The truck was an old brown two-door, boxy and square-edged—the kind of steel-brick machine that looked like it had been rolling since the Clinton administration.A mid-90s Ford Bronco—from the era when the model still resembled a hard-topped truck before Ford lost its way and turned it into a bubble-nosed jeep. The paint was dulled and chipped in places, with countless dings and dents along the paneling. The vehicle was outfitted with various utility accessories: a cable winch up front, along with a bull bar, roof rack, and a detachable antenna on the back.

  The belt gave a sharp, whining squeal as the driver stirred his way into the depot—probably had his AC cranked all the way up—brakes grinding like nails on a chalkboard. Both sounds merged into the mechanical sigh of a truck that had seen too many miles and too few oil changes. The collective sigh of worn-down parts begged for a tune-up. A tightened belt. New brake pads. Fresh oil.

  Maybe even a driver who knew the basics of car maintenance.

  Which begged the question—why a Ford Bronco? I couldn’t help but wonder.

  Don’t get me wrong—Broncos weren’t bad cars. My brother had one, a newer early-2000s model, but that was his hobby car. One he worked on and drove for fun. Not one that he used for work.

  Broncos were the kind of vehicle you owned because you enjoyed being under the hood on a Saturday afternoon. There was something rewarding about coaxing a smoother ride out of a box of bolts and stubborn engineering. Broncos weren’t just transport—they were commitment. They gave back if you gave first: time, attention, and a willingness to learn their quirks and speak fluent socket wrench.

  Which, in my opinion, was basically the factory standard for all Ford cars: manufacture a product that worked well only so long as you gave it regular maintenance—or bit the bullet and bought the extended warranty. The hidden cost of all Ford models.

  It was like dating someone who introduces themselves with, "I'm a lot to handle," on the first date—and then maked good on the promise.

  They were passion projects—rolling proof that some folks preferred grease-stained hands over sanity. Or reliability.

  And honestly? I firmly believed Ford fans were basically a cult.

  Which is why this didn’t add up.

  The guy behind the wheel didn’t strike me as someone who spent his weekends swapping out spark plugs for fun. Hell, it didn’t even seem like he paid someone to do it for him.

  Yet there he was, behind the wheel of what was pretty much a collector’s car—the sort of Bronco you’d see buffed to a mirror shine at Charleston's Cars and Coffee weekly meetup, or being auctioned off after a painstaking restoration.

  But no. This Bronco wasn’t a showpiece. It was patched, not polished. Modded for utility in ways that felt more desperate than deliberate—like someone making do, not showing off.

  And all the attachments didn't match. All from different manufacturers: the winch looked to be Northern Tools, the bull bar bought off Amazon, and the rack probably salvaged from a scrapyard—none of which matched the trim. The antenna looked like it was cobbled together from parts from RadioShack or Hobby Lobby.

  It looked less like a project car and more like a last resort—the kind of ride you used because it was what you had, not what you’d pick if you had the time or the options to be choosy.

  The Bronco groaned into the depot, headlights sweeping across the cargo containers like searchlights. The beams caught the reflective glint of dozens of eyes—furred and feathered alike. Some of the dogs lingered out in the open, while others hunkered between containers, half-hidden in the shadows. Birds perched along the edges of the steel boxes and in the treeline that fringed the perimeter, wings rustling, crows cawing, owls hooting softly.

  And through all of them—every eye, every ear—the wolf watched. And listened.

  We’d tucked ourselves out of sight on top of one of the double-stacked containers, far enough back so we weren’t visible to anyone on the ground, all while listening in on the thoughts of the animals nearby.

  Dogs. Birds. The occasional possum. We saw the world through their perceptions—countless points of view filtered through dozens of little minds, each with its own unique senses and insights. What they noticed, we noticed. A continuous highlight reel.

  I’ll admit—the night critter surveillance system left a lot to be desired. Most of what the animals noticed were, well, other animals—assessing each other for threats or companionship. Most of those that lingered had stayed for the after-party, to meet and mingle while the night was still young.

  Several were already taking it to the next level, which saturated our surveillance feed with content the wolf found a little too engaging.

  I had to regularly remind her to stay focused on the task at hand. Or at paw, I suppose. The wolf was captain once again, and she needed to act like it.

  Besides, I wasn’t about to play co-pilot to a fledgling voyeur. Not tonight.

  We needed to figure out what our cologned magic man was up to, and what he was capable of. Did he possess some sort of sixth sense or danger magic? Could he feel it too—the sense of someone watching through borrowed eyes, the way I had felt the puppeteer watching me?

  Answers to those questions would help us decide whether our approach should be diplomatic—or teeth-first.

  But most of all, I needed to see who, or what, he really was. And why he was here.

  I knew now that he was a practitioner, like Sandy and like the puppeteer—which didn’t tell me a whole hell of a lot.

  Frankly, I’d never properly met another practitioner. I hadn’t even met Sandy in person yet. JT could use commands, but that didn’t make him a practitioner. Hell, I could use commands, and I didn’t know shit about magic.

  The only proper practitioner I’d met would have to be V. I was sure she was a witch too, but—V being V—she knew how to keep her sercets.

  Which left me exactly where I started: no damn clue what a proper practitioner could actually do.

  And, even with countless eyes on the man in the driver’s seat, I couldn’t make out his face. The headlights had blinded many of the animals, and those that could still see him weren’t exactly skilled at identifying human features. So all I got were impressions—not real images.

  What I needed was to get the crows to focus on him. Crows could recognize faces easily. But damn if they weren’t too busy harassing the other birds—pulling on tail feathers or cawing obnoxiously at any bird that came too close to what they considered their airspace.

  Nevermore had been right: crows were assholes.

  The wolf didn’t care about faces, though. She wasn’t trying to identify anything—she just wanted to move. To pounce. To close the gap as quickly as possible.

  I could feel her growing restless, tugging at the leash between us. To her, this wasn’t about caution. The man was just an obstacle in her path.

  It took effort to keep her still. Repeated assurances. To make her watch. She wasn’t wired for patience. Not in the way I needed her to be right now.

  The truck rolled up on the bodies of the curse-bearers. He dropped the high beams, illuminating the area around the dead dogs.

  I’d decided to leave the dogs out in the open—to make sure he’d see them. I wanted to observe his reaction, and ensure he knew the threat had been taken care of.

  Hopefully, he’d get the message. This was meant as a peace offering. An olive branch.

  As if to say:

  Because I knew he had a gun—and good aim. And odds were good he’d be twice shy after being bitten last night. Reasonable to assume he’d be on edge, quick to panic if he saw another big, burly dog approaching.

  God forbid a giant wolf showed up out of the blue.

  The wolf, of course, didn’t quite grasp that. She wouldn’t hesitate to walk right up, ears forward, tail high, practically daring him to take the shot.

  It would be shoot first and ask questions later.

  And I’d already dodged four bullets thanks to Carl. Pretty sure I was running low on luck.

  And her confidence wasn’t bravery—it was ignorance. And if she got me shot, she wouldn’t be the one filling out the paperwork.

  Because getting shot, it wasn’t just painful—it had complications. The kind of injury that came with not just hospital bills, but with a police report. All hospitals were required to report gunshots. I’d have to explain who shot me, where I was when I was shot, and why.

  So, I’d not only rack up more debt, but also have yet another chance to incriminate myself.

  Perhaps if I could simply talk to this magic man, I could avoid the impulsive discharging of firearms. But that had its own complications. I could only speak in my more humanoid werewolf form—and it wasn’t lost on me how suspicious that would look. Especially now, when we were dealing with a curse spread through bites and mindless rage.

  Practically the hallmark of lycanthropy.

  He might very well think I the perpetrator.

  And even if he believed I wasn’t, he might shoot me on principle. Werewolves weren’t exactly beloved in myth and folklore. Always the dangerous ones. Always the monsters.

  The benefit of the doubt? Yeah right. I wasn’t even in the running.

  Better to keep the werewolf part hidden and convince him I was just a normal wolf. Or maybe a familiar, like Boden or Coy. Make him think we were all on the same crew.

  Though, getting Boden and Coy to vouch for me felt dubious at best.

  And while the wolf found part of this plan appealing—playing the innocent, winning the man's trust, getting close—I couldn’t trust her not to blow it the moment things got tense.

  She too was trigger happy.

  I just had to hope he wouldn’t interpret the dead dogs being left out as a threat. Like heads on stakes. A warning to make him back off.

  That would certainly complicate matters.

  The truck shifted into park. And, not a moment later, there was Boden—trotting up from the shadows, tail thumping against the door with soft, rhythmic thuds. Boden apparently hadn’t understood my order to hide. Coy, on the other hand, took the order as permission to join the other dogs for social hour—probably planning to bamf around the neighborhood later, making house calls. See if he got lucky.

  Boden didn’t have the staff anymore. I’d taken it with me. The plan was to wait and observe the man, get a feel for how he might react. Then, when the time was right, I’d approach him as a wolf, the staff in my jaws—the only reasonable way I could carry it—as a show of goodwill.

  As if to say:

  The wolf didn’t like this idea. It was too... submissive. And it gave too much control to an unknown party. She wanted a more assertive approach: freight-train the man like I’d done with JT, and take away any weapons he might have.

  Only once the man was pinned and disarmed could true diplomacy begin.

  And, considering that the wolf was the one with executive privileges on the matter, things weren’t boding well for the man.

  I’d managed to convince the wolf to hold off on going in teeth-first—not because I felt any less antagonistic toward the man, but because the wolf’s approach lacked caution and professionalism.

