----------------------------------------

“Judas! Blackguard!” Phin screeched, wings flailing as feathers scattered like confetti.

“A betrayal most foul!” Ferb chimed in, his sharp voice reverberating through the car.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, my knuckles whitening. “I got you the snacks, didn’t I? You’ll get them when we’re home. But you’re not eating in the car. You’ll make a mess.”

Naturally, they ignored me, their indignant tirade continuing unabated.

From the back seat, Maggie—a dog with far more dignity than I had patience—watched me in the rearview mirror. She’d abandoned the front seat when Phin and Ferb seized it from her, squeezing herself into the back with all the resignation of someone who understood she’d lost the argument before it started. Her amber eyes radiated sympathy, but I could’ve sworn she was smirking, too.

“Deceiver! False prophet!” Phin’s crest flared dramatically.

“Sworn under oath!” Ferb jabbed his beak toward the plastic bag on the floor, trying to claw at it. He wasn’t going to get far; I’d double-bagged it.

“No,” I muttered, my eyes flicking to the rearview. “I kept my promise. I said I’d get you snacks. But I didn’t say you’d eat them now.”

Phin flapped against the dashboard, loose feathers fluttering onto the console, while Ferb clicked his beak like an angry typewriter. My patience frayed, thread by thread.

They hadn’t been like this after church. They’d been sweet, playful even, singing some ridiculous rhyme about snack time. That all fell apart the second we stepped into the gas station.

Maggie stayed in the car, windows cracked just enough for her to stay cool, while I dragged Phin and Ferb through the store. They immediately zeroed in on the junk food aisle, pulling items they wanted off shelves and tossing them on the floor.

“Chips!” Phin demanded, flapping toward a bag of neon-orange cheese puffs.

“No,” I said, already stooping to pick up a half-dozen granola bars that had rolled off the shelf.

“Meaty sticks!” Ferb screeched, tossing a box of Slim Jims across the aisle with the enthusiasm of a toddler.

“Definitely not,” I muttered, sighing as I returned the scattered snacks to their rightful places. “You’ve got twenty-two dollars. Let’s keep it reasonable.”

Phin clicked his beak, a rhythmic percussion to my rapidly fraying nerves. I grabbed a bag of trail mix and shook it. “Nuts, raisins. Healthy. What do you think?”

“Pah!” Phin turned away as if I’d handed him something foul.

Ferb’s eyes lit up, and he jabbed a wing at a garnished bag of sour gummies. “Those.”

“No,” I said, shaking a bag of unsalted popcorn instead. “These.”

They squawked in protest, but when I shook the bag again, Ferb tilted his head. “Shake it, baby, shake it,” he chirped.

I stiffened, thinking he was being lewd, but then Ferb started beatboxing, mimicking the sound of the shook bag. Phin joined in, making the sound of maracas with an uncanny accuracy.

The absurdity deflated me. “Fine. Healthy and shakeable.”

I started selecting snacks for the two birds, shaking the packages to pacify them. What I ended up with was a bag of unsalted Shinny Pop’s popcorn, Dot's Homestyle pretzels, Mexsnax pumpkin seeds, Omega Trail Mix, and a grape fruit cup. Total: $16.48—or $18.29 with tax. That was manageable, though I was still eyeing the fridge for a drink.

My eyes drifted to the fridge section and landed on a 24 oz. White Claws for $3.25.

I did the math. $18.29 plus $3.25 with tax would put me just under $22. I could swing it.

Bad idea. Bad idea.

I grabbed a grapefruit-flavored one and headed for the checkout.

Behind the counter, the cashier—a kid barely out of high school—had his phone out, recording us with a grin that stretched ear to ear.

I shot him a withering glare. “Seriously?”

He chuckled and slid the phone into his pocket. “Sorry. My mom loves birds. Thought she’d get a kick out of this.”

I dumped the snacks onto the counter, feeling my patience simmering just below the boiling point. “Just these.”

The cashier raised an eyebrow at the White Claw. “That for the birds too?”

“No,” I deadpanned. “That’s for me, to deal with the birds.”

“License?” he asked.

My stomach sank. “It’s, uh... at home.” I’d left it in Sandy’s barn along with everything else in my purse.

I sighed and moved the beverage to the side. It was probably for the best that I didn’t tempt myself with day-drinking, especially when considering how poor my tolerance for alcohol had become after contracting lycanthropy.

The cashier rolled his eyes, tap something on the screen, then scanned the can anyway.

The register beeped. Total: $21.80.

Called it.

“Thanks... Mitchell,” I said, spotting his name tag as I handed over the cash.

He shrugged, dropping two dimes and the receipt into my hand. “You look like you need it.” He started bagging the snacks, clearly amused. “You know, my mom used to take care of one of those African Greys. It was a rescue. We had to put him in the closet when guests came over.”

I blinked. “Why?”

Mitchell grinned. “He knew a lot of racial slurs. She tried to fix it by making him watch The Lion King on repeat. But he just started calling people a ‘lovely bunch of coconuts.’”

I winced. “Better than the alternative, I guess.”

Mitchell double-bagged the snacks at my request, and I headed back to the car, Phin and Ferb perched on my shoulders like gremlins. They bobbed their heads in unison, reciting some off-key nursery rhyme:

“Popcorn, chips, and broccoli together!

No, no, never, ever!”

Their voices grated like nails on a chalkboard, but I was too tired to care. I stuffed the bags onto the passenger seat at Maggie’s feet and started the car. Phin and Ferb surrounded Maggie can began yipping and barking at her until she relinquished her seat and climbed into the back. The moment she moved, Phin and Ferb pounced on the bags, scratching at the plastic like starving vultures.

“Off,” I ordered, trying to peel them away while guiding my car onto the road. “You’ll wait until we’re home.”

And that was what got me into my current situation..

As the house came into view, I couldn’t help but wonder how Patty at the church had kept them so calm for almost an hour. I’d barely lasted ten minutes before I wanted to throttle them. What did she know that I didn’t? Sure, she’d looked wiped when I took them from her, but the birds had been practically singing.

I really should’ve read more of Sandy’s book.

I scanned the driveway for JT’s car and found it nowhere in sight. Good. I exhaled in relief and ushered Phin and Ferb inside, Maggie trailing dutifully behind. The birds clung to the snack bags like barnacles, their food obsession too strong for any escape attempts.

Phin nipped at my finger as I pried him loose. I glared. “Do that again, and I’ll bite back.”

“Mangy mutt,” he squawked, and Ferb barked for good measure.

“Hey!” I snapped, but they just shuffled their feathers smugly.

In the kitchen, I opened the bags, measured out a reasonable serving into a bowl, and sealed the rest in Tupperware. I placed the bowl on the counter.

Cue the screeching.

“What now?” I sighed, rubbing my temples. “You’re not getting it all at once. It’s not healthy.”

“Shake it, baby! Shake it,” they squawked in unison.

I grabbed the Tupperware and gave it a quick, half-hearted shake, but it was enough. They launched into another beatboxing session, mimicking the sound like a pair of demented maracas.

Leaving the kitchen, I moved to the laundry room, moving my wet clothes into the dryer. The steady hum filled the background as I sank onto the couch, pulling out my phone to check the time.

Two hours. That’s all it had been. Two hours to track down Phin and Ferb, deal with church, and survive the grocery store. It felt like a full day, and the exhaustion was already creeping into my bones.

A text notification glowed on the screen from JT.

Held up at work. Won’t be back for a while.

Good. That gave me more time to track down the missing familiars without him catching on. Curiosity tugged at the back of my mind—whatever had paged him this morning had to be important—but I’d ask later.

I was just about to crack open the White Claw when the soft sound of paws clicking on the hardwood caught my attention. Looking up, I saw Murray, Annie, and Rudy padding into the room. They’d waited patiently while I wrangled the birds in the kitchen and were now ready to claim my attention. Rudy trotted over, his tail wagging and he placed his paws on my knee, staring up at me with bright, expectant eyes.

