I hit the ground on my side with a solid “oof,” the air knocked out of me as gravel bit into my ribs. Boden landed beside me more neatly, on all fours, his whole body quivering, shaking from the force of his own tail—the oversized pup brimming with energy, ready for something exciting to happen.

  Eugene’s staff had clattered to the ground in front of us, the spell he’d been using to suspend us falling with it. I didn’t hesitate. I lunged for the staff, seized it, and flicked it into the air toward Boden.

  “Fetch!” I barked, while mentally suggesting he play a game of keep-away.

  Boden didn’t need much convincing. As soon as he caught the staff, he bolted off with it.

  I turned my attention back to Eugene. Blood trickled down his face—from his nose, freshly re-broken. Judging from the panicked flailing, it wasn’t hard to figure out why.

  Just moments earlier, Elmo had been latched to his face. A fuzzy red facehugger with an appetite for attention. Like so many before him, Eugene had underestimated how fast a creature of Elmo’s size could move. He’d swatted instinctively—a perfectly reasonable reaction, to be fair—but, like so many before him, had only succeeded in hitting himself.

  In the nose.

  Again.

  Elmo had evaded the blow by skittering up and over Eugene’s head, down the back of his neck, and straight into his jacket.

  Seemed it was Elmo's turn to tickle.

  Much like the poor worker behind the chicken wing joint, Eugene didn’t take well to having a plate-sized tarantula attached to him. Much less a plate-sized tarantula with inch-and-a-half-long fangs down his shirt.

  He broke into a storm of profanity. His expletive of choice? A rapid-fire barrage of “Shit, shit, shit!” while spinning like a dog chasing its tail. Unable to reach the spider now crawling down his spine, he crossed his arms, grabbed the hem of his jacket, and yanked it up over his head—flinging it off in one frantic, yet fluid, motion.

  Apparently, Eugene had practiced the art of rapidly removing his clothing. A peculiar skill to be sure.

  The jacket hit the ground with a heavy thud—far heavier than a normal jacket had any right to be. Magic pocket for a magic junk.

  But in doing so, Eugene had exposed his back to me.

  Neuron-activation.

  Both the wolf and I saw an opening we could exploit. I closed in fast, hesitating only to make sure I didn’t accidentally squash Elmo in the process.

  “Forpelo!” Eugene shouted, still focused on the spider, not on me. A shockwave blasted from his body like a pulse of compressed air. The force buffeted my face mane, but didn’t push me back. Seemed better suited for very close range.

  He’d come prepared—had a spell in his back pocket just for any creepy critters that came a-crawling.

  My heart lurched.

  Had Elmo been hurt?

  I scanned Eugene’s back, his shoulders—no sign of Elmo. I hadn’t seen him go flying either; a giant fuzzy red projectile would’ve been hard to miss. That meant he had to have been netted by the jacket when Eugene flung it off.

  Thank God.

  Well, this just made my job easier.

  Time for Eugene to join JT on the list of people freight-trained by a werewolf.

  The wizard detective let out a sharp gasp of surprise as I plowed into him, driving him into the ground, gravel grinding beneath us. This would’ve been a fine time for the wolf to strike at his neck, but we’d already agreed—we wanted him alive.

  See, the wolf was having one of her strange moments of clarity. An out-of-wolf experience. She’d not only been able to fathom why killing someone might be detrimental to her goals—her ability to wander freely with her pack, find good-tasting food, sleep soundly without being hunted—but it had also occurred to her that understanding the bond between her and her other—me—was important.

  Her other could be ever-presence by choice, whereas she always felt weak and tired after the moon set and the sun rose. She didn’t understand why, and wanted to change that.

  Her other wanted more control over their—our—relationship, and so did she.

  And this man, who smelled like too much cologne, knew things that could help.

  So, she needed to help her other keep him alive and mostly unharmed.

  But, maybe soften him up a bit first.

  Before Eugene could recover from his quarterback sack—assuming he hadn’t been knocked out cold again—I rolled the two of us over, bringing him on top of me. I locked his chest in a tight seatbelt grip: my right arm looped over his shoulder, my left tucked under his armpit, wrists clasped across his sternum. Then I hooked both legs around his waist and yanked him flush against my chest.

  Textbook back control. The good ol’ BJJ position known as “backpacking.”

  If pinning Eugene to the ground earlier had put him at a disadvantage, he was basically fucked now. I had him strapped down like carry-on luggage: he wasn’t going anywhere.

  And he was in the perfect position for the tried and true rear naked choke.

  Even if it was his job to identify supernatural threats for the state government, he’d gotten a little too cocky about it.

  So a lesson in humility would do him some good.

  I was basically doing him a favor.

  “Coy!” I barked, even as I tightened my grip. “Wand!”

  I figured Eugene must’ve summoned it when he tried to expel Elmo, even though I hadn’t seen it. Better to be safe.

  Coy moved, searching for his prized chew toy.

  I went for the choke, but Eugene managed to defend against it, tucking in his arms and bringing his chin down, digging the point of his jawbone into my bicep. With one hand against his face, he guarded the side of his neck, while his other gripped my wrist, trying to keep me from finishing the hold.

  This told me two things.

  First, the good detective hadn’t summoned his wand. Coy would have already found it if it had been dropped.

  Second, he knew his way around a mat.

  Or, at the very least, he understood the first rule of Brazilian jiu-jitsu: keep your enemies close—and your elbows closer.

  At best, he’d bought himself a few seconds. Because even without a proper lock, I still had the raw strength to force the choke. While I might not be the strongest werewolf that ever walked the earth, I was still much, much stronger than gangly ol’ human me.

  And, unfortunately for Eugene, he was using his right hand—the injured one—to guard his neck.

  Which meant I was currently cranking down on that bad boy.

  Poor bastard.

  While choking him out wasn’t actually my goal—it was more of a distraction, really—it still felt good to make him squirm.

  “You know,” I growled, “this could’ve all been avoided if you’d just stayed out of my personal life. But no. You had to play the nosy little detective.”

  Eugene muttered something—either a curse or the start of a spell.

  I squeezed harder. He hissed in pain.

  “Try that spell again, Eugene. I dare you. , or whatever it was. Bet it’ll launch you straight into the air if you tried it now.”

  “You know,” he shot back through clenched teeth, “you really shouldn’t cross your feet when you take someone’s back.”

  “What?”

  Before I could figure out what he meant, Eugene demonstrated.

  He locked his legs into a figure-four around my crossed ankles and flexed his hips.

  Pain shot up my legs like lightning as my ankles were driven together and hyperextended.

  I’d walked right into it—left myself wide open to a textbook counter: the ankle crush.

  In my defense, Cadence never really drilled ankle locks with me or the other women in our jiu-jitsu-focused self-defense class. It wasn’t that they were niche or ineffective, but that they were hard to practice safely. Ankles being rather flimsy little things—too easy to twist. To snap, crack, and pop.

  So while we were familiarized with the techniques, we never really put them into practice. Let alone learned how to defend against them.

  We were being trained for self-defense, after all. Not competition.

  I’d once let Cadence demonstrate one on me.

  Just once.

  And let me tell you: they hurt like hell.

  Imagine, if you would, sitting criss-cross applesauce on a hardwood floor, with your ankles stacked one atop the other. Now imagine someone coming along and jumping down right on top of them with all their weight.

  The feeling of all those little bones being crushed together—hence the name.

  And you might think having digitigrade feet would’ve protected me in some way.

  And you’d be wrong.

  If anything, it just meant Eugene had more leverage. With all that extra pressure focused into a much smaller cross-section of bone.

  It would seem that, aside from silver, a werewolf’s Achilles’ heel were, in fact, their heels.

  I howled with pain and let go of Eugene with my feet, giving him enough room to twist out of my grip and escape the chokehold.

  But that was okay. I’d gotten what I was after.

  We rolled to face each other, rising to our feet, barely an arm’s length apart.

  I reached for Eugene with my free hand, trying to prevent him from putting any distance between us.

  But Eugene shouted, “Forpelo!” Casting his spell again.

  To be fair... I had asked him to do it.

  And now I was in ideal blasting range.

  That said, it seemed my hypothesis—that some Newtonian physics still had a place in the application of magic—was, in fact, spot on.

  Without his jacket, Eugene and I were nearly equal mass—with maybe a dozen or so pounds on him to account for all the cheeseburger dinners.

  Which meant that instead of the blast launching me away from Eugene, it launched the both of us away from each other.

  Me into a nearby cargo container. Him into the side of his truck.

  Two big bangs as equal and opposite idiots collided with their respective objects.

  Stunned, but still kicking, we scrambled to our feet.

  Two fighters still in the ring.

  We drew on each other.

  Eugene brandished his wand.

  And I brandished his gun.

  His eyes widened. “How the—?”

  “Sticky fingers,” I grinned—a truly toothy smile.

  While my fingers were, in fact, still sticky with residual barbecue sauce, I was mostly referring to my own deft sleight of hand. I hadn’t bothered to complete the chokehold, because it was only meant to distract Eugene from the fact that my other hand had been busy unclipping his gun holster.

  Eugene had promised not to shoot me, but that clause was non-reciprocal.

  “Do you even know how to use that thing?” he asked warily.

  “I have a concealed carry permit, Eugene. Not to mention, I was taught to shoot with this very model,” I said, flicking off the safety and cocking the hammer. “So no more funny business or spells, or I swear I’ll cast and send you to God.”

  I took a slow, deliberate step forward.

  “Now drop it,” I said, nodding towards the wand.

  He dropped the wand, and Coy—who’d been eagerly awaiting this moment—snatched it from the air.

  “Oh! Son of a—” Eugene cursed, turning towards Coy.

  “A-ah, put 'em up.”

  Because I wasn’t stupid, I flicked the safety back on while Eugene’s attention was fixed on Coy, resting my finger on the trigger guard.

  Sure, I was still pissed, but I wasn’t reckless.

  At least, not when it came to guns.

