Chapter Twenty Eight

  The

  wolf jogged along the shoulder of Virginia Avenue, weaving through the

  thin treeline that separated the road from a sprawl of low-slung

  commercial buildings. The night air was humid and heavy, thick with the

  mingling scents of oil, asphalt, and the faint tang of salt from the

  Cooper River. Streetlights cast long shadows between the trees, their

  light flickering against the passing silhouettes of freight trucks and

  the occasional growl of distant engines.

  Overhead,

  the steady drone of tires on the expressway added a low, constant hum

  to the nightscape, blending with the soft buzz of street lamps and the

  rhythmic rasp of insects. It wasn’t quite peaceful—too industrial for

  that—but it had a rhythm. A beat. One that matched the wolf’s steady, if

  sluggish, pace.

  The

  tracks we’d been following—the Old North Charleston Rail—now ran on the

  opposite side of the road but would soon cross over to join the CSX and

  Norfolk lines as they merged and made their way to their final

  destination: the North Charleston Port Terminal.

  Across

  the road, just beyond the tracks, stood the Amalie Oil Company: a

  sprawl of storage silos, a fenced-in employee parking lot, and a private

  port for petroleum transport. A bold red-and-black street sign proudly

  proclaimed their oil to be "Better than it has to be? since 1903."

  After

  gorging ourselves in North Charleston's garden of earthly delights,

  we’d peeled off the rooftop and began our slow, northbound trudge. Back

  in our wolf form, leaner but stuffed, we moved with labored steps. The

  wolf’s belly noticeably round. Her pace was sluggish, each stride

  weighed down by a gut full of stolen dinner that went well beyond surf

  and turf—land, sea, and sky were all accounted for.

  I once had a classmate—a distance runner—who swore jogging after a meal helped with digestion. Said it "churned things up."

  Personally? In my experience, it just led to cramps and regret.

  Normally,

  after a feast like this, the wolf would curl up somewhere dark and

  quiet and slowly slip into a food coma. And, in such cases, come

  morning, I’d awaken in someone’s yard or garden, naked and

  disoriented—and feeling a bit bloated.

  At

  which point someone would call the cop. A threat that still hovered

  over me like a greasy sword of Damocles. Always dripping. Constantly

  reminding me it was still there.

  Fortunately,

  tonight, the wolf had a reason to stay awake. Boden and Coy were still

  out there somewhere, and she wasn’t going to rest until they were

  home—until the pack was whole again. Only then would she sleep soundly,

  surrounded by her adoring entourage.

  I’d

  handed the wheel back to the wolf once we’d left the Culinary District,

  and found myself feeling oddly less apprehensive at the idea. We'd come

  to a bit of an... understanding. And, despite my regrettable lapse in

  judgment earlier, and the voiding of my dietary commitments, I'd earned

  myself some brownie points with the wolf.

  If nothing else, she’d warmed up to me. If just a little.

  Wolves, like all dogs, were rather food motivated.

  I

  basically just needed to follow the same dating advice I was given when

  it came to men: that the best way to their heart was through their

  stomach.

  Shame I never learned to cook.

  It

  felt like our relationship had shifted—less adversarial, more

  cooperative. A few nights ago, she would’ve yanked the wheel from me the

  second I hesitated. Back then, she only came to me for

  information—facts, directions, context—and would rifle through my

  thoughts like a junk drawer, only grabbing what was immediately useful.

  Now, though, it felt different.

  She

  was listening. Not just scavenging. She was actually turning her

  attention toward me, actively seeking my input. Asking for thoughts.

  Suggestions. She wasn’t just tolerating the presence in the passenger

  seat—she was acknowledging me as part of the ride.

  It

  wasn’t about control anymore—it was collaboration. That shift was new.

  But it mattered. Her thoughts felt more open, her intentions easier to

  sense without having to dig.

  The

  wall between us was still there, but it wasn’t a fortress anymore. More

  like a picket fence. Clear boundaries, but easier to speak across. Chat

  with your neighbor. Pet their dog.

  Not

  that I was cozying up to her. She was still hijacking my body, after

  all. But for the first time, some form of mutual collaboration didn’t

  feel entirely out of the question.

  And it helped that she was no longer fixated on food. One less impulse to keep under control.

  I

  still felt conflicted about what we’d done tonight. The heist. The

  indulgence. But it had taught me something—not just about her, but about

  how to work with her. The key wasn’t brute force. It was redirection.

  Not to tame her instincts, but to guide them. Manipulate them. Place what she wanted on the other side of a constructive goal.

  What she wanted was simple: food, a pack, a forest to call home. All I had to do was convince her to follow my lead to get it.

  Which meant I had to find a way to deliver.

  The

  answer, of course, was money. Money and a job. Money for food, and a

  job to make said money. And a job needed a car—public transportation

  wouldn't cut it. The job I'd taken for Sandy, could provide the wolf

  with the two ingredients to her happiness, but that was predicated on

  holding onto the position, and securing a tenant position with Sandy.

  Which seemed ever more dubious by the second, especially considering

  that we'd assaulted my supervisor and her brother, JT.