I dropped the unopened drink, already bracing to shove him off. “Not this again—”

Then I saw it. Sunset-orange scales shifting to pink, glowing faintly in his mouth.

“Camellia?”

Rudy beamed, tongue lolling out, and gently deposited Camellia the Chameleon into my hands. Her body shimmered, transitioning from amber to coral, almost echoing his triumphant energy. Relief washed over me as I cradled her carefully.

“Good boy, Rudy!” I ruffled the fur on the back of his head, sending ripples down his flowing mustache.

His tail wagged harder, and then—because of course he would—he started humping my leg.

“Seriously?” I hissed, shaking him off. “You couldn’t just take the win?”

Camellia clung to my fingers as I got up and carried her toward her enclosure, her earlier glow dimming into something more muted. The coral deepened to a dull vermilion with sharp streaks of violet.

I paused, puzzled. Was that random, or was she reacting to me? Her colors shifted again, this time into an electric blue, the same shade of grape Gatorade. My brow furrowed. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

Camellia blinked one conical eye fixed on me, the other swiveling it lazily away.

The colors reminded me of those cheap mood rings you’d find at the mall, their hues supposedly reflecting emotions. But, if this were the case with Camellia, it would be an easy enough theory to test.

So, I thought of JT’s ass—it came to mind easily. Gradually, Camellia turned a shade of hot pink.

Hypothesis confirmed.

Her enclosure caught my attention next, particularly the mirrors scattered among the branches. At first glance, they’d looked like a miniature Stonehenge, arranged artfully around her bonsai tree. But now, they seemed deliberate, like they were positioned to reflect light—or maybe emotions—toward a single focal point.

If Camellia worked like a mood ring, the mirrors might act like a satellite dish. A way for Sandy to literally "read the room".

Or maybe the Stonehenge vibe was just aesthetic. Either way, it wasn’t like I was being paid to figure this out.

Which begged the question: how much was I getting paid? Had I even confirmed that with V or JT?

Not that it really mattered. My goal was to stay in Sandy’s good graces long enough to find a more long-term, werewolf-proof place to live. And after meeting Solomon last night, I was sure Sandy could help with my... condition.

Still, I needed the money. I was literally down to my last two dimes.

I returned Camellia to her mirrored kingdom, watching her scales fade to a dusky purple as she nestled into the branches.

It was time to check on the other search parties.

Out in the backyard, Puddy and Rosie were waiting, their tails wagging in tandem as I approached. They must have heard the car earlier because they were practically vibrating with excitement now, their thoughts spilling over into mine in bright, eager bursts.

“You found the owls, huh?” I crouched to pet them, my hands sinking into their warm, soft fur. “Where?”

Rosie’s thoughts came first, clear and sharp: the image of a massive live oak tree at the edge of the property, its sprawling branches shadowed by a parliament of owls. Their eyes gleamed in the picture she sent me, silent and judging.

“Good job, you two.” My voice slipped into baby talk, earning an enthusiastic tail wag from Rosie. Puddy shoved his nose into my hand, demanding his share of attention.

Before heading out, I detoured to the barn. After the fiasco at the church, there was no way I was approaching another group of familiars without reading up on them first. Once bitten, twice shy. And forced public speaking? That left scars.

The book was right where I’d left it, by the cot in the loft. I flipped it open to the section on owls, expecting the usual stereotypes: intelligence, wisdom, maybe a note about their eerie stares. What I found instead made me rub my temples.

Legal jargon. Pages of it. And not the mystical Arcanum I’d seen before—just plain old Latin. The kind that had haunted me since my accounting law classes.

Phasing like, Respondeat superior, and, Mutatio unius partis mutationem facit totius. Behind my eyes, my headache bloomed like a fresh bruise.

The section stretched on, outlining esoteric laws, protocols, and—most maddeningly—litigious debate. Sandy’s notes didn’t just describe the owls as wise. They painted them as compulsive disputers of law and protocol. The kind who’d argue endlessly over a misplaced comma.

I snapped the book shut with a groan. “Oh goddammit,” I muttered, the words half-sigh, half-growl.

I needed to prepare for court.

----------------------------------------

The live oak loomed above as I approached, its sweeping branches forming a cathedral of dappled green light. Perched in a perfect semicircle on the uppermost branches, the owls turned their heads in eerie unison, their eyes gleaming with uncanny intelligence.

I adjusted my suit jacket—had to come dressed in my Sunday Best—and set the cage of mice on the ground at my feet. Sandy’s notes had been clear: the owls were much smarter than most familiar, but impossible. Governed by a web of self-invented laws, they valued debate over solutions, treating every request as if it were a matter of constitutional import. Sandy had tried to beat them at their own game and failed. I couldn’t afford to.

Winston, the great horned owl, regarded me from his central perch. His amber eyes burned with a sharpness that felt almost physical. When his voice came, it wasn’t a sound but a presence, pressing into my mind with clipped precision.

Audibly, it sounded like a normal hoot.

Ms. Caretaker—

“Miss Avery, if you would” I corrected quickly, trying not to sound defensive.

Miss Avery, Winston amended, his mental tone unflinching. Are you attempting to bribe the House?

I set the cage of mice on the ground with deliberate care, meeting his gaze. “It’s not bribery. It’s lobbying. I’m advocating for legislation.”

The grove rustled with waves of displeasure, the sound of feathers ruffling like dry leaves in the wind.

Lobbying, Disraeli, the snowy owl, hooted with frosty disdain. He puffed himself up. A thinly veiled attempt to subvert parliamentary integrity. Scandalous.

“That’s the point,” I said, folding my arms tightly to keep from clenching my fists. “I need a resolution passed promptly—help me locate the missing familiars.”

The owls shifted, talons scraping against bark in a grating, discordant chorus.

Winston’s wings folded neatly at his sides. Your request has been noted and will be postponed. To reconsider it now would violate Article Seventeen, Section Four, which mandates proper scheduling for appeals.

I inhaled deeply, biting back the first response that came to mind. “Emergency clause. This qualifies.”

Point of order! Thurmond’s slow, molasses-like drawl cut through the grove. The barred owl shifted on his perch with deliberate precision, his feathers flaring slightly. Miss Avery has already violated multiple House rules. Improper feeding schedules. Disrupting deliberations. Ignoring procedural etiquette.

He launched into a painstakingly detailed filibuster, citing passages from Sandy’s notes with excruciating accuracy. Each word jabbed like a paper cut, and I could feel my patience fraying.

“Thurmond,” I interrupted, my voice taut, “if your goal is to bore me into submission, it’s working.”

A ripple of indignant hoots swept through the grove, their collective outrage palpable.

Miss Avery, Winston’s tone sharpened, cutting through the unrest. The esteemed Thurmond is exercising his right to outline the petitioner’s violations. You would do well to listen.

I forced a tight smile, my jaw aching from restraint. “Violations? Let’s talk about violations. I’m doing your caretaker’s job while she’s away. Should we go over her infractions too, or are we just roasting me today?”

Caretaker Sandy’s infractions are not under review, Disraeli said smugly, his feathers bristling with self-satisfaction. But yours are numerous. Let us begin with your blatant disregard for feeding schedules.

“You ate the mice, didn’t you?” I shot back, unable to keep my tone completely even. “Food is food.”

You deviated from protocol! Disraeli snapped, his feathers puffing out dramatically.

“And I’m deviating now,” I said, unable to keep the edge out of my voice. “Let me make this clear: I don’t have time for your convoluted rules. You’ve made up half of them anyway.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the leaves above seemed to hold their breath.

Protocol exists for a reason, Trudeau, the screech owl, said nervously, his small frame trembling slightly. Deviating—um—disrupts the delicate balance of governance.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and exhaled slowly, willing myself to stay composed. Losing my temper wouldn’t win this fight. “Enough,” I said, injecting as much calm authority into my voice as I could muster. “You want to talk about governance? Fine. Let’s talk about The Law of The Hand That Feeds You.”