  Though the world may strip me of my dignity, I was nothing if not professional.

  I cared about my work ethic.

  The Bronco’s window creaked down slowly, and I saw the man’s silhouette rocking. He was manually rolling down the window.

  Wow. Honest to God—manual windows. This guy was driving an antique.

  Once the window was down, the man fumbled with something in his pocket and brought it near his mouth.

  A cigarette, perhaps?

  Then the sound hit.

  It was sharp and exceedingly high-pitched. A dog whistle. The noise pierced not only my ears, but all the ears I was listening through.

  The sound was like a siren going off in my head. A skull-splitting shriek.

  But there was more to the sound. Beneath the shrill whine was something deeper—coiled and sharp. It didn't just hurt. It . It grabbed hold of something primal in me and the wolf alike, threading terror straight through our spines.

  A compulsion. To run. To flee. To vanish

  Great. Magic man had a magic whistle.

  The dogs scattered, yipping and howling, and birds exploded from the trees. All of their panicked thoughts I’d been attuned to, cracked like glass in my skull. Each shatter sent splinters through my focus, ripping apart the fragile web of awareness I’d been clinging to. For a second, I couldn’t think—couldn’t —through anything but noise and chaos.

  The wolf and I might have run too—God knows I wanted to get away from that sound—but the sensory overload had given me a full-fledged migraine and seemed to have blown a fuse within the wolf.

  The wolf recoiled instinctively, scrambling for control, but the sound had short-circuited something essential in her. She wasn’t thinking anymore—just reacting. Run. Run now. No pride, no pack, no plan.

  And if she had been behind the wheel, I had no doubt we’d already be well on our way to the next zip code. But I was behind the wheel, and I elected to slam on the breaks.

  As if to add insult to injury, scaring the shit out of a bunch of birds also had a foreseeable consequence. They relieved themselves of excess weight. There was a pitter-patter like rain as they crapped on everything—the containers, the truck, some of the dogs...

  And myself.

  On top of everything I was already covered in, I was now covered in actual shit.

  The man engaged the windshield wipers on the truck, smearing the bird droppings across what remained of his windshield. It appeared his car was low on wiper fluid, and I heard him cursing. Something told me he hadn’t properly thought this through.

  He probably hadn’t meant to target the birds at all. Just the dogs.

  My ears rang. My brain rang. My spies had all scattered. No more eyes but my own.

  I crawled forward on my belly, peeking over the edge of the container.

  All the dogs had scattered. All except for Boden, still parked by the door. The sound didn’t seem to have affected him. He was still there, tail beating against the side of the truck with the same happy aloofness that seemed his default state.

  The whistle had bounced right off him like everything else in life. No fear, no panic—just vibing. As if what he didn't know really couldn't hurt him.

  Coy had been affected, though—I couldn’t detect him or his thoughts. He'd either bamfed off into Abandon to escape the sound, or taken off with the other dogs, chasing tail.

  The man shut off the engine but left the lights on. Then he stepped out of the vehicle.

  Or, at least, he tried to. As soon as the door was open, Boden flowed into the cab before the man could get out—the oversized pup squeezing himself, not so gracefully, into the driver's seat. Expanding into the man's space like a furry, 90-pound deployed airbag.

  His tail wagged like a metronome, thumping against the half-open door to a steady beat, while he shoved his big, fluffy head right into the man’s face. The kind of greeting that said it had been months, not minutes, since their last reunion.

  The man responded with sudden, pained surprise. Boden had probably planted his weight squarely on the man’s crotch.

  Despite my ringing headache, I found it rather endearing to watch—now that I wasn’t the one being squeezed like a tube of toothpaste.

  "No! Get down! You’re going to get stuck again!" came a muffled voice from inside the cab.

  The man wrestled to extricate himself from the seat while Boden pinned him down.

  I watched as he fumbled in one of his pockets with his left hand, eventually fishing out, of all things, a bone-shaped dog treat. A Milk-Bone. He waggled it near Boden’s face to get his attention before tossing it out of the car. Boden followed.

  I wondered if the man had gotten the treats before or after encountering Boden, but it seemed pretty clear now why Boden had so enthusiastically lingered. He’d made the fundamental mistake of using food to get a dog to behave. The result? He was now rewarding Boden for bad behavior.

  Amateur.

  Magic whistle or not, the man clearly hadn’t learned rule number one of dogs: food could buy loyalty, but it didn’t buy manners.

  Boden wasn’t following orders—he was freeloading.

  Coy had likely figured out the man was an easy mark for food too.

  I watched as the man extricated himself from the truck before Boden could inhale his treat, patting off the hair—the vestiges of Boden—that still clung to him.

  And I found myself looking at the face of disappointment.

  Magic man didn’t look like the wizard I'd been expecting.

  No robes, no beard, no fancy hat.

  He looked like, well... an average dude. Instead of robes, he wore a baggy canvas jacket and jeans. Unshaven, but no beard. And instead of a hat, he had a mop of black hair that looked finger-combed.

  But he did look a little haggard. Had a rumpled, bargain-bin appearance. Not slovenly, but my money was on everything he wore being secondhand.

  The wolf and I caught the scent of his cologne, but also soap. Freshly bathed.

  Oh. Good. He’d found time for a shower.

  His jacket was half open, revealing a red flannel shirt beneath. I instructed the wolf to look for a gun holster—but with our animal spy network scattered, we didn’t have a clear view anymore. We’d have to get closer to confirm. Which neither of us was eager to do.

  The wolf caught sight of a splint on the man’s right wrist, freshly bandaged. Seemed Tyson hadn’t just drawn blood—he’d either sprained or even broken it.

  The question was: which hand was his gun hand? I wasn’t about to leave whether or not I got shot in the ass up to a coin flip.

  Who knows? He could be ambidextrous.

  Boden bounced happily up to his side, and the man crouched—only a little—to greet him, ruffling the fur on the back of Boden’s head with his good hand. Boden nosed at the inside of the man’s jacket, then proceeded to stick his entire head inside, likely looking for more Milk-Bone.

  The man pushed Boden’s head away.

  "No, only if you behave," he said, zipping up his jacket. But not so quickly that I didn’t finally catch a glimpse of what I was looking for: a gun holster under his left shoulder. That meant he drew with his right hand—the one in the splint.

  That didn’t bode well for him. But it was good news for the wolf. Trigger-happy or not, he’d be slow on the draw.

  After a moment, the man straightened, squaring his shoulders as he turned toward the three dead dogs laid out nearby.

  "Stay here," he told Boden, then moved to inspect the bodies.

  He clumsily drew his gun, keeping it trained on the corpses. Boden remained seated by the car, watching obediently as the man approached the nearest dog—the first one I’d taken down—and prodded it with his foot.

  Once satisfied it was properly dead, he holstered his gun and crouched beside the dog.

  The wolf peeked her head over the edge of our perch to get a better look at what he was doing.

  The man’s smile had faded. The easy affection vanished, replaced by something harder. Quieter.

  would be my word of choice.

  He laid a hand on the dog’s side, perhaps feeling for body heat—a way to gauge how long it had been dead. Then he drew a small pocketknife from his jacket and made a small, but deep, cut along the dog’s flank. Closing the knife and returning it to his pocket, he produced a piece of paper, using it to dab up some of the dog’s blood.

  From his bandaged hand, he awkwardly fumbled for a lighter. After struggling to light it, he switched hands, using his left to strike the flame. He held it beneath the blood-soaked paper, setting it alight.

  The orange flame crackled and popped. I heard him muttering something under his breath—words I couldn’t identify—but one word repeated multiple times. As he chanted, the flame flashed a deep green, consuming the paper instantly, like flash paper.

  Under normal circumstances, I might have assumed that’s all it was. Just colored flash paper. But given the context? No. Magic man had a magic stick, a magic whistle, and, apparently, magic paper.

  Probably had all sorts of magical dipshittery tucked away in those pockets.

  And yet, it wasn’t the potential junk drawer worth of enchanted crap that worried me.

  It was how smoothly he used them. Like they weren’t special—just tools. Like this wasn’t his first corpse-side ritual.

  The man continued inspecting the body, lifting its legs, rolling it over, searching for something. Eventually, he focused on the neck, feeling the disks of the spine—the ones I’d snapped.

  A pang of apprehension gripped me. He wasn’t supposed to be that thorough. He was supposed to take one look, nod, and move on—not go running his finger along every vertebrae to ascertain cause of death.

  Admittedly, Nevermore had suspected that the man might be a detective of some sort.

  Now, it seemed likely he’d figure out that these dogs weren’t killed by another dog.

  But if not a dog... then what?

  He stood suddenly, flicking his left hand, and something thin, carved, dark appeared in his grasp.

  Another stick—but much smaller than the staff. A wand?

  He’d had it tucked up his sleeve.

  So, he was a dual-wielder: gun in the right for blasting, wand in the left for casting.

  Practical magic at its finest.

  His eyes swept the yard, scanning the open space. Posture tense, head on a swivel—looking for danger. Expecting it.

  After a moment, he thought to look up.

  But I’d already urged the wolf to pull back from the edge, leaving only the smallest peek of our head exposed. With the headlights still in his face, it seemed unlikely he’d notice a single dark, furry ear against the night sky.

  Then a soft pop cracked through the stillness.

  The man whipped around, wand raised, eyes scanning for the source—muscle memory snapping him into motion.

  Coy had reappeared from behind the Bronco, sauntering into view like he’d been there all along. Tail high, tongue out, he trotted up to Boden’s side.

  Seemed his date had struck him down.