  My dad had drilled the importance of firearm safety into my brother and me as if it were the fear of god. You always assumed a gun was loaded. And if it wasn’t, a bullet would still magically appear in the chamber—and would then go off the moment you got careless. So: constant muzzle awareness.

  And God knew Eugene had probably enchanted his gun with some bullshit magic.

  Better not to take chances.

  Considering the mountain of borderline criminal activity I’d already amassed tonight—which would surely comeback to haunt me later—the last thing I needed was to accidentally shoot someone. Even if that someone was Eugene Desmond.

  Eugene turned toward me, hands raised above his head.

  He was a pitiful sight. The blood that trickled from his nose was now trailing down his chin. His hands were covered in abrasion after being sandpapered by gravel. His mop of dark hair hung across his forehead, his face matted with dirt with raccoon-eyes due to bruising from the repeated nasal trauma.

  “All right,” Eugene said carefully, “how about we talk this out?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, that’s what I was trying to do,” I snapped. “I was just going to return your damn stick and ask a few questions—to try to figure out what the hell is going on.”

  “Given the context,” he replied, cautiously, “surely you can understand why that wasn’t going to work.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’m a big scary werewolf—”

  “—Little on the short side, really,” he muttered.

  “—So I figured you’d be a little trigger-happy, what with the thralls attacking you. Which meant I had to be more direct.”

  “By bludgeoning me in the back of the head?” he said, dryly.

  “And I apologized,” I shot back. “Hell, I even gave you useful intel to make up for it. But no, you had to be a nosy little prick who thinks he’s entitled to personal secrets.”

  He opened his mouth.

  I cut him off.

  “No. I got the conch now,” I said, wiggling the Colt in my hand. “So I’m the one who speaks. Don’t you realize that you getting all magical with me just validates my concerns?”

  “And my concerns weren’t?” he interjected.

  “They were until you decided to be an entitled prick about it.”

  Eugene made a move like he was going to say something again, but stopped—averting his gaze.

  What was this? Did I smell a concession?

  “I… may have taken things a bit too far.”

  It was a shit apology, if ever I’d heard one—but I had more pressing matters.

  “How about you do what I asked earlier and release Nevermore?”

  Eugene sighed. He snapped his fingers and, through the open window, I heard a faint clunk. And I could see something dark and feathered thudded softly to the truck floor.

  “Really?” I said. “More showmanship?”

  “It was convenient,” Eugene said.

  Nevermore alighted onto the window frame, eyes glittering. “Behold!” he crowed—and then immediately launched into verse:

  “There once was a man from Milwaukee,

  Whose hat tricks were slick and quite gawky.

  Once on a dare, he vanished a chair, and—”

  His beady eyes flicked between Eugene and me.

  “Oh? What do we have here?”

  He cleared his throat, adopting a more professional tone.

  “Ah, Miss Allison! I see you’ve made the acquaintance of the good detective.” He eyed the gun pointed at Eugene. “I take it you two got off on the wrong foot.”

  “Ixnay on the upidstay, Nevermore,” I hissed.

  He blinked. Looked at me. Then at Eugene. Then at the three dead thralls still splayed in the glow of the Bronco’s headlights. Then back to Eugene. “Am I missing something?”

  “I don’t think you were supposed to use her actual name,” said Eugene.

  “Ah. Right. Aliases. What should I have used?”

  “I think she called herself Andy.”

  “Andy? That’s just…” Nevermore gave me a disappointed look. “Couldn’t have been an ounce more creative?”

  “I was on the spot,” I retorted.

  “This would’ve been a great opportunity to go with something like, oh, I don’t know—Virginia.”

  “Why the hell would I call myself Virginia?”

  “Virginia Woolf?” Eugene offered.

  Nevermore looked at him, then back at me. “See? He gets it.”

  “Don’t enable him,” I snapped at Eugene.

  Eugene shrugged without lowering his arms, hands raised in an expression that said, “what did I do?”

  “You know… Andy” Nevermore said playfully, cocking his head, “one wonders why are you pointing a gun at the detective?”

  He glanced at Eugene’s empty holster. “His own gun, if I might add?”

  His attention shifted to Eugene, his voice bright with curiosity. “I’d love to hear this one.”

  “Yeah, Eugene,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “You tell him why I’m pointing your gun at you? I’d love to hear your explanation too.”

  “Ooh, a strategic deflection,” Nevermore said, pivoting dramatically between me, and back towards Eugene. “Seems you stand accused.”

  “What makes you think I’m the aggressor here?” Eugene protested, gesturing to his face.

  Nevermore turned back to me. “You have to admit—he looks even more rough-and-tumble than before. Did you do all that to him?”

  “He did that to himself,” I said, getting defensive in turn. “ got cocky with his own magic and smacked himself in the face with it. Literally.”

  “I was defending myself,” Eugene argued, shifting slightly. “After you attacked me.”

  “I accidentally hit you with your staff,” I snapped. “And I apologized.”

  “You gave me a concussion, then pinned me to the ground and interrogated me under duress.”

  “Oh please, like being licked by Boden qualifies as duress.”

  Boden’s head appeared around the side of the Bronco at the mention of his name, Eugene’s staff in his slobbering jaws, followed by the steady of his tail beating against the tailgate.

  “I was referring to the part where you disarmed me of my tools and weapons—and bared your teeth at me.”

  “Aww, did I menace you with my pearly whites?”

  “Yes, you did, and now you’re menacing me with my gun.”

  “Because you tried to taze me in the ass with a coin!”

  “Ahem. Children, please,” Nevermore finally interjected, spreading a wing like a referee stepping in.

  Eugene and I both shot him a look.

  "Oh, don’t give me that," he huffed, his theatrics replaced by his own mild indignation. "I’m older than the two of you combined. I assure you. This isn’t my first life, after all."

  He flapped his wings, placing himself on the ground between us, puffing his feather. "And it is painfully obvious to me that the two of you are at unnecessary odds with each other."

  Turning in a circle to face us both, his tone softening, like that of a well-meaning diplomat, he added, "So why don't you let me broker a little peace between you."

  "God help us all," muttered Eugene under his breath.

  Nevermore shot him a sideways glance. "You do realize this could have all been avoided if you hadn’t locked me in the glovebox."

  "You know damn well why I locked you in there. And you were the one that left out the part about your master being a werewolf?"

  “Wait, you two talked about me?” I said, narrowing my eyes at Nevermore. The little bastard had definitely been up to something.

  "I’d say you can’t take a joke," Nevermore said, ruffling his feathers, attention still on Eugene, "but I see you can make yourself one just fine."

  Eugene opened his mouth for a rebuttal, but Nevermore let out a loud, echoing caw. He spread his wings wide, and the air around us dropped several degrees in a moment. Cold sweeping over us just like when I'd summoned him in Sandy's pet cemetery.

  Seemed he could be melodramatic on command.

  While I didn't think much of it, Nevermore's theatrics left Eugene in stunned silence. Nevermore gracefully perched himself on the Bronco's side-view mirror, just beside Eugene.

  "Detective Desmond," said Nevermore, in a direct, albeit polite, tone, "you are currently in a compromised position. You are injured, disarmed, and at odds with a potential benefactor. Let me—"

  "Benefactor?" I cut in, throwing out a hand, palm up. "What makes you think I want to help him?"

  "Because neither you nor I know how you were turned into a werewolf, nor where to start," he replied with practiced calm. "And while Sa—uh, your employer—may be able to help you manage your condition, I doubt they have the means to properly investigate its cause either."

  He turned toward Eugene. "Whereas Mr. Desmond here, despite his... disheveled appearance, is a competent diviner, who—"

  "Oh really?" I said, hand on hip now. "A competent diviner? Then how come I beat our diviner to the finish line?"

  "Oh? You have, have you?" Nevermore turned to Eugene, his eyes glittering with curiosity. "Is there truth to this?"

  "No idea," Eugene said, glancing away. "I haven’t had the opportunity to verify—"

  "Ha! She did! Didn’t she. I can see it in your face," he cackled. "So what did she find? Our missing cache? The perp’s hideout?"

  "A slip, I think," Eugene muttered.

  "Oh, now that’s promising," Nevermore said, flapping excitedly.

  "What’s a slip?" I asked, puzzled.

  "An entrance into the Abandon," Nevermore replied, waving a wing as if it were obvious. "Now hush."

  Nevermore turned back to Eugene. "This supports the point I was trying to make. Your quarry has taken great lengths to thwart your methods of divination. You verified it yourself with your ley compass. But..."

  He turned to me again. "Ms. Allison—uh, I mean A—you know what, no, I'm calling you Virginia. It's a better alias and you know it."

  Now I opened my mouth to protest, but then I shut it.

  He was right.

  Virginia was a better alias.

  "Virginia here," continued Nevermore, "is able to track our quarry through more traditional means—one's our target seems to have overlooked."

  "Why do you keep saying 'our'?" I asked, arching a brow. "When did we agree to help him?"

  "Well," Nevermore said, fluffing his wings innocently, "you gave Coy and me the night off. And after we located Boden and the detective, I elected to offer my services to Mr. Desmond here, in exchange for his services."

  "By getting yourself locked in a glovebox."

  "Yes, I tried to lighten the mood with a little poetry and... well. He didn’t appreciate it. But that’s beside the point. Detective Desmond has the means to help you. You have the means to help him. So... how about you give the detective back his gun, and we discuss how we can be of mutual service to each other."

  "Not happening," I said. "Not until he apologizes for trying to use that coin of his on me—and promises, and I mean properly promises, to stop prying into my personal life."

  Nevermore turned to Eugene. "What is this coin she keeps talking about?"

  "It’s on the ground over there," I said, gesturing. "It’s a silver dollar he enchanted to absorb moonlight. Said it could 'reset' my transformation. Was gonna prod me in the ass with it."

  Nevermore gasped melodramatically. "You were going to discharge a moonwrought token on the poor girl? For shame, Detective. One would think you bore a grudge."

  "Whatever gives you that idea?” said Eugene, giving Nevermore a flat expression.

  A flat and battered expression.