The air in the grove shifted, the rustling of feathers falling to an uneasy stillness.

“Article Six,” I continued, pacing slowly, “uh... something, Six. In emergencies, resource allocation can be suspended until cooperation is ensured. So, help me find the missing familiars, or hunt your own mice.”

Trudeau let out a panicked screech, his wings fluttering in alarm. Withholding provisions constitutes a breach of our resource agreement!

“Not in an emergency,” I countered, though the words felt heavy in my mouth. The threat tasted bitter, but I couldn’t see another way forward.

Winston flared his wings, his mental tone frosty. This borders on extortion.

“Call it whatever you want,” I said, meeting his sharp gaze. “Either you help, or you starve. Your choice.”

The grove seemed to hold its breath again. The owls exchanged glances—or whatever their equivalent of a glance was—a ripple of unease passing through them. For a moment, I thought I’d won.

But then Disraeli broke the silence with a disdainful huff, his feathers puffing as if to maximum volume. We refuse to cooperate under such barbaric terms.

The tension in my chest tightened like a coiled spring. They called my bluff, I couldn’t push them further without risking irreparable damage. I needed them on my side. Burning bridges wouldn’t help me now.

Wilkes, the barn owl, spoke unexpectedly, his voice calm and measured, cutting through the standoff like a gavel striking wood. There is another way.

Every eye—avian and human—turned toward him.

“Another way?” I asked, my tone wary but intrigued.

Seek the raven, Wilkes said, his words deliberate.

The grove erupted in a murmur of hoots and hisses. Disraeli bristled, his feathers puffing even further. He is unwell and unfit. Leave him be.

Several owls murmured their agreement, their discontent rustling through the grove like dry leaves.

I raised an eyebrow, forcing a note of humor into my voice. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You’ve driven him mad, Disraeli snapped, his mental tone sharp as an icicle.

I threw up my hands. “What did I do this time?”

Winston’s wings shifted, his amber eyes fixed on me with a patronizing calm. You called him by a name you shouldn’t have.

I blinked. “Wait—you’re telling me that saying ‘Nevermore’ is enough to drive him mad? Or was it Edgar? Not my fault he has a dumb name.”

Thurmond let out a low, deliberate chuckle, his voice like molasses. He’s a raven, he drawled. Takes things to heart.

Wilkes clicked his beak sharply, cutting through the noise. Mad or not, he will help her. Caretaker Sandy would want this resolved quickly, and the raven has the intellect to aid her search. It is a reasonable compromise.

Winston ruffled his feathers, the motion slow and deliberate. Reasonable? he said, his voice laced with sharp disapproval. Ellenore made it clear the raven was not to be used for such tasks. It violates the agreement.

“Who’s Ellenore?” I asked, but my question fell to the wayside as the owl continued to argue.

Ellenore’s arrangement is irrelevant, Wilkes replied smoothly, his tone calm but insistent. The raven listened to her no more than he does her niece or nephew. Yet Miss Avery has achieved what they could not—he heard her. That alone merits consideration.

Oh great, I thought, in my ignorance, I’d done something stupid again..

The owls exchanged pointed glances, hoots, and subtle head tilts, their debate slipping into a rhythm of unspoken nuances I couldn’t decipher. Despite combing through Sandy’s notes earlier, the entries on the raven were maddeningly vague and brief. And while I could see through Sandy’s obfuscation, it was still full of cryptic references and frustrating half-thoughts.

“Okay,” I cut in, pitching my voice higher to break their murmured deliberations. “Could someone explain this in a way that doesn’t sound like a riddle?”

A heavy pause followed as the owls blinked at me in eerie unison.

You gave him a name, Thurmond intoned, his voice slow and deliberate. And he accepted it.

I blinked. “Yes, you mentioned that. What does it mean?”

It means he recognizes you, Wilkes said gently. The raven has not listened to Caretaker Sandy or her brother in years. But he listened to you.

“That’s still not an explanation,” I replied, biting back irritation.

It’s the truth, Wilkes countered, his words maddeningly neutral. And the truth is often more useful than answers.

I exhaled sharply, dragging my hand through my hair. “So what’s his deal, then? Why is this raven—sorry, Nevermore—such a big deal?”

Wilkes tilted his head slightly, his gaze almost... sympathetic. Ellenore took many of her secrets to the grave. What she entrusted to Caretaker Sandy, she has yet to uncover fully herself. But the raven… was the closest thing she had to a confidant.

The other owls ruffled their feathers, their collective discomfort palpable.

“Confidant? You mean he was this Ellenore’s familiar?” I said, not expecting an answer, nor getting one. Great. Cryptic riddles and a moody bird. Lots of moody birds, really. This was exactly what I didn’t need.

Winston lifted a wing, cutting through the growing tension. He pointed to the farthest corner of the property. You’ll find him in the Rear Garden, he said curtly.

If he seems distracted, use his other name, Wilkes added quickly, drawing sharp hisses from the other owls. The one Ellenore gave him. He despises that name, but it will get his attention. After that, call upon him thrice with the name you gave him, and he’ll listen to you.

I sighed. It wasn't quite the answer I was looking for, but at least this was something I could work with. “Fine,” I said, straightening my suit jacket. “I’ll find the raven. But don’t think this conversation is over.”

The owls said nothing, their collective gaze as inscrutable as ever.

Still, I wasn’t about to leave things entirely sour. Wilkes had been willing to meet me halfway, and I had a rapport to maintain—or salvage. I donned the raptor glove and lifted the cage of mice, holding it up for the semicircle to see.

“Well,” I said with a faint smile, “if there are no objections, shall we adjourn this meeting for lunch?”

----------------------------------------

The air cooled noticeably as I followed the to the rear garden, a gentle contrast to the sticky warmth of the day. The garden lay in the back corner of the property, its entrance a small trail that began just behind the barn. Mist still clung stubbornly to the ground despite the noon sun, curling between the creeping rosemary and blackberry brambles that overran the area.

I paused to pluck a handful of blackberries from the bushes. I popped one into my mouth, savoring their tart sweetness. Being able to pick blackberries was perhaps one of the only redeeming qualities of summers in the south, and my brother and I had spent countless hours as child searching for bramble patches like these. Our reward, stained fingers full of splinters, and a treasured handful of berries.

As I reached for another cluster, I froze.

Gravestones.

They emerged from the undergrowth like forgotten relics, their weatherworn faces tilted askew and blotched with moss. Names—Snickers, Maxie, Princess—peeked through the vines, some accompanied by dates, others left to time’s discretion. My stomach twisted as realization dawned. I’d been snacking in a pet cemetery.

After some deliberation, I decided to swallow the berries I’d already eaten, but felt no desire to eat any more. Instead, I stuck the rest in my pocket, figuring I could use them on Nevermore.

As I stepped further in, the markers grew more numerous, the atmosphere heavier. My flats crunched softly against the gravel path as I navigated through the brambles, the cool air no longer feeling so pleasant. At the heart of the clearing, an ancient oak loomed. Its gnarled branches stretched wide, and at its base stood a solitary headstone larger than the rest.

Ellenore Williams.

The name sent a little chill through me. Sandy’s aunt. Of course. I should’ve pieced that together sooner. If not for the owls' insistent meddling, I’d have turned around and pretended I’d never seen it. The last thing I wanted was to get more entangled in Sandy’s family affairs. Dealing with her pets was already harrowing enough.

My gaze lifted to the tree above the headstone. Perched on a branch high in the oak was the raven.

Nevermore—or Edgar, or whoever he fancied himself today—was perched like a brooding shadow, his black feathers gleaming in the dappled light.. He muttered to himself, an erratic mix of half-formed words and garbled mimicry. His head twitched in sharp, spasmodic movements as if caught between two radio channels.

“Nevermore,” I called out, my voice cutting through the eerie stillness.