  The man’s shoulders eased. His grip on the wand relaxed. He exhaled the breath he’d been holding, then lowered the wand and turned back to the dead dogs.

  When Coy bumped against his leg, the man crouched again, reaching out to greet him, running his hand briefly along the mutt’s back—fingers light, but familiar.

  "Alright, you two troublemakers. Where’d you hide my staff?" he asked.

  The two dogs looked at each other, then back at the man.

  The man sighed and produced two more Milk-Bones.

  "Bring me my staff, and receive your reward."

  Boden and Coy hopped to their feet, tails wagging excitedly.

  And I realized—those little bastards were about to sell me out.

  If they led him to my perch, the wolf wouldn’t hesitate to act—and neither, I suspected, would he.

  I had to make a decision quickly.

  And, unfortunately for the man, I found myself leaning toward the wolf’s preferred course of action.

  The wolf’s irritation was simple and primal. She had been fuming ever since it became obvious how much Boden adored this man—how eagerly he obeyed him, how completely his loyalty had been redirected. To her, Boden was pack. Her pack. She did not like to share.

  For me, though, the resentment ran... differently.

  It wasn’t just the migraine the man had inflicted on me. No, this was something older, more ingrained. I’d caught the northern edge in his voice, pegged him for upstate New York. Not the city, but somewhere like the Hudson Valley. Definitely not from around here.

  In other words: the wizard was a Yankee.

  And yeah, I knew that word didn’t really mean anything anymore. "Yankee", for me, was just mental shorthand for an annoying northerner. The title I bequeathed to anyone who’d earned my southern ire.

  You see, although Charleston thrived on tourism, there was an implicit agreement when tourists and newcomers arrived here: enjoy the charm, soak in the culture—but respect the locals. Don’t be disruptive.

  And this man had been disruptive.

  You see, we locals—we native-born South Carolinians—were slowly becoming a minority in our own state. The booming economy and cheap housing had lured outsiders by the thousands, gravitating to major cities like Columbia, Greenville, and, of course, Charleston.

  Day by day, the city grew more crowded. In my lifetime alone, I’d watched my quiet hometown of Mount Pleasant transform from a sleepy township to a noisy, congested extension of Charleston proper, packed with tourists, traffic, and relentless construction.

  Streets once safe for biking had become clogged expressways. Peaceful mornings shattered by the noise of lawnmowers and hedge trimmers, as landscaping kept lawns pristine in accordance with new HOA policies—all to ensure rising property values.

  And with the influx came skyrocketing housing costs. I’d been priced out of my own hometown. Forced to live farther and farther away from where I’d grown up.

  So, yeah. I liked to think I was open-minded, but that creeping resentment was real.

  This wasn’t about losing my job to an alien, or other such nonsense. This was about other people—affluent and well-off—expecting to be accommodated without effort to assimilate. They got under my skin.

  I could tell myself I had reasons. Logical ones. But deep down, this wasn’t logic.

  This was frustration. Pride. The creeping sense that the city was slipping through my fingers, and this man—this stranger—was just the latest in a long line of reminders.

  He might not be affluent, but he was more than an annoyance. He was part of a larger pattern, and right now, he was a very personal threat.

  His arrival had sent my life spiraling. The wild goose chase, the repossession of my car, Judge Childs wrecking hers, and now me—gallivanting around the city with a feral wolf behind the wheel.

  Whether he meant to or not, he was upending my way of life. Pushing me out of my city. Maybe even toward jail or worse, if my little werewolf problem got out of hand.

  But maybe this was just the wolf rubbing off on me, and I was just learning to be territorial.

  My resentment might not be what you'd call rational, but that didn’t change the fact that this man screwed me over. Didn’t change the fact I was starting to lean toward the more paws-on approach—the wolf’s preferred flavor of diplomacy.

  To show our northern guest the taste of real Southern hospitality.

  How this thought translated into me throwing the man’s staff at the back of his head might not have been my soundest demonstration of reasoning.

  The idea itself had been more of a quip. Something along the lines of,

  But throwing the staff far away could have been misinterpreted as overtly hostile. So I opted to throw it toward him instead.

  And in the brief moment between the thought and the action, a part of my brain voiced concern: what if throwing it too hard at the ground damaged it? The staff seemed sturdy, but if magic items were as fickle as electronics, it could’ve been deceivingly fragile.

  So, in my infinite wisdom, I decided to aim for the man. Planning to use his ass as a backboard—something that could cushion the impact.

  That seemed diplomatic enough, right? Not aggressive, not dismissive.

  Just some benign, yet considerate, violence.

  It might have made more sense if I’d remembered to say, "Here! Catch!" But I had a bit of a brain fart.

  As for how I expertly beaned the man in the back of the head with his magic stick—that could be solely attributed to the wolf. Our momentary like-mindedness allowing her to influence my actions.

  Out of spite for the man who had stolen the affection of her packmates, she tweaked my aim. Just a smidge higher.

  And, she had me rotate the staff so that instead of hitting him lengthwise, it flew more like a javelin.

  She took the role of dog-mom very seriously. Wasn’t going to let any man influence her pups.

  Not without consequences.

  The result? I unintentionally speared the man in the back of the noggin.

  He crumpled to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The two dog treats he’d been holding fell from his hands. Coy caught his midair and while Boden eagerly searched the ground for the other, inhaling it along with a tongueful of dirt.

  The two dogs then turned their attention to the man, now face down on the ground.

  Boden sniffed him, then licked his face with a dirt-coated tongue, curious about his odd behavior.

  Coy, the less scrupulous of the two, nosed through the man’s jacket pockets, on the hunt for more treats.

  I thought to the wolf,

  The wolf glowed with self-satisfaction.

  The man’s name was Yu Jing Desmond.

  I found his wallet while rifling through his pockets, turning up his driver’s license and a professional-looking business card that identified him as a private investigator. Licensed in Ohio.

  Up close, I could make out some vaguely Asian features in his face, mostly around the eyes, and which might explain the dark hair. I doubted he was an ABC, but I’d wager one of his parents was. Probably his mother, given his surname was Desmond. That was an Irish name.

  Seemed the good detective was a true melting-pot American.

  He was also breaking the law. South Carolina didn’t share legal reciprocity with Ohio when it came to private investigators. Further, I was pretty sure PIs weren’t legally allowed to trespass. And while this depot wasn’t fenced in—which might prevent him from being charged with illegal entry—Mr. Detective Wizard here had most certainly been trespassing in the other depots. Particularly the ones on Veneer and Virginia Avenue, where he’d either found or made a hole in the fence.

  Odds were he was trying to keep a low profile, which might work in my favor. Give me some leverage against him.

  Boden sat across from me and gave his face a good licking while I sat on top of him. I was straddling him with my knees just beneath his armpits—a standard jiu-jitsu mount that allowed me to pin him and maintain balance without needing to use my hands. From here, I could easily strike, choke, or put him in an armbar, should I choose.

  Or I could go for his throat—which the intrusive wolf-thoughts kept suggesting I do. That seemed a little too aggressive for my taste, especially after already giving poor man a concussion.

  I’d gotten the wolf to resign her spiteful little ass to the passenger seat and let me handle any conversations with the detective. She’d gotten her hit in and we now had the dominant position she was hoping for.

  She’d been appeased.

  In my clawed hands, I held his staff, laying it across my lap. Coy had taken his wand and was currently using it as a chew toy. His gun—a classic Colt 1911, just like my dad's—lay just out of sight behind the man’s head, with its magazine removed and emptied of cartridges.

  I’d decided that the wolf and I should take on our werewolf form—I figured I might as well talk to him this way once he came to. I wasn’t worried about him shooting me anymore, not after confiscating his gun, wand, and just about everything else I could find in his pockets.

  Which, I might add, was no easy feat.

  The man had a ridiculous amount of crap in there—an actual junk drawer’s worth of gear, all tucked neatly into his jacket and pants.

  Some of it was pretty standard: a multi-tool, miniature flashlight, pocket screwdriver with interchangeable heads, keychain compass, weather-sealed matchbook, travel-sized first-aid kit, and keys—lots of keys.

  There was even a cheap plastic comb and a dog-eared field notebook stuffed with scribbles and loose notes.

  I’d rifled through the notebook to see if it was some kind of wizard’s spellbook, but, yet again, I found myself disappointed.

  It was just a normal notebook, written in normal English.

  If he’d written anything in Arcanum, he was much better at obfuscating it than Sandy.

  Next came the more specialized bits: a carpenter’s pencil, lockpick set, folding magnifying glass, a travel-sized can of WD-40, zip ties, duct tape wrapped around an old credit card, and a downright concerning number of safety pins. I even found a mini sewing kit tucked into one of his side pockets, thread in half a dozen colors.

  It got weirder the deeper I dug. A roll of gold-star stickers. Several packets of salt, probably taken from a roadside diner. Tiny bottles of glitter. A bright blue rubber bouncy ball. Three individually wrapped tea bags, a packet of honey, tweezers, and what I believed to be a rabbit’s foot keychain—or perhaps a cat’s paw.

  Many of the items even smelled of magic.

  Some seemed pretty straightforward. There was the dog whistle he’d blown earlier. A carved wooden rosary attached to a necklace of prayer beads. A small corked vial of what I guessed was holy water.

  But most of the magical items were a bit too esoteric for me to figure out. Like an enchanted pack of Big Red chewing gum. A piece of quartz wrapped in copper wire. A small bag of self-adhering googly eyes—whose stares seemed to follow me. A plastic ring like the kind you got from a gumball machine. A thumb-sized mason jar packed with dried petals. A polished river stone with a hole worn through the center. And a single shoelace.

