Chapter Twenty One

  I

  ran down the parkway, squeezed between the road guardrails on the right

  and traffic flying by on the left. The Glenn McConnell had no sidewalk,

  just a wide shoulder—meant for broken-down vehicles and not

  pedestrians. But you could use it for jogging, if you were feeling

  particularly suicidal.

  I

  didn't have far to go, and reached the next intersection in just a few

  minutes. I cut to the right, onto Baird Cove, diving into the winding

  streets of Providence Common residential area.

  Maggie followed behind me, the gap between us widening with every second.

  I

  was running as fast as I could, though that didn’t make me particularly

  fast. Being a werewolf didn't mean I was blessed with supernatural

  cardio. But Maggie—well, she wasn’t exactly spry either. She struggled

  to keep up, holding her leash in her mouth after I'd instructed her to

  follow behind, and I’d mentally relayed a quick set of directions—where

  to meet if we got separated.

  West

  Ashley City Park sat just on the other side of Providence, and it was

  my best shot at waiting out the moonrise. The park was surrounded by a

  dense stretch of woods that, according to Google Maps' satellite images,

  was riddled with old logging trails and footpaths. More importantly, it

  connected to a larger expanse of forest—the same one bordering Sandy’s

  property. If I snuck through the park, I’d have a shot at getting home

  unseen.

  It

  was about a mile and a half, start to finish—and technically a little

  further than taking the parkway to the CSX line and following that home.

  But it also meant running straight through a heavily populated area.

  And at this rate, that was exactly where I’d be when the transformation

  hit—so, not ideal timing.

  A lady needed her privacy, after all.

  At

  the second right on Baird Cove, I turned onto Wayah Drive—the final

  stretch. After two rights, and the park would be on my left. Just a

  hundred yards to go.

  I

  was huffing and puffing by now, my lungs burning. I was developing a

  stitch in my chest and my body felt like it was in an oven. Poor cardio,

  plus a lack of perspiration, and I was on the verge of suffering from

  heatstroke

  I might have been born in the south, but that didn't mean I was built for it.

  Soon,

  I reached what I thought was a back utility entrance to the park, and

  was horrified to find a prominent pedestrian entrance instead.

  And there were pedestrians.

  Thank you, outdated Google Maps.

  Worse yet, the woods I’d counted on for cover had been completely clear-cut. You could see straight through them.

  I

  didn’t have time for a new plan. I’d over-committed, and the moon was

  already beginning to peak over the horizon. The light wasn’t visible

  yet—not with the sun still up—but I could feel it. A phantom tide rising

  in my blood.

  I

  swerved around a family of four just exiting the park—no time to be

  polite, just a breathless “Oops, shit, sorry,” as I nearly bowled over

  their seven-year-old. In my defense, they were taking up the entire

  width of the trail. And I’d even stuck to the right side—as per proper

  trail etiquette.

  Really, if they were mad at anyone, it should be themselves.

  Hopefully,

  in the abrupt, momentary chaos, they hadn’t notice my tail. Damn thing

  had slipped out again. Like it had a mind of its own.

  I

  made it to the bend in the path, where it turned left toward the park

  proper—wide open fields, a playground, all the usual amenities—and

  promptly turned right instead.

  I

  broke into the trees, pushing through the saplings and low hanging

  branches, breath ragged. The shift was creeping in. Heat flooded through

  me, seeping into every cell, lighting up every nerve. My bones ached,

  muscles coiling tight under the pressure of a transformation trying to

  take hold. I forced myself forward, deeper into the woods. I needed

  distance. Needed cover.

  Deeper

  into the woods were thickets of scrub palms—a staple of the southern

  maritime forest. Low to the ground but densely packed.

  They'd have to do.

  Each

  step became harder. My vision blurred, shifting between human and

  something else, my body spasming as it realigned itself to the will of

  another. My fingers curled, twitching, nails thickening into claws. I

  stumbled, then fell to the ground as the transformation took over.

  Though

  it wasn’t pleasant, it wasn’t as painful as on previous nights.

  Probably because I’d been half-shifted all day. A silver-lining to an

  otherwise botched attempt to shift on my own. Last night had even been

  seamless—comparatively—but only because I’d woken the wolf early and let

  her take over.