Nothing. He kept muttering, his attention still fractured.

“Edgar?”

The raven froze mid-mutter. The chill in the air deepened, the mist thickening as if stirred by an unseen breath. Slowly, Nevermore turned, his black eyes glinting with a startling intelligence that made my stomach twist.

“Speak not the name, speak not the name,” muttered the raven, his voice more human-like now.

I hesitated, my breath catching as the atmosphere thickened. Calling upon Ellenore’s familiar felt more dangerous than I’d anticipated, but I pressed on.

“Nevermore, listen to me.”

The raven clawed angrily and beat his wings. The mist thickened, and the breeze became a gust. Leaves swirled around me, carrying faint whispers I couldn’t quite catch.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Wait! Nevermore, I need your help.”

The whispers grew louder, their incoherent words crawling under my skin. Wind whipped hair into my face and the cold bit at my cheeks.

“Damn it, Nevermore!” I snapped, clutching my jacket tighter. “Stop being so goddamn dramatic!”

And then, everything stopped.

The wind died. The whispers silenced. The chill lifted, leaving the air unnervingly still.

“So is that like, your quirk something? Making everything go all edgy and creep—what the!”

The raven swooped down upon me and began ruthlessly pecking me, jabbing his sharp beak into my head and the hands I threw up to protect myself.

“Blasted woman!” he bellowed, his wings smacking me in the face. “Will you not let the dead rest?”

I stumbled back, caught off guard by the sudden assault. “What the hell are you talking about. You seem pretty alive to me!”

“Do I?” He circled around before landing on a lower branch, his feathers bristling. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

I folded my arms and blew hair out of my face, unwilling to be cowed by a bird, even one this theatrical. “Yeah, I finally got your attention.”

His screech split the air, sharp enough to make me wince. “You will dismiss me this instant!”

“Dismiss you?” I scoffed. “You live here!”

He launched toward me, his speed unnervingly precise. “I don’t mean the bird, you imbecile! I’m talking about myself—the spirit you summoned into this wretched bird!”

I ducked as he swooped low, claws brushing my shoulder. “Summoned? I don’t even know what you’re talking about!”

Nevermore wheeled sharply, his wings beating furiously. “You summoned me with a name! And bound me thrice!”

“Oh, come on,” I snapped, batting at him as he dive-bombed again. “That’s just bad movie logic!”

He landed heavily on my shoulder, his claws digging into my shirt as he delivered a series of sharp pecks to my head. “Do not mock the forces you so clearly do not understand!”

“Will you quit it?” I yelled, swiping at him ineffectively. “I didn’t even mean to—ow! Okay, that’s it!”

Reaching up, I grabbed him mid-peck, holding him at arm’s length. He squawked furiously, his wings a flurry of black as they flapped against my grip.

“You will release me!” he commanded, his voice low and imperious. The dramatic tone might have carried weight if he weren’t a two-pound bird.

“Not until you stop acting like a psychotic parrot!” I shot back, giving him a small shake for emphasis.

His flapping slowed, and he fixed me with a long, piercing stare. The indignation in his eyes softened—just slightly—into something wearier. Then he let out a sigh, long and drawn-out, his wings going slack.

“Very well,” he muttered, his tone laced with begrudging resignation. “Compose yourself, madam. There is much to discuss.”

I hesitated, then carefully set him down on a low branch. He ruffled his feathers indignantly, but the hostility had ebbed, replaced by an air of tired superiority.

“Look,” I began, brushing stray twigs from my jacket. “Nevermore—or Edgar, or whatever—you’re talking to the wrong person if you think I’m some kind of witch. I’m just helping Sandy take care of her familiars. ”

The raven’s head tilted, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Little Sandra has a human friend? How quaint.” His beak clicked with disdain. “Where is she? And Ellenore? I have complaints about her hired help.”

“Sandy’s out of town,” I said evenly. “Some kind of emergency.” I hesitated before adding, “And Ellenore... she’s dead. Sandy inherited the house.” I gestured toward the gravestone.

Nevermore froze, his wings lowering slightly as his gaze flicked to the headstone. The haughty edge in his voice faltered. “Ellenore is... deceased?” His feathers settled as if weighed down by the realization. “How? How long?”

“I don’t know the details,” I replied carefully, wary of the sudden shift in his demeanor. “It’s July 2023, if that helps.”

He stilled completely, the sharp glint in his eyes dimming. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost hollow. “Fifteen years. It’s been fifteen years.”

“Since you were last summoned?”

“Yes.”

The weight in his tone surprised me. For all his pomp and vinegar, there was something deeply human in his sorrow.

“You and Ellenore were close, huh?” I asked cautiously.

A bitter, laugh clicked in his throat. “Close? Hardly. Not for someone who so unceremoniously pulled me from the grave. No, this bird—her familiar—was my prison. She shackled me to this wretched creature so I could help.”

“Help with what?”

“Her dreadful poetry. Her endless need to talk.” His voice grew softer, tinged with something I couldn’t quite place. “And to watch over her precious little Jacky.”

“Jacky?” I blinked, the name catching me off guard. “You mean JT?”

He tilted his head, his feathers ruffling faintly. “Oh, he goes by that now? How is he?”

A small smile tugged at my lips. “Yeah. He’s doing well. Almost a licensed vet now. Quite the looker, but, uh... don’t tell him I said that.”

Nevermore chuckled, the sound rasping and dry. “Splendid. He actually went through with it.”

“He wanted to be a vet that long?” I asked, caught off guard by the note of fondness in his tone.

“Sure, sure,” he murmured, voice drifting into something wistful. “I daresay I’d like to see the man he’s become.”

I studied him, my curiosity deepening. For all his theatrics, there was a weight behind his words that I couldn’t ignore. “You’re not just some random spirit, are you?”

“Random?” He puffed up, feathers bristling with affront. “Madam, I am anything but. Do you not realize the significance of a name invoked thrice? Ellenore bound me with one for a reason.”

A flicker of unease passed through me. “She summoned you with ‘Edgar,’ didn’t she? She meant to call Poe.”

He let out a sharp, derisive caw. A mirthful laugh. “Of course she did. But summoning spirits isn’t as simple as reciting a name. Instead of the great Edgar Allan Poe, she got me. Ha!”

I frowned. “And who are you, exactly?”

His feathers settled slightly, and he tilted his head, fixing me with one dark, gleaming eye. “Even if I did remember who I was, I wouldn't tell a soul. Lest I besmirch what little reputation I had in life by traipsing around as a dumb bird.”

“So... it’s okay if I keep calling you Nevermore?”

He sighed, wings drooping with resignation. “It’s a much better name for a raven than Edgar, I’ll admit.”

“Glad we’re on the same page,” I said, still smiling despite myself. “Now, about the reason I called you here… I am trying to find a dog.”

“A... dog?” he interrupted, his beak hanging slightly ajar. “You summoned me for a dog? Surely, you're joking?”

“Look, I only summoned you here because of the owls,” I replied, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. “I haven’t a clue what is going on, or what I may have done, let alone how to dismiss you. I’m just trying to find a missing familiar.”

His head drooped, and he muttered under his breath. “Figures. Fifteen years, and I’m summoned by accident for a dog.”

“And a snake too. We can ignore the spider. I’m actually hoping he’s gone.”

“Oh goody,” said Nevermore, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

“Well,” I said, digging into my jacket pockets, “if it makes you feel any better... I brought blackberries.”

----------------------------------------

The woods were quieter than I remembered. Maybe it was the daylight, or maybe it was the exhaustion pressing down on me like a fog. Retracing the wolf’s path wasn’t hard—I remembered it too well. Letting the wolf take the wheel last night had kept me conscious, but it left me drained. Safe to say, I hadn’t gotten more than an hour of sleep.

Nevermore perched on a low branch, his sharp black eyes tracking my every step. “Wouldn’t it be wiser to ask your neighbors if they’ve seen this Boden?” he asked, his voice slicing through the stillness. “A dog like the one you’ve described couldn’t go unnoticed.”