  Either the detective was some kind of boy scout—always prepared for both the magical and the mundane—or he was a hoarder with magically deep pockets.

  Column A, column B, perhaps.

  Unlike the puppeteer’s magic, I didn’t find the smell of the detective’s magic particularly unpleasant. It reminded me of pencil shavings and coffee beans. A benign odor that became more complex the longer you paid attention.

  I wasn’t sure if the way I perceived magic was determined by some objective metric, or my own subjective worldview, but my gut told me I shouldn’t underestimate the detective.

  Then again, I had domed him with his own staff. So maybe I risked overestimating him too.

  He started to come to right about the time I was finishing pilfering his jacket and jeans of their contents.

  "You feeling alright, Yu Jing?" I asked, patting him lightly on the cheek, while Boden continued to apply tongue directly to his forehead.

  The man groaned, raising a hand to the bridge of his nose. He rubbed his temples, blinking himself back to consciousness. He likely had a headache from the blow to the head I’d given him. The one the wolf had made me give him.

  Once again, she’d made me culpable for assault and battery—all in the same night.

  Just one more thing to the list. At this rate, I was going to need a punch card.

  "Ugh... just call me Eugene. It’s easier to say," he muttered. He pushed Boden’s head away and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

  , I thought.

  "It’s a family name. Hey, would you mind getting off—"

  He started to say, then got a good look at me. His eyes went wide.

  "—Oh Jesus Christ!"

  To his credit, his eyes went straight to my teeth—not my chest.

  My more human-like anatomy hadn’t been enough to distract him from the fact that there was, in fact, an honest-to-god werewolf sitting on top of him.

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

  Good to see he had his priorities straight.

  Reflexively, he reached for his holster—wincing as he twisted his bandaged wrist—only to find the gun missing.

  I gave him a sharp rap on the wrist with the tip of his staff. "None of that now. I’m not here to hurt you, Eugene, so I suggest you offer me the same courtesy."

  "You struck me in the back of the head," Eugene snapped.

  I shrugged. "That was an accident. I was actually aiming for your ass. But I missed."

  His scowl deepened. "You working for Kirkland?"

  Eugene tried to shimmy out of the position I had him pinned in, but that only brought him closer to Boden and his tongue.

  "Kirkland? Like the Costco brand? What does that have to do with anything?"

  I wondered if he was talking about the puppeteer. I half expected him to have a more villainous-sounding name. Like Maestro, or Marionetti. At least something Italian—they always had such good villain names.

  Then again, I may have watched one too many mafia movies.

  But still—Kirkland? David Kirkland? That just sounded so... mundane.

  A brand of villainy that brought you wholesale value and free samples.

  I suppose when V told me that witches were still normal people, it applied to wizards too.

  "If you’re not working for him, then who are you? Why are you here?"

  I leaned forward a little, tapping the staff against his forehead. "Ah-ah-ah. I’m the one asking the questions here, Mr. Detective. Or is it Mr. Wizard? What are you exactly?"

  "Just a man of many talents," said Eugene, and threw his left arm forward.

  He must have sensed an opportunity to take back his staff, but I reacted faster, quickly lifting it above my head. That didn’t stop Eugene, who began chant something that sounded like Latin.

  "Venu al mi—"

  I let the staff slip from my grip as I felt its weight suddenly increase, and instead focused on driving my knee into his arm, repositioning it slightly. Just enough for the falling staff to miss his hand and smack him right in the face.

  Needless to say, he didn’t complete his spell.

  I winced as the staff hit with enough force to bounce—right off his nose—with a popping noise that might have been cartilage breaking.

  I grabbed the staff as Eugene grabbed his face.

  "God damn it!" he cursed, his voice a little muffled as he squeezed his nose. I could smell the blood.

  Yep, he’d broken it.

  "Didn’t think that one through, huh? Mr. Man of many talents," I prodded, propping the staff over my shoulder. Better to keep it out of reach in case he tried to be clever again.

  Boden began administering kisses to heal the wounded detective. Eugene groaned, trying to avoid the tongue’s embrace.

  I projected, and the licking ceased.

  "How about you quit with the tricks and the Latin, and I’ll make sure you don’t suffer any more insult or injury? Sound good?"

  "It was Esperanto, not Latin," growled Eugene.

  "I don’t care if it’s Klingon," I said, leaning in close, flashing a toothy, forced smile. "You try any more magic, and I’ll do more than just have this ball of fluff water-Boden you."

  "Water-Boden?" Eugene managed, blinking.

  "Yes. It’s like waterboarding, but with Boden," I said, then turned back to the dog. "Boden, give him another demonstration."

  Boden eagerly resumed his assault, tail thumping as he slobbered all over the man’s face again.

  The fact that Eugene was now forced to breathe out of his mouth—on account of the blood in his nasal cavity—left him vulnerable to being frenched by Boden’s massive tongue.

  He’d either have to suffocate or face indignity.

  Who needed torture when the threat of humiliation was more than sufficient to make one talk?

  A little slobber to loosen one's lips.

  I let it go on for a bit—just long enough to drive the point home—before mentally instructing Boden to relent.

  The detective sputtered and coughed as he tried to wipe his face clean with the sleeve of his jacket. Then, with a flick of the wrist, he produced a tissue, which he held to his nose to sop up the blood.

  "Hey, I said no magic."

  "Just sleight of hand. You didn’t empty my sleeves," said Eugene.

  "Bullshit, I—"

  "It was you, wasn’t it?" Eugene said, cutting me off. "The one who compelled all the animals and killed those thralls."

  "Thralls?" I glanced toward the dead dogs. "You mean the cursed dogs?"

  "Cursed, enthralled, same thing," Eugene replied.

  "And what gives you that idea?"

  "Well, they weren’t shot or killed by another dog, but by something with quite a bit of physical strength. And the howl that summoned the animals had quite a powerful telepathic compulsion behind it."

  Eugene gave me a pointed look. Thought, effect was kind of muted by the fact he was holding a bloody tissue to his face.

  "Seems to me, you fit the bill."

  "Yeah? What makes you think I have telepathy?"

  "Because I can hear you broadcasting your thoughts. Even the ones I don’t think you mean to. If I had to guess, you’re a bit new to this, aren’t you?"

  It took me a second to process what Eugene had just said.

  And the moment it sank in, I suddenly felt very exposed.

  Sure, I didn’t have any clothes on, but that didn’t really matter since I wasn’t in human form—one of my many were-privileges. As long as no one knew what human-me looked like—such as some kids who filmed me in their swimming pool—I could get away scot-free.

  But if someone could hear my thoughts, they could learn all sorts of things about me. Deeply personal and private things.

  In school, I’d always feared the idea of classmates hearing my thoughts. How mortifying it would be if they learned who I had a crush on, or knew what sort of things I fantasized about when I was bored. It was irrational, sure, but it was enough that I would curate my thoughts constantly.

  Because you never knew when the day would come that you crossed paths with a mind reader.

  Now it seemed I had.

  A childhood phobia made manifest.

  Then again, maybe he was just screwing with me. At least, I hoped he was screwing with me.

  Eugene raised his hand—the one not holding the napkin to his nose—in a pacifying gesture.

  "Look, it's nothing to be ashamed of. Most inexperienced telepaths don’t know how to shield their thoughts when they first acquire the ability."

  This would have come across as reassuring, if his tone hadn’t made it sound like he was talking to a child.

  The bastard was making fun of me.

  "Sure, I can speak to dogs, and some animals. But not humans."

  "No, that's still telepathy. Just a form more suited for animals than humans."

  I projected at him, testing whether he could actually hear my thoughts or was just good at guessing.

  "Because I’m just a good listener."

  I thought to myself. At least, I hoped it was to myself.

  "It’s not eavesdropping when you broadcast your thoughts the way you are. It’s like you’re thinking through a megaphone."

  "God damn it."

  Well, that pretty much confirmed it.

  This wasn’t going the way I was hoping. I needed to make sure I didn’t let him dominate the conversation or ask too many questions. Lest I give an actual detective all of my secrets.

  I mean, I was supposed to be the one in control here—with the claws, the teeth, and the whole thing.

  "So, you were the one who killed the thralls?"

  "And what if I was?"

  "Then I suppose I should thank you. My last run-in with them almost got me killed."

  "You mean last night, at the depot by the commerce building?"

  His eyes narrowed. "How long have you been following me?"

  "Enough questions from you. That's a trade secret. But… I will say this: you should choose a different cologne. It smells like you bought it on clearance and you use too much of it. Makes you easy to track."

  "Well, at least I’m not the one who smells like a trash heap. You live in a dumpster or something?"

  "There’s no way you can smell that right now."

  "I could smell you just fine until you broke my nose—"

  I thought at him, which earned me a flat look.

  "Thought the smell was coming from the bodies at first. But they’re not that decayed yet," he finally said.

  “Alright smart-ass,” I said, baring my teeth a little. "How about you keep the commentary to a minimum and focus on answering my questions. I’ll start with an easy one: Why are you here?"

  "Why are any of us here?" replied Eugene.

  "Boden," I said with mock seriousness, "if you would."

  "Wait—mph," His protests turned into muffled gurgles as Boden went full wash cycle on his face and applying tongue to mouth.

  Hopefully, that enchanted gum of his was meant to dispel bad breath. He was going to need it.

