Chapter Sixteen

  The

  Meeting Street rail depot sat wedged between sprawling industrial lots

  and cramped suburban streets, a liminal space where commerce met

  concrete. The drive over had been smooth—eerily so. It was a Sunday,

  sure, but with the Fourth of July approaching, Charleston had emptied

  more than usual. Anyone with sense and the means to do so had fled to

  the beaches, leaving the sweltering city to those who couldn’t afford to

  escape or simply had nowhere else to be.

  This

  wasn’t the Charleston of glossy travel brochures or pastel-colored

  postcards. This was the real Charleston—or at least, the vast majority

  of it by square mile. The peninsula’s historic charm was just a facade.

  Beyond the curated cobblestone streets, the city stretched outward,

  fueled by its growing medical district, tourism, and trade. Roads,

  rails, warehouses, and depots tangled with tightly packed residential

  neighborhoods, forming the true, unpolished sprawl.

  It

  was the kind of place where no one would blink at a woman walking her

  dog along a tree-lined industrial park. Though, I’d likely turn heads

  wearing what appeared to be a fur-lined jacket in the middle of July.

  I

  parked at the corner of Hedgewood, beside an empty lot overgrown with

  weeds and littered with sun-bleached trash. Hooking Maggie to her leash,

  I corralled Elmo back into my bag just as a faint announced Coy’s arrival. He trotted up from the other side of the car, a leash dangling from his mouth.

  Where he’d found the damn thing, I had no idea.

  “Seriously?” I eyed him, unimpressed. “You’ve been roaming free all day. Does that not count as a walk?”

  Coy

  wagged his tail, eyes bright with manufactured innocence, his whole

  demeanor light and carefree. But I wasn’t fooled. I’d seen enough to

  know better. Beneath his ridiculous, happy-go-lucky facade lurked

  something smug, something scheming. Coy played dumb with the precision

  of a con artist, and the worst part was, I couldn't help falling for it.

  I was a sucker for a cute face.

  Sighing, I took the leash from his mouth, clipping it to his collar, and then looped it over my wrist.

  This

  stretch of Meeting Street had no sidewalks, just narrow grassy

  shoulders broken by cracked asphalt driveways. Across the road, a

  tree-lined embankment shielded the depot behind a towering privacy

  fence. I checked for traffic and started across with Maggie and Coy in

  tow—just in time to dodge a delivery truck barreling through the

  intersection like it had somewhere far more important to be than I did.

  I

  let Coy take the lead, expecting him to guide us straight to the spot

  he’d flagged earlier. But after five minutes of weaving through patches

  of dry grass and uneven terrain, we were no closer to our destination.

  I frowned. Perhaps I’d parked farther away than I thought?

  But

  something felt off. Coy’s focus wasn’t on tracking. His tail swayed

  with a little too much enthusiasm, his ears flicking as he took in the

  breeze, the distant symphony of noises, the myriad of enticing scents

  carried on the wind. This wasn’t the single-minded determination of a

  search—this was the simple, boundless joy of a dog on a walk.

  “Coy,” I said, eyeing him suspiciously. “We’re not here for sightseeing.”

  Coy’s nose was buried in a tuft of grass, utterly ignoring me.

  I turned to Maggie, who at least had the decency to acknowledge my existence.

  “Are we even going the right way?”

  Maggie flicked an ear, her posture stiff with exasperation. .

  I sighed. “Unbelievable.”

  Maggie

  let out a small huff, and I got the distinct impression she was just as

  annoyed with Coy as I was. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean she wasn’t

  going to take advantage of the situation. A walk was a walk.

  Coy lifted his leg against a bush with exaggerated nonchalance. Immediately, Maggie began sniffing around for a spot of her own.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Maggie glanced up at me as if to say: If he gets a bathroom break, so do I.

  I

  pinched the bridge of my nose, inhaling deeply before exhaling even

  slower. “Fine. Five more minutes. Then we get back to work.”

  They

  took their time, sniffing, circling, and meticulously selecting their

  designated targets. I stood there in the oppressive heat, panting like

  an idiot, feeling less like a serious investigator and more like a

  begrudging chaperone.

  Then again, I didn’t have to pretend to be walking dogs anymore.

  When

  they finally finished their little detour, Coy trotted back toward the

  road, his leash dragging lazily in the grass. Maggie fell into step

  beside me, and we trudged after him.

  Five more minutes of walking, and we arrived back at my parked car—then continued past it.

  Coy had led us in the complete opposite direction.

  I

  shot him a look, but didn’t argue. He led us into the tree line,

  weaving through the underbrush until we reached the privacy fence

  running along the depot’s perimeter. Nestled at the base, partially

  hidden by scraggly bushes and loose dirt, was a hole.

  A very large hole.