I sighed, brushing a low-hanging branch out of my way. “I don’t want anyone else knowing the familiars are missing.”

“And why not?” he pressed. “Wouldn’t that make this search significantly easier?”

I shot him a sidelong glance. “Because JT doesn’t even know. If he finds out, I’m dead.”

His head tilted, feathers ruffling in that way he did when appraising something unpleasant. “Let me ensure I have this correct. The woman who owns these creatures is absent. Her stand-in, appointed by her brother, has misplaced several—including this Boden—and yet refuses to inform anyone who might assist in their recovery.” He paused, clicking his beak thoughtfully. “A fascinating strategy.”

“It’s not like that,” I said, my tone sharper than intended. “I’m handling it. I’ve already found a few of them.”

He let out a low, skeptical caw. “Handling it... by traipsing through the woods with a possessed raven, rather than employing the help of others or the resources available in this very house?”

I stopped walking, turning to glare at him. “Okay, first of all, it’s working. Second, I’ve got a system.”

“A system?” His wings shifted, the movement dripping with mockery. “Enlighten me.”

I hesitated. “I have a good sense of smell.”

Nevermore stared at me for a long moment, the silence sharper than any insult. Finally, he let out a soft, derisive caw. “Color me skeptical, but a human nose isn’t that capable, last I checked. What’s really going on?”

My mouth tightened. “That depends. Can you keep a secret?”

His head tilted further, a glint of intrigue flickering in his eye. “I’ll take it to my grave.”

“Not exactly comforting,” I muttered, pushing past another branch. “Considering you’re already dead.”

His chuckle was dry, rattling like brittle leaves. “Fair point. If it eases your mortal anxieties, you may bind me with an oath. I am now your familiar, after all, and bound to your service. Command me, and I will keep your secret.”

“You’re actually bound to keep it?”

“Indeed.” He puffed out his chest, clearly relishing his self-importance. “It’s one of the perks of having a familiar as intelligent as I. We make excellent confidants.”

I stopped walking again, meeting his gaze. “Fine. Swear you won’t tell anyone.”

He dipped his head with theatrical flair. “I swear. No word of your secret shall pass my lips.”

“Or beak,” I added, lifting an eyebrow.

He sighed, a long-suffering sound. “...Or beak.”

I glanced around, making sure we were alone before speaking. “I’m a werewolf.”

Nevermore blinked, his head jerking slightly like he needed to reset himself. “Ah. Of course. Though, for clarification, are we talking more of an Underworld werewolf or a Twilight werewolf?”

“Ugh, more Twilight, I guess. Wait. That’s it? No shock? No disbelief?”

He clicked his beak, sounding almost amused. “Miss Avery, I’m a ghost in a bird. Suspension of disbelief is no longer a concern.”

“How do you even know what Twilight is? Those movies didn’t come out until the 2010s. Or did you read the books? Wait. How does a bird read books?”

“They were read to me,” he said. “By Sandy. She was enthralled by them in grade school.”

“She and I both,” I muttered to myself.

“Besides,” he continued smoothly, “I’ve seen stranger things. Though, this revelation explains a few things.”

“Like what?”

“Like why you’re avoiding anyone who could actually help,” he said. “And why you’re so inexplicably determined to solve this on your own. Do Sandy and JT know about your... condition?”

I sighed, crossing my arms. “Sandy doesn’t know. JT doesn’t know. And they don’t need to. I’ve got this handled.”

He clicked his beak thoughtfully. “Curious. And you’ve been managing this... situation solo? No guidance?”

“I’ve done fine,” I snapped, more defensively than I intended. “I don’t turn into a monster or anything. Just a regular wolf. One that doesn’t mind eating dog food. If it weren’t for my apartment’s no-pet policy, I wouldn’t even be in this mess.”

“Fascinating,” he murmured, his tone dipping into genuine curiosity. “A bit different from the lycanthropy I’m familiar with, but I suppose the term is rather broad.”

I raised a brow. “And what kind are you familiar with?”

He adjusted his perch, claws scraping softly against the bark. “Several varieties. Some rooted in the occult, others biological. But I suspect your case falls under the... occult category.”

“Wait—biological lycanthropy?” I echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Nevermore replied, his tone smooth and matter-of-fact. “A form of infectious madness spread by the bite of an afflicted beast, or by consuming human flesh. It drives the victim into an animalistic rage and a wasting madness.”

I snorted. “So, rabies or Creutzfeldt–Jakob disease. Got it.”

The raven clicked his beak in begrudging agreement. “Other names, yes. The symptoms do align, but let’s not reduce every myth to mundane science, shall we?”

“Well, I don’t have rabies,” I said dryly, stepping over a gnarled root. “And I haven’t eaten anyone. Pretty sure I’d remember that. What about the occult kind?”

“That,” he said, fluffing his feathers slightly, “is the lycanthropy you’re likely familiar with—an infectious curse. A bite that physically and mentally transforms the victim into a ravenous beast.”

“An infectious curse,” I muttered to myself. “Do you have to be bitten to get it?”

“Typically, yes. The strongest curses require a physical anchor. It can be the bite and the saliva, but blood is more common. It can be delivered by a bite or through a wound. Sometimes it’s through consumption—like with vampirism—or a cursed object, such as an amulet or reliquary.”

I hesitated. “So, vampires are real too?”

“Why wouldn’t they be?” Nevermore asked, as though the question itself were absurd.

I rolled my eyes. “Fine, but what if you weren’t bitten? How else could you get a curse like lycanthropy?”

He paused, considering. “If there’s no bite, the source must be something equally binding. A curse needs an anchor—a mark, an object, or even a ritual.”

I trudged over a tangle of roots, my flats crunching on dried leaves. “What about a tattoo?”

Nevermore’s head swiveled toward me, his eyes gleaming with sudden curiosity. “A tattoo?”

“Yeah.” I shot him a wary glance. “I got one while drunk. Around the same time this whole... situation started. Could a tattoo be cursed?”

“May I see it?”

“It’s on my ass,” I deadpanned. “So, no.”

He let out a sigh, his wings fluttering as if to say I was being unreasonable. “Do you remember when or how you got this tattoo? Was there anything peculiar about it—or the person who gave it to you?”

I faltered mid-step. Memories—or rather, the lack of them—screeched to the forefront. Three blackout days in March. One moment I was getting hammered at my sister’s bachelorette party, the next, I woke up stark naked in the middle of the woods with a brand-new tattoo.

My silence must have spoken volumes.

“You sought my insight,” Nevermore pressed, his voice sharper now. “And I am sworn to secrecy. Tattoos have been used in magic before.”

Groaning, I stopped walking and turned my back to him. “Fine.” I tugged my waistband down just enough to reveal the mark. “Happy now?”

Nevermore hopped closer on the branch, leaning in to study it.

“Well?”

He said nothing.

“Ugh, Nevermore, what do you think?”

“It’s a lovely posterior,” he said breezily.

“Goddammit, Nevermore.” I yanked my skirt back up, glaring at him. “The tattoo. What do you think of the tattoo?”

“Apologies,” he said, sounding utterly unapologetic. He cleared his throat. “It’s... ornate. Flourishes, I’d say. Seems fairly ordinary.”

I frowned. “Flourishes? You mean the jagged lines? And what about the pentagram in the center?”

He tilted his head, feathers fluffing slightly. “What pentagram?”

I froze, then pointed at my back in frustration. “The one in the middle of the damn thing.”

“Hmm,” he mused, his tone turning thoughtful. “I believe we’re seeing two very different things.”

I stared at him, trying to process. “Hold up. Are you saying it looks different to you?”

“I can’t say for certain,” he replied smoothly, “as I don’t know what you’re seeing. But what I saw clearly looked like a feather flourish.”

A memory resurfaced—Solomon’s words about Arcanum being obfuscated to look like something mundane. “Could a tattoo be disguised with magic?” I asked.