  "I’m on the clock, Eugene," I warned once I gave Boden the order to relent. "So how about you drop the smug and be straight with me. Why are you here? What are you looking for that has you skulking around rail depots in the dead of night? And why has Boden been following you?"

  "The first part’s a long story, but the Boden part’s easy. He stole my dinner, and now he won’t leave me alone."

  "You call a cheeseburger dinner? God, you must be broke."

  "Tight schedule, tighter budget. What can I say? Look, what do you want from me? Are you trying to stop me, help me, or what?"

  "I’m just trying to get my dog back."

  "This big boy? Fine by me. He’s all yours. I don’t see what the fuss is about," he gestured at his head and at all his things I’d scattered around, "or the mess."

  "The fuss is that, one, I had to make sure you wouldn’t shoot me—couldn’t depend on you not being a little jumpy with enthralled dogs running around. And two, I had to go on a city-wide goose chase to track him down because Boden’s been tailing you—you, who stuck your nose into something nasty and could have gotten him hurt."

  "Oh, that’s rich. Sounds more like you lost track of him. Bit of a you-problem," he said.

  A snarl rose low in my throat.

  But that hadn’t been entirely me.

  I didn’t like being verbally cornered. Neither did wolf, apparently.

  She'd voiced her disapproval.

  "Do you really think it’s wise to push my buttons?"

  Eugene didn’t flinch.

  "Believe it or not, your dog is the only reason I’m not dead. I would’ve gotten jumped by those thralls if he hadn’t been there to warn me. He’s not the one in danger."

  "Oh? And what if he had gotten bitten? Then what? A dog his size, suddenly going full Cujo? Would you have shot him too?" I retorted.

  "He was bitten. Multiple times, in fact. But not a scratch on him. Nor does the enthrallment have any effect on him."

  "What? Really?"

  "Yeah. Because he’s not a real dog... But you already know that, don't you? That’s why you’re so eager to get him back, isn’t it?"

  Ah. So he’d noticed something was different about Boden.

  He was wrong, though—Boden was a dog. Or at least, half-dog. His mother had been a sweet ol' Bernese, whom he clearly took after.

  His father, however... well, Sandy didn’t seem to know what he had been. In fact, the only reason she knew anything was what she’d been told by whoever passed Boden on to her. Her notes mostly amounted to observations of his stranger characteristics.

  Aside from his huge appetite and unusual growth, he seemed to be just a normal dog. One of the less unusual oddities of the menagerie, in my opinion.

  I’d always figured she’d been conned into taking care of a mutt that some breeder didn't want. But now it seemed I had some external confirmation staring me in the face.

  "What makes you think Boden's not a dog? You use the magic litmus paper or yours?" I asked, remembering the paper with the dog's blood Eugene had burned.

  I wasn’t doing a stellar job at playing an interrogator. Kept getting off topic and following inquiries out of curiosity rather than direct intention. But Eugene knew things at magic that I did not. Things I wanted to know.

  Might as well pump him for information while I had him disarmed and pinned beneath me.

  "Thaumic Assay paper," said Eugene.

  "Huh?" I blinked.

  "The litmus test you were referring to. It’s called a Thaumic Assay. And yes, I used that and a few other tricks to evaluate Boden after detecting a magic aura coming from him."

  "And what did they tell you?"

  "That he’s not a dog."

  "Really? With all your detective and wizard skills, that’s all you could come up with?"

  "Only thing conclusive."

  "Alright, tell me your speculations then."

  "Look, his aura doesn’t match what should be possible with a normal dog. That’s all I can really say. These tests are more exclusionary than definitive."

  How conveniently vague. And frustrating.

  But also… intriguing.

  "Is that just because he’s a familiar?"

  "No. Familiar is more of a title than a type of creature. They can be magical, or they can just be normal animals. It really just comes down to whether the animal is compatible with the familial bonding process."

  Eugene gave me a quizzical look.

  "So, Boden is your familiar?"

  "No," I replied. "I’m just the one in charge of looking after him. It’s my job."

  "Employee of the month, are we?"

  "You bet your ass I am. And I've spent all day hunting through the city for him to prove it. Now how about we circle back to my first question. Why are you here, and what are you looking for? If it’s a long story, then SparkNotes it for me."

  Eugene took a long sigh, as if deliberating on something.

  I sent a thought to Boden, who leaned in close to Eugene, his tongue a mere centimeter from his face.

  "Fine. Fine." Eugene finally spoke. "I’m just a detective. One hired to track down a smuggler. A man named David Kirkland. That’s all."

  Yeah, right. Sure. And I was just a big scary puppy.

  I didn’t need more than two brain cells to know there was a lot more to that story.

  “A detective who’s also a wizard? What? Is that some kind of coincidence? You drop out of Hogwarts and decide to strike out on your own as a PI?”

  “I just a detective. One that just happens to have a skillset that make him got at finding things.”

  "Sure. Okay, what kind of stuff is Costco-man smuggling that would get a man of your talents on his case and not just, oh, I don’t know, the cops?"

  "Well, he’s smuggling reagents used for magic rituals. You know, classic stuff—eyes of newt, graveyard dirt, powdered bone, a splash of blood here and there."

  Eugene had that tone again. That condescending way of talking. Was he trying to piss me off, or was this his social default?

  Maybe it was a sarcastic stress response—the kind of hole that dug itself.

  "So, what? Is he unlicensed, or not paying taxes? How does transporting what basically sounds like random-ass commodities get you in trouble with the law? Or is witchcraft still illegal?"

  Despite mirroring Eugene’s sarcasm, I was genuinely curious. Was witchcraft still something that would get you burned at the stake?

  "No, you're right. Most magical reagents are quite commonplace. Hell, you can find most of them at your local home and garden or grocery store. The only restrictions are for those used in darker magics—think human sacrifices, blood of virgins, necromancy. Spells that harm people and require harm to be cast. That sort of thing."

  "Like these thralls?"

  "Close, but not quite. Imagine it being used on a person instead of a dog. That’s the kind of thing that gets you in serious trouble."

  "So torturing dogs doesn’t?"

  "No. Animal cruelty is still a crime, regardless of whether it’s done with magic or not. But Kirkland’s biggest charges come from what he’s transporting."

  I pondered this.

  I’d already accepted that magic existed, so naturally, it seemed reasonable there would be people using it—and an economy to support that use.

  And where there was demand, and laws restricting trade, there would always be a black market.

  Because, wherever there’s money, there’s people breaking the rules to make more of it.

  This slid neatly into my worldview—which had already been recalibrated to accommodate my lycanthropy.

  No need for any existential crises. Not yet, anyway.

  Humans just being humans. With magic.

  Now, at least, I had the answers I was looking for—or at least the ones I cared about.

  But I still had other questions. One in particular was eating at me.

  I glanced at the three dead thralls, the cursed dogs I’d killed, and a flare of guilt stirred inside me once again.

  "Was there any way to save them? The thralls, I mean."

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer—even if it vindicated my actions.

  Eugene thought about it for a moment before responding.

  "No," he said finally. "Probably not. If they'd been caught early on, then maybe. But at this stage, their minds would have been mostly gone."

  The implication terrified me.

  "You said they can do it to people too? Is that what Kirkland is doing?"

  "Uh, no, I was just using that as an example. Besides, most of your... darker mages wouldn’t use this type of enthrallment on another human. Ruins higher functioning thought. Usually not desirable, and it’s easier to identify and stop. Better to use something more subtle. But if you need attack dogs under complete control, you don’t need subtle."

  "And he sent them after you when you got too close to what he was hiding?"

  "I assume so. But I still don’t know where his cache is or where he’s operating from. I do know he’s using cargo containers to stash his goods and hide himself. Somehow, he's able to get shipping manifests so he can stash his stuff with existing shipments."

  "How’s he pull that off?"

  "Magic."

  "Boden?" I asked skeptically.

  "Wait, wait. It’s not a quip." Eugene raised his hand defensively. I instructed Boden to spare him.

  "He uses his magic to bypass locks and move unseen."

  "What kind of magic?"

  "No point explaining. It’s magic, alright."

  "Try."

  Eugene sighed heavily.

  "Fine. Imagine a magic that lets you move outside the physical world. Travel via shadows. Through walls or across great distances."

  That tickled something in my brain, reminding me of what Nevermore had said earlier.

  "So he can cross into Abandon—the Upside-Down. Or whatever you want to call it."

  Eugene blinked.

  "Oh... okay. Guess I don’t need to explain after all. Yeah, he can cross into the Abandon at will. That’s how he hides his activities from most authorities."

  "But not well enough."

  "Nope. He got sloppy. Took something he shouldn’t have. Now the powers that be know about him. That’s why I’m here. Since I can track someone through the Abandon, I was contracted to find him, and I've been following him down the east coast."

  "Okay. So what happens when you find him?"

  "I’ll call the cops and report him."

  I blinked.

  "You’re kidding. If the cops couldn’t find him before, how will they help now?"

  "Well, it’s not like I’m calling 911. I'll be reaching out to the local branch of law enforcement that deals with magic crimes and the supernatural."

  "Those exist?"

  Eugene seemed puzzled yet again.

  "You know about the Abandon but not of arcane legal affairs?"

  "Hey. Look. Everything I know about magic, I’ve literally learned in the past two days. So enlighten me."

  "Okay, okay. If I find Kirkland, I’ll report his confirmed whereabouts to the SC-DOA. The..."

  He hesitated.

  "South Carolina Department of Occult Affairs."

  I gave him a flat look. "DOA? Really? What, do they have a high mortality rate or something?"

  "I swear I’m not making this up."

  I sighed. This didn’t fit as easily into my worldview, but I could make it work.

