Chapter Twenty Nine

  We didn’t have to travel far before learning the fate of our third dog.

  Barely

  half a mile up the road, the trail cut past the Kinder Morgan and

  Buckeye Terminals—oil storage facilities, just like the Amalie terminal

  we’d passed earlier—before reaching the T-intersection at Virginia and

  Lincoln Avenue. Just beyond the crossing, the Mark Clark Expressway

  loomed overhead, its offramp descending to merge onto Virginia Avenue,

  just beyond the intersection. Though the roads were mostly quiet, the

  occasional car came barreling off the ramp, blowing straight through the

  stop sign and zipping down Virginia like it had someplace urgent to be,

  all while lacking a sense of self-preservation.

  Lincoln

  Avenue itself was a stretch of warehouses and truck yards, home to

  outfits like Quality Transportation, Port City Transportation, and

  Bull’s Bay Diesel and Rig Fix—the kind of places that kept the freight

  economy rolling and gave eighteen-wheelers a place to park, rest, and

  get patched up.

  Directly

  across the intersection stood Ralph Hendrick Park and its small boat

  landing—just a sliver of green along the industrial corridor, mostly

  grass and gravel, dotted with benches facing the water and flanked by a

  fair number of trees that grew thick just before you reached the

  riverbank.

  It was here that the trail veered off-road, and a pungent smell hit the wolf’s nose.

  Death.

  So our dog hadn't made it after all.

  The

  wolf circled the intersection slowly, triangulating the direction of

  the scent. It didn’t take long to figure out where the body was. Across

  the street, in the shadows of a park. They were probably somewhere

  amongst the trees.

  I

  found myself resenting the cologned man. He’d shot the dogs. There was

  no getting around that. But I also had to admit he hadn’t done it

  without cause. Matty and Daisy hadn’t exactly been lapdogs, and if

  they’d come at him under the influence of whatever this curse was, what

  choice had he had?

  So, maybe he wasn’t the villain. Maybe he’d been defending himself.

  But

  that didn’t make the whole thing less tragic. Those dogs hadn’t asked

  to be cursed. Someone—or something—had made them into weapons.

  And the one who did that? That was the real enemy.

  The

  wolf dipped low as a car hurtled past, its headlights slicing through

  the dark. We stayed still, hidden in the shadows near the park’s

  treeline.

  That’s when I saw it—reflected in the brief sweep of high beams.

  An innocuous blue and yellow sign hanging on the fence across Lincoln Avenue from Quality Transportation.

  Jennifer Towing

  I seized control, turning us towards the lot.

  The wolf didn’t resist, though I felt her confusion. Wondering why I'd decided to deviate from our course. What about the dog?

  I answered.

  But these assholes? These assholes stole my car. That had consequences.

  Sure,

  Jennifer was just carrying out a repo order for Dixie Nissan. But let’s

  not pretend that gave them any moral authority. They were the ones who

  hooked my car and dragged it off. Leaving me stranded, far from home,

  taking my clothes and my cash. They'd fucked me over and were the

  primary reason I now found myself running around town in the body of a

  wolf.

  That made them the ones who earned my full attention.

  Let

  me be clear: I didn’t hate the concept of towing. I understood the

  necessity. Charleston was growing faster than its infrastructure could

  handle, and with limited public transportation, congested downtown

  streets, and an overflow of tourists and residents alike,

  towing—legitimate towing—had its place. Illegally parked vehicles in

  fire lanes or abandoned cars blocking loading zones do need to be moved.

  I got that.

  But

  what we Charlestonians ended up with wasn’t a public service—it was an

  extortion racket hiding under the thin veil of municipal necessity.

  The

  companies that swooped in to fill Charleston’s gap didn’t act like

  public servants. They showed up like vultures—only worse. Because

  vultures were at least beneficial to the environment. Whereas these guys

  were parasites.

  They

  thrive on ambiguity. Vague signage, quick-trigger tows, and the refusal

  to even tell people where their cars were taken without demanding cash

  upfront. And sure, there were ordinances—fee caps, signage rules, even

  laws saying if you catch them mid-tow they’re supposed to release your

  car for eighty bucks. All written down, nice and official.