  That wasn’t an option right now. I needed her to stay asleep for as long as possible.

  Besides, I didn’t need her for this. I’d learned a few tricks of my own.

  Just had to visualize. Had to imagine myself as a wolf.

  While

  lying in Sandy’s backyard, struggling to control my body, I’d realized

  something: I could shift based on how I pictured myself. If I thought of

  myself as a wolf, a wolf I would be. The only reason I failed before

  was because I lacked the power, or perhaps focus, to complete the

  transformation by myself.

  But now, I had the moon.

  The

  shift came faster this time—quicker, cleaner. Muscles stretched, limbs

  contorted, my jaw lengthened, ears pulled upward. I wasn’t fighting it. I

  wasn’t losing to it, either. I just pictured myself as nothing more

  than a wolf in human clothes, wearing a human suit, and shaking them

  off, leaving them behind.

  And just like that, I was a wolf.

  The world sharpened. The sounds of the forest deepened into something richer, more layered.

  I stood on four legs, and stumbled, still tangled in my own clothes.

  I

  huffed, shook out my fur, then fumbled with my front paws—claws

  catching on fabric, limbs moving awkwardly until I forced myself to

  focus. Hands. I needed hands. Or something close enough. Like opposable

  paws.

  Had to believe myself a wolf, but one with thumbs.

  The

  results were… functional. My paws flexed, the digits shifting just

  enough to let me grip my shirt with my claws, and wriggle free.

  I stashed my clothes and shoes beneath the scrub palms, pawing some leaves over them for good measure.

  Then I turned to my purse.

  I

  braced it against the ground and, using my modified paws, finagled the

  zipper open before poking my nose inside to check on my troublesome

  little occupant.

  Elmo scuttled out and onto my head.

  I’d

  tried not to jostle my bag too much while running, but even then it

  couldn’t have been pleasant for him—what with the gun, phone, and other

  odds and ends bouncing around in there. And this next leg of the journey

  wasn’t going to be any smoother. So, better to let him ride on the

  outside.

  And if he couldn't hang on, well... it wasn’t like I'd miss the not-so-little bane of my existence.

  But, I wasn't worried about losing him. JT had said it himself—Elmo was a clingy little fellow.

  A clingy little pain in the ass.

  I mentally projected toward him.

  Unrepentant,

  he tapped one leg against my skull and climbed over my bag's strap as I

  slid it over my head. I hung my purse around my neck in the style of a

  Saint Bernard’s barrel as I lacked the shoulders to carry it normally.

  A rustle in the underbrush made me turn.

  Maggie emerged at a brisk trot, then hesitated when she caught sight of me. Her ears twitched, tail stiff, eyes wary.

  I projected, trying to reassure her.

  She took a cautious step forward.

  Last

  night my wolf had been… assertive with the other dogs. Not outright

  aggressive, but dominant. The younger ones had instinctively deferred to

  her, almost eagerly. Even Coy, who considered himself the self-elected

  leader of the household, had been enthusiastic about being usurped.

  But

  Maggie—Maggie was older. She held a senior position in the household

  hierarchy, and was one of the dogs Sandy and JT entrusted to keep the

  others in line.

  Having

  the wolf suddenly take charge had been disruptive. When the caretaker

  of the house—me—whom Maggie was tasked by JT and Sandy to assist,

  suddenly pulled a 180 on everything. Becoming a completely different

  person. A completely different creature.

  It had been awkward for her. For both of us really.

  But I wasn’t the wolf. I was still me. AJ. Just in the body of a wolf.

  Which meant I didn’t know shit about canine etiquette, or procedures, aside from the little I’d picked up watching .

  Sure, I’d researched wolves a bit, but I’d focused more on their

  dietary needs, which, as Solomon had pointed out, was still lacking.

  So, not sure what the right move was, I improvised.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  I approached Maggie.

  She

  shrank away as I drew near—and who could blame her? I was a 130-pound

  wolf. She was a seventy-something-pound German Shepherd. I dwarfed her.

  And like the night before, she ducked her head and tucked her tail—a

  sign of non-aggression.

  But unlike the night before, she was dealing with me, not the wolf.

  So I patted Maggie on the head.

  With my paw.

  It felt like the human thing to do.