  If there was a magic economy and black market, that meant regulations. And, therefore, and regulatory organization. Maybe even a governing body—an American Ministry of Magic, so to speak. One that worked with or alongside local governments.

  Smugglers, black markets, illegal magic... that made sense.

  So, I supposed the existence of magical law enforcement would too.

  Same old game, weird new rules.

  And someone had to handle the jurisdiction between the magical and the mundane. Charleston PD probably didn’t cover crimes that extended beyond physical reality.

  "You know what? Fine. I don’t care if you’re telling the truth. Either way, I’m good with not being involved any further."

  "Well, then, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get up and collect my things. I too am on the clock, and I’m no closer to finding Kirkland. This chit-chat of ours is costing me time."

  I knew I said I didn't want to get involved, but I realized I knew something he didn't.

  This meant I had an opportunity to flex on the good detective.

  "Well, Mr. Detective Wizard, do I have a surprise for you. Costco-man’s hiding out at the paper mill. Not sure how, but you’ll probably figure it out. As for what he’s hiding, I’m pretty sure it’s at the northern terminal. Hundreds of containers to stash stuff in."

  For the first time all night, he actually looked caught off guard.

  Score one for the big bad wolf.

  "How do you know that?"

  I thought.

  "Yes," Eugene said seriously. "Yes, I would."

  I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to tell him. The more I talked, the deeper I dug myself in. And what I knew hinged on things I didn’t exactly want to reveal.

  But keeping secrets? That just made him ask more questions. And if what Eugene said was true, that I was unintentionally projecting my thoughts—even the ones I didn’t mean to—then it wouldn’t matter if I wanted to answer or not.

  Damned if I did, damned if I didn’t.

  But if I wanted to stay out of this mess, it was probably best to divest myself of any useful information and be done with it. Give him no reason to pry further.

  If I couldn’t keep a secret, then transparency would be my defense.

  "Look, I followed the scent trail of the dogs that attacked you. The ones you shot last night. It eventually led me to a utility building at WestRock—that’s right next to the North Terminal. I figured you’d make your way there sooner or later. That’s why I picked this spot for our little get-together—I figured you’d be nearby."

  "How'd you know which of the dogs were thralls?"

  "Same way you did."

  "I very much doubt that."

  "Okay, fine. I can smell magic. Or, at least, I perceive it as a smell. Either way, it let me identify which dogs were thralls and which were just afflicted."

  "What else do you know?"

  I thought, before I could stop myself.

  "I’m trying to do an investigation here. Anything you know—"

  "No,” I cut him off.” You look here: I’m not here to help you. I am not your sidekick. I’m just here for Boden. I won’t get in your way, but no more questions. And I’ll let you go, but only if you promise to leave me and my dogs alone."

  "Dogs? You have more?"

  "Yeah. Boden here." I gestured, then thumbed over at Coy, who was still chewing on Eugene’s wand. "And that nimrod over there."

  Eugene looked over at Coy and frowned.

  "Why am I not surprised that that little bastard is one of yours too. I take it the raven accompanying him is also yours."

  "Oh, so you’ve met Nevermore. Where is he?"

  "Yeah… he’s—um—in my glovebox."

  "What?"

  "Nimrod over there kept letting him into my truck, and he wouldn’t shut up. Kept coming up with these shitty limericks. So I put him in my glovebox."

  You know what? That was fair.

  "Yeah, so Coy and Nevermore are off-limits too. Got it?"

  "You lose a zoo or something?"

  "More like a menagerie. Now, promise me you’ll leave us alone."

  "Fine."

  "Make it a magic promise."

  "You’re joking."

  "Magic man can’t make magic promises?"

  He sighed. "Look, I can’t promise to leave any of you alone—especially considering your dogs won’t leave me alone. But I can promise that I won’t harm any of you."

  "Alright. Then do it."

  Eugene closed his eyes for a moment before speaking: "I swear I won’t shoot you or harm your animals in any way."

  I felt the magic settle into his words like a thread pulling taut, making them seem more solid. More binding. Like the words had weight.

  So that’s what it felt like.

  Words you couldn’t take back. Magic pulling on them like fishhooks.

  Made my skin crawl a little, if I was honest.

  "Happy now?" Eugene asked, crossing his arms.

  “More or less,” I replied.

  I stood up, taking my weight off him. Eugene started to sit up, but sensing another opportunity to flex a little—and curious to test my strength—I seized him by the lapel with one hand and hauled him to his feet.

  Just a little reminder that I could be the real deal if I wanted to. Not that flexing was smart. But damn if it didn’t feel good sometimes.

  Then I patted him down, shaking the dirt off his jacket—a polite gesture to offset my more hostile behavior.

  Couldn’t have the detective thinking I was here solely to antagonize him.

  Eugene seemed a little taken aback at being hoisted so easily, wobbling as I let go. He placed a hand against his Bronco to keep his balance. In the other he still held the tissue against his nose. Though it seemed the bleeding had stopped.

  Maybe a little syncope from standing up too fast. A nosebleed. And maybe from being clocked in the head. Twice.

  He was shorter than I expected. Only an inch or two taller than me—when I wasn’t hunched.

  I looked over at Coy, who was still chewing on the wand.

  "Alright, Coy, give the our magic man back his wand."

  Coy just stared at me, jaw working steadily, and continued chewing.

  "Coy. Drop it. Now."

  Coy deliberated, his jaw pausing briefly—then resumed gnawing like I hadn’t said a damn thing.

  "Seems to me you’re not as in command as you let on," Eugene said, righting himself and brushing off his sleeves.

  "Never said I was. And I wouldn’t be in this position if I were."

  Eugene flicked his wrist, and a Milk-Bone appeared in his left hand. Coy’s ears perked up immediately.

  "Do you have a pocket dimension I missed or something? Or, like, a vending machine tuck up your sleeve? Where did you even get those?"

  "From Petsmart, actually. The one off Rivers Avenue," said Eugene, holding the bone out to Coy.

  "You know that’s not what I meant."

  "Hear me out. What if I told you it had to do with magic?" he said, deadpan.

  I thought.

  That seemed to put a grin on his face.

  It was no wonder Boden and Coy liked him. He probably had all sorts of snacks and toys hidden in that jacket.

  The wolf, of of course, did not approve. She simmered, watching this stranger influencing her packmates with food.

  But I was beginning to think she was just jealous.

  "You know that’ll only encourage him to play keep-away, right?"

  "Not going to be a me-problem much longer, will it?" Eugene said, trading the treat for his wand in a quick toss-and-grab.

  After wiping it off on his pant leg, he flicked it. The scattered items I’d tossed around began to float into the air, then zipped toward him, neatly tucking themselves back into his pockets and sleeves.

  "Just a detective, he says," I muttered, wishing I could do something like that.

  Sure, I could talk to dogs—which was cool and all—but I couldn’t make my clothes fold themselves or a house clean itself.

  Such magical automation would vastly improve my quality of life.

  And he was using it to stuff his pockets with junk.

  Pearls before swine, I supposed.

  "A man of many talents," Eugene said as the last of his paraphernalia tucked itself away.

  "Alright, Mr. Fantasia."

  "I like to think of myself as more of a Jedi," Eugene said, tucking the bloody tissue in a pocket, freeing his right hand. He pointed at his gun..

  The gun and its components rose up, reassembling themselves—bullets sliding back into the magazine, the magazine locking back into the stock.

  Guess one of his talents was showing off.

  "Well, they're both Disney powers. I’ll give you that." I said, watching the gun fly into his right hand—with apparently more force than intended.

  Enough to remind him that his wrist was still broken.

  Eugene cursed as pain flashed across his face, fumbling with the weapon. He managed to catch it with his mind magic again, guiding it more gently into his holster.

  "Force a little too strong in the one, eh, Obi-Wan?" I prodded.

  Eugene gritted his teeth, cradling his injured wrist, and didn’t respond. He flicked his wand, and it vanished up his sleeve like everything else.

  "My staff, if you would," Eugene said, extending his uninjured hand.

  "Oh, right." I glanced down at it, realizing I was still holding it. I tossed it to him.

  He caught it gingerly.

  "Thanks," he said, inspecting it briefly.

  "Alright, now release Nevermore so I can go."

  I turned to Coy and Boden.

  I’d assumed that the two of them would, after a moment of hemming and hawing, follow the wolf and me—I their caretaker, and the wolf their packleader.

  But neither of them moved.

  And it was the wolf who alerted me that something was off.

  She noticed that neither Boden nor Coy were paying attention to us.

  They were watching Eugene, and Coy’s posture had stiffened.

  I spun back around to see Eugene pointing his staff at me.

  At that moment, the wolf seized control. We leapt at him, her instincts detecting a threat and choosing fight over flight.

  But she wasn’t fast enough.

  "Leviti!" Eugene commanded.

  A bright violet flash lit up the space around us.

  The wolf and I felt our body slow mid-air until we came to a complete stop. Our feet didn’t return to the ground.

  We were floating.

  The wolf tried to run forward, but our feet only flailed uselessly in the air.

  And not just us—Coy and Boden too. Eugene had targeted all three of us.

  "What the hell? What is this?" I snapped, trying to take control back from the wolf.

  "Magic," Eugene said matter-of-factly.

  I thought.

  "What gives? You promised you wouldn’t do anything!" I barked angrily.

  "And true to my word, I’ve neither harmed nor shot any of you."

  "You knew what I meant. This is just semantic bullshit."

  "You’re absolutely correct. But with this kind of magic—these spoken promises—the words matter more than the intention."