  "Besides," he continued, "I needed to verify who she was. I can’t just take her word for it."

  "Still, don’t you think it’s a bit much?" Nevermore asked, tilting his head.

  "I may have overreacted. Alright?" said Eugene, growing frustrated. "But it wasn’t wholly unjustified."

  "A cross between a cattle prod and a branding iron, he said," I muttered.

  "Look, that was just an exaggeration to get you to talk," Eugene said. "It's not actually that painful."

  "At least, it shouldn't be," he added, almost sheepishly.

  "What do you mean 'shouldn't'?"

  He shrugged. "I’ve never had the opportunity to use it on a werewolf before."

  "So you planned to use me as a guinea pig? Is that it?"

  "Think of it more like two birds with one stone," he said. "I meant it when I said I wanted to examine that tattoo of yours. If it's related to your lycanthropy, I should be able to tell you."

  "Does that mean you can identify who made it and what it does?"

  "No," Eugene admitted, "but I have colleagues who would know. There’s a chance they’d recognize the penmanship, or find a match in the archives. Magic tattoos are like fingerprints in many ways—they can be traced to the artist."

  "Alright," I said, "but I still demand an apology."

  "For what?"

  "I apologized for hitting you, and you still tried to prod me in the butt. I don’t care if this is your job: you want to be treated like a professional, then you should act like one. That means, for starters, giving me a professional apology."

  There was probably a healthy dose of hypocrisy in what I was saying, but I was pretty sure I currently had the moral high-ground.

  And I had a gun.

  Eugene paused, then took a deep breath.

  "I'm sorry," he said in a flat tone.

  I frowned. "That doesn’t sound very genuine."

  "What do you expect from me?" Eugene snapped. "My face is a mess, my head is pounding, and you threw a goddamn spider at me. I'd say we’re even."

  My eyes widened.

  I’d been so caught up in our little standoff, I’d forgotten something important.

  "Shit! Elmo!"

  I dashed over to Eugene’s jacket.

  "Don’t you fucking move, Eugene," I barked, flipping the jacket open. "If you so much as hurt a single leg—"

  " threw it at !" Eugene said indignantly. "What if it had bitten me?"

  "Then you’d have gotten what you deserved!"

  I looked through the jacket's interior and searched the sleeves, finding them empty.

  Panic bubbled up inside me.

  "Wait, where is he?" I said, lifting up the jacket and shaking it.

  Damn, it was much heavier than it looked—probably all the magical nonsense he’d stuffed into the pockets like some kind of spell-slinging hoarder. But, in a weird way, it seemed almost buoyant. As if only some of its mass was affected by gravity.

  Would bet my ass it had something to do with more fucking magic.

  "Pretty sure it slipped into one of the deeper pockets," Eugene said, tone dry and faintly repulsed.

  "Nevermore, keep an eye on him," I said, spreading the jacket on the ground and kneeling beside it.

  "Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid again."

  I placed the gun in my jaws to free my hands.

  "I’m barely keeping the wolf from biting his head off as it is."

  Turns out, when you have wolf-like jaws, speaking with a gun in your mouth was surprisingly manageable—like talking around a pencil.

  "Must you cover everything I own in dog saliva?" Eugene bemoaned.

  I ignored him and started digging through the jacket.

  "Speaking of ," Nevermore said lightly, "wasn’t the whole point of you racing home and locking yourself away to prevent yourself from wandering the city all big, hairy, and scary? I mean, it seems to me you have rather good control of your faculties."

  "Look," I growled, "the wolf and I are working together, right now. But she's got the final say. And as I've tried to explain before: I didn’t mean to assault Eugene. I was trying to find a way to approach him without getting shot. I threw his staff at him to return it, but the wolf corrected my aim and, well… I domed him."

  "This wolf. Can you elaborate on what you mean exactly?" Nevermore asked, his tone more clinical now.

  "Yeah, my, um… my wolf. She’s kind of like an alter-ego. She’s normally the one in control during nights of the full moon."

  As I spoke, I searched the jacket for pockets I'd missed earlier. There were the two standard outside pockets, normally for one's hands, with two interior pockets for things like a phone, a wallet, and keys. Each of which went far deeper than should have been physically possible.

  But as I investigated further, I only found more and more pockets. As if someone had created a bargain-bin jacket equivalent of a Victorian writing desk. More than a dozen hidden compartments, each deeper than the last.

  "How deep do these go?" I muttered, wedging my hand into one of the inner pockets, the opening easily sliding up to my wrist without my hand ever touching the jacket's lining. Hell, without even touching the ground beneath it.

  I took my hand out and looked inside the pocket.

  And saw, well... just a normal pocket. With gas station receipts.

  An illusion?

  "And you’re consciously aware of this alter-ego?" Nevermore asked.

  "Yeah. You remember when I was eating that dog food? That was to get her to cooperate. So I could shift back," I said, sticking my hand back into the pocket.

  "I’d appreciate it if you didn’t rifle through my stuff," Eugene interrupted, sounding none too pleased.

  I gave him a withering look. "Oh, rich—coming from you."

  First my hand. Then my wrist. Then my forearm. Then, before I knew it, I was shoulder-deep.

  "What the Mary fucking Poppins is this bullshit," I muttered, twisting my arm around.

  I felt dozens of net-like pouches, as if Eugene had gotten one of those over-the-door canvas shoe organizers, wrapped it into a tube, and used it to line this pocket space.

  And all the pouches were full. With... things.

  I grabbed on of these things and pulled out what appeared to be a box turtle shell.

  .

  "How do you find anything in here?" I asked, sliding the shell back into what was probably the same pouch I'd taken it out of. Or, at least close to it.

  "I keep a good mental inventory," Eugene replied with a small shrug.

  "So how do find what I’m looking for?"

  "Guess you’ll just have to feel around. Just try not to touch anything dangerous," he said, only half-joking.

  "So, you can communicate with your wolf?" Nevermore pressed, trying to steer things back on topic.

  "Basically," I said, reaching into another pocket. "It’s not that different from talking to any other dog. Except this one lives in my head."

  To Eugene, I asked, elbow-deep in his jacket, "How do you even clean this thing when it gets dirty? Is it, like... washer machine-safe?"

  "Sort of," Eugene said. "I enchanted the wells to repel unbottled liquids. And it works... most of the time."

  The way he said it made me wonder if he’d learned this the hard way. Considering the sheer vastness of some of these pocket spaces, his jacket could easily hold a backyard swimming pool's worth of water. Suck up like a multi-dimensional sponge.

  And he said ‘unbottled’ liquids.

  Did that mean I could fill this jacket with water from a hose?

  Was there a science to this magic?

  Nevermore continued with his line of inquiry. "And your wolf? You said she made you hurt Desmond?"

  "Yeah," I replied. "She was mad at him. Thinks he intentionally stole some of her packmates."

  "Oh, come on," Eugene protested, exasperation bleeding into his voice. "That’s not my fault."

  "Hey, I didn’t say it was," I shot back. "I'm just explaining."

  I grabbed hold of something furry, hoping it was Elmo, and gently pulled it free from the pocket.

  It was... not Elmo.

  Whatever I was holding looked kinda like a ferret. Or maybe a squirrel. Something in that general rodent-adjacent family. But the poor thing had either been badly taxidermied or left to mummify in the jacket's enchanted crawlspace. Its fur was patchy, limbs stiff, and its eyes long since shriveled into sunken hollows.

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  I held it out to Eugene. "Is this supposed to be in here?"

  "It's a dehydrated vermisprex," Eugene said quickly, and recoiling slightly. "Put it back."

  .

  I wrinkled my nose and slid the thing back into the pocket, doing my best not to shudder.

  No telling if Eugene had been serious, or if "dehydrated vermisprex" was just his way of covering for the fact that some unlucky woodland critter had wandered into his enchanted clothes and died.

  Then again.

  It had had six legs.

  "Wait—" I paused, a worrying thought occurring to me, "—is there air in these pockets? Elmo’s not going to suffocate in here, is he?"

  "No," Eugene said. "Only the pocket with the ziplock tab is airtight. I use that one to store anything that, uh... smells a bit pungent."

  Now this? This caught the wolf's attention.

  She liked pungent smells.

  Which meant I proceeded to locate the pocket in question—on the inner right side—and, at the wolf's behest and my own morbid curiosity, I unzipped it and stuck my nose in.

  The scent rushed out in layers.

  I caught dried sage and rosemary, something like bay leaf but with the faint odor of mildew. There was the thick aroma of frankincense, mixed with something vaguely sweet and peppery—maybe anise or clove. I caught the tangy bite of vinegar, followed by something distinctly medicinal—iodine and rubbing alcohol. Definitely some formaldehyde.

  Another edge rode up through my sinuses after that, something acrid and gassy, like floor cleaner and other ammonia-laced solvents. Metallic hints surfaced the longer I sniffed—like iron filings and oxidized copper. Deeper still, I caught the funk of old mushrooms, something damp and earthy, and, just under that, a soft whiff of sulfur that clung to the back of my throat.

  It made my eyes water.

  Yet, out of all the smells, one stood out above all the rest.

  I pulled my nose out, sneezed, rubbed my eyes, and then reached into the ziplocked pocket.

  And pulled out a McDonald’s cheeseburger.

  Still in the wrapper. Still warm.

  I’d even smelled fries in there somewhere too.

  I held it up to Eugene. "You use it as a lunchbox?" I asked, sounding more appalled than I'd intended.

  "No. Not if I can help it," Eugene said with a grimace. "Again, please don’t actually touch my things."

  "You sure it's safe to keep food in same place you store formaldahyde?" I asked, being careful not to place the burger near any of the chemical smells I'd identified. By the rosemary and sage should be fine.

  "It's the only place your damn dogs can't sniff it out," Eugene muttered.

  "So, if I may paraphrase," Nevermore interjected smoothly, "it seems your inability to control your wolf’s impulses led you to injure and become at odds with Detective Desmond."

