Chapter Twenty Six

  The

  wolf cut through a narrow subdivision, winding through a patchwork of

  cracked sidewalks and sagging privacy fences, closing in on the point

  where Dorchester took a knee: a bend in the avenue where local grit met

  commercial chaos. An economic battlefield where local culture went

  toe-to-toe with corporate chains. It was a patchwork of beauty salons,

  mom-and-pop shops, tax prep offices, used car lots, fast food joints,

  bail bondsmen, and payday loan storefronts, all vying for survival.

  You

  could get your hair cut or weaved, eyebrows waxed, face powdered,

  outfit upgraded, nails glossed, and shoes replaced—all in a block-long

  makeover assembly line. You could buy a car, spend the same amount

  fixing it, refinance the title to cover the cost, and then drink away

  your buyer's remorse—all from the same parking lot.

  It

  wasn’t elegant, but it had backbone. The kind of place that took a

  beating during the COVID lockdown and still managed to drag itself back

  into the ring.

  But

  the wolf didn’t care about financing or her personal appearance. She

  cared about the smells wafting from the line of restaurants just before

  the road met the tracks. A mishmash of old and new—Pollo Loko, Churches

  Texas Chicken, The China Place, Nick's Gyros and Phillys, a fish taco

  shack that had somehow survived three decades of hurricanes, a bar that

  doubled as a billiards hall, and a mom-and-pop soul food joint run by

  three sons. These weren’t the kind of establishments that catered to

  tourists. These were neighborhood staples, still standing after every

  major economic downturn since the turn of the millennia, still feeding

  the same locals who remembered when the street didn’t have so many

  cracks.

  Where there were restaurants, there was restaurant trash.

  And where there was trash, there was opportunity.

  The

  wolf followed her nose, locking onto her target: a chicken wings joint

  nestled in a strip of aging storefronts. She vaulted the cinderblock

  wall separating the shops from the subdivision and landed lightly in the

  narrow alley behind the building.

  The

  corridor was barely wide enough for a person to squeeze through, packed

  with crates, humming AC units, a rusted-out bike chained to a pipe, and

  the miscellaneous detritus of a half dozen businesses. Just beyond the

  alley’s mouth sat a row of dumpsters—dented, stained, and dripping...

  something onto pavement. The wolf eased forward, ears twitching as she

  scanned the back lot for movement. Satisfied it was clear, she crept

  forward.

  I exclaimed.

  The wolf paused, wondering if she had missed something. A threat, perhaps?

  The

  wolf paused, mildly irritated that I’d stopped her—for the spider, no

  less. I reminded her Elmo was part of her pack, and looking after your

  pack meant keeping them safe.

  Besides, I didn't want a grimy spider crawling on my face later.

  With

  a reluctant grunt, the wolf turned back toward the alley and leaned up

  to a stack of red plastic drink crates near the back door.

  I told Elmo.

  The

  spider scuttled from the back of our neck and perched atop the crates,

  his fuzzy red body blending in well with the color of the crates. If

  nothing else, his presence might spook anyone who came out, buying us a

  little extra time to slip away.

  Feeling

  she'd done her part to appease me, the wolf turned her focus back to

  the task at hand. She trotted toward the dumpster and began nosing at

  the lid.

  But

  apparently, one appeasement was all I was getting. The wolf shoved her

  nose under the lid, lifting it up, and dove in headfirst like an over

  enthusiastic trash panda.

  Smells

  were different for the wolf. I recognized rancid grease, rotting food,

  and wet cardboard, but to her, they weren’t bad—just scents, each

  distinct, layered, and intriguing. The heavy musk of spoiled meat didn’t

  deter her. It excited her. She pawed through the mess, snout pushing

  past crumpled wax paper, foam containers, and plastic bags.

  She

  tore at the bags with her teeth, ripping one open and shoving her snout

  inside to inspect the contents. I cringed as she nearly chomped down on

  a plastic wrapper soaked in honey barbecue sauce.

  Legends say werewolves were vulnerable to silver, but legends were created before microplastics were a thing.

  She

  dug deeper and sniffed out a promising trash bag wedged beneath a pile

  of foam containers. She popped the lid open with her snout and attempted

  to drag the bag out, but it snagged. The lid flopped shut on her head.