  There was a smirk on his face now. Like this was a game to him, and he’d finally gotten the upper hand.

  "And… if you remember my exact words, I only promised not to harm your dogs. Not you. All I said was that I wouldn’t shoot you."

  Panic twisted in my gut.

  He’d gotten me with classic contractual ambiguity. Despite getting a promise out of him, I hadn't actually allotted myself any protection.

  "You really should pay more attention to these things in the future."

  The wolf snarled and snapped in the air, furious at being denied her power.

  I could handle communications, but this tantrum wasn’t helping. So I tried to order her to calm down.

  She wasn’t having it.

  She wanted to charge. To claw. To bite into something. To take this conversation of the minds and return it to one of might. Wanted to take on this twerp of a wizard and teach him his place.

  I just wanted her to stop embarrassing us.

  I had to escalate—negotiating with my own instincts—while physically using one hand to clamp down on our muzzle to keep her from making us look more foolish.

  At least, I hoped he just wanted to talk.

  Eugene watched me thrash around with myself, his expression shifting to something almost amused.

  "You seem to be at odds with yourself. Who are you talking to?"

  I projected at him, loud and forceful.

  He winced and held a hand to his temple.

  Guess he’d been listening a little too closely.

  Maybe, if I was lucky, I’d just given him a touch of telepathic tinnitus for his trouble.

  At some point during all of this, the three of us must have broken eye contact with Coy.

  I heard a soft pop—and he was gone.

  Abandoning us for the Abandon.

  Now, it was just Boden and myself left in the air.

  Boden, who’d been near Eugene when he floated, had somehow swum his way closer. Or maybe he’d propelled himself with his tail, which was wagging violently and stirring up a storm.

  Seemed he was really enjoying the weightlessness.

  Nose and tongue made contact with the side of Eugene’s face.

  Eugene pushed away the Boden-blimp.

  I’d gotten my act together by this point, wrestling control back from the wolf. I even managed to orient myself in a seated position, arms crossed as I glared down at Eugene.

  "Alright. What is it you want?" I asked.

  Eugene planted his staff on the ground, leaning forward on it.

  "I think it’s my turn to ask questions, don’t you?"

  "I do believe you’ve already asked several questions."

  "Several of which you’ve either neglected to answer sufficiently or outright refused. And I'd really like to address the wolf in the room. Or, should I say... the werewolf."

  "Oh? What gave it away? The moon? The fur? Or the way my tail wags? It was the tail, wasn’t it?"

  Eugene wasn’t smiling.

  "What I mean is... I find it a little too coincidental that a werewolf with the ability to telepathically compel animals just happens to be wandering around the city at the same time as a bunch of mind-control dogs."

  His tone was calm, yet with an edge to it. He wasn’t buying the innocent bystander act.

  "Or," I shot back, "it could just be a series of unfortunate events. I just happen to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Ever think of that? How about extending me the benefit of the doubt? I helped you. Didn’t kill you. That’s worth something."

  "In my line of work, we have a saying: Trust, but verify."

  "Well, clearly you can see I’m not the David Kirkland you’re looking for," I replied, gesturing at my chest as if to say, "Behold, breasts."

  "No," Eugene agreed, "but you could still be part of his crew."

  I arched a brow.

  “Oh? So you think I’m some wolf for hire?”

  "Well, you see, I’ve encountered Kirkland before. I know what he’s capable of. Aside from slipping through the Abandon and being quick on his feet, he’s barely more than a two-bit mage."

  "Know what that’s like to be a two-bit mage, I take it?"

  “I—” Eugene almost retorted to comment, but caught himself. I’d almost gotten him, but he’d realized I was trying to bait him. Trying to throw him off his game

  "My point is, the thralls and their curse aren’t skills within his wheelhouse. He’d need help."

  "So now you think I’m cursing dogs and siccing them on you?"

  "A curse that spreads by bite and induces rage sounds like pretty classic lycanthropy to me."

  "Then why would I kill my own thralls and stop to chat instead of just tearing your throat out?"

  "To cover your tracks. Earn my trust, learn what I know, then eventually kill me."

  "Right. Sure. Makes perfect sense. Let you rearm yourself and get the drop on me—because I like giving myself a challenge."

  "Maybe you’re a Richard Connell fan," Eugene said.

  "Ah, yes. I’m Countess Zaroff, this is my deaf mutt Ivan," I gestured toward Boden. "And I'd like to play a game. A dangerous one."

  My rant seemed to amuse Eugene instead of annoy him, as I intended.

  I’d hoped to wear down his patience and force him into a rash decision.

  But, instead, I think he appreciated that I got his reference.

  Time to switch tactics.

  "Come on, Eugene. You’re grasping at straws. I think you’ve hit a dead end and you’re desperate enough to coerce a random werewolf."

  "Yeah, except I don’t think this was random."

  "I don’t know what to tell you. Ask Boden. He’s the only reason we even crossed paths."

  Eugene turned toward Boden, who floated beside him.

  Boden’s ears perked at the mention of his name. Beneath him, his feet paddled at the air.

  If Boden had been playing some diabolical mastermind in all this, I doubted he knew any more about it than either of us.

  Eugene refocused on me.

  "How do you know you’re not cursed?"

  "Because I wasn’t bitten," I said.

  "Are you sure that’s the only way it spreads?"

  "That’s what it looks like. The thralls afflict other dogs through bites."

  "What about the thralls themselves? How do you think cursed?"

  "No idea," I muttered, crossing my arms tighter and breaking eye contact.

  "You know," Eugene said dryly, "I don’t need to eavesdrop on your telepathy to know when you’re lying. Not with a poker face like yours."

  Right. Transparency was my defense.

  "Alright, fine. But this is just speculation. I think the puppeteer made them consume some kind of blood. Maybe his own."

  "How do you know that?" Eugene asked, his expression turning pensive again.

  I pointed toward one of the dead dogs—the last one I'd killed.

  "I looked into his memories with this... telepathy, as you call it. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the puppeteer's face, but instead I saw what looked like the dog’s owner. Or someone pretending to be. They made the dog swallow something. Tasted like blood. The magic reeks of it. And it lingers in them even after they die. Even now if I get close to them, I can feel the curse. Like it’s in their actual blood. Is that like a thing? Blood magic?"

  Eugene nodded.

  "It is. But how did you know you were seeing the dog's owner? Have you met them?"

  "No. It was the dog who recognized them as his owner—or believed it was. I think it was magic. They looked right, sounded right, but smelled wrong. I don’t think it was really them."

  "Sounds like glamour."

  "Glamour?"

  "An illusion. It tricks the mind into seeing what the caster wants. Though usually it has limits—like not replicating touch or smell."

  "Like psychic paper."

  "What?"

  "Doctor Who. It shows people what they expect to see."

  Eugene blinked. "...Sure. Let's go with that."

  "Can I go now?" I asked, hopeful.

  "No."

  "For fuck’s sake. I told you everything I know about the thralls."

  "Yes," Eugene agreed. "But you haven’t told me anything about yourself. I can’t exactly turn a blind eye to a werewolf running loose in Charleston. I’m obligated to report these kinds of things to the DOA. It's literally in my contract."

  "And I'm not obligated to assist a wizard detective, but maybe I’ll make an exception."

  "What is your name?" Eugene asked, ignoring my comment.

  "Oh, this far into the conversation and you finally want proper introductions?"

  "Considering you introduced yourself with a blow to the back of my head, I think I can be excused for the faux pas."

  "Did I mention you also broke my nose?"

  "I think we established that was on you."

  "A name, if you would."

  Yeah, sure. Like I was going to give him my real name. He could probably do all kinds of things with it—wizard spells or public records, either way, bad news for me.

  I debated using Sandy's name again, as I had on the church membership form, but that name seem to have bit of a reputation preceeding it. One that Eugene might be able to trace back to Sandy's house, and to me.

  Better to come up with something else.

  "Andy," I said at last.

  What can I say? I couldn’t always be creative under pressure.

  "Right. Tell me, Andy... who is your progenitor?"

  "You mean, like, how I was turned into a werewolf?"

  "Precisely."

  "No fucking idea. Don’t even think I was ever actually bitten."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Look, one night I got blackout drunk and woke up three days later in the woods. No bites, no injuries. Just a new tattoo. After that, the changes started."

  "The tattoo may be the source?"

  "That’s my guess."

  "Can you show me?"

  "The tattoo? Yeah, good luck with that. Kind of hard to see right now, on account of the fur."

  "So you can’t back up your claim."

  "If you really care, we can wait here until morning. You can see it then—it’s just above my ass, by the way."

  Eugene pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly running out of patience. Either that, or I’d finally given him a headache.

  "Let's move on," he said tightly. "What kind of person hires a werewolf to watch their dogs?"

  "Well, they don’t know about the werewolf part. Wasn’t a question on the job application."

  "Your employer seems to have animals with magical properties. Why is that?"

  I shrugged. "Surprised me too."

  "Who are they?"

  "Someone I met in college."

  "And this someone can bind spirits? That’s necromancy."

  “What are you talking about?” This question had caught me a little off guard. Wasn’t sure what he meant.

  “The raven—Nevermore—is a bound spirit. A type of familiar known as a spirit-tuner. They take an act of necromancy to create.”

  "Oh. Okay, that part’s not on her. That was her aunt’s doing."

  "Her aunt is a necromancer?"

  "I don’t know. Maybe? Look, I never met her. I just got hired to watch her niece’s pets.”

  Beside, aunt Ellenore was also dead.