  "Inability?" I snorted, rubbing my nose as I turned to face Nevermore. "I shouldn’t even in control right now. Not with the moon up. Do you have any idea how hard it is to convince an irrational creature to behave rationally?"

  "She asks," Eugene muttered, "while waving a gun around."

  Nevermore fluffed his feathers. "So, you’re saying this wolf—this alter-ego of yours—is agreeing to behave?"

  "Sort of," I said. "She..."

  I paused, tuning in—turning my attention inward, focusing on the wolf.

  Her emotions swirled in the background—agitated, wary.

  "She can’t make sense of most of what’s going on, but she knows I can. And now that Eugene’s yielded—" I gestured at Eugene, battered and with his hands still raised, "—she’s letting me handle things. Still on edge, though."

  Nevermore pivoted toward Eugene. "Do you typically see this with lycanthropes? This split in personalities?"

  Eugene shook his head. "Can’t say I have. But lycanthropy is more of a symptom than a cause. Like pneumonia—lots of things can trigger it. It could be the result of a psyche fractured due to the same magical trauma that turned her into a werewolf. Or, she might be possessed by a wolf-like spirit such as an amarok or a barghest. There’s also the possibility she was naturally predisposed to psychiatric disorders, which became exacerbated when she acquired her abilities. That could also explain why she can’t control them very well."

  "Would you stop diagnosing me like I’m not in the room?" I growled, irritation bristling up my spine. "The last dickheads that did that said I had PCOS and put me on birth control."

  Eugene and Nevermore looked at me, then back at each other.

  "Perhaps we can leave speculation for another time," Nevermore said, smoothing his tone. "When we have more concrete facts at our disposal."

  "Fine, fine," Eugene relented. "I only meant to say that lycanthropy is not a singular phenomenon—more of a broad classification."

  Well, that was a long-winded way of saying: it's complicated.

  He looked at me. "So—uh... Can I put my arms down now?"

  "No," I said. "Besides, keeping them raised will help with the swelling."

  Gun back in my mouth, I slid my hand back into another pocket space—one of Eugene's so-called wells.

  "Hey, here’s a question," I said, side-eyeing Eugene. "How the hell has no one noticed you doing all your little magic tricks? You’ve seriously never gotten caught on camera?"

  Eugene raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think I haven’t?"

  That gave me pause. "Wait. So you been caught on camera?"

  "Let me ask you this," he said, shifting slightly. "Say you came across a video of someone summoning a… let’s say something flashy, like a fireball. What would you think?"

  "That it was either good video editing or a cool party trick."

  "Exactly." He leaned back against the side of the Bronco. "Most people wouldn’t believe it. Especially not with how advanced video-editing tools have gotten."

  "Okay, but plenty of people believe it. Isn’t that risky? Doesn’t that, I don’t know, put a target on your back?"

  "And if they did believe it, what then?" he asked.

  "Wouldn’t someone try to expose you?"

  He shrugged. "How? Take a video and send it to the news? I’m sure it’d be on the front page by morning."

  I narrowed my eyes. "No, I mean post it online. Like Facebook or TikTok. Facebook’s got, like, three billion users. TikTok’s got a billion more. That’s a lot of eyes."

  "And?"

  "And you’ll be ."

  "And?"

  I threw up a hand. "Isn’t that a thing?"

  He gave me a look. "Consider the following: Facebook alone generates about four petabytes of data every day. That’s almost fifty times the contents of the Library of Congress. Generated every day. And TikTok? Over twenty million videos uploaded daily."

  "Want to do the math, oh Ms. Accountant?" he added dryly.

  "Wait. How'd you—"

  "Nevermore told me."

  "Goddamnit, Nevermore."

  "What?" Nevermore said innocently. "It was a harmless little factoid."

  "Okay," Eugene picked back up. "So, the average length of a TikTok video is about thirty seconds, which equates to almost seven thousand hours of content generated ."

  I blinked. "...okay?"

  "So who the hell has enough time, or the attention span, to separate all the real videos from the fake or staged?"

  Eugene let that sink in a bit before continuing.

  "Now, I can tell you for a fact that TikTok, Facebook, YouTube, and all the other media sites are rife with real footage of real magic, supernatural phenomena, and the like. And, even knowing that, you'd be hard-pressed to figure out the real from the rest.

  "Hell, most of the fake videos look more realistic than the actual ones.

  "You see, the trick is to let the truth obfuscate itself. There's no need to hide it. There was a short period of time when cameras and recorders were both sufficiently ubiquitous and trusted enough to be an actual problem for the world of magic at large. But that time has passed. Even if you manage to get yourself too much attention, all you have to do is lay low for a week, tops. And people will move on and forget."

  I turned to look at Nevermore. "Nevermore, is he being real or just full of shit?"

  Nevermore gave the bird equivalent of a shrug. "You do recall that I’ve been away for the better part of fifteen years. And I’m absolutely astounded by how much technology has changed in that time. And yet, we’ve never been back to the moon. At least not officially. Humans do the darnedest things with technology. Daresay our detective is currently the only expert we have on magic in the 21st century."

  I turned back to Eugene. "Okay, but what about security cameras? You trespass, and there’s surely film of you somewhere to prove it."

  "Same problem," Eugene remarked with a shrug. "Too much footage, and not enough people watching it. Besides, most surveillance systems are privately owned and only reviewed if property gets damaged or stolen. It’s really just about insurance. Even if someone did see me, they'd still have to go through the hassle of pressing charges."

  He smiled faintly. "Besides, I often cast some magic for the cameras anyway. Makes the whole thing look staged. And even if it ever got reported, and taken seriously, it’d just end up on the desk of the people I already report to."

  "And you wouldn’t get in trouble?" I asked, disbelieving.

  "That's the beauty of filling out the right paperwork," Eugene said. "Being licensed makes a huge hell of a difference. And if I’m not a headache to the higher ups, they're not a headache to me."

  "So, no," he added, folding his arms—tired of keeping them raised and likely figuring that I would have shot him by now if I actually had the intention—"I’m not too worried about someone catching me using magic."

  I couldn’t decide if he was brilliant... or just insanely naive. Maybe both.

  Column A, column B.

  "Then what’s stopping anyone, or anything, with magic committing crime and just getting away with it?"

  Eugene looked at Nevermore, and then they both looked at me.

  It was then I realized how stupid the question was.

  "You do realize that’s... quite literally my job," Eugene said. "That's why I'm here. It's—"

  "Okay, I get it," I interrupted. "So you’re saying if I caught on camera, would I be fine?"

  He tilted his head. "Did you commit any crimes that would make someone go back through the footage?"

  "Uhh, let’s, for the sake of discussion, say I did."

  Eugene gave me a flat look.

  "What? Can’t I ask a hypothetical question? I’m just curious."

  "Right. Sure," he said with a sigh. "Let’s say you—a werewolf—were caught on camera committing a crime. Unless there was a way to identify you from the footage, there’d be no way to press charges. At least, in a normal court of law. But normal laws wouldn’t apply to you anymore, because normal laws only apply to normal humans. And, from a legal standpoint, werewolves, vampires, ghouls—any supernatural entity created from a person—are no longer considered human."

  "That seems a little harsh," I muttered.

  "Look at it this way," Nevermore cut in. "Can’t have a vampire collecting Social Security, the resurrected undead receiving a life insurance payout, or a body-snatcher claiming ."

  "Most laws—and financial tools like retirement—assume a person is mortal, has a finite lifespan, and doesn’t need to eat other people to survive. Or can shapeshift, for that matter," Eugene added.

  I let out a slow breath. So I was in the clear? Kinda?

  The magical police wouldn't come after me because I stole people's dinner.

  "They would, because, here’s the thing, Allison," Eugene said. "While most people might ignore or miss weird things caught on camera, there organizations—like the DOA—that exist to deal with supernatural threats. My job, as a contracted Diviner, is to locate, identify, and report such threats. Once they’re found, a level of threat is assigned, and depending on the severity, a team is dispatched to detain or destroy the threat... as discreetly as possible."

  "But I’m a threat," I argued.

  "And that's not for you to decide. Frankly, it's not for me to decide either," Eugene said, his tone tightening. "Part of the contract that I agreed to, which lets me work across state lines, is that I must report any potential threats that fall under the DOA's jurisdiction.

  "And wouldn't you know it, but that happens to include werewolves."

  "He makes a fair point," Nevermore said. "Whether you meant to or not, you’ve put our detective in a complicated position."

  I narrowed my eyes. "And how do know so much about this process?"

  "Because Ellenore also contracted with DOA and other such organization."

  I blinked. "Really? And what did she do?"

  "She was usually on the Inquisitorial Board."

  Eugene visibly cringed. "You didn't mention that."

  "Okay... what does mean?" I asked.

  "In short, if a captured entity is human enough to be reasoned with," Eugene said reluctantly, "they’re given a trial, of sorts. A chance to avoid extermination or banishment through service. The Inquisitorial Board decides those cases."

  "Because why destroy what you can employ," Nevermore added.

  Then he perked up. "Oh, that rhymed."

  Oh, great. Even with magic, I couldn't escape the courts.

  I rubbed my temple. "Okay, look, I don't think you get it. I just want to live a normal life. One that doesn’t involve..." I waved a hand at Eugene, "whatever is. I don’t want to hurt you, didn’t mean to hurt you—but I’ll be damned if I let you take this away from me."

  I turned to Nevermore. "So can’t we—I don’t know—force Eugene to make another magic promise or something to keep his mouth shut?"

  Nevermore turned to Eugene. "See? I you she’d end up suggesting it."

  "What the hell are you talking about now?" I groaned, the sound becoming a deep rumble in my chest. I sat back, taking a break from my hunt for Elmo.

  This was starting to get to me.

  Like, really get to me.

  My brain had already been flash-fried by the nonstop chaos that had started ever since the moon began to wax, and it had only compounded day after day.

  Getting evicted from my apartment, only to take the job at Sandy's out of desperation. Getting shot at by a monkey and then letting the wolf escape into her first night in the woods, solidifying her bond with the other dogs that now drove her to seek out Boden.