Nevermore preened, clearly enjoying the topic. “It’s possible. Magic is as flexible as its practitioner’s imagination. But creating a cursed tattoo is already difficult. And to disguise it? For a subtle curse, that seems practical. Hides the source. But for something as subtle as a lycanthropic curse, it seems a little… pointless.”

I shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe it was meant to hide it from me.”

“Obviously not, if you can in fact see the real thing,” he said pointedly.

“Well, I can’t look at it directly,” I muttered. “I have to use a mirror. Maybe that has something to do with it.”

He tucked his wings neatly, his gaze sharpening. “Yes, I suppose that would make sense. But that raises a more pressing question: What purpose would it serve? Why go through all that effort for someone so... no offense, Miss Avery, but you seem rather... ordinary.”

“Thanks,” I muttered dryly.

“If your hypothesis is correct,” he continued, “the intent may not have been to hide it from you, but from someone—or something—else.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Like who?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know,” he said, his tone turning breezy and maddeningly unhelpful. “But isn’t it fun to imagine?”

No, no it was not.

What it suggested was that my so-called “simple case” of lycanthropy was anything but. It meant that this wasn’t some random wolf bite, like in most movies, but something more deliberate—premeditated. And others would be involved. The implications were enough to set my brain buzzing in all the wrong ways, so I latched onto the next logical question to push the thoughts aside.

“How would someone even go about creating something like that?”

“Assuming it is cursed, of course,” Nevermore began, his tone laced with curiosity, “the process wouldn’t be subtle. Especially if you’re overlaying two effects: the curse and the obfuscation. As for the method, I haven’t the faintest idea. But, I wouldn’t be surprised if mundane tattooing instruments were involved. The ink and the design, or, at least, the intention behind the design, would be the critical elements.”

I pushed aside a tangle of brambles. “What about Sandy? Would she know anything about magic tattoos? She can apparently obfuscate Arcanum, albeit not very well.”

“Ah, Sandra,” he murmured, his voice dipping into something almost fond. “I can’t speak to what she’s learned since I was last summoned. But what Ellenore would have taught her focused more on speaking than writing.”

“So, Ellenore used spoken-word magic?”

Nevermore nodded, his feathers fluffing. “Compulsions, commands—words imbued with intent. She crafted them meticulously and tested them... on me, mostly, and others.”

I stopped short, giving him a wary glance. “Others?”

“She occasionally required a human test subject,” he said lightly, though his tone carried an edge, like an echo of something he’d rather leave buried. “Words can be powerful, Miss Avery. Even normal ones. Ellenore understood that well.”

I thought back to the Arcanum words I’d learned, rattling them off in my mind: Sit, stay, come, speak, listen, and he—

Nevermore squawked sharply, his wings flapping wildly. “Bloody hell, don’t string them like that! And why are you projecting them?”

“Projecting?”

“You weren’t speaking,” he said, his tone sharp with unease. “You were projecting your thoughts. Direct communication.”

I blinked. “I’ve been able to do that with animals since this werewolf thing started.”

He clicked his beak thoughtfully. “Fascinating. Compulsions and commands are far more potent when projected.”

“Would it work on humans?”

“Only if they can receive thoughts,” he replied, his voice measured. “Most can’t. Humans aren’t built for that. And those who are often find it... burdensome.”

I swallowed hard. “Is that why being around dogs makes me feel what they feel?”

“Likely,” he said, his gaze sharpening. “A transmitter can also function as a receiver. Two-way communication.”

“Huh. You really like radios, don’t you?”

“They fascinate me,” he said simply, preening his feathers.

Grateful for the shift in focus, I pressed on. “So, does Sandy have the same kind of magic as Ellenore?”

“Doubtful,” Nevermore replied, his feathers settling. “The Sandra I remember lacked Ellenore’s knack for compulsion. But not for wordplay. And it’s clear from what I’ve observed—your use of Arcanum—that she’s learned a few things under her aunt’s tutelage.”

“JT said they were like mother and daughter,” I offered, stepping over a root and adjusting my pace.

“Indeed, they were close,” he said, his tone softer now, almost wistful. “Much closer than little Jacky ever was with Ellenore.”

I frowned. “JT wasn’t close to her?”

“No, Jacky loved her too,” he replied, “but he didn’t quite have the same patience for Ellenore’s... eccentricities. Nor did he possess his sister's talents. Smart lad though.”

I hesitated before asking, “Then what about you? Why hasn’t Sandy or JT tried to summon you in fifteen years?”

“Oh, they’ve tried. At least, Sandra tried.” Nevermore said with a dry chuckle. “Ellenore ensured they couldn’t. I asked her to. She made it so her raven wouldn’t hear their voices. Let me have my rest. Though...” He paused, fluffing his feathers. “He’d tune in from time to time. That’s just his nature. Annoying, really.”

I frowned, frustration prickling at the back of my mind. “But he listened to me. Why?”

Nevermore shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. “Perhaps your ability to project thoughts found a chink in the enchantment. Or maybe, with Ellenore gone, it’s weakened. And that those damn owls having you invoke me on hallowed ground, well, it sealed the deal.”

“Lucky me,” I muttered.

“Quite,” he replied, a hint of amusement in his voice.

As we walked, his words hung heavy in the air, tugging at the edges of my thoughts. I should have been focused on finding Boden, but questions about Sandy, Ellenore, and the damned tattoo lingered like gnats on a humid afternoon.

The conversation lapsed into silence. The woods were thicker here, the air clinging to my skin like a damp sweater. The late-afternoon sun pierced through the canopy in narrow beams, illuminating the faint shimmer of heat rising off the forest floor. Then, the scent hit me—coppery, earthy, and sickly sweet.

We stepped into a small clearing, and there it was: the deer carcass. The body lay splayed across the ground, bones picked clean save for lingering strands of flesh and sinew , now crawling with flies. A buzzing filled the air with a dull hum.

“Ghastly,” Nevermore murmured, cocking his head as he studied it. “Did Boden do this?”

“No.” My grip tightened on the straps of my bag, nausea churning in my stomach. “I did. Well... the wolf did. I wasn’t really in control.”

He regarded me carefully, his gaze sharp. “And you ate the whole thing?”

“She shared,” I muttered, my tone defensive. “With like, nine other dogs.”

“Ah, a magnanimous huntress,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement. “And Boden was among them?”

I nodded, keeping my eyes off the ground, away from the carcass.

“So, the wolf led them,” he mused, his beak clicking thoughtfully. “A pack following her command?”

“She was… Taking them for a walk.”

Nevermore’s cackle was sharp and sudden, cutting through the oppressive hum of the flies. “Oh, they must have loved that. And you? What was it like?”

I clenched my jaw, bile sour in the back of my throat. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“How delightfully evasive,” he said, hopping to another branch to keep pace with me. “Do you shy from your instincts, Miss Avery? The thrill, the chase, the—”

“Why do you even care?” I snapped, stopping to glare at him.

“Care?” He fluffed his feathers dramatically, his voice taking on a theatrical lilt. “Why wouldn’t I? I may be dead, but I was once a renowned chronicler of the grim and the macabre.” He gave a mock bow. “Perhaps I could compose a little something to commemorate your nocturnal escapades.”

“How about no—”

Before I could stop him, he launched into a poem:

“A modest young lady at dusk,

Sought no quarrel, no rancor, no fuss.

But the moon in her eyes,

Did cast off her guise,

And her heart turned to wanderlust.”

“Seriously?” I groaned, pressing a hand to my forehead. “A limerick? Are you done?”

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” he said cheerfully, clearing his throat with exaggerated drama.

“By day, she wore suits and fine dress,

By night, she left everything a mess.

From boardrooms to woods,

She misunderstood,

That wolves find corporate life... quite a stress.”

I exhaled sharply, fighting the urge to laugh. “Nevermore, if you value your feathers, you’ll stop.”