  But

  writing a law isn’t the same as enforcing it. They still broke the

  rules. They still demanded illegal cash-only payments when the code said

  they had to accept cards. They stash your car for days, stacking up

  fees, knowing the worst they’ll get is a fine that costs less than a

  tow. That wasn't punishment. Just overhead.

  And

  they didn’t prey on tourists so much as they prey on people like me.

  Students, shift workers, single parents—anyone who needs their car to

  survive. Where one day without your car was a missed paycheck, or a

  lost job. And they could charge you whatever they wanted to. Because if

  you couldn't pay, your car was forfeit.

  They were not just unethical. They were functionally predatory.

  So I didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty for what I was about to do.

  Because stealing from thieves? That wasn’t theft.

  That was justice.

  I

  glanced both ways down the road, checking for any stray drivers who

  might catch a glimpse of something hairy and suspicious hopping a fence

  in the middle of the night. The road was clear.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  I

  stepped up to the fence—standard chain-link, about head-high, topped

  with a foot of vine-covered barbed wire. Nothing I couldn’t vault.

  The

  lot beyond was wide and cracked, filled with rows of cars lined up like

  cattle waiting for auction. A mobile trailer with a porch light served

  as their office. Just to the right of it stood the front gate. One half

  was a sliding gate, probably remote-operated. The other half swung open

  on a hinge—and someone had left that swinging side wide open. Probably

  by one of the drivers. Lucky me.

  I crept inside.

  The

  place reeked of grease and resignation. Rusting sedans and dented

  pickup trucks lined the cracked pavement, some with flat tires, others

  with hoods popped open and windows shattered—a genuine wreck. Puddles

  shimmered with rainbow sheens under flickering security lights, and

  litter—soda cans, food wrappers, and bits of broken bumper—clung to the

  chain-link fence like forgotten confetti.

  It looked more like a junkyard than a storage lot.

  And that was basically what it was.

  These

  weren’t just impounded vehicles. These were forfeitures—cars that

  people had no hope of reclaiming. Victims of fees that ballooned past

  reason. Their owners had been forced to walk away—because without a car

  to drive, they were pretty much forced to leave on foot.

  There

  it was: my black Nissan Altima, parked near the front, not far from the

  office. No boot on any of the wheels, and no flat tires, thank God. The

  doors were still locked of course, but that wasn’t a problem. I had a

  spare key hidden inside the passenger side mirror, held in place by a

  small, innocuous metal clip.

  I'd locked myself out often enough to always make sure a spare key was hidden somewhere on my car.

  The wolf stirred in the background, wary.

  she seemed to say.

  I snapped.

  She huffed but didn’t argue.

  I

  circled the lot, watching for cameras. They were aimed at the gate and

  nowhere else. Fortune was on my side. Jennifer Towing was obviously

  relying on its remoteness to protect them. Not even the buses came this

  far up Virginia Avenue, so there was basically no foot traffic.

  I shifted. Back into werewolf form. Clawed, furred, but with thumbs. Good enough to pluck out the key and put it in a lock.

  I

  unlocked the trunk and pulled out the spare tires—the ones with the

  GPS-enabled boots. I dragged them under a row of cars and tucked them

  out of sight.

  The plan from there was simple: hop in, start the car, drive out.

  There was basically nothing stopping me.

  And then my gut made a noise.

  A deep, sudden churn. A slow swirl of dread started in my abdomen, curling low and tight. I knew that feeling. We both did.

  Transforming and lugging the tires around must have been the trigger.

  But so soon?

  We’d just eaten. Barely an hour ago.

  Either

  the wolf’s metabolism was supernaturally fast—or this was the deer and

  Purina from earlier finally reaching the end of their long and noble

  journey.

  Nature had called.

  And had dialed #2.

  And when the call came, it wasn’t the kind you could easily ignore.

  There

  wasn’t a public restroom in sight. Not this far out. I scanned the

  surrounding lots for a porta-john, some kind of outhouse, anything that

  might pass for a toilet. No dice.

  I turned my attention to the trailer. This office trailer would certainly have a restroom. It was my best bet.

  I sidled up to it quietly and peeked through the side window.