  And just today alone, I'd been forced to give testimony at a church because of two birds who could use command words, was nearly squeezed to death by a giant ball python, got my car repossessed, and, in a mad dash to get home, took a ride from Judge Childs that resulted in her driving it into a ditch. Each one of these event sufficient enough from me to call it a day and just quit.

  And all that was before the moon had even risen.

  My brain wasn't just fried. It had been re-fried and toasted until it was barely more than a crunchy raisin. It was little wonder that every decision I now made came out so half-baked.

  But sure, let's see what more the night had in store.

  Because why the fuck not?

  "It’s part of the subcontractor clause," Eugene said. If he could hear my slow rolling mental breakdown, he gave no sign. "As a contracted specialist, I’m able to form a temporary pact with another person or entity in order to fulfill my assigned contract... with some stipulations."

  "Yeah, no. That sounds dubious as hell," I replied.

  "Not at all," Nevermore said lightly. "It’s basically a two-sided magic promise. But more formalized."

  I glared over at Eugene. "And how do I know he won’t twist his words again?"

  "Because unlike a basic promise, pacts are intention-bound," Nevermore said. "Intent supersedes spoken language. Most practitioners don’t even bother with standard magical oaths anymore for that reason."

  I turned to Nevermore. "Then why use them at all?"

  Eugene looked me dead in the eye. "To fool the magically ignorant."

  "Hey, you specifically asked for it," Eugene added.

  "I still don't see why I should help him complete his contract," I said, crossing my arms.

  "And for what—so he doesn’t tell on me? Because he might know someone who can investigate my tattoo? Seems to me I’m the one getting the short end of the stick."

  "Whereas, from my standpoint," said Eugene, "I’m the one doing a favor."

  I snorted. "Really? I’d say the one doing the favors. I’m basically covering your ass."

  "Has it not occurred to you," he countered, leaning forward slightly, "that whoever Kirkland is working for—or this so-called puppeteer behind these thralls—might come after ? You do realize they’re nearby? Close enough to control the thrall and the dogs they afflict. That they probably heard your howl and picked up on the compulsion you placed within it?"

  I stiffened but didn’t respond. Eugene pressed on.

  "If they’re what I think they are, then they already know about you. Where you are and what you look like. Probably a few other things too, like your smell and the path you took to get here. And they’ll either treat you as a threat, as unwanted competition—or, worse—a potential asset. Especially if they realize you can be subjected to their flavor of enthrallment."

  I remembered the sensation I’d felt earlier—the way something unseen had been watching me while I fought those three thralls. It hadn’t been distant, either. It had felt... close. Focused. Like it had been studying me.

  Could they find me again? Track me the same way I’d tracked Eugene across half of Charleston?

  The idea settled heavy in my chest. If I could follow a scent, what was stopping them from doing the same? They had the dogs to do it. What if they followed it all the way back to Sandy’s? Back to the dogs. To the house. To all the animals I was supposed to be looking after. Protecting.

  The thought of Maggie being turned into a thrall.

  My gut twisted.

  I didn’t like the answer.

  And I didn’t like that I had to ask these questions at all.

  "I think you can see why I couldn’t just let you wander off without a way to keep tabs on you. Especially when you clearly don’t know even basic magical defenses."

  "Oh really?" I said, cocking an eyebrow. "And here I have gun and have a broken nose. I think I’m defending myself just fine."

  "I meant your inability to modulate your telepathy or how to guard yourself from magical effects," he said, his tone sharp. "Right now you’re basically a beacon for anyone with a lick of magical sense.

  "See, I’m not worried about you getting injured—werewolves, and shapeshifters in general, are notoriously hard to kill." He met my eyes. "I’m worried about someone taking advantage of your magical naiveté—"

  "Like did," I cut in.

  "And turning you into a weapon," he finished. "These perpetrators have already broken several magical and mundane laws. There’s no reason to think they won’t double down."

  Eugene stopped once he notice how I curled my knees into me chest.

  He sighed, perhaps trying to re-evaluate his approach.

  Sometimes even werewolves needed to be handled with softer gloves.

  "Look, it doesn’t matter that you don’t want to be a part of this. You howled. You made yourself known. Now, we need to address this—before things escalate.

  "This pact your familiar is suggesting? It’s a reasonable compromise. By agreeing to work with me to deal with Kirkland, and the puppeteer—a mutual threat to us both—I can keep an eye on you as I’m required to, and can make sure I keep my mouth shut. And, as a bonus incentive, I can help you investigate your own magical mishap once this is all over."

  "This sounds like you’re exploiting a loophole," I muttered.

  "It sound like that, doesn’t it?" Nevermore said, fluffing his feathers. "But it is legitimate. The Oath of Secrecy—a common stipulation in pacts such as these. Bit of a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell' situation. As long as a contractor gets their job done, the higher-ups don’t need—and really —to know how it was done. Gives them plausible deniability if things get... litigious."

  I frowned. "What are the other stipulations?"

  "Well," Eugene said, "both parties have to be willing. Which means neither of us can be under duress."

  I arched an eyebrow. "What am I doing to you time that you consider so duressful?"

  Nevermore cleared his throat. "What he means to say is that you need to give him his gun back."

  I looked down at the weapon still in my hand.

  Well, I'll be damned. After all the conversational tangents, we'd come full circle.

  "You know, this could all be one overly complicated cave allegory, and I'd have no way to tell," I said slowly. "While I have every reason to believe in magic, I have no reason to trust version of things."

  I turned to Nevermore. "That goes for you too. I’d say I only trust you as far as I could throw you, but I’m pretty sure I could literally launch you farther than the crow flies."

  My voice dropped. "Hell, I don’t even trust enough to handle this kind of situation."

  "Look, I might’ve made a cheap play with that promise earlier," Eugene said, "but I did say I wouldn’t shoot you. Not a lot of wiggle room in that statement."

  I sighed. "Fine."

  I set the gun on the ground between us. "Wasn’t planning on shooting you anyway. I flipped the safety back on when you weren’t looking."

  He summoned it with a flick of his fingers, catching it in his left hand and awkwardly maneuvering it back into its holster.

  "Might want to consider switching sides," Nevermore remarked.

  "Noted," Eugene muttered.

  Once I saw the gun clipped back in place, I turned back to the jacket and resumed rummaging through it, feeling around for any stray fuzzy legs.

  "So," Nevermore said brightly, "shall I officiate our pact? I think all we need now is to hash out a few specifics, as well as the terms of pact termination."

  "I haven’t decided yet," I muttered.

  Eugene frowned. "What’s there to decide?"

  "I..." The word stuck in my throat. I paused, trying to collect my thoughts. Then I said, "I need to talk to the wolf. See what she thinks. It doesn’t matter what agree to if she’s not on board."

  It wasn’t a complete lie. The wolf’s opinion did matter. But it would be a lie to say I wasn't stalling.

  It had already been a long night. And it looked like it was about to get even longer.

  As I reached into another pocket, I realized the wolf had grown oddly calm during all this back and forth with Eugene and Nevermore. I wasn’t sure why. But maybe I could understand.

  She’d gotten everything she wanted tonight—Boden and Coy by her side, the cologned man submitting to favorable terms, the freedom to run wild through the city—mostly unseen, a meal better than she’d ever dreamed of. She’d announced herself to the nocturnal world, made her mark, showed them her strength. Sure, her impromptu entourage had scattered, but they’d seen her. They’d remember her.

  All that, and none of it would’ve been possible without help. Help from me. Her other.

  And now, the one who had once been a threat—the cologned man—was becoming something else. An ally? Maybe even, in the wolf’s eyes, a packmate.

  Sure, she didn’t understand the song and dance Eugene and I were engaged in, but she saw it for what it boiled down to: establishing hierarchy, asserting terms. Developing a working relationship that wasn't so antagonistic.

  Contracts, laws, magical nuance—those weren’t things she grasped. But I could. At least, she trusted that I could. Trusted . This other guiding her. Teaching her.

  The wolf knew she couldn’t handle this threat alone. That, if we were going to find this puppeteer, we needed help. And, if what the cologned man said was true, it wouldn't be safe for her to return home until the puppeteer was dealt with. To lead another competitor to her home, her forest? That just wouldn't do.

  But finding this threat would be tricky and complicated in this forest of lights, stone, and metal. Tricky for her, at least. But after that? Once they found the puppeteer, and the one called Kirkland—then things would be simple. Then the hunt could begin.

  Until then, she was content to let her other take the wheel while she kept watch from the shadows.

  I thought.

  I didn’t say it aloud. Tried not to think it too loud. But I couldn’t lie to her.

  I began searching the jacket again, a methodical task I could return to, checking the sleeves for more pocket spaces. Focused my mind on something simple. Ideally, I'd prefer engaging in a routine that wasn't related to magic, but sometimes you had to take what you could get.

  Meanwhile, Eugene and Nevermore had pulled slightly aside, to use the hood of the Bronco like a meeting table. Eugene to one side, Nevemore perched on a wiper, a legal pad resting on the hood between them. A pen hovered and scribbled across the page of its own accord—Eugene’s magic, presumably. He held his injured hand close to his chest while his other clutched a pack of frozen blueberries, held gingerly against the swollen wrist.

  Where'd he keep getting these things?

  That hadn't been from the jacket.

  The pen continued writing, to the rhythm of Nevermore’s legalese.

  "Clause one: no mauling or molesting each other," Nevermore said, clicking his beak. "It pains me that this has to be explicitly stated, but better to not let this escalate any further. Clause two: transport, shelter, magical first aid."

  "Fine," Eugene muttered.

  "Clause three: The subcontractor may use familiars for support roles, as long as their actions don’t hinder mission objectives or result in the familiar's harm. Clause four: The subcontractor will provide tracking, scent analysis, and physical response as needed throughout the investigation."

  Eugene paused, looked like he wanted to argue something, but let Nevermore continue. The pen continuing to scribble away."

  A few more words drifted my way: something about neutral arbitration, disclosure timelines, and a blood-seal for emergencies. But I tuned it out.