  Even

  without my heightened senses, it was obvious. The paw prints in the

  soil. The dark tufts of fur snagged on the jagged chain-link. The sheer

  size of it.

  This was Boden’s handiwork.

  Nevermore

  flapped down, perching atop one of the fence posts where the rows of

  barbed wire were anchored. His feathers ruffled slightly as he scanned

  the depot’s perimeter.

  “Well,”

  he murmured, “not much to see—shipping crates stacked two, sometimes

  three high. A service road along the perimeter and some tracks just

  beyond the fence. No security. No workers nearby. No sign of anything

  particularly interesting.”

  I

  glanced at the opaque plastic sheeting running the length of the fence,

  blocking my view from this side. “Right. Thanks for the report.”

  Nevermore

  clicked his beak, eyeing the hole. “Why dig under the fence here? Or at

  all, for that matter? Did our wayward friend perhaps smell something

  particularly delectable?”

  I shook my head. “No. Boden wasn’t trying to get in. Dirt's piled up on the other side. He was leaving.”"Ah, of course."

  I

  ran my fingers through the loose dirt. "If Coy’s right about where the

  trail leads, that means he must have entered from the other side—from

  the direction of the Veneer Depot.”

  Nevermore tilted his head. “So, do we know where he went after?”

  “Coy says his trail follows Meeting Street, then merges onto Durant Avenue into Park Circle.”

  “Coy can read street signs now?”

  I rolled my eyes. “No. I just those roads. Used to deliver DoorDash around Park Circle and the nearby neighborhoods.”

  Nevermore’s feathers fluffed, his amusement mild but apparent. “How convenient.”

  “It

  was a job,” I said flatly. “And yeah, that’s where we’re headed next,

  but first I want to see what Boden was up to in there.” I cracked my

  knuckles and crouched beside the opening. “Keep an eye out for me, would

  you?”

  Without

  waiting for a reply, I dropped onto my hands and knees and wriggled

  through the gap. The dry dirt clung to my turtleneck and pants as I

  pulled myself through, emerging rather ungracefully on the other side.

  Coy was already there, sniffing around like was the one taking too long. Maggie followed close behind, her nose twitching at the layers of scent hanging in the air.

  The

  southern end of the storage depot stretched before us. Rows of empty

  shipping containers lay scattered across the gravel lot, their exteriors

  bleached and rust-streaked from years under the sun. Beyond them, a

  dense patch of undeveloped woods pressed against the perimeter, a

  utility road snaking through the trees.

  Between

  the privacy fence and the lot, a pair of train tracks cut through the

  landscape—the same tracks Nevermore had mentioned. These tracks branched

  off from the main CSX line about half a mile north, then continued

  southward, converging with several other lines that carved their way

  down the spine of the Charleston peninsula before terminating at the

  ports along the Cooper River.

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  I

  bolted across the tracks, the dogs keeping pace, and slipped into the

  shade of the thicket of trees at the southern end of the depot. The air

  was thick with the scent of vegetation, laced with the faint tang of

  diesel and iron. But beneath that, something else caught my attention.

  A scent—familiar and distinct.

  I slowed, inhaling carefully. Ralph Lauren cologne. The same one from before.

  My stomach tightened. The man from the Veneer Depot had been here too.

  And Boden had followed him.

  Pushing

  through the underbrush, we emerged into a dilapidated parking lot,

  half-swallowed by nature. Cracks in the pavement had given way to weeds

  and goosegrass, slowly annexing the space back into the wild. The

  weathered benches and rusted lamp posts suggested it had once been a

  public space—probably a small park for the nearby subdivision before the

  CSX Intermodal, or maybe the Charleston Port Authority, expanded their

  footprint.

  Now, it was little more than a leftover convenience, an informal parking lot for the employees.

  “Maggie, Coy,” I gestured toward the rest of the depot, “see where Boden's trail leads.”

  Maggie

  took off without hesitation, nose to the ground. Coy trotted after her

  at a leisurely pace, his entire demeanor suggesting he'd get to it when

  he got to it. I had a feeling they’d turn up more of the same—Boden

  tailing the cologned man, the man combing the depot.

  Still, I wanted confirmation.

  Left

  alone, I wandered toward the rusting waste bin near the lot’s edge. A

  discarded can sat at the top. I plucked it free, turning it over in my

  hands—a Java Monster energy drink—the Mean Bean flavor.

  Lifting it to my nose, I sniffed.

  Cologne.

  Nevermore

  landed atop a bent lamppost, watching me with what could only be

  described as amusement. “Tell me, does this piece of trash inspire any

  great revelations?”

  I

  exhaled through my nose, already irritated. “A guy who drinks this

  probably doesn’t make the best life decisions. That, or he’s pulling an

  all-nighter.”

  “Perhaps both,” Nevermore mused.