  But

  that kind of forward thinking was still too abstract for the wolf. She

  didn’t think in long-term plans—her world was made of immediacies.

  Hunger. Safety. Pack. Maybe she could stretch her focus to tomorrow, but

  anything beyond that was fog.

  But

  at least reasoning with her was always easier on a full stomach. Blood

  sugar was required for her to think properly. And stop her gut-brain

  from usurping her head-brain.

  Not

  only that, but I'd learned that my wolf was rather susceptible to

  positive reinforcement. Dinner had bought me goodwill. Better to lead

  her with the carrot, and not the stick.

  Or, perhaps, a bone with a bit of meat—but it was still an apt analogy.

  If I could make her happy and comfortable, I could domesticate her.

  Kill her with kindness, so to speak.

  Too many sticks spoil the broth—and you could still beat people with carrots.

  We

  reached the parking lot I’d visited earlier—the one where Boden’s scent

  had hit a dead end. It belonged to the Ingevity Corporation, a

  football-field-sized sprawl of cracked pavement hemmed in by industrial

  buildings and a thin treeline. The lot was mostly empty, save for a

  scattering of cars parked near the front entrance. Maybe they belonged

  to custodial staff or an office worker putting in weekend hours. But my

  bet? Most were just from people looking for a free spot to leave their

  car for the holidays. Out-of-towners, probably. Locals wouldn’t risk

  it—Charleston didn’t mess around when it came to parking enforcement.

  With the city growing faster than it could handle, any empty space was a

  battleground, and towing companies were more than happy to cash in.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  A

  few high-mounted floodlights lit the center of the lot with glaring

  intensity, leaving the far corners mostly in shadow. Around the edges,

  low-hanging branches from the bordering treeline helped obscure the

  view, making the outer stretches feel like the edge of somewhere long

  forgotten. The depot and parking lot were divided by that same treeline,

  with the Old North Charleston running straight through it on its way up

  to the port terminal.

  The

  depot was of moderate size, wedged in a triangle between Virginia

  Avenue and the tracks that ran up toward the port. At its center stood a

  light-blue warehouse, large and boxy, operated by a chemical leasing

  company. Tank trailers lined one edge of the property, their silver

  sides dull in the moonlight, while rows of refrigerated cargo containers

  were stacked like oversized ice chests along the opposite side.

  Scattered industrial lights cast uneven pools of yellow across the

  rust-stained pavement and chain-link fencing, giving the whole place a

  disjointed, sterile look.

  The

  wolf slipped through the same damaged section of fence I had used

  earlier, her nose twitching as she padded across the gravel. The scent

  was faint, older, but still present. She moved with purpose, tail high.

  She

  retraced Boden’s steps like reading a story faded by time. The scent

  trail was over a day old, but still legible—written in sweat, pawprints,

  and the tang of cologne. There had been dogs here—several. And the man.

  The wolf read blood in the dirt, both canine and human, and the

  distinct chemical whisper of gunpowder. A scuffle, brief but violent.

  The man had fired a weapon, and been injured in turn. Bitten most

  likely. But he hadn't bled a lot. Either he'd staunched it quickly, or

  the wound had been shallow. Whatever happened here had been messy. And

  sudden. Someone had come looking for trouble, and found it.

  Boden’s trail followed the man closely. Mirroring it. Not so much dogging his footsteps, but accompanying him.

  And both trails vanished at the same spot: an empty parking space.

  Boden

  had been with the man. That much was clear. He’d followed the cologned

  stranger into the depot, sticking close, container to container, like a

  second shadow. He’d been there during the scuffle—present when the man

  drew his weapon, fired, got bit. The wolf could pick up the sequence

  from the mingled trails: Boden hadn’t panicked or bolted. He’d moved

  with the man, left with him.

  Whatever Boden was doing with that man, he’d chosen to go with him. And he hadn’t come back.

  the wolf replied, turning back toward the depot.

  She

  circled back to the epicenter—the place where the blood and gunpowder

  smells were strongest. But unlike me, the wolf wasn’t revisiting the

  scene for reflection. She was reconstructing it.

  Her

  nose filtered through the overlapping scents, isolating one from the

  next. The other dogs. Their numbers. Where they’d entered. Where they’d

  exited. The wolf wasn't interested in why they’d come—only in how. The

  direction of their paws, the density of their prints, the tang of sweat

  and adrenaline—they painted a map clearer than any satellite image.

  Most

  of the dogs had come from the west, from the direction of Park Circle,

  and had fled the same way. That made sense; I’d guessed as much based on

  where the missing dog posters I'd seen clustered on the boards at the

  community center.

  They'd come from Park Circle and had returned to Park Circle.

  All except two.

  Daisy and Matty.

  The two dead dogs I'd found earlier. They'd fled to the north.

  We returned to their bodies, curled up in the wooded stretch beyond

  the fence line, just past the edge of the depot's lights. They were

  stiff, collapsed near one another like they’d tried to run but hadn’t

  made it far. Probably wounded and fled. Matty looked like a Boxer—stocky

  build, cropped ears. Daisy had the look of a Setter, or maybe a mix of

  something similar—leaner, with a long snout and feathered fur around the

  legs. Not huge dogs, but sizable enough to hold their own.