  Whatever magical paperwork they were conjuring up, I was of no use.

  Let the wizard and the raven hash it out. I had enough on my plate.

  "Where the hell is he?" I muttered angrily after several minutes and several pockets later.

  "Check the inseam pocket along the back," Eugene said over his shoulder. "It’s easy to miss. Designed it that way."

  I slid my hands down the interior lining, feeling a thin seam that separated with a tug—revealing a massive, hidden pocket. One that pretty much ran down the center from the jacket collar to the hemline.

  I blinked. "What the hell? This is huge. Why do you even this?"

  "It’s sort of a sleeping bag," Eugene replied. "When I'm on the road—Hey! don’t stick yourself in there! You need a bath."

  He'd turned in time to see me sticking my head into the pocket. I’d figured it would be too big to search by hand, and was curious to see what an inter-dimensional sleeping space looked like. What little light filtered in through the opening wasn’t much, but just enough for me to see the faint texture of soft and grey, mothball-scented fabric. Seemed Eugene had in fact lined it with an actual sleeping bag.

  But if this was the inside of the bag... what was on the outside?

  I called out mentally, twisting my head around to see if there was any red amongst grey.

  At first there was no response. Then there was a light pressure on the back of my neck as something climbed its way atop my head.

  Normal people didn’t feel to have a plate-sized tarantula with inch-and-a-half-long fangs anywhere near their face. But lycanthropy had come with a healthy dose of lunacy.

  As deranged as it may seem, relief washed through me—seemed my arachnophobia had been replaced by Stockholm Syndrome. One mental disorder swapped for another.

  I also discovered that I could apparently wag my tail.

  All this because the amount of disbelief I'd had to suspend to get this far was tantamount to psychosis. Reality was whatever I wanted it to be.

  I was Allison in Wonderland.

  Mentally, I reached out toward Elmo, checking him for any signs of pain or injury. He was unhurt. Tired, but no indication he'd been harmed.

  In fact, I got the distinct impression he liked it in here. Warm, quiet, snug. And after a long night of adventure, the guy was a little tuckered out.

  I couldn’t blame him. Hell, curling up in a pocket sounded like a damn good idea right now. And, burying my head in a pillow would be far more comfortable than burying it in the sand.

  I didn’t want to think about the decision I'd Godfather’d myself into. But now I had to make a choice I could neither refuse nor ignore.

  So I sat there, with the jacket over my head, secretly hoping that Eugene wouldn’t be able to hear my thoughts. That I could have a moment to myself and a mental breakdown in private.

  But alas, muffling my thoughts didn’t mean a damn when the sound I made—half sigh, half scream, half husky tantrum—was clearly audible.

  "Is... she okay? I think we broke her," I heard Eugene mutter to Nevermore. "Thought you said she’d be able to handle this?"

  "Oh, cheer up," Nevermore replied breezily. "At least she doesn’t have your gun anymore. Why don’t you give her a little time and attend to your injuries and then we can finalize our terms? Your face is looking a little swollen."

  I heard Eugene sigh and approach me.

  "Hey, so while you’re in there, can you grab my first aid kit? It's in the—"

  I tossed the travel first aid kit toward Eugene. Same one I'd pilfered from him earlier.

  "... Thanks," Eugene said after a pause. Then, "You okay in there?"

  I wanted to tell him to fuck off. Growl at him or something. But what came out was more of a whine or a whimper.

  He let me be.

  Sure, I could’ve blamed it on the stress. Or the fact that I hadn’t gotten more than a few hours of sleep over the past three days. Perhaps all I needed was a little rest. Then I'd be as right as rain.

  But the truth was, that wasn’t going to change anything.

  This—whatever was—was going to keep happening. Month after month. Until I broke.

  Like, really broke. Had a full-blown mental snap and just went full dog.

  Being a human was hard. And being an adult was even harder.

  And didn’t we all, at one time or another, dream of being a dog in an upper-middle-class family? One with a nice house, good food, a yard and kids to play with? Just eat, sleep, play, repeat.

  A luxury akin to heaven. A luxury I did not have, or think I ever would have.

  For me, even the act of getting a good night’s sleep would only mean that I'd have the mental faculties to realize just how deep a hole I was in.

  The consequences of not thinking ahead.

  But maybe that was being too hard on myself. In my defense, it was hard to plan for the future when the only thing waiting for me was a growing pile of debt, a cramped and empty apartment, bland food, and failed expectations.

  Just more hours of work to scrape by, only staying afloat and never moving forward. And for what?

  My career wasn’t going anywhere. It was .

  And it wasn’t just the whole werewolf thing, either. I’d spent years building a skillset in accounting that the world didn’t seem to need anymore. Watching as everything shifted under me, as AI did everything faster, cheaper, and with fewer and fewer errors.

  Hell, TurboTax was still a garbage service, but people were still dropping their accountants and flocking to it.

  And now? Now I’d stumbled into a version of the world I hadn’t even known existed. A magical one, with its own layered rules and bureaucracy.

  Layers I couldn’t understand. Couldn't even see. Not directly.

  As if the normal world wasn't overwhelming all by itself.

  In my mind, I relinquished control, offering it back to the wolf.

  Werewolf take the wheel.

  I wasn’t supposed to be out here—scavenging food, fighting enthralled dog, locking horns with someone who was basically magical bounty hunter. I was supposed to be home. Balancing checkbooks. Reviewing tax codes. Helping people save for retirement.

  I didn’t belong in this world. Neither did the wolf, for that matter.

  But what the wolf had that I lacked was the ability to commit. To make a decision and follow through.

  And that was what I needed now. Not analysis. Not doubt. Just action.

  Like exercise, investing, or even dieting, it was often the case, any plan was better than no plan. You just needed to commit to something and stick with it.

  But I always seemed to rationalize my way out of making a decision. Sure, I was hired to help others make informed financial choices, but when it came to myself, I was a cobbler whose checkbooks were never balanced.

  I was well aware that I was stuck in a state of perpetual decline, because, deep down, I found the repetition familiar and comforting. Clinging to a tiny fragment of the world that I once had some semblance of control over.

  I knew this. But knowing was only half the battle.

  I still had to act. Still had to follow through.

  Needed to think more like the wolf.

  But the seat I'd vacated for her remained empty.

  Instead, I could feel her gaze watching me. Waiting for me.

  the wolf seemed to say.

  The wolf, despite her eyes, her ears, her nose, couldn't see things the way I could. But even if she couldn’t see the big picture, she saw what mattered. Now that her mind wasn't clouded by petty jealousy, she could see the importance of working with the cologned man. And, she knew that I needed to be the one to work with him—apt to bite the hand she should shake.

  But she also knew when one of her pack needed comfort.

  Because she didn’t scold me. Instead, her thoughts—when they reached me—weren’t judgmental. They were gentle. Warm. Curling around me like an embrace.

  Just as I had done for her, during those early nights, back when the moon was just beginning to wax—when the wolf had been little more than instinct and emotion. A restless pup. Confused and terrified of the world outside my apartment walls.

  I’d calmed her—wrapped her in my presence until she settled down to sleep. And while I might have kept her inside longer than she would have liked, she’d never been alone.

  I'd always been with her.

  Now it was her turn to be there for me.

  She circled me like I was her shivering packmate, wrapping me in her presence.

  A quiet reminder that I wasn’t alone either.

  That even though she needed me to be in control, she wasn't leaving me out in the cold. She’d be by my side, watching, waiting.

  When the time came that I needed her—actually needed her—she’d be there.

  A nose poked through the opening as Boden crawled up under the jacket, settling into my lap, joining me in the pocket space. His head followed soon after, pressing up against my chin and neck.

  I rested my head atop his for a moment, stroking him. “All of this headache to find you, and I still can’t find myself to be mad at you.”

  I wondered.

  The thought Boden sent smelled of cheeseburgers.

  Figured.

  I closed my eyes for a moment to enjoy the company.

  There was a soft pop, and another dog joined us—Coy, still holding Eugene's wand in his jaws. He crawled up from deeper within the pocket space.

  So the pocket was open to Coy’s teleportation? Seemed like a dangerous vulnerability. Or was it because I was currently holding the space open?

  Did magical clothing come with user manuals? Hell, warranties?

  Regardless, I now had two noses in my face.

  Boden decided he wanted to join Coy fully inside and started climbing his way in, unceremoniously using me as a stepping stool.

  "No, no—don’t let him in there," Eugene said, alarmed. "He’s going to get fur everywhere."

  He tugged at the jacket collar, pulling it off me to reveal my face. Elmo, still resting on my forehead, chose that moment to skitter toward Eugene’s hand—being that he was an arboreal tarantula and Eugene's head held a higher vantage point.

  Up was the way to go.

  Eugene jerked back, dropping the jacket like he’d touched a live wire. “Jesus Christ. Why?”

  The jacket fell into my lap, swallowing the rest of Boden and allowing him to slip all the way inside. His weight vanished as soon as he did.

  Upon my mental instruction, Elmo crawled down my arm, back into one of the other pockets—his previous space now occupied by two rowdy dogs.

  Fortunately, there were plenty of others.

  “Wait—don’t let him back in!” Eugene protested.

  I looked up. “And why not?”

  “Because it’s jacket. I don’t want a massive tarantula in my jacket.”

  I shrugged. “Well, if we’re going to work together, I need a safe place to keep him. Just for now at least.”

  Eugene pinched the bridge of his nose with the hand not currently wrapped in a bag of frozen blueberries, then ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Fine. Sure. Why not?”

  He sounded frustrated. I could see that he’d re-bandaged his injured hand with a splint, and the other bore the addition of band-aids. His face, too, was dotted with them.

  As for his nose, he’d packed the cavity with cotton wads. No gauze or bridge tape like in the movies. Those were just for aesthetics after all.

  “Well, since we are all in agreement, allow me to officiate the process,” Nevermore interjected, his voice a little smug. “I’ve hashed out the details with Desmond, and we’ll use intentions to shape the pact.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “That’s allowed? Isn’t you being my familiar a conflict of interest?”