  Sighing,

  I sank onto a weathered bench and peeled off my socks. The sticky

  fabric resisted, clinging to my skin before finally peeling free. I

  tossed them to the far side of the bench alongside my shoes, then tucked

  my hands under my knees, swinging my feet slightly to air them out. It

  was impossible to think clearly when my feet felt like they were

  marinating in their own misery.

  Opening

  my bag, I brought out Elmo and placed him on my head—preemptive damage

  control. I still wanted nothing to do with him, but if I had to spend

  the day with his company, I'd rather not spend it with my blood pressure

  through the roof.

  Exposure therapy.

  “So,” I muttered, glancing up at Nevermore, “I don’t think this guy’s a thief anymore.”

  Nevermore tilted his head. “Oh? And what led you to this sudden realization?”

  I

  gestured toward the trash can. “Boden ate that sandwich back at Veneer,

  yeah? But this guy didn’t just drop his trash on the ground. He carried

  it over to a waste bin and threw it away—same with this can. That’s…

  weirdly conscientious for someone cutting through fences.”

  Nevermore ruffled his feathers. “Perhaps he fancies himself a gentleman criminal?”

  “More

  like someone trying to keep a low profile,” I said, tossing the can

  back into the bin. “Maggie placed him here around two in the morning.

  He’s drinking a Monster, poking around in shipping containers—but

  doesn’t even bother with the equipment or vehicles.”

  “Ah,” Nevermore said, intrigued. “A stakeout, then?”

  “Either

  that or he was looking for something,” I replied, rubbing the bridge of

  my nose. “Maggie traced his scent across most of the Veneer depot. I

  suspect we'll find the same here. I think he was looking for something

  stashed in one of the containers. Maybe a drop site. Could be drugs—or

  something else.”

  Nevermore

  fluttered down to a lower branch, considering. “Could he be law

  enforcement? Trying to follow up on a tip? You know, like a drug bust.”

  I snorted. “Hardly. He cut the fence back at Veneer. Doesn’t exactly scream .”

  “But it

  suggest a private detective,” Nevermore countered. “It wouldn’t be

  unusual for one of them to operate in the gray areas of the law. That

  might explain his methods—questionable, but not outright malicious.”

  “Maybe,”

  I admitted. “It would explain how he knew about this parking lot. It’s

  not visible from the road, and, unless you’ve been here before, you

  wouldn’t think to take the utility road to reach it. Someone had to tell

  him about this place.”

  Nevermore nodded. “Which means he has an informant. And possibly a lead worth following.”

  I scoffed. “As if.”

  Nevermore fluffed his feathers. “Ah, but I like mysteries. Do you really want nothing to do with him?”

  “Nope.” I shook my head. “Not my problem. I’m here for Boden, not to stick my hand into a possible wasp's nest.”

  “That’s assuming Boden followed him because the man fed him. And were he a regular dog, I’d be inclined to agree. But Boden’s not a regular dog, now is he?”

  I

  sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. “Yeah… that part doesn’t sit right

  with me either. Too coincidental. But if Boden’s magic quirk is somehow

  involved, that’s all the more reason to stay out of our mystery man’s

  business."

  I

  stretched my legs, brushing the dirt off my soles before sliding my

  socks back on with a grimace. Scooping up Elmo, I placed him back in my

  bag.

  Nevermore eyed me for a long moment before hopping back onto the lamppost. “So what now?”

  I

  laced up my shoes. “Coy said Boden’s trail continues up Durant, which

  means he was headed toward Park Circle. That’s where we’re going next.”

  I

  waited for Maggie and Coy to return, idly bouncing my heels against the

  bench as my socks continued their slow, damp redemption in the warm

  air. When the dogs finally trotted back, Maggie confirmed what I already

  suspected—our cologned mystery man had searched through multiple

  containers before heading back to his car, with Boden in pursuit to

  parts unknown.

  With

  that, we slipped back out through Boden's hole, and made our way to the

  car. I started the engine and pulled onto the road, heading toward Park

  Circle.

  I

  pulled into the Park Circle Community Center lot, slipping into a tight

  space just as the previous occupant backed out. True to its name, Park

  Circle sat at the heart of a perfect wheel—an expansive green space

  ringed by a circular road of the same name, with streets radiating

  outward like the spokes of a giant dartboard. The surrounding suburb was

  neatly divided into eighths, each slice a quiet neighborhood branching

  from the center.

  The

  park itself buzzed with life. Children’s laughter rang from the

  playground, mingling with the rhythmic creak of swings and the squeak of

  sneakers on the basketball court. The nearby dog park hummed with

  energy—a chorus of excited yips, play-growls, and the rustling of paws

  kicking up loose dirt.

  Maggie

  wagged her tail eagerly as I clipped on her leash, her enthusiasm more

  pronounced than usual. A flicker of nostalgia hit me—this had been one

  of Sandy’s regular stops, a treat for the dogs when they’d been

  particularly well-behaved.