  I sent the thought her way, along with flashes of memory—our time at

  church, the trip to the storage unit, hiking through the woods,

  searching the depots. Bits and pieces of our day together to make it

  clear that, despite the makeover, she was still dealing with the same

  person.

  Maggie lifted her head, sniffed me tentatively, then let out a low huff and flicked her tail.

  I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I could feel the release of pent up tension from her.

  So I took it as a good sign.

  I relayed our route home to Maggie, and we took off into the woods. Together.

  Movement in this form came easily. More easily than seemed… natural.

  Despite

  having spent little—if any—time as a quadruped, my paws found traction

  without thought. My body adjusted instinctively to every shift in

  terrain. It was effortless, the way I weaved through underbrush, the way

  I ran.

  Had

  I picked it up from the wolf, through some secondhand experience? Or

  was it something else—like her instincts were bleeding over from her

  sleeping mind into mine? Now that the moon had risen, had the part of

  her that dwelled in my subconscious risen to the forefront, blending

  into my own?

  Convenient as it was, it was no less unsettling.

  Because my paws, my body, felt

  to me—like this was how I’d always been. As if it weren’t just my body

  being changed by the moon, but part of my mind as well. And if my

  mind—my identity—was fundamental to returning to being human, then this

  jaunt through the woods was far more dangerous than it appeared.

  Because at any moment, some fundamental switch in my mind could flip.

  I’d wake up, and I would be the wolf.

  And the AJ that I was would be nothing more than a dream, soon forgotten.

  I

  had to stay vigilant during this twilight period, this transition from

  day to night—a time when the human part of me swapped places with the

  wolf. It was a time when our two selves were most likely to get… mixed.

  Lingering too long in each other’s minds blurred the line between where I

  ended and she began.

  And to say I was still in control was a misnomer.

  I

  was a wolf. This was her body. One she could take back from me with

  ease. I was the subconscious now, and I was only in control because

  she’d elected to sleep in.

  But you could say she wasn’t so much asleep as sleepwalking.

  Part of her probably knew what I was up to. What I was planning. She was probably watching me even now.

  Like I was the dream that she was having.

  I’d

  dreamt of her often—felt her instincts, her memories, her actions, of

  the nights she was in control, as if they were my own. So why wouldn’t

  she dream of me and my actions? Perhaps, in those dreams, she forgot

  that she was a wolf, just as I sometimes forgot I was human.

  The thought sat uneasily in my chest—that the wall between us could erode from both sides.

  I ran faster.

  The

  path I’d chosen ran along the southwest side of West Ashley Park, then

  cut across Trinity Bible Church’s parking lot. Their sign out front

  announced a Bible study at 6 PM, but it was now past 8. The lot was

  empty. No congregants, no stragglers.

  No problems.

  Maggie

  kept pace beside me, her breathing even, but I could tell she was

  working harder than I was. She could keep up appearances, but through

  our mental link, I could sense her strain. Even at a leisurely trot, I

  was still outpacing her.

  I needed to cover a lot of ground before sunset, but I didn’t want to leave her behind. Not this far from home.

  I

  led Maggie across the road and into the stretch of woods that split

  Cypress Cove in two. From here, we had a straight shot into the deeper

  forest bordering Sandy’s property.

  An

  old utility road ran toward a residential storage facility, not unlike

  the one I used, and, beyond that, an abandoned logging trail cut through

  the woods. That trail would take us almost all the way to the CSX line,

  with just a few hundred feet of woods separating the two.

  Just had to get across Church Creek first—which posed more of an obstacle than I’d initially thought.

  The

  creek itself wasn’t particularly deep or wide, but the land surrounding

  it for dozens of yards in either direction was pure marsh. Which meant

  the banks were made of a special material we Charlestonians liked to

  call .

  Pluff

  mud was a dark, grayish brown, all natural sludge, that smelled like

  rotten eggs—rich in hydrogen sulfide. A scent ingrained in the psyche of

  anyone who grew up in and around Charleston. It had a consistency

  somewhere between wet clay and quicksand. And, if you stepped onto it,

  you’d immediately be pulled in up to your waist. It could be easier

  three to four feet deep in places, and would form an airtight seal

  around whatever sank into it. Wading through it was an absolute slog,

  sure to suck the very shoes off your feet. More than a few people had

  died trying to wade through marshes like these, getting trapped in the

  mud while the tide rolled in.