  She popped it again, tried again—and once more, it fell back down. To

  anyone watching, it probably looked like a game of whack-a-mole.

  Whack-a-wolf, I suppose.

  Eventually,

  with a disgruntled huff, a good heave-ho, creating more than a decent

  bit of noise, she managed to extricate the bag from its bin. She hopped

  out after it and dragged the bag back into the alley where she proceeded

  to shake it violently like it was a dead animal. Garbage flew in every

  direction. Food wrappers, bones, sauce-covered napkins, and half-eaten

  chicken wings—all flung across the concrete like confetti.

  The

  wolf let the bag drop and immediately snapped up a handful of chicken

  wings, chomping down without hesitation. Bones crunched between her

  teeth, the greasy and tangy flavors of barbecue ranch coating her tongue

  as she devoured her prize.

  I

  flinched at the sensation—the sharp fragments grinding between our

  teeth, the grit of shattered bone, the feeling of it sliding down her

  throat. It made my skin crawl.

  When

  I was a kid, I learned the hard way that chicken bones weren’t always

  safe for dogs. Zack, one of the first dog's I remember my family ever

  owning, had swallowed a splintered drumstick and died from the internal

  damage before we even knew he was sick. But Bubby, another mutt my

  family had owned—a pit-spaniel mix with jaws like bolt cutters—could

  crunch through chicken bones like they were popcorn.

  Some dogs could handle it. Others couldn’t. But the moral of the story was basically: Chew your food.

  The

  wolf, with a mouth built for crushing, was clearly a lot more Bubby

  than Zack. The bones might as well have been chewing gum for her.

  Behind the wolf, the back door to the restaurant creaked open.

  The

  wolf's ears flicked toward the sound as a young man backed out through

  the door, dragging a trash bag behind him. He was stocky, with some

  upper body strength, but with the kind of waistline that suggested he

  enjoyed a few too many free employee meals. The scent of teriyaki

  chicken drifted from the fresh bag in his grip.

  The

  wolf stood her ground, her muscles coiled but still. I urged her to

  hide, but she didn't see the need. This was just one human—she didn’t

  fear him. In fact, she was fairly certain she could take him down if she

  wanted.

  , I berated, but my words fell on deaf ears.

  But the friendship of a stranger meant nothing when food was involved.

  The worker tied off the bag, hoisted it up, and turned, coming face-to-face with the wolf.

  He

  froze. Color drained from his cheeks. His fingers tightened on the

  trash bag like it was suddenly a shield. The only defense between him

  and a very large canine. One that was showing him quite a lot of teeth.

  I groaned internally. So much for keeping a low profile.

  Behind

  the worker, the door, without anything to keep it propped open, slid

  shut with a click, and I couldn't help but notice the lack of an

  exterior doorknob. Seemed the worker had made a rookie mistake. Gotten

  himself locked out. Now he was stuck in the narrow alley, with only his

  lonesome self.

  And a wolf.

  The poor bastard.

  The

  wolf wanted the bag. The worker just wanted something—anything—between

  him and the wolf. His eyes flicked every which way, the terror dawning

  across his face that he was now a fish in a barrel, the only way out not

  blocked off by the wolf being the long, narrow, and congested alleyway

  behind him.

  , I mentally projected. But of course, he couldn’t hear me. He wasn't a dog.

  The

  wolf inched forward, eyes locked onto her new quarry—the trash bag. The

  worker took a shaky step back and didn’t drop the bag.

  A stalemate.

  He

  seemed to be thinking, his eyes darting in sorts of directions,

  calculating a plan of escape. Perhaps he planned to throw the bag at the

  wolf, in hopes of confusing her long enough to make an escape. That

  would actually be a win-win for the both of us.

  But

  the bloke was hesitating, suffering from either choice paralysis, or

  just scared shitless by the hungry wolf staring him down. Probably

  believed the wolf was after him and not the teriyaki chicken he was

  carrying.

  Classic mistake.

  But he had better do something soon because the wolf was prepared to make this ugly.

  But then something did happen. Something red and fuzzy that came scuttling up the worker’s pant leg.

  Elmo.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The

  wolf’s gaze snapped to him. The worker, following her eyes, looked down

  just in time to see the spider climbing up over the waistline of his

  pants. Then up his chest, going for his face.

  The rest happened so fast.