  “Not at all,” Nevermore responded. “A sufficiently competent familiar can always act on behalf of their master in matters like these—when permission is granted, of course. And consider this: our bond, accidental though it may be, binds me to act in your best interest. So best to let me be your advocate.”

  I frowned. “Are you even qualified?”

  “I could rattle off the list of times I served Ellenore in similar duties,” Nevermore said, sounding entirely too pleased with himself, “but I don’t feel like it. Instead, I’ll simply ask you to consider your options.”

  He cocked his head. “You represent yourself. But we all know what happened to Socrates. Besides, I’ve handled so many pacts and covenants I have most of them memorized.”

  As Nevermore talked, I dug deeper into the back pocket of the jacket, tracing the lip of the opening and feeling out the smaller compartments tucked just inside.

  If there was a logic to this setup—if this was really Eugene’s sleeping pocket, a home away from home—then he’d likely keep certain essentials close.

  I reached around, relying on feel more than anything, and my fingers brushed against exactly what I’d hoped for.

  A pack of bath wipes.

  “Score,” I whispered.

  I tore the bag open and started rubbing myself down, dragging the cloth across my arms and neck. The grime of the night—dumpster filth, mystery goo, bird droppings—had layered itself into my fur. I wasn’t about to show up to any magical contract discussions smelling like an actual garbage heap.

  “Hey, those are mine,” Eugene said, finally noticing what I was doing.

  “Sorry, but I’m requisitioning these,” I said, not even pausing. “Consider it part of our pact. Or do you really want me to keep smelling like landfill?”

  Eugene merely grumbled.

  I kept scrubbing, trying to reach my back with limited success.

  “Wait,” I said, glancing at him. “You have magic. Don’t suppose you’ve got a spell that can clean someone off?”

  “No,” he said flatly. “Not one that works safely. Yet.”

  I thought. W

  “I heard that."

  A thought occurred to me. “Hey, why don’t you use that Fantasia magic of yours on the wipes? Animate them to give me a hand. Speed things up a bit.”

  He eyed me. “Thought you didn’t like me casting spells on you.”

  “Those weren’t consensual,” I said. “Now I’m asking. Nicely.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Nicely?”

  I held up the pack. “Please. I just need help with my back.”

  Eugene closed his eyes and took a deep breath before finally say, “fine. Just hold the pack up for a second.”

  I did as instructed.

  He reached for his staff, propped against the side of the Bronco, and pointed it toward me.

  I felt a pressure gathering—subtle at first, then growing, the air around the staff beginning to hum. Though, it was a sound I felt more than heard. The signature of magic.

  “Eklaboru,” he commanded.

  The pressure condensed around the pack I was holding, and at least half a dozen wipes shot from the pack and began scrubbing my back like invisible hands had taken over.

  I would have thought a spell like this would have taken longer to construct. Perhaps the spell was actually shaped within the mind, and the word was just the trigger.

  Eugene turned back to Nevermore, keeping hold of the staff.

  “Ah, look at you two,” Nevermore said. “Already working together. This is much—”

  “Gah!” I yelped as two wipes slid into my ears. “What the hell! I said just my back!”

  I yanked them out, but two more darted in. I grabbed those as well, but the spell only replaced them with more from the pack.

  It was like being ganged up on by the lickers—I didn’t have enough hands to defend myself.

  “Specifics are tricky,” Eugene said over his shoulder. “Takes too much effort to fine-tune. So, I programmed it to target any dirty areas you missed. More efficient this way. And more thorough.”

  I covered my ears, stopping the intruders, but they switched target and began scrubbing under my arms—a ticklish spot. I squeezed my arms down tight.

  “Son of a bitch! I knew you’d pull shit like this.”

  “And yet you still asked,” he muttered under his breath.

  “They usually start at the top and work their way down,” he added. “Should give you time to handle most of it yourself.”

  I cursed and started scrubbing the places I didn’t want the wipes exploring.

  “Glad to see you two building a professional relationship,” Nevermore said dryly.

  “Baby wipes, baby steps,” Eugene replied. “At least she’ll be clean. Whereas, earlier, she had Boden lick me down.”

  He glanced at me. “Besides, she didn’t even ask before helping herself to my things.”

  “I take it you have siblings,” Nevermore observed.

  The wipes worked their way down my back. My leg twitched involuntarily—then kicked. It got worse from there. I had to stop what I was doing to hold it still.

  I froze, glancing up. Hoping no one had seen.

  Both Eugene and Nevermore were watching me.

  “You know,” Nevermore said, “despite expecting something like this, I’m still pleasantly surprised.”

  I hurled a wadded wipe at the raven. It stalled mid-air, floated briefly, then was reanimated by the spell and zipped back to my face.

  “Son of a—”

  As the spell continued, the used up wipes flopped lifelessly to the ground in a small pile, and fresh ones animated to take their place.

  “General, my ass.” I grumbled under my breath.

  The wipes had scrubbed away the filth from the top layer of fur—the deer rot, the dumpster grime, the avian parting gifts—all gone from the surface. But some of the residue was deeper down. I still reeked a little, but a soft lavender scent now masked the worst of it.

  A fragrant lie.

  I’d need a real bath later, but for now, my fur didn’t feel so sticky and miserable.

  Not that I’d forget, or forgive, Eugene's service anytime soon.

  Would need to return the favor in one way or another.

  A few wipes circled my ankles before finishing at my feet. I'd balled up several wipes in my hands that gotten too adventurous, and looked around for a place to toss them. I started checking the jacket again.

  “You got a trash bag in here?”

  “No, don’t put them in there,” Eugene said. “Just throw them out.”

  “Where? In your car?”

  He pointed at the ground. “With the rest. I’ll handle it.”

  "Disenchant these little bastards first," I said, holding out the wipes wiggling in my hands.

  After they stopped moving, I dumped them into the pile. Eugene incinerated them with a spell, reducing them to white ash.

  “You know burning trash in city limits is illegal.”

  “I’ll alert the authorities.”

  I bent down to pick up Eugene's jacket and held up to him. “Here. You can have it back.”

  He waved a hand. “No, you’ll wear it. Nevermore drafted you as an ‘undisclosed intern.’ So you get the privilege of carrying all the gear.”

  “Undisclosed intern?”

  “Yes,” Nevermore said. “A longstanding tradition. Secret apprenticeships. This way Desmond can officially allocate time and resources without disclosing your identity to his employers.”

  “I’m also obligated to help you learn to use your abilities properly, as well the basics of magical defenses,” Eugene added.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll embrace the responsibility with open arms,” I said.

  “Desmond’s just being shy,” Nevermore said. “He’s the one who actually suggested it.”

  “What? Why?”

  Eugene shrugged. “Rather have someone watching my back rather than having to constantly look over my shoulder. The sooner you’re up to speed, the better.”

  I gestured at the jacket. “I think you just want a beast of burden.”

  “With your strength, you’ll be fine.”

  I squinted. “Didn’t you say you didn’t want it getting dirty?”

  “Too late now, isn't it. Besides, it’ll make you smell better.”

  The jacket did still reek of his cologne.

  “Don’t you need it on you to summon your stuff?”

  “No. Just within fifty feet.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “So—you could’ve summoned Elmo any time.”

  “Why the hell would I do that? I don’t want him anywhere near me. Maybe you haven't noticed, but I don't do well with spiders."

  “Oh, he’s harmless.”

  "Doesn't change the fact I can’t focus with a tarantula crawling down my shirt. Or that.”

  Eugene gestured at Boden’s snout, which poked from the jacket’s collar, tongue searching for something lickable.

  Coy peeked his head out too, still holding Eugene’s wand in his teeth.

  “Hey! Give me that!” Eugene shouted.

  Coy dipped back in.

  I projected.

  Coy’s head reemerged, and he looked around.

  Eugene held out a hand.

  Coy seemed to debate the idea from a moment, then dropped the wand into Eugene’s hand.

  It glistened with saliva.

  Eugene’s eye twitched. He wiped the wand on his pants before making it vanish with a flick of the wrist.

  I held out the pack of wipes. “Want one?”

  He took one without a word and I stashed the pack back in it's pocket space.

  “If you want to keep your pets in there, you’ll have to wear it,” Eugene said.

  “I have a , if you haven't noticed. It’s too hot for me to wear a jacket.”

  “I thought dogs only needed to pant.”

  “Don’t start with that again.”

  “Again?”

  “She means me,” Nevermore said. “We discussed this before. She can sweat from her feet.”

  "Nevermore!"

  Eugene turned back. “It’s night. It’s cooling off. Cover up.”

  “Even if it were snowing, it’d still be too hot.”

  “Ms. Virginia,” Nevermore cut in. “Desmond’s trying to be polite, so I’ll just say it: you’re looking a bit nipply.”

  I looked down.

  “Not that I mind of course,” Nevermore added.

  “Oh, grow up,” I huffed, pulling on the jacket.

  “Can’t grow up when you’re dead,” he chirped.

  I zipped it up.

  “Better?” I said to Eugene, holding out my arms. Because of my slight hunch, the jacket was just long enough to reach below my waist. Like an extra mini skirt.

  Despite its weight, it didn’t press down on my shoulders like I’d expected. The magic seemed to insulate much of the jackets actual mass from the effects of gravity, but it still had that mass. That inertia.

  It was like how I'd imagine it to be an astronaut on the moon, strapped inside a two hundred pound suit. Sure, it would feel as light as a feather. But, if you got moving, you'd still have two hundred pounds to contend with.

  Eugene’s jacket weighed thirty, maybe forty, but felt like it had the mass of much more. At least 120 pounds of dog, plus whatever crap he stashed in the pockets.

  Said dog-weight was also poking me in the back with their wet noses.

  I swung my arms experimentally. “Is it supposed to have all this resistance?”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Eugene said.

  “And you wear this all the time?”

  “When I’m in the field.”

  Shit. If he wore this regularly, he had to be toned as hell.

  Then I remembered he could hear what I was thinking. Telepathy stuck on voicespeaker.