  And

  even if you did manage to fight your way through, you’d emerge covered

  head to toe in a thick coating of it. When it dried, it flaked off in

  chunks, like you were a molting insect. It would ruin any clothing that

  wasn’t made of pure rubber, and it would take weeks to wash all the fine

  sediment out of your hair.

  But, hey, at least it kept the insects away—the stench was as repugnant to them as it was to most humans.

  That

  said, I had no intention of taking a third shower tonight, and I

  doubted the wolf would appreciate spending the night caked in drying

  pluff mud either. I didn’t feel beholden to her in any way, but I could

  do her this one favor and stay out of the muck.

  But, wait. There's more.

  As

  if the marsh wasn't precarious enough, it was also full of razor-sharp

  oyster beds. No coastal Carolinian worth their salt was without a scar

  from them—whether from shucking oysters, stumbling through the mud, or,

  like my brother, having one slice clean through the sole of his boot and

  into the bottom of his foot.

  Oysters didn’t fuck around.

  So wading through the creek meant getting caked in mud and cut to shit. Not a desirable option.

  Luckily, I already knew of a solution: a bridge.

  I’d

  spotted it on Google Maps—which at this point I was learning to

  question. But, it was clear that a bridge had, at some point, been built

  at a narrow point in the creek, right where the old path I was on

  crossed the creek.

  But, as I’d suspected, when I arrived, the old bridge was gone.

  All

  that remained were the skeletal remains of its supports and their

  crumbling foundations. Still, the creek was much narrower here, and what

  was left of the bridge spanned the marsh. I could swim across—or, hell,

  I could probably even jump it.

  But that still left Maggie.

  The

  creek might have been narrow, but it flowed swiftly, the waters

  channeled through a smaller opening. While I could swim across just

  fine, I worried Maggie would be swept away. She was already tired as it

  was.

  But, maybe I could carry her.

  Though, to do that, I’d need to make some changes—to myself.

  I

  exhaled, focusing inward, testing the limits of my control. I pictured

  the form I’d taken while fighting Monty—the raw strength, the way my

  body had moved.

  And I began to shift.

  Something

  about the moon’s presence seemed to make my body more... malleable. The

  change wasn’t painful like before. It wasn’t even difficult. I even

  pushed myself upright onto two legs as it happened, still able to move

  while the transformation ran its course.

  One

  second, I was a wolf. The next, I was standing—taller, though still a

  bit hunched, my back claws curling against the old wooden planks of the

  ruined bridge.

  Last

  night, the wolf had taken over effortlessly. And while it still took

  some effort for me, I could do it too—just needed to focus.

  Maggie hesitated, stepping back as I approached. She eyed me warily, like she knew I was up to something.

  And it seemed she wanted no part in it.

  “Now, now. Calm down. This won’t take but a second,” I assured her.

  Maggie wasn’t convinced. She continued to retreat.

  “A-a-a! ” I commanded, and she reluctantly plopped her butt down, and I felt the trepidation rising within her.

  I

  scooped her into my arms, bridal style. For seventy-something pounds of

  dog, she felt surprisingly light. She made a whimpering sound, clearly

  not used to being carried so gingerly.

  “Oh, don’t be a big baby. This’ll be over soon.”

  I

  stepped back from the bridge, judging my distance, before rushing the

  gap. Then, with a hop, skip, and a bounding leap, I launched us across

  the creek.

  Maggie let out a startled little as I landed on the other side. My footing was solid, but not exactly smooth.

  I set her down and ruffled her ears. She swayed on her feet, a little dizzy but otherwise fine. Not thrilled, but fine.

  “You good?” I asked.

  Maggie let out an irritated huff.

  I

  relayed to her that she’d have to make her way back home on her own at

  this point. As much as I hated the idea, time was short, and I couldn’t

  wait for her anymore.

  “When you get home, wait on the porch for Coy to let you in. Can you do that?”

  Maggie confirmed she would.

  I

  ruffled her mane and pulled her into a brief hug. I conveyed my

  thoughts to her, letting her know how thankful I was that she’d been by

  my side the entire day.

  Sure,

  it wasn’t that big of a deal—I was just trying to save time by running

  ahead. But I could sense Maggie’s frustration with herself.