  The

  worker let out a noise like the whistling of a boiling tea kettle: a

  high pitched scream. He flailed backward, trying to shake off the clingy

  little nightmare. His foot slipped on the scattered trash—wet

  cardboard, the modern banana peel—sending him sprawling onto all fours.

  In his scramble to escape, he slipped again, face-planting into a puddle

  of something I didn’t dare try to identify.

  He gasped, got up, staggered—

  Right into an AC unit.

  The

  impact rang the aluminum sheeting like a gong and bounced him off into a

  stack of pallets leaning against the wall, which toppled over him with a

  crash, half-sandwiching him with the ground. His limbs flailed wildly

  as he fought to escape the wreckage, the sounds coming out of him now a

  garbled mix of panic and prayer.

  Something along the lines of: "Christ, Jesus, Christ, help, ah fuck oh god oh god oh—"

  Some people just really didn't know how to control their panic.

  I

  spotted Elmo on the ground where the worker had been standing. Curled

  into a ball. The guy had managed to fling the spider without even

  realizing it. I had the wolf check on the spider, and she prodded him

  with her nose. Elmo, seemingly unfazed, sprung open and scuttled up and

  onto the nape of our neck.

  All aboard the Werewolf Express.

  The wolf tried to lift the abandoned trash bag but found it too large to carry.

  , I said.

  Frustration

  prickled at her, deciding that if she couldn't carry it, she'd make it

  move another way. She bunched her muscles, shifted her weight, and with a

  burst of impulsive strength, flung the bag over the wall. It landed

  with a splitting, splattering noise in the yard on the other side, and

  the wolf leapt over the wall after the bag.

  The

  wolf was back on track—quite literally—her paws striking the steel and

  gravel as she tore east through the CSX-Bennett Yard. The train yard

  stretched for more than a mile and a half, from the Mark Clark

  Expressway near my storage unit to the I-26 overpass. Here, the main

  rail line splintered into over a dozen side tracks, a long sprawl of

  steel veins allowing full trains lengths to pull off the main line to

  wait for their turn at the ports. At least a third of those tracks were

  occupied, giving the wolf an endless corridor of shadows between idle

  freights. Boxcars and shipping containers loomed on either side,

  graffitied giants painted in the tags and color of cities they’d passed

  through. Despite being surrounded by industry and concrete, the wolf was

  in her element—free, fast, flying through the dark.

  Shafts

  of light slipped between parked train cars, strobing across her as she

  passed—giving the illusion of supernatural speed, like she was a

  projectile in a werewolf railgun. But she barely noticed.

  Despite the speed, the freedom, she was still sullen.

  Still stewing.

  Still hungry.

  Her

  meal had been cut short. She was still dissecting the bag she’d flung

  into someone's yard, when that yard's someone flipped on their

  floodlights, bathing the backyard in harsh, sterile light. A porch door

  had creaked open, and footsteps followed.

  The

  wolf flinched and dropped into the underbrush, hidden by shadow. She'd

  debated staying put, hovering over the scattered scraps like they were

  prey worth protecting. But she hesitated, unsure. There could be more

  people inside. She couldn’t assess the threat. People could be armed,

  could hurt her if she wasn't careful.

  Sensing that the wolf was on the fence, I'd taken the opportunity to push her in the right direction.

  She

  didn’t move at first. Her eyes lingered on the yard, narrowing in on a

  piece of teriyaki chicken that had landed near the edge of the bushes.

  She'd weighed her odds, trying to decide if it was worth the risk.

  The

  backyard was flooded in light, a figure on the deck silhouetted by

  glare. The person turned to shout something back into the

  house—something about drunk-ass raccoons trashing the place.

  But she ignored me—because, well, food was involved.

  I was starting to see a trend.

  The

  wolf burst from the underbrush, snatched the chicken in one clean snap

  of her jaws, and darted back into the shadows. A heartbeat later, she

  cleared the fence in a single leap.

  Behind us, a voice rang out from inside the house—someone we hadn’t seen. “What the shit, that ain’t a raccoon!”

  Frustration

  still simmered beneath the wolf’s skin as she ran. Yet again, she’d

  been denied a proper meal—reduced to a paltry scrap of poultry. A

  wonderfully tangy, greasy, perfectly-seasoned scrap of poultry, sure,

  but it had only sharpened her appetite. She’d paused just long enough to

  devour it, savoring the brief burst of flavor, but it had only made her

  hungrier.