  “You said you think you know what the Puppeteer is?” I asked, trying to redirect my line of thought. “So, what are they?”

  “A type of theriomancer.”

  “And that is…?”

  “You ever watch ?”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “I haven’t,” Nevermore chimed in.

  “You don’t count,” I shot back.

  “Hey.”

  "They’re basically like Wargs," Eugene continued. "They can control animals from a distance. Use them to attack people, like our perp, or more often for scouting and reconnaissance. Most theriomancers I’ve come across serve as diviners like myself, or similar roles. I’m guessing the blood the dogs are made to consume—if that’s what it is—is likely part of a ritual to force a familiar bond. Something that binds them to the puppeteer."

  I raised a hand. "And you think my abilities are similar to theirs because...?"

  "In many ways, your abilities could also be considered theriomancy," Eugene said. "You can communicate with and compel animals—and even shift into one, even though it may be involuntary."

  "So what, lycanthropy is just theriomancy?"

  "No, not exactly," he replied. "Like I said before, lycanthropy is more of a symptom than a cause. Whether your lycanthropy manifested your abilities, or your abilities are manifesting as lycanthropy... we won’t know until we figure out what happened to you."

  "My abilities?" I said. "I didn’t have any abilities before becoming a werewolf."

  "No. What I’m suggesting is that your lycanthropy may be the manifestation of your abilities, not the other way around," Eugene said.

  "How is that even possible?"

  "Latent inborn abilities aren’t actually that rare," Nevermore offered. "Many people are born with the potential for magic, but few develop real talent. It’s like wiggling your ears or becoming ambidextrous—it’s a skill many people can learn, but never attempt to."

  Eugene nodded. "Many people report prophetic dreams. It’s pretty common, actually. It’s just that most folks don’t remember them well enough to make use of them. And many of those who learn to lucid dream, with the right training, can also learn to astral project. Problem is, developing magical ability is like trying to train a muscle you can’t feel. You don’t know how to move it, so you don’t know how to strengthen it. Sometimes, it takes exposure to a significant supernatural event to even bring it to the surface. But unless it’s the kind of exposure, it’s more likely to hurt than help."

  "English, please," I said.

  "It means," Nevermore explained, "that whatever force you were exposed to either afflicted you with lycanthropy and awakened your innate talents, or awakened your talents which then manifested lycanthropy. Either way, you must have had some compatibility with it. Otherwise..."

  "Otherwise what?"

  "You’d probably be dead," Eugene said.

  I blinked.

  Somewhere deep in my chest, something pulled taut. Fear? Anger?

  "Oh great! And how’d I get so lucky?"

  Eugene looked to Nevermore. "You explain. I don’t know how to sugarcoat it."

  Nevermore turned to me. "You remember what we deduced about your tattoo? That it was obfuscated to conceal its true nature?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, if we work with the idea that others are involved, then the answer to your question is not that you were lucky, but that you were likely targeted."

  "Targeted? Why would someone target me?"

  "Well," Eugene said, "remember how I mentioned human sacrifices and dark rituals when you asked me what contraband Kirkland could be smuggling?"

  "...Yeah."

  "Well, oftentimes not just any human will do. Sometimes, you need someone who’s compatible with the magic you are casting."

  "Like oil in an engine," Nevermore chimed in. "Not all oil works in all engines. Use the wrong one, and you could lose efficiency. Or worse, ruin the whole damn thing. Magic—and its components—often work the same way."

  I stared. "Are you saying I was used as... engine oil?"

  "Either that," Eugene said, "or a test subject. It’s hard to know for sure. But at least we have a rough idea of the kind of magic you were exposed to."

  I felt something twist in my gut. Anger. Definitely anger.

  had done this to me. Intentionally come after me, and fucked me over.

  By why?

  "This is still mostly speculation," he continued. "But considering how you appear to be manifesting abilities—like your telepathy, your ability to commune with and compel animals—it seems to suggest you have an innate compatibility with the magic that originally caused all of this to you."

  "There may be a witch or shaman in your family tree somewhere," Nevermore added. "Or a wolf. Don’t happen to be Turkish, do you?"

  I didn’t answer.

  I was still stuck on one word:

  The wolf inside me, her presence wrapped around me, had also stirred at this morsel of information.

  And once again, I felt her trying to recall some fleeting memory. From long before tonight. From the night when we first met.

  One that neither of us could seem to remember.

  "And if others were involved in all of this," Eugene went on, "they likely targeted you because of that compatibility. Though how they figured this out, and what they used it for, I don’t really know at the moment."

  I didn't respond, caught on a singular thought:

  The wolf had been guided to me.

  I was sure of it now. She wasn't just some distinct part of my psyche. She was a completely separate presence.

  And I her host.

  And someone had brought her to me.

  , wolf affirmed.

  "Now do you see why I was so eager to pester Eugene for help?" Nevermore said. "It occurred to me that if you were in fact the victim of an intentional act of dark magic—then this is something neither you nor I can effectively, or safely, investigate alone."

  Right.

  If I wanted to find the one who'd used me as some little experiment of theirs, I'd need all the help I could get. Both Eugene's and the wolf's.

  Which meant I had to first deal with the business at hand. Couldn't have the puppeteer, or this Kirkland, getting in the way.

  And maybe. Just maybe. This puppeteer, a theriomancer, might even know a thing or two about me. Because there was still a chance we were very much alike.

  Baby steps.

  Nevermore fluttered slightly, ruffling his feathers. "So when Coy and I stumbled upon Mr. Desmond while searching for Boden, I seized the opportunity. Couldn’t allow such serendipity to slip by."

  "Wait," I said. "If you two talked so much before showing up here, why was Eugene being such a prick?"

  "Because Nevermore failed to tell me you were a ," Eugene said. "Nor did I have a reason to expect running into you any time soon. Let alone get clocked in the head, break my nose, and get covered in dog slobber."

  "So," I smirked, flashing a few teeth, "you were feeling petty."

  "Wolf to the kettle," he muttered.

  I turned to Nevermore. "And you think we can trust him?"

  Nevermore tilted his head. "Well, Boden seems to like him. And, if the two of you hadn’t gotten off on the wrong foot, you might have decided on a mutually beneficial partnership without my intervention. But alas..."

  He spread his wings. "You know? Enough with that. Shall we formalize our compactual agreement and work toward a common goal?"

  My fists were clenched and I hadn’t realized it.

  I didn’t know who had done this to me.

  But I knew this much.

  I was going to find them.

  And when I did... well.

  I'd let the wolf decide what to do next.

  We spent the next several minutes hashing out the terms. The pact would bind Eugene and me to a mutual confidentiality agreement—no disclosures about each other’s nature or involvement without express consent of the other. In exchange, we would share information and resources until the Puppeteer and their associates were located and neutralized.

  Fair. Formal. Reasonably sterile.

  Or at least, I was sure it was supposed to be.

  Nevermore, of course, had to add some flair.

  He fluttered to the space between us, puffed out his chest, and declared in a tone that could only be described as mock-grandiose, "And now, to finalize the binding. Do you, Ms. Allison, solemnly accept this bond of mutual magical purpose, shared accountability, and noble intent?"

  He gestured toward Eugene. "Will you take his hand, and seal this accord before the feathered witness of fate and—"

  I fixed him with a flat stare. "Nevermore, I swear to god. If you keep making this sound like wedding vows, I will summon every crow in a two-mile radius and let them pluck you bald."

  "You wouldn't do that," he said.

  "But she could," Eugene added.

  Nevermore grumbled, "Kids these days. No sense of humor."

  He huffed, clearly put out, but continued in a flatter tone, "Very well. All that remains is the sealing gesture. I’ve already woven the spell that will enforce this pact."

  He turned to Eugene and me with a theatrical sweep of his wing. "When you two willingly shake hands, the pact will activate, and all terms and clauses shall be mutually agreed upon and enforced."

  I raised an eyebrow. "You could’ve just said that."

  "Where’s the fun in that?" he muttered.

  Even as I rolled my eyes, I felt it—something beginning to settle around me. A shimmer of presence, like fine silk or mist, brushing against my skin.

  Magic. Wrapping around me like thread.

  It spun and circled with intention, weightless but not idle. By the time it concentrated around my right wrist, I could feel it fully—like a band being drawn tight, but not painfully so.

  "Upon the shaking of hands," Nevermore intoned, "you two agree to the terms of this pact until such time the two of you mutually agree to its annulment, at which point you may shake hands once again to terminate the pact. Are we all in favor?"

  Eugene removed the bag of thawing blueberries from his wrist and lifted his hand. "I am in favor of these terms."

  I narrowed my eyes at Nevermore. "Why do I get the impression you’ve just been maneuvering me into this position for your own amusement?"

  "Just my own amusement? Nonsense," he said. "This serves all three of our goals."

  "Oh, and what are getting out of this?"

  "Well, if you must know, I find being brought back from the dead merely to find a lost dog to be rather a bore. This, on the other hand—this is quite worthwhile."

  "Right... So all we need now is for Eugene and me to shake hands. Your part is done?"

  "That is correct."

  I turned to Eugene. "And you’re sure it’s safe for Elmo and the others to stay in these pockets?"

  Eugene, who'd once again covered his hand with the half-frozen fruit, grunted. "I’d like for them not to, but they should be safe in the back. Nothing magical in there for them to mess with."

  "Okay. Good."

  Without warning, I seized Nevermore.

  "Wait! What are you—" he squawked.

  "Hear that, Nevermore? Don’t mess with anything."

  And then I shoved him into the pocket space under my left arm.

  Holstering him, you could say.

  "I’m not going to sugarcoat this," I said. "I’m not in favor of any of this, but I’ll still agree to these terms."

  "Well," Eugene said, "they say the best compromise is where no one is happy."

  Putting on my best professional voice, I held out my hand. "Look forward to working with you, Detective Desmond."

  Eugene removed the pack of blueberries from his braced right hand and reached out. "Likewise."

  As we shook hands, I gave Eugene a good, hard squeeze.