  Coy,

  for once, chose to stay at my side instead of vanishing to parts

  unknown. Whether it was the familiar surroundings or the promise of

  fresh distractions, he seemed content to stick close. But maybe he just

  preferred company from time to time.

  We

  made our way to a cluster of water fountains near the main path. The

  fixture had three spigots: one for adults, one for kids, and one at

  ankle height for dogs. I pressed the foot pedal, and Maggie ducked her

  head to drink, lapping at the cool stream. Coy followed suit, though

  with considerably less dignity, unaware that his head was directly in

  the stream.

  I

  bent to take a drink myself, letting the cold water soothe the dry rasp

  in my throat. As I straightened, Nevermore fluttered down, landing

  gracefully on the edge of the fountain. His black eyes gleamed with

  amusement.

  “Care if I join you?” he asked, tilting his head, then body, into the stream of water, as if it were a bird bath.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed, glancing around.

  “Relax.”

  He fluffed his feathers, shaking off droplets of water. “No one is

  close enough to hear us. Besides, you’re already drawing attention in

  your own way.”

  I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ve

  been panting ever since you stepped out of the car,” he noted, entirely

  too pleased with himself. “Quite the sight, really.”

  “It’s not as if I can stop,” I muttered. “I’d keel over from heat stroke if I did.”

  Nevermore let out a soft chuckle. “Never imagined lycanthropy to have so many… peculiarities.”

  I scowled. “Says the bird bathing in a water fountain.”

  “Which,”

  he said, fluffing his wings and sending a fine mist of water onto the

  pavement, “is a perfectly normal behavior for a bird.”

  I rolled my eyes and stepped away, heading toward the community center.

  Nevermore

  shook out his wings before taking to the air, circling high before

  settling in a small tree near the building’s entrance. He took a

  deliberately roundabout route, aiming to appear unremarkable—just

  another bird finding a perch.

  Except that this bird was a raven, which meant he draw attention. A few onlookers paused to snap pictures of him, their focus fixed on the striking sight.

  Meanwhile, I—a woman panting like a dog and wrapped in what appeared to be a fur coat—drew none at all.

  As

  I approached the notice board outside the center, I scanned the pinned

  flyers, my eyes skimming over the usual jumble of community events, lost

  pets, and service ads. Pulling out my phone, I scanned the QR code

  leading to the center’s Facebook page. Might as well check if anyone had

  posted about Boden.

  Nevermore’s voice drifted softly from the tree behind me. “Is it unusual to see so many missing dog flyers?”

  I

  frowned, glancing around to make sure no one could hear us before

  replying. “Not really. It’s almost the Fourth of July—people are

  probably already lighting fireworks. Happens every year. Pets freak out

  and run off.”

  “Mm.” Nevermore didn’t sound convinced. “And Boden?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  As

  the page loaded, I scrolled through the latest posts. More missing

  pets—mostly dogs. The sheer number made my stomach tighten.

  I hesitated, then exhaled. “Okay, I’ll admit, it’s a little weird.”

  “Only a little?”

  “Yeah, but it’s not our problem,” I muttered, tucking my phone away. “Let’s go.”

  We

  left the park, heading south in the direction Coy had last picked up

  Boden’s trail. I kept to the edge of the sidewalk, steering clear of

  joggers and other dog walkers. The less anyone noticed me, the better.

  Nevermore flew ahead, doubling back every so often, a dark silhouette

  against the bright afternoon sky.

  For

  someone who used to be a person, he made a damn convincing bird. The

  way he banked smoothly on the wind, perched without hesitation, and

  preened with effortless ease—it all looked natural. Maybe it was. Maybe

  being stuck in that body for so long had chipped away at whoever he’d

  once been.

  The thought was amusing at first. Until it wasn’t.

  If that could happen to Nevermore, what did it mean for me?

  I'd

  had to believe myself to be a wolf in human skin to prevent my body

  from trying transformation back into a normal human. A palliative trick

  to mitigate the fact that I didn't yet have the strength to properly

  transform without help.

  Deep down, I knew who I was, that I was just pretending.

  But sometimes I forgot.

  Sometimes the sensation of fur beneath my clothes, the shape of my teeth, the steady rhythm of panting—it all felt natural.

  Perfectly normal.

  Would

  there come a day when I stopped thinking of myself as a person? When

  the instincts stopped feeling like intrusions and just became... me?

  I

  glanced down at Maggie and Coy trotting ahead, their ears swiveling,

  noses sorting through the layered scents of the neighborhood. Their

  tails wagged, and they, for all intents and purposes, seemed rather

  content with everything.

  I

  suppose that if the day ever came where I stop being myself, I

  hopefully wouldn't be as stressed as I was now.

  Not a bad consolation

  prize when you thought about it.