where? And what were they up to?

The congregation was settling into their seats, the service about to begin. Damn it. I'd missed my chance to look around.

Trying to stay calm, I stood up and made my way to the back, handing Patty my mostly filled-out membership form. She smiled as she took it, but I leaned in slightly.

"Hey, Patty, quick question," I said, keeping my voice low. "I thought I saw two cockatoos flying around just now. Do they belong to anyone?" I tried to sound casual, something that wouldn't raise alarms.

But my question had more of an effect than I expected. Patty's face drained of color. Her smile faltered. "Oh, goodness," she whispered, her voice tight. "They're back."

I swallowed, keeping my expression neutral. "Would you like some help finding them? I'd be happy to assist." Please say yes, I thought, silently projecting my intention at her.

Patty shook her head quickly. "No, no. I've got it under control. This... isn't the first time. You just enjoy the service, alright? I'll handle it."

Damn. Guess my dog-speak still didn't work on humans.

I nodded, stepping back as Patty hurried off. Great. Now what?

The service kicked off with a band—if you could call it that. Four balding men, dressed in flannel or Hawaiian shirts, looking like they'd just come from a backyard barbecue. Off to the side, an older woman hunched behind an electric keyboard, her hands barely brushing the keys. A knot of discomfort formed in my chest. This wasn't the quiet, structured service I was used to—this was so... improvised.

The prayer began, lead by one the older man in the Hawaiian shirt, thanking Jesus for blessings and offering safety to members away for the holiday weekend or dealing with ailments like COVID. When they welcomed their "new guest"—me—I gave a tight wave, trying to sink into the stackable office chair.

Then, as the "amen" left the speaker's lips, the guitarist broke into a loud strum, followed by the percussionist. The man in the Hawaiian shirt belted out the opening lines of I Need a Ghost by Brandon Lake. The music hit like a wall—loud, pulsing. Several members stood, arms raised, swaying as if pulling the sound into themselves. Others moved toward the stage, hands outstretched in supplication.

It was too much. Too loud, too close.

I gritted my teeth, resisting the urge to bolt. The beat pounded inside my chest, reverberating through my bones. My senses, already hypersensitive, were being overwhelmed. My head throbbed, and the glaring spotlight only made it worse. I tried to scan the room for Phin and Ferb, but the concert atmosphere made it impossible to focus.

Should've brought earplugs.

I shifted in my seat, trying to make myself as small as possible, avoiding the outstretched, swaying hands at the front. The noise was overwhelming. Prayer, to me, was something quiet—done in silent contemplation, not this loud, performative spectacle. This felt less like prayer and more like a show.

The band finished I Need a Ghost, and I started to relax, but then someone shouted—one of the band members maybe: "Don't stop!" The next song kicked in—My Testimony by Elevation Worship. I winced as the sound swelled again. At least this one wasn't as percussion-heavy. A small mercy. Very small.

But my nerves were already shot. Every guitar strum rattled through me. I kept my eyes down, pretending to pray, though all I wanted was to leave. Even if Phin and Ferb were here, their scent was too faint to trace. What if I was wrong and they weren't here? What if they'd already come and gone? I'd be stuck here all morning for nothing. Except for, maybe, salvation.

Then came I Can Only Imagine. I knew this song too well. It played so often at Muckenfuss, I could hum it in my sleep. Great. This is going to be stuck in my head for weeks, I thought miserably, half-listening as the congregation swayed again, arms raised.

One man at the front, maybe late thirties or early forties, caught my eye. Dressed in blue flannel and denim jeans, he should've blended in, but something about him felt off—his reverence was too intense, too focused, like he was leading the charge.

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I swallowed, hoping this was the last song. Maggie stirred at my feet, her leash tugging lightly. I glanced down to see her staring upward, ears perked.

Finally, the music died down, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. The congregation had grown while the band played, latecomers slipping into seats as the service shifted. The man in the blue flannel stepped onto the stage, a wide smile on his face.

Apparently, he was the pastor. First place for most casually dressed.

He welcomed the congregation and introduced himself to the new faces. "If anyone feels called to share how Jesus has been working in your life," he said, beaming, "come on up!"

I barely registered his words, too distracted by Maggie's persistent tugging at the leash. She was still fixated on something above us. I stood, following her gaze, and suddenly realized I'd stepped into a small opening in the crowd—left for people to come forward.

The pastor's eyes lit up, and before I could retreat, the entire congregation's gaze fell on me—warm, expectant, and suffocating all at once.

"Well, look at that!" the pastor said, his voice full of welcome. "Would you like to share with us today?"

I opened my mouth to decline, but before I could say a word, I heard it—a soft voice, almost lost in the noise, but clear as day in my head: "Come."

My feet moved before my brain caught up. Panic flared as I realized Phin, or perhaps Ferb, had used one of my command words. I walked calmly toward the stage while my mind screamed in protest.

"Come," one of the birds repeated, then the other added, "Speak." Their voices, hidden in the background noise, rang with the same magical undertone I used with the animals. The damn birds, using my own magic words against me.