  She

  was a dog, not a sage, and I could tell she couldn’t quite wrap her

  head around the fact that she was getting old. Today had been the first

  time she had tested her limits in a while, and she hadn’t liked the

  results.

  Call

  me sentimental, but I couldn't let her leave thinking she'd somehow

  failed. Not when she was also worrying about Coy and Boden too.

  If

  there was one upside to lycanthropy, it was this—this ability to

  communicate with animals. This strange, instinctual telepathy that let

  me send and receive thoughts with other dogs, and other creatures as

  well.

  Shame I couldn’t do the same with people.

  That

  kind of ability, to communicate directly with others, without words

  twisting or warping intent, would be a game changer in my life. Too

  often, what I said—or what I heard—didn’t quite match what was meant.

  Too often, meaning got tangled in the words themselves, twisted by

  misinterpretation or omission. And too often, I felt I was the one

  blamed for not reading between the lines, for not picking up on what was

  left unsaid.

  Hell,

  even when I tried to be as literal as possible, people still managed to

  assign all kinds of implicit meaning to my words. A perpetual Catch-22.

  But

  here, right now, with Maggie, I could actually convey something real. A

  genuine sense of gratitude. That she was appreciated, not being

  abandoned. That I wasn’t leaving her behind because she’d failed me.

  That she had nothing to be ashamed of.

  She was a good girl who’d done a good job.

  And I’d see her in the morning.

  “Sounds good?” I said, letting Maggie go.

  Maggie licked my ear.

  We

  parted ways. I dashed on ahead while Maggie followed behind at a more

  manageable pace. She’d be fine on her own. There was nothing in these

  woods that could harm her. Both the wolf and I had confirmed that last

  night. The route home was simple enough: follow the path, cross the

  tracks, and she’d be home sweet home.

  Soon, I was too far away to sense her thoughts. When the path curved, she slipped out of sight.

  I

  turned my focus back to myself—my body, specifically. The moon’s

  presence made shifting feel easier, more natural. Earlier, when I’d

  taken this in-between form fighting Monty, my movements had felt awkward

  and clumsy, like I didn’t quite fit inside my own skin.

  But now?

  Now, it felt... right

  Like

  my body was tailoring itself to me as I ran, making constant, subtle

  refinements, guided by the energy flowing from the moon, shaping itself

  to what I thought of as myself.

  And yet, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shift back into my human form.

  I

  could shape myself into something close—something that moved and felt

  almost like I did as a human—but that was the limit. I still resembled

  the wolf.

  My

  earlier observations suggested that the mind in control dictated the

  form. That was why I’d been able to shift back after the moon set, even

  when I hadn’t been fully conscious. So it stood to reason that it worked

  both ways—now that the moon was up, the wolf’s mind dominated even if she wasn’t fully awake.

  So while I was in control, she was still subconsciously reshaping my body into hers.

  And

  my ability to shapeshift? That also came from the wolf—or whatever it

  is she truly was. Her instincts. Her power. Her curse. Even if I was the

  one at the wheel, I was still working within that framework. I could

  twist and stretch this form into something more human-shaped, but I

  couldn’t undo the fundamental nature of what I was.

  But if that was true… then what did that mean for me?

  Even

  without the moon, the wolf had been able to transform me—effortlessly,

  in broad daylight. No moon required. And yet, even now, I had to strain

  just to regain a semblance of my human self.

  It was as if her will superseded my own.

  And every month, it was getting worse.

  With

  each full moon, her influence grew stronger. The first time I’d

  changed, it had been just for the full moon. A single night. But now?

  The shift started earlier and lingered longer. At this rate, in a month

  or two, I’d be forced to transform up to a week before and after the

  full moon.

  Being unable to work normal hours for up to half a month off work was something I simply couldn't afford.

  And it wasn’t just my body. She was getting smarter too.

  Last night, she’d understood me well enough that I could teach her how to open a door. And we'd even negotiated.

  And today she had even haggled. Over food.

  Before, she’d just been an animal. A big, dumb dog running on pure instinct. The auto-dog bouncing around in my brain.

  But now? In just a short time, she’d wised up. Becoming not only smarter, but self-aware.

  This curse wasn’t static.

  It was evolving