“Ah, threats now?” he quipped, hopping to a branch just out of reach. “How utterly predictable. But I refuse to be silenced! Observe:”

“With grace and a glare, she proceeds,

Through mysteries and werewolf misdeeds.

Her partner, a raven,

For ghosts she is bravin’,

Together, they solve strange miscreeds.”

“Enough!” I snapped and covered my ears, though my words lacked any real bite. “You’re ridiculous. Do you just sit around thinking these up?”

“Ridiculous?” He flapped his wings in mock outrage, swooping to perch on my shoulder. “I’ll have you know, my dear, that you are witnessing a master at his craft.”

I stopped walking, giving him a sidelong glance. “Master, huh? You’ve been waiting to use these on someone for years, haven’t you?”

“Ages,” he admitted with a dramatic sigh. “It’s refreshing, really, to have an audience again.”

“And by audience, you mean someone who can’t actually leave,” I muttered.

“Precisely!” he crowed, preening his feathers. “Now, shall I continue?”

I groaned. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not remotely,” he said, puffing up his chest. “Here’s another one, just for you:”

“A wolf in her office attire,

Takes a case that will likely backfire.

With a raven in tow,

She hunts high and low,

For the truth in the muck and the mire.”

Despite myself, I cracked a smile, quickly hiding it behind my hand. “Okay, I’ll give you that one. It’s not terrible.”

“Not terrible?” he squawked, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know, it’s a masterpiece of wit and form. You should be honored.”

I shook my head, the corners of my mouth still betraying my amusement. “I swear, if I didn’t need you, you’d be stuffed and mounted by now.”

“You’d miss me terribly,” he replied, his voice smug.

“Debatable.”

Before we said anything more, I caught a faint yet familiar scent—Coy and Emma. They were nearby. I inhaled and called out, “Coy! Emma! Here, now!”

Off in the distance, underbrush rustled, and soon they trotted into view, tails wagging and ears forward, the picture of self-satisfaction.

Then I caught another scent.

“Oh, for—” I pinched the bridge of my nose, glaring at the pair. “You were supposed to be looking for Boden, not... goofing off.”

Coy tilted his head, his tongue lolling lazily as if to say, Us? Never.

Emma trotted up, nuzzling my hand with exaggerated innocence, the kind only guilty dogs can manage.

I opened my mouth to scold them when Coy snorted, cutting me off. His thought pressed into mine, clear and direct: Found something. Follow.

I blinked. “Wait, what? Is it Boden?”

Coy huffed impatiently, his tail wagging harder.

“Fine,” I sighed, waving a hand. “Lead the way.”

They spun and darted back into the trees, weaving through the undergrowth with the effortless grace of creatures born for it. I stumbled after them, tripping over roots and muttering curses. Ballet flats on a forest trail were as useful as roller skates on gravel, and my sneakers—along with my common sense—were back at the house.

Nevermore fluttered ahead, landing on a low branch like a smug tour guide. “Would it kill you to keep up?”

“Would it kill you to be helpful?” I shot back, yanking my sleeve free from a snagging branch.

The trees thinned, revealing the rusted steel rails of railroad tracks. Coy and Emma trotted along the edge, their paws clicking softly against the gravel. I followed, the crunch of stones beneath my flats grating on my already frayed nerves.

“Are we trespassing?” Nevermore asked, flapping down to perch on my shoulder.

“Yes,” I muttered. “CSX owns the tracks. So it's private property. Technically, it's illegal to be here. But I doubt there’s anyone around to enforce that.”

“You’re truly a model citizen,” he said with a dry chuckle.

I ignored him, focusing instead on the faint hum of high-voltage power lines overhead. The memory of last night surged forward: the wolf’s heightened senses catching the buzzing, the electric tang in the air, the primal urge to avoid the open meadows beneath the lines.

“The wolf stayed clear of the power lines,” I said, half to myself. “But the tracks? She liked the tracks. Woods on either side, thick canopy above—a dark little tunnel. Perfect for prowling.”

“Ah,” Nevermore mused, tilting his head. “but what you’re really saying is, deep down, you want to freighthop out west and live the drifter’s life.”

I rolled my eyes. “She thought it was fun. The dogs did too.”

“And Boden?”

I frowned, trying to piece it together. “He followed. But the wolf stopped at the drawbridge—she didn’t cross.”

“And the dog?”

The question hung in the air as we reached the riverbank. The Ashley River stretched wide before us, the drawbridge towering above like a steel skeleton against the hazy afternoon light. Lowered now, it cut a stark line across the water, though I knew it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply. There it was—Boden’s scent. Faint but distinct, carried on the humid breeze.

I groaned. “He crossed.”

Nevermore fluttered to the bridge railing, his sharp eyes scanning the opposite shore. “And now he’s stuck on the other side?”

“Seems like it,” I muttered. “Boaters can call in to get the bridge raised. I’m guessing that’s what happened, and Boden got caught on the wrong side when it went up.”

Coy wagged his tail furiously, his pride evident. We did good?

I patted his head distractedly. “Yes, you did a good job, Coy.”

“Charming,” Nevermore said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “What’s our brilliant plan now?”

“We head back.” I turned, already retracing my steps along the railroad tracks. “I’ll need the car to go into Charleston. Not walking across this bridge on foot. Too risky. Especially not during the day.”

“Practical,” he said, feigning surprise. “For once.”

I shot him a glare, but he only cawed in amusement, swooping ahead to perch on a low-hanging branch. Coy and Emma followed me, their tails wagging happily, oblivious to the weight of my thoughts.

The tracks stretched ahead, the rusted rails gleaming faintly in the sunlight as we passed through narrow corridors of trees. The midday heat pressed down, making the stillness almost oppressive. Time passed in rhythmic steps, the crunch of gravel underfoot blending with the distant hum of cicadas.

We were halfway back to Sandy’s when the barking cut through the air—a sharp, frantic yapping that sent a shiver racing down my spine. It wasn’t Boden. Too small. But there was something feral in it, something violent.

I stopped, my heart thudding as Coy and Emma froze beside me, their ears swiveling toward the sound.

Nevermore, perched lazily on my shoulder, gave a dismissive click of his beak. “Shall we investigate, or are you hoping it resolves itself?”

I shot him a look. “You’re the one with wings. Go check it out.”

With a dramatic flutter, he launched himself into the air, vanishing over the treetops. Coy whined softly, his nose twitching toward the noise, but I laid a hand on his head. “Stay,” I said firmly, though my own instincts urged me to move.

Moments later, Nevermore returned, his feathers ruffled in what I could only describe as gleeful disbelief. He landed on a branch above me, his voice pitched with amusement. “You’re going to love this,” he announced. “There’s this Jack Russell terrier—an absolutely tiny thing—fighting the largest snake I’ve ever seen. And, shockingly, the dog seems to be winning.”

My stomach dropped. “Describe the snake.”

“Massive. At least twenty-five feet long. Black and gold scales. Quite impressive, really.” His head tilted. “I presume it’s one of ours?”

“It’s Monty,” I said, breaking into a jog. “But she’s usually not that big.”

“Do I even want to ask why Sandra keeps such a python?”

“She’s supposed to only be five or six feet. Pet-sized,” I called over my shoulder, leaping over a low ditch as the barking grew louder.

“And now?”

“No idea,” I huffed. “Probably magic. Always fucking magic.”

Nevermore swooped alongside me, a note of laughter in his voice. “How does one handle a twenty-five-foot familiar?”

“Badly,” I muttered, skidding to a stop at the edge of a wooden privacy fence. The barking was coming from just on the other side.

Peering over, I found the scene Nevermore described—and it was every bit as bad as I imagined.

Monty was enormous, making what was an otherwise respectable suburban backyard, with a swimming pool, seem tiny and cramped by comparison. Her golden scales shimmered under the midday sun, her massive body twisting and coiling as she struck at a scrappy Jack Russell terrier. The little dog was relentless, darting and dodging with terrifying speed, its teeth snapping at her tail and flank whenever she missed. Monty’s glittering scales were smeared with blood, dozens of tiny bite marks marring her length. But her strikes were getting closer.