  This hadn’t been a victory. This had been an appetizer.

  She

  fixated on how unnecessarily complicated finding food had become. In

  the forest, the hunt had been simple: she found the deer by scent,

  tracked it, stalked it. Then, a burst of speed, resulting in a short

  chase the deer never had a chance of winning. She'd caught it by the

  leg, tearing at the muscle, dropping it, then going for the neck. A

  straightforward, efficient kill, followed by a meal she had time to

  enjoy with her pack.

  City

  food, by comparison, was easier to find and infinitely more

  flavorful—but she was never allowed to enjoy it. Always interrupted.

  Always denied. She felt she was being taunted.

  What was the point of having cake if you couldn't eat it too?

  But,

  despite this detour, the wolf was making fast time through the city. We

  followed the main line past the CSX Intermodal terminal, the yard empty

  at this hour except for a few distant container cranes standing like

  steel skeletons against the skyline. Then we veered right, following a

  loop of track that curved around the edge of Park Circle.

  I

  kept tabs on our progress, marking the route by the roads we crossed

  and the occasional half-lit street sign. First was Rivers Avenue, a

  six-lane artery buzzing with late-night traffic, the crossing just past

  the Maxway parking lot. Then came a quieter stretch: a corridor of trees

  and aging fences, the backs of neighborhoods blurring by in the dark.

  We crossed South Rhett next, then veered eastward rather than curving

  north with the main line along Spruill. I’d spotted the abandoned spur

  on Google Maps days ago—outdated it may be, but not completely

  useless—and it ran parallel to Bexley Street.

  The

  wolf followed my instructions instinctively. The tracks here were gone,

  the steel and pilings salvaged and repurposed long ago, but the track’s

  foundation was still intact, and eventually led us to a length of

  existing track that ran along Virginia Avenue: the stretch of road that

  would take us up the east side of North Charleston, along the bank of

  the Cooper River, straight to the depot where I’d abandoned my search

  for Boden earlier that day.

  Less

  than a mile to go. The full trek was about seven and a half miles,

  front to back, and the wolf was making surprisingly good time—even with

  the frequent detours for food. Running had been far better than driving.

  No red lights. No traffic. No need to navigate behind someone riding

  their brakes or signaling wrong turns. Just steel, gravel, and forward

  momentum.

  Wolves

  could hold twenty miles per hour for at least twenty minutes without a

  break. Even factoring our pit-stops, it had taken less than an hour to

  reach this point, more than half that time being wasted on scavenging

  for food.

  But now that everything was back on track, we'd be at our destination in two to three minutes.

  So long as the wolf didn't get distracted again.

  Which, of course, she did.

  We'd

  just reached where the tracks split, one length continuing forward, the

  other veering right towards the Buckeye Terminal, when the wolf

  stopped.

  No hesitating. No uncertainty. Her ears pricked forward. Nostrils flared.

  She lifted her head. Sniffed again.

  She'd detected food again, that was a no-brainer. I just had to puzzle out where we were. Figure out what I was up against.

  I

  knew I'd been here before, earlier today, as well as during my short

  Doordashing career. But I'd usually been here during the day, and we'd

  come via a different route, so the recognition wasn't immediate.

  But, soon enough, I realized where we were, and what the wolf had smelled.

  I'd fucked up.

  The

  wolf veered off the tracks and crossed Virginia Avenue without

  hesitation. She ducked into a thicket of trees for cover, creeping

  closer to the scent that had seized her focus. The depot was already

  forgotten.

  She

  drifted down Cougar Way, a quiet back street with trees and fences on

  one side, and the backs of buildings on the other. Each step took her

  closer to the smell, her hunger tightening like a vice around her

  thoughts.

  It roared back into her mind, drowning everything else.

  She was no longer thinking. Just feeling. Just following that entrancing smell.

  Not rot. Not scraps. Not old grease thickening in a dumpster. This was different.

  This was real food.

  I

  knew the scent well. The rich, smoky perfume of barbecue. The peppery

  tang of Cajun spice. Buttery, flaking biscuits, sweet caramelized

  onions, sizzling fat, warm bread, seared cheese. The kind of food that

  curled into your sinuses and stayed there, haunting you with the promise

  of indulgence.