  "And who is this niece?"

  "A witch, alright? One who needed someone to watch her familiars while she was out of town. I took the job without realizing some of the animals weren’t normal. Some of them escaped, I’ve been tracking them down, and one of them found you. That’s it. You know the rest."

  Eugene pinched the bridge of his nose, massaging his forehead.

  Seemed his headache had officially evolved into a migraine.

  "Last question," he said. "How is it that you're in control right now? With the moon this full?"

  "Because I convinced my wolf that attacking you wasn’t the best option. She can be quite reasonable after she’s had something to eat."

  "Dare I ask... what exactly did she eat?"

  "Well, aside from a dumpster dive behind this chicken wing place, there was a deer. She ate most of it last night and went back for leftovers this evening. By then, it was pretty bloated and there were flies everywhere, but—"

  "That’s enough," Eugene interrupted, face twisting in disgust. "I get the point."

  "Hey, you asked."

  I intentionally left out my impulsive raid of the culinary district. No need to volunteer evidence that I was a little short on self-control.

  "Can I go now, Mr. Detective Wizard?" I asked, already tired of the back-and-forth.

  "Yes... but one more thing."

  "Oh? Pray tell."

  "I need you to show me who you really are."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I meant it when I said I can’t let a werewolf wander loose in the city," Eugene said, his tone hardening. "Infectious or not. Not only can I tell you're new to all this, but someone out there spreading a curse. One you might be susceptible to. Since I can’t deal with you tonight, I need a way to keep tabs on you."

  "Well, hate to disappoint, but I can't return to my normal form until the moon sets. You know how it is with the moon."

  "I do, actually." Eugene’s voice softened slightly, as though giving a lecture. "Many shapeshifters have that problem. Full moons mess with their ability to transform, often forcing them to reveal their true form—or the true nature of their abilities."

  A smile had returned to his face. A devious little smile. It made the wolf stir. She didn’t like it.

  And neither did I.

  "But I have a way around that."

  Eugene reached behind his ear and, of all things, drew a coin.

  "Really? Was the showmanship necessary?" I asked flatly.

  "What can I say? It’s a trademark flourish."

  I barely heard him.

  My attention zeroed in on the coin in his fingers. Not just any coin—a silver dollar. An honest-to-God American Silver Eagle. Not pocket change. A bullion coin. Pure silver. Worth about thirty-five bucks on the open market. Not the kind of thing you'd find dropped between couch cushions.

  But Eugene wasn’t holding it for investment purposes.

  I could it.

  Magic.

  It radiated off the coin in waves of heat, searing far more intensely than any mundane silver should. This burned.

  It wasn’t supposed to burn.

  Enchanted silver?

  I felt a sinking, sickening sensation in my stomach. A new fear, freshly minted: Cuprolaminophobia.

  “So, uh... what’s with the coin?” I asked, aiming for casual.

  "It’s a tool," Eugene said simply, "for disrupting certain forms of magic. It’s particularly effective against shapeshifters."

  "And it just happens to be silver?"

  "No. It was an intentional choice. Silver has useful metaphysical properties," he replied, rolling the coin across his fingers with practiced ease.

  "Metaphysical?" I asked, glancing around for any way out of my floating predicament. I didn’t know what Eugene planned to do with the coin—and I didn’t want to find out.

  "It ties back to the moon," he explained, his tone shifting subtly. Less like an interrogation, more like a lecture. "Silver has long been linked to moonlight. Some ancient beliefs even held that silver was forged from pieces of the moon itself. Or perhaps a physical manifestation of the light itself. This belief is the reason why silver exhibits properties associated with moonlight and can even sequester its power."

  Of course the wizard detective was also bit of a magical geek. But that was good—if I could keep him talking, maybe I could buy myself time.

  The key was to keep him monologuing.

  "Okay, but if the moon gives me my powers, how does moonlight force me to change back?" I pressed.

  That seemed to hit the nerve. Eugene’s eyes practically sparkled.

  "Because while the itself moon transforms, the full moon reveals," he said, clearly pleased with the question. "It doesn’t just empower—it exposes. Full moonlight has been tied to both transformation and revelation since long before humans. It illuminates that which the night hides, exposing hidden things. Forces them into the open. That’s why shapeshifters like lycanthropes get stuck in their non-human forms during the full moon. It’s not the power—it’s the unveiling."

  While he lectured, Boden drifted closer again. Eugene paused just long enough to steady the dog with his free hand. He absentmindedly began to stroke Boden.

  I listened, because it useful. But my mind stayed busy. I had heard Coy reappeared somewhere behind the Bronco with that a soft pop. Followed by the sound of him slipping beneath truck. I could hear him breathing, probably watching us and waiting.

  Maybe, if I played this right, I could use him. I just needed a way to communicate without Eugene hearing.

  Meanwhile, Eugene kept going.

  "The moon’s power facilitates transformation. Enabling things like shapeshifting, or even just the ocean tides. Yet, it's light forces truth. That’s its magic. And silver—properly enchanted—lets me borrow that power, even shape it. Which is why this coin can reveal... or reset... exactly what you are."

  "Wait—you mean this will return me to my human form?" I asked, suddenly very interested.

  If the detective had something that could force me back to normal even after moonrise...

  That would be fucking fantastic.

  In fact, it was exactly what I'd been hoping for: a way to reliably control my lycanthropy. Get myself a little enchanted silver—maybe a ring or necklace—and finally be free from the constant fear of losing control every time the moon waxed.

  No more waking up in strangers' yards and getting arrested. No more trashing my apartment and getting evicted. No more worrying if I’d eaten someone’s cat.

  I could work normal hours again. Live like a normal person.

  And if I got really lucky, I wouldn’t have to shave so much. I could enjoy having smooth legs again.

  Yeah—I was definitely getting ahead of myself. But damn, I had to know.

  "That’s right," Eugene said. "The enchantment on this coin lets it absorb moonlight until it oversaturates. I can then release that energy in a pulse strong enough to disrupt a spell—or force a transformation to reset."

  "But how does that even work? Moonlight fuels my transformation, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t hitting me with extra moonlight just juice me up or something?"

  “Not in this case. Think of it like this," Eugene said, slipping into lecturer mode again. "Our hearts beat thanks to electrical impulses—but those can be interrupted or restarted with a shock. The same principle applies here. The coin’s pulse can disrupt the magic that's keeping you transformed. Like an AED, but for shapeshifters."

  I opened my mouth to ask if he could make something like that to suppress transformations instead of just them...

  But then my brain caught up.

  "Wait. Are you seriously planning to taze me with that coin?"

  "Taze?" Eugene gave a thoughtful shrug. "No. Nothing like that."

  Oh. Good.

  “If anything, it’s more like a cross between a cattle prod and a branding iron.”

  I immediately regretted asking.

  "Nope, nope. I’m out. Look—I'd be more than happy to touch base later. Really. I’d love to discuss control methods that involve branding me like livestock. But right now? Hard pass. How about we just trade phone numbers and call it a night?"

  Eugene smirked and shook his head slowly.

  "Sorry. Non-negotiable. But I’ll give you a choice."

  He stopped petting Boden and resumed rolling the coin between his fingers.

  "Heads or tails?"

  I glared. Hard.

  "You just want to humiliate me."

  "I take no more joy in this than you did humiliating me," Eugene said mildly.

  "Really selling it there, wizard boy."

  "Look on the bright side," he said, grinning. "At least this way, you can show me your tattoo."

  "You know what?" I snapped, baring my teeth. "Go fuck yourself, Eugene. You bring that coin anywhere near me, and I’ll break your other hand."

  Eugene paused, considering. Then he nodded sagely.

  "Very well. Tails it is."

  With a swipe-right gesture, Eugene spun me midair so my back—and, more importantly, my tail—faced him.

  Which meant he was planning to jab me with the coin, it would be right on my—

  "Wait! No—Not like this!"

  Panic shot through me. I’d been stalling for as long as possible, hoping to find a way out of this. But now I was out of time.

  I didn’t care if Eugene overheard. These were desperate times.

  Coy sprang from beneath the Bronco, eyes locked on Eugene.

  "Sit," Eugene said casually.

  And Coy sat.

  It hadn’t even been a magical command. Eugene didn’t need magic. He had something far more effective.

  A treat.

  With practiced sleight of hand, he vanished the coin and, in the same smooth motion, produced another Milk-Bone.

  I thought furiously. Even the wolf raged at the betrayal—her pack, bribed into submission. Not just hurtful. It was shameful.

  But, fortunately, I wasn't out of opposition. Coy had just been the distraction.

  He’d given me enough time for me to reorient myself and reach a clawed hand into my thick mane and find a certain stowaway nestled within.

  If Eugene wanted to make a fool out of me...

  Then I was damn well going to return the favor.

  I scooped up the massive, fuzzy spider and hurled him—right at Eugene’s face.

  The result?

  Let’s just say Ridley Scott would be proud.

  Interestingly, as of publishing this chapter, Wolf for Hire as reach 100 followers.

  On the dot.

  Huzzah!

  Nine chapters and 100k words ago, I only had 6.

  Never expected this story to garner such attention. This basically started as a thought experiment I was writing for fun. To create the kind of urban fantasy story that I myself wished to read.

  Now it seems I've created a novel that a lot of people really like. Guess I need to upgrade this belated New Year's Resolution to a proper Bucket-list item: to write and publish an actual book.

  A special thank you to , , , and for you glowing reviews, and to all the readers that have given me such positive feedback. It is this support that encourages me to continue working on my writing and turn it into a life-long passion.