“Dammit, Monty,” I muttered.

Nevermore perched on the fence, tilting his head like a critic appraising a chaotic performance. “Charming little tableau, isn’t it? What’s your plan?”

I scanned the yard quickly—no people, just the writhing chaos of snake and dog. “We need to get Monty out of there before she eats that dog or someone sees this mess.”

I dropped my purse and shrugged off my suit jacket.

“And how, pray tell, do you plan to manage that?”

I took a step back, sizing up the fence, and muttered, “Stupid idea.” I tossed the jacket towards Coy and Emma. “Hold this.”

Then I jumped.

My goal had been to grab the top of the fence and pull myself over, but the wolf had a different idea. She stirred as I pushed off, lending me strength, and I cleared the fence with plenty of room to spare. Too much, actually. I landed awkwardly, my legs buckled as I stumbled forward, knees driving into the ground, hands barely catching myself before faceplanting into the grass.

"How about warn me next time," I hissed.

“That was... theatrical,” Nevermore remarked for his fence perch.

I ignored him, sprinting toward the fight unfolding near the pool. Monty’s head shot forward like lightning, but the terrier twisted away just in time, its teeth sinking into her side instead.

“Monty! Both of you!” I shouted, skidding to a stop. “Stop!”

Neither animal acknowledged me.

Monty’s movements grew more erratic, her coils thrashing as she tried to shake the dog off. Her wide, dark eyes gleamed with more than just anger—she was scared.

I hesitated, my pulse hammering. “Bad idea,” I muttered, then lunged for Monty’s head.

She reared back, her body coiling like a spring, her head poised to strike. The image of a news segment flashed through my mind—an Indonesian man swallowed whole by a reticulated python. The specialist they’d brought on had outlined key survival tips: avoid their bite, avoid being wrapped, and above all, control the head.

Easier said than done.

Monty lunged, and I moved instinctively, grabbing just behind her jaw. Her forward momentum yanked me off my feet, and I stumbled before regaining my footing. Her scales were slick and warm beneath my fingers, muscles rippling with shocking power as she writhed.

“Monty, heel!” I shouted, pushing the command—a recent addition to my repetoriare—into her mind with as much force as I could muster.

For a brief, miraculous moment, she froze. Her black tongue flicked in and out, and her massive body trembled but stilled. Relief washed over me.

Then the Jack Russell sank its teeth into her tail again.

Monty’s stillness shattered. She lashed out, her massive coils thrashing wildly, and I staggered under the sheer force of her struggle. I tightened my grip on her head, but the terrier’s relentless biting sent her into a frenzy.

“Get off her!” I yelled at the dog, but all that was in the little beast’s mind was an untempered bloodlust. It clamped down harder, growling through clenched jaws.

In my hands, I could feel Monty’s body shifting—growing. The more agitated she became, the larger she swelled, her scales pressing harder against my palms. Her massive form twisted violently, pulling me off balance. My feet slipped on the damp grass, and before I could steady myself, we toppled backward—straight into the pool.

The water hit like a slap, a chilling shock. My grip on Monty faltered, and in an instant, her jaws snapped down on my shoulder. Pain flared hot and sharp, tearing a scream from my throat.

I thrashed instinctively, trying to pull free, but Monty moved faster, pulling me into her embrace. Her powerful coils wrapped around me, pinning my arms to my sides, each loop tightening like a steel cable.

This was a stupid idea. A very, very stupid idea.

Monty's head was almost face-to-face with me, her dark eyes gleaming with an eerie intelligence—and fury. This wasn’t just a fight anymore. The realization struck me with sickening clarity: she had her prey and was now hunting.

The coils tightened further, crushing the air from my lungs. Bubbles streamed gently upwards, each one marking the precious breath I couldn’t reclaim. My vision blurred at the edges, the weight of Monty’s body dragging me deeper into the pool.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

This is it, I thought dimly. This is how I die. Stupidly, in a backyard pool, wrestling a giant snake.

Then, deep inside, the wolf stirred once again.

It was more forceful this time, not a polite nudge but a full-bodied shove. A feral snarl ripped through my chest, low and guttural, vibrating through the water. It wasn’t a sound I made—not consciously. It came from somewhere deeper, wilder.

My grip on the proverbial wheel of my mind slipped. I gritted my teeth, trying to hold steady as the wolf surged forward, clawing for control.

Bones cracked and reshaped, the ache sharp and relentless. My nails curved into claws, and my jaw stretched forward, teeth sharpening into predatory points. A rush of raw, primal strength flooded my limbs, my senses sharpening to a razor’s edge. Colors dulled, replaced by shapes and movements that snapped into crystal clarity.

The pressure of Monty’s coils was no longer unbearable. Manageable, even.

The wolf didn’t hesitate.

We twisted forward, our teeth sinking into the thick flesh of Monty’s neck. Her scales resisted, smooth and impenetrable, but then they gave way. A keening hiss escaped her as blood welled beneath my bite. Her coils loosened—not by much, but enough.

The wolf growled again, urging me to finish it.

No. My thoughts shot forward, sharp and resolute. I clamped down on the wolf’s intent, pulling back even as its strength coursed through me. I wouldn’t let her kill Monty.

Still, the wolf’s power was undeniable. Even as I held back, I could feel it—the strength to snap Monty’s neck like a twig. Just a mere thought and I could end her.

Monty’s frenzy faltered, her blind fury giving way to confusion. I sensed it, like an echo in my mind—a flicker of submission beneath her fear, and I seized the opportunity.

Heel! I projected the word, sharp and commanding, with every ounce of focus I had.

Monty shuddered. Her massive coils began to loosen, sliding away from me as her enormous size began to diminish with every passing second. Finally freed, I broke the surface of the pool with a desperate gasp, gulping down air as water streamed from my fur.

The wolf receded slightly, though her grip on the wheel remained firm, her instincts coiled and ready.

Dragging myself to the edge of the pool, I heaved Monty onto my shoulders like a soaked, defeated scarf. The command I had used was one that Sandy employed specifically to pacify some of her more volatile charges, and it was fortunate that I had made time to read more of her book. Had my struggle with Monty drawn out any further, neither I nor the wolf would have had the strength to do anything but bite all the way down. I could feel the wolf's strength faltering, and every step felt deliberate, weighed down by a wave of exhaustion and the waterlogged mess of my clothes.

Monty’s reduced size made her easier to carry, but the terrier clinging to her tail was another story. The little dog’s jaws were locked tight, its growling muffled only by the occasional snarl.

“Seriously?” I muttered through clenched teeth, prying the dog loose with one hand. It barked sharply—defiant—before tearing off toward the house, its tiny legs a blur.

I stood there, dripping and trembling, Monty’s weight pressing against my aching shoulders. My hybrid form lingered—the wolf unwilling to retreat completely. The air felt too sharp, the sounds too close. Something wasn’t right.

I turned slowly, my senses prickling with unease.

Three kids—no older than twelve—stood in the window of the house next door, their eyes wide. In their hands: smartphones.

My stomach dropped.

I stared at them, my mind struggling to process the layers of the awful reality unfolding in real time. Instinctively, I crossed my arms over my chest, realizing far too late that my soaked white dress shirt—and me sans a bra—was far too revealing.

But no. That wasn’t the real problem.

I was a hulking werewolf, standing in a suburban backyard in broad daylight, draped in a python, dripping wet.

And those kids had smartphones, which were recording.

A creeping sense of dread slithered into my gut, cold and unrelenting. It coiled tighter as I imagined the possibilities. In just a few clicks, I’d be plastered all over the internet. Hell, I was probably already being upload to social media this very moment, and I'd be clickbait by day's end.

Snake lady werewolf freakout!

Live! Real-life werewolf!

Bra? What bra?

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