The words weren't particularly powerful on their own, they were birds after all, not wizards, but in this setting, with the entire congregation already willing me forward, they cut through my resistance. Like a lukewarm knife through soft spread. Before I knew it, I was on the stage.

I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of every gaze, every breath pressing down on me. My heart pounded as panic crept up the back of my throat. Of all the times for those birds to appear—they either planned this or saw their chance and took it. Cunning little bastards.

The pastor gave me an encouraging nod holding out the mic. "Go on, sister. We'd love to hear from you."

Maggie, by my side, had her eyes fixed on the ceiling, ears flicking in agitation. I followed her gaze and spotted Phin and Ferb up in the rafters, bobbing with excitement. Probably waiting to hear what I'd say so they could twist and mimic it in my voice later.

I took a breath, trying to regain control. Fortunately, this wasn't my first time being stuck in this kind of situation. Thanks to Katherine, I had plenty of practice giving testimonies at her church. I've got this, I told myself. If nothing else, I had a couple of stock stories I could pull out of my back pocket, worn from overuse but good enough for new audiences. The benefit of meeting strangers: you could recycle material and no one would know.

"I—uh..." The words felt thick in my throat. I glanced toward the rafters, hoping Phin and Ferb wouldn't push me any further. "I'm just visiting today."

I could hear them rustling, their anticipation palpable even from up above. I pictured them up there, bobbing excitedly like they were waiting for the punchline. I groaned inwardly at the thought of them soaking up my personal stories, ready to mimic my deepest feelings in my own voice, maybe even twisting them for laughs later.

The pastor's smile didn't falter. "We're all just visiting, in one way or another. Go on, share what's on your heart."

I shifted on my feet, my mind racing. I knew what to say, but being on stage, with the birds lurking above, the pressure felt different. I couldn't just walk away now. I had to say something.

"Alright, let's get this over with," I muttered to myself, and took the microphone the pastor held out to me.

I turned to face the crowd, Maggie sitting obediently beside me. The pastor gave me an encouraging nod, his eyes filled with kindness, like he believed I could handle this.

I wasn't so sure. Phin and Ferb were up in the rafters, watching, waiting to swoop in with whatever scheme they had planned. They had already manipulated me with their command words, subtly nudging me into this situation, and I was only just starting to grasp how much trouble I was in.

Clearing my throat, the sound echoed through the speakers, louder than I expected. The congregation leaned forward, eager for me to speak. I'd been here before, stuck in the spotlight, expected to bare my soul in front of strangers. I could fake it. I'd done it plenty of times.

"My name's AJ," I began, my voice sounding steadier than I felt. "I, uh... wasn't really planning on getting up here today."

No kidding, I thought, glancing toward the ceiling where Phin and Ferb perched. Those birds would be the death of me.

A few soft chuckles rippled through the room, and that helped—just a little. I took a breath, trying to gather my thoughts, but I could feel Phin and Ferb tugging at the back of my mind, pulling me off balance, waiting for their moment.

"It's... been a rough couple of months," I continued, my voice quieter now, more thoughtful. "I've been struggling—trying to live on my own, keep a job, stay independent..."

The congregation listened, sympathy thick in the air. They didn't know what I was dealing with, but with Maggie at my side, her service vest a clear signal, they thought they did. They were filling in the blanks with god knew what, and that only made me more uncomfortable.

Then Phin's voice slithered into my mind: "Speak."

I gripped the microphone harder, irritation flaring. They weren't done playing with me.

"I've had to rely on Maggie a lot," I went on, the words slipping out on autopilot. "She's been helping me through things I never thought I could handle."

That part was true. Maggie had been an anchor for me in ways I couldn't explain here. This was a testimony, not confession.

"You know," I said, trying to deflect with a familiar story, "my stepmom—Katherine—she used to make me get up in front of church all the time when I was a kid. Thought it would make me more... social." I forced a laugh. "Didn't really work. I still hate doing this."

There were murmurs of understanding, sympathetic nods from the crowd. Too sympathetic. And then, right on cue, Phin pounced.

"Thank Jesus for His strength!" Phin's voice rang out, perfectly mimicking mine. But it didn't sound like it came from above. It sounded like it came from my own mouth. Goddamn familiars and their goddamn magic. This was Scooby-Doo levels of ventriloquy.

The congregation stirred, a few amens rising from the front rows. So this was their game. They weren't just parroting my voice—they were twisting it, making me say things I hadn't. Making me sound... pious. Grateful even.

Then another realization hit me, cold and sharp: if Phin and Ferb could do this—if they could hijack my command words, manipulate me with just a whisper—I might be stuck here for as long as they pleased. Even if I wanted to leave, even if I wanted to bolt, which I absolutely did, I wasn't sure I could. They had me right where they wanted me. And the congregation's eager, willing participation only amplified their power.

I was not even halfway through my testimony when another horrifying realization hit me—I was standing on an elevated stage, in a dress skirt, without any underwear. A teenage nightmare made manifest. If the lighting was just right, the men in the front row were likely noticing more than just my words.

Heat rushed to my face, and I covered it with my hands. But this only seemed to fuel the birds further. "I— I can't even—" Phin's voice echoed out, thick with emotion that wasn't mine. Ferb followed, mimicking, "Thank God for my trials!" in an even more heartfelt tone.