  The

  wolf approached slowly, hackles raised. At first, I thought I

  understood her anger. I felt it too. I'd seen these dogs on the

  community boards and in posts from worried owners. They weren’t just

  animals. They were companions, family. Someone had loved them. And now

  they were gone. Shot down in some senseless chaos. No answers. No

  justice.

  But as we drew closer, the wolf’s anger didn’t fade. It grew.

  And that’s when I realized—it wasn’t grief. It wasn’t sadness twisted into frustration.

  It was hate.

  It

  poured off her like heat from pavement, and the longer she lingered,

  the more it bled over into me. Our pulse picked up. Our jaw clenched. It

  was the kind of feeling that made your vision tunnel and your thoughts

  snap sharp.

  And it didn’t feel like her.

  The

  wolf wasn’t hateful. She was feral, sure. Fierce. But when she hunted,

  it was instinct. Clean. She didn’t hate the deer she took down. If

  anything, she loved the deer. Loved deer in general. They way they

  smelled. The way they moved. The sound they made when frightened. She

  loved to stalk them, loved to chase them. To sink her teeth into them.

  A love for food.

  The kill wasn’t cruel. It was natural.

  Even

  the poor worker she and Elmo had scared shitless behind the

  restaurant—she hadn't hated him. Sure he’d been an obstacle. Annoying,

  maybe, but not hated. He’d brought food, after all. Which counted for

  something. An overall net positive review.

  But this?

  This rage was foreign. Thick. Wrong. The emotional version of a chemical burn.

  It was bitter. Metallic. Like burnt ozone and copper. It smelled foul.

  Smelled like...

  I said, reaching for the wheel, forcing her to move. To step back.

  She recoiled, the fury vanishing like voltage in a short circuit.

  And that confirmed it.

  I'd

  suspected that something had been affecting the dogs. Something that

  manipulated them. Compelled them to violence. I'd sensed the magic on

  the dogs earlier. Smelled it. Felt it. But it hadn’t affected me. Aside

  from giving me the heebie jeebies, of course. But that was because I was human.

  Sure, I’d been part wolf at the time, physically, and perhaps even

  mentally—I’d had to believe I was a wolf to get the transformation

  right. But deep down, I was still a normal person, still knew I was

  human. A wolf in all but spirit.

  But the wolf, despite being a manifestation of my lycanthropy, was still a dog.

  Could magic really work like that? Could it target the spirit of something? The soul?

  Well, I mean, it was magic after all.

  But something else also bothered me.

  Not

  all the dogs had carried this scent. Only Daisy and Matty. Their bodies

  still radiated that foul smelling magic. It didn’t just cling to

  them—it emanated from them.

  They weren’t just cursed. They were a source. Transmitters for whatever had cursed them.

  I said to the wolf.

  But the wolf was undeterred. She turned away, picked up a new trail.

  I told her.

  A huff of agreement—she knew the score.

  She also knew what our next move should be: we had a new scent to follow.

  The wolf didn’t follow the crowd into Park Circle. She didn’t need to.

  Out of the many trails crisscrossing the depot, only a few bore the heavy stink of magic. Daisy. Matty. And one more.

  A third.

  One of the cursed dogs had gotten away.

  The

  thought struck me—whoever, or whatever, had done this would have needed

  time. These dogs had likely gone missing before the others. Long enough

  for whatever that had been done to them, to be done to them. If I went

  back and checked the dates on the posters or cross-referenced the

  Facebook page, I might be able to figure out which dog it was.

  Or I could let the wolf follow her nose. That would probably be more expedient.

  The trail continued northward, hugging the shoulder of Virginia Avenue. It was easy to follow. The dog had left a blood trail.

  Huh. Three cursed dogs, and the cologned man had managed to hit all three.

  Quite the stroke of luck...

  No. Not luck at all.

  The wolf and I realized it at the same time.

  The cologned man had known exactly which dogs to shoot.

  But how?

  I

  could sense the magic, smell it, because of what I was. That was a

  quirk of my lycanthropy, and an ability the wolf and I seemed to share.

  But

  the cologned man couldn't have been like me. Hell, if he was he

  wouldn't have been able to tolerate the god-awful cologne he was

  wearing. His nose would be too sensitive. So he must have had some other

  way to tell. Perhaps he too could sense magic. Or maybe there was some

  kind of tell that gave them away—like glowing red eyes or something.

  Then again, he had Boden. Perhaps he too could sense magic like Coy and I could. Could smell it.

  If the information in Sandy's book was to be believed, that would be well-within Boden's ability.

  But if Boden could sense magic too, then how would he have communicated that information to the man?

  Odds seemed pretty good that the man in the cologne had some tricks up his sleeve.

  All

  the more reason to figure out where the cursed dog had been taken and

  twisted. I felt confident that wherever this wounded dog had gone, it

  was likely back to whatever was pulling the strings.

  And

  if the wolf and I found that, then chances were good that the cologned

  man would already be there, or, at least not far behind.

  Time to return to the hunt.