  This was the North Charleston Culinary District.

  I groaned.

  She was still moving, locked onto the scent like it had hooked its claws into her ribs and was reeling her in.

  I told her.

  She ignored me.

  I tried again.

  The

  wolf barely acknowledged the thought. There was no Boden, no train

  yard, no mission, only hunger and the unbearable knowledge that,

  somewhere ahead, it could be sated.

  God, even I was feeling it. That deep, twisting ache. A yearning I couldn’t suppress any more than she could.

  The

  Culinary District had been my stomping grounds once. I’d spent

  countless hours here running Doordash orders, haunting lobbies lit by

  heat lamps and buzzing fluorescents while waiting on plastic bags

  brimming with takeout. Even before that, I came here for the food

  itself.

  It

  was a four-block gauntlet of temptation. The Tattooed Moose with its

  duck-fat fries and porkstrami reubens. Jackrabbit Filly, peddling pork

  dumplings and Korean barbecue. The Italian Tavern, mellow in ambiance

  but dead serious about its pasta—making Olive Garden look like fast

  food. Lola’s, serving everything the sea had to offer, fried or boiled,

  seasoned to perfection.

  There

  were the pizzerias, their stone ovens perfuming the block with molten

  cheese and charred crust. Alehouses offered local brews, obscure

  imports, and fries buried under enough toppings to qualify as dinner.

  Street carts served cuisine from every corner of the globe, their menus

  flipping languages as often as spices.

  It

  didn’t matter what time of day. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were

  served at all times of day. Someone always cooking. No craving going

  unmet.

  And

  I couldn’t come here anymore. Not since I turned. Even in daylight, the

  smells wrapped around my brain like a leash. My auto-dog instincts

  would go off like a fire alarm. And tonight, under the full moon?

  It was worse. Much worse.

  The

  wolf was salivating uncontrollably, her thoughts shifting wildly,

  flipping through my memories like a highlight reel. She wanted all of

  it. She wanted to taste, to tear, to gorge herself until she finally

  knew what it felt like to be full.

  I clenched my jaw.

  She wasn’t listening. And maybe, deep down, I didn’t want her to.

  I

  knew how to restrain myself. Deprive myself of joy—I'd been raised

  Protestant after all. And self-denial had always made financial sense.

  Luxuries were expensive. Indulgence costs money. And temptation? Just an

  endless hole you threw money into. I’d trained myself to eat just

  enough to keep the wolf quiet: cheap dog food, sad protein bars, and the

  occasional clearance-bin granola. If I could survive off whatever was

  on sale, then hey, that was efficient. Suffering had a lower price

  point.

  But

  the wolf had no such convictions. She didn’t understand restraint. Or

  even how money worked. She only knew that she had never—never—felt what

  it was like to be full. To be truly satiated.

  And the more I thought about it, the more ashamed I felt.

  She

  deserved to eat. Not just scraps, not just survival rations, but real

  food. Food that made you close your eyes and savor the taste. Food that

  made you feel alive.

  Then again, maybe I was just self-projecting.

  I

  could take that feeling of hunger from her. I’d done it before, hadn’t

  I? Curled up on the bathroom floor, lights off, shadow running wild,

  coaxing her into stillness like a rowdy pup too wound up to sleep. I

  held her in my mind and imagined her small, something I could rock to

  sleep with enough patience.

  I’d

  been raised to treat restraint as a virtue. Temper your anger. Ignore

  your desires. Bury your wants until they fossilize. Maybe I could do the

  same for her. Take her craving as my own, and smother it under the same

  blanket of denial I’d wrapped around myself for years.

  But God, I hated it. I hated it so goddamn much.

  Now I found myself in a position where, if I was careful, I could act upon not only the wolf's impulses, but my own.

  And get away with it.

  The

  wolf was already slipping deeper into the city, her focus narrowing,

  hunger taking the reins entirely. I could let her go, let her fall

  headfirst into impulse. But I knew how that would end. Reckless. Sloppy.

  A disaster waiting to happen.

  I took a breath. If she was going to do this, if we were going to do this, then we were going to do it right.

  I told her.

  She slowed. Listened. Help was good. It meant more food.

  I warned.

  The wolf’s excitement rippled through me, a thrum of energy buzzing beneath our skin.

  She was being taken to dinner by a friend.

  A play date.