Shut up! Stop! I shot the thought up at the rafters, desperate.

Of course, they didn't stop. Those weren't command words, just mental pleas. My magic vocabulary was limited to five words—Baby's First Spells. The congregation, oblivious to my internal battle, saw only a woman covering her face, seemingly overwhelmed by emotion. I probably looked like I was holding back tears—tears of shame. They were eating it up.

I tried to pull myself together, forcing out more words, but Phin and Ferb echoed everything back, twisting it with sanctimonious fervor.

"I don't know what I'd do without... without God's grace," Phin parroted in my voice, turning it into a dramatic declaration. I wanted to melt into the floor.

At this point, it didn't matter what I said. The cockatoos were doing most, if not all, of the talking. And with my face covered, the congregation had no idea.

I focused on the cockatoos, mentally pleading. I'll give you whatever you want. Just let me get off this stage.

Phin's reply slithered through my mind, eerie and calm. His flesh and blood.

What? I almost gasped aloud.

His flesh and blood, Ferb echoed ominously.

It hit me—Communion. They wanted Communion. Of course they did.

There's no Communion today! I hissed at them in my thoughts, careful not to say it out loud. That's at the end of the month! I'd seen it on the calendar in the lobby.

I felt their disappointment, and a new dread crept in. If they didn't get what they wanted, they might settle for more entertainment.

Find Patty, I thought, she'll give you some wafers or bread. Just go find her.

Phin and Ferb hesitated, skeptical.

Look, if she doesn't have what you want, I'll take you to the store after. I have $22 in my purse—you can spend all of it on snacks, just—please, stop this.

A pause. Then finally, Promise?

Yes, I promise! At this point, I'd promise them the moon if it meant they'd shut up and let me go.

Above, I heard rustling, and then, to my relief, Phin and Ferb descended from the rafters in a flurry of wings, landing with loud squawks on Patty's shoulders. She had been standing at the back of the room, clearly startled but holding a small pack of something—crackers, if I had to guess. The birds bobbed and squawked with delight, as if they'd just pulled off the prank of the century.

Patty, wide-eyed and exasperated, tried to shush them. They quieted down, still bobbing in triumph.

I let out a shaky breath, the weight of their influence lifting now that their attention was elsewhere. Thank God.

I cleared my throat, forcing a smile as I delivered the last line of my testimony—a generic, rehearsed conclusion I'd used at Katherine's church more times than I could count. I wasn't entirely sure what Phin and Ferb had added, having tuned out their meddling toward the end, but the congregation's warm applause told me I'd hit the mark.

Some of the tension eased, but there'd be no quiet exit for me now. Several members beckoned me to the front, eager to sit with me—a gesture of support. They must've thought I was some lost sheep, bravely wandering back into the fold. It was suffocating, but I couldn't exactly decline.

Maggie, sensing my discomfort, rested her head in my lap. I held her face in my hands, leaning back in the chair, caught between anxious relief and crushing fatigue. Whatever I was feeling—be it the Holy Spirit or just stress hormones—it sure felt awful.

The service continued, but so did the congregation's kind touches and whispered reassurances—pats on the shoulder, murmurs about courage and grace. They probably thought I'd faced some crowd-related phobia, overcome by divine inspiration. They weren't entirely wrong, I mused bitterly. Just had to swap the part about God with two cockatoos.

Irony was a bitch.

When the service finally ended, I bolted for the door, muttering something about needing to get to work—which wasn't a lie. In fact, if you ignored the blatant omissions, I hadn't told a actual lie while in church.

Well, aren't thou pious.

At the exit, I found Phin and Ferb still perched on the shoulders of a now frazzled Patty. She was doing her best to keep them entertained, her strained smile telling me it was a losing battle. She was trying get them to fly home and they weren't budging.

I sighed, rubbing my temple. "Alright, you two. Stop harassing Patty and let's go."

They flew from Patty's shoulders to mine, immediately bombarding me with food requests.

"I've got twenty-two bucks," I muttered—it was what remained of the fifty I broke at the IHOP. "Budget accordingly."

Patty watched, bewildered, her gaze flicking between me and the birds. "Are... are they yours?"

"Nope," I said over my shoulder, heading for the door. "Just looking after them."

As I stepped outside, I caught a glimpse of Patty staring at the membership form I'd filled out. I'd scribbled Sandy's information on it—so maybe I had lied in church after all. Her brows furrowed as she murmured, "Wait... you're Sandy?"

I hesitated, wondering if using Sandy's name hadn't been such a good idea. It had been a spur of the moment decision founded by my desire to not end up on some church mailing list. And Sandy basically lived next door. But, had I been thinking straight—hadn't been so rattled after giving testimony—I might have realized the idiocy of the decision sooner.

Well, too late now, I suppose.

And, by the tone of Patty's voice, it sounded like she knew Sandy—or at least knew of her. Before she could ask any more questions, I let the door close behind me and hurried to my car. I'd already had enough drama for the day. Enough for the week actually.

I got into my car and drove off.

True to my word, I took Phin and Ferb to a nearby gas station—one with a respectable snack selection.