  Inside:

  a cluttered desk, towers of paperwork, and an empty rolling chair. No

  lights, no movement. Just the faint outline of the room visible only

  thanks to my night vision. The place looked deserted.

  Abandoned? Maybe. Or maybe they were running on a skeleton crew tonight.

  I

  crept to the front door and gave it a test—locked. Figures. But there,

  taped crookedly across the glass, was a handwritten sign:

  CLOSED EARLY - HOLIDAY HOURS

  I stared at it in disbelief. A damn federal holiday?

  I

  could feel my blood boiling. They were still towing cars, and yet the

  office was closed. That wasn’t just negligent—it was illegal. A flagrant

  violation.

  Towing

  companies didn’t get holidays. Not federal, not state, no Arbor Days,

  or PTO. They were supposed to stay open 24/7 to ensure people could

  promptly reclaim their vehicles. Legally, they didn’t have to process

  returns outside of normal hours, sure—but in Charleston, the city had

  circumvented that by redefining towing companies' "normal business

  hours" as round-the-clock.

  Whoever

  was supposed to be here had clearly abandoned their post early.

  Probably off enjoying fireworks or drinks while the rest of us got

  screwed.

  And

  you could bet your ass they'd still charge for the days they were

  closed over the holiday. Double, because it was a holiday weekend.

  I

  could probably pry open the door or force open a window. I hadn’t

  really tested my strength as a werewolf, but if it was anything like in

  the movies, I was pretty sure I could rip open a flimsy trailer door.

  Though, the prospect of adding 'Breaking and Entering' to my growing rap

  sheet didn't exactly appeal to me.

  Still... if I was clever, I could find another way in.

  Maybe, I could—

  The wolf interrupted my train of thought with what I could only describe as a feeling of exasperation.

  Oh.

  Right.

  I was a werewolf. I had were-privileges.

  As a wolf, all of nature was my toilet.

  We could go anywhere. Behind a tree, in the grass, between two parked cars.

  Or—

  Right on Jennifer’s front goddamn doorstep.

  Because fuck these guys—or girls. I was going to give them a piece of my mind.

  A big ol' one-poo review.

  The wolf's exasperation intensified.

  I

  eased my car into the parking lot at Ralph Hendrick Boat Landing,

  finding a quiet little spot with just enough cover to hide us from the

  road. The kind of place where no one asked questions, especially not at

  this hour.

  I

  took a long breath and sat there for a moment, gripping the wheel. Smug

  satisfaction simmered beneath the surface. It wasn't just about getting

  the car back—it was about proving I could. That I wasn't entirely at

  the mercy of some bureaucratic extortion or magical chaos.

  A small, vindicated part of me wanted to do a victory lap. Or howl. Perhaps both. A little wolf on the brain, you might say.

  Driving

  as a werewolf, behind an actual wheel and not just a mental construct,

  wasn’t that hard either. As long as I had thumbs and could reach the

  pedals, I could manage. Pawed, clawed, or not.

  I'd

  still been in the towing lot, just getting into the driver’s seat, when

  I'd been forced to duck down. Shifting back into a wolf and hunching

  low as one of the drivers came rolling back into the lot, hauling a car

  behind him—looked like a Toyota Corolla. He dropped it in the space

  right next to mine, then peeled out again, probably off to chase another

  call.

  Once

  the coast was clear, I shifted into my werewolf—just humanoid enough to

  safely buckle up. And after adjusting my seat to accommodate

  digitigrade legs. I checked the lights to make sure they were off before

  starting the engine, then eased out of the lot. I followed the path the

  driver had taken: turned right onto Virginia Avenue, and a short while

  later, veered left into the boat landing.

  I

  parked and turned off the ignition, climbed out, locked the doors, and

  slipped the key back behind the mirror where it belonged. Then I

  stretched—long and slow—feeling every vertebra pop as the tension

  unspooled from my shoulders, savoring my victory.

  I told the wolf.

  I

  turned to head deeper into the park, toward the waterfront. Just ahead,

  I spotted a small building—a squat, cabin-shaped building that I

  immediately recognized as a public restroom. And next to it, gleaming

  under a faint halo of lamp light: two green porta-johns. Probably

  dragged in for the sidewalk construction nearby.

  I stared at them for a long moment.

  "Whelp," I muttered.